England's Janissary

  ‘Eh, what was that, Brendan?’ he eventually said.

  ‘The peeler, the one visiting his wife in Balinalee, we got him up by Breaghy, me and Frank and his boys.’ He tossed Constable Peter Cooney’s warrant card onto the table. ‘You know, Sean, I think that the Granard plods may be taking it badly having a DI shot on their patch and one of their own too.’ MacEoin glanced at the warrant card and then, almost absent-mindedly, flipped it onto the smouldering turf in the grate. It began to curl and blacken at the edges before flaring into oblivion. MacEoin sighed and looked wearily at Fitzgerald with sad eyes, his spirits weighed down by something.

  ‘You know, Brendan, right now the peelers are the least of my problems. I’ve got a much bigger problem to sort out and I’m really sorry as hell to drag you into this but I’ve got a job for you. Pat Doyle is dead,’ MacEoin said. Fitzgerald hardly knew the lad but he’d heard good things about him all the same. ‘You know the peeler who was with Kelleher, the one that Joe and Mick caught outside the Greville? He escaped. Pat got shot. Like I said, the local peelers are the least of our troubles.’ Fitzgerald looked confused. ‘I’ve just got some news that worries me and I need to get over to Granard.’ MacEoin looked straight at Fitzgerald. He looked tired, yet his eyes burned with a cold fury. ‘Like I said, I’ve got a wee job for you.’

  CHAPTER 27

  Monday, 1 November 1920, An abandoned croft, County Longford

  MAGUIRE’S HEAD HURT like hell. Flynn’s blow had been clumsy, inexpertly delivered and he thought that he’d blacked out once or twice as he watched Doyle’s greying corpse stiffen in the mildewed air. Even the silence hurt. He heard a car and the crunch of boots then muffled shouts. As he opened his eyes, Hegarty was halfway across the room and McNamara was kneeling next to Doyle checking for a pulse, muttering. The boy’s flesh was cold like rubber sheeting. ‘Joe, what the be-Jaysus happened here?’ Hegarty asked as Maguire lolled, fighting back a wave of nausea.

  ‘He screwed up, that’s what happened!’ McNamara snapped angrily at Maguire.

  Hegarty shot McNamara an angry glance. ‘Shut up and do something useful. Get Pat out of here – put him in one of the sheds and cover him over. We’ll get someone to come and fetch him later.’ McNamara opened his mouth to speak. ‘So get on with it!’ Seething, McNamara hefted Doyle onto his shoulder. The shed was dark and he placed Doyle away from the door in the shadows and covered him with a pile of mouldering hessian potato sacks that had definitely seen better days.

  What a bloody waste! he thought to himself, adding another reason for hating Maguire to his mental list. ‘I’ll do right by you,’ he said quietly before heading back to the others.

  Maguire vomited, his head spinning; his legs felt like jelly. ‘So what happened then, Joe?’ he heard McNamara hiss. ‘How did that bloody peeler get from being tied up in the back room to Pat dead, you tied up and him off and away, eh?’

  Maguire squinted at McNamara and shook his head to clear his vision. ‘What are you suggesting, eh, Mick?’ he managed to say.

  ‘Easy, Joe, he isn’t trying to say anything. Are you, Mick?’ Hegarty said as he helped Maguire into the waiting car. ‘So, Joe, what happened here? Take your time.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I can’t remember much. I remember me and Pat standing out here talking, then it’s all … all … gone. He must have got free somehow—’

  ‘No shit!’ McNamara interrupted.

  ‘… and smacked me on the head.’ Maguire put his hand to the back of his head and felt the lump and crust of blood matted in his hair.

  ‘Pat must have walked in on you and the bastard shot him with your gun by the look of it. Pat’s rifle’s gone too so the shit’s armed,’ Hegarty speculated and Maguire nodded, relieved that his alibi seemed to be holding up for now but McNamara’s attitude worried him.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t puke in the car!’ Hegarty cried as Maguire slumped into the back of the car. His nausea was ebbing now and he allowed himself a brief smile from the shadows as it started to rain. He’d made it.

