by Brian Martin
No, he had worked hard at building his farm and making his family successful and he was not going to take too many risks for the Republic. Sure, back in the day, didn’t the old lords send their retainers off to do the fighting and sure, wasn’t he sending Dan and Billy off the same way? And sure, when they were away, didn’t his own son and even he himself sometimes had to get stuck into the heavy work? Much to the disgust of his youngest girl, who seemed to enjoy pointing out that if he and her brother were true gentlemen farmers, they would not come back to the house perspiring like common laborers.
Billy Flanagan was carrying a Webley revolver that morning, which strictly speaking, he was not supposed to have. Strictly speaking, the quartermaster controlled the distribution of all weapons. Strictly speaking, only the officers got to carry revolvers unless the action required the carrying of a concealed weapon. This morning’s action, a raid for weapons on the house of a local retired British army officer, did not require a concealed weapon. On the contrary, the idea was that the lads would march with weapons in full view and Major Wilson would hand over the five shotguns and the .22 caliber rifle he had locked up in his gun room. Billy, however, had acquired the weapon under unusually heroic circumstances and had been allowed to hang on to it. A month ago, the column had ambushed a small British patrol, once again with the idea of taking arms which were in extremely short supply. They had felled a tree on the road and taken up positions on either hillside. When the lorry carrying the soldiers stopped to remove the obstacle, they opened fire.
A squad of soldiers and their officer took cover in the ditches on either side of the lorry and returned fire. At that point, the IRA commanding officer, Michael O’Kennedy, demanded that the soldiers hand over their weapons and he assured them that if they did so, they would be allowed to march back to barracks, no harm done. If they chose to keep up the fight, they would be taking no prisoners and he couldn’t be plainer than that. After a brief pause in the firing, the British officer gave his men the order to stack arms. Several of the column came down from the hillsides and approached the lorry, Billy among them. The soldiers had stacked arms and gathered near the lorry. Billy noticed that the officer still stood by a gate near the ditch. Billy kept him covered with his Lee-Enfield and motioned him to join his men. The officer took one step toward the lorry and then being a contrary bastard took off toward the gate, jumped over it and was away into the field. Billy dropped his rifle, vaulted the gate and took off in hot pursuit. After a hundred yards and sensing that Billy was closing on him, the officer turned and fired his pistol. He missed, Billy dove at him, knocked the pistol from his hand and proceeded to beat the living shit out of him. A short while later, Billy and the officer arrived back at the lorry and the IRA commander allowed the British officer to march (with the support of two of his men) back to barracks. Billy, having shown extraordinary fighting spirit, was allowed to keep the revolver.
The two brothers halted as they neared the cottage and waited for the sentries’ challenge. “All right then, lads?” came the call from behind the hedgerow.
“Up the Republic,” came the reply.
“Is that you, Dennis?”
“It is, get away in, himself is waiting for you.” As they passed the sentries’ post, he called softly to them. “It appears we have a VIP with us from across the lake. A few of his own lads rowed him over yesterday.”
As they approached the cottage door, their local commander, Michael Kennedy, came out to meet them. Kennedy was a large powerfully built man; his size alone was enough to command respect. Added to his physical stature were a sharp wit and a fierce loyalty to his men.
“Well, lads, how’s the form?”
“Good, Michael, and yourself?”
“Ah, sure not too bad, all things considered. Listen, lads, before you go in, we have a few visitors that came across from Clare to give us a hand today.”
Dan Flanagan was a cautious and suspicious person at the best of times. Unexpected visitors, on what was supposed to be a routine operation, set him on edge.
“And will we be needing help then, Michael? Are we expecting fierce resistance from the Major and his nephew or is it the granddaughter we are worried about?”
Major Wilson’s nephew was staying with him at present. He was on leave from the trenches and widely believed to be suffering from shell shock. The servants reported that he spent most of his time in his room staring out the window. They said that he didn’t mix, meddle or make with anyone at all. The granddaughter looked after the Major’s horses. He had a few very respectable show jumpers. The granddaughter attended boarding school in England, and spent her summers with her grandfather. The locals reckoned her to be quite a beauty, a pleasant girl and a good horsewoman.
“Well,” said Michael. “You’ve heard of Michael O’Sullivan from across the lake there in Clare?”
“We have indeed,” said Dan. “A fine politician and a government minister in the making they say.”
“That’s the man alright. The thing is, and this is between us lads, well, Michael is a great one for the speeches and the organizing and all that but he has never fired a shot in anger. Being, as they say, of a nervous disposition, he is never likely to see action. The family honor requires a fighting man. His brother Dermot has been sent to us so that he at least can say that he was out on active service.”
Dan listened without saying a word. Billy blurted out “Isn’t Dermot O’Sullivan a well-known alcoholic? Sure, we’re not going to let him loose around loaded weapons, are we?”
“Keep your voice down, Billy, for Jesus’ sake. Look it, it’s all been arranged, Dermot will carry a pistol with just one round in it. He knows ammunition is scarce and he knows that we are not expecting a fight. The Clare lads have sent two reliable men to keep an eye on him and to keep him out of trouble. Look lads, it was not my idea, but those are the orders and we need everyone to do their part.”
