‘Were not dead yet, boyo,’ said Robert.
The old man in the corner cackled like a half-dead rooster. ‘Tis dead y’aire alright, lads. When Grey puts ya in a cell, ya eider leave feet farst ‘r at d’ end of a rope.’ Ned shuddered at the thought of having a noose put around his neck and being dropped from Cromwell’s bridge, as his father had, ten years before at the hands of Percival Grey. Robert scanned the cell and looked up at the tiny window. The old fellow watched him with amusement.
‘Ain’t no escapin’ yer fate, fella. Yer a dead man,’ he croaked in a weak voice.
‘What did he charge you with, old timer?’ Robert asked the feeble creature, interrupting his exploration of the tiny chamber for a moment.
The man looked up at him with rheumy eyes. ‘Sedition, boyo, it’s alw’ys sedition. Dat way, dey c’n hang ya, dat’s if ya don’t die in dis cesspool, farst.’
‘And what did you do to get the captain’s attention, old man?’
‘Ya c’n stop callin’ me auld man, me name is Fergusson, ev’rybuddy calls me Fergus. Oy was a tinker befar Oy doid, an’ dead Oy am. Oy plied me trade in d’ townlands here in d’ mount’ins fer farty odd years, paid me taxes t’ d’ crown, an’ ev’n paid d’ toll aul’ Pussy Grey charges t’ do me business hereabouts. Ya got any food? Only Oy ain’t been fed ‘n two days.’
‘We haven’t got anything to eat, Fergus, I’m sorry.’
‘Agh, it’s a’roight, Oy wasn’t expectin’ ye did. In a few mar days Oy’ll be dead anyway, so if ye did, Oy wootn’t blame yuz if ya kep’ it. Whaddid dey get you lads far?’
‘Fer drankin’ a feckin’ beer!’ chimed in Ned. ‘We wen’ in t’ d’ Boar’s Head fer a swalley an’ nex’ t’ing ya know, here we are.’
‘Ah, dat’s whar d’ king’s men hang out. Dey’ll charge ye wit sedition too. Pussy says all Carkmen are rebels an’ trait’rs an’, if ‘e had ‘is way, he’d hang ‘em all.’ The feeble old man eyed Robert. ‘Yer no Carkman. Oy c’n tell boy d’ way ya talk.’
‘No,’ replied Robert. ‘I’m from Tipperary.’
Fergus turned his attention to Ned now. ‘An whar do ya hail from, boyo?’
Ned pulled himself up to his full height. ‘Oy’m a son o’ Cownty Cairk,’ he said, drawing out the accent to make it more pronounced.
Fergus cackled. ‘Dat ya aire, boyo, Oy c’n tell boy d’ proide in yer vice.’ He turned back to Robert. ‘Oy’ve haird yer accent befar, not s’ long back, boot me moind is foozy an’ Oy can’t r’member whar it was.’
Robert did his best not to appear too interested. ‘There can’t be too many men from Tipp around here.’
‘No, joost d’ one, boot Oy can’t r’member whar. It’ll come t’me after awhoile.’
Escape had became a priority for Robert now. At first he had been willing to allow time for Percy Grey to read the letter of introduction he’d brought from the sheriff in Kenmare and send for the prisoners, but now there was a sense of urgency. If the old man recognised the foreign accent from Tipp, then so would Percy’s spies, and anything that drew attention to Michael would be his downfall.
The massive door to the cell had heavy iron hinges and, when Robert pushed on it, it barely moved. He peered through the door’s tiny opening, about six inches wide and less than a foot long and, when he pressed his head hard against the iron bars, he saw there was a huge padlock holding it shut. He reached out tentatively, expecting at any second to be rewarded for his efforts by the butt stroke of a musket. None was forthcoming but, try as he might, he couldn’t reach the lock. He decided to try the window.
The bottom sill was about seven feet off the ground and Robert guaged the opening to be a foot wide and a little less than a foot and a half tall. There were two rusted iron bars blocking the aperture which faced out towards the bay and Robert reached, grabbing hold of the edge of the sill to haul himself up, so he could clutch one of the bars. The sill cut into his forearm and he couldn’t hang on for more than a few seconds before the pain caused him to release his grip. He motioned for Ned to come closer and told him to get down on all fours. He stepped up onto Ned’s back so he could get a better look at the metal staves. The salt air had caused the iron to corrode and expand, cracking the mortar that held them in place but, when Robert put both hands around one of them and shook it with all his might, it didn’t budge. He tried it with the second bar and that didn’t move either. Ned suggested he should give it a try.
