The fire died within Liam as suddenly as it had flared into life. ‘I wish things could be different for us, Caroline. Perhaps one day they will … but not yet.’
To Liam’s surprise, when he looked at her, Caroline seemed unbelievably happy.
‘Liam, you have just told me for the very first time that you love me. I love you, too, much more than I ever believed I would love anyone. I will ask no more from life until Ireland has become a happier land.’
She kissed him and then stood up. ‘Come, it will not help if I am the cause of your catching pneumonia. We will gallop on to Inch House and I will fill you with my brother’s best brandy.’
‘Your brother … will he be returning to Ireland soon?’
Caroline snorted. ‘Not until there is no danger of him contracting fever. He is terrified of sickness. I had a letter from him before I went to Dublin. He says he will probably remain on the Continent for the rest of this winter.’
‘He is wise to be concerned. Black fever is raging in the hills and remote areas. It is only a matter of time before it affects the villages once more.’
Liam helped Caroline to mount her horse. ‘I wish Eugene were here to help. I feel the need of his strength and logic. More than once lately I have found myself wondering whether it makes any sense to appeal to charity to help the cottiers; whether it might not be better to take what the cottiers need from those who have more than they require.’
‘This is not the time for violence, Liam. Our people are weak and dispirited – and England has more soldiers in Ireland than the country has seen for very many years.’
‘And every one of them eating food that should be filling cottier bellies.’ As they reached the road, Liam turned his horse alongside hers and shook his head sadly. ‘It is madness, Caroline. People are dying for want of food, and instead of sending us corn the English send soldiers.’
‘Then you must raise the question in Parliament, Liam.’
‘I would as soon stay in Ireland. At least I can see I am doing some good here.’
‘You can do much in London. I will be there to ensure you meet some of the right people.’ She saw the lift of his eyebrow. ‘You need have no fear of gossip; I have to be in London. Richard is selling our house there and I need to remove a few things.’
‘Does his decision to sell have anything to do with you and me?’
‘No,’ she lied. ‘He says he no longer has need of such a large house – but isn’t it pleasing? It gives me a wonderful excuse to be in London.’
They passed a straggling family of ragged cottiers. Dejection showed in the narrow bowed shoulders of the man and the twig-like frailty of the children’s limbs. Not a sound came from any of them as they trudged along in hopeless silence. The two youngest children, both girls, walked hand in hand behind the others. One of them raised big dull eyes to look at Liam and Caroline as they drew level and the look cut into Caroline like a knife.
For a few moments she said nothing, then wheeling her horse she rode back and pulled the beast to a halt in front of the cottier man. He looked up at her as startled as a man woken from a dream.
‘Where are you going?’ she called down to him.
‘I … nowhere, ma’am. We’re just looking for a place to sleep. I’ll make sure the children stay on the road. We won’t go into any fields—’
Caroline cut through the man’s abject promises.
‘Are you looking for work?’
The cottier looked at her in disbelief. Then, squaring his shoulders, he said, ‘That I am, ma’am. If you’ve anything that needs to be done, you won’t find a stronger man anywhere. Anything, I’ll do it well…. I promise you.’
‘Then make your way to Inch House. You’ll find it a couple of miles along this road. Ask for Nathan Brock and tell him Lady Caroline says he is to give you work. He’ll find you a cabin, too.’
‘God bless you, m’lady. You won’t regret this kindness. Bless you.’
‘You can’t give work to every starving cottier you see,’ said Liam as they resumed their ride to Inch House.
‘I know.’ The dark eyes in the small pinched face were still haunting Caroline. ‘But only a few minutes ago we were talking of the happy times we would have in London next month. Where do you think that family would have been by then, Liam?’
Liam looked over his shoulder at the cottier man who was gathering his children together and urging them forward with renewed hope and purpose.
‘Most of them would have been dead,’ he replied honestly.
‘Yes, and those two little girls would have been the first to die,’ said Caroline in an unsteady voice. ‘I just saved myself from having one more unforgettable nightmare.’
Chapter Forty-One
The wanted Kilmar men agreed to go to America, but Liam and Dermot had a few days together before they left the village. During that time they regained much of the close comradeship of earlier years. They went out fishing, enjoying the experience that was no longer a part of either of their lives. They talked of their mother, of the boat – and of the future.
The evening before Dermot was due to leave the two brothers walked together to the quay to watch the boats coming in. It had been a good fishing day, and the Kilmar men who now worked the McCabe boat for them proudly showed off their catch. It would feed them all and still show a handsome profit. From the quay, Liam and Dermot walked along the sand to where the nets were laid out to dry between upturned curraghs.
Dermot had been more than usually silent today, but Liam thought he understood the reason. Dermot would take a long time to recover from Kathie’s death. He held himself largely to blame and could not forgive himself for making her so unhappy during the months of her pregnancy. Dermot suddenly shivered, and Liam said, ‘You are cold. We had better go home now.’
‘Cold? No, Liam. The last couple of months in those mountains taught me what it is to be cold. I learned many other things, too, things I would rather forget. Sometimes I would lie awake remembering how I used to grumble to you about fishing for a living. Yet I would have given half my life to be able to come back here with a chance to start all over again.’
