by L. D Beyer
I stumbled out of the barn to the shrill of the chickens. They scattered before me but quickly regrouped after I passed. They were drawn together, finding safety, but were wary of outsiders. Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, I paused and stared back at the birds as the thought struck me: Could that be what had happened to Tim?
The troops I had seen two nights earlier had fought together before. They were experienced soldiers, part of several brigades sent to take Limerick back from Brennan’s forces. These war-hardened men would never trust Tim, a sullen fifteen-year-old boy with no fight in him. So where was he?
___
I visited my daughter’s grave and, when I returned, I found the bicycle leaning against the side of the cottage. I wheeled it around to the front where I found Mary.
“And how did this get back here?” I asked her. I had left it hidden in the heather, some ten miles away, on the road to Croom after my first visit to the Sheehys.
“Tim found it,” she answered. “Right where you left it.”
“Tim found it?” I asked, confused. I remembered Tim and I discussing taking the cart to retrieve it. But we never did. I was surprised that he had gone alone for it.
“It was John’s,” Mary said, as if she had read my thoughts.
I nodded, then shook my head when I realized that it was probably here the last time I had visited and could have saved me a lot of walking. I inspected it, running my hand along the chain. I stood and wiped my hand on my trousers. He even fixed that, I thought with a grin.
Dressed as a priest, I made it to Liam’s safely. The people I saw nodded politely, but no one bothered the young priest as he passed by on his bicycle. I found Seamus outside hitching a horse to the cart.
“Ah, Frank,” he grinned when he saw how I was dressed. “You’re up to your old tricks again, are you?”
I offered him a thin smile as I leaned the bicycle against the wall and helped him with the harness. “Many a man on the run before me hid behind the cloak of a priest,” I responded.
“That they have,” Seamus answered. “That they have.” He paused as he studied me, trying, I was sure, to find the answer in my eyes. “Have you had much luck?” he finally asked.
I shook my head then told him of what I had done since we last spoke. His eyes darkened when I told him about Rory and what Billy had done after the bombing.
“That little shite.” His voice was a hiss. “I never trusted that one.” He paused. “And now Tim’s with him? Do you know what that means?”
I nodded, but he continued to stare at me as if he were still waiting for my answer. His eyes, dark and full of worry, told me I had missed something. Suddenly, it became clear, and I felt a hollow pain in my stomach. Tim was in more danger than I had thought. Billy had no loyalty to the men he fought with. He had abandoned Padraig after he was wounded, and he had willingly sacrificed me to save his nephew. Tim and the other new recruits, untrained as they were and untrusted by the IRA men who had already tasted war, would be used as fodder—a diversion—while the more experienced men flanked the enemy. It would be a slaughter.
“I have to find him, Seamus,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. “Before the fighting starts.”
Seamus nodded. He started to say something, but the door banged open and Liam stumbled outside. Tara was on his heels, her voice sharp, frustration and worry etched into her face. I glanced from Tara to Liam. Something was wrong. Liam was pale, and the glistening in his eyes told me he had a fever. His shoulders sagged as if he hadn’t the strength to hold himself up.
“He should be in bed,” Tara said, her anger, it seemed, directed at both Liam and her husband. “But he doesn’t listen.” He, I suspected, could have been either Liam or Seamus.
Liam began coughing, a deep hacking sound. He swayed and began to sag. Both Seamus and I rushed forward to catch him before he fell. His hands and one sleeve were bloody, and when I lifted his chin, I saw more blood on it and his lips besides.
“How long has he been like this?” I asked, as a hollow pit settled in my stomach.
“Since you left,” Tara answered.
My hands below his arms, I led Liam back to the house. Now I knew why he hadn’t sent a telegram to Kathleen. Gently I wiped the blood from Liam’s hands and face and we put him back in bed. He lay there listless, his head damp from sweat, his breathing ragged. Tara handed me a damp cloth and, as I held it to my friend’s forehead, I tried to chase the image from my mind. I had done the same thing to my father.
