My Son, My Son

by Howard Spring

  All the boys stayed. They got the guns out of the well behind the sawmill yard that night.

  *

  By midnight most of the women were gone from Ballybar. The boys gathered in the grocery. There were twelve of them. In addition, there were Rory and Maggie. Rory told them that this would be their last fight in Ballybar. “For some of us, perhaps for most of us, it will be the last fight of all. I shall call it a good fight if you leave three men dead for every one of us that dies. Five of you will stay here with me and Maggie. The other seven will occupy Tuohy’s house opposite. I have his permission. He’s too old a man for this sort of thing. He’s gone and taken his wife and Mary Clarke with him. Slaney, you’d better take charge opposite. Pick your six men.”

  Slaney picked his men, and Rory shared out the ammunition. “Don’t waste it,” he said. “Let’s hope they come late. If they do, keep them in play till dark. Then get away if you can. You can go to the barn, or you can disappear into the country. Those of you who can, will meet me at the waterfall at ten the next night. This is the end of things here, and I shall have fresh orders by then. If I am not there, you will know where to go for your orders.”

  He paused for a moment in his pacing of the room, and stood there with his wide shoulders hunched, his head bowed, his eyes troubled. “Of course,” he said, “we needn’t wait for them. We needn’t have this last fight. We could clear out now. But I want to stay. This is war, and wars are won by killing the enemy; in no other way. They will come back after what has happened tonight, and we shall be ready to do our job in circumstances that give us a good chance. That’s all.”

  Slaney and his six men picked up their guns. “When you go in,” said Rory, “put heavy furniture against the front door. Fill the passage with it. Jam up the back door, too. Put mattresses to the windows and shoot between them. I’ll tell you what I’m going to do here, and you can do the same if you like. I shall send my best shot—that’s you, Conroy; take your gun and get ready—to find a window that overlooks the back of this house. Don’t waste a shot unless someone really looks like getting in that way or tries to fire the place. I’ll keep three men up here on the first floor; Maggie and I and another will shoot from the ground floor. There are three Mills bombs for each party; no more. If they force a way into the ground floor, let the men there retreat upstairs. Let the enemy have the bombs as they follow. There’s nothing more, except that you’ll fight better with food in your bellies. See to that, Slaney.”

  Rory shook hands with Slaney and his six, and they clattered away down the stairs, a grim rain-coated cohort, with black hats slanted over their foreheads.

  When they and Conroy were gone, Rory got his men to work, barricading doors, masking windows with mattresses. Not till everything was done did he send Maggie and three of the men to sleep. He and another sat up till five, then changed the watch.

  But for all that happened in Ballybar that night, the whole party might have slept. The grey winter dawn came, with none of the customary activity of the village. No carts creaked along the street; there was no sound of the opening of little shops. Rory removed the mattresses from the ground-floor window and swung himself over the sill. To the right and to the left the road stretched with not a thing upon it, and only here and there from far-scattered houses did a plume of smoke rise into the cold air. Slaney shouted cautiously from across the street that all was well with his garrison; and passing to the back of the grocery, Rory had a reassuring glimpse of young Conroy who had cut no more than a peephole into the boarding of an isolated loft.

  Maggie made tea, and they breakfasted on that and bread and jam; and after breakfast the four men of Rory’s command, as if acting by some agreement, all went upstairs to the upper floor. Rory took Maggie in his arms. The two pairs of grey eyes met, and held for a long time.

  “Well,” said Rory. “I’m a bright sort of husband, am I not?”

  “I had a bright sort of father, too,” she said.

  “Here am I with a lovely young bride, and this is all I can do for her: give her bread and jam for breakfast and guns in the afternoon.”

  “You darling! You don’t know what you’ve given me. You’ll never know.”

  “Oh, yes; I know all right,” Rory said, “because I know what you’ve given me. We’ve just swapped hearts.” He put his head down on her breast. “There! I can hear it! That’s my old heart, ticking away in there.”

  She kissed the thick tangle of his hair, then lifted up his serious face with both her hands. “What a fraud I feel,” she said. “Oh, my darling! You ought not to be doing this. You ought to be doing lovely things. You were brought up on dreams, weren’t you? Oh, I know them all. The land of saints and scholars; Dark Rosaleen. And this is what we give you. Oh, God! How you must hate this country!”

