England's Janissary

  Mrs Rebecca Finnegan was an enigma to Kathleen. She was kind enough, respectable and long-since widowed but she said little about her life and nothing about how she came to be running a boarding house in Kingstown. Kathleen assumed that it all had something to do with Mr Finnegan but Aunt Rebecca never talked about him. It was almost as if he had never existed.

  Kathleen’s thoughts were snatched back to the present by the shrieking gulls swirling inland, escaping the brewing storm and dismissing her memories along with her indecision. It was time to act. When all was said and done, she was thoroughly sick of Kingstown, and missed home with its fields and cottages. More keenly, she missed Flynn, she missed him more than she had missed anyone in her life, especially as the forced seclusion of Kingstown was slowly killing her.

  Chewing her lower lip nervously, the shifting wind ruffling her hair, tossing coppery strands across her face, she stared intently at the envelope clutched in her gloved hand and then headed off the pier towards the imposing Royal Irish Yacht Club building on Harbour Road and the nearest pillar box. In the distance two dark blue uniformed Dublin Metropolitan Police constables strolled along, their helmeted heads bent as the wind whipped up the edges of their oilskin rain capes, reminding her of her own policeman.

  It was an old hexagonal pillar box with VR embossed boldly in flowing script on its red-painted iron carcass and she began gently placing the letter into the gaping mouth of the box when something made her pause once more and glance quickly about at the boats bobbing in the marina, straining against their mooring lines and at the gulls circling above her head. She thought that she heard a distant gunshot on the wind but the policemen carried on strolling and she shrugged it off as nothing as a raindrop struck her cheek, cascading like a fat tear down her cheek.

  The downpour was heavy and if she didn’t get on with it she’d soon be soaked. A hefty raindrop struck the surface of the envelope, scouring a thin blue stream across the address. She flicked the gobbet of water off her precious letter and glanced at the address – Constable K Flynn, c/o The RIC Barracks, Drumlish, County Longford. It was still legible and she blotted the envelope on her sleeve before dropping it into the pillar box. ‘There, it’s done,’ she whispered softly before hurrying off towards her aunt’s house, and by the time she reached the top of Queens Street she was a bedraggled, sodden mess.

  ‘Quick! Come on in and warm yourself by the fire, Kathy darling,’ her aunt said when she saw her come in. ‘I’ll fetch us some tea,’ she added before shouting down to the scullery for a tray of tea as Kathleen settled by the fire, feeling the warmth seep into her arms and legs.

  ‘Thank you, Aunt Rebecca,’ she said as she took a cup of tea and looked out of the window at the rain lashing against the glass. At least he’ll know where I am, she thought, and a slight smile crossed her face as the thought of him warmed her as much as the fire. He’ll come for me, I know he will.

  CHAPTER 30

  Wednesday, 3 November 1920, Kilshrewley near Ballinalee, County Longford

  MAGUIRE LOOKED UP as Fitzgerald pulled back the hammer of his revolver and pointed it at him. Click! The sound reverberated around the room and Maguire flinched involuntarily, convinced that the sound would be the last thing he would ever hear. He bit back on his welling panic and thought carefully about what to say next. Sweat trickled down his back and his armpits were soaked and he knew that beads would soon be running incriminatingly down his temples. If he didn’t think of something fast he was finished.

  The sandy-haired policeman stepped from the shadows, his hands thrust casually into his pockets and the front of his civilian overcoat pulled open, exposing the dark green uniform beneath. Even in the gloom his medal ribbons provided a splash of colour and Maguire couldn’t help letting his eyes linger on them for a moment too long. The policeman’s dark eyes glinted in the firelight, casting deep shadows across his angular features, and Maguire stifled the urge to get up and smack the sickening self-satisfied smirk off the Ulsterman’s smug face. ‘And who the hell is this?’ Maguire snapped indignantly. ‘Why is this bastard peeler here anyway?’ he said, attempting to bluster his way out of the corner he had been so deftly backed into.

  ‘Gary here is one of my men in the constabulary,’ MacEoin said quietly, ‘and he’s been telling me some disturbing things about you, Joe. Terrible things, if they’re true. Terrible.’ Maguire could see that the hurt in MacEoin’s eyes was real and as he glanced at O’Neill, his eye sockets felt like they were lined with sandpaper. He knew that MacEoin had several sources inside the RIC but he had never in his wildest dreams imagined that this Protestant Ulsterman, the very antithesis of the republican stereotype, was MacEoin’s man. More importantly, neither would anyone else, which was why O’Neill was just about as perfect a choice of spy that there could be. Bugger! Maguire thought.

