by L. D Beyer
Recruiting was the only reason I could fathom, or perhaps meeting with the advance party of troops coming to support the Limerick IRA. A coincidence that I had seen him, I told myself, nothing more. Still as I stared at the soft flames of the fire, I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was something more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
I heard the men long before I saw them. Crouched behind a stone wall, well back from the crossroads, I watched the column marching towards Limerick. They were making no attempts to conceal themselves and, although their march was casual—rifles held loosely by their sides—they had the look of experienced soldiers. They weren’t wearing the new Free State uniform. I studied them as they passed, looking for faces.
Fifteen minutes later, I was still crouched behind the wall as the column faded in the distance. I had recognized some two dozen faces, men I knew and some I had fought with. They were part of O’Malley’s forces, true Republicans, men who had no love for the Treaty—what some had taken to calling Irregulars—come to chase Brennan’s Free Staters from Limerick. Tense as I was, I couldn’t help feeling proud as they marched by.
I waited another ten minutes, hidden behind the wall, all the while my ear strained for more troops. Finally I stood, climbed over, and continued on my way.
___
It was because of Billy that I found myself in church two hours later, long after the morning mass was over. Cautiously, I made my way toward the altar. My footsteps echoed off the stone floor, the sound loud in the silence of the church. Knowing what I was doing was a sin, one more to add to the many that I had committed over my life, I shook my head, trying but failing to chase the dark thoughts from my mind. Twenty years of hearing there was no salvation for the likes of me had left its mark.
I took a breath again, trying to forget Father Lonagan and his eyes that were more often filled with scorn than with compassion and his voice more often filled with reproach than with understanding. I tried not to think about the hand that was quick to mete out a punishment for sins that couldn’t be forgiven by mere penance alone. Shaking my head, I tried to focus on the task at hand. What I wanted was in the small sacristy in back.
“And what do you think you’re doing here?”
I jumped at the sound, the deep voice thundering off the walls. Spinning around, my hands held up ready to fight, I saw Father Lonagan hidden in the shadows in the back. He stepped into the light, his eyes dark, his steps slow but full of menace nonetheless.
“I asked you what you’re doing here!” his voice boomed again as he came toward me.
Halfway down the aisle, he stopped. His face contorted, disbelief mixed with rage.
“Frank Kelleher,” he said, his voice now a low hiss. “The nerve you have to defile God’s house with your presence! Get out!” He pointed toward the door, his voice rising. “Get out of my church!”
He continued to yell until I took a step forward. Then suddenly he went quiet, something flashing in his eyes. The indignation was gone, replaced by something else. Confusion?
I continued toward him, stopping only when I was five feet away. His eyes darted around, suddenly nervous. He wasn’t much taller than I was—four or five inches at most—although that wasn’t how I remembered him as a child.
“All God’s children, Father, is that it?” I asked, my own rage rising. “All created in his image, are we?” I stared at him a moment, but he said nothing, “Yet somehow we’re sinners all and because of that there’s no escaping our fate.” I paused, not bothering to hide my own fury. “Did I learn that correctly?” I took a step forward and he backed up. “And supposedly, according to the shite you’ve been preaching for God knows how long,” I said, jerking my thumb toward the man hanging on the cross behind me—the one I had been taught to avert my eyes from because I wasn’t worthy, “because of his sacrifice, all is forgiven.” I took another step. “But here’s the thing, Father,” I continued as he backed up against the pew, “there’s something I don’t understand. Despite all of that, for some reason you’ve never explained, lads such as me are denied that salvation. Despite the masses every Sunday and never missing a holy day even when the fever was raging, despite the thousands of rosaries I said in penance ever since I was a wee lad”—I jerked my thumb up at the cross—”you have the nerve to tell me that this is denied me?”
His eyes darted to the side, looking for an escape.
“And despite what you’ve done yourself, despite your own sins, you have the nerve to judge me?” He flinched. I shook my head and, in the silence that followed, I could see the panic in his eyes.
