Swearing Allegiance (The Carmody Saga Book 1)

by Jana Petken

  Everyone watched Danny dry his face and hair. No one chased after Jenny and no one spoke, until Minnie suggested, “I imagine John’s mother lied because she’s ashamed of her son.”

  “Ashamed? She should be proud of him,” Danny retorted.

  “Well, I can’t imagine why. He’s a traitor, is he not?”

  Danny rolled his eyes. “There’s no point talking to you about this, Minnie. You’re English, a foreigner in my country. You’ll never get the gist of what we’re hoping to achieve.”

  Chapter Six

  The parlour was bathed in a golden light, furnished by an array of candles flickering in silver holders. Sufficiently dim to give an air of mournfulness yet bright enough not to appear morbid, it captured a feeling of unworldliness. The Carmody home was wired for electricity, but that morning, Susan had rejected the bulbs’ bright iridescence for a more subtle and “spiritual light”, as she called it. “Every room in the house should look dreary and miserable yet have a reverent ambience at the same time,” she had insisted.

  Robert Carmody’s body was lying in an open coffin that sat atop two wooden trestles adjacent to the wall and faced the parlour’s bay window. Above the casket, a mirror was covered in black sheeting. Next to that was a vibrantly colourful painted scene of the Battle of Waterloo, depicting dead horses and bloodied soldiers’ mouths gaping open in agony. It seemed an even more disturbing sight today, yet it remained un-shrouded, at Susan’s insistence. She had always hated the painting, but she wanted it in full view to remind everyone of the ugliness of violence.

  Standing at the head of the coffin, Patrick wished his mind could hold on to the present image of his father. Dressed in his Savile Row black pinstriped suit, white shirt, and a black cravat, which covered the terrible gunshot wound on his neck, he looked peaceful, as though he were in a deep sleep, perhaps dreaming of pleasantries. That would be infinitely more tolerable than the memory of those fleeting seconds, when the bullet struck, blood spouted from an artery, and his limp body fell into a gutter – and his being pulled into a house, shown the back door before he could catch his breath, and then running for his life, leaving his father lying in the street. What a hellish recollection to have to live with, he thought. It was as though the devil himself had imprinted the pictures in his mind.

  He looked at the people present. This was not the wake his father would have wanted. Family unity was fractured. Danny and Jenny were still drawing daggers at each other. Reeling from Minnie’s revelations about the family’s finances, they were more interested in hurling insults and blame than they were mourning their father. Mam and Minnie were just as bad. They’d hardly shared a word or a look since the previous evening. He just wanted this terrible tragedy to serve as a reminder that bloodshed was not a pathway to independence or a gate to victory. It was a devastating enemy that destroyed not only the promise of life for its victims but also the very fabric of family, loyalty, and society.

  His eyes wandered to the far end of the room. Jenny was pouring tea for Mrs Grant, her future mother-in-law, with a sorrowful look on her face. He was ashamed of his thoughts, but in all honesty, he couldn’t decide if Jenny’s grief was for their dad or for her fiancé being locked up. He loved his sister, but never had he known anyone so consumed with desire for wealth and situation. He blamed his mother for much of Jenny’s attitudes. She’d been coached all her life on the importance of money and marriage. She’d never been taught about much else.

  Danny was his biggest worry. Patrick glanced in his brother’s direction. Sitting in a hard-backed chair in the corner by the door, he was deep in conversation with two men Patrick suspected were republicans. His brother was devastated yet still swearing fealty to the independent movement, which had almost destroyed Dublin. He had made no apologies or promises to cut ties with the rebels. It was something that would have to be dealt with – and quickly.

