Cashelmara

by Susan Howatch

  “Sign the letter. That’s right. Now give it to me and address an envelope.”

  “There are no envelopes.”

  I moved to stand behind him. “Find one.”

  He didn’t like me breathing down his neck. He dragged an envelope hastily from the nearest drawer and picked up his pen again as I glanced at the letter to see that it was correct.

  “Good,” I said when the envelope was addressed. “Put the letter in and seal it.”

  “What exactly do you think you’re doing?” he inquired, amused, as he warmed the wax. “I can’t quite see the purpose of this charade. You can’t make me leave Cashelmara!”

  “How much do you bet?”

  Hot wax dripped onto his fingers, but he didn’t notice. He was looking steadily at me, and there was a pinched expression about his mouth.

  At last he said in a rush, “You wouldn’t dare lay a finger on me.”

  “I’d dare anything,” I said. “I could kill you now if I chose and bury your body somewhere on the grounds. No one would be any the wiser, and your letter of resignation would explain your disappearance.”

  He was scared. He sealed the letter clumsily and his fingers shook. “So you’re going to kill me.”

  “Not if you do as I say. Leave this house at two o’clock this afternoon and ride to your father’s house. You can ride a horse and take your bags on a donkey—or have them sent later, whichever you like. But you must ride alone. No servant, no de Salis, no—is your wife here?”

  “No, she’s at Clonagh Court. Why must I ride alone?”

  “You won’t be alone once you get to your father’s house. You and your father are going to leave this valley together, just as you wrote in that letter, and you’re never going to show your faces here again. If you do—”

  “You’re going to kill me,” he said, stumbling over his words. “I want a promise of safe passage to my father’s house. I want—”

  “I don’t give a tinker’s curse what you want,” I said. “You can go where you like and do what you like when you get there, and if Lord de Salis wants to join you later I’ll be the first to wave him goodbye. But you’re leaving this house at two o’clock this afternoon, and if you don’t come out I’ll send my kin in to get you and I’ll not be answering for the consequences. Understand? Fine. Give me the letter and get up.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Why, we’re going to take a little walk together,” I said, softening my voice as I gave him a smile, “and we’re going to have a talk about old times. Where’s Lord de Salis?”

  “In bed. He wasn’t well this morning.”

  “And the children?”

  “In the nurseries with the governess, I suppose.”

  “Very well, let’s go. But remember—if we see anyone you’re to say nothing. Nothing at all. I’m the one who’ll do the explaining.”

  We walked into the empty hall.

  “Open the front door.”

  Outside in the drive a stiff breeze made MacGowan shiver. “Where are we going?” he said again.

  “The chapel.”

  “The chapel! For God’s sake, why?”

  “Oh, it’s such a nice, quiet, private little place, I’m thinking,” I said, “for a nice, quiet, private little talk.”

  When he spun to face me I saw the sweat on his forehead. “Look, Drummond. I’ll do what you want. I’ll leave at two. I won’t come back. I’ll go to Scotland and Patrick can come and live there with me. I don’t care about staying in this place. All I care about is being with him. I—”

  “Be quiet,” I said. He revolted me. I thought of him and de Salis fawning on each other and felt the vomit heave in my stomach. “Start walking.”

  At the back of the house we came to the garden. I’d never seen anything like it in my life. God alone knows what it must have cost. Huge bloated flowers festered on rich soil that would have supported a hundred starving families, and amidst the sickly riot of color were stretches of lush succulent grass where no cattle were ever allowed to feed. I thought of my country’s history, the rich conquerors having so much they could afford to throw away their riches, the poor oppressed Irish locked out in the cold beyond high stone walls, and that garden was obscene to me, as obscene as the man who scuttled ahead uphill through the woods to the chapel.

  The chapel was small, bare and dark, like I’d always heard it was, and it smelled of decay. I didn’t feel I was in church, but that wasn’t surprising since it was a Protestant place and not a true church at all.

  “Take off your clothes,” I said to MacGowan.

  He was so paralyzed with fright he couldn’t move.

