by Ralph Peters
“And Kildare?” I asked.
“Lamp’s lit in the cabin, so I figure he’s in there keeping dry. Probably with Bull O’Hara. Bull’s the one I’d watch. He’ll shoot straight.”
“You know the ground, John,” I said. “Where’s the place to take them?”
“Next lock down,” he said without hesitating. For he knew his business. “Deep one, sharp fall. Steepest part of the gorge, just about. Let ’em get into the lock, but we won’t let ’em get out. Hard for ’em to get away on foot, with the banks so sheer.”
If it would be hard for them to escape, that meant it would be equally difficult for us, should things go poorly. But I said nothing. For his spirit was up. And spirit has carried many a battle that should have been lost.
The sheriff was a sort I knew quite well, the man who moves briskly to keep a step ahead of his concerns. Such a man will carry the breastworks. Or fall before them.
“That’s good, John,” I said. “You have done us a fine reconaissance.” But I was thinking: one O’Hara by the mules with a pistol. And Kildare was no trained fighter, so he would be over-armed. With two pistols, at least. And a gambler’s gun concealed. If he was in the barge’s cabin, his powder and caps would be dry. The same went for the other O’Hara brother, the one who worried the sheriff. And if the half-dozen Irishmen with the staves were armed, as well? What about those shut below the deck? Were the Enfields still in their packing cases? Or was each man primed to kill his way to Canada?
And where in God’s name was Molloy? He had the sense to place himself discreetly, yet worried I was. For danger might come at him from either side if a battle erupted. Now a trouble he was, that one, with a past stained black as the devil’s behind, begging your pardon. But he had done me fair and done me proud. I did not want to see a brave man fall.
And . . . and he was my friend, see. For friendship is a strange thing on this earth.
My companions sat on their horses, with the sleet down their necks and up their cuffs. Of a sudden, I realized they were waiting for me. Even Underwood looked for orders now. They saw me as the man who knew his killing.
It is a shameful distinction.
“Let’s go, then,” I said. “You will lead us to the spot, John. And I will set each soldier, begging your pardon, gentlemen, each man—”
“Can’t hear ya,” Deputy Meeks shouted.
I nodded. Twas just as well. “Let’s go,” I repeated with greater vigor. “We need time to put each man in his place.”
The fields were muck and mire. Approaching the lip of the canal gorge, we dismounted. And I was glad of it, though walking had a queer feel after the ride. The mud wanted our boots. John Brent tied our horses. I asked him what might be done to keep them quiet, but he had thought that far without my bothering him. He paired each with a favored stablemate.
“I can’t do anything about the thunder and lightning,” he said. “But horses feel best in their preferred society. Just like people.”
A single whinny might collapse our hopes. For a moment, I considered leaving Brent up with the horses, to soothe them. But we needed every man. Twas not so much a matter of being strong as of convincing Kildare and his boys that we were a mighty band.
“Careful now,” Underwood said. He sent Meeks down the slope first, to test the way. Then Morris disappeared after the deputy. “Get your hand away from that trigger, Reverend,” the sheriff called. “It’s slippery going down.”
He stepped up to John Brent, Douglass and me. “Be a miracle if Morris doesn’t blow a hole in the boat then kill half a dozen of us for good measure.”
“John?” I said to the sheriff. “It’s a bit hard to tell, see. But I have a sense that I know this place.”
“You go on down now, Brent,” Underwood said. “You next, Mr. Douglass.” He wiped a big hand across his face and a flash outlined those massive ears. “You know it, all right. Remember that poor little mick who drowned herself back in January? Down there in that lock, that’s just where it happened.” He sputtered a laugh and shook his head, as a man will when the world is unbearably hard. “Wasn’t McCorkle a coot that day?”
I recalled the girl. The dark roses of blood where the grapples stabbed her. And the sheath of gold that wrapped her as a shroud. She had been thin, with the hair of a mermaid.
The thunder rolled down from the hills and across the heath. It seemed so odd to me, that winter thunder. For thunder is ever a summer affair in my memory, whether storms over the Black Mountains or the monsoon trumpets of India.
