The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller

by L. D Beyer

  With a loud hiss of steam, the train pulled into the station. There were dozens of people waiting on the platform, many waiting to board and others waiting for friends and relatives to get off. Out the window, I spotted the tall, fair-haired woman dressed in black standing on the platform. I was relieved to see that Mary had received my letter. She was by herself and I wondered where Kathleen was. She must be waiting with Tim by the cart, I reasoned.

  Mary was searching the windows of the cars as the train slowed. I smiled and waved until she saw me. She caught my eye. Her curt nod told me that she wasn’t pleased to see me, and I worried that something was wrong. Mary, twelve years older than Kathleen, was more of a mother than a sister to her. Many times I had found myself the target of her sharp tongue. Mary, I suspected, would be angry with me for the way I had left Kathleen, regardless of the circumstances. I glanced at Mary again and this time I saw something more in her eyes. Her brow was furrowed and she glanced once or twice toward the rear of the train. I frowned. It was a look I was familiar with for it was one I had seen on my own mother.

  Once the train stopped, the passengers in my car began climbing out of their seats, their excited voices filling the air. I peered out the window again. Mary was looking down the platform toward the rear of the train. She bit her lip, then seemed to catch herself. I realized I had misread the tension I had spotted before. Something was happening outside. When she turned back, she held my eyes and shook her head twice.

  What was happening outside I didn’t know. I turned to the family behind me, looking for something to delay getting off the train until Mary signaled that it was safe.

  “Here, let me,” I said with the biggest smile I could manage. I helped them with the luggage and the pram, holding it steady as the mother laid the baby inside. All the while, I kept one eye on Mary. She glanced my way and shook her head again. I felt a prickle on the back of my neck as I sat back down. Outside, two men passed Mary and they too glanced over their shoulders toward the rear of the train. The worried looks on their faces were a match for that on Mary’s. They quickened their pace and hurried away. A moment later I knew why. I heard the scrape and staccato clack of footsteps—sounds that could only be made by hobnailed boots. Then I heard the voices—British voices—and a moment later six soldiers appeared. I spun away from the window, tilting my head down, trying to hide my face. Wasn’t there supposed to be an amnesty? In a moment of panic, I wondered whether the truce had failed. I watched the soldiers out of the corner of my eye. Except for the officer who carried a revolver in his holster, they weren’t armed like the ones I remembered. What type of patrol is this? I wondered. As they passed by the car, Mary bit her lip and glanced down the platform again. As the soldiers disappeared, I realized that something else troubled Mary.

  “Is everything alright here?”

  I spun at the voice. The conductor frowned. He held a small silver watch in his hand, the chain connected to his waistcoat. Letting out the breath I’d been holding, I told him I would be off in a minute. He glanced at his watch, slid it back into the pocket of his vest, nodded once, and then left to check on other passengers. Most of them were gathering their luggage and making their way to the door and the steps that led outside. From the platform, I could hear the high-pitched voices of people who hadn’t seen each other in years.

  Unsure what to do, I waited for Mary’s signal. The soldiers had disappeared, but Mary still wore a worried look. Cautiously I pressed my face to the glass, trying to see down the platform. I felt the shiver creeping up my neck again and a moment later I knew why. I jerked back at the sight: the broad shoulders; the dark, hooded eyes, filled more often with menace than they were with laughter; the thin upper lip that sat over a square jaw; the crooked nose that came from Liam’s stone. It was Billy.

  Better the devil you know than the devil you don’t, my mother would say. But as I ducked below the window again, fussing with my boots now—or so I hoped it seemed—I knew she was wrong. It was the devil I knew that caused me worry. Eyes darting around, I searched for some means of escape.

  I slid out of my seat. Leaving my luggage, I kept my head low as I made way through the car to the rear, dodging the few remaining passengers, hearing a few rebukes in my wake.

  “Here now!” I heard the conductor shout behind me. I ignored him too.