“The British only terrorized us for seven hundred years, Father,” I said, pointing my finger at him. “How long will the Catholic Church?”
He shrank backwards but there was nowhere to go.
“You useless shite,” I hissed then stomped out of the church, leaving him in stunned silence.
___
I walked with a vengeance, my hurried steps a poor attempt to ease my rage. If anyone was a traitor, it was Lonagan and the men like him, men who had created their own holy doctrine, keeping a nation locked in a cage of guilt and self-loathing. It would have been nice to think that the abuses of the church—by popes who loved power more than they did their own God, by holy men who sanctioned the slaughter of millions during the crusades, by popes and bishops who built their own private armies and willingly used them against their enemies and who had amassed fortunes by stealing and selling indulgences all while they committed the gravest of sins themselves—were a product of the middle ages, practices that had died out long ago. Many did, but the totalitarian, authoritarian rule of the Church—one that controlled people through guilt and kept them ignorant of the truth and ignorant of the Church’s own hypocrisy—continued, and nowhere more so than in Ireland. The church hadn’t changed; the sermons of forgiveness directed outward somehow falling on the deaf ears of the men who spoke the very words. Maybe it was too much to expect.
Had it not been for Father Lonagan, I would have found what I was after. He left me with little choice. I would be forced to dye my hair again and wear the glasses—pretending I was Desmond Condon—until I found some other disguise. I crossed the bridge, then left the road, the church disappearing behind me. I wasn’t sure where I was headed but, needing time to think, I followed the stream, hugging the bank that twisted and turned along with the water. The tall grass grabbed at my legs, the thick mud clinging to my boots, but I hardly noticed. It was a half hour later, my boots swollen and heavy with muck and my trousers wet, that I stopped by a wide area, a calm pool that I remembered swimming in with Liam years ago.
I picked up a handful of small stones and threw them one by one into the water. The ripples marched out in all directions, row after row. It wasn’t five months ago that I had visited a church and then it was in New York; the same church—Catholic—but it couldn’t have been more different. Still it brought back memories of all that I had left behind and I had no intentions of setting foot inside a church again. Not until today. And even then, it hadn’t been salvation I had been after.
I sighed as I tossed another stone into the stream. The encounter with Father Lonagan had left me tired, the anger gone now, replaced by a weariness. Try as I might, I couldn’t shake the image of Liam, his seven year-old face crestfallen and his eyes full of tears.
___
I was only seven myself at the time but I had already learned how to fear. As I stood outside the door, I looked down at my hands, at the marks on my palms that never seemed to go away. I could already feel the sting that was to come. My chin began to quiver but I fought it. I dropped my hands—it wouldn’t do to torture myself—and let out a sigh. This time, I promised myself, I wouldn’t cry.
I heard the sharp slap of the leather, the howl from inside. I pushed it out of my mind and thought of what I would do that afternoon. Another slap, the howl louder this time. Sunday and there were no chores to do, not until after supper. I would go fishing with Liam, p
erhaps. A slap and then sobs behind the closed door. It was idle thinking, something to distract me. Liam wouldn’t go with me. Not now. Still I tried to fool myself, thinking he would.
The door banged open, startling me. Liam stepped out, his shoulders hunched and his hands balled in fists, held protectively across his chest. Tears streamed down his face. His eyes avoided mine, only seeing the floor as he passed me. My chin began to quiver again.
“Kelleher!” the voice boomed from within.
I took another breath, wiped my own eyes and stepped inside.
Father Lonagan stood by the desk, the handle of the leather strap in one hand, the frayed ends I had come to fear in the other.
He stared at me for a moment, his eyes penetrating, seeing, I knew, what I couldn’t see myself.
“What did you see, Kelleher?” he demanded. His face was red, his eyes dark and menacing like the clouds outside.
“I don’t know, Father,” I stammered. “There was you and Liam…”
“And?” he demanded.
