As he approached the cottage, Michael could see that the upper half of the door was open, and he could hear the soft murmuring of voices from within. He didn’t have to announce himself, it seemed that he was expected.
‘Come in, boyo, an’ have a drink wit me’, said Jimmy O’Malley. Mikey noticed that O’Malley’s face, which was normally split in two by a huge smile, was unusually sober. Jimmy was a short, stocky fellow with white hair and a ruddy complexion. Mikey estimated him to be in his mid-fifties. When his eyes got used to the dark, Michael saw the faces of Caroline O’Malley and Morna, equally as grim, and he could tell they’d been crying.
‘Maybe this isn’t a good time’ he said.
‘Nonsense, boyo, dis is d’ parfec’ toime. C’mon, we’ll have a drink an’ den we’ll take a walk, an’ leave d’ women t’ talk.’
There were only two little stools and a table in the house and they constituted the entire furnishings, so the men stood and the older woman and the girl sat mutely. Jimmy downed the cup of poteen in a single gulp, it wasn’t the first drink he’d had that afternoon,
‘Drink oop, lad, an’ we’ll stretch our legs.’ The homemade whiskey was strong and when Mikey drained the cup, it burned his throat and took his breath away. Jimmy ushered the young fellow out and they walked together for a while in the warm afternoon sun. When they reached a stone wall, the old fellow rested his forearms on it and Mikey mimicked him.
‘It’s beautiful isn’t it, boyo,’ he said. They both looked out over the valley floor, dotted with cottages, some made of stone and some of mud. The afternoon sun glazed the valley with a golden hue and it was indeed beautiful.
‘Boot it’s a terrible beauty, boyo,’ Jimmy continued. ‘It c’n killa man as sure as pyson.’ Mikey wrinkled his brow in confusion.
‘How auld d’ ya t’ink Oy am, Michael?’ Mikey shrugged, he knew this kind of guessing game was one you couldn’t win.
‘Oy’m t’arty eight years auld, an’ me woife is t’arty six. Dis land has sooked d’ loife outta us, an’ Oy don’ wannit t’ kill my Morna too.’ Mikey exhaled deeply as Jimmy continued.
‘When me granda came t’ dis valley, sixty years ago, dere was only a few families here. Dey grazed sheep on d’ slopes, and dey raised mostly oats an’ wheat. Da soil was deep enoof on d’ floor o’ d’ valley t’ grow a crop o’ veg’tables too. Dey had a good life here. Den dey brought in d’ spuds an’ a man could feed a fam’ly on an acre ’r two o’ land an’ more people came. Da spuds was both a blessin’ an’ a curse fer Ireland. Have ya noticed dat dere ain’t no auld people here, or kids between d’ ages o’ five an’ ten?’ Mikey raised his eyebrows in realisation. ‘Well, dat’s because dey all stairved t’ death, a few years before ya came here. We had a cold, wet winter an’ a wet summer, followed by anudderer wet winter, an’ two crops o’ p’tatoes failed. We lost Morna’s younger brudder an’ sister. We ate grass soup an’ we all stairved. D’ lambs doid from d’ cold, an’ a lot o’ da ewes doid fr’m d’ hoof rot, so dere was nutt’n t’ eat but d’ grass from d’ hills. Liddle childr’n have always made mud pies, boot Oy betcha nev’r saw dem eat dem as well.’ Michael shook his head. ‘Well, dey did it here t’ keep d’ hoonger pains outta dere shtoomicks. Sure it broke me hairt, an’ it broke ev’ryone’s hairt, boot dats d’ way it was.’
Mikey’s eyes were glassy now and he saw that Jimmy had tears running down his face. He remembered back to 1722 and 1723 but the horrors of those periodic famines were something he had only vaguely heard about. He had never witnessed, firsthand, the desperation of the victims of one of these holocausts. Things did get lean in Gortalocca at the time, but his father had made sure everyone ate at least once a day. Michael realised that, even though he’d known Morna for two years now, he had never heard her talk of those times. He had oft times spoken about his own life in Gortalocca, and she had always listened attentively, but now he knew there was much more to this sweet young girl than he had ever imagined.
