Galloping unchecked was as exhilarating as flooring the pedal of a sports car, but instead of being pushed back by the acceleration, Jessica brought herself forward over Kilkea’s neck and shoulders. Her arms pumped in rhythm with each stride. Launching over hurdles, she gave encouragement with her legs and brought her body more forward on his neck, allowing extra leeway with the reins so Kilkea could stretch his head out, helping with balance and to see their landing. She started a soft singsong of words, using her voice as another point of connection.
Jessica’s mind began to click through the points of Kilkea’s performance when she felt the horse gather up and give an extra burst of speed. Something ignited, and the horse dug down deep. What caused the change? Pounding hooves grew louder. Stealing a glance over her shoulder, she was shocked to see Michael still astride. Not being able to see his face, she couldn’t tell if he was enjoying his ride or not.
Kilkea’s spark was his true competitiveness, which thrilled Jessica. Kilkea had somehow worked out in his head that Planxty was not going to get the best of him. Humans do crazy stunts because of a sheer desire to win. Many horses are no different.
Jessica refocused on her ride, chastising herself for being reckless but not caring enough to stop or pull up. Kilkea exposed his potential and grew stronger. She turned toward the east end of the field where the hedgerow was lower. Kilkea refused her signal, insisting on going straight. The jump was over five feet, and she pulled hard on the left rein and pushed with her legs to steer to the lower jump. They were moving too fast. Jessica checked her center of balance, body position, and inhaled. She fought the impulse to close her eyes as they approached the last hedge. Kilkea’s muscles coiled, then sprang forward. Time and sound stopped. In that moment, her tension broke, and she felt free.
Kilkea’s front hooves slipped on the wet turf when they landed. He took a half stride to regain his balance, skid again, then took two complete strides before Jessica brought him to a trot, then to a walk. She barely had time to reach down and rub his neck with praise before Planxty thundered through the hedge—branches and leaves flying—and skidded to a stop.
Michael, nearly unseated at their abrupt halt, held onto Planxty’s neck until he could right himself in the saddle. He looked at Jessica, his eyes rounded with amazement.
She sat stunned for a moment herself before laughter overtook her. “I had no idea you could ride like that!” The release of laughter felt good. She let it flow, feeling slightly unhinged as she did so. “I thought for sure you’d be trotting down the lane for another hour before you got here.”
“I stayed on... barely. I’m not sure I can call that knowing how to ride, can you?”
Her laughter trickled to a chuckle and they stood grinning at each other with the shared adventure. She indicated a need to keep the horses moving until their sides stopped heaving and their bodies cooled. Happy again, they walked side by side, as their horses hung their heads and stole mouthfuls of grass when they could.
“Sweet Jesus! That was amazing.”
Jessica turned her head to see Tim striding over. He parked in front of the barn, and the door to his truck hung open. His two dogs sat poised in the truck bed, waiting for his command to join them.
“Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” he exclaimed, sounding to Jessica more like “Jaysus, Meerie and Jyoseph.” He continued, “I’ve not seen Kilkea do anything more than a polite canter and low hurdles since he’s come under my care, and you have him flying over hedgerows.”
“Today was fun. That’s all.” She took a step backward, ducking behind Michael’s shoulder as a shield.
“Fun? Then that means you thought it was easy.”
“I guess I do.”
“Easy. Easy. Easy,” Tim rocked with excitement, eyes darting back and forth to spots on the ground in front of their feet. “The hedgerows. Hedgerows. Hanging back then moving forward. Said it was easy.”
Michael waited until Tim had calmed down to hand over Planxty’s reins. “Tim?” he asked in a steady voice.
Tim twitched his head and reached for the reins. “That was something. That was something, Michael.”
“It was,” Michael answered smoothly. He nodded his head in the direction of the driveway. “Who are those people?”
Tim and Jessica looked up to see a boy and a girl, each about fourteen, watching at them. Their two heads dropped in unison when they saw Michael’s gaze on them.