“And…,” I began, not sure if he wanted the truth, but somehow knowing it would be worse to lie. “I…you…” I shook my head, unsure what I had seen. I had come back to the church, the cast-iron pot dangling, a meal for the Father. I had stopped outside the office, confused by the noises within. I opened the door—even now I’m not sure why—and there was Liam and Father Lonagan. But where were their trousers?
I shook my head as I stared up through the tears at Father Lonagan. What had I seen?
“It was like the sheep, Father...”
“What did you say?” he thundered as he stepped toward me. The flash in his eyes told me I had made a mistake.
I stepped back as his hand came down, the leather slapping loudly against the desk.
“What did you say?”
I shook my head, my chin quivering again. The answer caught in my throat. “I don’t know, Father.”
“How dare you lie to me!” he bellowed.
The leather crashed into the desk, the ceramic figure smashing to the floor. I stared down at the pieces, at Mary, broken on the stone below.
“Now look what you’ve done!” he screamed.
The leather strap rose then flew down, the sharp slaps and the pain like fire raging in my hand, shooting up my arm. Choking my sobs, I watched it rise again. I remember the strain on his face, the sweat on his lip as he swung his arm high and brought it crashing down again. And then again. And again. I don’t know how many times, a dozen, likely more; I lost count.
“How can you tell such lies with Mary and Joseph looking down at you?” he screamed, the strap held high in the air again. “And Jesus, right up there,” he said, out of breath, pointing to the crucifix on the wall.
I was blubbering by now and he lowered the strap, taking deep breaths himself.
“It’s a sinner you are, Frank Kelleher,” he said, his voice softer now, the rage gone but his eyes full of disappointment. “It’s the devil, for sure, filling your head.” He shook his own sadly. “I don’t know how God will ever forgive you.” He grabbed me by the shoulders, shaking hard. “But you must beg for his mercy and maybe he’ll listen.” He knelt on the floor, pulling me down. “You must pray. Kneel and I’ll pray with you.”
We prayed, Father Lonagan said the words while I choked on my own tears. He begged God to spare my soul, claiming I didn’t understand what I had done. My mind spun and, by the time we had finished the Hail Marys, the Our Fathers, by the time we finished the Rosary, I wasn’t sure what I had seen anymore.
Confused and with the weight of eternal damnation crushing me, I left, his final words ringing in my ears.
“You must never repeat any of these lies,” he said, each word measured. “To anyone. Do you understand?”
I looked for Liam outside, but he was gone and it was just as well.
When I got home and my mother saw my hands, my wrists, my arms—bloodied and blistered now—she took her own strap to me, certain that my sin must have been grave. Thankfully it was to the back of my legs and not my hands.
Neither Liam nor I ever spoke of that day.
___
I threw one last stone in the water and watched one ripple after another march across the surface—such a small thing but the impact continued long after the stone disappeared into the darkness below.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“Can you make them for me?”
“Sure and you don’t need me.” Mary scowled. “There’s a store in Limerick that sells them.” She folded her arms across her chest, her eyes narrow, disapproving.
I waited. She knew I couldn’t go to Limerick. Not now.
After a moment, I saw her chest rise and she let out a heavy breath. “I’ll go tomorrow.”
I thanked her, but she waved her hand, the discussion done.
“You haven’t been to Abbeyfeale.” It was a statement not a question.
I shook my head. “Nay. I’ll be going soon, but I’ll need the vestments first.”
She nodded, already aware that I hadn’t gone. She studied me in silence, her eyes searching for something.
“Have you found what you’re after?” she asked. The disapproval was gone, or mostly; her eyes were curious.
Have you found what you’re after? I didn’t know how to answer.
“It’ll do you no good, all this trouble you’re stirring up.” It was a reproach, but at the same time it wasn’t. No clipped words, no commanding tone, just a statement. “Not for you. Not for anyone.”
“Aye, Mary.” I sighed. “But I have to try.”
