by Joe Murphy
Elizabeth’s father stood framed in the open doorway of his own home. He wore stockings and breeches and a grey satin waistcoat over a white shirt. He wore no coat however, and in his arms he cradled the dark wood and metal length of a fowling piece. His iron-grey hair was slicked back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, and his features, although smiling, betrayed some unpleasant subtlety of emotion.
Before him, a heavy-bellied glass of rich brown liquid in his fist, stood a man dressed in a yeomanry captain’s uniform. Both men seemed to be engaged in a strident but good-natured argument. Dan moved forward slightly, straining to hear what was being said, hoping to find an explanation.
Over the jollity of his men Captain Wainwright was saying, ‘Come Andrew. This isn’t a question of your loyalty. If you would just hand over the young whelp we could all be on our way.’
Blakely shook his head, his smile fixed in place as though it were painted on, ‘And I tell you again, Mr Wainwright, I cannot allow you to harass my staff without tendering good reason. If you could lay definite charges against young Mahon then I would be the first to have him trussed up and delivered to the magistrates. But on the basis of unfounded suspicion I cannot in good conscience offer up a fourteen year old boy to suffer the tender ministrations of the military.’
Wainwright sighed and took a long draught from his glass, ‘You are too soft on these Papists, Andrew. I am sure the boy is of use to your household but Fitzwilliam and the other estate owners do not want the French disease taking root in Carnew. You have been both kind and generous to myself and my men – but for the last time Andrew, you must grant us access to your house.’
At last Blakely’s smile disintegrated like ash in the wind, ‘And if I do not, you will draw arms against a fellow parishioner and staunch member of the community? Has it come to this, that Protestant will kill Protestant?’
Wainwright emptied his glass down his throat and raised his voice more in exasperation than anger. ‘You were the one who, when asked to surrender Mahon, went and fetched your gun instead of your pet croppy. Do not accuse me of producing arms prematurely.’
The serving man who had been preparing to serve a young yeoman sitting comfortably upon a barrel of oats, started at the captain’s raised voice and slopped the trooper with liquor. The yeo cursed and made to cuff the servant but his hand stilled as Elizabeth entered serenely from the avenue, her face a study in aristocratic arrogance.
Even in the gloom and guttering flare of the torchlight, even with her face assuming an unnatural and pantomime aspect, even though anxiety tightened her mouth and made her rigid with tension, even through all this, Dan felt his breath sucked from his lungs by her hurricane beauty.
In his fists, Dan’s pistols sat heavy and eager and pregnant with menace.
In the yard, the yeomen had all fallen silent and every pair of eyes was fastened like limpets on Elizabeth’s haughty countenance. Then the crude whispers and drink-fuelled mutters began in a low susurration. Dan knew that should one of them attempt to lay hands on her, that man would get a bullet between the eyes before he had moved more than an a foot.
Captain Wainwright spun around to see what could have effected such a change in his men and from Andrew Blakely came a great shout of joy, ‘Elizabeth! Thank God you are safe. We looked everywhere for you! Where in heaven’s name did you disappear to?’
Elizabeth dismounted and, ignoring the yeomen, moved straight to her father, the slight suggestion of haste in her steps the only indication of her anxiety. As she swept past Captain Wainwright he bowed his head with an obsequious, ‘Good evening to you, Ms Blakely.’
Swamped in shadow alongside the stable, Dan watched the captain as he addressed Elizabeth. He watched as Wainwright raised his head a fraction too slowly so that his leering gaze roved across the front of Elizabeth’s cloak and jacket. Dan felt a cold sort of joy that Wainwright would be the first to drop.
Elizabeth was standing by her father, who clasped both her hands in his left while his right retained its grip on the flintlock. His tone was scolding as he spoke to her but his face betrayed his happiness, ‘You must tell me child. Where were you at such an hour on such a night as this?’
Kissing him on the cheek she answered, ‘I have been with friends in town father. I was about to leave, as I had already remained absent from my home for rather too long a duration and the hour was growing late, when word reached me that a mob had descended upon my family.’
