‘Oy have sumthin for ya, sir.’ The old fellow held out a closed wooden box for inspection and the sheriff opened the lid. Inside were the two small pistols which the armourer had modified. Robert took one out and turned it over in his hand. The dog ear of the hammer had been shortened to a nub. Robert slipped it into his pocket and withdrew it and, as he did, he cocked the hammer. He smiled at the craftsman.
‘This will do nicely,’ he said. He repeated the action and the gun slid in and out of the pocket of his greatcoat easily.
‘I had d’ flintnapper make some fresh flints fer dem, an’ I cast some extra lead balls too. I’ll make a powder horn wit a plug t’ measure d’ right amount fer d’ load, t’day.’ Robert nodded and shook the man’s hand again.
‘I have sumthin’ else for ya, sir,’ said the armourer, delighted that his work was approved of. He picked up a leather bag from his table and handed it to Robert. The sheriff hefted it on his open palm and noted that it only weighed little over a pound. He untied the string at the top and reached inside, it was the caltrops. He fingered one of them and, again, a hint of a smile crossed his lips. Yes, this was more like it.
‘Dey’ll lame a horse ‘r a man if dey step on one o’ dose t’ings.’ Robert emptied a few of them out onto the table and they did, indeed, all lie with a deadly point sticking straight upwards. The spikes were about an inch long, placed at a hundred and twenty degrees from each other and tapered into a razor tip. ‘I had t’ use a ledder bag ‘cause d’ tips poked t’rough a cloth one.’
The armourer had surprised Robert by exceeding his expectations. He had thought of everything. Destruction and mayhem were his life’s work and he clearly excelled at both. Robert had a surprise for the old fellow too. Before he left the armoury, he handed the old man a gold coin. The fellow looked at it and, involuntarily, bit into it to see if it was real. Robert was amused by the action and grinned to himself as he snatched up his packages and left.
The sheriff handed a note to a courier who was due to head along the same route Robert proposed to take down to Kerry and west Cork. The note was for the new sheriff in Kenmare, informing him that he could expect a personal visit within the week. He also penned a letter addressed to the Lord High Mayor of Nenagh, informing him of his absence, without indicating the reason, and a final note to Roisin. He sealed each of them with red wax, onto which he impressed his mark. He would leave the last note with Roisin when he got to Gortalocca. He would have to go out that way anyway, to check on the two horses he’d left with Mick Sheridan and also to see if Jamie had finished work on the blade. He told an orderly to get his horse saddled.
July was coming to an end and it was a glorious morning, the oppressive heat wave having been broken the night before by a fierce thunderstorm, and the stagnant air having been replaced with a fresh new breeze. Robert passed a few groups of people on foot, as they trudged into Nenagh on the still wet road. As soon as he left the confines of the town, he spurred his horse into a gallop. After the last week’s hot sultry days, it felt good to have the cool air wash over him. The horse’s hooves slashed through the puddles which still lingered from the previous evening’s tempest. Robert felt like the young man he had once been. An adventure was imminent and he was becoming as enthusiastic about it as his young travelling companion had been a few days before. ‘When are we leaving’ were the last words Ned Flood had spoken to him in his thick Cork accent. If all went well, it would be within a day or so.
Robert slowed the horse to a long trot as he approached the bridge at Ballyartella. He was loath to slow the horse because the exuberance of youth had overtaken him, and he had to remind himself that he was getting long in the tooth. He had forgotten the aches which plagued him each morning. He had a mission to accomplish and it could quite possibly be the most important one of his life.
Jamie was expecting the sheriff and, when he heard the horse approach, he appeared at the door of Matt O’Brien’s forge with a sheathed sword in his outstretched hands. By the very manner in which the young man handled the sabre, Robert could see it had been made much lighter. He dismounted his charger and, without a word, slid the blade out of its scabbard. The balance was superb and, by shortening the edge, the yeoman had created something brand new. The removal of the added length had made it handier. Robert tried it out, stabbing and slashing at the air. The basket was still substantial enough to parry a thrust but light enough to keep it in balance. He was pleased.
