The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller

by L. D Beyer

  It was one of the few times I remember seeing Billy smile.

  ___

  “So, you’re back,” Sinéad said when she saw me, her words high-pitched and clipped.

  Without waiting for my response she turned back to the churn. Bent over, she raised the handle then plunged it back into the cream, quickly falling into a rhythm. Up and down, up and down, again and again, as if I wasn’t there.

  I noticed the basket behind Sinéad and felt a lump in my throat. Swaddled and asleep inside was the baby, the daughter that had come eight months after Dan’s death, just a month after Margaret. Like me, Dan never had a chance to meet his own daughter. I shook my head and turned away for a moment, telling myself I hadn’t come for that. Steeling myself, I turned back to Sinéad.

  She was a pretty woman with fair skin and a shock of red hair. But there was a hardness to her now. The lines in her face and the coldness in her eyes spoke of the pain in her heart and the struggles of the past year. She glanced my way, checking to see if I was still there or perhaps wishing me away, I wasn’t sure. A moment later, still churning, she looked again, briefly at me then up at the sky. The dark clouds continued to roll in over the hills.

  “And what is it you want, Frank Kelleher?” she demanded.

  “A word with you, Sinéad. That’s all and then I’ll be gone.”

  “Who’s that?” I heard from the cottage. An old man, stooped and held up by a cane, poked his head out the door. I didn’t recognize Sinéad’s father right away. I remembered him dancing at Sinéad and Dan’s wedding. Now, old and bent, he stared at me with tired eyes.

  “He’s leaving, Da,” Sinéad said evenly, her eyes not leaving mine.

  “What does he want?”

  Sinéad turned to her father. “Nothing, Da,” she said softly. “Nothing. Now go back inside and let me finish my work. We’ll have tea soon.”

  The old man’s eyes flicked back and forth between us before he turned, mumbling something as he dismissed us with his hand before disappearing back into the cottage.

  Sinéad began plunging again and I watched silently for a moment. Suddenly she slammed the plunger back into the barrel, then glared at me, hands on her hips.

  “Oh, it’s a fine one you are, Frank Kelleher, wanting to talk and with me trying to put up the butter before it rains.”

  The baby began to cry and Sinéad shot me a look. I felt the flash of heat as my face turned red; I reached for the stave.

  “I’ll finish the butter,” I offered. “You see to the baby.”

  She seemed about to argue then, without a word, turned, picked up the baby, and disappeared into the cottage.

  I began to churn, glancing up at the sky, at the clouds racing overhead. It was something I hadn’t done since I was a lad and soon my arms began to tire, a burning creeping down from my shoulders. I stopped once or twice, lifting the lid to see if the butter was setting, as I had seen my mother do. Finally, when the dash stood on top without sinking, I wiped the sweat from my brow then glanced over my shoulder, wondering what I should do next.

  It was only five minutes that I waited but it felt much longer. Sinéad returned and, without a word, lifted the lid. She studied the butter for a moment, her eye far better at these things than mine. I must have done it right; she closed the lid and turned to me.

  “You can talk,” she said, her voice still cold, “but that’s all it is and it won’t make a grand bit of difference to a widow with a baby and a father to care for.”

  She had every right to be bitter. When she and Dan were wed, it was a happy life Sinéad had dreamed of, not of putting her husband in a box three months later.

  As I helped her put up the butter—rinsing and salting and then filling the jars—I told her what I had come to say. Sleeves rolled up, hard at her task, she barely glanced my way, but I could see her face soften. We were interrupted once, the young lad she had hired to help tend the farm coming to tell her that the cow would have a calf by spring.

  When the last of the jars were filled and put away, I cleaned the churn then joined Sinéad by the cottage. She stood silently for a moment, staring off into the distance. The clouds were black and heavy, rolling with a fury now as the sky rumbled overhead. The wind began to rustle through the field, scattering the dead stalks from last year’s harvest.

  “It’ll do no good, standing here,” she said then turned away.