She then turned to the yeos and said something which caught Dan by surprise and rooted him to the spot, his plan falling to pieces.
Fists on hips, she began, ‘I had not known that the rumour of a mob would prove to be so well-founded. Look at yourselves, in particular you Captain Wainwright – you all should be ashamed. Turning my mother and sisters and poor old maidservants out into the dark. There mustn’t be a single Christian bone to be found in your bodies.’
Some of the yeos were looking at each other with expressions of acute embarrassment and one or two even attempted to straighten the hang of their jackets. Dan simply crouched where he was, astonished and smiling.
Elizabeth was in full flood, ‘Have you nothing better to be doing than abusing the households of good Protestant families? Are there not seditious persons enough for you in this district that you have to go disturbing loyal and God-fearing people as well?’
Captain Wainwright cleared his throat and interjected, ‘My dear Ms Blakely, that is why we are here. Now if your father would merely allow us to apprehend the person in question we would have no cause to disturb you further.’
Elizabeth regarded him with an expression of fiery defiance, ‘Oh yes, Chrissie mentioned that. Young John Mahon. A fourteen year old boy who cannot even read. Yes, he sounds like the type of scoundrel that could bring the country to its knees. Do not be ridiculous, Captain.
‘If you wish to deprive my family of a trusted servant, then you shall have to arrest me or render me senseless for I shall not allow it any more than my father should.’
In perfect harmony Andrew Blakely protested, ‘Elizabeth!’ whilst Captain Wainwright exclaimed, ‘Ms Blakely, be reasonable!’
Dan, in the shadows, watched all this with his eagle’s eyes and for the moment held his instincts at bay. He had never thought Elizabeth so capable of such bravery and incandescence. For incandescent she was, glowing from within like a forge.
Andrew Blakely faced Wainwright with a mixture of wounded pride and blustering anger, ‘Look here, Captain. For the yeomanry to persecute a well-connected and respected Protestant family such as ours will not endear you to either the magistrates or the community. My pockets are deep but my patience is not and my daughter’s presence here only complicates matters further.’
At this, Elizabeth placed a hand on her father’s shoulder and in a tone that still smouldered but with a different heat than before, purred, ‘Captain Wainwright, I have always held you deep in my affections. Such disregard for my family and my feelings does not become you.’
Wainwright blinked at her while several of his men sniggered into their palms. He coughed abashedly, ‘Well Ms Blakely, I am but one of many gentlemen who holds your feelings in the utmost regard and I would hope never to be less than deep in your affections. But I cannot see any route around this impasse. Mahon must be questioned and induced to reveal any rebellious secrets he holds and that is final.’
Elizabeth’s father, regarding the captain with narrow-eyed scrutiny, asked, ‘Do you question my loyalty, Captain Wainwright?’
Wainwright shook his head emphatically, ‘Nobody questions your loyalty, Andrew. You are one of Carnew’s most well-respected, devout and, of course, prosperous citizens. There is no question as to the integrity of your character or allegiance.’
‘Well then,’ continued Blakely. ‘What if I were to question the lad on the condition that should he dissemble or hide from me any pertinent fact then he should be turned out of my house and immediately tried at the next assizes?
‘Similarly, should he reveal all he knows and give assurances as to his good conduct then he shall remain my servant and thus save himself from both gallows and transportation.’
Wainwright frowned dubiously, ‘You are certain he will reveal all to you?’
‘I have saved him this night from inducement at the hands of your men, Captain. I shall impress upon him that he owes me a debt of gratitude. He shall hold nothing back.’
‘If you are satisfied at that, Andrew, then I must insist that in your capacity as a landed gentleman you transcribe all he says and deliver it direct to me.’
Before Andrew Blakely could answer, Elizabeth responded, ‘It will be my pleasure to deliver it to you personally, Captain, should you so desire.’
Over the open chuckling of the yeomen, Wainwright stuttered, ‘I … I should like that very much Ms Blakely.’
In the dark, Dan quietly uncocked both pistols and grinned a wolf ’s grin. He must remind himself of this night when they were married; the devil with his forked tongue would be less devious.
