Saints and Sinners

by Paul Cuddihy

  ‘It must be serious then,’ said Denis, ‘if they’re still searching.’

  ‘Well, there were two men killed,’ the Belfast man said, ‘and a prisoner’s on the run. They say it was the boys who did it, to rescue one of their own.’

  ‘The boys?’ O’Brien asked.

  ‘Bloody hell, O’Brien,’ the Belfast man said, flicking what was left of his cigarette at his companion. ‘I told you all this before. The boys …’ he glanced round and then whispered, ‘the Brotherhood.’

  O’Brien nodded. Mick was desperate to ask his own questions but he knew he was still a stranger and didn’t want to risk raising any suspicions. Denis had introduced him, but the rest of the men took little notice of him, not even acknowledging his injured arm. He was grateful for that at least, but he wanted to know who was doing the searching and what questions they were asking. More than that, he realised that he would have to get away from Glasgow soon because it was only a matter of time before someone provided a piece of useful information, and now that he was out of the house, it only increased the chances of detection.

  The Belfast man seemed most upset that his drinking time the night before had been disrupted and soon the conversation drifted towards football and Celtic, at which point Mick stopped listening, though he studied each man in the group, wondering if any of them would betray him if they knew he was the prisoner on the run.

  Ten minutes came and went in the blink of an eye, and Mick and Denis returned to where Joe remained kneeling. As soon as the whistle sounded again, he began digging with the same ferocity as before, though it took the other two men a bit longer to get back into their rhythm. Mick kept thinking about what the Belfast man had said, and he imagined Walsh barging into the pub, demanding information on where Mick was. The thought actually made him smile. He knew Walsh would probably have hidden behind other men. He might have been asking the questions but it would take a brave man to interrupt an Irishman when he was drinking, and Walsh certainly wasn’t that.

  Mick didn’t hear the whistle sound again at first, his mind still full of thoughts of his pursuer, but when it blew a second time he looked up.

  ‘It’s not lunchtime yet,’ said Denis, glancing over with a puzzled look to where Donnelly stood. Six men stood beside him, arms folded, while another man sat on a horse. He was dressed all in black. It was Walsh. Donnelly was shouting instructions to the men, telling them all to gather together in front of him. Denis stood up and dragged Joe up as well, while Mick pushed himself onto his feet reluctantly.

  ‘I wonder what’s wrong,’ Denis said as the three men headed towards Donnelly, soon merging with the other workers, who were all muttering and mumbling. As they gathered together, Donnelly instructed them to spread out in a straight line and disgruntled shouts from men who liked to moan about everything filled the air until the foreman told them to shut up. Mick snatched Joe’s cap, the poor soul immediately clasping his bare head. Denis looked round as Mick pushed the cap tightly on his own head, hoping its brim would hide his face and he shrugged apologetically. Denis put a comforting arm round his brother and began muttering into his ear, though Mick couldn’t make out what was being said.

  Donnelly now explained what was happening, introducing Mister Walsh, who remained on his horse. The man in black edged the beast forward until he was directly in front of the men.

  ‘I am looking for Mick Costello,’ Walsh said, his Mayo accent piercing the morning air. ‘Once I have him, I will leave, but understand this. Anyone who does not help me will be helping a criminal – a murderer – and you will be an enemy of the Crown.’

  Walsh nodded to the six men he’d brought with him and they spread out along the line of men. He manoeuvred his horse backwards to give the men room, and they all stood, arms folded, staring at the workers in front of them. Mick kept his eyes lowered, though he had noticed each of them had a rifle slung over their right shoulders.

  ‘Remember, I only want Mick Costello,’ Walsh shouted. ‘So if he is man enough to step forward, the rest of you can return peacefully to work.’

  No one moved and it seemed to Mick like absolute silence had descended on them, apart from his pounding heart which he was sure would alert the guards to his identity.

  ‘So he’s a coward after all,’ Walsh said. ‘You,’ he said, pointing towards a stocky, ginger-haired man in the centre of the crowd. ‘Step forward.’