“We have to take him to Limerick,” I said, glancing up at Seamus.
Seamus nodded, his eyes wide. Tara frowned as she looked down at her brother-in-law then back at me.
“Consumption?”
“Aye,” I said. Once again I pictured my father—his eyes filled with pain, his hair lying matted and limp on a forehead damp from fever, his once strong body skin and bones, his coughing threatening to shake apart what little was left. That’s how he was right before he died.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Two nuns guided Liam to a bed while the doctor frowned. He shook his head and sighed, resentful, it seemed, that another patient had been brought into his ward. As if it took tremendous effort, he sighed again and began to check Liam’s eyes and nose. He asked several questions and Seamus answered. The nuns glanced back at me several times. I felt a prickle on my neck, fearful they could see through my disguise.
The doctor placed a black cup over Liam’s chest; two tubes extended from it, and he stuck the ends in his own ears. He was listening to Liam’s heart or lungs or maybe both, I didn’t know. After a long while, he finally pulled the cup away. He stood and said something to one of the nuns. Liam moaned softly while the other nun wiped his head with a damp cloth. The doctor turned and, as if he were just seeing us for the first time, sighed again.
“He has tuberculosis,” he said. “Consumption,” he added with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’ll need to stay here, but…” his words trailed off as he caught my eye. Surely, his eyes seemed to say, you understand. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. The doctor continued to stare at me then raised his eyebrows in question. I stared back, confused for a moment as the hollow ache in my belly grew. I shook my head. He, like the nuns I now realized, seemed to think Liam needed a priest more than he needed a doctor.
“I’ve nothing with me, no oils, no bible…” I said. “There wasn’t time.”
One of the nuns frowned, but the doctor nodded and waved his hand again as if it didn’t matter.
“There are others here who can see to him.”
I let out a breath as a rush of thoughts swirled in my head. For the last two hours, as I’d held Liam in my arms in the back of the cart on our journey into Limerick, I had been hopeful that there was something the doctor might be able do. And if the possibility that Liam might die wasn’t bad enough, here I was dressed as a priest. Playing a priest was hard enough as it was and, while I knew the words, I was certain that the nuns would recognize me for what I was: a fraud.
I stared at Liam, watched the bed linens rise with a wheeze and then settle again as the air rattled in his chest. My friend had suffered greatly because of me, falling into the hands of the British all while I made my escape. And even though I told myself I wasn’t responsible for the sickness that raged in his blood, I felt guilty. The nuns and the doctor backed away as I stepped over to the bed. I bowed my head and closed my eyes and said a prayer—a silent one—but I prayed nonetheless. He’s suffered enough, hasn’t he? I pleaded, hoping someone was listening. When I was done I looked up and, as I had seen Father Lonagan do countless times, I raised my hand and made a sign of the cross over my friend, the eyes of the nuns, the doctor, and Seamus on me all the while.
___
The Limerick Workhouse was on Selbourne Road, across Sarsfield Bridge, and only blocks from the Strand Barracks where, Mary had told me, Free State forces had mustered. Built in the middle of the last century, after Britain passed the Poor
Laws, the workhouse was more a prison than a dispensary. It was there the destitute traded their freedom and labor for a filthy bed in crowded quarters and rations barely enough to keep a dog alive. As a result of the great hunger, the workhouse swelled during the second half of the last century. And it wasn’t long before the poor were joined by the widows, the elderly, the unwed mothers and the orphans—wretched souls the British called them, unable to care for themselves. That their plight had been caused by centuries of living under Britain’s rule was never mentioned. Ever benevolent, the British built the workhouse—the poor house—a half-hearted attempt to help those in need. It wasn’t until the Sisters of Mercy came to the workhouse hospital late in the last century that conditions improved. Since then, the nuns had been responsible for the hospital, serving both as administrators and as nurses.
It was there that Seamus and I had brought Liam.