  How could he have known? My mind raced as I debated what to do. The train would continue on to Abbeyfeale but there were several stops along the way. I could ride the train to Patrick’s Well, get off there, and find a farmer or someone heading back to Limerick and ask for a ride. I stole another glance out the window and felt my stomach sink. Billy was now talking to Mary. But if she was nervous now she hid it well.

  “What’s this all about?” the conductor asked again.

  I turned, narrowed my eyes and coughed, my hand on my chest. “I’m…” I said and coughed again. “I’ve been sick,” I said in a weak voice. Then I turned, doubled over and coughed once more.

  Eyes wide, the conductor backed away. Like many, he feared the consumption or whatever disease I might be carrying.

  I wiped the non-existent sweat off my forehead, let out a loud breath, contorting my face.

  “I only need a moment…..” My voice hoarse, I never finished the sentence, unable due to the bout of coughing that had overcome me.

  The conductor took another step back.

  “Just a moment,” I continued, trying my best to wheeze, “and then I’ll be gone.”

  He glanced back up the now empty train car. He was confused and that was all I needed. Ignoring him, I put my face up to the glass again and let out a soft moan, hoping the conductor would go away. The whole while, I could feel his eyes on my back.

  Mary was by herself now, staring down toward the front of the train. After a moment she turned, searching, then her eyes found mine. She glanced down the track once more then back at me. Finally she nodded. Billy was gone.

  ___

  It was several minutes later when I stepped onto the platform that I let out the breath I’d been holding.

  “Mary!” I said. “It’s grand to see you.”

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she said, her voice sharp.

  Without another word, she turned on her heel and led me away. I realized that she had probably been angry with me since the day I had fled. I held my own tongue, knowing that she had earned the right. As much as I wanted to ask about my son, I couldn’t. Not yet and not until she had a chance to say her piece.

  Outside the station, Mary’s son, Tim, was waiting by the cart. But Kathleen and my son were nowhere to be seen. Let down, I smiled anyway.

  “Tim!” I said. “How are you, lad?”

  “Getting on,” he said softly.

  As quiet as I remembered him and with barely a glance my way, Tim took my steamer and, without another word, hefted it up on the cart. Was he angry too? I wondered. Or had he become more sullen the year I was away? His own mood seemed to follow his mother’s.

  I sighed. The reunion I had pictured in my head had only been a dream. I had hoped Kathleen would be here too, to meet me at the station. I had pictured holding my son as Kathleen told me all about him. I counted again, as I had done numerous times. My son would be eight months old now. I didn’t know much about caring for a child, but I knew it was difficult and maybe Kathleen had decided it was best to send Mary and Tim to meet me.

  My steamer loaded, Tim stood waiting by the cart. I turned to Mary to help her up.

  “You shouldn’t have come,” she said again. She stood before me, hands planted on her hips, daring me to disagree. I wasn’t sure what I could say to ease the tension. Mary stared at me, waiting for my answer.

  I shrugged. “How could I not, Mary?”

  She shook her head. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” she asked, her voice shrill.

  I felt the fear rising in my chest again. Have I been wrong about Mary? I knew well the fate that waited for unmarried mothers. At t
he first signs that they were pregnant, young girls were sent away. Tainted for life, the baby and mother were left to languish in shame at the Magdalen Laundry or a home run by the Sisters of Mercy. Reform schools the Catholic Church called them. Somewhere out in the country; out of sight, out of mind. The Church was good at sweeping its problems under the rug. But I never thought Mary would do that, not to her own sister.

  “She hasn’t been sent away? Has she?” I searched her eyes.

  Mary said nothing for a moment, then dropped her hands. She shook her head.

  Thank God, I said silently.

  “Kathleen and the baby?” I asked. “They’re well?”

  “The baby,” Mary said softly, she looked down for a second before finding my eyes again. Then she shook her head. “The baby died, Frank.”

  “Died?” I said, not quite believing my ears. I felt a tightness in my chest. Died? How can this be? Ever since Eileen’s letter, I had pictured my son. I had thought of all the things I would teach him, the things my own father had taught to me. My son is dead?

