by Orna Ross
This was how they'd slept since Barney died: herself, her father and mother in three separate bedrooms, all doors open, in case Máire took a turn or needed anything in the night.
"It's all right, Mammy," she answered, already out of bed and shoving her feet into her slippers. "I'm coming."
Knock, knock, knock! again. Free Staters, no doubt, on another raid. Holy God, they'd been round twice already this month. They'd find nothing; they must surely know that by now. Nothing only the pleasure of persecuting true Republicans, a sport that never seemed to grow weary for them.
"I'm coming," she called to the front door as she hurried down the stairs, fast as she could without falling. Only when she opened the door, it wasn't soldiers on the step, but her neighbour, Mrs White, Lama's mother, and in a state.
All dishevelled, tears drying on her cheeks, with Tipsy Delaney beside her.
"I'm sorry, Peg," she said. "I'm sorry now to rouse you in the night like this, with you having the childer to teach in the morning."
"What is it? What's wrong? Come in."
"I didn't know where else to go. Tipsy suggested here."
No doubt he did. “That’s all right, Mrs White. Come in, come in both of you." She ushered them into the hall. "What's happened?"
Her coat was on over her night clothes, and her hair was thrown up, falling out of its clips. In her hand, she was holding what looked like a letter.
"Is it...?" Peg stopped, not wanting to say her friend's nickname – Lama, so-called for his habit of saying "Lamb of God" every few minutes – to his mother. For a panicked moment, she found herself having a blank about the proper name of this boy she'd known her whole life long, who'd become a close friend in the experiences they'd shared over the past years, first in the War of Independence, and even more through being on the same side in this follow-up war.
This "War of the Brothers", as it was coming to be called. Only it wasn't only brothers divided. It was sisters, and friends, and parents from their children, and husbands from their wives.
John! she remembered, the name jumping to her mind. And with it her friend's face, long and angular and teeth forever stretched into a smile, like the wooden face on a rocking horse. A flood of feeling for him rushed in with the image, hot and soft.
When you shared a killing with somebody, as she had with Lama last October, it drew you close like nothing else. Even if the killing was something you knew you'd spend the rest of your days regretting, you were bonded to all involved.
And all the more so to Lama, with Barney, the third of the trio who'd done the deed, gone from them.
Killed in reprisal.
And now...? Was she in danger?
"It's bad," said Tipsy, his tongue, as always, a little too large in his mouth. Anyone looking at him would think he was smiling, but Peg knew better.
"Yes," wailed Mrs White, bursting into a fresh round of tears as she pushed the letter into her hands. "Yes Peg, it's John. It's the worst."
* * *
Dear Mother and Father,
I am very sorry to have to be writing what I know will be sad and shocking news for you. The Free State army has, without judge or jury, decided our fate. Tomorrow morning, at dawn, I am to be shot for my part in Ireland's fight for freedom.
This is a hard letter to have to write. But, if it were not for knowing how it will grieve you and Mattie and Janey and the little ones to receive it, I would not regret this way of leaving the world. I am proud to have served Ireland and I hope you, knowing I died to save the Republic, will be proud too.
I have seen a good priest, Father Carty from Kyle, and have made my peace with God. He who knows all has forgiven all and I, too, forgive the men who do this to us. Irish soldiers doing English work: they know not what they do.
I, and the three boys who will die with me, go to God in peace, knowing our blood — like that of Pearse and Connolly in 1916 — will bring new soldiers to Ireland's cause. For our cause is the cause of right and God is on our side.
So if you can, do not grieve me, Mother dear, or Father. We will meet again in Heaven.
May the Lord have mercy on us all.
Your loving son,
John.
* * *
JJ came downstairs, sent by Máire to see what the fuss was about and Peg, heart thumping as she read the letter a second time, sent him out to the byre to rouse George, the pony, and hitch up the trap. She sat Mrs White down in the parlour with Tipsy while she ran back upstairs to explain all to her mother. As always, Máire was roused out of awareness of her illness by Free State perfidy.