  “Come on,” I said, motioning impatiently with the gun. “Hurry up.”

  “What are you going to—”

  “You ask far too many questions,” I said. “Do as you’re told.”

  “You’re going to torture me,” he gasped, gibbering with panic.

  “Shut your goddamned mouth and get out of your goddamned clothes.”

  He struggled out of them. I watched curiously. He was well proportioned, but his skin was dead white, like a corpse, and mostly hairless.

  “Jesus,” I said, “that’s an unattractive sight if ever I saw one. Back up against that pillar.”

  When he obeyed, still gibbering, I took a length of cord from my pocket, bound his wrists behind the pillar and wove the cord around his legs.

  He started to shout at me, but I took no notice. I merely sat down on a pew, put up my feet and lighted a cigarette.

  His language was very colorful, but presently he ran out of curses and started whining again about what I was going to do.

  I smoked my cigarette and didn’t answer.

  At last he lost his nerve and became hysterical. He ranted, raved, wept and writhed, and all the while I smoked my cigarette down to the butt and watched him in silence.

  When my cigarette was finished I said, “Now you know what it feels like to live under the threat of violence for ten minutes. Sarah lived under that threat for five years. Think about that for a moment, would you? I’d like you to think about it.”

  I lighted another cigarette while he thought. He was quiet now, but every few minutes he would shudder uncontrollably. When my cigarette was finished I took a knife from my pocket and ran my finger idly along the blade.

  “I made a promise to Sarah once,” I said. “Would you like to know what that promise was?”

  He began to whimper again. He was disgusting.

  “I said that one day I’d make her a present of your—”

  He screamed before I could finish the sentence. I waited, still running my finger up and down the blade, and when at last he had sunk into a sobbing silence I said, “But mutilation has never been one of my favorite pastimes.” I slipped the knife into my pocket, left the pew and drew close to him. “Before you think you’re going to escape without a scratch,” I said, “let me give you this—” I lashed out at him across the face—“for all those months I spent in jail, and this—” I lashed out again—“for all the years I spent in exile, and this,” I said, finally unleashing every ounce of my white-hot rage, “is for all Sarah suffered, for her terror, degradation and shame.” And as he opened his mouth to scream I kicked him hard below the belt and slammed him over the head with the gun butt before he fainted.

  I stood looking at his sagging frame for a long time, and when I was in control of myself again I cut the cords so that he sprawled face down on the stone floor. Then I dressed him, in case anyone should come into the chapel and find him before he had recovered consciousness. I wanted to leave behind nothing I couldn’t explain away later, and although I could explain bruises there could be no explaining away a naked body tied to a pillar. It was only when he was dressed that I remembered his gun, tucked in my belt. I didn’t want to risk it being found in my possession, and yet I certainly had no intention of putting it back into his hand. In the end I hid it, wedging it tightly under a back pew between two h
assocks—not a very brilliant choice of a hiding place, but since MacGowan would be thinking I’d taken the gun with me he wasn’t likely to spend time searching for it. With the gun hidden I pocketed every strand of cord, took a quick look around to make sure there was nothing I’d forgotten and then walked outside into the sunlight.

  The stone wall that bordered the grounds stood nearby, and scrambling up a convenient tree, I swung along a strong branch like a monkey and landed gingerly amidst the broken glass on top of the bricks. Luckily I was wearing good heavy shoes. It was tricky getting down, for I didn’t want to cut my hands, but in the end I crossed myself for luck and jumped with the prayer that I wouldn’t break a leg.

  I didn’t. All the luck was running my way now, and within minutes I had retrieved my horse from his makeshift hitching post by the gates and was giving my cousin his final orders.

  “He’ll be coming presently, Shaneen,” I said. “Have you marked a place to wait?”

  He had. I looked at it. There were three rocks bunched together near the road but above it.

  “That’s fine,” I said. I gave him my gun and some extra bullets.

  “And the money?” he asked.

  “I’ll have it for you in Leenane,” I said. It was true he was a kinsman and I loved him dearly, but it never hurts to be cautious about money, particularly when so much was at stake.

