The priest walked some paces to the altar steps. He seemed impatient. He spoke without looking at them.
‘St Olave’s is a good hour’s walk away, if you walk fast, that is. From the square take the southern road towards Newtown. Beyond Brookville Bridge, you’ll see a signpost to Rathkea. His church is a mile beyond that. Now leave me.’
‘Thank you for your help, Father. May I give Father Kenyon your regards?’
‘As you wish.’
‘And your name?’
‘Kennedy. Kennedy of Killaloe.’
The horses were resting and tethered. Their riders were standing by them, spooning from bowls of stirabout. Father Kenyon sat cross-legged on the low wall that encircled St Olave’s. When he saw Coburn, he let out a great howl, ran fifty yards down the lane and collapsed in his arms. Then, gasping for breath, he grabbed Kate by her hands and swung her round in a circle, as a father does to a child.
‘God bless you both, but I thought you’d never make it. I should have had more faith. The O’Connor lads here have just come from Cashel. O’Brien got a message to their father. They’ve told me everything. They are here to look after you both.’
Coburn nodded to them. ‘Did they see William go?’
‘Yes! The military took him away and with a bit of respect, so they tell me.’
‘And the boys, the decoys? We saw the hussars after them. Did they get away?’
‘Two of them were dead when they found them.’
‘Two of O’Connor’s boys. Killed because of me.’
‘They’d have wanted it no other way. The two of you are precious to us. They wouldn’t have done it otherwise. Now, are you both hungry?’
He led them into the annexe of his little church and fed them soup.
‘Daniel, I really didn’t think you’d get here, least of all in daylight. Did nobody see you?’
‘The mist was as thick as your soup, Father. If anyone was out there on the moors, we didn’t see them and they never saw us.’
‘Then how did you find me? You’ve never been here before.’
‘We asked a priest in Tipperary.’
‘What priest?’
‘He said his name was Kennedy.’
‘Kennedy of Killaloe?’
‘That’s the man.’
‘He knows you’re here? By Christ, Daniel, you couldn’t have chosen a worse one. Of all the people, you picked him.’
‘I picked nobody, Father. The town was near deserted. Is there a problem?’
‘Do you think he recognised you? Did he see Kate?’
‘He saw us both.’
‘He was suspicious,’ Kate said. ‘He didn’t want us to leave.’
Father Kenyon walked hurriedly from the room and shouted to the O’Connors.
‘Saddle up, boys, and hurry. Daniel and Kate are leaving now. They’ll need horses, so two of you will have to stay.’
Coburn went after him. ‘Father, what is it? What’s the trouble? Is it the priest?’
‘Yes, Daniel, it’s Kennedy. A hateful drunkard of a man and an informer. He will have guessed by now who you are and he’ll already be on his way to the constabulary. They’ll pay him well. Now quick! We have no time to talk. You must be off. The O’Connors will take you to Limerick. Keep yourselves safe there until you decide what to do next.’
‘We will stay there for a while and move on to Galway and Connemara.’
‘Do what you think is right,’ said the priest. ‘But hurry off now. The O’Connors are waiting, the horses are ready.’
‘Come, Kate.’ Coburn took her hand but she pulled it away.
‘Father.’
‘Yes, Kate.’
‘The Kennedy priest asked us why we were looking for you. I told him you would marry us. It was an excuse. I couldn’t think of any other.’
‘It’s as good as any and probably the best.’
‘Will you?’
‘Will I what?’
‘Marry us?’
‘Marry you?’
‘Yes! Here and now.’
Coburn stopped at the door. ‘Kate, are you mad? The military’s on its way and you want us to be married?’
‘Exactly!’
‘But I haven’t asked you.’
She ignored him.
‘Will you, Father?’
‘Doesn’t Daniel have a say?’
‘Father, I am with his child and I will not carry a bastard across all of Ireland searching for a place to wean it.’
‘Daniel?’
‘Marry us, Father, and be quick with it.’