A horse moaned and shuffled.
I followed John Underwood down, and slid, and lost my cane in the brambles.
Well, I could stand without it. And shoot straight, if need be.
WE WERE NAUGHT BUT PIGS in a wallow after tumbling down the slope.
“His name is Jimmy Molloy,” I told them, “and he must not come to harm. For he is a brave one, and has done good work.”
“But how will we know him?” Morris asked. “How will we—”
“There is trouble,” I said. “For he is a great one for disguises. Got up fancy, he is a fine-looking man, in a low and devious way. The last time I saw him he wore a Derby hat, but likely he’ll be wrapped up for the storm. His hair is red, but you will not see that for the weather.”
The sheriff grumbled. “Now I’ve got secret fellows running over my county. Oh, for—”
“He is a good man, John. And clever. He will find a way to let us know him.”
I hoped that I was right.
I reconnoitered the site, while Underwood and Meeks checked the lockkeeper’s shanty. Twas empty, but the upper gates of the lock were open wide. Ready to receive the barge. Perhaps Kildare had sent men ahead to open the locks. We never saw them, if he did. They may have taken shelter with a bottle, with the hard weather upon them. And good riddance. As for our position, it was poor. In the narrow defile, our ambush could easily be turned upon us, with a treacherous climb at our backs. We would take our stand at the foot of the embankment, in the underbrush, on ground slightly lower than the towpath. With naught but a ditch and the path between us and the conspirators.
Had they been soldiers and experienced, I would have spaced my comrades well apart, to make it seem the barge was all but surrounded. But these were simple men caught up in trouble.
I put each man in place, none more than a half-dozen paces from his neighbor, so each would have the comfort of sensing his fellow by him. I lined them up in a rank, to lessen the chance of them shooting each other. Although we did not separate, I divided us into wings of three men each, one centered on me and the other on the sheriff. I told them it was tactics. The truth is that I wanted those of less experience on either side of Underwood or me. The sheriff had Meeks to his left and Morris to his right, while I stood between Brent and Douglass. It would be our duty to bolster them.
We were crouched in the thicket, centered on the lock. The heavy gates made a fine prison for a boat. They would be trapped until the lower sluice was opened, and for a time thereafter.
Underwood called to me, in a reduced voice. “That light up there. That’s them.”
Twas no distance at all.
Hurriedly, I gave out final instructions. “Those of you with pistols, draw and prime. But keep them under your capes until they’re needed. Do not touch the triggers until I challenge the barge. And do not point the barrels along your legs or at your feet in the meantime.”
I scurried along our thin little line, twisting on my bad leg.
“Mr. Morris,” I continued. “You will point your shotgun at any armed men who bunch together. Aim it at their bellies, and shoot if you feel menaced. But none of you must draw until I call the challenge, understand?” I lowered my voice. “Keep to your places. And keep you still. Do not stand to reveal yourselves. Let them wonder how many we are, and where.”
I watched the lantern sway along the gorge, then made out its twin a bit behind. The lights seemed to grow in size with every second.
“No one is to fire unless Kildare’s lot begins shooting,” I said in a hushed voice. Only the slap of the sleet let me risk continued speech. Foul weather is the hard friend of the infantry. “Or if you hear my command, or that of the sheriff. Understand?”
The men made little noises of agreement, and I could sense their fear. Twas no longer a lark, or a fine gesture, or even a duty. Now it was living and dying. Twas easier for me, of course, as it always is for those in charge. We hear of the weight upon the colonel’s shoulders, but the weak link in the battle is the private alone with his fears.
“Stay down now,” I whispered, taking up my own position. “And be quiet. And don’t forget Jimmy Molloy.” Then I prayed.
A plan is nothing against fate. Our lives might end in a single volley.
A new sound come toward us. Almost a crying it was. Between the claps of thunder, we heard groans. As of a giant undergoing torment.
I wanted to ask what it was, but could not break our discipline. Later, I learned it was the noise of the barge grinding the last of the ice against the sides of the canal.