  “Where will I be finding you?”

  “By Tomsy Mulligan’s kelp boat. Good luck, Shaneen.”

  We embraced. Then mounting my horse, I rode away downhill to join the road to Leenane.

  II

  At the inn I stabled my horse and went in search of Tomsy Mulligan. There was nothing as pleasant as looking up an old friend, and Tomsy and I smoked some tobacco together on the jetty while we reminisced about the day three years before when I had been a convict on the run and he had taken me by boat from Leenane back to Galway. It had been the day I had met Sarah in the ruined cabin above Cashelmara, the day she had become my mistress. I had reached Leenane that afternoon, and after Tomsy had taken me down to Galway another member of the Brotherhood had taken me in his boat to Queenstown, where I had boarded the immigrant ship to America.

  “But that’s long ago now, Tomsy,” I said, smiling at him, “and I’m a respectable gentleman again.”

  Tomsy said respectability was a wonderful state for a man and began to talk about his two grandsons in the priesthood.

  When I left him at last I returned to the inn and told the landlord I’d be staying the night before taking the outside car back to Galway.

  It was a good afternoon for loafing around. I saw Leenane and Leenane saw me. Quite a sociable day I had, and by evening I was eating pork and black pudding and the landlord’s daughter was bringing me a glass of porter.

  It stayed light very late that evening, but as the dusk thickened I told the landlord with a yawn that I’d be taking a short stroll before I went to bed.

  It was cool outside, and the dark salt waters of Killary Harbour gleamed beneath the night sky. The tide was high, and when I looked across the jetty I saw Tomsy Mulligan’s boat bobbing up and down like a black cork.

  “Any sign of him yet?” I called softly to Tomsy.

  “Not a word.”

  I waited. The tide rose higher. I was moving back toward the inn again when I heard him coming up the road.

  “Max …”

  “Yes, it’s me. This way.” I guided him off the road into the wood that had been planted by the inn. He gasped when I touched his arm, and I felt the soft stickiness of blood.

  “Jesus Christ, what happened?”

  “All’s well,” he said, sinking to the ground, “but I’m weak as a kitten and I think I’ll sit me down for a moment.”

  “Let me look.” I struck a match.

  “Indeed it’s but a graze,” he said. “Don’t worry, Max.”

  “Even a graze needs care.” I gave him my hip flask. “Drink some of this,” I said, and taking a clean handkerchief from my pocket, I made a bandage as best I could.

  “That feels better.” He drank, shivered, drank again. “Dear God, what a day!”

  “Did you miss the first time?”

  “Yes, but listen to what happened! Waiting I was there this afternoon after you’d gone when Timothy O’Shaughnessy—he’s butler there now—”

  “I know.”

  “Well, it’s rushing out he comes in a donkey cart and drives across the bridge to old MacGowan’s house as if all the fiends in hell were hot on his heels. Then later back he comes and the old man with him, and the old man has a shotgun.”

  “God Almighty!”

  “Well, what could I do, Max? I was thinking I’d best not shoot him because if he never reached Cashelmara Hugh MacGowan would be too scared to poke his nose beyond the gates. So I let the old man pass, but sure enough it’s with the old man Hugh is when he pokes out his nose at last and the two of them armed to the teeth.”

  “If only I’d left another man with you—”

  “Faith, Max, it was nothing, for I was man enough for the two of them and all the saints are my witnesses!” He crossed himself and took another shot of poteen. “It was Hugh I took first, for I came to thinking he was the one who mattered most. The second shot it was that took him, and he fell from his horse as if God Himself had smote him from on high, but then the old man was shooting at me and it wasn’t so wide he shot either, as you see. But I fired again and hit his horse. The poor beast was only winged, but he ran like a demon down to the lough and the old man was thrown. At first it’s shamming I thought he was, but when I looked I saw he’d broken his neck. Hugh was still alive, so I had to fire again, and oh, Holy Mary, Max, I was as weak as water by that time, and if Hugh MacGowan hadn’t been the villain the devil knows he was, I’m thinking I’d have run all the way to Ameriky without firing another bullet. But I sent him to eternal damnation—I sent both of ’em, Max. I’ll be a hero in the valley now, won’t I? I’ve rid our poor suffering country of two more of the Saxons’ tyrants, and to be sure one day God Himself will reach down from heaven to give me a reward.”