  “It was two days,” Mary explained, “and poor Kathleen, she tried Frank, but the baby wouldn’t come. When she finally did I could see something was wrong. It was all too much.” Mary shook her head again. “The baby died two days later.”

  The news came like a blow and I stood there staring blankly at Mary. Dead? How can this be?

  I don’t recall climbing onto the cart, but at some point I found myself sitting next to Mary as Tim, his hands on the reins, steered us over the bumps and ruts in the road, away from Limerick. Mary and Tim were both silent, which was just as well for I had nothing to say. The only sound came from the snorts of the horses, the clop of their feet and the creaks and groans of the cart. I stared ahead, hardly noticing the sights and scenes that had occupied my dreams for the last year as a jumble of thoughts and emotions swirled in my head.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Oh Frank,” Kathleen said as she sobbed on my shoulder. “She hadn’t been baptized. We never had a chance.” I held her tight, her body shaking as she sobbed. I felt a tear run down my own cheek.

  From a young age, both Kathleen and I, like most Catholics, had been told of the horrors that befell babies who died before they’d been baptized. They were forever damned to the eternity of Limbo, Father Lonagan had told us. Although we never knew exactly what Limbo was, I had a vague yet terrifying image of souls in anguish, chased forever by demons. In many ways, Limbo sounded worse than the fire and brimstone of hell that Father Lonagan had repeatedly assured me I was destined to see firsthand. Many babies died before their first year, something I had seen not only here in Ireland but in America too. That was painful enough. What made it worse was that Kathleen and I had never married. To many priests, unwed mothers were sinners, and the babies they bore were the product of that sin. An unbaptized child, and an illegitimate one at that, if I believed what Father Lonagan had preached, our baby would suffer for our sins. Despite my own views of Father Lonagan and the church, I understood Kathleen’s anguish.

  We were standing outside Mary’s house, a small cottage on twenty acres, nine miles south of Limerick City in an area known as Kilcully Cross. There was steam rising from the washtub. Kathleen, when I first saw her, had her sleeves rolled up, her forearms red from the scrubbing. Now as she clung to me, her body wracked by sobs, I didn’t know what to say. The dreams that had kept me awake for hours—what I would find when I returned to Ireland, my reunion with Kathleen, meeting my son—had been nothing more than that. Just dreams.

  “Did the baby have a name?”

  Kathleen lifted her head from my shoulder, wiped her eyes, and nodded. “Margaret,” she said.

  “Margaret?”

  Kathleen nodded. It was my mother’s name.

  I let out a heavy breath. The child that I thought would be a son had turned out to be a girl. She must have known the world that awaited her. That’s why she fought so hard against being born—and almost killed Kathleen in the process, Mary had said. Then when she first saw Ireland for what it was, she decided it wasn’t a world she wanted to live in.

  “And you?” I asked. “You’re alright are you?”

  Kathleen nodded. “The midwife said the baby wasn’t ready, that she had turned the other way. That’s why she wouldn’t come.” She wiped a tear from her cheek. “But I’m fine now.” She took my hands. “I wanted to tell you, Frank, I did. That night at the Cavanaghs’?” She looked at me, searching my eyes to see if I understood. “But you wouldn’t have left if you knew. And if you stayed”—she shook her head—”Billy or the British, one or the other, would have found you.” She sighed. “And when I received your letter from America, I wanted to write back and tell you then. But I couldn’t.”

  “Kathleen, I…” I started, choking on my own words. I took her hands in mine. “I’m sorry. I never meant for any of this to happen.”

  “I know,” Kathleen said, nodding as she put her arms around me again. “I know.”

  ___

  I reached out and touched the metal, the large circle intersecting the cross. It was cold, but I kept my hand there anyway. Someone—Mary? Kathleen?—had attached a small piece of wood, carved with the inscription. I ran my hand across the words.

  Margaret Coffey

  July 12, 1921 - July 14, 1921

  Before I knew what I was doing, I was silently mouthing the words to a prayer, as a tear ran down my own cheek. I felt Kathleen’s hand on my shoulder.