  I wasn’t sure if it was an invitation but I followed her inside anyway, the wind blowing at my back, whistling through the thatch on the roof as I shut the door. Her father was sitting in front of the stove, snoring softly. I pulled the shutters on the windows, catching a glimpse of the scene outside. The horse pranced nervously, skittish, as the farm boy led it back to the barn, one hand on the reins, the other on his cap to keep it from flying away.

  The drops were large at first, splattering on the stone. In the distance, I could see the waves of rain racing across the field. Then with a howl it was upon us, lashing with a fury, a cascade slanted by the wind. As I secured the last shutter, there was a flash in the sky and, a moment later, the crack of thunder.

  The storm raged outside, but the baby and Sinéad’s father both slept soundly, the baby stirring only as her mother tucked the swaddling around her once more. Then Sinéad filled a kettle, the pot clanging then hissing as she placed it on the stove. Despite the howls of the wind, the rain lashing at the roof, our silence seemed loud in the small room. I wished she would say something, anything. More than that, I wished for the storm to end so I could leave.

  The kettle banged and Sinéad turned. I could see the tears in her eyes.

  I took a breath, the sound of my sigh lost in the wind.

  “I’m sorry, Sinéad.” It was all I could think to say.

  She stared at me for a moment. “You visited the Sheehys,” she stated as if she hadn’t heard what I said.

  “Aye.”

  “And I suppose you’ll be seeing Mrs. Murphy too.”

  “Aye.”

  She seemed to consider this for a moment.

  “This last year has been hard,” she continued then paused a moment, looking down as if unsure what she wanted to say. When she looked back up, the confusion was gone. “I’m angry, Frank,” she said, shaking her finger at me. “So don’t be expecting to be forgiven. You’ll have to see the priest for that.” She let out a breath, her voice catching in her throat. She turned away for a moment, wiping her eyes. When she turned back, she shook her finger again “I’m angry at all of you,” she said. “I’m angry at you and at Billy and at Sean and at Tom.” She let out a sob. “Oh, God! I’m angry at Dan! How could he leave me like this? What kind of man goes to meet his death when there’s a family left behind?”

  The baby began to cry and, crying herself now, Sinéad picked her up and carried her to the chair by the stove, across from her father. He woke, confused for a moment it seemed, his eyes darting between Sinéad and me. Sinéad rocked back and forth hugging the baby, her chest heaving with great sobs, her own wails and those of the baby somehow sounding all the more terrible with the howling of the wind outside. Quietly, I slipped outside.

  As for Sinéad’s question, I had no answer for her. It was the same question Kathleen and Mary had asked of me.

  ___

  The rain had stopped, almost as quickly as it had started, the storm blowing past, leaving a gray sky and a heavy fog in its wake. The air was much colder now, and I turned up my collar and held my jacket tight below my chin. My breaths, like the smoke drifting from the chimneys of the cottages across the fields, twisted in the wind and I wondered again if it would snow.

  Sinéad hadn’t been surprised to see me. She had been warned, no doubt by Billy, told that I had already visited the Sheehys. Would she tell him that I’d been to see her? I wondered. She had no loyalty to me, that was certain, but I didn’t think she would say anything, unless she was asked. Somehow, though, I knew Billy would.

  I found the bicycle where I had left it
, leaning against the stone wall at the end of Sinéad’s lane. I climbed on before I noticed that the tire was flat. Cursing, I climbed off and began pushing the bicycle, careful to avoid the puddles that filled the muddy lane. It was almost ten miles to Ballygowan and the castle and, in these conditions, it would take me almost four hours.

  The conversation with Sinéad and seeing her baby left me wanting to see Kathleen, more so than I already did. I decided to pay Mrs. Murphy a visit in the morning. She lived in Rathkeale. The train to Abbeyfeale would stop at Rathkeale at noon. I planned to be on it.

  Lost in my own thoughts, I didn’t hear the dray until it was upon me, the clop of the horse’s hooves and the splash of wheels in the puddles causing me to jump. In a panic, I almost dropped the bicycle as I fumbled for my glasses, remembering that I had stuck them in my pocket before speaking with Sinéad. I slipped them on and, as the dray drew up next to me, I tugged at the brim of my cap, a friendly gesture but one that I hoped would hide my face. Suddenly the cart slowed and I caught a glimpse of two men inside.