‘Oy might be a liddle stronger den you aire,’ he whispered. Robert got down on his hands and knees and the young deputy stepped up but, try as he might, the metal didn’t budge. The men took turns all night long, shaking the bars and trying to turn them, to break the rust free. Finally, just before dawn, one of the pickets moved a little and the two men, flushed with success at loosening at least one of their restraints, doubled their efforts.
‘We need a plan,’ whispered Robert. The old tinker snored so loudly that he woke himself.
‘Oy see youse lads have fin’lly giv’n oop. Joost as well. Aband’n hope all ye who enter here.’ Robert recognised the quote from something he’d once read, and he quoted something back at the codger
‘Where there’s life, there’s hope.’
The tinker grinned a melancholy smile. ‘Tell me dat when d’ noose tight’ns aroun’ yer neck, boyo.’ The sheriff and his deputy huddled in the corner to get warm. They were exhausted after a frenetic night’s work and both fell asleep, each dreaming their own terrible dreams.
*
CHAPTER 22
Michael needed to prepare for the journey ahead. His first job was to build a compass of sorts, so that he and Morna would know which direction they were travelling in, day or night. When he’d been a child, Mikey had been fascinated by a compass his Uncle Robert always carried, and his uncle had explained to him it had something to do with a magnetised needle which always pointed north. Michael knew from his experience in the forge that when you forged steel, it attracted filings and shavings of iron particles. He didn’t know how it worked, he just knew that it did, and that was enough practical knowledge for him.
While Morna heated porridge on the turf fire, he heated iron in the forge. He took a small billet of iron and flattened it, so that it was an inch wide and three inches long. He balanced it on the edge of the anvil and punched a hole at that point, so that it would hang freely from a bit of string. Michael knew where north was from the position of the North Star he’d seen on so many nights but, when he tested his makeshift compass, it lied, pointing northeast. He thought perhaps there was some miscalculation on his part so, while he ate his gruel, he gave it a bit more thought. Maybe it was something to do with how the metal was positioned while he beat on it with a hammer. He left his bowl of half-eaten oatmeal and stoked the forge again. This time, he oriented the long axis of the iron in a north, south direction and hammered the red hot metal on the anvil. When it turned a bluish colour, he quenched it in water and the steam sizzled. Again, he hung the pointer from the string and, this time, it pointed north. He turned, and the steel still pointed in the same direction. They had their compass.
The cloth sack which had served Michael on his forays up to Macroom wouldn’t be adequate if he and Morna were to carry provisions, as well as their few possessions, on their journey through the mountains. Morna had been watching as Mikey prepared for the long hike and, when he sat to think about how they would carry their supplies, she asked him why he was wasting his time sitting around. He looked at her in surprise.
‘Whoy didn’cha joost ask me?’ she said. ‘We c’n use willow baskets, like we use t’ carry turf from d’ bogs. Oy c’n make dose in a few hours. Oy’ll weave d’ baskets an’ poot fleece on ‘em so dey don’ rub against yer back.’
Michael smiled, their problem was solved. His wife not only had the answer but the expertise too. He stood and held her to him, kissing her tenderly. She kissed him back, then pulled herself away.
‘Oi, Mister!’ she laughed. ‘We got wark t’ do!�
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*
Fergus poked Robert with a bony finger as he slept, waking him up with a start.
‘What is it?’ he hissed.
‘D’ man…’
‘Which man?’ Robert was still groggy.
‘D’ man wit d’ foreign accent.’
Robert was wide awake now, Ned too. ‘You mean the Tipperary accent?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Well? What about him?’
‘Oy r’membered. Oy r’membered whare Oy met ‘im.’
‘Where, ya auld bugger?’
‘In one o’ dem towns, near Gougane.’
Ned looked at Robert. ‘Dere’s only a few,’ he told him. ‘Ballingeary is on d’ main rawd t’ Macroom, so ‘e won’ be dere. Dat leaves jus’ Cappaboy Beg, Lackabaun, Turnispidogy an’ Ballyshee.’
The tinker was listening. ‘Well, it ain’t Cappab’y,’ he said. ‘Oy ain’ been dere ‘n months an’ Oy haird ‘is voice jus’ d’ udder week. It was eider Lackabaun ‘r Ballyshee, and dey both oonly got d’ one road inta town.’