‘You’ve proved your worth, boyo. For a man not schooled in the use of such an instrument, you’ve created an excellent piece of work. Jamie looked down and kicked the dirt at his feet. It embarrassed him to receive praise.
‘Ah sure, I jus’ did as ya told me sir.’ Then he remembered something. ‘Dere’s somethin’ else here for you,’ he exclaimed, and went it inside to retrieve the dagger which he’d fashioned from the leftover metal. The blade was nine inches long and double-edged, and the wooden handgrip had been riveted in place, full tanged, then bound with rawhide, rough side outwards. ‘It won’t slip in yer hand if it gets sweaty,’ beamed Jamie, proud of his innovation. Sweaty, thought Robert, or bloody?
‘It’s too long to be a skean, Jamie,’ he said, ‘so it’s neither sword nor skean. Since it’s your invention, you shall name it. What’s it to be?’
The young man was not as adept with words as he was working with iron, so he pondered for a moment. ‘It looks like ol’ Paddy Shevlin’s pig sticker, so I’ll call it a paddy.’ Robert had to laugh at the total absence of complication about the man in front of him.
‘Well, let’s hope that ‘paddy’ never has to do any work, other than sticking a pig.’ Robert held his finger up to his lips as indication for Jamie to be quiet, then handed him six shillings for his work. ‘This is for your labours, Jamie,’ and, before the younger man could object, he tied the short sword, in its sheath, to his saddle and slipped the ‘paddy’ into his boot.
*
CHAPTER 13
Michael counted the money he had, it was two shillings and four pennies. That was almost enough for the coach fare to Limerick, but only for a single person. He needed to work out how he could get both himself and Morna to Nenagh. Judging by the behavior he’d experienced from the parishioners in Macroom, he had to assume that there were spies or informants there. They could stay in the wild mountain country all the way to Mallow, but it was a long and arduous journey and Mallow was at a crossroads, so it was certain there’d be troops garrisoned there. It wasn’t just the bandits and roaming youth gangs who troubled him, but the troops too.
Half the British army comprised of the dregs of England’s society. There were recruiting officers at every courthouse in the land and, oft times, petty criminals would be offered a choice between prison or service in his majesty’s forces. Life for English peasants was almost as brutal as it was for the Irish. Poverty and injustice, with all the callousness they brought, had created a segment of society who believed that cruelty was simply a part of life. The other half of the military was foreign, the majority of them Hessian and Prussian professional soldiers, bred to fight battles for the highest bidder. There was also a smattering of French Huguenots who had been persecuted by the Church for their beliefs and had fled to England for asylum. Like most refugees, they were particularly bitter.
*
Percival Grey sat at his desk, dressed in a blue silk dressing gown. He was growing impatient.
‘When will my bath be ready, you tar-faced imbecile?’
Jacob was lugging bucket after bucket of hot water up the stairs to fill a copper tub, so the officer could take his bi-weekly bath. The black man didn’t reply. With Percy becoming impatient, anything he said could easily result in another flogging. There came a tentative rap on the office door.
‘If this isn’t important, I’ll see you skinned!’ snapped the captain.
The door opened just a crack, and a timid young adjutant poked his head in. The lieutenant had recently graduated from a new military
college at Sandhurst in England. He had realised, soon after his posting, that Percival Grey was jealous of him and bitter about the fact that new graduates were on the fast-track. This young fellow would probably be Grey’s superior in a few years and, one day, would likely lead an entire army.
The young man saluted but the captain didn’t return it. ‘Well? Have you been struck dumb? Make it quick, my bathwater is getting cold.’
‘We’ve arrested the tinker, sir.’
Percival allowed a mirthless smile to crease his chinless face. The young officer thought he resembled one of those long German sausage dogs, and he smiled, not with him, but at the buffoon.
‘Wipe that stupid grin off your face. It bothers me,’ snarled Percy.
‘What shall I do with him, sir?’
‘Throw him in the gaol, you fool. What did they teach you at that military academy, idiot?’
‘I need to file charges, sir.’
Percy was becoming petulant, the water in his bath was cooling. ‘Sedition,’ he sighed, ‘it‘s always sedition.’ He shook his head in disbelief.
‘But we have no proof, sir.’