  ‘Flynn told me everything about how you done for Paddy Doyle. Everything, Maguire, everything, do ye hear, Joey boy?’ O’Neill’s voice disturbed his thoughts as his mind groped for an escape route, a lifeline. He looked at O’Neill and then at MacEoin and felt sick.

  ‘What is this? Is this some kind of bloody joke, Sean? Is it April first already? Because I’m missing something here! Some bloody English janissary, a bastard planter to boot, comes swanning in here accusing me of treason and what makes it worse, Sean, is you seem happy to take this Orangeman’s word for it!’

  MacEoin threw back his head and laughed a forceful, humourless, discordant laugh, before shaking his head. ‘Orangeman, is it? Joe, how wrong you are. Gary here is a good republican boy. His people were out in ’98 and paid the price at the end of an English rope. Sure Wolf Tone himself was a Prod and a descendant of one of that cursed Cromwell’s men, Joe. You know that? What care I if a man is a good Catholic boy or a Protestant, as long as he’s loyal to the republic?’

  It was Maguire’s turn to laugh, despite his sore head. ‘You know, Sean,’ he finally said, ‘it’s a wonder you can keep a straight face and say it when everything about the politics of this bloody country is riddled with sectarianism! We talk of an Ireland of Protestant, Catholic and dissenter but so far no one has done anything to make it happen. Christ, the Brits have always kept us down by dividing us and that’s all this bloody planter is doing now – driving a wedge between us!’

  ‘You know, Joe, I trust Gary. He’s one of us, an Irishman through and through, and by Christ, aren’t the O’Neills as Irish as they come, so why shouldn’t I trust a man who has turned his back on his own community for the sake of the republic, for the sake of his people, for the sake of Ireland! Besides, Joe, Gary here isn’t the one on trial; you are, so give me one reason, Joe. Just one reason why Gary here has got it wrong and all the things he’s heard are wrong.’

  ‘Maybe this Flynn character is lying, stirring up trouble. Maybe your man here—’ He pointed at O’Neill ‘—is working with him to stir up trouble. Maybe he heard wrong, maybe I have no bloody idea why he’s saying it but think, Sean, I’m not the one here who swore an oath of allegiance to their bloody king-emperor, am I?’ he blustered.

  ‘You know, Joe, I would love to believe you, after everything we’ve been through, I truly would, but what I’m wanting to know is, if it is true, what did the Brits do to make you turn traitor, to sell us all out? Did they offer you money to prostitute yourself? Tell me it wasn’t money, Joe, not thirty pieces of silver they gave you to sell your friends with a kiss? Please tell me it wasn’t money? Well, this is Kilshrewley not Gethsemane and if you’re playing Judas I’ll make you pay! By Christ, I’ll make you pay!’ he shouted angrily, banging his hand hard down on the table.

  Maguire shifted uncomfortably in his chair, desperately trying to think of a plan as MacEoin, suddenly calm, leant forward and rested his chin on his hands and stared intently, studying Maguire’s face as if he was trying to probe the man’s soul. As he opened his mouth to speak, his words were cut short by the crash of the door flying open and Hegarty tumbling into the room, barely missing
Fitzgerald, who only just managed not to snatch the trigger of his half-cocked pistol, gasping for breath.

  ‘Jaysus! What the hell are you about, Eunan?’ Fitzgerald shouted, visibly shaken by his friend’s arrival. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be in Granard?’

  MacEoin looked up, obviously irritated. ‘Yes, Eunan, what do you want? Can’t you see that we’re in the middle of something here?’

  Hegarty took several more deep breaths and blurted out, ‘It’s the Brits! It’s the bloody Brits!’

  MacEoin looked suitably puzzled. ‘What about the Brits?’ he asked slowly before adding testily, ‘For God’s sake, will you bloody well calm down and tell me what the hell is going on?’

  Hegarty gulped down a few more breaths and began again. ‘It’s the Brits. They’re on their way to Ballinalee to burn it down….’

  ‘Now hold on! Hold on!’ MacEoin interrupted. ‘What do you mean the Brits are going to burn down Ballinalee? What Brits?’

