‘Francis!’ she shouted. ‘Francis!’
One of the horses broke into a gallop. ‘Lucy, my love! Lucy!’
Then Francis was beside her, holding her tight in his arms. ‘My own love,’ she said, ‘you’ve come back! Thank God! Oh, thank God!’
Half an hour later Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in his bath. Lady Lucy was plying him with champagne as she listened to his adventures.
‘There’s to be a great dinner tonight, Francis,’ she told him. ‘To celebrate the release of the ladies and your escape. The Major organized it before he left. He said he might sing a song, the Major.’
‘God save Ireland,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if the Major sings a song.’ He wondered if a wake had been organized too in case he and Johnny had not returned but he didn’t like to ask.
‘And Dennis Ormonde is coming from Ormonde House,’ Lucy went on. ‘He’ll be so pleased to see his wife again.’
Lady Lucy left to attend to some matters in the bedroom. There was still some time before dinner. Powerscourt rose slowly from the waves and draped himself in a series of towels. He thought of A Tale of Two Cities again. It is a far better thing I do now, he said to himself with a wicked grin, than I have ever done before. He advanced into the bedroom and kissed Lady Lucy firmly on the lips.
‘Francis,’ she said, and then in a different tone altogether, ‘Francis!’ She moved to close the curtains. The worst of times were over.
PART FOUR
TREAD SOFTLY
The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,
In the ranks of death you’ll find him;
His father’s sword he has girded on,
And his wild harp slung behind him.
Thomas Moore
15
Father O’Donovan Brady had made Cathal Rafferty tell his story of the strange goings-on in the Head Gardener’s Cottage three times. He made copious notes. He wrote the names of the two participants in a small black book in large capital letters. He knew he would return to reread this material over and over again in the days ahead. He gave Cathal ten shillings with instructions to keep watching. Cathal, after all, was carrying out the work of the Lord. Then Father Brady poured himself a generous glass of John Powers and sat down to plan his campaign.
Central to this strategy was the Protestant parson, the Reverend Giles Cooper Walker, the man who had read the prayers at the concert party at Butler’s Court. Ordinary Protestants, the Father had been taught at theological college, were little better than heretics. Protestant clergymen were worse, much worse. The priest wondered if he should consult with his bishop about the move he was planning, actually calling on the rector and, much more difficult, being polite to him, something he knew he would find much more taxing. Nevertheless, he told himself, unusual times need unusual measures. Our Lord would never have succeeded in His mission here on earth if He had carried on according to the ancient principles of the Pharisees. It was time to seize the hour and tackle the vicar in his own quarters. So it was that at eleven o’clock a few days after Cathal’s visit Father O’Donovan Brady was knocking on the front door of the Protestant rectory, a handsome early Georgian house with roses blooming in the small front garden.
The two men were as different in appearance as they were in religion. The Catholic was short and round. The Protestant was tall and very thin, as if he didn’t have enough to eat. Father O’Donovan Brady was ministered to by his striking twenty-three-year-old housekeeper. The Reverend Cooper Walker was ministered to by Sarah, his wife of fifteen years, who might not have had the bloom of youth of the housekeeper but was still a handsome woman, regularly admired by other clergy at diocesan conferences. The Catholic had no children. The Protestant had three, two boys and a girl, who were only a trouble to him when he contemplated the expense of educating them and bringing them out into society. Father Brady had never left Ireland, indeed he had only once visited the north where his visit accidentally coincided with the parades of Orangemen on 12 July, where hatred of Catholics was a central feature of the proceedings, and left him determined never to return to such a place again. The Reverend Cooper Walker had been attached to a parish in Oxford for a time – he had been a noted theologian in his youth, and his professors had tried with all their might to persuade him into an academic career, but Cooper Walker turned them down, saying his version of God called him to the service of real people in what he naively called the real world rather than that of the saints and sinners of the second and third centuries AD. Among the rich of North Oxford and the poor of Jericho the Reverend Cooper Walker had seen the pain caused by unhappy marriages, the damage that could be done by a love that went wrong or alighted in the wrong place. Father O’Donovan Brady’s God resembled Moses on top of the mountain, tablets in hand, entrusted by a fierce and unforgiving God with the salvation of his people, however harsh the punishment. The Reverend Cooper Walker’s God resembled Christ feeding the five thousand and saying blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.