"You're right to go in," she said, when she heard what Peg intended. "Where there's life, there's hope."
"I pray we're not too late. And that they’ll listen to reason. Surely even Free State soldiers won't sink so low."
"They've done it in other counties."
"But here in Wexford, Mammy. These are the selfsame boys who fought with us against the English. They surely won't do down one of their own."
"Take Tipsy in with you," said Máire. "They'll take more notice of a man, even poor Tipsy, than of a girl."
Would they? Peg wasn't so sure but the company would do no harm.
"Oh, I wish I could go myself, I'd give them what's what."
"We'll do our best, Mammy."
"I know you will, lovey. I didn't mean that. I just wish I was more use."
"You did enough, Mammy. You did more than anyone. We'd have no-one on the side of the Republic around here at all were it not for you. You rest yourself and we'll be back before you know it. With good news, I hope."
Peg kissed her cheek, as she always did now, whenever she took leave of her, and looked back for a moment at the door. Her poor mother, so reduced in size, and face so changed, it was hard to believe it was her and not an old aunt or relative in her bed.
No time for any of that now. Peg took the stairs down two steps at a time, and led Mrs White and Tipsy out of the parlour, into a night of high, tight stars, and a sliver of moon. Calm and clear and dry. That, at least, was a blessing. The night air was cooling on the heat of her thoughts.
As they climbed aboard the trap, she handed Tipsy the reins, so she could keep Mrs White company.
Peg had never gone into town by night. This was a new road to her. The trees and ditches were shadows of black on black, turned inside out in their night clothes. She didn't recognise any of them. For a while, she tried to keep Mrs White distracted by small talk, but then let them both settle into their thoughts. Oh, but that letter of Lama's. It had sounded so final. Would they even be in time? It was thirteen miles into Wexford: the journey would take them the bones of an hour, more maybe in the dark.
And of course the never-ending questions about Dan O'Donovan came slithering to the surface. Would he be there, in the jail? If he was, what was she going to say to him? Would he be moved to help? It was a measure of how things had changed between them that she hadn’t a clue of the answer to that.
Surely he couldn’t possibly be involved in this, the execution of his old comrade? If he was, then he was capable of anything now. And that, of course, was the real question, the one that rose in her still, hour after hour, driving her into a torment that let go of her only while she slept — and sometimes not even then. Had Dan fired the shot that killed their Barney, his onetime best friend? Was he capable of such a thing? And was that the real reason he was keeping her and Norah apart?
He had assured her not, told her the kindest thing she could do for Norah was to leave her alone, insisted that Norah had expressly asked not to be contacted by the Parle family. And while he was before her, handsome and bulky and seemingly sincere, she'd believed him. His flashing eyes, the fervour of his words, his sorrow about Barney all but convinced her.
All but. But. But.
Words come easy to some but it's actions that tell the real story. If his reported doings were to be believed, only a fool could trust him. Organising round-ups; stalking about the county mak
ing raids and arrests galore; putting Lama, Molly, Des Fortune and other good friends behind bars: all that she knew to be true, but could maybe be explained by politics and conviction. She mightn't like that he thought different from the rest of them, and was willing to go against them, but it was a long leap from there to the other thing she suspected.
And now, this. Lama, his friend and hers, to be shot at dawn. Executed — a word that was never made to fit any of them. If it was true, and Dan had any part in it, then she had her answer.
Trusty George clip-clopped on. Somewhere along the way, Peg fell into a place between waking and sleep. She was half-dreaming — Barney was chasing Norah down the strand with Dan running after them and Peg was looking on from the top of the cliff, helpless — when the sound of hooves and wheels hitting a harder surface jolted her awake.
A good road. They were coming into the town.