  ‘Looks like the bastard shot Pat in the throat and then finished him off when he was down. If I get my hands on him, I’ll make him sorry for the day he was born!’ McNamara shouted above the noise of the engine. Maguire fought back the urge to laugh at McNamara’s outburst. The sheer hypocrisy of it all was one of the reasons he had lost faith in the cause in the first place and he knew that if Pat had been a Brit then McNamara would have been waxing lyrical about how he’d deserved it.

  ‘We’d best get you over to Dr Kenny in Granard,’ Hegarty said and it only seemed a few moments later that Maguire was watching Hegarty knock loudly on the doctor’s back door. There was movement from inside and a girl in her mid teens opened the door a crack and peered out.

  ‘Hello, Marcy,’ Hegarty said quietly. ‘Is your dad in?’

  ‘Who is it, Marcy?’ a voice called and Maguire recognized Joe Kenny the moment he walked into the kitchen, as ever swathed in bluish pipe smoke, cleaning his glasses with a corner of his handkerchief before perching them back on his snub nose. ‘Away with you now, girl,’ he said softly to his daughter before turning to Maguire. ‘Well, well, Joe, what on earth have you been up to? Better still, don’t tell me. I don’t really want to know.’ He smiled, reaching for his Gladstone bag and pulling out a small bottle of iodine. ‘Well, let me take a look at you,’ he said as he dabbed the antiseptic on the back of Maguire’s head. ‘Is there somewhere you can take him?’ he asked Hegarty. ‘He needs to rest.’

  Hegarty nodded but said nothing. It was another short car ride to a safe house at the edge of the town and once inside Maguire felt tired, bone weary, and it was almost as if someone had hit the ‘off’ switch when his head finally hit the pillow. Within seconds he was snoring loudly. ‘No wonder he’s not married!’ Hegarty joked as he covered him with a few old blankets but McNamara just cursed under his breath as he went to leave.

  ‘Keep an eye on him,’ Hegarty told the young IRA Volunteer who lived in the house with his parents. ‘Don’t let him leave until I get back. He’s had a rough day. Best we find Sean and let him know what has happened.’

  ‘Best we send someone to fetch Pat too,’ McNamara said as they reached the car.

  Hegarty paused, the door half open in his hand. ‘Tell you what, Mick, you take the car and find the boss. Tell him what happened to Pat and Joe. I’ll go to the Greville and organize someone to fetch Pat home.’ Words couldn’t describe the depth of relief he felt as he watched McNamara drive away.

  On the corner of Main Street, Hegarty froze in the shadows. There were armed policemen outside the Greville Arms and he ducked back into a shop doorway, watching them as he revised his plans. He was wet, it was late and he needed somewhere to stay so he decided to make his way over to McGovern’s office. If anyone knew what was happening then it would be MacEoin’s pet solicitor so, turning up his collar, he set off to find the lawyer.

  McGovern looked flustered and worn, like a man with too many problems and too little sleep. ‘This Kelleher business has really set some hares running,’ he told Hegarty as he ushered him nervously into his office. In the distance the RIC barracks was alive with activity; lights flickered in its yard. ‘The peelers aren’t happy. They arrested Kitty after the shooting and I’ve only just managed to persuade them to let her go.’

  Hegarty smiled. ‘That’s something at least. Look, do you mind if I crash here tonight?’

  CHAPTER 28

  Tuesday, 2 November 1920, Granard, County Longford

  ‘QUICK, MR MAGUIRE! Wake up!’ The pile of musty old blankets moved slightly and Maguire shoved his head out of the jumble, cautiously opening an eye and wincing as the light skewered his brain. He was snug and warm and he knew that the moment he moved his head the pain would return, throbbing in waves around his skull. The dressing lashed to his head had shifted in the night and most of it was in a tangled bloody mess on the pillow whilst around him the room smelt of sweat and old socks. He felt s
ick. ‘For Christ’s sake, what?’ He winced as a needle of pain lunged into his brain. ‘What the hell are you shouting for?’

  ‘It’s the Greville!’ the shrill voice continued excitedly and Maguire pulled himself painfully out of the blankets and sat up. Instantly, pain rippled through him, followed by a wave of nausea; it felt almost as if he’d ruptured some invisible membrane above his bed and unleashed a torrent of suffering that was pouring down on him. He’d had better hangovers.