  Clicking his tongue in annoyance, he shifted his gaze to Mrs Grant sitting on the couch next to his mam. The poor woman looked uncomfortable in the grim silence. Beside Mam was Minnie, listening apathetically to Mr O’Brien’s soulful rendition of “Ye Men of Sweet Liberties Hall”, played on the fiddle. His granny had an air of vulnerability about her, yet she had a spiteful tongue that could leave a grown man seemingly witless and turn his legs to jelly. Patrick had often wondered why she had remained in Ireland for so long. She had arrived from London for a short visit the previous Christmas and apparently had not found a good enough reason to leave. Perhaps she felt safer here. He studied her bored expression and smiled with fondness. She was small, not more than five feet tall, and as skinny as a chicken bone. Her white hair was so thin that her scalp was visible. She was always elegantly dressed, although she had never had much money. She never appeared in public without a silver hair brooch that clung for dear life to fine tendrils. She was one of a kind, his granny, for underneath her hard-hearted exterior was a kind soul. He adored her, but he had to admit that her revelations the previous night about his father’s financial shortcomings had been made in appallingly bad taste and timing.

  Patrick’s eyes brightened. Spreading his lips in a real smile for the first time that day, he waved to his friend Kevin, who had just arrived. They’d met at Kings College London and had gone through medical school together. Patrick hadn’t expected Kevin to turn up for the wake. Being a doctor and captain in the Royal Army Medical Corps, he must have pulled some strings, for all army leave had been cancelled in Ireland this past week.

  Before saying hello to anyone, Kevin took a heavy tray laden with cups off Jenny’s hands and then followed her out of the room. That was typical of him, Patrick thought, watching the pair leave. The poor man had been in love with Jenny since the very first time he’d come to the house during a summer break from college. But having a timid nature and a fear that she might reject him, he’d said nothing apart from stuttering a few compliments about her appearance. That inability to project his intentions had been his downfall. It was a sad situation. He, Patrick, had urged Kevin to speak up. He’d warned about the danger of another man swooping in to claim her. Jenny was a difficult woman to control. She was far too outspoken for the average man, but she was extremely beautiful, even if he said so himself.

  “You have my sincerest condolences, Patrick,” Kevin said when he returned from, presumably, the kitchen.

  Patrick shook Kevin’s hand. “Thanks, Kevin. I’ve lost a fine father, have I not?”

  “You have, and the world will mourn the passing of a fine surgeon. He was like a second father to me. I learned more about medicine from him than all the professors at college combined. I was very fond of him.”

  “I know that. Dublin has lost a good son. He wasn’t around much, but I think the College of Surgeons will suffer without him at the helm.” In a moment of silence, Patrick gazed upon his father’s body. He had received a lot of praise today. Accolades had gushed from the mouths of everyone from police officers to politicians. His dad deserved to be honoured, Patrick thought, but his character had not been flawless. Robert Carmody had lived life to the full, never doing anything half-cocked. Perhaps he had enjoyed the finer things a little too keenly? His fondness for good Irish whiskey, spending entire nights in various gentlemen’s clubs, and affairs with London socialites had been talked about but always tolerated. As with most gentlemen, he’d hid his indiscretions quite well behind lavish public affections bestowed on his wife and children.

  “Kevin, here’s a nice cup of tea for you,” Jenny said, appearing with a cup and saucer in her hand. “Will you have a piece of sponge cake as well?”

  Kevin smiled. “That’s kind of you, but I won’t, thank you.”

  Glancing again at Jenny, Patrick felt a sudden surge of sympathy. Only one month previously, his dad had vowed to give her an affluent future with a dowry that would stand her in good stead and a grand wedding that would set tongues wagging with envy. Instead, she had suddenly become a woman in her early twenties without a penny to her name
and an uncertain future, with her errant fiancé in prison. Sighing, he moved away from the coffin and gestured Kevin to follow him to a more discreet part of the room.

  “My dad was a stubborn bugger,” he whispered to Kevin. “There was no talking him out of going that day. If only …”

  “Don’t you go blaming yourself,” Kevin interrupted him. “Knowing your father, he would have gone to that college with or without you.”

  “I know, but all the same.”

  “Your father was a very astute man. I recall having a conversation with him over a year ago. He predicted these troubles with uncanny accuracy. He said they were a disaster waiting to happen. I just don’t understand why he waited until Easter Monday to get his papers. He must have known about the planned march.”

