The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller

by L. D Beyer

  ___

  Once again, sleep was a long time in coming. What happened during the day only added to the weight of the worries I carried with me. My friend Liam was dying, and there was little I could do to help him. And I still hadn’t found Tim. I sighed. In the silence that followed, I heard the ticking of my father’s watch on the stand beside me. I reached for it. Seeking the comfort it had always provided, I held it over my heart, feeling the rhythmic tick-tock in my chest. I had wound it earlier. Now taut, the springs would turn the gears, and the hands would march forward, nothing to stop them until the tension was gone. Is Ireland any different? I wondered. As if the springs had been wound, the fragile pact that had once held us together was unable to stop the gears from turning and, minute by minute, Ireland marched closer to war.

  As I had finally seen for myself, a tense game of positioning was taking place in the streets of Limerick, the Free State on one side, Anti-Treaty forces on the other, with the British caught in the middle. Limerick was vital to the provisional government’s hold on power. Staunchly Republican, staunchly Anti-Treaty, Limerick was the key. Without it, the Free State government would never gain control of all twenty-six counties. While Dublin, Belfast, Cork, and Donegal watched, the fate of the fledgling nation hung in balance in the streets and lanes of Limerick.

  Men who had fought side by side against the British, in a time when we were bound by a camaraderie and a shared sense of the justness of our cause, now regarded each other warily. Even as the Treaty was being signed, now two months ago, negotiations had continued in Dublin and in cities around Ireland to bring the two sides together. The negotiations, I now saw, were doomed from the start.

  The IRA as an organization had come together at a crucial time for Ireland when men of different backgrounds and political beliefs joined forces against a common enemy. Young and naive, I hadn’t realized this when I joined, thinking that our differing political views were minor and could be sorted out. Many a night I had sat and listened to the debates, the heated arguments that would last till the wee hours and which more than once nearly ended in fisticuffs. Organizations like Sínn Féin, the Citizen’s Army, the Irish Volunteers, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and even the trade unions and athletic leagues all had different visions for the future and different thoughts on how we should battle the British.

  Now that the war with the British was over—and before the Crown could withdraw their forces—old ideologies and old rivalries had surfaced again and threatened to shatter the tenuous peace that had settled over the country.

  These thoughts and images of Liam filled my head, and sleep, as it had for weeks now, refused to come until just before dawn.

  ___

  I woke early to the smell of the turf in the stove and realized that Tara was already up. I lingered for a moment, sorting through the jumble of thoughts in my head. Unable to make sense of any of it, I finally rose and dressed quickly, anxious to escape the thoughts that plagued me. After a cup of tea and a piece of ham, I patted Tara on the arm and stepped out into the gray mist of the early morning. Thirty minutes later, after feeding and watering the horse, I hitched her to the cart and set out for Limerick.

  It was but a short while later when I pulled back on the reins, slowing for the flock of sheep in the road. An old man—a shepherd—walked in the center, the flock moving with him, the bleats comforting in the stillness of the morning. A collie darted back and forth, keeping the strays from wandering too far. I sighed, finding solace in the moment. This old man and his dog tending their flock, as countless generations had before them, reminded me why I had joined the IRA. It was as much for the old man that I had taken up a gun as it was for myself. And now, having finally succeeded in throwing off the shackles of British oppression, we were free to be Irish once again. I nodded and bade the old man good day as I passed, feeling a little more optimistic than I had the night before.

  My mood continued to brighten when, a short while later, there was a break in the clouds. I felt a warmth on my neck and soon on my back. Glancing behind me, I saw the sun rising low over the Galtee Mountains in the distance. A rare thing to see, the Irish winter sun—I hoped it, like the old man and his sheep, was a sign of good fortune.

  I passed the road to Ballyneety and, a short while later, I came upon a young lad, a boy no more than twelve, standing in the ditch, waiting, it seemed, for me to pass. His eyes were downcast and he wore the look of a man, his own troubles as well as those of his country evident in the droop of his shoulders. He had a bundle slung over one. He reminded me of Liam. Knowing I shouldn’t, I slowed then stopped beside him.

