They had been warned in the seminary about ‘occasions when sin would present itself’ and had been told that, above all things, they must not abuse their power. To be a priest in Ireland meant that your status was only just beneath that of an angel. To be ordained meant that you were Christ’s representative on earth and, as such, you transformed from a mere human being into something supernatural, with the ability to change water and wine into the blood of Christ and bread into His body. But Mikey had never been ordained. He hammered the iron on the forge harder now, as if it might help to exorcise the demons which threatened to invade his body.
Morna O’Malley was sixteen years old, the only daughter of farmer Jack O’Malley. Mikey thought that Morna had been an ill-suited name for the girl he loved. It meant lively and energetic and his Morna was far from that. She was a quiet and timid girl unlike his mother, both in appearance and demeanor. She was small and petite. Her auburn hair was the colour of burnt honey and hung in loose curls down her back, her emerald green eyes flickered like there were flecks of light in them. If someone was to paint a picture of the quintessential Irish lass, he thought, then Morna would surely make a perfect subject. Of course he would think that, he was in love with her. His thoughts flew wildly again, like a flock of grouse. If only he was just the village blacksmith.
It was Friday today and this coming Sunday would be the third one in July. When Mikey thought it safe, he tried to hold Mass once a month, on an island in the bog, near Macroom. It was at least a day’s walk and was better made after dark. He would start out tonight. He would rather travel after dark and risk bandits, rather than by day and face the possibility of encountering British cavalry. If he was caught, however, his calloused hands would work in his favour. He’d had a couple of close calls so far, but one look at his hands had convinced those who apprehended him that he was only a yeoman and not a man of the cloth. He would leave his Franciscan robes behind and take with him only the linen stole which he wore during Mass, hidden at the bottom of his sack in the secret pocket he’d sewn there. He placed a lump of rancid pork on top of it, to deter anyone from searching further, and then a loaf of bread and piece of cheese for his victuals. He tied the ends of some rope to the top corners and slung the bag over his shoulder. It wasn’t the professional highwaymen who concerned him, after all he’d heard most of their confessions, it was the roving bands of half-starving orphans who posed the greatest danger. These were boys of between eleven and seventeen years of age and they were ruthless. Life had no meaning for them and they would do anything to get the money they needed for ale and cheap poteen. He would rather run into a company of English grenadiers any day than have an encounter with those murderous young thugs.
The first part of his journey was safe. No one except the residents of Ballyshee trod the road he used but, when he got to the main road, he had to be more careful. He draped his dark grey, felt brat over his shoulders, obscuring his faded yellow leine. His trews, or trousers, were dyed with woad and weld, to give them their olive green colour. Dressed like this, on a moonless night like tonight, it would be relatively easy for him to become invisible to prying eyes. Silence and darkness were his allies and stealth was his companion.
The first few miles out of the valley were all uphill and the rope cut into his shoulder, so he kept shifting his sack from one side to another. It was an hour and a half before he reached the summit but he knew then that the rest of the journey would be rolling hills and easier for him to negotiate. He stopped for a moment to let the fresh night air cool him. The past few days had been hot and humid and perhaps this new breeze meant that more seasonal temperatures were on their way. He hadn’t eaten any supper, so he tore a lump off the loaf and took a bite of cheese. He uncorked his water bottle and washed down the mouthful, wishing he had a drop of beer to help it on its way.
The first few hours after dark would be the most dangerous. After that, even if the youths positioned a lookout, whoever it was would most likely fall asleep. Michael began his long walk, one foot in front of another, each step taking him closer. The sound of his rhythmic footsteps on the path was hypnotic and lulled him into a reverie. He thought about the story his father had often told him, about the long trek he’d made many years before from Thurles to Nenagh, pulling a wagon behind him. Well, he thought, at least I only have a sack to carry. I don’t have to drag a few hundred pounds of wagon and a box of heavy tools. He walked for another hour, lost in a hundred thoughts, mostly about a young girl with emerald green eyes and copper hair. He was wrenched from his fantasy by the high pitched voice of a boy.
‘Hey! I t’ink I heard someone!’
