The Watchman's Grace

by Craig Johnson

  Peter was genuinely impressed at how quickly time had passed when Harry pulled up to the transfer point for replacement horses. While stopped, all required tasks were performed quickly by the veteran hauler. Soon, the sturdy cart was back in motion.

  Traveling perhaps ten minutes after changing horses, the cart then came to a sudden stop. Overhead, Peter heard wares shuffled about as someone attempted to access the opening to his hidden compartment. Not knowing any reason for the halt, Peter began to worry. His whole body tensed at the obvious vulnerability he felt while waiting to be exposed.

  When the vibrant sky overhead flooded into these tight quarters, Peter was relieved to be staring at the cheerful face of Harry. In his hand he held a small bag which contained a couple of apples, mixed nuts and an orange. These he offered to a hungry Peter.

  “Had to make sure we were outside of prying eyes before I could give you some nourishment,” he explained. “As you can tell, we are halfway through our travels. We shall soon start to lose the sun, though we already knew it would be into nightfall before reaching Cavan. How are you holding up so far?”

  “Managing well enough under these conditions,” replied Peter. “Thank you for the food. Did not realize how famished I was until seeing such simple fare.”

  “Not a problem Peter. Now it’s back to the road for us. Perhaps you should take care of, say, bodily functions before continuing? We still have a long ways before arriving at our destination.”

  Peter removed himself from the compartment, paying heed to Harry’s sound advice. When returning to the cart, he realized how limited his time on native soil was becoming. However, keeping such thoughts would cloud his judgment, so he determined then and there to leave longing sentiments for later years. Now was all about keeping unfettered instinct alive for survival.

  Hours enduring the solitude of restricted travel lulled Peter into a thin slumber. Outside, nightfall approached with a steady unraveling of its broad dark cloak. Meanwhile, Harry managed to conduct the journey at a fairly brisk pace. Even he was pleasantly surprised upon seeing Cavan so soon on the distant horizon. Reaching a signpost noted in prior instructions, he began following directions committed to memory for the location of Twintonmore Abbey.

  Care had been taken to select a location of supreme privacy for Peter’s first exchange. Coincident with the manner of business was a preference for secrecy wherever possible. Therefore rural idylls like the surrounding countryside conspired to keep nocturnal activities away from prying eyes. Driving through the isolated stretch of Cavan’s outer limits, Harry remained impressed by the genius of planning involved in these operations.

  Within ten minutes, Harry could see a sad lone structure rising in the distance on his left side. Nakedly silhouetted against a gentle rolling terrain from which it rose, he recognized the ruin immediately. Harry could instinctively feel a terrible shame as they approached. The only way to describe this emotion was a brooding sense of loss.

  Harry followed an outline of this old pile while surveying the area for unexpected guests. Finally, he drew to a halt near two tall towers. Climbing down from his perch, he stood beside the horses, scanning the moonlit scene around Twintonmore Abbey.

  Once satisfied with the safety of these surroundings, he walked back to the cart. Finally, Harry began the process of freeing Peter Harvey to smell fresh evening air. On opening the enclosure, he found Peter waiting to greet him.

  “Harry, pray tell we’ve reached our destination at last?” queried a hopeful Peter.

  “That we have Peter. Luck met determination in equal measure, so here we find ourselves in the long gaze of Twintonmore Abbey!

  “Though now I shall be very frank. From here on in, only the best of instincts can give a fighting chance of success. Mark my previous instructions well. Hold Aidan’s cautions in the forefront of thoughts. Above all, make choices which enhance your chances of survival.

  “Here are your provisions. The receiver will be around shortly. Just remember to verify their identity as instructed. I shall be off now. May Providence guide your way always. And wherever your journey goes, take comfort in the receptive hearts of those that truly care. Goodbye Peter.”

  Harry shook hands with Peter before climbing aboard his cart. He watched the hauler melt into the enveloping night as he made his way back to Dublin. Peter realized the extraordinary efforts of people like Harry to keep him alive. In effect, his success was as dear to them as it was himself. This certain knowledge only supported his resolve.

  Peter walked towards the left tower facing him. On entering, he planted himself left of the opening where a hollow profile of an entrance once stood. From this vantage point he could hear any noise which broke the evening still. Minutes passed closer to an hour when he picked up a muffled sound of approaching footfall.

  His heightened senses were on full alert. He knew exactly how the expected receiver was to conduct themselves. However, nothing was certain in such a dangerous exercise. Then, perhaps fifteen feet from where he hid, the walking came to a halt. Peter listened in breathless anticipation for the unseen party to speak. He did not have long to wait.

  “Tonight is the greatest for walking amongst the ruins. My interest is in knowledge and those who seek the same. I am born and raised in County Cavan, here to receive a guest from St. Stephen’s Green.”

  Peter had committed the introductory phrases to memory. The man outside spoke each word perfectly. As a final precaution, he peered out a small sill to see if the stranger came alone. Straining for a discrete peek, Peter was satisfied no one else was in attendance. He then gave his reply.

  “I may be the man, though I need be certain of my host. How shall I call him?’

  “He shall be called Rory Martin.”