The fat Kennedy of Killaloe sat in his vestry, sipping whiskey from a jar and pondering on a face without a name. It was the face of a well-fed and clothed man looking for work, travelling with a fine-looking woman with a strong trim body and raven hair. Here they were in Tipperary asking after Father Kenyon, the outcast, scolded by his bishop. What was it they wanted of him? Who could they be, these strangers, looking for the Patriot Priest? Only then, as he asked himself that question, did he realise he had just met the leader of the Young Irelanders and his lady, known throughout all Ireland and beyond as the ‘Dark Rosaleen’.
He trotted as fast as his heavy body would carry him to the constabulary to report his discovery. The one policeman on duty then walked a mile to the small military depot on the Limerick road and within twenty minutes a column of forty foot soldiers from the 49th Regiment were fast-stepping their way to Bansha Woods and the church of St Olave’s.
The hurried marriage that made Coburn and Kate one now threatened to separate them forever. As they waved Father Kenyon their goodbyes and trotted away in the company of the O’Connor brothers, the men of the 49th were already passing Brookville Bridge. Soon they would be in sight of the church.
O’Connor’s horses heard them first, the tramping of military feet, the rhythm of marching men. The lead horse shook its head and tried to turn. Its rider reined it back. Then he too heard them.
‘Back, Mr Coburn, back,’ he shouted. ‘It’s the military already. Ride for the woods, we’ll hold them here as best we can.’
The horsemen jumped from their saddles and ran either side of the lane for cover. They cocked their weapons and waited for the column to round the corner. Five men with flintlocks and a single blunderbuss about to face the advancing forty fusiliers armed with quick-loading rifles.
The O’Connor brothers waited until the first line of red tunics were only twenty yards from them and then opened fire. Five soldiers fell. But it would take another fifteen seconds for the brothers to recharge and reload their pistols. By the count of ten, three were already dead. For a full minute the fusiliers swept the undergrowth with so much fire that saplings were cut in two, tree bark flew like shrapnel, leaves and grass were scorched and began to smoulder. It was as if a vast scythe had cut it clean. When they were done, they dragged three perforated bodies onto the road and went further into the tree line, firing blindly as they hunted for the other two.
Coburn saw the brothers up along the ridge that bordered the woods. If they did not turn into the cover of the trees they would run straight into the soldiers and be shot on sight. He ran towards them up the slope, waving his arms. The brothers saw him, stopped and began their way down. Then there was a volley of shots and Coburn fell to the ground and did not move.
Kate and Father Kenyon came running from the church as the two brothers began dragging Coburn towards them.
‘Lift him onto my shoulder, Father,’ Declan, the older one, shouted. ‘Help me with him into the trees. That was a stray shot, for sure they haven’t seen us yet.’
Coburn was bleeding badly. Only the pressure of his body, heavy against that of the big man, helped stem the flow.
‘I know a place,’ said Father Kenyon. ‘It is well inside the woods. Can you make it?’
‘I can and I will,’ said the big man.
‘God give you strength.’
‘Where is it we’re going?’
‘It’s th
e ruins of an old church towards Slievenamuck.’
‘I know it.’
‘We will be safe there, I think,’ said the priest.
‘We will be safe,’ said the big man.
Declan was strong. No lesser man could have done it. With Coburn across his shoulders, he laboured for nearly an hour barging his way through the thick armour of Bansha Woods, unhindered by man for thousands of years. When finally they came to the ruins, he laid Coburn gently on the ground and, without resting, turned to go.
‘Will you not stay with us?’ Kate asked.
‘No! We must go back. I think my brothers are dead but I must know for sure. I must tell our mother.’
‘Thank you, Declan, thank you,’ said the priest. ‘And may God be with you both.’
The big man nodded. He took his brother’s arm and together they returned the way they came.
The bullet had hit Coburn in the elbow, run up under his arm and lodged itself in his shoulder blade. When he had fallen, the bone had snapped. He was still unconscious.
