The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller

by L. D Beyer

  He cringed at my words.

  “Traitors, spies, and informants,” I continued, my words heavy in the wet air, “they’re all treated the same.”

  Rory’s eyes flashed to Seamus then Padraig then Mick before returning to me. I saw the change. He dropped his arms by his side, and I saw the slight shake of his head, a dismissive gesture that told me he thought he knew something I didn’t. It wasn’t much, but I caught it. Then he smirked.

  “And what do you think Billy will do?” he asked. “When he learns what you’ve done.”

  Before I could stop him, Seamus lunged forward. “Shut your gob hole, you little shite!” he hissed and brought the club down on Rory’s head. There was a sickening thud and Rory’s eyes flashed wide before he collapsed to the ground.

  Seamus stood over him, staring down at the limp body lying in the mud at his feet.

  ___

  The light from the oil lamp cast long shadows in the cottage. The room had grown cold, and Mick was busy stacking more peat on the embers in the fire. He stood, brushed his hands off on his pants and sat again, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The room brightened, the shadows from the lanterns fading like the spirits at first light. A few minutes later, I began to feel the warmth.

  I listened to them debating: Seamus, Padraig, and Martin. Only Mick was silent, staring off at some unseen spot on the wall, puffing, as he usually was, on a cigarette.

  “It’s all of us or none of us,” Padraig insisted.

  “Ah, you’re crazy,” Seamus said. “You’ll just get us all killed.”

  “Seamus is right,” Martin interjected. I was surprised; I had expected him to side with Padraig.

  Mick looked up but said nothing. He turned to me. We stared at each other for a moment then he gave me a small nod, knowing, I’m sure, what I was about to say.

  “I’ll go alone,” I said, and they all turned. “I’m the one he’s after and, besides, Tim is my nephew.”

  “Diarmuid’s there too,” Padraig said.

  “I know. But he’s my worry, not yours.”

  “What Billy does is all our worry,” Padraig insisted. He had a point. Each had lost something because of Billy, if not directly then through the chain of events he had set in motion.

  I shook my head. “Sure and Billy will come after the lot of you, Padraig. If I go myself,” I added, “Billy will never know you were involved.

  His eyes narrowed. “Aye, he wouldn’t,” he said as he nodded toward the door. “Not if you put a bullet in him.”

  I sighed. Padraig was right. Outside in the stable, Rory lay on a bed of hay, his hands and feet bound, a strip of cloth stretched over his wounds. Padraig was right; Rory knew us all. But as much as I wanted to leave him by the side of the road—bound and shot, a traitor with a note pinned to his chest—without him I had no chance of freeing Tim and Diarmuid.

  The cottage was quiet for a moment, the only sounds the crackling of the peat in the fire and a soft groan from Padraig as he rubbed his leg.

  “Someone needs to stay here,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

  Padraig looked up, frowned, but said nothing.

  “And if something goes wrong…” I continued, the sentence unfinished but the thought clear.

  The four of them sat silently for a moment. Finally, Mick nodded again, having made up his own mind, it seemed, and leaned forward. “Frank’s right,” he said.

  Padraig’s eyes darted back and forth from Mick to me. Finally, he sighed then nodded. Still, it was clear that he wasn’t happy with the decision.

  ___

  We spent the rest of the night discussing our plan. Going to Limerick now was foolhardy but we had no choice. Padraig had reluctantly agreed to stay and guard Rory. He was upset to be missing the action, but I had been watching him for the last few hours. Lying in wait for Rory had taken its toll. Since we had returned to Mick’s barn, he had been rubbing the stump of his leg, where his real one ended and his wooden one began, a grimace on his face the whole while.

  Seamus and Mick would go to Limerick with me. Martin would too. But as he wasn’t a soldier, he would serve as a lookout. He would bring word to the others if anything went wrong.

  In the fowl-house outside, the hens began to stir, and the first gray light of day filtered through the windows of the cottage. Seamus looked at each of us.