‘I can believe you. I, too, lie awake sometimes wishing I could forget all I know and return to the old days and the life of a fisherman. It was a good life, in spite of its many hardships.’
‘It could be a good life again, Liam. For you, me – and mother.’
‘How? We have both gone too far along our own roads. We couldn’t return to Kilmar and start again as though nothing had ever happened to us.’
‘Maybe not in Kilmar … but we could do it in America. Come there with me, Liam. You and Mother. Sell the boat and the gear and we’ll all go off together. There’s fishing to be done there – you’ve told me so yourself. We could all start a new life with another boat. What do you say?’
Dermot had put forward an argument that was tempting in many ways: to sail away from the poverty of Ireland and take up the old and familiar way of life in a new country. Caroline could come, too. She would become part of the new beginning.
Then sense broke in upon Liam’s daydreams. Caroline was no fisherman’s wife. Besides, there was too much to be done here, too many lives at stake.
‘For a moment you tempted me, Dermot, but my life is no longer so simple that I can throw everything up for a sudden whim. I must stay here, but I’ll give you enough to get off to a good start. You’ll be able to buy a boat and help the others.’
‘I’ll take no more than my passage money and enough to feed me for a month.’ Dermot had desperately wanted Liam to agree to go to America with him. He had made his own secret decision about the future – and it did not include a passage to America. Only Liam’s agreement to go there as a family would have made him change his mind. Now he knew what he had to do.
Liam argued that the money he wanted to give to Dermot came from the recent year’s profits and was rightly Dermot’s, but the younger brother was adamant.
; ‘I don’t need it. Give it to Mother.’
Finally Liam gave in to him. ‘All right. But if you are ever in need you have only to write and I will send money to you.’
‘Thank you, Liam, but I will be needing nothing.’
There was something in the way Dermot said the words that worried Liam, but he could read nothing from his brother’s expression and he could draw him out no more.
The following morning the whole village turned out to give the emigrants a noisy and emotional send-off. Norah McCabe managed to stay cheerful until her waving son disappeared from sight with the others; then, without a word, she returned to the cottage and remained in her bedroom for a full hour. Dermot had gone from her and she knew she would never see her younger son again. It was more than mother’s instinct. The dark silence had descended upon Dermot before he left, and Norah McCabe remembered Bridie O’Keefe’s warning. It was the Devil’s darkness, and she knew it would destroy her son.
Not until they reached the main Dublin-to-Waterford road did Dermot announce that he was leaving the others. He gave them no reason for his decision and, when they protested, he said only that he needed to speak to someone before he left Ireland. He promised he would do his best to catch up with them before their boat sailed for America. Then he turned his back upon them and set off along the road to Dublin.
Ireland’s capital city was a frightening place for a Kilmar fisherman, and in its busy streets Dermot found himself thoroughly bewildered. Only a few miles away Irish families were dying of starvation, yet here was food in plenty. From behind stalls piled high with a variety of produce, vendors vied with each other to call attention to the quality of the food they were offering for sale. Neither was there a shortage of buyers. Servant girls and city housewives walked away from the market-places with baskets piled high with food. People here had money to spend on food – and some to spare for the silks and fripperies of city fashion.
There was another lesson here for Dermot. For months he had hidden in the Wicklow mountains, kept alive by his wits, and dreaming of revolution. He had convinced himself that the whole country lived with the same dream; but now he saw people smiling at the English soldiers. Shopkeepers joked with them. They drank in the taverns and walked the streets with laughing Irish girls clinging to their arms.
It was the final bitter blow for Dermot. For the first time he was forced to admit to himself that he had been living in a make-believe world. There would be no uprising, no revolution. Had Dermot marched upon Dublin at the head of a thousand men there would have been no support for them here. They would have stood alone against the might of England. Ireland was not ready for a rebellion.
It was a depressing revelation. Dermot thrust his hands deeper into his pockets, and the cold wind stung his eyes to tears. Everything he had done had been in vain. The first, disastrous, attack upon the wagons; the months spent fighting; avoiding the soldiers in the mountains; Kathie’s death … the baby.
Even the final act he was about to play out would achieve nothing. But he owed it to Kathie. He would never be able to live with himself until he had paid the debt.
He arrived at the Drum Inn at an hour when the men of Dublin were ending their daily work and seeking the warmth of tavern and ale-house. Before pushing open the door, Dermot put a hand to his belt where he carried a razor-edged gutting-knife.
Inside the well-appointed tavern, Dermot saw a potman collecting empty tankards and glasses from crowded tables – but this man was not Eoin Feehan. The thought came to him that the Kilmar turncoat might have left the Drum Inn and moved elsewhere. Dermot’s stomach contracted with the prospect of this final failure.
Pushing his way through the crowded inn, he almost bowled over two barristers from the nearby courts. Ignoring their protests, Dermot made his way through the first bar-room, heading for a door that led to another.
He reached the door and was about to put a hand upon the latch when it was opened from the other side. Dermot stood back as the door swung open – and there, standing before him, with a tray of empty glasses in one hand, was Eoin Feehan.