*
CHAPTER 11
In a mansion overlooking the bay in Glengarriff, a middle-aged English officer stood at the window of his office and stared down at the anchorage, feeling very sorry for himself. How could such a promising career have come to this? He’d been posted to Ireland more than ten years before and he despised the country and every living thing in it. He’d had the best education available and had excelled in the study of tactics and military history. Now, he’d been a Captain for nine years with no prospect of promotion. A rat-catcher, that’s all he’d become.
Percival Grey, the eighth child born to the Duke of Suffolk, turned away from the window and stood in front of the full-length mirror he kept in his office. His eyes saw a military hero and he turned sideways to admire himself. He thought that, given the opportunity, he could rival Hannibal, or even Alexander, with his military acumen. His own eyes didn’t see what the mirror saw. He was almost six feet tall and weighed not much more than a hundred and thirty pounds. His eyes were too close together, making his face foxlike in appearance, and he had a long prominent nose and less-than-prominent chin. His shoulders were too narrow and his hips too wide but, in his own eyes, he was Hercules reborn.
He had thought that by now, at the age of thirty-three, his military career would be over and he would be married to a plump girl, perhaps the only daughter of a rich English nobleman, and have an estate to rival his father’s. He would regale people at parties with tales of gallantry and heroics on the battlefield, yet here he was hunting Papist priests.
A fine crystal decanter of French brandy sat on his desk and the captain stared at it for a long moment. Bloody French, he thought, all they know how to do is make liquor and lose wars. Why can’t they start one up now? Then, when we defeat them, I can go back to England and write my memoirs. He rang for his butler, Joshua. The poor, unfortunate man had worked for the Grey family for many years and knew that, when Percival was in foul temperament, it was best to say nothing and await orders. He sometimes wished he was back in the cane fields of Jamaica, where Percy’s father had bought him, on a trip he’d made there twenty years before. He had brought back his pet ‘darkie’ to show off to the other gentry and, when he’d grown tired of his new ‘toy’, he had assigned him to serve Percival. Joshua had become oblivious of the younger man’s insults and derision and he’d also become accustomed to being flailed with whatever the Captain might lay his hands on. Joshua poured his master a snifter-full of brandy and waited to be dismissed. Percy waved him away.
Percival Grey hated his life and firmly believed that his circumstances were no fault of his own, that it was the stupid narrow-minded pigs in London who kept him here. An older brother of his had been posted to the Virginia colony and now he was married to a planter’s daughter, standing to inherit a very profitable tobacco plantation. His oldest sibling would become heir to his father’s title and estates and there would be nothing left for poor Percy. He hated his name too, and his mother for burdening him with it … Percy. His peers at boarding schools had bullied him and called him ‘Pussy’. He wished he could run them through with a sabre and watch them squirm, as they had made him squirm all those years before. Percival Grey saw himself as one of life’s victims and he had always blamed the world for making him feel that way. Now it was his chance to even up the score, and the entire country of Ireland would be the object of his animosity.
*
Robert Flynn D’Arcy was sitting behind his desk when Higgins ushered Ned Flood into the room. The young man stood to attention and the door was closed behind him.
‘At ease,’ ordered the sheriff, and Ned separated his feet, placing his hands behind his back. ‘Take a seat Ned. I have a request to make of you.’ The young deputy was used to taking orders from his superiors and this last statement made him curious. He seated himself facing the older man and stared at the horse pistol on the desk, pointing directly at the chair he was sitting in.
‘Sorry,’ Robert smiled, ‘that’s just for show
.’
Ned smiled back. ‘Well, I wish yu’d show it t’ d’ wall. It makes me narvous having dat t’ing pinted at me.’
Robert turned the pistol butt towards the young Irishman. ‘I’m going on a mission to west Cork,’ he told him.
The deputy’s grin became wider, ‘Dat’s my aul’ stompin’ ground.’
‘I know. I was wondering if you might be interested in joining me on an adventure, Ned.’ The boy’s face lit up and Robert knew he had the fish hooked. ‘There may be some danger involved,’ he warned. ‘That’s lawless territory down there.’
‘It won’ be lawless when we get down dere. When are we goin’?’
‘Whoa! Hold your horses, boyo. You don’t even know what we’re going there for.’