‘He’s from Cork, that’s proof enough for me! Everyone in this damned county is a rebel and the sooner you realise that, the better.’
‘He’s old and frail, sir. The cold and damp of the gaol will likely kill him.’
‘Good! That’ll be one less feckin’ Irishman. If it bothers you so much, why don’t you give him your own bed?’
The lieutenant could see that this debate was hopeless. ‘As you wish, sir.’ He knuckled his forehead in salute and, when none was returned, he did an abrupt about-face and left the room. He made his way to where two troopers stood, holding the arms of a small, thin old man, with a nest of white whiskers down to his chest, his clothes hanging off him in rags. He ordered the men-at-arms to throw the old sod into a cell, but to give him something to eat first. He knew he wouldn’t last much longer than a couple of weeks down there in that stinking hole.
Percival Grey strolled into the room where his bath stood waiting, and allowed his robe to drop to the floor. He was feeling satisfied with himself. The water in the big copper tub was just the right temperature and Jacob had remembered to scent it. He stepped in, one boney leg at a time, then slowly lowered himself into the hot water until it came up to where his chin should be. He tipped his head back and thought about the network of spies and informants he’d placed in the bars and inns. They hadn’t managed to ferret out the Papist, so he must send a spy out amongst the people. He wanted the priest caught unharmed so that he could personally hang him from Cromwell’s Bridge or, better yet, sever the man’s head with a stroke of his sabre. For Percival Grey, this was personal.
*
Roisin opened the store every morning. Reality had finally started to sink in and she had begun to act like a widow. Robbie was just being Robbie, always saying what he would do, but never actually doing anything. He would check in regularly, along with his wife, May. She was a pretty girl, vivacious when you got to know her, but she was a girl and not yet a woman. Roisin hoped that soon she would be with child. She thought that a child might make a difference, the new responsibility making a woman of May and, perhaps, forcing Robbie to grow up too.
She thought back to the times when Liam had a project and Jamie Clancy was busy at the O’Brien forge. He and Robbie would do the work alone and, sometimes, Liam would come home for supper and say that if brains were gunpowder, that boy wouldn’t be able to blow his own nose. Robbie was better at talking about work than actually doing it and, most likely, that would never change. She thought about Mikey now, he was different. When you gave Mikey a task, you didn’t worry that he would waste his time looking up at the clouds to watch them change shape. He was a true Flynn, as Liam had been, and as Liam’s brother Robert was. When those men began an undertaking, it was as if they had taken an oath on their almighty souls. Robert had promised to find Michael. To most people, promises were like flowers … lovely at first but, after a while, would wither and soon be forgotten. To the Flynn boys, a promise was a vow, inviolate and inescapable, until it was fulfilled.
Roisin’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of a horse galloping down the road at a rapid clip. She looked out the window and saw the sheriff on his big chestnut. He saw her too and gave her a simple wave of acknowledgement before passing by. Roisin felt just a little disappointed when he didn’t stop, but thought he must have something important to do because he always made time to stop, if only to have a chat with Liam. Perhaps the fact that Liam was no longer here made a difference. The thought made her sad, everything was changing.
When Roisin had first met Robert Flynn D’Arcy she hadn’t liked him, in fact she had despised him. His dark green/brown eyes narrowed when he looked at you, as if he was trying to see into your soul. He had first appeared in Gortalocca, those many years ago, as a sinister stranger, sitting at Hogan’s bar and conversing with the farmers who were, at that time, in fear of being dispossessed. He hadn’t revealed then that he was Liam’s brother but, when Liam had been badly beaten by Sean Reilly and his gang of thugs, Robert had visited him and Roisin had realised then just how unscrupulous he could be. He had used his own flesh and blood as bait for his trap and had almost got Liam killed in the process. Roisin shook her head at the thought. But over the years, she had come to have a grudging respect for the man. He had promised them he would watch over the village of Gortalocca and he had been true to his word. When other towns fell into decline, Gortalocca, in its own way, managed to survive with the help of his protection.