How did anybody live in a town at all, she wondered, as the houses started to cluster together and road turned to street. It was so unnatural. She wouldn’t be able to breathe if her house didn't have field around it and the sea in its sights. She put her face up to gulp some air and saw that light was cracking a thin, faint line across the horizon.
Dawn.
At dawn, I am to be shot for my part in Ireland's fight for freedom.
Oh pray God, not. Not.
The buildings huddled, stern in the darkness, saying nothing.
At the bottom of Hill Street she said, "Pull over the side here, Tipsy," and he did as bid. "Mrs White, you stay here and look after George. Tipsy and I will go see what we can find out."
The older woman's frightened eyes were so like her son's. How had Peg never noticed that before? She handed her the reins.
The sound of their boots rang loud in the empty streets as they ran towards the jail.
"What should we say when we get there?" she asked, knowing as soon as the words were out that Tipsy wouldn't have any ideas to offer. "Should we ask for Dan, do you think?"
All she got back was a shrug.
At the jail, there was nobody about: just the big oak door, closed, and the thick stone around it.
"There's nobody here," Tipsy said, specialising as always in stating the obvious, but she, too, had expected somebody outside. A sentry. Someone.
Tipsy knocked on the door. Nothing.
They knocked together, hard as they could, but the slab of wood swallowed the thin sound of their knuckles.
What now? She sat on a stone ledge, trying to straighten out the snarl of her feelings, to decide. How had she ended up here, outside a jail in the middle of the night, with Tipsy Delaney? Her brother dead, her best friend gone from her? Had she brought it on herself?
Was it that she liked being a freedom fighter more than was good for her? That she wanted her own way too much, as Dan said? Was he right? She saw that in her mother sometimes. Did she suffer from the same trait herself without knowing? Would she ever find in her thoughts a key that would open the door to peace?
Everything around them was slowly revealing its lineaments as the sun rose, but no such emerging light for her. As she sat, watching shadows become shapes, a barrage of rifle fire suddenly sounded from inside the jail. She and Tipsy jumped up together. This fusillade was followed by four single shots at short intervals. The echo of it pounded in their ears and reverberated over the town, on the quiet of early morning.
She ran over to the door and banged on it again, but it was such a weak, ineffectual sound, compared to what had just assaulted their ears. Oh sweet divine Jesus, what was she to do? She laid her forehead against the door and, from the other side, heard footsteps slowly approaching, then the sound of whistling. Whistling!
She stepped back. There was the sound of a bolt being pulled and the door started to move.
A soldier came out, with a hammer and nails in one hand, a notice in the other.
He was surprised to see herself and Tipsy — to see anyone — standing there. The three of them stared at each other for a long, uncertain minute, then he squinted at Peg.
"Miss Parle, isn't it? The schoolmistress from Mucknamore?"
She nodded. He looked familiar. Was he an O'Donnell? She wasn't sure enough to say. "Is it bad news for us?"
He turned, unable to cope with the question, and pinned the notice he had in his hand onto the door. She and Tipsy went close in, to read:
By order of the Government of the Irish Free State, the following men were executed by firing squad on this day, March 13th, 1923: John Creane of Clonerane, Taghmon; Patrick Hogan of William Street, Wexford; James Parle, of Clover Valley, Taghmon; John White of Mucknamore.
At that very moment, Mrs White came running up. "Did you hear that shooting, Peg? Tipsy! Did you hear it?"
Then she saw the soldier, the notice, the hammer in his hand.
"Oh my God! No. He's not...?" She sounded as shocked as if it was the first she'd heard of the possibility. "He's not, he's not, he's not, he's not."
Peg went to put a hand on her shoulder, but Mrs White shrugged it off as if Peg herself had done the killing, and dropped into the well of pain that was breaking open in her, hands to her face.
The soldier slipped back inside the door as fast as he could, away from the unbearable sound of her wailing, away from the unbearable sight. The latest in Ireland's long line of mothers bereaved.