“Kids. Just kids. Neighborhood kids. Never seen them about before.”
“What do they want?”
Tim glanced quickly at Jessica then back to Michael. He started to say something, but Michael stopped him with a look. Tim nodded and walked down the drive toward the teens. “Hey! There’s nothing for you here!” he yelled.
“And so it begins.” She turned on her heel and walked back to the barn.
APRIL 1966
LOUGH NEAGH
AGHALEE, NORTHERN IRELAND
BRIDGET POKED THE coals of a fire with a stick. The dried peat filled the air with a pungent and earthy smell, reminiscent of the finer scotches she once sipped. She wrapped the woolen shawl around her shoulders and wished she could to throw another chunk of peat into the grate. She had to conserve what she had until the men came.
The wind rattled the windows of the wooden cottage and the thin curtains covering the windows swayed slightly, betraying the fact that the cottage was not airtight. Once a home of open windows, where on hot days children ran freely in and out, the cottage survived now as a dry husk, grimly holding its place until summer rolled around again.
A ruddy-faced girl with a thick rope of wild red hair that refused to be tamed by a ribbon, walked over to her with a steaming mug of tea.
“I thought you’d need this to warm yourself,” the girl said, timid in her approach.
Bridget smiled and thanked the girl. “It’s Anna Marie, right?”
The girl’s face split into a huge smile, showing a broken front tooth. “Yes, Mrs. Harvey.”
“Please call me Bridget.”
Anna Marie drew in a short breath, but nodded quickly. “Thank you, Bri-Bridget,” she stammered, a bit awestruck at using the first name of someone she revered.
Bridget took a sip of the tea and made a point of showing how much she enjoyed it. Wrapping her hands around the mug, she walked over to the table and began to read some of the papers strewn about, pretending not to notice how the other women at the table looked at one another with a mixture of surprise and pride at being so close to her. She hand picked them based on vision and grit and knew them by name, but they knew her by reputation and tried to hide the fact they were star-struck.
She didn’t want her stature to distance her from them. Around the table sat six of the most capable young women Bridget had ever known. Their backgrounds were varied. Some were from wealthy families who had studied in the States and came back filled with passions about protests in the streets and the firsthand witnessing of the grief the American people felt from the loss of their young and dashing Irish President. Others wore the struggle of their parents in guarded eyes that flashed with anger when anyone tried to put them in check. What they had in common was a youthful idealism galvanized by recent events and a newfound strength that they could change the world if they could only harness the people’s power. Some were as young as nineteen and the oldest, Anna Marie, was twenty-two. At thirty-four, Bridget wondered if she seemed ancient to them.
How different they were from her when she had been their age. No. Not different. The times they were in began to accept young women with hearts and minds of their own. At least in these times women could be more independent so that being surrounded by their support seemed normal, if not prevalent. Speaking their minds in public made newspaper headlines and crushed the hearts of many parents, but because they had each other they didn’t feel like freaks for it. They encouraged one another and knew they were among the catalysts of incredible change. Indira Gandhi was Prime Minister of India, American
youth were protesting the Vietnam War almost as much as their parents were fighting against The Pill. The British, flexing their muscle to show they possessed Northern Ireland, closed more Irish language schools, restricted jobs in areas known to be either Catholic or Nationalist, and began a quiet campaign of internment—locking up men they suspected of organizing against them. These campaigns targeted men, but everyone knew the women and children were the ones who suffered. Bridget harnessed their hidden power in ways that supported their men and their cause.
When the British cut funding to any organization that flew the Northern Ireland flag instead of the Union Jack, Bridget led a group of women to respond by organizing the Civil Rights Movement, after the movement black Americans were successfully pursuing. In a few short months, Bridget would also be instrumental in pushing that movement to form NICRA—the Northern Ireland Civil Rights Association. She was incredulous that merely speaking out for equality between Catholics and Protestants, Irish and English, NICRA would become an organization that threatened the British government to its core.