  The man shuffled out of the line, glancing over at Donnelly who shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Do you know Mick Costello?’ Walsh asked.

  ‘No, sir. Never heard of him.’

  Walsh nodded and one of the guards stepped forward, slipping the rifle off his shoulder and in the same movement smashing the butt of the weapon into the man’s face. He collapsed on the ground with a stunned cry and he lay motionless on the ground as blood began to pour out of his head wound. A couple of men moved to help him but Walsh barked orders for them to remain where they were. He gestured to another worker – a tall, skinny man with arms that seemed to stretch down to his kneecaps. He was even more reluctant to step forward but did so after Walsh repeated his instructions.

  ‘Do you know Mick Costello?’ he asked.

  The skinny man shook his head and braced himself for the blow, though it didn’t come from the guard in front of him. As he stepped back into line under instruction from Walsh, another guard who had slipped round behind the men smashed his rifle into the man’s skull and he toppled forward like a fir tree that had just been felled. He crashed to the ground, sending clouds of dust spiralling into the air. Walsh looked further down the line and gestured to another man, who did not move. Two guards grabbed his arms and dragged his screaming body out of the line.

  ‘Do you know Mick Costello?’ Walsh asked.

  The man kept squirming, trying to break free of his captors as a third guard stepped forward.

  ‘I’m Mick Costello,’ Mick said, stepping forward just as the guard had grasped his rifle, ready to strike. Everyone stopped. The guards released their grip of the worker, who stopped his howls of protest and slipped meekly back into line. Mick stood, head bowed, breathing heaving, and ready for the rifle blow that would surely knock him out. He could hear the horse moving closer to him and he wondered if there would be any chance of a final attack on Walsh before the six guards overpowered him.

  ‘I’m Mick Costello.’

  Another voice shouted out and Mick looked up. Denis stood beside him. He winked. Walsh’s horse stopped.

  ‘I’m Mick Costello,’ a voice at the far end of the line declared and another man strode forward from the line. The guards looked up and down, not knowing whom to go for and waiting for Walsh to issue his instructions.

  ‘I’m Mick Costello.’ Another man stepped forward, and soon a dozen of them had declared their identity and joined the group of Mick Costellos.

  ‘Enough!’ screamed Walsh, as the six guards stepped back, one or two with their rifles now poised and pointing at the men. They were nervous and confused, and they wanted Walsh to take control.

  ‘I am going to shoot someone in a minute,’ Walsh said as he steered his horse towards Mick and Denis. ‘Take off his hat,’ he shouted at one of the guards, nodding towards Mick. ‘That’s him, you bloody fools. Look at his arm.’

  ‘You’ve got about ten seconds,’ Denis whispered out the corner of his mouth. ‘You better be a fast runner.’

  As the guard moved towards Mick, Denis looked round.

  ‘Joe! Bad man! Bad man going to hurt Denis.’

  Joe moved forward like he’d been fired out of a cannon, crashing into the guard and toppling him over. He immediately began pounding on the man’s face with his fists as other guards rushed to help their colleague.

  ‘Run, you bloody eejit,’ Denis shouted as he jumped in to help his brother and suddenly it was a brawl as guards and men battled on the dusty ground. Mick began running towards the exit, not bothering to look back at the chaos he’d helped to spark.

&nbs
p; ‘He’s getting away!’ Walsh shouted, as Mick jumped onto one of the dirt carts, lashed the horse with the reins and began steering the cart out of the field, the sound of Walsh shouting to his men echoing in his wake. He managed the briefest of glances over his shoulder, catching sight of Walsh who had turned his horse round and was heading towards him in quick pursuit, followed by a couple of guards who had managed to break free of the melee. Mick urged the horse on with greater urgency, hoping that once they were on the cobbled streets it might speed up, though knowing that the work horse would be no match for Walsh’s beast.