‘It don’ matter. I been gettin’ homesick fer d’ mount’ns.’
‘We have to go as civilians, Ned. We have no official jurisdiction down there.’
‘Aire we chasin’ villains?’
‘No.’
‘Boot it’s ‘n advent’re, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘An’ it could be dangerous, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘What more could a Carkman want, so. When’r we leavin?’
‘I have a little more work to do here, but it will be soon, probably by the end of the week.’
‘Oy’m game. You jus’ let me know an’ Oy’ll be saddled oop ready.’
Robert stood up and walked around the desk. He shook the young fellow’s hand, ‘Thank you, Ned,’ he said. ‘When we get back, you’ll be promoted to corporal.’ Ned Flood nodded and waited to be dismissed. Robert hesitated. ‘First we’ll have a drink to the success of our adventure,’ he said, and poured a healthy measure of good whiskey for them both. When Ned left the room, Robert heard him give a loud hoot and Higgins shouting at him to shut up. He went back behind his desk and poured himself another drink. As he sipped it, he smiled and thought back to the long-forgotten days in his father’s forge when he, too, had thirsted for adventure.
*
Roisin was beginning to formulate an idea of how to keep the village of Gortalocca sustainable, now that Liam was dead. She knew that if anything was to happen to her, then everything would be lost in short order. Liam had been the heart and soul of the town and the father of it too and, like all good fathers, he’d had his rules. To keep order, and to stay below the scrutiny of higher authorities, he’d had to impose a few. He had made sure that the debacle they’d had with Sean Reilly wouldn’t happen again. Sean had been spoiled as a child and had become a petulant adult, subject to rages, believing that everything related to him. Although he’d been generally tolerable when sober, he was dangerous in his cups and, when Liam tended the bar at Hogan’s, there had been times when Liam had cut off the supply of alcohol, even to the extent of shutting down the bar, if he thought there was a threat of violence.
His other rule was that the taxes and tithes must be paid at harvest time. To wait any longer would invite wild spending sprees, followed by destitution. It was the only way the community could survive through the bad years as well as the good. Their eldest son Robbie was a good hearted man, generous to a fault. He lived to be liked and, because of his good nature, he was an easy mark. Roisin knew only too well that the most difficult time of year was when the bills became due, and she also knew that Robbie was too easy-going to press anyone for payment. She wondered how she could approach Jamie Clancy to do the job, without evoking any jealousy or resentment from her oldest son. Liam had looked after Jamie from the time he was eleven years old, and Roisin knew him well enough to know there wasn’t a dishonest bone in his body. It was only July now, but she knew she had to start making plans for what must happen by the end of September. If only Liam was here to give her counsel, she thought. But Liam had lived his life as if he’d live forever … but he hadn’t. Roisin dabbed her eye with the corner of her apron. ‘Damn you, Liam Flynn, you’re going to make me cry again’, she said aloud.
Roisin was well aware that delicacy and diplomacy were not her forte. She was as blunt as a shillelagh. She thought perhaps she’d speak to Jamie first. He had spent so much time at Liam’s side that, sometimes, he even sounded like him. Some people, for whatever reason, were born wise and didn’t need a pile of decades under their belt to be prudent. Jamie Clancy was one of those, just as Liam had been and her youngest, Michael, was. Mikey, I wish you could hear me, she thought, I wish you’d come home and help me. She put her hands under her apron, pulled it up and buried her face in it. Her heart ached.
*
CHAPTER 12
The one-roomed cottage in Ballyshee was dark, except for the glow which ebbed and flowed from the turf burning in the fireplace. The temperature outside had plummeted as soon as the sun descended behind the mountains. Twilight lasted forever here in the valley. The four people inside talked intermittently, the women occasionally shedding tears. Michael and Morna sat on the floor, while the two chairs were occupied by the girl’s parents. Jimmy O’Malley and his wife approved of the match but there were certain formalities to be discussed. It would be unseemly for the young couple to court openly, at least until the rumour mill had announced their intentions. There would be some who would not accept the fact that Michael wasn’t a ‘real’ priest, since they had confessed to him, and he had dispensed penance, and had transformed the water and wine into Christ’s body and blood at Mass on Sundays. Jimmy chose to disregard those arguments. He wanted to get his daughter out of this beautiful, terrible valley.