Seamus insisted on staying, not wanting to leave his brother’s side. The doctor argued with him, but he wouldn’t budge. Finally, the doctor threw his hands up. He pointed a finger at Seamus.
“You’ll be the next one in that bed,” he said with a huff then turned and stomped off. One of the nuns dragged a chair over by the bed. Seamus ignored them both as he held his brother’s hand.
___
As adamant as Seamus was about staying, he was just as adamant that I leave before it was discovered that I wasn’t the priest I pretended to be, or worse, before I was discovered by someone from my past. I told him I would return the following day, but now I had a new worry. When I did, there would be no excuse for not having my priest’s vestments with me.
Outside, I untied the horse, nodding silently to the occasional greetings—Good Day, Father—as I thought about what to do. I couldn’t stay in Limerick. On our journey to the hospital, Seamus and I had seen signs of the war to come: Free State troops and Anti-Treaty forces marching, the military precision clear in their step, while Crossley Tenders, armored cars, and lorries raced through the city. Free State or Republican, both sides would see me as a traitor, the stain of Argyll Manor difficult to hide. It had been a tense journey into the city, my worries of being recognized and my heartache for my friend filling me with a sense of dread. But with Liam’s frail body cradled in my arms, no one had bothered to stop us. They had more important matters to attend to than the priest and his sick friend making their way through the tense streets to the hospital.
As I climbed up on the cart now, the low rumble of a motorcar startled me, and I turned to see the lorry coming up the block. I studied the soldiers—Free Staters—their faces stern, their rifles held ready; another patrol in a city bracing for war. I felt the prickle in my spine again, and I searched their faces one by one before settling on the officer riding in front. Quickly, I spun away as the lorry approached. I stroked the horse’s neck as I adjusted the bridle. The whole while I could feel the officer’s eyes on me. I prayed he wouldn’t recognize the man he saw—the priest with the dark hair and a pair of glasses perched on his nose—as the same man he had given a lift to only weeks before.
Even with my head down, I could still see him out of the corner of my eye. The smile he had given me when we had discussed Ireland’s future was gone, and the eyes that had been full of hope were now dark. Lieutenant Mullins now wore the face of a soldier.
My disguise must have worked; he turned away as the lorry raced up the street. Several blocks later, I lost sight of it and, in the silence that followed, I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. Thankfully, Mullins and the Free State Troops he commanded were more concerned with the Anti-Treaty forces flooding the city than they were the priest outside the workhouse.
I flicked the reins and, as the old mare began to plod forward, I considered my options. There was nothing I could do for Liam at the moment, but Tim was still in danger. If he was anywhere, I realized, he was here in Limerick. O’Malley would have ordered all available men, experienced or otherwise, to defend the city.
With the few hours of dull gray light remaining before darkness, I set out in search of the things I would need, and to see if I could learn where Tim might be.
___
I didn’t find Tim, but I was able to see for myself how tenuous the situation had become. As I guided the mare back across Sarsfield Bridge, a column of Free State soldiers in their new uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, was forming in front of the Strand Barracks. Coming or going, I wasn’t sure but I didn’t wait to find out. I continued on William Street, and as I passed by the RIC Post, a handful of Free State soldiers was standing guard out front while the barrels of rifles held by others poked out between the steel shutters above. I couldn’t help but notice the tricolour flag flapping in the breeze. The provisional government had taken this symbol—the same green, white, and orange banner that had been hoisted above the General Post Office in Dublin six years ago when we had declared our independence—as a symbol of the Free State.
I continued down William Street then Mulgrave, passing the Artillery Barracks where the remaining British soldiers were stationed, waiting for orders to ship home. Several soldiers stood outside while the Union Jack fluttered high above the walls. Unlike the British soldiers I had seen two weeks earlier, these carried rifles, the excitement of returning to England gone and their eyes now filled with tension.
