The Big Wind

by Beatrice Coogan

  Sterrin, unaware of her mother’s fall, burst into the Bard’s room.

  Big John was looking down at the sleeping Thomas. ‘He looks a bit like he did the morning you were born, a little white-faced gossoon stretched out across two chairs, dead to the world, and the wet black curls plastered on his forehead.’ She had to let him go on talking while she stood panting against the door struggling to get her breath. ‘The Sir gave him a long look and said—“Put covering on that boy”.’

  ‘Big John,’ she gasped at last, ‘he needs covering now. They are out there—the police—like hounds that have drawn a covert and found hot scent.’

  The coachman moved back the stone on the hearth while Sterrin awakened Thomas.

  ‘I’ll send Pakie with a horse to Lissnastreenagh,’ she told him. ‘There will be a train passing the Cuilnafunchion fields. He’ll stop it for you with a flag and explain that you are one of us. You will be able to connect with the Waterford train and get to Cousin Maurice’s.’

  He took her in his arms. ‘Will you join me there? I won’t leave Ireland without you. I meant to plan all this out with you—we would get away to America by way of your Cousin’s Cove of the Fairy Music, then later come back to Strague when things have quietened.’

  She clung to him. ‘Do you think I’d let you dare to leave Ireland without me? I’ll travel down to Waterford tomorrow. God be with you.’

  She sped along the passages to Pakie Scally. But Pakie, the butler informed her, had been dispatched for the doctor. O’Driscoll then, she thought. ‘The doctor!’ Sterrin’s dismay was tinged with impatience. ‘Don’t tell me that Mamma has had one of her attacks?’

  The butler took out his handkerchief and wiped his eyes. Too much was happening too quickly for the bewildered old man. ‘It wasn’t I let them peelers into this castle. Her poor Ladyship!’

  There was no mystery or swaying in her mother’s room. Lady O’Carroll lay unconscious. Heavy footsteps sounded on the corridor. Sterrin suppressed a cry and dropped on her knees beside the bed. The door opened without a knock and two policemen entered. Sir Dominic sprang up from his seat. ‘Get out!’ he ordered. They looked at the unconscious figure in the bed, then looked inquiringly at the sub-inspector who had followed them in. Dominic strode to him, his face livid, his eyes blazing. ‘Get these men out of this house! Get them out! Look at what you have done! We are awaiting the priest and doctor!’

  A gasp sounded from behind him as the door closed. ‘The priest, Dominic? She’s not—she’s not dying?’

  Nurse Hogan assisted her to her feet.

  ‘Your mamma’s colour is improving. She cut the back of her head. I just took advantage of there being a Station down the road to send O’Driscoll there for the priest.’

  O’Driscoll not available either! What would become of Young Thomas? Sterrin could not stir from her mamma. ‘What, in God’s name, will I do?’ It burst from her.

  The nurse misunderstood her. ‘There is nothing anyone can do, your Ladyship. We must only wait until the doctor arrives.’

  And, mercifully, the doctor arrived just then. Scally had been able to intercept him at a patient’s nearby.

  The doctor, with an arm around Sterrin’s shoulder, let her out of the room. ‘Leave your mamma to me. She seems to be coming round.’ He was closing the door on her when he opened it again. ‘What’s wrong with your face?’

  Dully she put her hand to it. ‘Nothing,’ she said.

  ‘So I see,’ said the doctor.

  She reached the Bard’s room as Big John was emerging from the concealed passage. ‘Did he get away?’ she whispered. Before he could answer, Young Thomas climbed out. ‘There are police in the hollow. They haven’t found the door, but it is only a matter of time.’ Heavy footsteps sounded in the kitchen passage. He jumped back down and Sterrin, as she helped to batten down the flag over the dark curls, felt as if she were helping to entomb him.

  The footsteps moved on to the kitchen. Mrs. Stacey, with magnificent unconcern for the presence of the police, was making pastry. Her high-cauled cap towered over the highest shako. They plied her with questions but she only shook her head.