  ‘Their army,’ Hegarty managed to splutter. ‘The whole bloody British army is on its way to burn it down, I tell you, hundreds of the bastards!’

  MacEoin was visibly shaken. ‘How many?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know, hundreds,’ Hegarty stammered.

  ‘Oh shit!’ O’Neill muttered. ‘I’ve got to go!’

  ‘Why the bloody hell didn’t you tell me about this?’ MacEoin

  shouted. The Ulsterman shrugged lamely as MacEoin shot him a hard stare.

  ‘I didn’t know …’ The Ulsterman’s voice trailed away into an embarrassed silence.

  ‘Go!’ MacEoin shouted and O’Neill quickly ducked out the door and was away. Maguire slid his right hand slowly into the skirt pocket of his jacket but MacEoin rounded on him. ‘Don’t you go doing anything stupid, Joe. I’ve not done with you.’ He paused and held out his hand. ‘The gun, please!’

  Fitzgerald’s gun still pointed at his head; it was disturbingly close and fleeting fantasies of drawing and shooting his way out quickly evaporated. He knew he’d be dead before the weapon cleared his pocket and sighed, ‘All right.’ He slid the pistol from his pocket and placed it in MacEoin’s hand, who tossed it over to Fitzgerald, who caught it easily and stuffed it into his own coat pocket.

  Maguire could see the naked hatred in MacEoin’s eyes as he snapped at Fitzgerald, ‘Get the boys together, as many as you can and quick. I think that we’ve got a bastard of a fight on our hands.’ Fitzgerald dithered briefly then dashed out of the door, shouting as he went. A car engine spluttered into life and Maguire heard Fitzgerald shouting frantically, as doors banged and the sound of footsteps reverberated outside.

  He noticed Hegarty standing like a jilted bridegroom by the door, looking at MacEoin like a bemused puppy. ‘Will someone tell me what’s going on?’ Hegarty demanded.

  MacEoin jabbed a finger in Maguire’s direction. ‘Keep an eye on him and don’t let him out of your sight or you’ll be answering to me! The bastard’s under arrest, do you hear? Keep him here.’ None the wiser, Hegarty nodded and cradled a rifle in the crook of his arms as MacEoin left, banging the door behind him. Maguire knew that Hegarty was the weak link, his best chance of escape. Suddenly they were alone.

  All hell had broken loose outside and the popping of distant gunfire echoed across the fields, whilst nearby a Lewis gun rattled out its staccato tattoo. ‘What the hell’s going on, Joe?’ Hegarty blurted. ‘Why was Brendan pointing his gun at you? Why did Sean take your gun? Why does he want me to keep an eye on you? Why are you under arrest?’

  Maguire shrugged and settled back in his chair. ‘You tell me, Eunan. I haven’t got a bloody clue what is going on anymore. Not a bloody clue.’ The pain in his head was beginning to subside again and for the first time since he woke up, Maguire felt calm. He was beginning to see a way out but it would take time.

  The hours passed slowly and the fire became a pile of glowing embers in the hearth. The morning was increasingly punctuated by the sound of gunshots and Hegarty kept glancing nervously into the lane and then back at Maguire, who was still slumped in his chair. Maguire’s eyes were sore and the pain in his head had subsided to a gentle throbbing pain but he tried not to make it too obvious that he was watching Hegarty’s every move, biding his time. He stood up suddenly and winced.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Hegarty asked nervously.

  ‘I need a leak!’ Maguire announced and began striding towards the back door.

  ‘Stay where you are, Joe! Stand still or I’ll shoot you, God help me I will,’ Hegarty spluttered.

  Maguire stopped by the table. ‘Would you have me piss myself, Eunan?’ he asked. ‘I’m fair bursting to go!’ Hegarty hesitated, racked with indecision until he saw Maguire shift from one foot to the other and cross his legs.

  Hegarty nodded. ‘All right, Joe, but don’t do anything stupid or I’ll shoot you myself.’

  ‘I would expect nothing less,’ Maguire replied with a reassuring, comradely smile as he stepped out into the yard, followed by Hegarty. The sunlight jabbed sharply at his eyes, resurrecting the pain in his head, and momentarily cocking his head to one side, he listened to the distant gunfire before strolling towards the outhouse. Think! Think! Think! he thought frantically as he opened the door of the outside toilet. A biplane circled above Ballinalee in the distance.