‘Dere oonly ‘bout a mile apairt, sar,’ said the deputy, with a hint of excitement. ‘One on eider soide o’ d’ ridge dat’s b’tween dem. It’ll be easy t’ foind ’im.’
‘That’s good news, Ned, but first there’s the small matter of us getting out of this shit-hole. I’ve got an idea. Do you think you can squeeze through that window up there with one bar missing?’
‘Can Oy?’ Ned smiled, rubbing his hands together. ‘Oy’m like a feckin’ rat, sar. If Oy c’n squeeze me head t’rough, Oy c’n wiggle out.’
Robert took a look at the boy and was glad he still had the leanness of youth. ‘Here’s the plan, Ned. Tonight, at about midnight, I want you to slither out and go to your cousin’s house. Get him to help us, even if you have to threaten him. We’ll need a diversion for when we escape, tomorrow night.’
Ned interrupted, ‘Don’cha mean t’night?’
‘No, Ned, you’ll break out tonight, but you’ll come back here before dawn and we both break out tomorrow night.’
‘Feck, sar, ya mean Oy havta break out twice?’
‘Yes, Ned. Don’t worry, it’ll be grand. Do you think you can do it, boyo?’
‘Oy c’n do it, sar. It seems a bit half-arsed t’ me, boot you’re d’ boss.’
‘Good man, now here’s the rest of the plan. Give Joe one of the small pistols and tell him to go to the west side of town, fire the gun, then get the hell out of there. That ought to attract the attention of the guards and the rest of the troopers. Have him bring the horses and the rest of the supplies to a place near here, so we can find them quickly in the dark. While the redcoats are out looking to see where the gunfire came from, we’ll be heading north into the Sheehy Mountains on horseback. We’ll make our gaol-break tomorrow at midnight. Do you have any questions?’
‘Oy gots one prob’em wit’ yer plan, sar. Whoy don’ we bawth escape t’noight?’
‘Because I can’t fit through that opening in the little window, and I can’t move as fast as you. I’m sixty-one years old.’
Old Fergus overheard. ‘Oy’m awnly four years aulder den ya,’ he cackled. Robert looked at wizened old man. Jayzus, he thought, he looks older than dirt … and I’m right behind him.
Ned whistled, he’d never thought about his boss’s age until now. ‘Chroist, sar, yer t’ree toimes aulder den meself!’ Robert shot him a look and he coughed. ‘Whaddaboot d’ guard out front, sar?’ he asked, getting the subject back to the plan.
‘If he doesn’t take the bait when Joe fires the shot, you’ll have to get rid of him.’
‘D’ya mean kill ‘im?’
‘Whatever it takes, Ned. If it’s too dangerous, then you have to carry on the mission by yourself. Don’t go back to Nenagh without Michael, no matter what happens to me, do you understand?’
Ned pondered for a moment. A lot of things could go wrong. The plan did seem half-arsed, but surprise was on their side. He extended his hand to the sheriff.
‘Ya got me ward on it, sar,’ he replied, shaking Roberts hand. ‘T’morry noight, we’ll be free men an’ gallopin’ off inta d’ mountains.’
The day passed excruciatingly slowly for Robert and he thought about all the things that could go wrong with his plan. Ned slept peacefully in the corner with his back against the wall. Sometimes Robert sat, and sometimes he paced around the tiny cell, lost in his thoughts. He had been in many dangerous situations in his life but none seemed as compelling as this one. If anything happened to the young deputy, the entire scheme would unravel like yesterday’s knitting. He knew his age was not his ally. Physically, all the injuries he had suffered in his life had begun to lay heavily upon him of late, wracking his body with aches and pains. He glanced over at Fergus and saw that the old man was studying him in the dim light of the cell. Robert went over and sat himself beside the skeletal old tinker.
‘Dat lad takes arders froom ya, like ya w’s a gen’ral,’ Fergus said, his voice low.
Robert looked at Ned sleeping. ‘Yes, he’s a good man,’ he replied.
‘Yer no farmers. Oy been dealin’ wit’ farmers me whole loife an’ yer no farmers. I was t’inkin dat maybe yer hoywaymen, boot dere’s sumpt’in aboot ya dat says youse ain’t dat eider.’
Robert realised, for the first time, that the old man had seen and heard too much and that he could be dangerous, so he told a small truth wrapped in a small lie.