  “Ach, my dear, you must never talk like that now. It’s easy to hate what needs a helping hand. It’s easy to pass by on the other side. And dreams? Ay, I’ve had them, too. When all of us children played with Maeve and Ireland was a country of lovely queens. But now the dream’s cold day-light, and the queens are girls like Mary Clarke. But don’t think that there’s any room in my heart for regret. Promise me that, my love: if I’m killed, don’t think that I died regretting the easy things I’ve missed. I’ve had you, and I’ve had the boys, and we’ve all had some grand times.”

  “And if we—get out of this, you’ll love me for ever and ever?”

  “Dear Maggie, eternity is now. There’s no past about it and no future. It just is. And that’s how my love is for you.”

  “And mine for you,” she whispered. “Kiss me now.”

  So they kissed for the last time, straining body to body, as though they could not let one another go. Suddenly, he went rigid in her arms, his whole being concentrated on listening. He put her gently from him, and said quietly: “They’re coming.” Mulligan, who was to share with them the defence of the ground floor, came running down the stairs.

  “You shoot kneeling, Mulligan,” Rory said. “I’ll fire over your head. Maggie’ll keep a spare rifle loaded for either of us. It’s a pity this isn’t a hay window. We can only see ’em when they’re right in front of us.”

  “And they can only shoot us from right in front,” Mulligan grinned. “I prefer that.”

  But there was no shooting for a moment. They heard the lorry stop a good way off—perhaps at the entrance to the street.

  “They don’t like the look of things,” said Rory. “Everything’s too quiet for ’em. They’re afraid of a trap. It would have been nice if they’d stopped the lorry right between these two houses.”

  They kept their eyes to the slit that divided the mattresses. It allowed them to see little more than the house Slaney occupied. Presently, appearing soundlessly upon that little field, like shadows creeping upon a screen, came two Black-and-Tans. They moved cautiously, close under the walls of the houses, their rifles in their hands.

  “Slaney can’t see ’em,” said Rory, “but I expect he can see a couple on this side,” and to confirm the words came the sudden crack! crack! of two rifles. Almost at the same moment, two shots, fired from the first floor, thundered through the grocery. One of the men opposite spun round, fell, and began to crawl away on hands and knees, slowly fighting each inch of the way. The other began to run back swiftly the way he had come; he suddenly fell headlong and lay still. The crawling man passed him, moved slowly off the screen of vision.

  “Poor devils,” said Rory. “They’ve just been sent out to see where we are. Well, now they know. Let’s sit still for a bit and see what strategy they employ. As a rule, they’ve got as much as a mad bullock.”

  Twenty minutes passed; then the lorry roared loudly. They heard it charging down the street. When it came into view, there was no one in it but the driver. He swung the lorry round sharply, ran it nose first almost into the wall of the house next to that which Slaney occupied. Rory’s garrison was too interested in this manœuvre to fire. By the time they had recovere
d from their surprise, the driver had leapt from his seat and lay flat on the floor of the lorry.

  “What the hell!” said Mulligan. “I don’t see it.”

  “Wait a minute,” Rory advised him. “I’m beginning to get the idea. We’re going to have a real fight today, my boy. There’s someone with brains out there who’s thinking about saving his men’s lives.”

  Presently, four men came at a rush. They appeared so swiftly on the narrow screen that only one shot rang out from the grocery. It missed. Then the men were under cover of the slewed-round lorry, and with boots and rifles they began to beat down the door of the house. It took them less than half a minute. Then they were inside. And no sooner were they in than, at disconcertingly infrequent intervals, others rushed up, one at a time, past the protecting lorry, into the house.

  Soon there were a dozen men in the house next door to Slaney. Suddenly, from its upper floor, a volley was poured upon the grocery windows. Rory, Maggie and Mulligan heard the bullets thump into the mattresses. One sang between them and buried itself in the wall. For a second there was consternation, and in the room upstairs, no doubt. In that second, the driver of the lorry leapt to his seat, put his engine in reverse. Instantly, bullets spattered the cab of the lorry. An answering volley came from across the street. The man worked with the fury of fear. He got his lorry away.