  That was true. After Danny left the house, his dad had been very upset.

  “I suppose we’ll never know why he chose to put himself in danger,” Patrick said. “If he had another reason for going there, he didn’t share it with me. He just kept telling me that he was worried about his research. His neurological surgery techniques were groundbreaking. They will propel him into the history books. The only reason we left the college before the rebel surrender was because he was afraid the papers might be confiscated by the British Army. He died with his hand still gripping his briefcase.”

  “Jesus, I’m so sorry. Did you get it back?”

  “Yes, and everything inside was intact.”

  “Will you carry on with his research?”

  Patrick shook his head. “No. I’m still going to be a surgeon, but I’ve decided that the brain and nervous system is not going to be my field of expertise – they’re much too complex for me. You took the easy route,” he added jokingly.

  “Going into the army seemed a reasonable choice to make, given that we’re at war, but I find its disciplines anything but easy,” Kevin said. “And as for me not pursuing surgery, well, I never quite fancied cutting people open.”

  Patrick said, “I was planning to go back to King’s College for my final year, to specialise in traumatic injuries.”

  “It’s a good field, especially now. The new types of weapons being used on the front lines are devastating our soldiers. It’s a bloodbath in France.”

  All weapons were cruel, Patrick thought. Mankind had such potential, yet people’s abilities too often focused on destruction rather than on the planet’s advancement.

  “God help them all,” he said, “and may God forgive the damned aristocrats and politicians who started this damn war.”

  Changing the subject, Kevin asked, “So when are you leaving for London?”

  “I don’t suppose I’ll be able to go,” Patrick said dourly. “I can’t leave my mam. What about you? Are you staying in Dublin?”

  “No. I’ve been posted back to London’s Charing Cross Hospital. They need all the help they can get over there. The wounded are coming back from the front by ship, train, and any other transport the army can get their hands on, and when the poor buggers eventually get to London, there are not enough doctors to treat them.”

  “Do you think they’ll send you to the continent?”

  “Probably – eventually, I suppose.” Kevin spread his arms wide, gesturing that he wasn’t sure. “I’m at the army’s disposal. I’m not relishing the thought, but to be honest, I’d much rather fight the Germans than my own countrymen. This carry-on has sickened me.”

  Not wanting to talk about politics, the army, or the Easter uprising, Patrick redirected the conversation. “When do you leave?”

  “I’m not sure. This rebellion has put my orders on hold. If you manage to get to London, look me up at the hospital. We’ll have dinner together.”

  “I’m sure I’ll see your ugly face before you leave Dublin,” Patrick said, smiling to hide his sadness. Every so often, Patrick deliberated over his unwillingness to join military service. He wasn’t sure if he felt guilty about still being a civilian or if he truly believed that he was serving his country by accumulating the necessary skills needed to save badly wounded soldiers. Either way, he felt an uncustomary awkwardness talking about the war.

  “I’m expected back at the prison, Patrick. I wish I could stay longer,” Kevin said, alleviating Patrick’s unease.

  “Thanks for coming. I’m sure my mam appreciated your visit.”

  After saying goodbye, Patrick went back to stand at the coffin. Thank God people were leaving, he thought, looking around the room. Only five visitors remained. Mr O’Connor was threatening to sing. He’d be at it for a while. His songs usually went on for fifteen long verses, which often put Father Flynn, the parish priest, to sleep. The two men with Danny had also left, and the other visitors wouldn’t be far behind them. It was nearing 8 p.m., and in keeping with that tradition, no one else would arrive after that time.

  Danny’s eyes bore into Kevin, who was saying his polite goodbyes to Mam, Minnie, and Jenny. Rising from his chair, Danny walked out of the room and down the hallway to the front door. He needed a confrontation. His annoyance had been stifled for long enough. Out of respect for his family, he’d greeted Kevin with a shake of his hand, been polite to him, and had kept his mouth shut. But watching the bastard stand in front of the coffin looking every inch a pretentious prick intoxicated on victory had been galling, and now he had to have his say. He straightened himself, unconsciously clenched his fists, and leaned his back against the door, effectively barring Kevin from leaving the house.