‘You better be right, ya stinkhole!’ The voice from the dark was a little deeper.
Michael slipped the bag off his shoulder, slowly and quietly, and gradually slid into the shadows beside a hedgerow. Now, silhouetted against the dark sky, he could see two figures looking in his direction, one taller than the other. Soon there were four of them. They were only thirty yards or so away from where he lay crouched and he controlled his breathing. It seemed hours, but was probably only minutes, when finally, the tallest of the four, and the one with the deepest voice spoke.
‘I don’t see anyt’ing but if yu’re sure, you g’wan an’ take a look.’ With that, he gave the smallest one a mighty shove that sent him sprawling. The boy got up and dusted himself off.
‘Feck you,’ he said over his shoulder. He ventured a few steps in Michael’s direction, then stopped, turned, and spoke to the shadows behind him. ‘What if it’s a feckin’ wolf?’ There was some laughter amongst the bigger boys.
‘Den he’ll eatcha,’ one of them called, ‘an’ d’ rest of uz’ll be safe. Now g’wan!’ The small lad retreated backwards, retracing his steps and, when he reached the bigger boys, one of them gave him a smart slap on the back of his head.
‘Hey you!’ said another. ‘Dat’s me brudder! If anyone’s gonna wack d’ little fecker, it’ll be me.’ With that, one of the other older boys gave him a second slap.
‘I’m d’ leader o’ dis outfit,’ roared the third, ‘an’ I’ll do d’ whackin’, if yous don’t mind!’ He took a shot too and a brawl broke out, with the bigger boys throwing punches at each other and the little one trying to join in. This was going to be a long night and Mike was getting a cramp in his leg. When he straightened it, the small boy yelled out.
‘Hold yer whisht! I heard it again!’ The rest of them stopped fighting each other and set about the boy.
Michael didn’t dare to close his eyes for the rest of the night and, just before dawn, he slipped past the now sleeping sentry and headed down the road towards Macroom. He got to the safehouse around midday and he knocked on the door in code, as was his custom, one loud and three soft. A stout old woman opened the door, grabbed him by the shirt and yanked him in, then poked her head outside, looking in both directions to see if he’d been followed.
She was agitated and wrung her hands. ‘Dis is d’ las’ time ya c’n stay here, Farder,’ she said quietly. ‘I’m sorry, ‘tis gettin’ too dangerous fer an auld woman like meself.’
Something had changed. ‘What’s happened?’
‘Da English, dey’ve got a man-hunter, Farder,’ she told him. ‘He’s lookin’ fer priests. Dey’ve given ‘im a whole company o’ soldiers t’ help ‘im.’
This was news to Michael. Generally, the authorities used local spy networks to uncover clandestine church services.
‘What do you know about him?’
‘I heard tell he was in Kerry, an’ dat he tracked down a couple o’ priests an’ hung ‘em. He even killed one wit’ a sword near Glenbeigh. He got mad ‘cuz nobody had turned ‘im in, so when he found ‘im travellin’ at night, he stuck ‘im t’rough d’ middle wit ‘is saber!’
Michael gave it some thought. That was astute for an Englishman, anyone out on the road late was probably up to no good. That meant he’d be better off travelling by day and taking his chances with the local sheriffs. Agh!
Redcoats chasing priests, he thought, cynically. What the English need is a good old-fashioned war with France to keep their army occupied. Michael thanked the old woman and retired to a little room off the kitchen to get some well-needed sleep.
*
CHAPTER 8
One of the things Robert needed to do before he left on his mission was to appoint an interim sheriff. He already had someone in mind, a young man who had been his adjutant for the last six years. Bernard Higgins was capable, although perhaps a little stuffy for Robert’s taste. He was the third son of a lower level English nobleman, and young at just twenty eight, but he had an advantage which many in his position did not. He had been raised in Ireland since he was an infant.
Bernard Higgins had never been particularly ambitious, which had turned out to be an asset, but he did understand Ireland. He was even-tempered and uninclined to temper tantrums, as many pampered sons were. The office of sheriff no longer called for a man of action, the duties having become more administrative than anything. Robert sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk, his gaze wandering up to the ceiling. He thought about the days when he had chased bandits through the countryside, and the dangers it had presented, and he longed for them. The job of a bureaucrat did not suit him at all well. He did what was necessary but he did it grudgingly.