‘Help me, Kate,’ said the priest. ‘He’s bleeding badly but I don’t know how to stop it.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘Let me see his shoulder. Hold him to you as tight as you can. I must first get to the bullet.’
She untied the scarf she wore around her neck, tore it into strips and rolled them into hard balls. She split open his shirt and, as his blood swamped her hand and arm, she felt for the wound. It was not deep. She touched the bullet. With her little finger she massaged it and slowly eased it out from between the folds of flesh until she felt it slip into the palm of her hand. Then, one by one, she wedged the balls of cotton into the hole, prodding them in with her thumb, harder, deeper, tighter. Slowly the bleeding eased and saw the blood begin to congeal.
Father Kenyon cradled him, unconscious, in his arms.
‘You are remarkable, Kate. I would not have believed it if I hadn’t watched it with my own eyes. He owes you his life.’
‘Not me, Father. I learnt it from somebody he never met. A dear friend who was a doctor. He owes it to him.’
‘Dare we move him?’
‘If we do he will bleed again. And his arm is broken.’
‘There is only one doctor in town I can trust. Joyce is his name. I know he’s still there. I must go to him. We cannot cope on our own. If the soldiers are out there they will not suspect me.’
‘Go then, and be quick, Father. If the wound breaks open again there’s nothing more I can do.’
Father Kenyon passed through the military cordon with the bravado he was famous for.
‘Have you caught the treacherous rebel yet?’ he asked the sergeant.
‘No, Father, but we will soon,’ was the answer.
‘Do you think he is still around here?’
‘No doubt of it,’ the sergeant replied. ‘We have him surrounded. There’s no other way out.’
‘But there is,’ said the priest. ‘Beyond my church there is a new track, cleared a year ago by the Public Works but never recorded and never used. Didn’t you know of it?’
‘No, sir, I did not’.
The sergeant immediately split his column in two and sent twenty of his men on a track that led nowhere.
Father Kenyon saw the three bodies that had been dragged out of the undergrowth onto the lane. They lay encircled in their blood. When he returned with Dr Joyce half an hour later, they were still there. It meant Declan and his brother were still free.
Dr Joyce would hear no argument. ‘You cannot move this man now that I’ve bound him. He will need rest. He has lost much blood and he’ll be too weak to walk or ride. Try it and you will kill him. You did well, young lady, to stop the bleeding, but I’ve taken out what you put in and treated him with my own remedy, sphagnum moss. It grows on the peat in the woods and bogs and it’s the best healer nature can provide. I’ll leave some with you. If any blood appears, use more of it. His arm is in splints of a sort. It’s the best I can do. I doubt he’ll ever use it again. When he wakes up dose him with a little of this. It’s laudanum, a small tincture of opium. It’ll help take away some of the pain and coax him back into deep sleep. And take comfort. Had that shot settled an inch or so lower, we’d be burying him now.’
Once Dr Joyce left, Kate and Father Kenyon kept vigil until it was dark. None of the local people would dare to enter Bansha Woods now, believing, as they did, that banshees wandered there at night. Kate lay close to Coburn to give him warmth.
‘We are trapped again,’ she said. ‘First Cashel and now here.’
Father Kenyon nodded. ‘Yes! And you will escape from here just as you did from there.’
‘How?’
‘That I don’t know. Remember I’m a man of much faith.’
‘How long can we can stay here?’
‘Again I don’t know.’
‘Will the soldiers come in this far?’
‘Probably not. Or maybe in time. But they can know nothing of this old church. We are deep inside. Would you have found it without me?’
‘Never.’
‘It is an old Penal church from the times when we Catholics were forbidden to build churches with stone, only with wood and thatch, nothing permanent. And they had to be beyond the sight of the roads so as not to offend any Protestants who might be passing by. That’s why this one is here, well away from everything and everyone. That big flat rock by the door was the Mass rock, our altar. This your hideaway.’
‘It’s a gift from God, Father.’