  “It’ll be men like yourself, Shaneen,” I said, “who’ll help Ireland rise again from the ashes and drag the British Empire into the dust where it belongs. It’s the truth that you’re the finest patriot I ever met, and there’s no greater honor a man can have than to fight for his country against tyrants which the devil alone couldn’t equal for their untold cruelty to millions of innocent people.”

  “God save Ireland!” says Shaneen with tears in his eyes.

  “God save us all. Listen, Shaneen. Here’s the money you need. Tomsy Mulligan will take you down to Galway, and then you’re to go into the Claddagh and find a man named Brian O’Hagan. He’ll take care of you until he’s arranged your journey to Queenstown and the immigrant ship. It’s best you sail from Queenstown, as the police will be watching for you in Galway. The voyage will be rough, but Jim O’Malley will give you work when you get to New York. Here, I’ve written down his address for you, and don’t you lose it.”

  “God bless you, Max,” he says, tears spilling down his cheeks. “I’ll never be able to repay you, never.”

  “Don’t talk of repayment, Shaneen, after all you’ve done today. But when you get to New York light a candle for me in St. Patrick’s and tell Jim O’Malley I sent the bravest man west of the Shannon to bring his gun back to town.”

  I walked with him to the boat and watched as Tomsy cast off. The little boat started to slip away from the jetty at once, and within seconds it was lost to me among the huge shadows of the mountains.

  After a while I returned to the inn.

  “It’s turning damp out there,” I said to the landlord. “We’ll have rain tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder.” And when he agreed with me I went upstairs to my room and slept as soon as my head touched the pillow.

  III

  When I awoke next morning I couldn’t believe it was over. I thought: MacGowan my enemy, my nem
esis. But he was gone. The score had been settled, and I would never see his face again. I felt bereaved by the thought of it and empty, as if I’d lost something precious. I never knew until then how much my hatred of MacGowan had become a part of me, like an arm or leg, and had kept me alive during those years of imprisonment and exile. Getting even with MacGowan had lain so long across my mind that it was hard to imagine a future where my revenge didn’t exist. Of course I had plenty of plans. I had to look after Sarah and her children and take good care of the estate. I was going to have my hands so full I would hardly have time to sit twiddling my thumbs, but somehow that morning I felt as listless as a sick dog and aimless too, as if I was recovering from a blow on the head. I suppose I’d wound myself up till I was tight as a drum before I met MacGowan again, and now in my triumph I had unwound myself more than I’d intended.

  Still, it was a long journey back to Galway, and by the time I reached the hotel again I was feeling more like myself. I found the de Salis brothers taking tea with Sarah and Ned in our suite, and after the first flurry of excitement had died down I was introduced to David, the younger brother. He looked even feebler than Thomas. He had white skin, pink cheeks and a soft handshake.

  “Well, the battle’s won,” I said. I didn’t look at Sarah, but I was immensely aware of her. I took the letter from my pocket and gave it to the brothers. “Here’s his resignation, and by now he and his father will be halfway to Scotland.”

  There was great excitement about this, and Sarah said breathlessly, “Did all go well? Oh, Maxwell, for God’s sake tell us what happened!”

  I looked at her levelly, willing her to be calm before the brothers noticed her excitement was unnatural, but David only exclaimed in admiration, “Yes, how on earth did you persuade him to resign?”

  “Why, it was simple,” I said. “We had a little talk and then he wrote the letter and we took a stroll in the garden together to arrange the final details. He wants Lord de Salis to go and live with him in Scotland, but I said it might be wiser if my lord took a cure first. But of course,” I said politely to the brothers, “that’s for you to decide.”