The new Beatles song “We Can Work it Out,” played on a phonograph as Anna Marie passed a joint to another woman at the table. The smell of pot mingled with the peat fire. Bridget knew their woolen clothes would reek for hours, if not days. She declined the offer. Instead, she yearned for a glass of fine Scotch. Neat.
Bridget had never felt as comfortable in her own skin as she did now. Her passion and work were paying off with major milestones. Some of the women chided her for not taking credit, knowing that Bridget was the brains behind much of the civil organizing. But Bridget had made peace with her world—a world where she served every man, woman and child as an equal. A world, as she saw it, which was not yet ready to have a woman at the helm. She wanted the men around her succeeded but quickly cut out anyone stupid enough to claim her work as his own. She had no false modesty or subservience in allowing men be seen as the leaders. She needed the safe image of a married woman more than one as a hell raiser. Adopting the name Mrs. Harvey, she cultivated a retiring image and not to be too public in her opinions. She protected herself against the midnight knock and raid that had claimed so many of their men.
The mug cooled in her hands as she stood beside the table. Her body was still lithe and strong. Her once strawberry blonde hair had faded to more straw than berry, and she secured it at the nape of her neck with a piece of a discarded bootlace. She carried herself with a chieftain’s confidence. Over the years, her insights into people and politics were the foundation of coalitions. Her assurances won over opposition with unwavering vision and brilliant strategies. No person who knew her was fool enough to question her authority.
Eventually sounds of trucks lumbering along the rutted road grew louder. The women slowly gathered papers, looking at each page and organizing them into piles. Bridget watched each carefully to see which one stole a quick look at their reflection or fussed with a stray strand of hair. If one had betrayed a crush, Bridget would be careful to filter any news or advice from that besotted girl lest she be unknowingly biased. Or, if the flutter seemed too animated, Bridget would sternly ask her to leave. She could afford no mistakes, and mistakes of the heart were the hardest to guard against.
The trucks pulled around to the back of the cottage. Soon the small space filled with men, barking dogs, and laughter. It was Bridget’s favorite time of day.
Gus came over to her and wrapped her in a huge hug. She accepted his welcoming kiss eagerly, thankful for his safe return. For a brief moment, they paused, fingers interlaced, forehead to forehead, in a silent prayer of gratitude. He quickly threw a clot of peat in the grate and motioned to another man to put his armful of the dried fuel in the large woven basket waiting, nearly empty, beside the hearth. She turned to greet Dan and Patrick with a peck on their cheeks and a tousle of their hair. She greeted each man in kind and suddenly stopped cold. Kavan stood outside the door, waiting for his invitation to enter. In an unconscious gesture, she smoothed the front of her shirt.
He had thrown back the hood of his oilcloth coat, revealing he was not wearing the black and white starched clerical collar. Rather, he wore clothes he hoped would fade him into the background—white cotton shirt, woolen pants and a thickly knitted sweater—the only clue to his stature being the quality of the fabrics. His effort at blending in didn’t work. They lived in a time when the uniform of the rebellious was ripped jeans and band t-shirts, neither of which he could pull off. Even his choice of clothes conspired to expose him—the loose fit serving to accentuate his powerful build, not hide it. Bridget could see the ripple of attention he received from the women at the table. Anna Marie watched his arrival carefully, and Bridget knew her lustful look would crumple into a blush and a quick prayer for the Lord’s forgiveness if her admiring the physique of a man of the cloth were discovered. Bridget stared at Anna Marie, ensuring that the young woman felt watched as Kavan made his way into the cottage.
Bridget walked over to take his coat and accepted a light kiss on each cheek. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “You’re taking too big a risk.”
Gus came over and slapped Kavan on the back, barely containing his joy at seeing his friend. “Kavan! No one told me you’d be joining us tonight. What brings you here?” The two men brought their clasped fists to their chests in a gesture as close to a hug as real men dared.