  “It’s done then,” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he stood and stretched. As if it took all of his energy, he slowly lowered himself to the floor. Close enough to the fire to be warmed by the embers but not close enough to catch a stray one, he closed his eyes. It was no more than a minute before he began to snore. Padraig was next, limping off to Mick’s bed while Martin joined Seamus on the floor, hoping for a few hours’ rest.

  Too tired to sleep myself, I followed Mick outside into the cool air of the morning and stopped for a moment to watch the sky brighten over the hills to the east.

  “I’ll look in on him,” I said and Mick nodded, lost in his own thoughts as he usually was.

  I left him staring at the hills and slipped quietly into the barn.

  Rory was where we had left him, asleep now, bits of straw stuck to his bloody hair. The cloth we had used to dress the wound was dark with blood and had begun to work itself loose during the night. His hands were bound behind him, and his feet were tied to the post. He was asleep, his mouth open, his breathing heavy to match that of the horses. I stared down at him for a moment, in the darkness of the barn, and couldn’t help but think of Tim. He looked more a boy now than a man, Rory did, asleep before me in the hay. What he had done was surely a sin, worse than the many I had committed. It would be so easy, I thought, to end it all here, to avenge Dan, Tom, and Sean. To avenge Liam. In my pocket I rubbed my hand along the handle of the revolver. It would be so easy.

  “Don’t do it, Frank,”

  I turned at the voice and there was Martin.

  “Without him, we haven’t a chance to free Tim and Diarmuid,” he said.

  I sighed. I turned back to Rory. He must have heard the noise; he opened his eyes. He let out a low moan, the throbbing in his head awaking as he did. After a moment of confusion, a struggle to remember—where he was, why he couldn’t move his hands and feet and, surely, about the pain that was coursing through his head—his eyes found mine. They were glazed and unfocused in the dim light. He shook his head as if to clear it. With a sudden hiss of breath and a loud moan he closed his eyes and lay still again.

  I stared down at him, unable to feel anything but contempt.

  “He’ll kill you,” he hissed quietly through clenched teeth. His eyes were still closed, but he knew I was there.

  I said nothing. Finally, he opened his eyes again. I stared at him a long moment before he looked away. His eyes took on a downcast look, one that said he knew his fate was coming and there was little he could do to stop it.

  I turned on my heel, brushing past Martin on the way out.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Dressed as a priest again, I sat next to Seamus as, one-handed, he gave the reins a slight tug, calling ahead softly to the horse. The horse stopped with a snort and dropped its head, content to wait for Seamus’s next command.

  Behind us, the hay was piled high in the back of the cart, Mick hidden below along with the guns I hoped they wouldn’t need. My own was in the burse that hung heavy at my side. The bible, the Holy Water, the oil, and the bread I’d left on Mick’s table. I stared at the front of the Glentworth Hotel, hoping Tim and Diarmuid hadn’t been moved again. A group of men, ones I didn’t recognize this time, stood out front behind the sandbags that had been stacked in front of the door. Two carried rifles but several were smoking, their backs to the street. I glanced up. The two men perched in the windows regarded us for a moment. One of them turned and said something and both laughed as they glanced back at us.

  I stared back at them and their smiles vanished. They bowed their heads—from the shame of mocking the giant man in t
he cart and the short priest with him. One made the sign of the cross.

  “What do you make of it?” I asked Seamus.

  “I don’t know,” he said as his eyes narrowed.

  We had been wondering ever since we had passed the asylum earlier. There had been no troops marching through the streets today. Like the men before us now, those we had seen were sitting on the sandbags, talking and smoking. Most had given us only a casual glance. But it was the smiles that really seemed odd. Had a truce been reached? I wondered. Had the Free State withdrawn their forces? Not sure what to make of it, I climbed down.

  “Mind yourself now,” Seamus said. He called softly to the horse then gently flicked the reins.

  I watched him for a moment until the cart turned the corner. If everything went according to our plan, Seamus would see Martin coming the other way. Out of sight, Seamus and Mick would wait while Martin crossed Catherine Street, stopping on the corner for a cigarette. From there he would be able to see the front of the hotel. I could only trust that he would be there, I told myself, as I turned and began to make my way across the street, dodging the motorcars and lorries that raced across the cobblestones.