  ‘Don’t shut the door,’ Hegarty said.

  Maguire looked at him and shrugged. ‘I’ll be wanting a crap as well. You can watch if you like,’ he said, as he slipped off his jacket and hung it on the back of the door before beginning to unhook his braces. The buzzing of the aeroplane was getting closer and he smiled at Hegarty. ‘Well? Are you afraid that I’m going to flush myself down the bog or something?’

  Hegarty grimaced at the prospect of watching Maguire straining away on the toilet. ‘All right, shut the door if you must, Joe, but I’ll be waiting for you out here.’ Maguire shut the door and bolted it before looking around the small brick outhouse.

  ‘Shit!’ he muttered quietly, as he looked around at the little room. ‘Am I in the shit or what?’ There was no way out as he sat on the stained toilet and buried his head in his hands. ‘Bugger!’ Maguire hissed.

  ‘What was that, Joe?’ Hegarty asked.

  ‘Nothing!’ Maguire called, grunting to make it sound as if he was having difficulties evacuating his bowels. Somewhere a machine gun rattled out another staccato tattoo and as Maguire peered through a chink in the battered door, he saw Hegarty pacing impatiently up and down.

  ‘Come on, Joe!’ Hegarty shouted. ‘Get a spurt on, will you!’

  ‘All right! All right, I’m done,’ Maguire called back, resigning himself to the futility of trying to escape, and took one more look through the chink in the door to see a muddy British army lorry skid to a halt in front of the cottage. Maguire dived onto the grubby toilet floor, curling up into a tight ball.

  CHAPTER 31

  Wednesday, 3 November 1920, outside Ballinalee, County Longford

  NEWLY PROMOTED LANCE Corporal Purton was not happy with being woken up at such a god-awful hour and dragged out of bed to bomb up so that, according to his platoon commander, Mr Crawford, they could ‘stick it to the Shinners and give them a pasting!’ He liked his scratcher and really didn’t relish that he had survived Jerry’s best efforts to blow his brains out only to risk copping it in some rural backwater of his own bloody country. To make matters worse, it was raining as usual; it was always bloody raining. If he’d wanted to spend so much time in close proximity to water he would have joined the navy! No wonder they called it the Emerald Isles.

  The winter sun had been struggling its way across the hills when the convoy reached the outskirts of Ballinalee and Purton noticed that the line of dark brown vehicles seemed to stretch back forever. As far as he could tell, most of the battalion were here; this was the biggest operation he had taken part in since he’d come to this bloody country and he just hoped that it would be worth the rushed breakfast and the lack of sleep.

&
nbsp; He could see policemen and Auxiliaries in their strange rakish bonnets and khaki uniforms mixed in with the soldiers. This was a combined operation, Mr Crawford said; part of the army’s mission to provide what was grandly called ‘Military Aid to the Civil Power’. Another bloody wild goose chase out in the cuds, more like!

  Purton didn’t really know what the hell was going on but Mr Crawford had told the platoon that because the IRA had recently murdered two policemen, one an ex-officer, and kidnapped another in as many days, they were off to arrest the ringleader of the murder gang, a blacksmith from Ballinalee called Sean MacEoin and, as Mr Crawford said, ‘Put the bloody Shinners back in their box!’

  Crack! Thump! Purton instinctively ducked as a shot zipped overhead and cursed long-sufferingly, ‘Bugger! What now!’

  Zip! Zip! ‘Debus! Debus! Deploy left! Go left! Move! Move!’ a voice shouted, punctuating the shrill blasts of officers’ whistles. Old instincts kicked in and Purton felt deeply ingrained drills begin to kick in. The time for thinking had passed. He cursed as he lurched heavily into the drainage ditch at the side of the road in a clatter of brass and iron as his boots skidded in the slime.

  The sump was cold and wet as he squatted down in it and that once-familiar bitter taste stung his mouth, drying his throat, as he scanned his front desperately for signs of the enemy. Zip! Another round sped close overhead. Purton’s tin hat was giving him a headache. God knows who invented the bloody things, he thought, but the git obviously never had to wear one!

  The drizzle stopped as quickly as it began and Purton felt pressure beginning to build in his groin. He desperately needed a pee and as liquid mud seeped over the top of his boots, caking his puttees, he suddenly felt like he was back at Wipers. The thought did not please him one bit. ‘Did I get through the flaming war for this?’