The lantern at the front of the barge disappeared, although its aura remained in the air. The lead mule had come between us. They were that close. The first lantern reappeared, then faded behind the trailing mule, only to shine out again. Despite the blow and sleet, I could see figures straining on the deck, working with long poles. I saw no rifles. But all was still obscure.
I felt the wet come up through my boots. Cold as a widower’s handshake. The wind screamed down the gorge.
Their voices come over, all Irish. Would ye put yer back into it, ye wort’less bugger? It’s frayzin’ I am, Napper. Tell Boylan he’s wanted. I’m frayzin’, I’m frayzin’ up dead. Swate Jaysus, would ye stop yer flailin’? Swate Jaysus . . .
What were they but fools? McCorkle had been wrong. I was not the dupe, though fool enough. These were the dupes of empire and of wealth, of all the great lords and the cruel Kildares. Twas hatred blinded the priest, as hatred blinds all those who embrace it.
Damn it, me fingers! Push, would ye push? I’m frayzin’ . . .
I did not want to fire on such fellows. But I would do what needed to be done.
And then a wicked voice broke out in song:
The swate-heart o’ Dublin,
’Er name was Light Sally,
She’d do it for sixpence,
Just back o’ the alley . . .
That Molloy. His lascivious tenor invited his fellow countrymen to join him. And the poor, benighted Irish did.
Singing, they come toward us.
I had a fix on Molloy now. But my companions would have no sense of him.
Napper O’Hara trailed the second mule. Just as the sheriff had said. I saw the lamplit cabin on the deck, imagining silhouettes on the oiled cloth behind its windows.
O’Hara stopped the mules, letting the boat drift into the lock.
A little time now, I thought. Easy, fellows, easy. I sensed the breathing of my comrades, for I could not hear it in the squall or over the wawling of the Irish. The sleet stiffened. It struck the wood of the boat and the trees like arrows, and left a cutting feel upon the face.
Twas shivering cold. My fingers would need prying from my pistol.
The lead mule started forward on its own, drawing the second animal behind it. The younger O’Hara, Napper, ran up and gave the first one the switch across its eyes. Angry, no doubt, that his brother was warm in the cabin and him king of the mules. Lucky I was that those boys had not killed me, for they were the sort that have joy of their meanness.
The boat moaned, timber against ice, against stone. The Irish with the staves were not in uniforms, but in rags, shabby even in the faint light of the lanterns. The uniforms were for Canada and death, not for the likes of us.
Twas miserable work they were doing, but that is the lot of the Irish in the best of times. They had to hook one great chunk of ice out of the water, with six of them pulling, to let the boat snug to the lock. Their song broke down under the effort.
The barge was level with us now.
The poor navvies looked as if they were dancing as they worked. Though their feet were planted firmly on the deck of the barge. Twas the swaying of the boat that gave them their rhythm.
The wet upon me now was not the sleet, but sweat.
Jaysus, Mary and Joseph, would ye heave?
Perhaps Kildare had powers beyond the trick of Mesmerism. Perhaps a bit of the girl’s gift had rubbed off. He stepped out of the cabin, pulling on his slouch hat. As if he sensed us. Or perhaps it was only to oversee the business with the lock.
Bull O’Hara followed him. Elder and thicker than his brother, with a beard to rival his master’s.
Kildare peered into the darkness. Twas uncanny. He was looking almost exactly at the spot where I had crouched down.
Well, let him see. If the light was enough.
I rose and summoned up my old sergeant’s voice.
“In the name of the United States Government, you are all under arrest. Surrender your weapons.”
My boys ignored my earlier instructions and leapt to their feet beside me. Twas not proper doings.
Kildare and the Irish did not obey me, either.
Bull went for a pistol, and Kildare drew out two of his own.
“Drop ’em, Kildare,” John Underwood shouted. “Or you’re first.”
Napper slipped behind the trail mule’s haunches, fingering the trigger of his revolver.
I feared a slaughter.
“Don’t shoot,” I commanded. Or begged. “Hold your fire. Everyone.”