Then, moments later, as I approached the gaol, I spied the first Republican soldiers in front of St. Joseph’s Asylum. Ernie O’Malley’s men I was certain; the soldiers I had seen at O’Shea’s barn had finally marched into the city. I pulled back on the reins, and the horse stopped by the prison’s gates.
A dozen men stood out front of the asylum—in their trench coats and caps, rifles slung over their shoulders—with a half-dozen motorcars and lorries behind them. Beyond, there were at least a hundred men in groups below the chestnut trees, waiting, it seemed, for O’Malley’s orders. Although most were sitting, smoking and talking, their darting eyes and cautious glances told me they too were tense.
O’Malley was sure to have sent scouts to reconnoiter the Free State troops, assessing their strength and positions. If what Mary had told me was true—and the Free State soldiers I had seen in front of the Strand and the Police Barracks told me it was—the Free Staters had seized the advantage. The fortified barracks they controlled would be difficult to attack. My heart sank as I estimated the number of men O’Malley had with him. If that’s all there were, they were outnumbered. Images of medieval sieges and bodies left wounded and dying in the dirt filled my head.
If Tim was anywhere, I told myself, trying to chase the scene from my head, he would be there, with the Republican forces mustering at the asylum. And if he was, Billy and Kevin were too. But, priest or no priest, I couldn’t risk getting any closer.
I watched for several minutes before I turned the cart around. I should have left then, set out for Seamus’s house—Tara was sure to be worrying and waiting for my news. Instead, I headed back into Limerick.
There was one more thing I needed to do.
___
It was after dark when I heard the slam of a door. The priest, Father Reagan, I remembered, turned, pulled the collar of his coat up below his chin, and set off at a brisk pace up the street. A moment later he turned the corner. From my perch on the cart, I watched the rectory for another few minutes before I climbed down and made my way across the street. I rang the bell, waited a moment, then rang again. A few seconds later, an old woman answered. When she saw me, she bowed her head in the same submissive greeting I myself had given since I was a wee lad.
“Is Father Reagan in?” My tone, far from friendly or inviting, was laced with the impatience of a man used to dealing with servants and one whose authority came from the collar he wore.
“No, Father,” she said shaking her head, refusing to meet my eyes. “He won’t be back until nine.”
I let out a loud sigh. “I haven’t the time,” I said as I stepped forward. “Show me to the sacristy.”
&nb
sp; She hesitated, briefly glancing up at me before bowing her head again and opening the door.
“Yes, Father,” she said as I stepped inside.
Ten minutes later, a small black leather burse slung across my shoulder, I left. The burse seemed to grow heavier as I walked back to the waiting cart; the feeling of pending doom was difficult to shake. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use what was inside but couldn’t escape the feeling that I would.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
“Will he...?” Tara asked, unable to finish. Her eyes were red. It was clear she’d been crying.
“I don’t know.” I sighed heavily, not wanting to tell her the truth. Consumption had killed scores of Irish men and women, including my father, but children were the favored prey. However, surviving childhood was no guarantee that death wouldn’t find you later. I wiped my own eyes at the thought. That Liam had survived all he had in his life, from the priest who had stolen his childhood to the atrocities at the hands of the British, only to fall victim to the consumption was too much to bear.
“And Seamus?” she asked. The muscles were stretched tight across Tara’s face. Her worries weren’t only for Liam but what might happen to her husband too.
“He insisted on staying,” I said. Her eyes went wide, and I realized she had assumed her husband was outside tending the horse. “I’m going back tomorrow.”
She nodded then dropped her head and stared silently at the table, lost in her worries.
“Has he been sick before?” I asked.
Tara looked up. “Aye,” she answered. “He was sick in the gaol. I think that’s why the British let him go. For two weeks, he hadn’t the energy to so much as climb out of bed.” She shook her head. “He’s never been the same since.”
I sighed. Liam’s sickness had come from prison. I couldn’t help but think that he never would have been captured by the British—and never would have gotten sick—had it not been for me. But it was more than that—it was a chain of events that all started with Billy.