  “A soft old day it is!” One called down.

  I didn’t recognize either of them, still I was wary. The one who spoke was older than me, the other my age. They looked to be a father and son and, although their smiles seemed friendly, I was wary but I did my best to not let it show. I nodded back.

  “Aye. A day for a fire,” I replied. The weather in Ireland was miserable more often than not, but in our own peculiar way we spoke of it fondly.

  “And it looks like you’ve had a bit of bad luck, have you?”

  “Aye.” Sinéad might have had a pump but, given the way I had left her, I thought it best not to ask.

  “Well, toss it on back. We’re headed to Limerick.”

  Sensing they meant me no harm and not wanting to insult them, I accepted. A moment later, I was sitting next to the son as the father flicked the reins.

  Their name was McGrath, I soon learned, and they were on their way from Kilmallock to Limerick City to pick up a new set of harrows for their farm. I introduced myself as Michael O’Sullivan, my long-dead friend from childhood.

  “O’Sullivan?” Mr. McGrath asked. “From Limerick City?”

  “Nay,” I shook my head. Did they know the O’Sullivan clan? Suddenly I wished I hadn’t accepted their offer. “My family’s from Offaly, but I live in America now.”

  “Americay!” Mr. McGrath said, pronouncing it as my own father had. He stared off for a moment, dreams of another life—one he would never see himself, I was sure—filling his head. After a moment, the wistful smile vanished.

  “Sure and more Irish will be joining you in Americay soon.” He shook his head. “The British are finally leaving, but now we’ll be fighting each other.”

  I asked him what he had heard.

  “O’Malley’s troops are marching on Limerick,” he continued.

  I wasn’t surprised. O’Malley was Commander of Second Southern Division and was responsible for all IRA operations, not just in Limerick, but in County Kilkenny and County Tipperary too. He had been captured by the British, I had heard, while I was making my way to Cobh just over a year ago. Badly beaten and awaiting execution, somehow he had managed to escape. That he was now marching on Limerick wasn’t a surprise. Even when we were all fighting on the same side, he would never have permitted Brennan’s troops to occupy Limerick. Such was the tenuous pact that was the IRA.

  The McGraths hoped to pick up their harrows and be well away from Limerick before the fighting started. Like Mick and many an Irishman, Mr. McGrath wanted nothing more than to tend his farm. He welcomed the truce and the Treaty, his own aspirations not going beyond the holding he toiled over daily in Kilmallock.

  We crested a hill and, in the mist ahead, I could see the crossroads. The turn would take me to Ballygowan and the castle, and it was there I would say farewell to my new companions.

  “Americay sounds grand,” Mr. McGrath said as the cart slowed. Suddenly, his eyes seemed far off. “But we’ve lost so many.”

  It took me a moment to understand what he meant. So many had left Ireland over the last sixty, seventy years—all seeking a life better than what Ireland could give, most never to return.

  “It’s a dangerous time for Ireland now,” he continued. “I wonder what will happen to us all.”

  His words continued to ring in my ears as the McGraths drove off into the mist. The sound of horse’s hooves began to fade and soon they were swallowed up by the fog. I turned, cinched my coat up around my throat. I wonder what will happen to us all.

  ___

  Shaking Mr. McGrath’s words from my head, I focused on the night ahead. I hadn’t been looking forward to finding my way through the ruins in the dark and now, thanks to the lift from the McGraths, I wouldn’t have to. The castle was only a mile away. The wind gusted and I shivered. Ignoring the cold, I thought of the castle and hoped things were as Liam and I had left them years ago. My clothes were damp and, although the tunnels and chambers would be dry, or mostly anyway, it would be a cold night. To make matters worse, I hadn’t eaten since the day before. I could survive one more night without food but being cold on top of the hunger would make for a miserable night.