The sheriff had the note for Roisin in his pocket, he would stop on his way back to Nenagh and drop it off. First, he was anxious to see how the horses were coming along at Mick Sheridan’s farm. When he arrived, Mick was in the big round pen, schooling one of the geldings. Mick gave a wave of acknowledgement and carried on with what he was doing. He was finished after a few minutes and he rode the animal up to the fence where Robert stood with his forearms on the top rail, resting his chin on his hands.
‘Dese ‘r some harses,’ said Mick, with childlike enthusiasm. ‘I fergot how good Hobbies c’n be. Look at dis!’ He dropped the reins and got the horse to go round in circles, first in one direction, then the other. He grinned. ‘Ya c’n ride ‘em off o’ leg. Ya don’ even need t’ use yer hands.’ He stopped the horse in front of the sheriff. ‘Give’m a try! I t’ink he’s goin’ t’ be a fine mount fer ya.’
Before he put his foot in the stirrup, Robert asked, ‘How’s the other one?’
Mick could barely contain himself. ‘I t’ink he’s just ‘s good, maybe even bedder!’ Robert took the horse out of the round pen and Mick held the gate open for him. ‘Take’m out on d’ road an see what he’s got!’
Robert did just that. He spurred the horse into a gallop and then gave him a bit more leg. The animal increased velocity so quickly that it felt like he’d been shoved by an unseen hand. Robert wheeled the horse at speed and fought to keep himself straight in the saddle. He streaked back to the paddock.
‘Jayzus!’ he cried. Even he found it hard to contain himself. ‘Are they ready, Mick?’
‘Dey’re ‘s ready ‘s I c’n make’m. I been feedin’ dem oats so’s dey’ll be fit fer d’ trip. Dat auld horse trader knew what he had.’
Robert felt a twinge of guilt for virtually stealing the geldings and using the law to do it, but before the thought had manifested itself into words, Mick laughed.
‘Dat ol’ sod’s bin skinnin’ people fer years. It’s ‘bout time ‘e felt d’ knife ‘imself.’ Robert felt relieved that at least he hadn’t stolen from an honest man. ‘I wish dat I could own a horse like dese ones,’ Mick said, longingly, but without envy.
‘Well, Mick,’ replied Robert, ‘I’ll make a deal with you. When I get back, I’ll give you the horses, but on one condition.’ Mick waited excitedly, there was no condition that he wouldn’t consent to. ‘One day you and I are going to take these
horses out and go have an adventure, like when we were kids.’
Mick looked puzzled. ‘I ain’t never had an adventure,’ he lied.
Robert laughed. ‘Borrying the squire’s ram sounds like an adventure to me.’
Mick looked down at the ground and wondered where the lawman could have heard that. He quickly changed the subject back to horses.
‘Da Hobbies c’n go faster an’ further dan d’ big chargers c’n.’ He shot a glance at the sheriff’s warmblood and addressed the horse, ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, sir.’ Robert tried to keep a straight face. He too had been known to carry on conversations with the dumb beasts, and had even apologised when one had been shot out from under him, or he’d had to put one down. Such was the way of a horseman.
Mick placed the rope halters and lead lines on each of the horses, and Robert could tell that he would be sad to see them go.
‘Mick,’ he said, ‘I’m getting too old to be sheriff. Perhaps, when I get back, the two of us will buy a big farm and become horse traders together.’
The big man smiled. ‘Ah sure, I’d like dat altogether, sir,’ he replied.
Robert gave him a wink. ‘I’ll see you in a month or so and I’ll bring you your horses,’ he said. He turned and set off down the road towards Gortalocca at a walk, with the geldings in tow behind the big chestnut.
‘Safe home!’ he heard the big man yell as he rode away and, without turning, he gave him a wave of his gloved hand.
Roisin was tending the flower garden which Liam had planted in front of the cottage. He had wasted so much time on those silly flowers, she thought, but he had loved them. She was so lost in her thoughts that she was startled when she heard Robert shout, ‘Halloo!’ from behind her. Her first inclination was to scold him for scaring the shite out of her but, for once, she held her tongue. He took a leather gauntlet off and reached into his pocket for the note, holding it down to her from his saddle. She took it and looked up at him quizzically. His face was stoical and devoid of expression.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 8