The Watchman's Grace

by Craig Johnson

  A unanimous nodding of heads confirmed their total acknowledgement. “You have heard enough from my lips. Get some rest gentlemen. There’s much work to accomplish tomorrow.”

  Each officer resolved at first light to gather any intelligence possible from locals and other sources in surrounding villages. Thurston convinced them Peter Harvey could not have gone too far from the vicinity.

  Before a rising sun’s first tentative rays appeared there was already stirring at their makeshift encampment. True to words, Major Thurston mounted his horse and headed back to town center in Sligo. There he hoped to rendezvous with the senior man on duty. If fate smiled upon him, he hoped to acquire useful information concerning the whereabouts of Peter Harvey.

  Thurston no longer felt a need to hide the identity of their quarry. After all, no one knew the true reason for their interest, and they were not in Dublin anymore. Urgency required an aggressive stance if they were to have any hope of capturing Harvey.

  When Thurston rode up to the station, he knew it would be long odds to find out anything of value. But a seasoned officer played all his cards before folding the hand dealt. Walking inside, he spotted a young man at the duty desk.

  “Top of the morning to you officer,” sang out Thurston. “Are you the man in charge at this moment?”

  As he looked up from his post the duty officer replied. “It’s just me for the time being. May I ask what your business here may be at such an early hour?”

  Thurston calmly walked over. “I am Major Stanley Thurston of the British Security Force stationed in Dublin. Here is my identification. I’ve come a long way on a very important matter. Have you received any information about a man named Peter Harvey?”

  The duty officer returned his identification. “Welcome to Sligo Major Thurston. No, the name is not familiar. Could you please describe his appearance to me?”

  “Well, he’s a Colored fellow near six feet tall. He’s in his early twenties and holds himself in the fashion of a gentleman. He even attended Queen’s College in Galway for formal education.”

  The duty officer’s eyes opened wide in surprise. “Major Thurston, I can count on one hand the number of Colored folk I’ve seen in a lifetime here. The last one I recall must have been at least five years ago. He was a very hard working fellow.”

  Thurston forced a smile to hide his disappointment. He knew beforehand not to expect much from this visit, though desperation raises hope in such endeavors.

  “Wait a minute major,” continued the young officer on second thought. “Perhaps there are others who may help you further. I expect Chief Mulligan and his assisting officer to arrive around ten o’clock. They will be returning from business in a village nearby. I appreciate it is only seven o’clock in the morning, though if you have time it may be worth your while.”

  Thurston quickly assessed his options. He could return to camp empty handed, with his men still laboring from a few hours rest. Or he could stay on a few hours for the slight chance of obtaining a meaningful lead. Regardless, he was determined not to wait a minute past ten o’clock if Mulligan did not appear. With no pressing alternative, Thurston took up the offer.

  “Thank you indeed. I shall wait to speak with those men.”

  “That’s grand. Please take a chair in the waiting area and I shall fetch us both a good cup of tea.” On that note the duty officer scurried away, leaving Major Thurston alone to his many concerns.

  Time crept by as Thurston anticipated the arrival of Chief Mulligan. To stay alert he watched the usual dealings in a town station, though it was all quite uninteresting. Taking advantage of rare downtime, he frequently nodded off, catching up on much needed rest.

  Thurston could not recall what woke him three hours later. Coming awake after a lengthy slumber in his chair, he could see no sign of any officer. Then he spotted the duty man returning to his desk. Checking his pocket watch, Major Thurston prepared to leave the station.

  As he rose from his comfortable chair, a middle aged man burst through the entrance. Unfortunately, it was not Chief Mulligan. Once again Thurston faced up to the consequences of failure.

  Immediately he felt a surge of anxiety. Would it be a better move to leave Ireland for good? He had hundreds of pounds sterling for expenses still on his person. A new life would certainly be better than an untimely demise in London.

  The noisy entrant was breathing heavily while looking wildly around. Finally spotting the duty officer, he came upon him immediately.