  23

  THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED

  The cart suddenly hit the cobbles and Mick could hardly hear himself think over the clatter of the wheels and the hooves of the horse. He kept a tight hold of the reins, continuing to thrash the horse that moved with unaccustomed urgency. He still worried that it would never be able to keep up the frantic pace, particularly pulling a cart that was half full of dirt. Mick didn’t want to look back though he knew that Walsh would be on his trail. Instead, he kept one eye on the road while checking to see if there was any way he could loosen the reins that attached cart and beast.

  When he steered the animal round the first corner, he could feel the cart lurching over and for a moment he was hanging grimly onto it as it tipped over on two wheels, but it managed to correct itself and he lashed the horse again. This time, he did glance back up the street towards the field and Walsh was indeed chasing him, his horse galloping towards him while the other two carts were also in pursuit, driven by the guards who’d managed to escape the fighting which Mick presumed was still going on.

  He had no idea where he was going, only that he had to get away from Walsh. He knew his hasty escape was being watched with curiosity by passers-by, who instinctively took a step away from the road as he noisily clattered by. If he could at least put a couple of streets between him and Walsh he might be able to detach the cart, which would speed him up, but he was sure it was his pursuer who was gaining ground on him.

  He turned another corner, this time edging over to the left, but the sudden movement did not panic him and he was now on his feet, driving the horse on with shouts as well as encouragement from the reins. He was automatically heading in the direction of Eileen’s house, though he also realised that he wouldn’t be able to stop there or hide out. For one thing he didn’t want Kate to become involved.

  Just as he reached the end of the street, another cart suddenly appeared round the corner and Mick yanked the reins hard to steer the horse away from a collision, though while the beasts missed each other, his cart smashed into the other horse. The impact sent Mick flying through the air as the injured animal screamed in pain, though Mick’s only concern was where he would land.

  ‘You feckin’ maniac!’ the other cart driver screamed as Mick crashed onto the pavement, landing heavily on his right shoulder. He immediately sprung up, realising there wasn’t enough time to consider the pain or even apologise to the man who had jumped down from his cart. He seemed to be caught in a dilemma between wanting to tend to his horse and shout at Mick, who had begun sprinting away as Walsh’s horse came into view.

  He skidded round the corner, glad to have avoided any further collisions with anyone on the pavement and he was running now as fast as he could, quickly realising it was better to stick to the road which was less crowded. It reminded him of his initial escape from Walsh when he’d turned up with the soldiers at their cottage to arrest him. Would he still be alive now if he’d been caught? It certainly seemed like Walsh was determined to see him hang.

  The clatter of hooves was following him, getting louder with each step he took, though it could well have just been other horses and carts innocently going about their daily business. He wasn’t taking any chances, however, particularly when he knew Walsh’s determination to catch him was as strong as his own desire to evade capture. As he kept running he was aware of a growing pain in his right shoulder that provided an irritating balance for his body; though his left arm was in constant pain, he was so used to it now that, more often than not, he barely even noticed its presence.

  There was shouting further back down the street and he imagined it was Walsh screaming for someone to grab Mick. He knew that no one would step in and help, not until they found out what it was they were going to becoming involved in.

  A cart and horse sat idly outside a tenement about ten yards ahead of him and Mick decided he was going to steal it before he even reached it. He’d already got the horse moving when the owner came strolling out of the close. He stood, momentarily stunned, his mind taking a few seconds to register what was happening before he began shouting. He bolted out into the street, chasing after his prized possession. He’d just about managed to catch up with Mick, his fingertips touching the end of the cart when it veered round a corner and the man toppled over, sprawling across the cobbles and cutting his chin. He looked up, unconcerned at the blood pouring from his wound, as his horse and cart sped away from him. He began banging his head off the ground and groaning just as a thunderous noise approached him and Walsh and his horse leapt over the man as they continued their pursuit.

  Mick had turned left and then left again, speeding down a street that was full of carts heading in the opposite direction, and it took what little skill he possessed as a driver – and a one-armed one at that – to avoid any collisions. When he made his third left turn in succession, he suddenly realised he was heading back to where he’d run away from in the first place.