Guns were up all round.
“Kildare, you’ll not go farther. The militia are closing on the outlet,” I told him, though it was a lie. “Surrender, and save yourself. Save the men who trusted you.”
Twas as if two firing squads opposed each other. Kildare and the O’Haras against the rest of us. With the Irish dumb in wonder.
We faced off almost close enough for fists, weapons extended and gathering sleet.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Molloy ease toward the rear of the pack on the deck.
Thank the Lord, I thought, the rest of the Irish were not armed. They just stood gripping their staves. Waiting for a sign or an order.
The boat’s rocking settled a little, though the storm churned on.
“You lied to them, Kildare,” I tried. “Tell them how you lied.”
I was just about to tell them myself, when the rest of the Irish emerged. Climbing up from the bowels of the barge. First two, and then a dozen. Then more.
They were armed with the Enfields.
Gunmen lined the barge, from the cabin back to the stern. I could no longer see Molloy.
“It would appear,” Kildare said, “that my militia has arrived a bit earlier than yours, Jones. Now shut your mouth. And all of you put down your weapons, or we’ll fire. Take aim, lads. Napper, collect their guns.”
A line of rifle bores steadied their aim on us. Still dry enough to fire, most likely. The Irish did not look properly trained. Still, a volley from so many barrels would be deadly.
Napper eased out from behind the mule, pistol up and ready.
“Stay right there, O’Hara,” the sheriff said. His voice was unshaken. And angry. “Or I’ll shoot you dead as a lamb chop.”
“Men,” I tried again, “this is treason. You could be hanged. You’ve no hope at all . . .”
Just as Kildare mouthed the word to fire, I felt a new presence beside me. Now I am a veteran soldier, and should have heard him coming. I can only plead the darkness and the weather. And my fear.
“No hope at all!” McCorkle bellowed, shoving past me. He stretched out his arms, as if to gather in his flock. “Ye’ve been betrayed, me darlings, and by that one.” He pointed to Kildare. “For he’s in the pay of Englishmen and it’s not but a trap ye will—”
Kildare shot him.
The priest fell. Beside a mule.
> The animal kicked and brayed, driving Napper into the ditch.
“Lies,” Kildare screamed. “He lied.”
The world exploded.
I do not know who fired when, only that guns went barking. I shot Kildare, God help me. And put a bullet in his breast.
The mules were mad. High above the gorge, our horses shrieked.
Both O’Haras were blazing, and I heard the wrong voice cry. Then the O’Haras fell. One just after the other. Napper in the ditch and Bull on the deck.
And what of the Irish with their Enfields?
No rifle fired a shot. For none was loaded. Molloy had seen to that. Most of the Irish dropped their guns and jumped for the far bank. But half a dozen stayed to go after Kildare. Weapons raised as clubs.
His people knew McCorkle’s worth.
The Great Kildare had climbed back to his feet. Pulsing blood in the lantern’s light. Warning off the Irish with his remaining pistol. His eyes shone huge, despite the whip of the sleet.
“Don’t kill him!” I shouted. “I need him alive!”
But the Irish have their own rules among themselves, and they were deaf to me. They closed toward their countryman.
“I’m shot,” a voice cried. “Lord, I’m shot.”
The rear mule slumped, belatedly feeling a wound and braying piteously. The harness dragged the lead mule down.
Kildare staggered backward to the bow of the barge. Lashed by the wind. Swaying. Struggling to keep his feet on the uncertain deck. He held his pistol out at arm’s length. Pointing it first at one of the Irish, then another. Still, they edged closer.
Instead of firing at them, he turned to face the darkness.
“I’ll kill you, Jones,” he called, with the sleet punishing his eyes. His voice had weakened, but I heard him clear. “ . . . kill you . . .”
He fired his pistol toward the bank, seeking me with bullets.
Mr. Morris stepped onto the towpath and triggered his shotgun.
Kildare flew backward over the lip of the boat. Plunging into the icy water, between the prow of the barge and the wall of the lock. Likely to be crushed, if not yet dead.