He carried on with his plans for the task ahead of him. Although he knew could make it alone, he also knew that an extra set of eyes would be useful and to have an extra man-at-arms wouldn’t go amiss. He already had someone in mind for this job too, Ned Flood. Ned was a young man of action but, unlike most, he was able to think on his feet. He had acquired his current position as deputy by mere chance, several years before, when he’d worked as a stable-boy here in the castle. His duties had been barely more than that of a janitor back then, shovelling horse dung and providing clean bedding for the animals. One afternoon, two of the senior deputies had got themselves into a dispute, Robert couldn’t remember what it was, a gambling debt, or a woman, or some such nonsense. The argument had escalated into a fistfight, down in the courtyard below, and Robert had watched the proceedings from his window. He left them to it for a while, aware that sometimes it was better to let men get their frustrations out of their systems, but soon the altercation had begun to grow out of hand. Just as he was about to go down and separate the two burly fellows, a young stable hand had come out and intervened, and what an intervention it was.
Initially, Ned had tried to sandwich himself between the combatants, in an effort to split them up but, when they turned on him, he had made quick work of them both. There had been consternation and amusement at the time amongst the other men because the two big men-at-arms had been soundly whipped by a lanky boy. Robert was already considering introducing some fresh blood into the corps, and Ned’s fearlessness impressed him. The boy had casually returned to his work mucking out the stables, and Robert made his way down, to find him shovelling another pile of dung onto a wheelbarrow.
‘Do you have a name, boy?’ he asked, sternly.
Ned was afraid that he was about to be punished or, even worse, that he would be dismissed from his job. ‘Me name is Ned, sar,’ he stated.
‘Ned Sir, is it? That’s an unusual surname you have there, Mr. Sir,’ Robert joked, attempting humour in an effort to allay the boy’s fears.
‘No, sar,’ corrected the young man, ‘it’s Ned Flood, sar’. He didn’t understand the joke.
‘Can you read, Ned Flood Sir?’
‘No, sar, nary a word.’
‘Are you an idiot?’
‘I’m no eejit, sar.’
Robert saw the colour rise in the boy’s face. ‘Do you think you could learn?’
‘If I got d’chance, I could larn.’
Robert interrupted his own line of interrogation. ‘You don’t have a Tipp accent, boy. Where do you hail from?’
‘Oy’m fr’m Cark, sar. Fr’m West Cark.’
‘Interesting,’ mused Robert. He turned and went back to his office, and the boy went back to shovelling manure.
Robert hadn’t forgotten his conversation with the sandy-haired lad who had smelled of horse urine and dung. The very next day, he sent his adjutant to the stable with a thin, dog-eared book. Higgins had handed the book to Ned, and walked off without a word. When he returned to the sheriff’s office, Robert stood with his hands on his hips.
‘That was fast, Higgie,’ he said.
Higgins bristled at the familiarity and straightened his back with indignation. ‘I did as you instructed, sir.’
‘Go back down there and teach that boy to read, if that’s not an offense to your sensitivities.’
Bernard Higgins was totally taken aback by this commoner’s effrontery and sneer of resentment wasn’t wasted on the sheriff.
Robert sighed deeply. ‘Let me put it to you this way, Higgie. Do you like your job?’
Higgins winced at the thinly-veiled threat. ‘As you wish, sir,’ he said. He knuckled his forehead in salute and sulkily went down to the stable.
Higgins followed his orders and finally got over his snit. A week went by and, one morning, he went into Robert’s office.
‘Permission to speak sir.’
Robert looked up from the papers he had been shuffling, fully expecting to hear some complaint from his adjutant.
‘It’s about that stable-boy from Cork sir.’
‘Continue,’ replied Robert.
‘That filthy bog-Irishman must be some sort of genius or other.’
Robert held up his hand to warn the young officer. ‘Watch your tongue, Higgie.’