Kavan surveyed the room rustling with the activity of people settling in. “We have much to talk about when we can.”
Gus and Bridget exchanged a look, their pride in their chosen family evident. “Have you eaten?” Gus asked, addressing Bridget. When she indicated no, he added, “Fine then. Our group is starving. We can talk about the developments better over a meal than we can over our growling stomachs. Kavan? Join us?”
“It’d be my honor,” Kavan answered, smoothly scanning the room.
Plates filled with steaming food balanced on knees as men and women sat down to eat. The talk quickly moved from the day’s events to the larger movement, voices rising with excitement as the points were plotted.
Bridget walked around the room, eavesdropping on conversations, listening in on updates and strategies, and offering her suggestions and insights to finely tune the planned actions. She did not push, and she did not to betray a larger plan with a poorly executed step. Bridget knew that her efforts identifying skilled organizers and educating them on the new theories of civil disruption were having an impact. She was creating contained, disciplined groups that would focus their efforts on a single goal. She empowered the few with education and knowledge so they would have an impact on the many. Tasks were mapped out and broken down into pieces and groups formed over one task or another. Eventually, the room emptied as people broke off to work.
Gus and Kavan remained seated at the table, which functioned as a conference room, staging area, and kitchen table. Anna Marie sat between them, heads bowed in animated discussion. Dan and Patrick sat on either side of the men, listening intently. Bridget watched, pleased that men and women equally shared the labors of leadership. Gus poured glasses of Scotch so they might toast one another with all the flourish that could roll off their tongues. They felt the craic of the moment and savored it. Each would easily give up his or her life for any of the others, and Bridget was struck by how alike their relationships were. Brothers and sisters all, blood not needed. Having received her update and instructions, Anna Marie excused herself to inform the others.
The talk inevitably turned to recent events. “The hole in the British mind where Nelson’s Pillar monument stood will begin to fester. They’ll be looking for blood,” Dan said.
“They’ve no leads to come back after us and no deaths to investigate. Besides, the pillar was in Dublin, not London, so they won’t feel the threat as much,” responded Patrick.
Kavan held up his hand. “Don’t be so quick to diminish their opinion. Nelson’s Pillar may have been built on Irish soil, but it was no less a symbol of British might. Its demo
lition sent a clear message that was felt through the hearts of the people.” He looked around the room, empty except for this core group of friends. Secure, he lowered his voice. “Job well done, boys.”
“What brings you here, Kavan?” Gus asked, concern knitting through his brow.
“The wedge the British is wielding is growing in power. You’re aware how the voting districts have cut Divis Flats in two?” He waited until he saw all heads nod. “The impact simply dilutes our votes so fewer nationalists are able to get elected. You and Bridget are addressing that with countermeasures. What concerned me is the breach inside the church.”
“What’s happened?” Bridget asked, leaning forward.
Kavan grimaced as he spoke. “Father Storm refused to christen a baby with an Irish name.”
“Then there’s no doubt the church is being used to deflect the real reasons for our conflict,” Bridget said, eyes downcast.
“Yes,” Kavan replied, “and it’s only going to get worse. The British have been trying to restrict how and where we can use our language. They’ve made teaching our history a crime, and they’re doing everything they can to stop us from organizing. With Father Storm feeling forced to take this step, I’m afraid our spoken message is too silent.”
“People are losing patience. My girls have more than enough followers and have been identifying the best avenues of resistance.”
“What solutions have you found for communications and provisioning once the blockades start?” Gus asked.
Bridget gave a Mona Lisa smile. “We’re ready. The tinder is set.”
Gus looked each person directly in the eye. “Timing is important. The flashpoint has to happen when the population is ready. Too early, and we risk internal divides. Too late, and we risk discovery.”
The Troubles (The Jessica Trilogy Book 2) Page 15