  “Listen here, are you the man in charge?” he yelled out in a strained voice. “I need to see the one in charge this instant! I have been paid handsomely to deliver an urgent message directly to him.”

  “State your business then,” replied the duty officer in an irritated tone.

  Major Thurston had no time to witness this strange man’s antics any further. It was now ten o’clock in the morning and Chief Mulligan had not arrived. He rose quickly and began walking towards the door.

  At that moment the loud man started to raise his voice in a sign of further impatience. “My business is that I need to pass along a message to Major Stanley Thurston of the British Security Force! Mr. William Cunningham said we may still be able to find him in Sligo before he returns to Dublin.”

  With his right hand firmly gripped on the doorknob, Thurston could not believe what he just heard. Immediately he jerked around and came towards the desk.

  “Hello there, I am Major Stanley Thurston of the British Security Force. Here are my documents to prove it. So tell me what has happened to my good friend Mr. Cunningham?”

  The stunned messenger looked over Thurston’s documents before speaking. “We are both in luck Major Thurston! I have been riding over five hours to reach here from Castlebar. You should follow me back there without delay.”

  Major Thurston was taken aback by the suggestion. “And why shall I do that? My officers will have no idea where I am!”

  “Trust me sir. Mr. Cunningham said it is to your utmost benefit to accompany me. I am sure one of the officers here can inform your whereabouts to those men. Where are they currently?”

  Major Thurston finally relented to the messenger’s request. “There’s a stand of woods on your right side about fifteen minutes ride away. Yes, on the way to those five homesteads outside of town over that gentle rise.”

  “I know of where he speaks,” replied the duty officer. “Where shall I tell them you will be?”

  “Say that he is on his way to Newton House, residence of one Mr. Cunningham,” offered the messenger. “That would be 55 Old Market Lane in Castlebar. They should make haste to join their major as soon as possible.

  “Come with me Major Thurston. We have a long ride ahead and I need to trade for a fresh horse.”

  Out the door flew Major Thurston and Cunningham’s messenger. When they departed, the duty officer, one Constable Feeney, reflected on Major Thurston’s character. For instance, he found it extremely disrespectful the major did not ask his name to address him during their conversation.

  More importantly, he pondered what business they had out in that part of Sligo. Since Constable Feeney was going to deliver a message that way, he decided to call on an old friend of his who lived on one of those five lots. Perhaps he would know something about the Security Force’s doings out there?

  As he figured, Chief Mulligan and his assisting officer arrived shortly thereafter. Constable Feeney gave an account to his superior of the morning’s irregular activities. Mulligan gave him permission to inform Thurston’s officers, though left no time to visit his dear friend. Moments later he was riding out to inform Thurston’s men of their superior’s next destination.

  Of course the major furnished perfect directions for guiding Feeney straight to his three officers. He happened upon them just as they were preparing to leave. On delivery of this latest news, the trio became very animated wit
h excitement. Constable Feeney wished them well before riding back to his station.

  Upon the return ride Feeney suddenly felt a sense of great foreboding wash over him. His strong natural instinct told him all was not well with this whole situation. There was a particular attitude which ran throughout these officers he did not care for.

  Next morning before his afternoon shift he determined to visit his friend’s place. Feeney guessed there was a story to be learned about these men from the Security Force.

  Chapter Nineteen

  WALK, HURRY, RACE

  Time teaches everyone to expect the unexpected

  After Connor Healy’s departure, Peter Harvey lay inside the stone cottage at Meadow Farm enjoying a rare period of protected rest. His deep feelings of regret over Samuel McGee’s demise wore him down to sheer exhaustion. Sleep now came easily to him.

  Peter lay in peaceful surrender for a few hours until he was jolted to consciousness by heavy knocking on the cottage door. This time there was no mistaking the sound. Whoever was calling had urgency to their manner. Peter rose from his cot to address the person outside.

  “Who is calling at this hour of night?” he asked.