  “A fine day it is,” I called down.

  He startled, looking up cautiously, wary of the priest that had stopped to speak to him.

  “Aye, Father. A fine day.” He looked down again, hoping, I was sure, that I would be on my way.

  “And where might a lad such as yourself be off to on such a fine day?”

  His head jerked up, uncertain. “My brother, Father.” He paused. “He left to join the army.”

  I nodded, hiding my surprise. “The IRA?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he nodded then shook his head. “But not the traitors in Dublin,” he added with a hiss. Then, realizing what he had done, he bowed his head again. “Sorry, Father.”

  “He’s not for the Treaty, is he?”

  The lad hesitated then shook his head.

  “Neither am I,” I announced.

  He looked up in surprise.

  “Where’s your brother?” I asked.

  “In Limerick,” he responded. He held up the bundle. “Me mam sent me with this.”

  I nodded as I pictured the worried mother, sending food to her son. I couldn’t help but think of Mary. I studied the boy for a moment, knowing I shouldn’t but also knowing I had no other choice.

  “I’m going to Limerick,” I said then offered him a lift. After a moment’s hesitation he climbed on board.

  “I’m Father Byrne,” I said as I stuck out my hand. Surprised again, he shook it and offered me a thin smile.

  His name was Andrew, he told me, and his brother, Diarmuid, had joined the IRA, Billy’s Anti-Treaty brigade. Diarmuid, he said, was sixteen and had been sent to the Royal George Hotel, on O’Connell and Roches Streets. I had passed it yesterday but hadn’t noticed anything unusual—certainly nothing that told me it had been commandeered by the IRA. What else had I missed? I wondered. I agreed to drop Andrew off. If Diarmuid had been sent there, maybe Tim had been as well.

  As the city drew closer, Andrew grew quiet.

  “A lad I know joined too,” I said, then told him about Tim. “His mother doesn’t know where he is. She’s asked me to find him.”

  He nodded but said nothing.

  “He’s only fifteen,” I said, describing Tim. “Tall and thin like a willow and with curly black hair.” I described the scar on Tim’s chin. I paused and searched Andrew’s eyes. “Would you look for him?” I asked. “At the hotel?”

  He considered it for a moment then nodded. Whether it was because he thought I was a priest or because his own worries filled his head, he never questioned why I had asked him to do something I should have been able to do myself.

  I thanked him, feeling a small sliver of hope that Tim might be at the Royal George.

  “Father?”

  I glanced back at Andrew. In his eyes, I saw Mary and Kathleen and his own mother. There I saw the worry and fear that someone his age shouldn’t know.

  “Will there be another war, Father?”

  “I don’t know, son.” I shook my head, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”

  ___

  Liam had been moved to a special ward for people with consumption. I found Seamus where I had left him, by Liam’s side. Liam’s bed was by an open window. The other beds in the room were full, nine other men all struggling, like Liam, to breathe. Seamus nodded when he saw me but said nothing. His heavy eyes told me h
e hadn’t slept or if he had it hadn’t been for long. Liam was the same: a scratchy whine as his chest rose slightly followed by a ragged wheeze as it settled uneasily once again. He continued to cough up blood, a sure sign of consumption, the doctor had told us yesterday. He was asleep, and the shine on his forehead told me that he still had the fever.

  “You can’t stay here,” I said softly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  Seamus looked up at me but said nothing.

  “Tara needs you at home.”

  Finally, he nodded but turned back to his brother as if he had no intent to leave. At least not yet.

  I decided to give him some more time.

  I found the doctor in the hallway, chastising a young lass with a mop and bucket. Her head hung low; she cringed at his sharp hiss. I couldn’t help but picture Father Lonagan but quickly put the thought out of my head. I had more battles than I could handle at the moment and didn’t need another. The doctor turned and sighed heavily when he saw me. His look let me know that, priest or no priest, with the beds full, he had little time for someone as healthy as me.

  “How is he?” I asked.