  ‘Is she deaf?’ one of them asked.

  Sterrin entered the room. ‘She does not understand English.’ The cook looked as if she were about to treat them to some choice English. Sterrin spoke to her in Gaelic. The listening police assumed that she was interpreting for them. Mrs. Stacey gave her an understanding look, then, placing the pastry in the bastible, she stalked off with it to the Bard’s room. They watched her draw burning sods from the fire she had lighted there that day for Thomas, flatten them on the massive hearth slab, place the bastible on them, put more red embers on the lid, then seat herself, take off her shoes and proceed to pick her corns.

  They tapped the walls. They dragged the massive bed from its place, the great armchair, the couch. ‘Whose room is this?’ demanded the sub-inspector.

  Sterrin told him it was Mrs. Stacey’s.

  ‘Hm, a very impressive room for a servant!’

  ‘Mrs. Stacey was my father’s foster-mother.’ Sterrin said it as if the reason was supreme.

  The sub-inspector moved upstairs again. He had overlooked the oratory. There would surely be some old penal day escape-hole for priests.

  Sterrin went out and up the back stairs. She reached the gallery just as Dominic, a lighted, blessed candle in his hand was preceding the priest upstairs. Sterrin dropped on her knees in reverence for the Viaticum he bore with him. Dread clamped down on all her being. Mamma was about to receive the last rites of the Church! She rose and groped towards the oratory.

  When the sub-inspector and his minions, following her closely, entered the oratory, Sterrin was kneeling before the altar, her face buried in her hands, her shoulders shaking. She remained that way, oblivious of them—while they searched. Suddenly she lifted her head. The officer stared. Downstairs her face had been hidden in the shadows of the doorway. It had been veiled when he had arrested her for obstructing an eviction. Always it had been veiled. Now for the first time he saw it uncovered—lovely—no arrogance; soft with grief. The flame of the altar candles made a sapphire shimmering of the tear-filled eyes. Tears overflowed unchecked down her cheeks in a heartburst of grief. He murmured something and withdrew.

  Later, Dominic came. He knelt beside her and put an arm about her. Mamma was going to be all right, he assured her. She was fully conscious and the doctor had some queer idea that the injury to her head was going to do her good.

  ‘It wasn’t a faint this time, Sterrin; not one of her queer bouts. She just slipped and hurt her head. He says he often wondered if some of that flying debris had struck her the night you were born. She was never able to remember except that she had that queer pain in the back of her head. It is not there now; and no tension; just soreness.’

  She bowed her head again. ‘Thank God,’ she sobbed.

  Someone else came into the oratory. She looked up. It was Thomas. He gestured them to silence. Mrs. Stacey, he told them, had released him, ‘from under the apple pie’ when the police had gone—

  ‘But they’ve only withdrawn because of my mother,’ interjected Dominic. ‘They’ll be back.’

  ‘I know and I shall give myself up—no—’ He put his hand up again. ‘She told me about your mother. I’ve done this to her.’

  Sterrin watched the way he strove for words; so unlike him. He always said things the way one would have liked to say them oneself. His face was ghastly; and there were traces of slime where his sleeves had brushed against those subterranean walls. Like the smear on her wedding dress.

  While they argued and pleaded with him the priest came quietly into the oratory. He placed a hand on Sterrin’s head.

  ‘Your mother is in no danger.’ He stopped at the sight of Thomas stepping forward from the shadows. Sterrin introduced him and hurriedly explained what was afoot.

  The old priest gazed at him in quiet wonderment. ‘Young Thomas,’ he murmured. �
�The young Latin pupil who used to serve Mass for me. So you are the famous outlaw.’ He showed signs of reminiscing.

  Sterrin said quickly. ‘He wants to give himself up. It would mean the death sentence.’