The two men had never met before. Father Brady struck the Reverend Cooper Walker as rather coarse, with a crude but effective faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker struck Father O’Donovan Brady as a Protestant intellectual – both words of extreme condemnation in his book and, taken together, virtually the same as heretical – who would be prepared to argue for tolerance rather than rigour, for forgiveness rather than punishment, for turning the other cheek rather than inflicting the wrath of a jealous God. The Catholic Church in Ireland, Father Brady felt, would never have reached the position of authority and power it held today if it had had truck with doubt or uncertainty.
In spite of their differences the meeting went well, the two men of God circling each other like boxers at the start of a fight, each reluctant to enter into what might be dangerous territory. Sarah Cooper Walker fed them with tea and some of her special scones that always did well at church fêtes and harvest festivals. Surprisingly quickly, they agreed on a plan of campaign to be put into action the following Sunday. Their methods might be different, but the message would be the same. As Father Brady walked back to his house, past the queue at Mulcahy and Sons, Grocery and Bar, and the drinkers already assembling outside MacSwiggin’s, he felt he had scored a notable victory. He had brought the Protestants, even if only for one occasion, into the orbit of the true faith. The Reverend Cooper Walker had too subtle a mind to think in terms of victory or defeat. He thought of the words of the Bible and felt he had little choice.
Mass in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows in Butler’s Cross began at eleven o’clock. Father O’Donovan Brady had processed up the nave and genuflected. The Father kissed the altar and the congregation rose.
‘In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit.’ Father Brady felt oddly nervous as he began his service.
‘Amen’ said his congregation.
‘Gratia Domini nostri Iesu Christi et caritas Dei, et communicatio Sancti Spiritus sit cum omnibus vobis. The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ and the love of God and the fellowship of the Holy Spirit be with you all.’
‘Et cum spiritu tuo, and also with you,’ came the response.
There was always a large congregation at Mass at eleven o’clock on Sunday mornings. At the front Pronsias Mulcahy sat in his pew with his wife at his side. She was a formidable woman in her late forties, Mrs Mulcahy, dressed as ever on Sundays in a dark blue suit that had once been fashionable for a slightly younger clientele. Sylvia Butler and Young James had spotted her once months before wearing this same suit on her way to the service. Sylvia had nudged James in the ribs and pointed to the grocer’s wife. ‘Would you say that was mutton dressed as lamb, James?’ Young James carried out a lightning inspection. ‘No, I would not,’ he had replied quickly, ‘I should say that was mutton dressed as mutton.’
Behind the Mulcahys was a platoon of Delaneys, the solicitors, and the Delaney wives, all growing over time to look remarkably like their husbands. For the
only time in the week MacSwiggin’s Hotel and Bar was closed while the owner and his wife heard the word of the Lord. O’Riordan the bookmaker and his wife were there in their Sunday best, bets forbidden on the Sabbath. The agricultural machinery man Horkan was there in a new suit that was slightly too large for him, and his wife in a spectacular hat. Behind the Catholic aristocracy was a great throng of servants from Butler’s Court, farmers, blacksmiths, farriers, stable hands, horse dealers and small tenant farmers, most of them working land that belonged to Richard Butler in the Big House. All the children had been sent to the Church Hall for instruction in Catechism and Commandments.
‘There is a green hill far away,
Without a city wall,
Where the dear Lord was crucified
Who died to save us all.’
The Protestant congregation in the Church of St Michael and All Angels were singing a hymn written by one of their very own. The green hill far away was the work of a Mrs Frances Alexander whose husband went on to become Archbishop of Armagh and Primate of all Ireland. The few, the very few in the church that day gave it their best.