‘Indeed it is and I shall thank Him for it presently. But let us think of tomorrow. In the morning, Kate, I will leave you. I must be seen about my own church. They’ll be suspicious otherwise. I’ll get a little food and some water and I’ll be back around midday. Now you must sleep and I must pray.’
There was still some light. She watched him go to the altar rock and kneel on a carpet of dry leaves where once there might have been a holy rug. She lay still and for many minutes listened to the soft whisperings to his God. Soon she was asleep by her wounded husband.
He was awake but he could not move. Pain engulfed him as if a red-hot iron had been plunged into him. Yet his mind was sharp, uninjured and detached from the bloody mess around it. He could think clearly. Kate’s face was close to his. He felt her breath on his cheeks. Her lips were bruised and there were cuts across her forehead where streaks of blood had dried. Dead leaves were caught in her hair. She was his wife of a day and a night.
He knew he could not move from here. He knew too that he dare not let her stay. He would not argue. She could escape even if he could not. When she had gone she would be carrying something of him inside her. That was why she had to go. How simple it was. How terrible. When he had had nothing but his own life he could be brave and reckless. Now he had her and, within her, his child. How could he lose them both? For the first time he experienced fear.
He heard footsteps. He closed his eyes. He would listen to them talk and plan. Kate stirred by his side. Father Kenyon called her name.
‘Wake up, wake up! I’ve a little food and water for you and a sip of brandy for the patient. Don’t ask me where I got it but it’s medicine enough. Has he slept well?’
‘I don’t think he’s moved. I’ve tried not to touch him.’
‘Difficult enough for a new bride!’ He smiled but crossed himself in an apology. ‘Forgive me, Kate, but I’m in need of some humour.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve taken away the three bodies of the O’Connor brothers. But there’s nothing of the other two. I’ve been praying all night that they’re still alive. It’s the older one, Declan, who’ll know what to do. There’s nothing we can do without him, nothing! I can’t go to town for help. The army is everywhere. By God! We need those boys and we need them now.’
Declan was the eldest of the O’Connor brothers, Tomás the youngest. They had seen their three siblings stretched out in the lane as soldiers kicked their bodies and spat on their dead fac
es. All that night they had lain hidden in a culvert behind St Olave’s, covered in moss and bracken, not knowing what they should do next. Had Coburn survived? Was he already dead? How would they know? How long could they remain? Should they surrender, or show themselves and fight and die as their brothers had done?
Then, at first light, they glimpsed Father Kenyon leaving his church by the rear door, carrying food and water into the woods. This answered their questions and settled their doubts. Coburn must still be alive. At a distance they followed the Patriot Priest.
Declan and Tomás had been within fifteen paces of Father Kenyon all the way to the ruins of the Penal church and he had not known it. That was their way, their skill, and none did it better than Declan. He was a thief and a poacher, living on his wits to keep his family from starving, tracking his prey and outmanoeuvring those who came hunting for him. He was a large, strong man and no other man dared cross him, but all men knew they could trust him. He had no match in all of Tipperary.
As Father Kenyon crouched over the sleeping Coburn, Declan touched him lightly on the shoulder.
‘Jesus Christ! And Lord forgive the blasphemy. Declan, you frightening man. Did I hear a thing until you were on top of me? If you’d been a Redcoat, we’d all be done for. Don’t ever do that again. Holler next time.’
‘Sorry, Father. I wasn’t wanting to wake Mr Daniel.’
‘No matter, Declan. You’re with us and that’s what matters now. We need you to tell us what to do, man, where to go, how to get them both away.’
‘Father, we will never get them away together and time is not with us. I watched the soldiers all last night and they’re spreading out. More will be brought here. It will take a regiment to scour these woods but scour them they will.’
‘We’re depending on you, Declan.’
‘That I know, Father, which is why you must do as I ask. Tomás here knows these parts every bit as well as me. He must take Kate away and there can be no argument. I’ll be with Mr Daniel until he is fit to ride.’
‘I will not leave without him,’ said Kate.
Dark Rosaleen Page 25