  “Take it easy,” said Rory. “We can rest a bit. Now they’ll repeat the manœuvre on this side of the street. We’ll have to leave it to Slaney. We’re fighting brains this time, my boy. These men will all be under cover. They’ll have endless ammunition, and they’ll be able to plug at us all day from both sides of the street.”

  They waited for a long time. The stillness that had been on the street at dawn came back, punctuated at rare intervals by a rifle-shot, trying pot-luck at Rory’s garrison. Then there came again the roar of the motor-lorry. But this time there was no surprise in it. Six shots rang out almost as one from Slaney’s house. Rory and Mulligan, gazing through their slit, saw the driver crumpled over the wheel, saw the lorry swerve crazily, crash into the front of a house, and come to a standstill.

  “Now the brains of that organisation can do some more thinking,” Mulligan grinned. “Holy Mary! Will you listen to that?”

  “That’s the thinking,” Rory said grimly.

  A machine-gun had begun to stutter in the street. Slaney’s house was getting it. The gun sprayed from the ground floor to the upper windows. No one dared appear at those windows then. At the same moment, men could be heard smashing down the door of the house next to the grocery. The horrid yammer of the gun ceased, and in the silence Rory could hear men trampling in the room beyond the wall.

  “That’s simpler,” Mulligan said, crestfallen. “Why didn’t he do that with us? Seems easier than all the business with the motor-lorry.”

  “Because he’s realised what I’m always trying to drive into you: that you don’t waste ammunition if there’s any other way. The man with the last shot wins.”

  “And what the hell are we to do with our shots now?” Mulligan demanded. “Sure we can sit here gazing at one another across the streets of Ballybar till St. Patrick’s Day.”

  “Just do what I’m doing,” Rory chided him. “Watch those windows opposite, and as soon as you see a movement, shoot. You’d better watch the bottom window. I’ll take the top.”

  “Ach, the hell of a lot of movement we’ll see. They’ll all be after having their dinner. I can...”

  Mulligan swung round, and looked at Maggie with a pained, surprised look on his face. It was so sudden and comical that she was about to laugh, when she noticed a red hole in the middle of his forehead. His knees doubled under him; his rifle clattered to the floor. At the same moment, Rory’s rifle spoke. “I got him,” he said grimly; then turned to Mulligan. “Don’t leave him there,” he said. They carried him to the room at the back. Rory picked up Mulligan’s rifle and laid it carefully on the table. He looked at his wrist-watch. “Make some tea for the boys,” he said. “It’s noon.”

  Maggie took the tea upstairs. When she came down she began to rummage in a cupboard. Rory said testily: “What are you doing there? Come and load the rifles.”

  “I’m looking for a bandage. Somers is shot through the right wrist. They didn’t want to tell you. He’s no more use, I’m afraid.”

  “If he’s no more use, leave him. You must help what is of use. Load the rifles.”

  Maggie loaded the rifles. “Now kneel down where Mulligan was and shoot at anything you see.”

  Maggie knelt, and shot, and saw a man fall half out of the window.

  And so the battle went on. Desultorily, at long intervals, the rifles cracked, each side wary. At three o’clock there was a trampling on the stairs. “Clancy’s dead.”

  Rory wheeled round. “Then for God’s sake what are you doing here? If Clancy’s dead and Somers is useless, you’re the only man left up there. Get back, and send Somers with messages if you must send them.”

  He went back to his window, stood once more sighting through the slit between the mattresses that were drilled like a target at the end of a day’s shooting.

  “Notice what’s happening over there?” he muttered.

  “Yes. I noticed it a long time ago.”

  There was firing from only one window of Slaney’s house, and that was slow and infrequent. “One rifle, I should say,” Rory said grimly. “Well, we’ve notched a good few.”

  The afternoon wore on. There was a moment when Rory recognised the face of the last man holding out opposite. It was Slaney, bandaged about the head. He continued to shoot, steadily, unhurriedly.

  Towards three o’clock there was shooting in a new quarter. Rory, grimed and red-eyed, laid down his rifle. “Hear that? They’re shooting behind Slaney’s house. They’ll try to rush him now.”