Higgins ignored the familiar term and continued. ‘He has devoured that primer already and now he’s asking me to teach him his numbers, if you please. He even had the gall to ask me would I get him another book. Said he was getting tired of reading the same one over and over!’
Robert smiled, it seems he had completely underestimated his new discovery.
‘And another thing,’ said Higgins. The sheriff was sure this would be some complaint or other.
‘When I told him I should flog him for his impertinence, he looked at me like a wolf and said that if I did, it would be the last time I flogged anyone!’
Robert shook his head, the lad had gone too far now.
‘I’ll speak to him. Perhaps I can scrape some of the Cork off. In the meantime, Higgins, if you’d like your features to stay as they are, I recommend you don’t threaten the young sod again.’
Robert left the papers scattered on his desk and immediately left for the stables. Higgins smirked, satisfied that his complaint had been taken seriously for a change. He hoped there would be a flogging, at least it would provide entertainment after the evening meal. That hope couldn’t have been further from the truth.
Ned was busy mucking out stalls when Robert arrived, so he stood in the doorway and watched him quietly until the boy finally became aware of his presence and put the pitchfork against the wall.
‘Sorry, sar, I didn’ see ya standin’ dere.’
‘Listen to me, Ned.’ It was the first time he’d used the young fellow’s name.
The boy held himself erect and looked directly at the sheriff, ‘Ef it’s about me t’reat’nin’ d’ depuddy, I’m sorry, sar. It won’ happ’n again. He joost made me mad when ‘e said he’d beat me.’
Robert returned the boy’s direct gaze and his face was stern. Finally, the young man looked away and hung his head. He was genuinely sorry for speaking on impulse.
‘I have t’ larn t’ control me temper,’ he said quietly.
‘You do,’ replied Robert with an edge in his voice. ‘How can I make a deputy out of you if you can’t control your own emotions?’
The boy’s head snapped up now. ‘Ya can’t make a lawman outta me, no matter how haird ya troy.’
Robert wasn’t used to being told he couldn’t do something and it reflected in his voice, ‘So you’d rather piss your life away shovelling shit, would you?’
Robert raised his eyebrows. He realised he knew nothing about this bright boy, except for their brief conversation a week before.
‘Well tell me, so.’
‘When I tell it t’ ya’, you won’t want me fer a depuddy.’ The boy had Robert’s complete attention now. ‘Me da an’ me ooncle … dey w’s both hanged, down in Glengarriff, about ten years ago. They was bandits, ‘r at least me ooncle was. I t’ink me da jus’ wen’ along fer d’ craic. Dey tried t’ waylay a gennelman on d’ rawd t’ Bantry. It tarned out he w’s bait fer a troop o’ cavalry some smairt young Anglish officer was leadin’. Annyway, dey got run down by d’ harses, an’ d next marnin’ dey hung ‘em both from Cromwell’s bridge.’
‘That wasn’t any wrongdoing of yours, boy. How did your family survive?’
‘I didn’ have any fam’ly, sar. Joost me da. When he w’s gone, I stairved fer a few days in me house an’ den I hit d’ rawd t’ make out ‘s best I could.’
Robert considered Ned’s words for a moment. This was a story which repeated itself all too often throughout Ireland. Most orphans starved, but a few of the more resilient ones managed to survive, at least for a while. Ned’s story gave testament to the resourcefulness of the young man standing here in the stable.
‘Tell me about your da.’
The boy looked down. He was loath to speak of his father, but this man had shown him mercy where another would have flogged him, so he deserved a response.
‘He beat me all d’ time,’ he said quietly. ‘He’d get drunk on whiskey an’ he’d smack me ‘til ‘is hands got sore. Den he’d beat me wit’ a willow switch until he couldn’ swing it anymore. Boot, he w’s me da, sure, an’ I loved ‘im joost d’ same.’
Robert had never been married and he had no children, none that he knew of anyway, but he never understood how a child could be subjected to such abuse by a parent, yet still love their abuser. Robert had heard enough. He told Ned that what they’d talked about was just between the two of them and that the young man should, under no circumstances, repeat it again. Ned understood. He had never told the story to anyone else, out of shame and embarrassment.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 5