‘There was no other good enough
To pay the price of sin,
He only could unlock the gate
Of heaven and let us in.’
The church had been built in times when the Protestant population of Butler’s Cross was much greater. If Father Brady had been faced with so few worshippers in Our Lady of Sorrows he would have thought that a catastrophe must have struck, a second famine come to decimate his flock. Richard Butler was there, of course, Sylvia by his side. Several other members of his family and friends come to visit managed to fill up a couple of pews. Johnpeter Kilross was there, feeling rather hung over, and Alice Bracken in a summer dress. There were some more Protestants from outlying districts who travelled miles to come and show the flag at Sunday Matins. Behind them stretched row after row of empty pews, dust gathering on the wood, the prayer books unopened, the hymn books abandoned.
‘O dearly dearly has he loved,
And we must love him too,
And trust in his redeeming blood
And try his works to do.’
At the back of the Catholic church the young men were trying to attract the attention of the girls who looked so unattainable in their Sunday best. Father Brady moved on.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ he intoned, Lord have mercy.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ replied the congregation.
‘Christe eleison,’ continued the Father, Christ have mercy.
‘Christe eleison,’ came the response.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ boomed Father Brady.
‘Kyrie eleison,’ said his parishioners.
The Reverend Cooper Walker had resolved to read the first lesson himself. He had changed the reading, which was meant to come from the Book of Isaiah, to one from the Book of Samuel.
‘Second Book of Samuel, Chapter Eleven,’ he began. The lectern was magnificent with a great gold eagle on the top. ‘“And it came to pass in an eveningtide, that David arose from his bed and walked upon the roof of the king’s house: and from the roof he saw a woman washing herself; and the woman was very beautiful to look upon.
‘“And David sent and inquired after this woman. And one said, Is not this Bathsheba, the wife of Uriah the Hittite?
‘“And David sent messengers, and took her; and she came in unto him and he lay with her”.’ The Reverend Cooper Walker looked directly at Johnpeter Kilross for a fraction of a second. The young man’s face had turned bright red. The vicar carried on. ‘“And she returned to her house. And the woman conceived and sent and told David, I am with child.”’
Maybe it was the colour of Kilross’s face or Alice Bracken hiding her head in her hands, but a current of excitement was running through the tiny congregation now. What was going on? Did the vicar know something they didn’t? The Reverend Cooper Walker carried on, outlining the device used by David to have Uriah the Hittite killed in battle so Bathsheba might become his wife. The vicar paused before the final words of the chapter: ‘“But the thing that David had done displeased the Lord.”’
At twenty minutes past eleven Father O’Donovan Brady climbed the steps to his pulpit. He stared at the young people whispering to each other at the back of the church. He paused until there was complete silence in the Church of Our Lady of Sorrows.
‘The Devil is abroad in Butler’s Cross,’ he thundered to his congregation. ‘On our peaceful streets, in our community of Christian souls, Satan is doing his work. Let me remind you of the seventh of God’s commandments, handed down to Moses on the mountain for the guidance and instruction of his people.’ Father Brady paused again. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ He repeated it in case some of his flock had not heard, this time with a heavy emphasis on ‘not’. ‘Thou shalt not commit adultery. Do not get me wrong, my friends.’ The priest had noticed some members of his congregation looking decidedly sheepish and wondered if Cathal Rafferty might not have been better employed on his snooping missions closer to home. Still, there could always be other fishing expeditions later on. Sin was sin wherever it was to be found. ‘These are not members of our congregation here, devout Catholic souls, who are breaking the laws of God. It is two Protestants who are staining the pure air of Butler’s Cross. Even Protestants claim to believe in the Ten Commandments. They too subscribe to Thou shalt not commit adultery. But what do we find? We find two of their number doing the Devil’s work in broad daylight.’
At twenty-two minutes past eleven the Reverend Cooper Walker climbed into his pulpit. This was going to be one of the most difficult sermons he had preached in his entire ministry.