  The priest nodded sadly. ‘It would, I fear. I wonder—’ He looked at Thomas speculatively. ‘I wonder is there any disguise you could think of, and maybe you could drive away with me in the old phaeton.’

  Thomas shook his head. Before he could answer there came a violent knocking at the door. Sterrin tensed. Then her mind raced in all directions. Somewhere behind the altar there was a panel but the steps that led from it had caved in with the storm. ’Twas too late. Everything was too late. The priest was looking at Thomas with infinite pity. They could hear voices. Dominic stepped out to the gallery. ‘It’s the military,’ they heard him say. A minute later he was accompanying a military officer into the room.

  Without preamble the officer addressed Thomas. ‘Get into this quickly.’ He handed him a bulky parcel. ‘There isn’t a moment to lose. If you are caught on the premises Sir Dominic is to be arrested for harbouring a felon.’

  In the waiting lull Sterrin whispered awhile to the priest, then hastened to see her mother. The doctor was coming from her room.

  ‘Let her sleep, Sterrin. There is no fear of her.’ He talked to her as she returned to the oratory. Vaguely, she was aware of the servants crowding in the rear of the hall; upturned faces, a whispering tension. Hadn’t there been a queer, stern urgency, they commented, in the arrival of the friendly captain?

  When Thomas reappeared in the oratory, Captain Fitzharding-Smith barely suppressed a whistle of amazement. ‘It becomes you better than it did poor Orlando de Trafford. I once told you that you’d make a fine hussar.’

  ‘But you told me that I should begin at the other end.’

  The captain turned to the door. ‘Come, there is not a moment to spare.’

  Sterrin reached out a hand to him. ‘There is one moment you must spare.’

  The waiting servants watched her appear at the gallery head. ‘Hannah,’ she called, and then she added. ‘All of you! Come!’

  They crowded into the oratory, looking in wonder at each other. What was happening? Dr. Mitchell was there, and the priest wore his stole, and two splendid officers standing in front of him. There was a sort of ceremonial quality about the way the young Sir took his sister’s arm and led her a step forward to stand beside one of the officers, then, with a click of his finger beckoned Hannah to stand behind her.

  ’Twas then it struck into their minds. The splendid officer beside Captain Fitzharding-Smith wasn’t a splendid officer at all. He was their own Young Thomas, the knife boy, and the priest was marrying him to their own Miss Sterrin.

  The moment was over. Captain Fitzharding-Smith drew Sterrin from her husband’s embrace.

  ‘I will wave to you from the wall gap,’ she whispered tremulously.

  ‘You will do no such thing.’ It was a command from an unfamiliar Captain Fitzharding-Smith. He was in his own realm; indisputable.

  ‘Then,’ she turned pleadingly to Thomas, ‘look back when you reach the gate—just, only look back.’

  A few minutes later, the lodge-keeper hurried to open the gates as the two officers came cantering down the avenue. No sound between them but the clink of scabbard against stirrup.

  As they passed through the gates one of the officers slowed, then halted. The castle was closed and silent. No lights showed from the windows. Then as he watched, a tiny flickering light showed in the broken turret. A figure loomed there, then vanished. There was another movement above the tiny light. ’Twixt it and the waving moon the flag of Kilsheelin was lapping, gently; full-masted; proudly.

  A great event had taken place in the castle.

  We hope you enjoyed this book.

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  About Beatrice Coogan

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  About Beatrice Coogan

  BEATRICE COOGAN was born in Ireland in 1905 and went on to have a successful journalism career, writing for the Evening Herald. She was also an actress with the Abbey Theatre and Radio Éireann. Beatrice spent many years researching The Big Wind and much of the historical background came from her own family records.

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  First published in Great Britain in 1969.

  This edition published in 2017 by Head of Zeus Ltd.

  Copyright © Beatrice Coogan 1969

  The moral right of Beatrice Coogan to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act of 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN (PB) 9781786695543

  ISBN (E) 9781786695536

  Images: Malgorzata Maj / Arcangel; Shutterstock

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