  “We couldn’t hold a wake, and we couldn’t have a funeral in the church. Father Lonagan would never have permitted it.” I heard Kathleen’s sigh. “But Mary arranged with Father Leahy to say a mass right here. And Mary arranged for the cross.”

  “Father Leahy?” I asked, looking up.

  “He’s from Abbeyfeale, a friend of Mary’s. He’s the one who has agreed to wed us.”

  I nodded. Trapped in the unforgiving and rigid rules of the Catholic Church, Kathleen had had no choice but to bury Margaret here, below a large oak on the highest point of Mary’s farm.

  “When we can, we plan to move her, to a churchyard for a proper burial. I want to speak to Father Leahy again when we see him.”

  I stood and took Kathleen’s hand.

  “I should have been here,” I said softly.

  “There was nothing you could have done, Frank. The baby would have died anyway.”

  I shook my head. “I should have been here.” I looked back at the marker, at the grave where the daughter I had never met had been buried. “What was she like?” I asked quietly.

  Kathleen leaned into me.

  “Mary said she looked like me,” Kathleen said as she wiped a tear from her eye. “But she had dark hair, like you.”

  We stood quietly as dark clouds built overhead and the wind rustled through the grass around us.

  ___

  I listened to the shoosh of the rain on the thatched roof and the staccato splatter of drops off the stones outside. I stared out the window, at the hill, lost now in the rain, at the large oak I knew was there but couldn’t see and at the grave that was sheltered below it.

  “Frank,” Kathleen said. I turned. Standing in front of the stove, she held the kettle up. I nodded my response and turned back to the window. I heard the clang of the kettle on the stove. A moment later, I felt Kathleen’s hand on mine. She led me away from the window to the chairs in front of the stove.

  “Frank. There’s something else we need to talk about.” She waited until I nodded. “You’ve been gone a long time now, and they might have forgotten about you.” Her eyes narrowed. “But you can never be sure.”

  I nodded again as I thought about seeing Billy at the railroad station. It had just been a coincidence, but one that had left me shaken nonetheless. And the British soldiers, the ones I had seen on the platform? When Mary, Tim, and I had left the station, they had been standing out front, watching with bemusement the comings and goings of a people they had, until recently, terrorized. />
  “They certainly haven’t forgotten about him,” Mary said as she joined us, the door banging shut behind her. She shook off her wet cloak and hung it on a peg by the door. While Kathleen and I had been visiting our daughter’s grave, Mary and Tim had been tending the chickens and the cow and the other livestock that had kept the three of them alive over the last year. She stood in front of us now, her eyes darting back and forth between us before settling on mine.

  “We may have a truce and a treaty, but that doesn’t mean we have peace.” She waited a moment to see if I would argue. When I nodded, she turned and took four cups off the shelf. Kathleen got up to help, but Mary put a hand on her shoulder and Kathleen sat again.

  “Things are calm now,” she continued as she looked over her shoulder at me, “but it wouldn’t take much.” Men who had fought together for the last two years, she explained as she prepared the tea, were now taking sides. Commanders were doing all they could to hold the companies together, in case the truce didn’t last.

  “Still,” Mary added. “Some are choosing to go with the new Free State Army that Michael Collins is forming, while others say we should keep fighting.”

  I didn’t need to ask which side Mary had chosen.

  “And as for you”—she pointed her finger and gave me a stern look—”you’ll do no such thing as choosing one side or the other, not with Kathleen to mind. So don’t go getting any wild notions in that head of yours.”

  I didn’t argue, not that it would have made a difference. After nineteen years of acting the mother, acting the mother-in-law came naturally to Mary. If she had her druthers, she and some of my old comrades would carry on the fight while Kathleen and I made our home as far away from Limerick as we could. I hadn’t thought about taking a side when we set sail ten days ago, but if I had to choose, I would keep fighting until all British forces, in the north as well as the south, were gone. I would keep fighting until all of Ireland was united in freedom. I nodded at Mary. For now, I would have to keep that to myself, lest I upset her any more than I already had.