  “Sincere apologies Peter,” came back a youthful male voice. “In fact we are in the very wee hours of morning. Days start early here at Meadow Farm. My father asked me to deliver some refreshments for your morning and ensure all is well.”

  Peter did not expect the owner to apply such an early definition to a morning visit. Glancing at his pocket watch revealed a time just after four o’clock. Nevertheless, Peter forgave the unusual hour on the basis of his host’s generosity. Besides, he could return to sleep once the owner’s son had left. Waking up later to a bedside meal was quite the tempting proposition.

  “Give me one moment while I let you inside. Sorry, but I did not learn your name.”

  “Riley is my name Peter,” the young man answered. “Riley Flaherty is here at your service.”

  Peter cleared an area on the table for refreshments. He then proceeded to undo both entrance latches and let Riley inside. As he opened the sturdy door, Peter was suddenly struck on his head with a hard instrument, immediately losing conscious. Peter’s mouth was gagged and hands tied behind his back. Then the ringleader of this assault issued further orders.

  “Listen up men!” the well-dressed leader directed. “I want Stevens riding out to Sligo’s main constabulary station for delivering this message. Tell whoever’s in charge to find a Major Stanley Thurston of the British Security Force immediately, along with all his officers. When they do, inform them to meet me at Newton House, 55 Old Market Lane without delay. Now make haste this minute!

  “Conrad and Basil; load Harvey into the trunk of my carriage and secure it tight! Riley, your father cannot begin to understand what a great service you did for the Crown as well as all Flahertys! Go home and sleep well tonight. Two afternoons from now tell him we shall meet at my residence to discharge his outstanding mortgage in full!”

  Riley beamed with enthusiasm at what he had accomplished. Now his family would occupy their ancestral lands for generations forward with no burden to worry them. All of this good fortune resulted from handing over a Colored fugitive who held no worth in his estimation. Carefully he picked his way back to the main house and upstairs to bed.

  Back at the stone cottage, William Cunningham gloated over his surprise capture of Peter Harvey. Riding back to Newton House with his henchmen, he looked forward to a stream of accolades from Major Stanley Thurston. There was no doubt that word of his high service would curry favor in the upper reaches of proper society. Perhaps a prestigious appointment could be in the offing?

  Floating momentarily in the sweet ether of possibilities, Cunningham soon came back to reality. Initially, Stevens would have to find Thurston and relay the news. There were great odds the major had already left Sligo for Dublin. Then, Stevens would have to convince him to come with his officers. Most importantly, all of this would have to transpire before Seamus Flaherty found assistance to recapture Peter Harvey.

  “What a calculating, secretive bastard!” he remarked to Conrad. “Here I thought he had no idea about Harvey. And all along he was fostering his safety at Meadow Farm. I should call on that mortgage and toss his treacherous body to the gutter!

  “Lucky for him I am a gentleman, and still remain awed by his son’s sense of duty. For that I will let my offer stand. Besides, there’s many times more in reward and prestige than the sum he still owes. I already have enough properties to keep my interests.”

  “Pardon me Mr. Cunningham, but what to do with Harvey once we arrive at Newton House?” Conrad asked.

  “Lock him in the old cellar room. Leave him some food as well. Thurston wants Harvey alive. I have no need for a starved corpse.”

  On arrival at Newton House, Conrad and Basil did exactly as instructed. So when Peter Harvey regained conscious, he was not inside a stone cottage with refreshments laid out for his enjoyment. On the contrary, he lay on a cold hard cement floor, a large plate of gruel placed at his side for nourishment.

  Once fogginess cleared from his head, Peter tried to put together the rapid course of recent events. He remembered opening the cottage door for Riley Flaherty to enter before losing conscious. Now here he lay in what appeared to be a cold windowless cellar. Everything in between was absent from his memory.

  Peter had no doubt of his betrayal. That constant overriding fear he felt during the whole escape had finally materialized. Since the owner’s son at Meadow Farm had been complicit in his capture, he assumed the Flaherty family’s loyalty had been sold for lucrative bounty. He was certain a terrible fate now awaited him.

