‘Clean those rags you have on you, boyo,’ ordered the sheriff. ‘You might as well start learning to take care of yourself.’ As soon as he’d uttered the words, Robert thought how redundant his statement was. If there was anyone in this whole green island who knew how to take care of himself, it was the young fellow who stood before him now.
*
CHAPTER 9
Roisin was kept busy in Gortalocca and she often thought about Michael, wishing he was there to help. Robbie did his best, but the unvarnished truth was that he was about as much use as her own dear father had been. They still owned and ran Hogan’s, the village store, but business had been poor since so many had been evicted from the area.
Roisin would open the store for a few hours in the morning, for women coming to buy their supplies, then again in the evening in the hopes there would be a gathering of the locals for a bit of gossip and a pint or two. Her best customer was Robbie, who would share a drop with anyone who stopped by. He suffered from the publican’s curse, sampling too much of his own product, so she had to keep an eye on him. Roisin doubted that Hogan’s would last another generation. Her fears were not based solely on the poor business, and her dear Liam’s death, but the thought of what legacy might be left behind when her time came. She loved her son Robbie dearly, but she seriously doubted his capabilities. It wasn’t that he was stupid or ignorant, he just didn’t care enough. Robbie’s only concern was his next meal and flagon of beer. If Mikey were here, things would be different. Mikey truly was his father’s son.
Liam’s experiment in socialism had failed dismally. He had thought, by having community-owned land, although for legal purposes it was his name on the deed, the farmers would be more productive. Liam’s plan was that a quarter of the profits would be set aside, to cover the tithe which had to be paid annually to the Church of Ireland, and the rest would go towards buying seed and livestock for the coming year. That way, if the crops failed, the community wouldn’t starve as they had done in other parts of Ireland during famine years. There were so many homeless families that Liam had no problem finding people. The problem was that, when it came time to divide the profits, they regarded Liam with the same animosity they would any tax collector, even though they were living better and more securely than they had ever lived in their lives.
There had been a few exceptions. When the Reilly family left their farm and moved to Clare, Liam had bought it and settled a young family from south Tipp there. The Kellys had understood. They raised sheep, the likes of which had never been owned by an Irishman before. Roisin smiled to herself as she remembered that those sheep were the progeny of the ‘borrowed’ Protestant ram.
Managing fifteen farms … Roisin put her face in her hands, she felt like crying. She didn’t know how in God’s name Liam had done it. She had the now familiar thick feeling in her throat but the tears wouldn’t come this time, she had cried herself dry. She knew it was time to pull herself out of her misery and to get on with things. She made her way from her cottage, across the little village street, and opened Hogan’s for the first time since they buried Liam.
*
Michael Flynn Hogan had just finished saying Mass in the bog outside Macroom. On any other occasion, he would have been invited to eat a meal with a local family, but today was different. After Mass, everyone had dispersed into the swamp. They were afraid and wanted nothing to do with the priest. There was nothing to do but start the journey home. He would travel by day, hoping to avoid not only the bandits, but also the redcoats. He packed his stole under the piece of rotten pork, got a small loaf of bread from one of the old women parishioners, and headed off back to safety.
He had covered almost half the route back to Ballyshee but the sun was getting low now and Mikey knew he must find somewhere to spend the night, far away from the more travelled road from Macroom to Bantry. His thoughts were with his empty stomach instead of in his head when he came to a small road crossing.
‘Halt!’ yelled a red-coated man who had stepped out from behind a stone wall with another. The first man was shaped like a barrel and he held his musket at port arms. The other younger man had his weapon pointed at Michael and he heard the unmistakeable double click of a ‘Brown Bess’ being cocked. Mikey froze in mid-stride, wishing that he’d been paying more attention. At this range, there would be little chance of a miss, and a seventy five caliber lead ball left no apologies.
‘State yer business, you Irish pig!’
Michael heard the undeniable Irish in the man’s own accent. Sometimes, the Irish in the King’s employ were even more English than the English, he thought.