The expression on the red-headed ex-Kilmar fisherman’s face went from astonishment, through disbelief, to fear.
Dermot was the first to recover and suddenly he was quite calm and certain of himself.
‘I can see you were not expecting me, Eoin.’
Eoin Feehan’s lips had suddenly become very dry and he looked at Dermot apprehensively.
‘I came here especially to see you, Eoin. To bring you the latest news from Kilmar. I thought you should know about Kathie. She is dead, Eoin.’
‘Kathie … dead? I don’t understand…. Why come to tell me?’
Two men pushed through the door behind Eoin Feehan, and Dermot tensed, expecting the other man to make some attempt to escape. But Eoin Feehan knew he would not get far and he stayed where he was, believing Dermot would do nothing in the presence of so many witnesses.
‘Kathie died in childbirth – after being involved in a fight at Rathconard. You remember Rathconard, Eoin? You should; you have done much there – you and the soldiers.’
Eoin Feehan licked his lips again as his glance touched every part of the room without meeting Dermot’s eyes. ‘I don’t know what you are talking about.’
‘I think you do, Eoin, You more than anyone else know what happened to Kathie when she went to Rathconard that first time. You know why her baby was born with red hair – just as though it were a bastard Feehan.’
Another customer pushed through the door, passing between them. This time Eoin Feehan did not hesitate. Dropping the tray of glasses with a crash that turned every head in the two bars, he ran.
The man in the doorway impeded Dermot, and Eoin Feehan might have made good his escape had he not been handicapped by his leg, crippled by a shot from Kathie’s musket. Halfway across the bar-room he swung the leg awkwardly and his toe caught the outstretched foot of a customer. He sprawled on the floor and before he could rise Dermot was on him. The gutting-knife rose in the air and plunged deep into Eoin Feehan’s side.
There was a horrified hush in the Drum Inn as the customers saw the blood-stained knife plunged again and again into Eoin Feehan’s body. Then the horror changed to anger. Dermot was pounced on and beaten to the ground, his arm twisted painfully behind his back and the knife kicked away across the stone-flagged floor.
Dermot made no move to defend himself, but before he was beaten unconscious he saw that he had succeeded in what he had come to Dublin to do. Eoin Feehan was breathing blood, his mouth open wide in a vain attempt to suck in air. He would be dead within minutes. Kathie’s death had been avenged.
On a crisp, clean, January day, Liam was a passenger on the Wexford-to-Dublin mail coach. He was travelling to London for the new session of Parliament. As the coach neared the centre of Dublin it was forced to slow down before coming to a reluctant halt as thousands of people swarmed about it, on their way out of the city. The vast majority were on foot, although there was a fair sprinkling of gigs and coaches, and even a few lumbering farm-wagons crammed with people. They were in a merry and excited mood.
Liam was anxious not to miss the boat to Liverpool. Leaning out of the coach window, he called up to the coachman on his high seat, enquiring whether they had arrived in Dublin on a fair-day.
‘No, sir,’ replied the coachman as he flicked the reins over the backs of his four horses, seeking to gain a yard or two against the flood of excited people. ‘There’s been a public hanging today.’
‘It must have been a well-known felon to attract a crowd of this size,’ Liam commented as the lead horses shied and threw up their heads in protest at the people milling so closely about them.
‘Why, bless you, no, sir. It doesn’t have to be anyone special. Hangings are very popular here in Dublin. Folks will travel from miles around to see a man dance the Kilmainham jig, though I never could see why, myself. The sight of a man dangling by his neck from the end of a rope does little to
excite me. There was nothing in this hanging of particular interest. No one knew the poor fellow – and never will now. He killed a potman in a fight at the Drum Inn, just around the corner from here. He never said a word after he was arrested and refused to give his name to anyone – even the judge who sentenced him to death. Came from a good family and didn’t want them shamed, I’ve no doubt. Only a young fellow, too, so I heard. There will be a poor woman somewhere wondering what happened to her son, may the good Lord forgive him.’
‘May she never learn the truth,’ said Liam, but his mind was already moving ahead. To London, Eugene Brennan and the new session of Parliament.
As he drew his head back inside the coach the crowd began to thin, and with a crack of his whip the coachman urged his horses forward.
Chapter Forty-Two
Liam was very pleased with the little house in Hertford Street, obtained for him by Lady Caroline’s friend. It was furnished with good taste, and the owner was not wealthy enough to have achieved a standard of luxury that might have made Liam feel uncomfortable.
Liam was able to walk to the House of Commons on all but the wettest of winter days, and before the new session began he went there often to meet with the other Irish MPs. Gradually a campaign was plotted to force the English Government to take immediate action in Ireland. Only the MPs from Dublin and Belfast and a couple of the larger Irish towns would not lend their support. They represented a few men who were making a fortune from the Irish troubles. They had bought corn and flour when prices were little more than reasonable. Now there was such a demand that no asking-price was too ridiculous. If the Government stepped in with famine relief, it would send these prices tumbling.
The Music Makers Page 38