  Wearing caps and dressed in trench coats—the uniform of the IRA—the four men in front of the hotel turned to watch me. Younger than me, they couldn’t have been more than nineteen.

  “Good day, Father,” one said as another held the door. “The lads will be glad to see you.”

  I stopped short.

  “And how are the lads, son?” I asked, trying to cover my surprise.

  “Grand,” he said with a smile, “everyone’s grand.” He stepped out of my way.

  Still I hesitated.

  “Forgive me, son. I’ve been all night with a sick child. Has something happened?”

  “Aye, Father.” He smiled. “Brennan, that shite.” He spit on the ground. “He’s leaving.” An agreement had been reached, he told me, and the war that had seemed certain had been averted. Brennan’s Free State forces would retreat from the city and the Strand, and Castle Barracks would be turned over to the local IRA, men from the Mid-Limerick Brigade, men I likely knew. All other barracks would be turned over to the city government while remaining IRA divisions—forces from Clare, from Tipperary, and from Galway—would retreat to their respective counties.

  “The lads and I,” he said as he gestured to the men beside him, “are from Cork.”

  “Tom Barry’s men?” I asked.

  “Aye,” he answered proudly.

  “And the Limerick men?” I asked. “Are they here? In the Glentworth?”

  “Aye. Some are, Father. But most left last night.”

  “I’m looking for a lad named Tim Reidy,” I said. “From Kilcully Cross. St. Patrick’s Well Parish.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know him.”

  When I had asked about Diarmuid, the answer was the same.

  ___

  I left the Cork men there, confused, I was sure, at my abrupt departure. I breathed a sigh of relief, thankful that Tim and Diarmuid would be spared the fight that neither would have survived. But where are they? Would Billy have let Tim or Diarmuid go? If the fight wouldn’t come to him, would he set out to find it?

  I walked along Catherine Street, glancing across but not seeing Martin. He must be with Seamus, I told myself. I turned at the corner, expecting to see them both. The street was filled with motorcars and lorries and horses and people, busy going about their business—but Seamus and Martin weren’t anywhere to be seen. Where have they gone? I wondered. I turned around and crossed Catherine again. They must have gone to the Royal George, I thought as I tried to shake the feeling that something was wrong.

  In the noise of the street—the clip-clop of the horses, the squeaks and rattles of the drays, the roar of the motorcars, and the shouts and sounds of daily life returning to normal now that the war had been averted—I didn’t hear the lorry until it was upon me.

  With a screech of brakes, the lorry skidded to a stop. I turned to the men jumping from the side, their rifles held ready. I stared at their faces, at men I once knew, dressed in their trench coats and wearing their caps, pulled low now over hard eyes. In the middle of the men stood Billy. He stepped forward, stopping two feet away.

  “So the traitor has returned,” he said, loud enough so all would hear. I stared back but said nothing. His eyes were darker than I remembered. The muscles in his jaw twitched, betraying the violence within. Two men stepped past him and grabbed my arms. I stared back at Billy, watching his hands, knowing what was coming, knowing there was nothing I could do to stop it. The fist came at me, and I turned my head. A second before a rainbow of colors and a flash of pain exploded inside, I saw him in the lorry.

  Sitting with his arms folded across his chest and wearing a scowl was Martin.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  A wave of panic hit me and I coughed and spit out a mouthful of blood. Gasping, I gulped a lungful of air. My head was spinning and I struggled to think. I could feel the cold dirt of the barn floor pressing against my cheek, the pain pulsing through my arms, my legs, my chest. I opened my eyes and stared at the black earth before me. Lying inches from my nose were two small chunks that looked strangely familiar. Red or black, I couldn’t tell, but a moment later I realized what they were. I coughed again and ran my tongue over my gum, where my teeth used to be.

  “Where is he, you traitor?”