‘In the first lesson this morning,’ he began, ‘we heard the story of David and his lust for Bathsheba. We also heard at the end how God was displeased by what David had done. For he had broken not one, but two, of God’s commandments. Thou shalt not kill, by his plotting to have Uriah the Hittite, Bathsheba’s husband, killed in battle. And he had broken the Seventh Commandment, Thou shalt not commit adultery.’ The vicar paused and looked round his little band of worshippers. Most of them looked bemused. But not all of them.
‘I have not come here this morning to name names,’ the vicar went on. ‘I do not think that would be helpful. But I ask each and every one of you here this morning to look into your hearts and ask yourselves if you have broken the Seventh Commandment. It should not be a difficult question to answer.’
‘Johnpeter Kilross! Alice Bracken! These are the sinners who reside in Butler’s Court and who have broken God’s holy law and commandments!’ Father O’Donovan Brady was in full flow, thumping the side of his pulpit. ‘These are the people, one a single man, the other a married woman with an absent husband, who have committed adultery in a cottage on the Butler estate! So great is their contempt for their Saviour, they didn’t even close the curtains properly! These are the wretches who have brought disgrace unto themselves and despair into their families! I bring you this message this morning. If you work in Butler’s Court, think before you serve them their food. Think before you are asked to wash their garments, befouled and besmirched no doubt with the sins they have committed. If you are asked to clean their quarters think rather if they would not be better left in the squalor they deserve. If you are a shopkeeper in the town think before serving them any sustenance that might give them strength to continue their sordid debauchery. Their behaviour might be fitting in the souks of Cairo or the brothels of Bangkok: it is not fitting here, in St Patrick’s island.’ Father O’Donovan Brady stopped briefly. ‘This is the message of God’s teaching. Abide by God’s commandments. Keep God’s word. Let not sin intrude into innocent lives. Let us work together to banish Satan from our midst for ever. In nomine patris et filii et spiritus sancti, Amen.’
‘We are few, here in this land, we who belong to the Church of Ireland,’ the vicar went on. ‘I would not say a happy few, not today, nor would I refer to us this morning as a band of brothers. But
the fact that we are few, our numbers small, means that our responsibilities are great. We must be seen to lead virtuous lives. Our Catholic colleagues may think we are in the wrong Church but they must not think we are not decent Christian souls, intent on leading as good a life as we can in this world in the hope of finding salvation in the next. When people in our faith commit adultery, they not only demean themselves, they demean all of us. I would ask you to pray for the sinners, pray that they may sin no more and be brought back into the light of God’s gracious mercy and forgiveness. If you have sinned, I would ask you to repent. Above all I would ask you to be mindful of Christ’s words to the woman taken in adultery, “go thou and sin no more.”’
It was not long before the full scale of the disaster hit Butler’s Court. The servants, with their normal invisible sources of information, learnt very quickly what had happened in the Protestant church. The steward, acting as spokesman for the footmen and the parlour maids and the kitchen staff, informed Richard Butler of the sermon of Father O’Donovan Brady. The steward felt it was only fair. Richard Butler turned pale but merely thanked the man for his news. The soup that lunchtime came in a silver tureen and was ladled into the Spode bowls by Richard and passed down to the guests. Butler himself carved the meat with a great German carving knife and handed it round. Disaster struck with the vegetables. These were being served from a large silver salver by a pretty parlour maid of about twenty years who looked very correct in her smart black and white uniform. When she reached Johnpeter Kilross she simply walked straight past him as if he wasn’t there. The same fate, accompanied by a slight toss of the head, awaited Alice Bracken. Everybody else was served in the normal way. The girl took the empty salver back to the kitchens. There was complete silence in the dining room. The blank spaces on the walls where the paintings had been stared down at them. Alice Bracken burst into tears and fled the room. Johnpeter Kilross followed her a moment later. Richard Butler stared helplessly at his wife. The rest of the meal was taken in complete silence. The boycott, or a form of boycott, had come to add to the woes of Butler’s Court.
Death on the Holy Mountain Page 28