  There was silence on Rory’s side of the street. Barney Day, who was holding the room upstairs, ceased firing, as he, too, waited to hear the upshot of the attack on Slaney. It came swiftly. One, two, three detonations shook the street. “He’s given ’em the bombs,” Rory muttered. No other sound after that came from Slaney’s side of the street. The last explosion shook the mattresses down from the upper window. No face appeared at it.

  Rory shouted up the stairs, and Barney Day came running down. He was in his shirt-sleeves and one of the sleeves was red.

  “You hurt?” Rory asked him.

  “Ach, it’s only a fleabite. I can shoot.”

  “Well, it looks as though it’s you and me and Maggie now. How’s Somers?”

  “Bad. He’s groaning.”

  “We’ll stick it out till dark. Then you’d better slide away into the country and take Somers with you. How d’you think we’ve done?”

  “Not bad at all. We’ve give as good as we took.”

  “I think so. That’s fine. Well, get back now.” Day started off towards the stairs. Rory recalled him with a gesture, and held out his hand. “Well, Barney... in case...”

  “Good-bye, Rory. At dark, then, it’s each for himself?”

  “That’s it. Good-bye. You’ve made a good fight.”

  About ten seconds after that Barney was shot through the heart, and just as the light was giving out Rory was shot through the leg. He fell in a heap, groaning, a kneecap smashed to pieces.

  Maggie knelt over him. “Tell Somers to go,” he said. “They’ll be breaking in here any minute.”

  The small garden behind the grocery was a shrubbery, thick with laurels. Somers came down the stairs, white, groaning quietly, holding his broken wrist. Maggie opened the back door cautiously and he stumbled out into the obscurity of the bushes. It was a black night, cloudy, without stars. He seemed at once to be swallowed up. They gave him a few minutes, then followed. Maggie leant forward. Rory hung round her neck. She half-carried, half-dragged him. The six paces between the door and the shrubbery seemed endless. She knew the little twisting path through the bushes and struggled forward towards the spot
where it debouched into a ditch. Beyond the ditch was a rising field. The ditch itself ran left, behind the straggle of hedges that were parallel with the village street.

  Maggie swayed and tottered between the bushes. Rory bit into his lip so that he might not cry aloud as his dangling wounded leg swayed and flapped.

  They reached the ditch. “For God’s sake, darling—you’re choking me.” She lowered him gently till he stood upon his sound leg, and took deep panting breaths. “Where will we make for?” she asked.

  “The barn. Can you do it?”

  “Do it? Oh, God! We must. We must.”

  He arranged himself upon her back again and she stumbled forward. A shadow, just darker than the night, rose out of the earth.

  “For the love of Mary, don’t shoot. ’Tis me—Ken Conroy.”

  Maggie sobbed with relief. “He’s wounded, Ken. He can’t walk. We must get him to the barn.”

  Now it was a little easier. With an arm round the neck of each, Rory hopped forward on one leg. Though he was short, he was heavy, and Conroy was a wisp of a man: the tiny acrobat who would go down the well, standing in the bucket. So they were long about that march of agony, their hearts thundering as their ears reached backwards for the sound of pursuit. There was a moment when simultaneously all three stood in their tracks, sweating with fear. A twig snapped loudly behind them, and for half a minute they stood there with tingling spines awaiting the thump of lead. Then they went on again—shuffle hop, shuffle—but never now separated from the fear of following footsteps.

  So they traversed the way through the ditch, behind the blind empty houses, till they were at the street’s end, at the cross-roads, behind the priest’s house, where unattended by wake or vigil lay the bodies of Father Farrell and young O’Gwyer, who for a sight of Mary Clarke had loosed this agony upon them.

  Now from the end of the ditch a rubble of shale gave a slithering access to the high-road, and a groan was wrenched from Rory’s lips as he contemplated the horror of that descent. Maggie took him on her back again. Conroy went first, walking backwards, his hands sustaining Maggie’s body so that the load might not make her rush or stumble. And thus they came to the high-road and paused there to breathe and listen. There seemed to be nothing in all the night but a bat or two, erratically brushing the heavy-omened air.