She nodded as if she had known my answer all along. “Come back tomorrow, in the evening,” she said as she turned away.
I studied her back for a moment. Something was wrong.
“And Tim?” I asked.
She reached for the table. Her shoulders began to shake, and I realized what a fool I had been thinking the only troubles in the world were my own.
“He’s gone,” she said softly, still facing away.
“Billy?” I asked.
When she turned back, her cheeks were wet. She nodded.
“Aye. He left last night.”
She buried her face in her hands, a sob escaping. I stepped forward, taking my wife’s sister in my arms. She heaved, great shudders wracking her body as her tears spilled on my shoulder.
“I’ll find him.” I said softly.
“No!” Mary pushed away, striking my chest with her hands. “You’ll only get yourself killed!” I grabbed her wrists gently and leaned forward. I wrapped my arms around her once more.
“I’ll find him,” I said again. “And I’ll bring him back.”
She sobbed again and I suddenly saw her for what she was. Not as the older sister who had raised my wife, not as the head of the Irish Women’s League, not as the woman with iron in her spine. She was a mother, worried over her child that had fled.
She pushed away, gently this time. “I know,” she said, wiping her eyes. “I know.”
___
Tim was fifteen, already a man, and yet he wasn’t. Sure he would fight when given the order. But he had no fight in him. It had been different for me. The knowledge that our cause was just, the dream that burned from within, these are the things that made me a soldier, as they had the men I fought with. Knowing there was something greater for this godforsaken country of ours, whose soil was forever below our nails and in our blood, we had been willing to die for Ireland. No such fire burned inside Tim. His fight would come from fear alone, but the uncertainty within his heart would kill him in the end. The battlefield was littered with the bodies of men who had no conviction, men who—deafened and frozen by the bombs that tossed up great clods of dirt and panicked by the bullets that chipped away at the stones they hid behind—had hesitated for a brief moment, glancing down at the rifle in their hands, and wondering what had put them there, with death marching closer and the screams growing louder, and for what?
Tim would never survive.
I had to find him before it was too late. I wondered if one of my old comrades—one of the men from my brigade who, like Mick, no longer had any loyalty to Billy—could tell me where he was.
Padraig was a boot maker, or was before the war. I had known him as a child, when he had gone by the name Patrick. Along with adopting the Irish form of his name—something he had done when he joined the Volunteers—he insisted that he was a boot maker, not a cobbler. I don’t cobble, I remember him insisting once, holding up a pair of boots, pointing to the stitching, explaining the unique pattern he crafted into every shoe he made. A shoe like that, he said with no small amount of pride as he spun the half-finished form for me, is a shoe that will last.
Padraig had been wounded a month after I left—this I had learned from Liam—and now walked with a wooden leg. Although he and Billy had been friends at one time I wasn’t certain they were anymore. Both Liam and Mick had hinted that something had come between them, something related to the raid where Padraig had been shot. Padraig wouldn’t be fighting anymore, not with the leg, but something told me that he still might be able to help me find my nephew.
I hoped I would find him in his shop or, if not, that his father would know where he was.
After visiting Margaret’s grave and saying a prayer for my daughter, I set out for Ballygowan where I spent the night in the castle. With candles and a blanket from Mary and the bit of food she had given me, I was comfortable, or as comfortable as I could be. Still, sleep eluded me, and the little I finally got hadn’t been peaceful at all. My dreams had been filled with scenes and the sounds of the war: the Crossly Tenders full of soldiers, the explosions and the fire, the cracks of the rifles, and then the screams of men who had been wounded—Irish or British, it sounded the same. I saw the faces of the men I had killed, both those I had intended to and those I hadn’t. They floated past, looking as they had when they had died, some with their eyes wide, surprised at the bullet that had found them, others their faces contorted in pain, their eyes squeezed shut as if to hide from the death that had finally come. And then there were those with their mouths open, their screams silent but filling my head as the flames consumed them.