  ‘Jaysus, will you keep the noise down, boy? Now calm down and talk to me. What about the Greville?’ he said, rubbing his eyes and looking at the adolescent boy panting with excitement, his eyes wide and his face pallid with fear. The lad looked vaguely familiar but his name escaped him.

  Christ, he thought, the boys are getting younger every year. Dust danced in the shards of light seeping through the gap in the cheap curtains and Maguire could tell from the tendrils that it was mid morning. He peeled back the heap of blankets and forced himself to smile reassuringly at the lad. ‘Try breathing and then tell me what on earth you are blathering on about,’ Maguire said.

  ‘It’s the Tans!’ the adolescent shrieked, referring to the nickname given to the temporary constables recruited by the RIC to top up its manpower. ‘It’s the Tans! They’re going to burn the Greville down! The peelers are slopping it with petrol and trying to torch it!’

  ‘Jaysus!’ Maguire cried and sprang off the bed, instantly regretting it.

  Swaying slightly, he snatched up his jacket and, feeling light-headed, his vision momentarily faded into a haze of white and shooting stars before crashing back to reality. ‘Have you a gun?’ he barked urgently and the boy nodded. ‘Give it here then!’ he demanded, holding out his hand impatiently. The lad’s hand darted behind his back as he rummaged for something in the waistband of his trousers. He produced an old black .38 revolver and plonked it in Maguire’s outstretched hand. Dumb place to keep a gun, he mused silently as he watched the boy, unless you want to give yourself another arsehole!

  Bang! Outside a shot rang out and the boy’s eyes widened in fright. Maguire broke open the revolver and checked that it was loaded then snapped it shut with a practised flick of the wrist. ‘Is there anything else?’ Maguire asked but the boy shook his head. ‘Best you stay here,’ he ordered and the boy looked relieved to be let off the hook by a superior officer.

  ‘But Mr Hegarty said to stay here and keep an eye on you …’ the lad began but Maguire cut him short.

  ‘Did he now? Well, I can look after myself,’ he said and headed for the door while the boy struggled to work out whose instructions to obey. Seeing as Hegarty was only a squad commander and Maguire was a commandant, the boy knew who would win in a game of ‘rank trumps’.

  Outside, shouting came from the direction of Main Street followed by the staccato rattle of gunfire. The cocktail of fresh air and a surge of adrenalin quickly cleared his head. He was suddenly very alert, his agues forgotten. He heard the sound of breaking glass and several more shots punctuated the morning air, not enough to make him think a gun battle was taking place but more like someone letting off rounds into the air.

  A woman scurried past, head down, shawl clasped tight to her body and he blocked her way, demanding, ‘What’s going on?’ She stared at the gun hanging from his right hand and looked around in panic. ‘It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you,’ he reassured. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘It’s the peelers; they’re trying to burn out the Greville!’ Her words tumbled out and before Maguire could stop her she was off down the street, keen to be away. She was not alone; there were others trying to put as much space as possible between themselves and the ruckus on Main Street, as net curtains twitched, and he could have sworn that he could hear door bolts being drawn shut as he ran past.

  He stopped for breath on the corner of Main Street and Church Street to get a better view of the commotion further down the road and to the barracks beyond. Several shop windows had already been smashed and a small knot of five or six men in the rifle-green, almost black, RIC uniforms were beating on the front door of the Greville Arms. One was splashing liquid from what looked like a petrol can against the front of the building whilst another waved a carbine in the air and loosed off rounds randomly. Yet another fumbled with something, then flicked his hand towards the Greville. Whoosh! The petrol exploded into flames and cascaded up the front door, belching oily black smoke into the street.

  A policeman hurled the empty can through the Greville’s plate-glass window whilst the others laughed and one fumbled with the cap of a second petrol can. More glass shattered as policemen fired into the front of the pub and one of them cried, ‘Not so brave now, you Fenian bastards!’

  To Maguire’s horror the fire was beginning to take hold and he knew there was a real danger of the street going up if no one did anything soon. He straightened his arm and, squinting along the barrel of his revolver, took aim at the knot of men. Bang! The shot startled the policemen, who froze. It took training for a man to instinctively dive for cover when shot at and Maguire knew that these men lacked any meaningful combat training. He loosed off a second shot and they scattered like cockroaches exposed to a sudden light.