  “I want words with you,” he said when Kevin appeared.

  “You do?”

  “Who killed my dad?” Danny demanded to know.

  Kevin shook his head and then returned Danny’s intense stare. “I don’t know. That’s the God’s honest truth. There were rebels in that street with rifles. The troops flushed a few out. They were found hiding under beds in rooms on the upper floors, close to where your dad was shot. A couple of men were even dressed as women. There was also a detachment of British soldiers occupying a few buildings in the same area. That’s all I know. It could have been either side.”

  He was lying, Danny thought. The British fired the shots. “So no one is going to be arrested for his murder?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  “Tell me something. How can you sleep at night? You’re as Irish as I am, yet you choose to shoot your own countrymen. You’re in the wrong bloody army.”

  “I’m exactly where I’m meant to be, and I’ve never shot anyone. Have you?”

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to get rid of the British from our country!” Danny hissed loudly.

  “Tell me, do you read the newspapers? The British Army is standing between Ireland and an enemy common to our civilization. I would not have her say she defended us while Irishmen pass resolutions of a make-believe republic running riotous all over our capital, shooting at anything that moves, and unlawfully occupying public buildings. And if you don’t agree with where my loyalties lie, that’s your problem, not mine!” Kevin retorted.

  “There’s nothing make-believe about the republican dream, and we’ll do a lot more than occupy buildings next time. That was just the beginning. You just wait and see if I’m right.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Kevin moved a step closer to the door, until his face was just inches from Danny’s. Forced to press his back into the wooden panels behind him, Danny kicked the door with his heel in an attempt to intimidate the much taller man.

  “Your show of grief here today was hypocritical, Kevin. You should have stayed at your army barracks.”

  “You have my condolences for the death of your father.” Sighing loudly, Kevin pointed to Danny’s foot. “Now move that, if you please.”

  “I haven’t finished,” Danny said.

  “Yes, you have, and out of respect for your family, I’ll forget that this conversation took place. Now move your bloody foot before I shoot the bugger off!”

  Danny shook his head. “Make me move, ya big traitor!”

  It took
only a split second for Kevin to react. Danny gasped as he felt his shoulders being gripped. Pulled forward and then spun around, he found himself facing the door and Kevin, who looked angrier than he’d ever seen him.

  “Get your hands off me!” he snapped.

  Shaking Danny as though he were a rag doll, Kevin said, “I’ve known you since you were a boy, Danny Carmody, but if you take up arms against Britain again, I’ll make sure you never set foot outside a prison cell—” Stopping abruptly, he then looked past Danny. “Your mam,” he mumbled.

  Danny, still facing the door, turned around and followed Kevin’s gaze. Jenny, Patrick, Father Flynn, and Mrs Grant were standing in a tight group, horrified expressions on their faces.

  Ignoring Danny for the moment, Susan turned her anger on Kevin. “It’s time you left. Patrick will show you out.”

  “My apologies, Mrs Carmody,” Kevin mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, Mam,” Danny said, thinking he should get that out before his mam started on him.

  “I’ll deal with you in a minute,” she snapped back. Then she turned her attention back to Kevin. “You should know better. You’re much older than Danny. Mr Carmody is in that room lying in his coffin.” She pointed to the parlour room door. “I’ve never witnessed such disrespect in my entire life. How could you? Patrick, I want him to leave – now.”

  After Kevin left, Danny walked towards his mother, who was succumbing to tears. Minnie, at her side now, shook her head in disapproval at him, and Jenny, slightly behind the rest of them, was smirking with revenge. Never had he felt so ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said again, and walked back into the parlour. Leaning over the coffin, he kissed his dad’s cheek. Then he looked up to see Mr O’Connor staring at him with a mixture of sympathy and what he thought might be disapproval. He wasn’t sure which emotion took precedence in the old man’s mind.

  “My apologies, Mr O’Connor,” he said anyway.