  Leaving the relative safety inside, Peter ventured forth to make acquaintance with his receiver.

  “Good evening Rory. I’m so glad you have come. I trust you had no trouble with your instructions?”

  “Greetings to you as well Peter. No, everything was perfectly clear. Must say it feels good to be of use again; has been a while since I was last used as a receiver. Glad to see you arrived without incident.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you Rory Martin,” replied Peter as they shook hands. “I must say, this stark of night only increases the unsettled presence here. Cannot say I am a superstitious man, but all the same a sorrowful mood pervades this place.”

  Rory turned his head and swept a right arm around the crisp air about him. “I have lived in the county all my days, so naturally I have some knowledge of Twintonmore Abbey. Your intuition does not fail you. Let’s make our way to my carriage as I tell you why.”

  Peter followed Rory back to his waiting carriage. All the while, he told a tale which put the history of Twintonmore Abbey into proper perspective.

  “Yes Peter,” he began in passionate speech. “These lands of County Cavan share a history which mirrors ages of tumult across the whole of Ireland. Twintonmore Abbey was established around the year 1643 by a community of Irish monks. Unique to the day, they were of both Catholic and Protestant persuasion. It was deemed the limits of heresy by peers of both denominations, and they were recognized by neither.

  “These brave souls held the conviction that serving a higher purpose meant healing those deplorable conditions which existed in their society, including all forms of subjugation. It was rumored they were allowed to continue because of an unnamed, powerful protector.

  “Operating through the following years, these dedicated monks fostered a constructive relationship with local people, providing food and assistance in various matters. These were days after the rebellion of 1641, when there was hope for a chance at self-government in Ireland. Twintonmore’s monks wanted to be on the vanguard of full rights for all religious denominations in Ireland, focusing their efforts on uplifting all people.

  “Despite the skirmishes
being waged throughout Ulster at the time, Twintonmore Abbey was recognized by both native Irish and Colonialists as neutral ground. Considering the time, it was miraculous indeed that no harm visited its grounds. In fact, the establishment prospered while local citizenry benefited accordingly. And so it was for seven years hence.

  “Then the Battle of Scarrifholis arrived during the Confederate Wars in 1650. The Ulster Army was laid waste by Coote’s Parliamentarian Army and its allies. It is said the cream of our society were annihilated as a result.

  “For Twintonmore Abbey the consequences were similar. At that time a confidence was betrayed. The protector was revealed to be an Anglo-Irish peer who supported the Ulster Army. When word reached fervent Parliamentarians within the New Model Army, an odious decree was made.

  “On a night not unlike now, a small team of New Model Army troops made Twintonmore unusable. All monks save one who escaped were summarily hung on the grounds in front of those two towers. They were left on display for all local citizenry to see the next morning. Now you know the bloody anguish which seeps through the very soil of Twintonmore Abbey!”

  Irony did not escape Peter’s reflections on the story. Even centuries before, good men aimed to better the circumstances of fellow Irish citizens, only to be met with dreadful reprisal. Thus their Common Man Movement was fighting for basic rights not only in contemporary times, though qualifying efforts of ghosts from hundreds of years before.

  “Rory, I thank you for your narrative. It makes me even prouder to endure my situation when others of noble intent faced such daunting hardships before me. But I do have one question to ask. What ever happened to the escaped monk?”

  Rory gave Peter a searching look which made his nerves tingle. He then gave each horse a gentle pat before responding.

  “Since he had no order left to serve, monastic life was done for him. Yet the land in Cavan holds one closely after they first discover its peculiar charms.

  “Rumor has it he used all the skills learned at Twintonmore to became an area farmer of some means. People say his descendants never lost their resolve for justice in Ireland, with generations after becoming deeply involved in the cause of self-government. Or so the tale is told.”

  “I appreciate hearing this Rory. My, you have a fine carriage here! That should make for a comfortable journey, especially now I can ride again in a proper position.”

  Rory gave an accommodating smile before starting the horses. Perhaps two miles from the abbey he slowed at a long entrance way marked with a small stone main gate.

  “Welcome Peter to Excelsior Hall, our family farm. We are well outside town, though you should still be cautious of your every move. I have prepared quarters in the guest house for you. Please do not venture outside under any circumstances, and keep the window curtains drawn shut. Only I possess a key, and your door shall remain locked at all hours.

  “Use this time to gain plenty of rest. Your future quarters may be less accommodating from here on forward. Tomorrow I will furnish your next set of instructions as we depart. Do not lose it as I know nothing of its contents. There is a fire pit near the guest house to discard your previous instructions.”

  Peter and Rory rode to a handsome stone cottage located in a remote corner of the property. Stepping off his carriage, Rory opened the premises for Peter to enter. After exchanging parting words, Rory left and locked the door behind him. An exhausted Peter flung onto the comfortable bed, immediately drifting into heavy slumber.

  Although the curtains were closed tight, Peter awoke according to his finely tuned inner clock. Reaching towards the nightstand, he caught an official time on his pocket watch, which read eight o’clock. He would have the balance of morning to his leisure, since they would not be leaving Excelsior Hall until early afternoon.