  I didn’t answer, and the boot came at me again, slamming into my ribs this time. There was a burst of pain, and I heard something crack, or maybe I felt it, I couldn’t be sure. I struggled to breathe, each mouthful of air like a knife in my side.

  “Where is he?” the voice demanded again.

  I didn’t answer—I couldn’t have even if I wanted to, struggling to hold on as waves of pain swept over me. The darkness was coming—I felt it as much as I saw it—and this time I wasn’t sure if I had the strength to hold on. But I had to.

  This is Mick’s stable, I told myself, something to focus on other than Billy’s boot.

  The boot came at me again, and my head exploded in a rainbow of blues and purples.

  This is Mick’s barn, I told myself again. Billy had brought me there, looking for Rory. But Rory was no longer there.

  “Get him up,” I heard, and rough hands grabbed me below the arms. I screamed as the pain tore through my body. I took several breaths, fighting to hold on.

  Mick’s barn, I told myself again. But Rory wasn’t there. The frigid water hit me, and I gasped again, struggling to breathe. I coughed and spat once more and there was Billy before me, the empty bucket dangling by his side. I shivered, the water soaking through my clothes but clearing my head.

  He stared at me, his eyes dark with violence, but there was something more. I had known him long enough to see the worry hidden in his eyes.

  “You’re a daft man, Kelleher.” He shook his head. “You should have stayed in America.”

  I looked up at him through swollen eyes. It was a foolish thing to do, but I did it anyway. I waited until he leaned close, his dark eyes piercing, his mouth a sneer. I spit a mouthful of blood. He flinched, but he wasn’t fast enough. He wiped his eyes as the blood, my blood, ran down his cheeks and chin and dripped onto his shirt. His eyes flashed and he raised his hand.

  “Do they know what you did?” I shouted, then wondered if I had said it at all.

  The fist slammed into my head, another flash of colors, and I told myself that surely I had said it. Out loud. I slumped forward, the only thing that kept me from falling were the hands that held me up.

  Rory wasn’t there, I told myself. He was in Adare. I felt the rough hands again, pulling then pushing, as I was forced back into the chair. My arms were stretched behind my back, and I screamed out again as the pain coursed through my ribs. I closed my eyes and waited for the fist, certain this time it would send me away.

  But it never did.

  “He’s here,” I heard from
the darkness.

  Unsure what that meant, and knowing I could do nothing about it, I focused on what I knew.

  I helped Mick with the morning chores, letting the hens out of the fowl-house while he tended the horses. I thought Martin had gone back to sleep, next to Seamus by the fire. I was returning from the well, the bucket of water for the horses sloshing at my side and there was Martin, pedaling the bicycle up the lane. Mick was watching silently.

  “And where’s he off to?” I asked.

  “The pub,” he said as Martin disappeared around the turn. “He’ll be back by midday,” he added, although I could hear the doubt in his voice.

  By the time he returned, Padraig and Rory were gone, on their way to Padraig’s shop in Adare, where Rory now was surely still bound and gagged.

  ___

  I heard the metallic click, the cock of the revolver, and opened my eyes.

  Billy pointed the gun at the ground before me. Then he turned and motioned to the shadows.

  “You’ve a job to do,” he said.

  “I can’t.” I heard, the voice, soft and high. A shiver ran up my spine.

  Rough hands, the same ones that must have held me earlier, pushed the boy from the shadows.

  I stared at the boy who would have been my nephew, had I only married Kathleen. Tim’s eyes darted back and forth from Billy to me. Billy held the revolver out and, when Tim didn’t take it, Billy grabbed his hand and wrapped it around the gun. Then Billy grabbed his shoulders and turned him toward me.

  “Are you one of us?” Billy asked before pointing at me. “Or are you a traitor like him.”

  Tim shook his head, and the tears slid down his cheeks. Time slowed, and I watched as he raised his arm, the gun shaking in his hands. He pointed it at my chest. I stared up at him and something flashed across his eyes.

  “No, Tim,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.

  “Shoot him!”

  He flinched at Billy’s shout, his eyes pleading with me, telling me he didn’t have a choice.

  “Shoot him!” Billy yelled again.