  He knew he’d have to turn right at the next junction, shifting his body across the seat to help compensate for the tilt in the cart when he did so. It all seemed to be going so well until he looked up and realised he was heading straight for the two carts from the field that were being driven towards him by the guards. They didn’t see him at first – it was only for a split second, though, and then they recognised him. There was nowhere for Mick to turn now. If he veered to the left or right he’d hit one of them so he kept driving straight ahead. At the last second both guards, who’d also appeared so resolute, steered their carts to the side.

  The one that headed left managed to stay on the road and the guard was able to bring it to a halt. The wheels of the other one, however, hit the kerb, sending piles of dirt scattering into the air and showering anyone nearby, while the cart tipped over, catapulting the guard out of the seat and onto the hard surface of the road, where he lay groaning.

  Mick reached the end of the street, glancing back as he turned left. Walsh had stopped briefly to check on the injured guard, who was now being tended to by his companion. He snapped to attention, however, no doubt commanded by Walsh, and headed back to his cart, leaving his colleague on the ground. Once out of sight, Mick drew to a halt halfway up the street and jumped out, landing in front of a startled man.

  ‘I’ll give you a shilling to drive this cart round the block for ten minutes.’

  ‘What?’ the man said, taking a step backwards.

  ‘Alright. Two then,’ Mick said, delving into his pocket and fishing out the two pieces of silver. They were immediately snatched out of his hand and the man leapt onto the front of the cart.

  ‘Ten minutes, you say?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Mick. ‘Just keep going round the block.’

  The man nodded and cracked the whip, and the tired horse, which had welcomed the unexpected rest, now broke into a canter again. Mick stepped back from the pavement and into the mouth of the close just as Walsh came thundering into the street, followed by the guard driving the dirt cart, and they raced past Mick’s hiding place, their eyes firmly focused on what they thought was Mick in the cart further down the street. He grinned as he peered out, watching them get smaller and smaller.

  He started walking in the other direction, keeping his head bowed and wishing he’d managed to hold onto Joe’s cap, which had long since blown off. He wondered if the fighting was still going on in the field. He still couldn’t believe what Denis had
done and he hoped there might be some time in the future when he could thank him and his brother. He owed Denis much – perhaps even his life – and he wanted to show his gratitude. Mick also realised he was running out of luck as far as his own life was concerned and he knew he wasn’t safe quite yet.

  He pressed his chin down on his chest and strode firmly away from where he presumed the search for him would continue and he wondered how long the man would be able to lead Walsh on a fruitless chase before he was caught. Mick was two streets away by now and began to relax slightly, though he still kept his head bowed as a precaution. He was heading back to Eileen’s house. Now that he wasn’t being followed, it would be safe enough – well, for today at least – but they would have to leave Glasgow, and soon, perhaps without waiting for Thomas’ friend to send any word. Walsh had somehow known where he was working today, and if he knew that, he might well also know where he was hiding out.

  Mick’s mind was racing now, trying to figure out who might have betrayed him, or was it just a lucky break Walsh had enjoyed, turning up on the off chance Mick would be working there? He frowned, knowing there had been nothing lucky about it. Someone had tipped Walsh off. Now he realised that nowhere was safe. It would be best just to get Kate and they could be on their way.

  His head still bowed and his mind filled with potential traitors, Mick didn’t see the woman coming towards him pushing a pram. He collided with it, immediately looking up and apologising as soon as he saw what he’d run into.

  ‘You clumsy fool,’ the woman shouted as her baby began crying. She leant into the pram, offering some soothing words of comfort to her baby, and then glanced up with a scowl.

  ‘An hour it took me to get her to sleep and you go and bloody wake her up,’ she shouted.

  ‘I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Sorry? So you bloody should be,’ the woman said, leaning into the pram again. Whatever she said had no effect on the baby, who was crying bitterly. Mick started to back away.