  The doctor shrugged. “Only time will tell,” he said. He went on to explain that the best treatment for consumption was fresh air. The windows in the ward were kept open as often as possible and, once a day, most patients were moved outside to a covered veranda. Some benefited from surgery to the lungs but, for most, it was the fresh air. Still, many didn’t survive, he continued, and Liam was quite sick.

  “Although,” he added, his tone offering a glimmer of hope, “his condition has improved slightly since yesterday.”

  What the doctor had seen, he never explained, and, before I could ask, he hurried off.

  Returning to Liam’s side I felt the nuns’ eyes on me once again. I looked down at my friend and sighed, knowing what was expected of me. I opened the burse I had stolen from Father Reagan’s sacristy. I ignored Seamus’s frown as I placed the two small vials—one for oil and one for holy water—on the table. This was followed by a small, gold container—the pyx, I think Father Lonagan had called it—that held the communion wafers. As I placed the bible on the table, I took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t avoid what came next.

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” The Latin spilled out of my mouth as I anointed Liam’s eyes with the oil, pardoning his sins as I had seen Father Lonagan do to my own father. I did the same with Liam’s ears, and then his nose, his lips, his hands, and his feet. The whole while I could feel the nuns’ eyes on me, or maybe they weren’t the nuns’ at all, I thought, as I tried to avoid looking up at the cross on the wall.

  ___

  “Surely you know Father Reagan,” one of the nuns said as Seamus and I stepped out into the hall. “He’s in the next ward.”

  “Aye,” I nodded but said no more as I grabbed Seamus’s arm and steered him down the hall. I had no desire to meet Father Reagan or any other priest, knowing for certain they would recognize my lie immediately. It wasn’t until several minutes later when we stepped outside into the sun that I let out the breath I had been holding.

  As we readied the horse, I explained to Seamus what we needed to do. He was weary and needed sleep. There was nothing he could do for Liam, but maybe helping Tim would bring him some relief. This is what I told myself, but I knew it was a lie. The real reason was that I couldn’t do it alone. Shaking the thought from my head, I pulled the cart around, and we made our way down Shelbourne Road.

  Ten minutes later, I pulled back on the reins and the horse slowed. Seamus, who had been dozing next to me, looked up. I nodded in the distance. A column of soldiers was turning onto Sarsfield Bridge. Their new green uniforms told me they were Free Staters. Other than Officer Mullins and a few other men I had soldiered with over the years, the Free Staters, most from Dublin and County Clare, I was told, wouldn’t know me. I repeated this to myself as I edged the cart closer. Rifles slung over their shoulders, they marched with a precision.

  Seamus sat up.

  “They’re reinforcing their positions,” he said at once, his soldier’s eye not missing anything. His eyes darted around then settled back onto the column. I realized he was right. Troops from Clare had mustered at the Strand Barracks first before crossing the Shannon. The Castle Barracks, on King’s Island, was across the Shannon from the Strand. By occupying both, Brennan’s Free State Troops now controlled the bridges, denying Anti-Treaty forces the opportunity to reinforce from the north. They would also reinforce their positions in the RIC Barracks on William Street and Mary Street. They had quickly seized the advantage.

  “Fucking Brennan,” Seamus cursed under his breath. Arms still folded across his chest, he stared at the column of men.

  We watched silently as the end of the column turned onto the bridge. Despite their disciplined march, several of the soldiers were only lads, I noticed, no more than fifteen or sixteen—perhaps even younger by the looks of them. Three rows from the rear, a lad with red hair spilling out below his cap glanced our way and caught my eye. Despite his uniform and rifle, his eyes held the fear of a child—one who wanted no part of the war that was coming. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of Tim. I glanced at Seamus, but his eyes were on the soldiers on horseback bringing up the rear.