‘Putcher hands over yer head, Paddy.’ Mikey did as he was instructed. ‘Are ya deaf? I said state yer business! What are ya doin’ on d’ road?’
‘I’m a blacksmith,’ replied Michael.
‘O’course ya are,’ sneered the barrel-shaped corporal, ‘an’ I’m d’ King o’ England.’ He turned and addressed the trooper. ‘Go and check ‘is bag. An’ put dat gun on half cock, so’s ya don’t blow yer own head off.’
The second man lowered the hammer on the flint lock and went over to Liam’s bag. He opened it up and, when he smelled the contents, he turned and gagged.
‘Jayzus have you got a dead pig in there?’ he spluttered, clouting Michael on the side of the head with a gloved hand.
By now the smell had reached the thick corporal. ‘Jus’ see if ‘e has somethin’ t’ eat in dere, den kick ‘im in d’ arse fer offendin’ me nose.’
The trooper pulled out the loaf and then, as instructed, kicked Michael’s arse.
‘Show me yer hands,’ barked the corporal. ‘I c’n smell a priest a mile away, an’ y’ got dat stink about ya.’ Michael held his hands out for inspection. The corporal turned them over, then threw them down roughly. ‘Get yer sorry self outta here an’ get off me road before I spend a bit o’ lead an’ powder on ya.’ Michael wasted no time in heading down the road and didn’t slow his pace until he was sure he was out of musket range.
Even when he knew he was out of view, the young man’s heart continued to pound in his chest. That was two close calls on one trip. Mikey didn’t mind a little excitement in his life, but this was too much for his temperament to withstand. He thought about Gortalocca and his mam and da. The land up in Tipperary was a lot more hospitable and his uncle, the sheriff, had cleaned out most of the bandits long ago. Except for a few roving bands of youths, it was safe to travel day or night. There were only a few red-coats stationed at Nenagh Castle, and even they were mostly brought out for ceremonial purposes. Mikey had begun to get homesick for the rolling Tipperary fields which gave up their fruits so willingly. The mountains around him now were majestic, to be sure, but a man can’t eat beauty and what bounty they did give up, they gave up grudgingly.
He found a place to rest for the evening, behind a thicket of gorse. He had nothing to eat now, the troopers had seen to that. He counted his blessings, however, that the rotten pork had done its job and that the English hadn’t probed any deeper into his sack than they had. He slept fitfully, woken several times by the sound of hoof beats on the road just below where he rested. The night was no longer his friend.
The next day, the sun was directly overhead when he walked into Ballyshee Valley. The sky was cloudless and the sun had grown hot. He had forgotten about his empty belly. Empty stomachs were something the Irish had grown used to. He looked forward to washing the road grime off himself with the clear water which ran in the little stream at the back of the forge. He would sit in the sun and let himself dry. He thought about sitting there with Morna, as the sun descended beyond the mountains, and the shadows creeped across the land. He was startled from his daydream by a voice he always half-hoped for, and had even begun to expect, each Monday when he returned from Macroom.
‘Yer late. Oy bin worried aboutcha.’ Michael smiled for the first time since he’d seen her a few days before. He couldn’t help himself. Whenever he looked into those beautiful gre
en eyes, he got lost. Her red hair was tied tightly back, exposing the nape of her neck and Mikey felt a stirring that wasn’t at all priestly. Morna walked over to where he stood and took his bag out of his hands. She was so close now that he could see down the collar of her dress, but he didn’t let his eyes linger there long. Morna O’Malley was blossoming into a woman and she had the same feelings for the young smith as he had for her, but he wasn’t aware of them. They walked together to the wooden bench which stood next to the cold forge and he sat heavily on it, slumping his shoulders with exhaustion. Morna sat down too and slid across the bench so that their hips just touched. He didn’t care whether they spoke or not, as long as the girl was sitting beside him, but she said,
‘It’s long past toime dat we put t’ings on d’ table.’ Mikey was torn between inching away and wrapping his arms around her, pulling the delicate young woman to him. ‘Ya know, Mikey, all d’ eligible men here in Ballyshee aire joost overgrown boys.’