  I caught a glimpse of the field beside me and suddenly stopped, staring out over the wall. Remembering something from when I was a lad, I studied the sloping hill covered in heather. This might be the right spot, I told myself, or if not it’s close. I leaned the bicycle against the wall then clambered over and made my way down the slope through the heather. Twenty minutes later I found what I was looking for: a low-lying marshy area, several long trenches stretching into the distance, grassy clumps piled to the side. The cut peat was stacked in heaps, most as tall as I was. I picked up a brick. Despite the rain, it was hard. This was last year’s crop, having spent a season drying in the wind and the sun. I was alone in the field and with no one around to stop me, I helped myself. Laden down with an armful of peat, I made my way back up the hill to the lane. It wouldn’t last all night, but it would be enough for several hours of sleep.

  Back at the wall I was about to stack the peat on top and climb over when I heard the sound of a motorcar. I dropped the peat and slid to the ground, not wanting to be seen, especially not when I was in possession of someone else’s peat. Cautiously, I peered over the top of the wall. The growl of the engine grew and, a moment later, a motorcar suddenly appeared out of the fog. My face hidden by the heather, I watched as it approached. A sudden chill run up my spine. Billy was driving and Kevin, another from our old brigade, was with him. There was a third man, one I didn’t recognize, in the rumble seat in back. I ducked my head behind the wall, cursing my luck. Pulling the revolver from my pocket, I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.

  The sound grew louder, then the growl of the engine suddenly dropped and I heard the squeal of the brakes. Fighting the panic growing inside me, I crawled along the wall, hoping to put a few feet between myself and the spot where they might have seen me. It was then that I remembered the bicycle and, cursing, I frantically crawled farther until I heard their voices. I froze. Memories of IRA raids came flooding back and, with them, the fear I had always felt before a battle. I thought of jumping up and unloading my revolver on them. If I caught them by surprise, I would have the advantage. But if they had seen me, surely they would have their own guns out. I couldn’t make out the words and I realized they were farther away than I expected. But the little I did hear didn’t sound like the frantic shouts of men in battle. Cautiously, I peered over the wall only to see Kevin lifting the bicycle—Seamus’s bicycle—into the rumble seat in back. Their companion, the man I didn’t recognize, held it somewhat awkwardly as Kevin climbed back in. Then the engine growled and there was a high pitched grinding of gears. It wasn’t long before the sound of the motor and the car itself were both lost in the mist. In the eerie silence that followed, the only thing I heard was the soft rustle of the heather in the breeze and my own heart hammering in my chest.
/>   ___

  It had taken some time to find the opening, hidden as it was in the grass and the weeds and the stones not where I remembered. Finally, settled safely in the chamber that Liam and I had explored a dozen years earlier, I got the fire going. I watched the smoke rise, twisting and turning then finally disappearing into hidden channels and gaps above my head. It took a while before I felt warm again. My stomach ached, but I did my best to ignore it. Was it only a coincidence, I wondered, that Billy was in Ballygowan? He should be with Ernie O’Malley’s troops, marching on Limerick. What business did he have out here? There was no evidence that he had discovered the tunnels; the stones that Liam and I had placed over the opening all those years ago had been difficult to find in the fading light, covered as they were with years of vegetation. It was clear that he hadn’t been here. But then what had he been up to?

  Seeing Billy had left me shaken. The crooked nose that sat over the square jaw, the dark, hooded eyes—the eyes of a hunter—Billy’s face was stuck in my head. My mind tumbled over what he could have been up to, out here, so far from the battle that was looming in Limerick City.

  I realized he thought the bicycle must have been abandoned, the rider having grown tired of pushing it. And Billy had commandeered it. By tomorrow it would be repaired and put into use by the IRA. The bicycle, though, was the least of my worries. From what Liam had told me, the brigade had maintained a level of military discipline with weekly drills and meetings and no company more so than the one Billy commanded. While most residents went about their daily business, happy now that the British were leaving, the IRA in Limerick had continued to operate as if war might resume at any moment. And when it did, it would start in Limerick. So what was Billy doing out here, miles from the city? Surely he hadn’t been out looking for abandoned bicycles.