  We waited for the column before we crossed. The whole while, I wore a scowl on my face, a displeased glare to further my disguise. With all that had happened, feigning my own worries wasn’t difficult. Minutes later, I pulled the reins gently and we turned onto O’Connell Street. A Crossley Tender raced by, and I suspected it was more Free State soldiers heading to one of their barracks. Despite the chess game being played out in the surrounding streets, Cannock’s department store was busy. Several women were entering as we passed, seemingly unaware of the two sides fortifying their positions around them. Several blocks away I spotted a group of men and lorries in front of the Royal George Hotel and let the reins go slack. We edged closer as both Seamus and I assessed the situation. As far as I could determine, this was one of two Anti-Treaty positions in Limerick. A block away, I pulled the cart to the side of the road, far enough from the hotel where the men in front wouldn’t see me clearly. And if they could, the dray in front of us would block their view.

  The men were dressed in trench coats and caps, their bandoliers and rifles clearly visible. I couldn’t tell for certain, but they looked to be the same ones I had seen earlier, when I had dropped Andrew off in the morning. Two men were struggling with a bureau, building a barricade in front of the hotel with furniture taken from inside. Above, I saw rifles poking out of the windows and the shadows of the men behind them. Two more men were on the roof, their rifles held ready. I stole a glance at Seamus. He was silent, his eyes darting back and forth, taking it all in.

  I glanced back at the door. Where was Andrew? I wondered. We had agreed to meet here. Sure we were late, but where would he go? I scanned the street, wondering if he was in one of the shops or if something had gone wrong. Tired of waiting on me, had he decided to walk home?

  After fifteen long minutes, I was ready to leave. If we stayed any longer, I feared, we would draw attention to ourselves. I reached for the reins, but Seamus grabbed my arm.

  “I’ll go,” he said.

  Without waiting for my reply, he climbed down. As he made his way down the curb, I glanced back at the men in front of the hotel. Caps pulled low over their faces, their eyes scanned the street, finally settling on Seamus. My eyes flicked from them to nearby buildings. Across the street, several women pushing prams glanced nervously at the soldiers as they hurried by. They weren’t alone. But many, it seemed, ignored the IRA men and their guns. As we had seen at Cannock’s, the shops along O’Connell Street were busy, drays and lorries continued to make their deliveries, and old men still whiled away the hours in the pubs.

  I pulled my father’s watch from my pocket and made a show of fussing with it, keeping Seamus in the corner of my eye. He approached the h
otel, and I could see him speaking with three men—soldiers I likely had fought with at one time or another. One of the men shook his head and I sighed, frustrated. They talked a moment more, and the man shook his head again. Seamus nodded and turned, heading back up the street toward me, the men watching him the whole while. Head down, Seamus didn’t glance up until he was just feet away and then he shook his own head, telling me what I already knew. I let out another sigh as he climbed back onto the cart.

  “Andrew left an hour ago,” he said.

  I frowned. “And Tim?”

  “Not there,” he said with a shake of his head. “According to that lot anyway.”

  “What did you say?” I asked.

  “That I was looking for the son of a friend. That his mother was sick.”

  “Did you have any problems?”

  “No,” he said. He hadn’t recognized any of the men, he added.

  “Do they have any idea where we might look?”

  He shook his head again.

  Sighing, I flicked the reins and turned the cart. The three men were still watching us and, although I was too far away to see their faces clearly, I didn’t want to get any closer and let them see mine.

  There had to be other Anti-Treaty strongholds, I told myself, besides the asylum and the Royal George. I was tempted to reconnoiter the streets again, looking for what I had missed yesterday but after glancing at Seamus, I decided it was best to set out for home. He was asleep within minutes, oblivious to the shaking and bouncing of the cart and to the commotion in the streets around him as the city prepared for war.

  With a sigh, I flicked the reins and turned the cart. Next to me, Seamus’s chin had fallen to his chest. The lack of sleep and the worry over his brother weighed heavily on him. But it was more than that. I sensed something else: a weariness of the days to come.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I fought back the tears as I held Liam’s limp hand. His breathing was raspy, coming in quick, shallow pants. His cheeks were sunken, and his hair lay matted on his head. His sheets were stained from his coughing, and blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. The fever was back, and every now and then Seamus wiped Liam’s forehead with the damp cloth. Seamus looked across the bed at me, his own eyes wet.