Mikey gave her a perplexed smile, ‘They’re Irish lads sure,’ he said. ‘It’s hard for them to let go of the boys they once were.’
‘Oy have sumpthin’ t’ say, Mikey Hogan.’ Her pretty frow furrowed. ‘An’ if ya get me confused, Oy won’t r’member d’ speech Oy been goin’ over in me head!’ Michael lowered his head in mock penitence but she had his complete attention.
‘It’s like dis, Michael. Oy bin talkin’ t’ a couple o’ d’ udder garls, Kathleen Finnegan an’ Mary Galvin, an’ dey’ve taken a shine t’ya too.’
‘What about the priest thing?’
‘Shut yer trap, Mikey, yer makin’ me ferget me speech. Anyway, yer d’ only one aroun’ here dat t’inks yer a priest. Ya a’ready tol’ evryb’dy dat you ain’t took yer final vows, so ya ain’t a real priest yet, an’ if Oy get my way, d’ only vows you’ll take is weddin’ ones. Now see what ya did, ya sod, ya made me ferget me speech! Oy’ll jus’ say dat ya have somethin’ t’ talk to me Da about an’ Oy expec’ ya t’ say it really soon, befar dem udder garls talk t’ ya.’
With that, Morna hurried away for a few steps, then slowed, tossed him a skittish smile over her shoulder and sauntered off in the direction of her family’s cottage. Michael was flummoxed, completely taken by surprise at the young woman’s boldness. She might not look like me mam, he thought, but it was like herself talking to me.
*
CHAPTER 10
Robert D’Arcy was as meticulous in his plans for this mission as he was in planning strategy for a battle. He strode towards his office and spoke to his adjutant on the way.
‘Come with me Higgins. I have something to discuss with you.’ Higgins was completely caught off guard and, from the tone of the sheriff’s voice, thought he was surely in trouble for something. He snapped to attention.
‘I can explain, sir,’ he began.
Robert stopped and turned to his subordinate. ‘Shut up, Higgie,’ he said, ‘you’re not in any hot water. In fact you’re getting a promotion.’ Higgins’ jaw slacked and, mutely, he followed Robert into the office. ‘Shut the door, Higgins, this isn’t a barn.’ The adjutant meekly did as he was told. ‘Now, take a seat.’ Robert pointed to the chair behind his desk and sat himself at the one in front of it. Higgins lowered himself gingerly into the big chair and fidgeted for a moment before settling in.
‘Gives you a different perspective, doesn’t it?’ asked Robert rhetorically.
‘Yes, sir… but do you think I’m ready?’
‘You’re a gobshite, Higgins. You know as well as I do that you’ve lusted after my position from the time you arrived here.’
‘Well, yes sir, but…’
‘False modesty doesn’t suit you, Higgins. The job is temporary. You’ll only be keeping my seat warm and if you do it well, I might recommend you for the post. But first, I have a request to ask of you and a piece of advice to give you. The request is that you keep an eye on the little village of Gortalocca. I have a special interest in some of the people there. The advice, Higgie, is stop being such a snob. This is not Staffordshire, it’s Tipperary and it’s not Lichfield, this is Nenagh.’
Higgins was astonished that the High Sheriff even knew where his family came from, and he chose to ignore the ‘snob’ comment. The adjutant nodded and said he would do as requested.
‘Now go back to your desk. You’ll be sitting in my chair soon enough.’ Higgins rose reluctantly and returned to the outside office. Robert followed him out and went straight to the armoury.
Rows of muskets were lined up in racks against the wall, along with every kind of bladed instrument of mayhem, which were rapidly becoming obsolete. The old man who tended the arsenal stood up as Robert entered.
‘C’n I helpya, sir?’ he inquired, from the dimness. There was only a single small window providing the light. Any open flame, like that from a candle or an oil lamp, could ignite the gunpowder stored here.
‘Have you got any caltrops?’ asked Robert.