  Moving about the compact quarters, Peter could spot no means of escape, except a small, sturdy locked door. Resigned to his imprisonment and feeling peckish, he squatted on the hard floor and picked away at soft gruel.

  Upstairs, William Cunningham began the most important wait of his life. A future of greater privilege was his for the taking if Major Thurston arrived at Newton House. Otherwise, he would need to conduct a lengthy, expensive search to find his whereabouts. Regardless, Cunningham knew he had what Thurston desired most deeply. And for that he held abundant patience to receive just rewards.

  Slowly each second melted into minutes which crept towards an hour. Cunningham had instructed his henchmen to fetch him the moment any visitor came to call. Feeling weary after an early morning of great exertion, Cunningham faded to sleep in the comfort of an overstuffed armchair.

  While time moved forward, Cunningham became increasingly doubtful of Stevens’s success. Therefore he determined to prepare a wholesale search for Thurston in Dublin if there was no word by early evening. Experience had taught him to have an alternative plan in any endeavor.

  Cunningham was finishing afternoon tea when a great commotion met his ears from downstairs. Excited voices cut the still air of moments before, their intensity rising each second. Then, racing footsteps upstairs approached his study, soon followed by hurried knocking on the door.

  “Come in,” responded a calm Cunningham.

  To his surprise, an exhausted Stevens nearly fell to the floor in front of his chair. “Mr. Cunningham sir, I have brought good news. Major Stanley Thurston of the British Security Force awaits you downstairs. His officers are to follow within the hour.”

  William Cunningham strode towards his liquor service and poured two neat glasses of Irish whisky. “My good man Stevens, please rise and take a seat! Have some refreshment after all your great work. Today you have earned my undying gratitude, along with three months wages as special bonus. Here’s to a promising future for us both!”

  Glasses clinked and smiles were exchanged as they drank the fine whisky. Immediately after downing his glass, Cunningham took leave of Stevens and hurried downstairs to greet the waiting senior officer.

  He could s
carcely hold back overwhelming euphoria on seeing his old friend from time ago. It had been some years since William Cunningham laid eyes on Stanley Thurston. Having met at university in England, both men maintained regular contact until Cunningham departed for Ireland. Nevertheless, they did share occasional correspondence in the ensuing years. So today was a cause for celebration on two fronts.

  “Stanley Thurston, it is so good to see you again!” he cried out. “I should say it appears the years have been kind to you.”

  The major’s face displayed an uncharacteristically wide smile. “William, such a meeting has been years in the making! It is so good to see a friend amongst these parts. Let us sit down and talk about the urgent matter your man fetched me for. How can I help you out?”

  Cunningham waved his right hand in a sweeping gesture. “Please follow me downstairs Stanley. I know you will be overcome with joy at what I am about to reveal. Conrad, Basil, come with us. I trust Stanley that you are equipped with a firearm?”

  Thurston responded with mild suspicion in his voice. “Yes, I am prepared accordingly. William, I do hope everything is functioning normally at Newton House?”

  “In fact very well Stanley,” replied a grinning Cunningham. As they descended hard stone steps to the cool cellar, Thurston readied himself for possible distress. After all, one is never asked to be armed if there were no need.

  Finally the party stopped in front of a small sturdy wooden door. “Basil, Conrad, prepare to enter,” barked out Cunningham. “Major, stand back and be ready to act if necessary.”

  The owner of Newton House pounded hard on a locked entrance before shouting his ultimatum. “You in there, I expect no trouble when this door is opened! My men are about to enter under cover of an armed officer. Any sudden hostile reaction could be your last on this earth!”

  Placing key to lock, Conrad then turned an old brass knob to swing open the heavy door. Basil accompanied him inside to find a passive man squatting on a cold cement floor. In front of his weakened body lay a plate of half eaten gruel.