The valley was remote enough to be untouched by the stranglehold which the British yoke held over most of the country but, sometimes, it was the land itself that could grind a man’s soul into grist … Ireland’s endless, unpredictable cycle of boom and bust. Depending on the vagaries of the weather, one out of every four years, it seemed, a crop would fail. If two bad seasons followed one another, the result was catastrophic and there would be a famine. Sometimes the season of privation was local but, once every twenty years or so, it was countrywide. The condition was exacerbated by the explosion in the population of Irish peasants. The lowly potato was a blessing and a curse, as the Irish people became more reliant on a single crop for their very survival.
Jimmy O’Malley almost always had a smile on his face. He was good-natured and cheerful but, underneath it all, lay a sense of dread or foreboding. He was happy enough with his lot, but a fear of the future haunted him. Like the land itself, he was pleasant and engaging at first glance but, underneath, lay a fierce unpredictability. The Irish and their mentality were largely shaped by the ground beneath their bare feet.
Jimmy tried to persuade his daughter to leave with Michael but Morna resisted, partly because she was afraid of the unknown. She had rarely left the confines of Ballyshee, and the outside world, with all its uncertainties, terrified her as much as the future frightened her father. She would miss her parents desperately too, if she was to strike out with Mikey. She worried that perhaps she didn’t know the young man, sitting beside her on the floor, well enough to make such a momentous decision. Michael had the advantage, he had heard her confessions.
He provided them with a possible solution. Since it was customary for parents in their dotage to live with one of their children, he and Morna would go to Gortalocca and, once they were settled, would send for Jimmy and his wife. O’Malley was dubious about this plan.
‘Wit’ t’ings bein’ d’ way dey aire, boyo, d’ roads’ll be too dangerous t’ travel wit’ a woman, ‘specially one as young an’ pretty as me dotter. Yu’d have t’ travel overland, an’ dat’d be some haird goin’ ‘til ye get outta dese mountains. Ye’ll have t’carry yer provisions, an’ I got no money t’ give ye.’
Mikey gave a passing thought to how effective the rotten pork had been in dissuading the troopers from searching his belongings. Perhaps he could secrete the foul-smelling stuff about Morna’s person, under her clothing. He thought about the many times, as a boy, when he’d come up with s
ome hair-brained scheme, only for his father to ask, ‘What kind of feckin’ nut are you, Mikey?’ Having seemingly already branded his son a nut, he was just curious to know which particular variety of ‘feckin’ nut’ he actually was. The memory of how he and his da used to interact made him smile involuntarily. They were two peas in a pod.
Jimmy O’Malley interrupted his train of thought. ‘Ain’t nuthin’ funny here, boyo, dis could be life an’ death … ‘r even worse!’
Mikey snapped back from his reverie and apologised to the farmer. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I just was thinking about me da.’
Jimmy was perturbed. ‘Well stop t’inkin’ ‘bout yer da, take a look at dat garl settin’ nex’ t’ ya dere, an’ stairt t’inkin’ ‘bout a safe way t’ get ‘er outta here.’ Michael looked at the delicate young girl by his side and his heart pounded. O’Malley was right, of course. The thought of any harm coming to her was enough to focus his attention.
‘I will, sir, you mustn’t worry. I have to give it some thought but I’ll come up with a plan that will work, I promise.’ The older fellow was satisfied. After all, Michael was a learned man who had attended the seminary.
‘You make yer plans, boyo, an’ when ya tell dem t’ me, Oy’ll try an’ poke holes in ‘em. Between d’ two of us, we’ll work somethin’ out. Now kiss d’ garl on d’ cheek an’ stairt yer planning.’
*
Just over a hundred miles away, in the market town of Nenagh, another plan had almost reached completion. Robert went down to the armoury and was greeted enthusiastically by the old armourer. It wasn’t often that dignitaries visited him and, when they did, it was usually to tender some complaint or other. Here, he’d had two visits from the sheriff in almost as many days. Robert extended his hand in greeting and this was another new experience for the armourer. Those in authority never proffered their hands to those who worked in the dark recesses of the castle. He was more accustomed to the back of someone’s glove across his cheek.
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