Andrew Blakely offered his hand to Wainwright, who shook it and said, ‘I apologise for this evening’s unpleasantness, Andrew, but these are difficult times. I am happy that matters have been resolved so amicably.’
‘I as well,’ said Blakely.
The captain took Elizabeth’s right hand and bent over it, brushing her knuckles with his lips, ‘I am overjoyed to see you again, also, Ms Blakely. I would hope that the next time we meet might be in more convivial and intimate surrounds.’
Elizabeth raised her unengaged hand and spread it at the base of her throat as though on the verge of swooning and said breathlessly, ‘Captain, I find it hard to answer such sentiments with mere words.’
The captain rose again and, with a wistful glance towards Elizabeth, ordered his men mounted. The yeos grumbled and drained the last of their drinks before tossing the vessels to the earth to be salvaged by the suddenly relieved serving man. Torches were doused in troughs or stamped into darkness and, almost without transition, the yard went from a haze of guttering orange to a hollow space of pitch and silver.
‘Good night to you both,’ called the captain as he wheeled his troop with parade ground pomp and galloped off into the night.
Pressed against the cold stone of the stable, Dan heard Andrew Blakely growl, ‘And good riddance to you and the rest of your ruffians. And may the gates of hell open and swallow you all.’
CHAPTER 3
The Need for Law
The morning of the 1st of May broke over a land seemingly untouched by anything but the most benevolent human hands. To a stranger, viewing that landscape on that first day of summer, nothing could have hinted that it was a landscape bathed in the cold chill of terror.
Tom Banville heaved himself onto one elbow from where he lay in bed and focused his bleared vision upon his brother. He had no idea how long Dan had been trying to wake him but the ghostly sensation of someone holding his shoulder and shaking, penetrated the residual fog of sleep. He could distinctly feel the imprint of Dan’s fingers and thumb embedded in the flesh of his right shoulder. Around him the morning light cascaded through the flimsy curtains. Dust motes rose with his movements to dance crazily in the drenching brightness – but from beneath his blankets came the sour odours of sweat and unwashed bed linen.
Tom tried to say something to Dan, who was sitting on the edge of the bed shaking his head disdainfully, but his tongue felt as though it were made of felt and he had to swallow drily before he could force words to come.
‘What time is it?’ he asked.
Still sitting there in his shirt sleeves, still shaking his head, mouth set in a lopsided smile, Dan answered, ‘High time you asked God in his heaven to deliver unto you some small measure of sense, little brother.’
Groggily, Tom shifted himself into a sitting position and rubbed both hands against his bloodshot eyes, ‘What was I doing last night?’
‘Well,’ said Dan matter-of-factly, ‘first you were playing horseshoes with young Isaac Hamilton on the green in Coolgreany. Then you went to play cards and then you came home. Somewhere along this jolly little circuit you also found time to consume roughly a bottle of brandy and a quart of Mr Hamilton’s best sherry.’
Tom’s thoughts were all of the consistency of porridge and in his mouth a putrid taste lingered. ‘Oh God,’ he moaned, ‘I hope I wasn’t … sick – do I owe Isaac any money for his father’s liquor?’
Dan nodded in infuriating cheerfulness, ‘You were and you do. I believe you insisted on leaving an illegible I.O.U.’
Tom collapsed back onto the feathery cushion of his pillow and, staring at the ceiling, commented, ‘Da is going to be furious isn’t he?’
Dan’s silence brought Tom’s head around so that he could see his brother sitting now in frowning contemplation. At last Dan said, ‘I would prefer it if father was furious, Tom, but when mother and I put you to bed, he merely watched us with a kind of despondent resignation. I fear you have broken his heart, Tom. I do not believe that anything you might do could touch him in his present state of disappointment.’
Lying in his bed, his head feeling like a lump of sweating tar, Tom sighed, ‘I am awaiting a court martial on that old fool’s account. If it were not for the proclamation of the county I am certain I would be drummed out already.’
Dan whipped around to fix Tom with a hard glare, ‘Well then you should thank the stars that, in spite of Mountnorris’ efforts, those bastard magistrates have declared martial law. One would hate to see you deprived of your vocation, Tom.’