Billy looked at Dan. Dan sighed and nodded to Michael and the three of them made their way to the cottage. The cottage itself was cold and dark inside, the only light and heat coming was from a small fire burning in the grate which the lads had got going in order to make tea. After the introductions, there was just enough time for a decade of the rosary for those so inclined, and then the column moved out and made its way to the Wilson estate. Two sentries would be posted on the road, one at the gate. Billy Flanagan to the left of the house, one of the Clare men to the right, another to the stables at the back. Michael Kennedy, the commanding officer, accompanied by Dan Flanagan and Dermot O’Sullivan, would break into the servant’s entrance below the stairs in the front of the house. The Clare men were not pleased to be separated from their charge and had to be reminded that they were under orders and on active service. Dermot O’Sullivan assured them that he would be fine as he drained what was left of his hip flask. O’Sullivan was a stout jovial enough looking man with large bleary eyes. If he had grown a grey beard, he would have resembled a drunken Father Christmas.
The column took up positions. Michael had no trouble breaking a glass pane on the servants’ door and pulling back the bolt. Once inside, the Volunteers roused the servants and told them to go outside and wait in the stables. The servants, although fond of their employer, were not going to make a fuss. They assumed and rightly so, that it was guns the lads were after and that no real harm was intended. After the servants had left, the trio made their way to the main floor. At the top of the stairs they heard the Major’s voice demanding to know what the bloody hell the racket was about. Michael answered him calmly,
“Now, Major, we’ll be having the keys to the gun room if you please and then we’ll be off, no harm done,”
“The hell you will, you bastards, get out of my house at once!” the Major responded.
“The keys now, Major, or we’ll burn this place down around your ears.”
The Major was not a stupid man. He had shown a suitable amount of defiance and he knew that it was time to surrender the keys
. Before he could do so, his nephew appeared at the top of the landing, revolver in hand, and commenced firing wildly down the stairs.
Michael and Dan returned fire and Dermot O’Sullivan took off down a hallway to the left. In times of stress, well, most the time really, Dermot’s first reaction to any situation was to go look for a drink. He decided to try the door at the end of the hallway first, furthest from the gun fire and maybe a study where the Major might keep a bottle. He turned the handle of the door and was surprised to see an attractive young lady sitting up in bed with blankets pulled around her. On the table beside her bed was a beautiful vase of flowers. The young lady reached for the vase and flung it at him, narrowly missing his head. “Get out of here, you filthy Paddy bastard, get out at once!” she screamed.
It was something in her tone of voice that made him snap. He had intended to leave and close the door, even after she had thrown the vase at him. It was her voice, the way she spoke to him, the way these fuckers all spoke, like masters to slaves. Fuck that. Now, he would teach this bitch who the masters were. The sentry from the main gate had moved up to the front door and had opened fire. The Major was yelling at his nephew to cease fire, that he would get them all killed. At that moment, Dan Flanagan heard a women’s scream coming from down the hall where Dermot O’Sullivan had disappeared. Fearing the worst, he took off toward the sound of the scream. When he got to the bedroom door, his suspicions were confirmed. Dermot was astride the Major’s granddaughter. He had thrown aside her bed covers and ripped her nightgown to shreds.
“O’Sullivan, for God’s sake, give over,” Dan called out, then set down his rifle with the intention of dragging his drunken comrade off the girl before any more harm was done.
Before he reached the bed, O’Sullivan drew his pistol turned and pointed it at Dan. Dan paused in disbelief and then heard a shot ring out from the window. The shot hit O’Sullivan square in the chest and knocked him off the bed. Dan saw Billy standing outside, pistol still raised. Dan raced over to O’Sullivan, but it was hopeless, the shot had taken him straight in the heart and he was dead before he had fallen to the floor. Before he had time to think, he heard the hammer of a revolver being cocked very close to his head. He looked up to see the Major’s granddaughter standing above him with O’Sullivan’s pistol pointed at his head. Dan raised his hands and a second shot rang out. The Major’s granddaughter fell to the floor, the back of her head a bloody mess. Billy broke through the window and into the room, at the same time Commandant O’Kennedy arrived at the doorway.
The Major and his nephew had surrendered and were being held near the main gate. O’Kennedy had heard the shots and had come to investigate.
“Jesus, lads, what a bloody mess. Listen, we can’t have this. O’Sullivan was shot by the girl. Dan, you saw it, then the girl turned on you and Billy, you got her from the window. Take O’Sullivan’s body out and get a cart out of the stables.”
“What about the Major and his nephew?” said Dan.
“We’ll tell them the girl made it out with the servants. They will be shot in reprisal for the next Volunteers executed anywhere in Ireland or shot trying to escape.”
After the column had returned to the cottage, and the Clare lads were rowing O’Sullivan’s body back for a hero’s funeral, Dan, Billy and Michael were alone by the fire. “Listen, lads,” said Michael. “I’ve been thinking about this and I think it is best if ye took a trip. I think the States is the best place for ye. It would suit certain people, if certain Volunteers on that raid conveniently died for Ireland and were not around to challenge the official version of events. Yes, I think the States for the two of you. I’ll hint around that you were sent off on a special mission.”