  Zip! A bullet flew low over his head and he ducked back behind the angle of the brickwork. A movement in the corner of his eye distracted him; it was Hegarty who sprinted over to where he was firing blindly down the street. He looked like he’d just woken up as well. ‘So you’re back with us then?’ He smiled.

  Maguire rolled his eyes before shaking his head and risking another quick glance up the street. The policemen were in full flight back towards the barracks so he let off another couple of rounds just to keep them moving. Wood crackled and sparks drifted through the air as the hotel blazed. There were a couple more shots from somewhere and he guessed that the furore had attracted the attention of a couple of other Volunteers in the vicinity. ‘I guess they torched the Greville in revenge for Kelleher getting shot,’ Maguire said to Hegarty, who nodded.

  ‘I guess so,’ Hegarty added while scratching his chin. He needed a shave but then so did Maguire.

  ‘They’ll be back. Them and the Auxies too, I bet,’ Maguire said.

  ‘Don’t I know it,’ Hegarty replied as they headed off towards the Greville. They kept close to the walls, ducking in and out of doorways just in case some peeler decided to take a pot shot at them. Broken glass crunched beneath their feet from put-in windows and a petrol can lay discarded in the street, a stain of liquid pooling around it. The air was thick with the acrid stench of petrol fumes. Maguire looked nervously at the upended can.

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t strike a bloody match!’ he called to Hegarty, who was squinting against the glare and heat. They ducked back as the bar exploded, showering glass and sparks into the street, igniting a pool of petrol, making the two men cringe back further from the flames as others emerged into the street looking dazed.

  ‘Quick! Get some water!’ Maguire cried in a desperate bid to organize some sort of attempt to fight the fire. Slowly buckets of water began to appear as a chain of people formed but it would be pointless without proper fire-fighting equipment. Wearily, Maguire wiped oily soot from his eyes and thanked God when he heard the clatter of bells and hoofs as the fire engine careered into view and skidded to a halt.

  Professional as ever, the firemen took charge of the chaos just as Maguire slipped into the background. He looked towards the barracks and saw Head Constable Carroll standing smugly on its front steps. For a moment he felt like he had caught his eye and Carroll waved a mocking salute before turning and closing the door behind him as he vanished inside. ‘You bloody fool,’ Maguire muttered bitterly.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll get even with them,’ Hegarty said, disturbing Maguire’s thoughts, distracting him from the throbbing pain in his skull. ‘We’d better get out of here. Let’s get over to McGovern’s office, until the fire’s out.’ A broad grin split Hegarty’s face. ‘Sure, will h
e be pleased to be seeing me again so soon!’

  The fire burned all day but at least most of the damage was confined to the Greville’s ground floor. The place was a blackened, smouldering, waterlogged, steaming, smoking mess as Maguire picked over the debris. Lawrence Kiernan stood despondently in the middle of it all, trying to comprehend what had happened to his precious hotel. He was visibly shaken.

  ‘We’ll make them pay for this,’ McGovern said quietly as he placed a reassuring hand on Kiernan’s shoulder.

  ‘By Christ, we’ll make them pay,’ Hegarty butted in.

  Kiernan stared blankly into some unseen middle distance, as if he was not really aware that they were there. Maguire looked around and shook his head. ‘What a flaming mess.’ A gentle breeze ruffled his hair and caressed his cheek and the damp stench of the gutted bar filled his nostrils.

  ‘Am I glad to see you,’ Kiernan finally stuttered, looking at the three men and staring at his partially burned bar where, miraculously, a lone bottle of Jameson whiskey stood on a shelf, its label singed but otherwise intact.

  ‘So there is a God,’ Maguire said as he stepped briskly past and plucked it from its sanctuary before pulling out the cork and taking a long swig from the bottle. The fiery liquid coursed through his stomach and sent ripples of warmth through his tired limbs, giving him a new lease of life. Looking around he said, ‘Bit of paint and a new carpet and it’ll be good as new!’ Kiernan gave Maguire a look that showed that he was far from convinced. Maguire offered Hegarty the bottle.

  ‘Don’t mind if I do!’ Hegarty declared then raised it to his lips and took a long pull before smacking his lips with satisfaction.