‘I was a Jacobite officer in the war,’ he told him, ‘with the Parliamentarians. Then, when the war was over, I went to France.’
‘Ah, den yer one o’ d’ Woilde Geese!’ The tinker had raised his voice now and Ned stirred in his slumber.
‘Whisht, man, let the boy sleep. He’ll need his rest for tonight.’
Fergus lowered his voice again. ‘So was Oy,’ he said with a touch of pride. ‘Oy was at d’ siege in Limerick, boot d’ Gen’ral made a deal wit’ d’ English t’ get all d’ soldiers out an’ sent t’ France.’
‘You had a good man so. Most of the general officers just saved their own skins and left their men behind.’
‘Aye, sar, he was d’ foinest altogedder,’ said Fergus, with a touch of sadness and nostalgia.
‘How long did you stay in France?’
‘Ah, Oy got hoomesick fer county Cark, sar, an’ as soon as Oy could, Oy got on a boat an’ came home.’
‘I wish I’d been as smart, Fergus. I stayed for ten years, fighting for whoever paid the highest price.’
The two old soldiers grew silent and remembered the glory of their youth. The truth was, of course, that there was no glory, only youth. Robert thought how easy it was to forget the tribulations and to remember only the good times. Fergus did the same.
The tinker broke the silence first. ‘Tell me d’ troot. What aire ya’ really doin’ down here.’
Robert’s opinion had softened towards this wreck of a man who had once, many years ago, been a comrade-at-arms.
‘I’ve come here to rescue… ,’ he corrected himself. ‘I’ve come here to find my nephew and take him home to his mother.’
Fergus smiled his toothless smile. ‘Dat’s a noble cause, loike d’ ones we once fought fer. All men die, boot if yer goin’ t’ be dead, it moight ‘s well be doin’ God’s wark.’
‘I can’t pretend to know what God’s work is, Fergus. I just want to do something that feels right for a change.’
‘Den youse go an’ foind d’ priest ‘r blacksmith ‘r whatev’r he is an’ ya bring ‘im home t’ ‘is mam.’ Robert’s heart skipped a beat and his mouth fell open. The starving tinker had listened to every word the two men had spoken, even when they’d thought him asleep, and he had put it all together. He chuckled now.
‘When ye spoke aboot d’ Tipperary man, Oy knowed who ye meant froom d’ farst, boot Oy wudn’t sure if ye was spies Pussy’d sent t’ get d’ information from me. Yer boy’s in Ballyshee.’
‘Thank you,’ said Robert, sincerely.
‘Don’t t’ank me,’ said the old man, ‘when ye leaves dat door open, Oy’m goin’ straight t’ Pussy’s house an’ t’row a rock t’rough d’ window. Dat way, he’ll get mad an’ shoot me. It’s bedder fer a soldier t’ doy wit’ a lead ball ‘n ‘is hairt, den t’ rot here in a hole ‘n d’ groun’. Now, Oy’m gettin’ toired an’ Oy wanna sleep, boot Oy’m glad we talked. It’ll gimme sumptin t’ dream aboot.’
*
CHAPTER 23
By early afternoon, Morna had finished weaving the willow baskets which the young couple would carry into the mountains. Michael went about getting the foodstuffs they’d need for their journey, ground oats and bacon. He cut the meat into thin strips and strung them up, high over the forge. He didn’t want them to cook, just to dry a little more to prevent them from spoiling quickly, also the smoke would give the bacon a little flavour. Morna watched as her husband worked.
‘Moy clever man,’ she said lovingly. ‘Show me dat t’ing ya made so’s we don’ get lost.’ Michael reached into the collar of his leine and pulled out the home-made compass he had hanging around his neck on a length of string. The metal swung and turned about and eventually pointed north. Morna smiled. ‘It points t’ home,’ she said. Michael was happy that she was proud of her husband’s resourcefulness.
‘There’s only one more thing we need now, sweetheart,’ Michael told her. ‘When the tinker gets here, we’ll buy a little copper pot to cook on and then we’ll be ready to leave.’
Michael wondered where the old tinker had got to, he’d been due to visit the village days ago. If he didn’t show up soon, they’d just have to leave something else behind so they could carry the heavy iron pot across the mountains. One way or another, Michael was determined that they would begin their long journey within the week.
‘Go and visit your mam and da, Morna. You haven’t seen them since the quarrel and, after all, it’ll be a while before you see them again, before we can bring them to Gortalocca.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 14