‘We have o’course,’ said the old fellow. ‘We’ve sacks of ‘em,’ With that, he disappeared into the dark and returned with a vicious, mediaeval-looking device made of iron, with four three-inch spikes sticking out from it in a manner such that, if thrown on the ground, one of the spikes would always point straight upwards. The old man handed one to Robert and the sheriff turned it over in his hands. He shook his head.
‘It’s too big and heavy. I want two dozen of them, made with one inch spikes. How long will it take?’ The armourer took the caltrop back now he turned it over in his hands.
‘Vicious t’ings, dese,’ he mused. ‘Dey could lame a man ‘r a harse wit’ one step. I could get d’ smith t’ make a bunch in a day ’r so.’
‘Make it so’, ordered the sheriff, ‘and one more thing. I want a pistol which can be hidden in a pocket.’
The old fellow beamed a toothless grin, ‘I made t’ree o’ dem fer Sir Howard some years back,’ he said, ‘fer ‘is own personal protection like, but he tol’ me dat I was a toymaker. I ev’n have ‘d bullet mould fer dem. I’ll get dem fer ya.’ The armourer again disappeared into the darkness and Robert could hear him rummaging around. The old man reappeared with a box and, when he opened the lid, there were two complete pistols with barrels about four inches long, and a third one without a lock mechanism. Robert picked up one of the two finished guns and put it in his pocket. When he tried to withdraw it, the dog ear of the hammer caught in his clothes.
‘Can you take most of the ear off the hammer?’ he asked.
The old armourer looked a little doubtful. ‘I can, o’course, sir, but it’ll make it harder to cock d’ piece.’ The sheriff shrugged and the armourer added, ‘Dese t’ings won’t be much good after ‘bout ten feet, sir.’
Robert smiled openly, ‘As long as they can outreach a sabre, that will be sufficient.’
The old man nodded in affirmation, ‘Ah, dey’ll do dat sir, unless d’ man swings a mighty long blade.’
Robert stepped outside the darkness of the armoury and squinted his eyes against the harsh, bright sunlight. If he’d had more time, he would have stayed and talked to the armourer for a while longer. The old fellow was interesting, in a murder and mayhem sort of way. He headed back towards his office and noticed that his adjutant wasn’t at his desk. I hope the fecker isn’t getting drunk, he thought, as he opened the heavy door to his inner office. There sat the adjutant, behind the desk, with his feet up. A decanter of whiskey and a smoking pipe sat on the desk in front of him.
‘I bet you wouldn’t jump in my grave that quick, you shitwad!’
Higgins jumped up and stood to attention. ‘Begging your pardon, sir. I was just trying the chair out for size, sir.’
‘Well try your legs out for size and run yourself back out to your own desk.’ Higgins did nothing better than follow instructions, there wasn’t a creative bone in his body, so he made his way to the door. ‘And send for Ned Flood, if you can manage to find him. Tell him I want to see him.’
When he was alone in his offic
e, Robert slouched down in his chair and closed his eyes. He was tired and could easily have dozed off right there and then. He was sixty-one years old and, although he didn’t look it, there were times when his years felt like a hundred and sixty-one. His right shoulder ached when he used it too much, or when the weather was cold and damp, and there were times when, if he sat for too long, his knees felt like they had rusted tight. It was time to give it up and perhaps find a little place to spend his dotage, maybe even Gortalocca. It was just the right size and everyone there knew him. His reverie was interrupted by a loud knock on the door.
*
Mikey made his way along the floor of the valley and started up the slope which lead to the O’Malley cottage. It wasn’t far, less than half a mile. He was surprised at how calm he was and he thought about the story his mother had told him about how nervous his father had been when he had asked permission to court her. Michael, by contrast, was as calm as a man could be under the circumstances. He had dressed in his best clothes. It was an easy choice since they were the only clothes he had, except for the grey Franciscan robe. Thankfully, the day had been sunny and warm and so he’d had the opportunity to scrub his leine and trews. They hadn’t quite dried but they were dry enough. This was going to be one of those moments that he needed to remember, although he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. He had decided he would simply react to whatever was said to him and take it from there.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 6