* * *
Dear Dan,
I have been asked to write to you by Mucknamore Company, the organisation that you may recall first fostered your involvement with the Irish Republic.
You must know that the illegal body over which you and your associates now preside has — since the signing of your Treaty with England — declared unholy war on the soldiers of the true Republic.
We, on our side, have at all times adhered to the recognised rules of warfare. In the early days of this conflict, we took hundreds of your forces prisoner, but accorded them all rights of prisoners-of-war and better. We treated them as fellow citizens and former comrades-in-arms. Your soldiers have often been released by us, although captured with arms on each occasion.
But those of the Irish Republican Army (not long ago, your own army) that you have imprisoned, you have treated barbarously. When helpless, you have tortured and wounded them.
We have definite proof that many of your officers have been guilty of the most brutal crimes and have reduced your soldiers to a state of savagery on occasions.
And, now, you have committed murder. Your sham government pretends to try IRA prisoners before make-believe courts. After such mock ceremonials, you have done to death four of your former colleagues. We hereby give you due notice that unless your "Free State" army recognises the rules of warfare in future, we shall have to adopt very drastic measures to protect our Republican forces.
Irish Republican Army,
Mucknamore Company, South Wexford Brigade.
* * *
Dear Dan,
I won’t send this one, but I need to write it. Did you get my earlier letter? I'm supposing you did, but how will I know, when you made no answer and we never speak any more? I was told what to write — did you realise that as you read it?
Dear Dan, my dear Dan, here’s what I'd really say to you, if I could. I know why you took the turn you've taken and I understand. I do, truly. I know how it felt for you to be the outsider here in Mucknamore, with the wariness felt towards you and your family when you arrived here from Cork. You who had always been so liked and admired. I know it was hard for you. I know how you worried about what you'd do with yourself since the farm was for Thomas, and the priesthood definitely not for you.
And I can see how this gives it all to you, all solved. A soldier in the new army — a lieutenant, no less. A fancy title and uniform and boots and pay to match: all a young man could ask for.
But Dan, no good can come of it, you must know this. The one true way is the way of The Republic. Though that way is thorny now, denying it will do you no good in the end.
&
nbsp; Dan, there are so many ways a person can fail to think enough of himself. The likes of you doesn't need a uniform and a shiny salary, especially one paid for with English money.
Oh Dan, don't you know that there are good people who see and know your worth without such trappings?
Oh Dan, won't you come back to us?
Please.
I –
* * *
Dear Molly,
Thanks for your letter and your kind words of sympathy. It means so much to hear from those who knew Barney well and truly mourn his loss with us.
Thank you too for the compliments about the ballad and Mammy's pamphlet. It was Mr Connolly, the printer, who said we should put that it was written "By A Comrade" instead of people knowing it was by two women (his mother and sister). He said it would sell better that way, and maybe he was right, because it has sold well – he is going to do a second printing. We just hope we did our boy justice in it.
All the talk here, as you can imagine, has been of the Free State executions. We were so shocked, as I'm sure you were too. The night after it happened, we organised a crowd to gather around the jail to recite the Rosary, and afterwards we marched to St Peter's Square, where we held a protest. The Staters broke us up, of course, firing shots over the head of the crowd. But they won't find it as easy as all that to scatter us.
More and more people are coming onto our side, sickened by their actions. Our main aim now is to make governance of the country impossible by disrupting the railways and destroying public buildings and services. Proper soldiering would, of course, be preferable, but this is all we can do for now, with no money, no arms, no ammunition and no jails.
It's that, or stand idly by while they wreck our Republic, end to end.
We are also to make private "Big Houses" — owned by unionists — a target. The bigger the property, the more likely to receive our attentions. Joe Hickey calls their fine paintings and books and furnishings immoral. "Wealth built on the sweat and starvation of the native Irish," he says. And he's not wrong, but it gives me a queer feeling to think of any private house being burnt out. And to imagine books and paintings that took generations to gather, being destroyed.