  Looking around the premises, he spotted a number of thick novels stacked on top of a large side table. Peter prepared for a spell of literary escapism before the next chapter of his journey began. Finding a sturdy wooden chair, Peter opened an eye catching book on local history in Cavan. He barely started reading when a hard knock interrupted the silence.

  “Greetings Peter, are you awake now? It’s Rory here with some breakfast for you. Let me leave it while it’s hot.”

  Hungry Peter sprang up and headed for the door. When he opened it, Rory stood holding a wicker basket of fresh baked goods and a cylindrical metal container.

  “The wife did a good spread this morning, so eat well and drink the warm tea. I will be back for noon, when we shall take off from here.”

  “Thank you Rory. I shall be ready when you return.” Rory nodded good day, leaving Peter alone with the delicious meal. Returning to his seat, he continued reading the book on Cavan. On starting the third chapter, he was pleasantly surprised to see a discussion on Twintonmore Abbey. Three pages later, he read a passage which gave him quite a start.

  In their account of the escaped monk, his name was given as Excelsior. A member of the order at Twintonmore, he was noted for great deeds in villages throughout County Cavan. After the abbey’s desecration, he established a farm on the outskirts of Cavan proper. His descendants were thought to inhabit the same land to this day.

  Peter could see some obvious connections, Excelsior being the name of both this farm and the escaped monk. Could it be Rory Martin was of the same line? Passing it off as coincidence, he continued reading on.

  When the pocket watch struck noon Peter was anticipating Rory’s arrival. His current receiver was a punctual person, so he did not have long to wait. Peter answered the familiar tap with haste.

  “Peter, are you ready for departure?” inquired Rory. “It’s time to start the next leg of your journey.”

  “Lead the way sir.”

  They exchanged idle banter as they approached the waiting carriage. Stepping on to it, Rory bent down and pulled up the upholstered bench. Inside the seat appeared a hollowed out space with thin padding on its floor. It held room enough for one adult to lie down. Peering further, one could see a small slit for air flow in the concealed space.

  “Here it is Peter. I do apologize for these things; though it is in the interest of survival they must be endured.”

  “I understand my situation Rory. And appreciate your gentlemanly concern. I shall climb…”

  Peter suddenly realized he did not discard the first set of instructions.

  “Oh no, I am so sorry Rory! Where is the fire pit to discard this old paper?”

  “Just behind the cottage, but be quick about it. You do not want to be late for your next receiver.”

  Peter hurried towards the spot. He tore those old instructions into little pieces, throwing it all into the pit. Rushing back for the carriage, he stumbled on a slight outcropping of stone. While pulling himself up he caught some scrawl written on the rough face of rock. Looking closer, he made out “1643 Twintonmore”.

  Then and there he felt certain of Rory Martin’s identity. He carried onwards to the carriage. Before going into his new confines, he let Rory know his gratitude for all the hospitality shown.

  “Thank you again for all your efforts. I am truly grateful for your assistance in my escape, putting yourself on the line as such.”

  “No, I should be offering you acknowledgement Peter,” Rory replied. “Through your initiative, Ireland is once again becoming aware of its future potential if self-government is achieved. We need to determine our own destiny, and it will not happen without courageous people like you! You paid an extremely high wage to see justice happen. For that I will never forget the name Peter Harvey.”

  Rory handed him a sealed envelope containing his next set of instructions. Then Peter stepped into the secret space with his spare belongings. Closing it immediately, Rory started the horses onwards.

  Peter did not ask the name of his next destination. To him it would be of little use anyways. Wherever they arrived he would
have the important pass phrases to identify his next receiver. This above all else was most vital to his journey.

  Along the way, Peter pondered what lay ahead at the next meeting point. Who would be his next protector? How would they take to him? When would the Security Force learn of his escape from Dublin? Would they pursue him outside the city?

  These concerns were ever present in his waking thoughts. Though what he struggled with most was the Security Force’s claim of an identifying witness. Repeatedly Peter asked himself who it could possibly be, unless he was targeted for misfortune by an unknown traitor in their Common Man Movement. If that were proven correct, Peter’s faith in the future of their cause would be gutted completely.

  Hours later, Peter awoke from a light sleep on noticing the carriage slowing down its speed. Glancing at his pocket watch, he determined Rory was about to change horses. Feeling a touch peckish, he foraged in his jacket pocket to retrieve a wrapped biscuit. When the carriage started to move again, Peter knew the next destination was halfway reached.

  Fifteen minutes later, the carriage came to a sudden halt. Peter assumed Rory was going to give him some air, since they were outside the last village. To his surprise, he heard a strange voice break the still.

  “Good day Rory Martin!” a man called out. “Fancy me seeing you so far away from Excelsior. On important business, I suppose.”

  “Hello Daniel. Yes, going to look at some acreage for a friend in Cork. He is thinking of moving north for a spell. How are things with you?”

  “Ah Rory, my lot is harder than yours these days! I’m going through a streak of hard luck with the land. Same old story everywhere I suppose. Can’t make the figures work to stay on top, and I’m sick of trying.