Dan’s voice was as sharp as his gaze and Tom involuntarily jerked away from his brother, fearful of him in a way that he had not been since they were boys. Dan surged to his feet and without another word strode across the room and yanked open the door.
Tom tried to get out of bed, pleading, ‘No Dan, don’t go. I didn’t—’
But he was already gone, the door smashing closed behind him.
‘Bad luck to it anyway,’ Tom muttered, and flung the heavy blankets away from him. For some minutes he sat in his underclothes on the edge of his mattress and inhaled great whistling lungfuls of air, breathing deeply to subdue a sudden bubbling convulsion of nausea. Unsteadily, he straightened up and lurched over to his wardrobe. Still cursing his family, cursing himself and cursing Isaac Hamilton, Tom struggled into his clothes and prepared himself to face the day.
Closing his bedroom door behind him, Tom walked down the dim length of the outside corridor, his brogues noiseless upon the thick line of red carpet running down the middle. He passed the staircase leading down into the front hall and instead took the back stairs, which descended steeply into the kitchen. As he entered, the smells of breakfast hit him like a sledge and, without even acknowledging Mrs Prendergast, the family’s only maid who was busying herself preparing a large pot of stirabout for breakfast, Tom fled into the stableyard. There he stood for a moment, his stomach heaving before he made his way over to the pump and soused his head, neck and face in a deluge of freezing water.
Gasping, he looked up at the noise of someone’s approach; at his shoulder stood Mrs Prendergast with a large glazed mug in her hands.
‘Here you go, mo stoir,’ she said affectionately. ‘If you can get some hot tea into you, you’ll be grand and set-up for some breakfast.’
Tom smiled his gratitude, ‘Thank you, Mrs Prendergast. We would be lost without you.’
He took the mug from her work-worn hands and sat on the lip of the pump’s stone basin. Mrs Predergast patted him on the shoulder and bustled back inside. Tom sat with his back to the cold, damp iron pump and sucked warm tea past his parched lips. At the first few sweet mouthfuls Tom felt his guts twist and buck but after one or two steadying breaths his nausea subsided. Not quite managing to finish the tea, he dumped the remainder out onto the dusty surface of the stableyard.
He remained, for a moment, stock-still. His breathing was heavy in the bright May morning
and he reflected on how his family might act once they clapped eyes on his newly-roused form. Normally he would expect his mother to ignore the fact that anything at all was amiss, and quietly smother any misgivings or reproach she may harbour. His father would rail and bellow in fist-shaking fury while Dan, always the dutiful eldest son, would simply sit and, if anything, pass a razor-honed comment or two, all the while regarding his brother with scornful mockery.
On this morning, though, all his thoughts led him down blind alleys. If what Dan said was true, if their father expected so little of him that the old man no longer cared about his misdeeds, then Tom knew he would be lost. Had he really wounded his father so badly?
Either way, Tom resolved to face his family.
He rose and entered the kitchen, leaving his mug with Mrs Prendergast, who bestowed on him another one of her bantam smiles. He made his way down a short hallway and through the open door of his family’s dining room. The room was high-ceilinged, with a wide bay window looking to the east, through which the morning sun now blazed cheerily. The decoration was modest, well-fashioned but lacking in ostentation. Varnished wood glowed with its own particular life and on the long dark table in the centre of the room, the white and blue of breakfast crockery gleamed in the sunlight. At the table, gathered at the end nearest the window, sat his mother, his father and Dan.
The smell of stirabout, of meat and oatmeal gruel, prompted a last pyrrhic swell of Tom’s diminishing nausea.
His mother raised her head, her spoon frozen on its way to her mouth, and said, ‘Good morning, Tom. I hope you are feeling well. You had such a case of vomiting last night. A fever brought on by the hot weather, like as not.’
Dan jabbed his own spoon across the table at her, ‘Mother, he had a case of the falling down drunk. The only reason he isn’t dead is because he so disgustingly expelled most of the vile stuff from his body.’