“What about the folks at home? They rely on us.” Dan’s first thoughts had been of a practical nature. Billy had pictured himself strolling down Broadway with a beautiful glamor girl on each arm. Hearing Dan’s concern he snapped out of his reverie and nodded his head in support of his brother. Michael promised the boys that suitable work would be found for their father and that he would keep a good eye on the family. And so it was that Dan and Billy were smuggled to New York and arrived with no papers and very little money. Billy did however, get to keep his revolver and it became the subject of family folklore.
Upon arriving in New York, Billy found himself down by the docks after dark. He was approached by a group of young tough looking men, the largest of whom stood in his path and asked him for a light. “I’m afraid I am out of matches.” replied Billy, “But you can take a light on this…” he said, producing the revolver.
Chapter Three
New York, 1974
Brian remembered that walk to the bakery, every word and every expression. It was the first time his father and himself had what might be regarded as an adult conversation. He liked the idea that they were going to have a conversation outside the apartment away from his mother, just the two of them, two men discussing business. Sean Flanagan had not begun the conversation with “Don’t tell your mother.” Brian was really pleased that he was trusted enough to know that this was understood between them, that he was smart enough to figure that out on his own. For the first time, he felt as if he was being treated like a man. He was also in a really good mood because the bakery they were headed for had custard Danishes to die for. His dad was partial to the cherry Danish, though why anyone would ruin perfectly good pastry with fruit was beyond him. His father always had slightly eccentric tastes in food; he liked olives too, right out of the jar with the pimento in them. Again, why people ruin a perfectly good martini was beyond him. Not that he knew much about martinis then. Contrary to common belief, young Irish kids did not generally start drinking hard liquor until they were around eighteen; with the exception of wakes, weddings and vacations to the old country, when it was closing time and the publican was trying to clear the house and would not serve another round of pints.
On the way to the bakery, they passed a bar on Bleeker Street and this gave his dad a way to open the conversation.
“You see that big pane glass window? When I was about your age, I was passing by here one morning, the glass was all broken, there were boards in the windows and the owner was out surveying the damage. He shouts over at me, ‘Hey you, your brother did this last night. Knocked a guy clear through the window and now I gotta clean all this up. What a friggin’ mess! But hell of a punch though, knocked the guy right off his feet.’ You know your Uncle Jim was a boxer, right? And that he fought professionally?”
“Yes,” Brian said. He had seen pictures of Uncle Jim as a young boxer in family photo albums.
"He could have been great but he couldn’t take the discipline of being a professional athlete. When he realized that he couldn’t be out partying seven nights a week, he went looking for another line of work. Your granddad and his brother came here from Ireland with nothing, to try to make a better life for us all. Your granddad got a job on the docks and had to work a lot of hours to keep food on the table. Your grandmother died young and left him with the kids to raise.
Your aunts, my sisters, Kate and Mary, were the eldest and they helped look after us boys and young Margaret while Dad was working but they were really just kids themselves. My dad never married again; he said he had had the best woman in the world and that he wanted no other. Anyways, your Uncle Jim was a pretty wild kid. He fell in with a pretty rough crowd of kids and they all grew up together. Uncle Jim was a tough guy himself, and I have seen him knock guys out with his right and his left hand. As I said, he was a party guy and when he left boxing, he didn’t want to come down the docks with us. I am ashamed to say that your Uncle Jim was not really interested in working for a living.
Some of his friends from the neighborhood found a good use for his talents. Jim had quite a reputation then, so when people owed them money and were late paying up, they would send Jim to collect the money for them. Now, listen, I want you to be absolutely clear on this, Jim is my brother and I love him but I am disa
ppointed about what he does. It is wrong and he is stupid to be involved with those people. I suppose most families have a black sheep and he is ours.
This is the greatest country in the world, it is the land of opportunity, where people can come and work hard and their kids can go to college and families can progress. Speaking of college, your mother mentioned that you got a B in a Math test last week, what was that about?"
And so, the man to man chat was over and they fell back into a more familiar style of conversation.
When they had reached the bakery door, his dad said, “Cherry for me, almond for your mother and the usual prune Danish for you, I suppose?” Brian took the hint and on the walk back they talked about the oddness of people who would put a laxative on a Danish and what the punishment should be for such a crime and also how he was going to get an A on the next Math test.
When he walked anywhere in the Village with his dad, they seldom came back the exact same way. His dad would always vary the route a little. He said that it was good for Brian to know the neighborhood and not just to walk the same few streets all the time. On the way back that day they passed the store. The ‘store’ was the neighborhood version of Costco, before there was a Costco. It was for members only and the membership fee was only a dollar. The store didn’t advertise, it didn’t even have a sign over the door. The store sold all kinds of merchandise at bargain prices, cash only and no returns. The store was kind of exclusive though. You couldn’t just walk in and become a member. You had to live in the neighborhood and you had to be recommended by another member. No paper work, no membership cards, two old guys ran it and they knew all the members’ names, where they lived and who had introduced them. Brian’s dad didn’t like his mom to shop there. He heard them argue about it one time.