Morna wrinkled her brow. ‘Alright, Oy will,’ she said, ‘but if dey troy an’ talk me out of it again, Oy’m comin’ roight back.’ Morna kissed Mikey’s cheek and looked into his eyes. ‘Oy love you, Michael Hogan,’ she said, ‘an’ Oy’m only happy when Oy’m nex’ t’ ya.’
‘Go way outta that,’ laughed Mikey and watched her leave. Even when she was only at her parent’s house, his world grew a little smaller. ‘Tell them I’ll be over in a little while,’ he shouted after her. She flashed him a smile, picked up her skirts, and ran the rest of the way.
*
The afternoon wore on endlessly in the cramped cell and Robert went over the plan with Ned, and over it and over it again. He must be stealthy, Robert stressed, and, under no circumstances must he be seen by anyone other than his cousin, Joe. They could trust no one, Percy had eyes everywhere.
The dry weather had ended abruptly and a weather system had moved in from the southeast, bringing a cold front with it. Although the old tinker suffered badly because of it, the change was an advantage for Robert’s plan. Even if the sentries did see Ned, the powder in their muskets would be useless and the big guns, with their bayonets, would be no more effective than pikes. Nevertheless, if he was seen, he would have to abandon the plan and search for Michael without the sheriff.
Ned had grown tired of rehearsing the plan. He knew, as well as Robert did, that a plan as vague as this one would need some degree of flexibility.
‘Let’s talk about sumthin’ else, sar. We still got hours t’ wait.’
‘Let’s talk aboot food,’ chimed in Fergus. The poor creature hadn’t eaten but a single bowl of thin porridge in five days now. ‘Oy’m so weak, Oy don’ think Oy c’n stand oop anymore,’ he said. ‘Oy’d give ev’ryt’in’ Oy own fer a spud.’
‘Oy’ll bring ya back some spuds,’ said Ned. He felt bad for the pathetic old man but he too had gone several days now without eating and the thought of food made his mouth water.
‘If ya bring back a nip o’ d’ good shtuff, Oy’ll tell ye a secret,’ said the tinker, weakly, his voice just a rasp now. He was dying and he knew it. He had something to say and he wanted to say it before he met his maker.
‘Oy’ll do me best,’ said Ned.
‘C’mere, lads’ said Fergus, motioning for the two men to come closer. They formed a huddle around him. ‘Oy bin plyin’ da backroads an’ villages roun’ here fer a lotta years,’ he whispered. ‘Oy buried me poke in one of dem caves d’ monks use in Gougane. Dere’s two grottos nex’ t’ d ‘ lough. Ain’t no monks dere now. Dey was easy t’ foind an’ d’ English rounded ‘em oop years ago. In d’ cave on d’ left, I buried me purse oonder a flat shtone, in d’ back. Loike Oy said, if ya bring me a spud, Oy’ll give ya all me earthly posseshuns. Oy’m a man o’ me ward an’ Oy won’t be needin’ mooney whar Oy’m goin’.’
Ned looked at Robert, his eyes wide with excitement, but the sheriff brought him back down to earth. ‘We don’t have time for a treasure hunt, boyo.’
‘It ain’t no hoont,’ interrupted Fergus. ‘I tol’ yous where d’ purse is. Oy’d radder dat you fellers foind it den a tot’l stranger … an’ anyway, ye have to go t’rough dere t’ take d’ shartcoot t’ Ballyshee.’
‘How much is dere?’ asked Ned, still excited at the prospect of getting something for nothing.
‘Joost shart o’ foive pounds,’ whispered the dying old man, ‘a fartune dat Oy was savin’ fer me auld age.’
Ned sat back against the wall and, as if he already had the money, he thought about what he could do with it. He asked Robert what he’d do.
‘Agh, I’m too old for any more adventures after this one, Ned, but if I were your age, I’d go to the colonies in America. There’s fertile land there. No one owns it and there are no authorities to answer to. I heard of a place called Mary Land where a man could make his fortune. If I was your age, I’d find a nice Irish lass and take her to the new world, and raise fat babies who’ll be free to decide their own future.’
‘Dat’s it so!’ Ned had forgotten his current circumstances, his head now full of a bright future. ‘Oy’ll take d’ mooney an’ Oy’ll go t’ d’ colonies, wit’ an’ Orish garl an’ we’ll raise some animals an’ have arselves a fairm.’
Robert felt a twinge of envy, he had dreamed that dream for himself. ‘Get yourself some sleep, boyo,’ he told the young man. ‘You have more of an incentive to get out of here now and you’ll need to be well-rested for your escape in a few hours.’
The three men huddled together in the corner for warmth. The pouring rain had blown through the little window and had turned the putrid floor of the cell into a quagmire.
The time came and the rain hadn’t let up. Fergus slept on, his breaths coming in ragged gasps, Robert wondering if each would be his last. He turned his attention to his young deputy.
‘Alright so. I’ll get down on all fours, you climb on my back and shake the bar loose.’ Ned climbed up and, in a few moments, the bar came free in his hands. He stepped back down onto the saturated floor and handed the iron bar to Robert.
‘It ain’t mooch of a weapon,’ he said, ‘boot y’ might do some damage wit’ it if y’ hafta.’ Robert hefted the bar and hoped that he wouldn’t have to use it against a musket-toting trooper. He put it down and interlaced his fingers to hoist Ned up to the opening in the wall. Ned tried to put his head through, but stepped back down.
‘Ah Jayzus! Me ears is in d’ way.’
Robert thought for a moment. ‘Take off your leine and let the rain wet you. It’ll make you more slippery.’ Ned took off the blouse and, when he climbed back up onto the sill, he pushed it outside, then put one arm and shoulder ahead of him and pushed his head through. This time he made it and, when his feet disappeared, Robert heard a thud as the young man hit the ground outside.
‘Feck! Oy almos’ broke me neck.’
Robert shushed him and that was the last he heard from him until the sky in the east had become tinted orange with the rising sun.
The old sheriff had dozed off a couple of times during the long, rainy night but mostly he sat listening to the raspy breath of his cellmate, measuring time by the old man’s breathing. He’d sent the boy on a fool’s errand and the longer he was gone, the guiltier he felt about it. He had just begun to fade off into a slumber when he heard a sound.
‘Psst! Take dis sack, Oy got some food fer ye.’ He looked up and saw Ned at the window. He helped him down before opening the bag. In it were four boiled potatoes, a hunk of gammon, a little jug of poteen and one of the small pistols.
Before he ate anything himself, Robert bent down to Fergus and put a pinch of spud between the old man’s lips. The food hovered there, then fell to the ground. Robert feared it was too late for the old tinker but, when Ned put a drop of the whiskey on his finger and touched it to Fergus’ lips, the old man roused.
‘Sure, Oy t’ought Oy doid an’ gone t’ heaven an’ d’ angels give me a swalley,’ he said weakly. Ned handed him the jug and he took a long swig of the fiery brew. He looked at Ned with watery eyes. ‘T’ankya, lad, have ya got a bit o’dat spud fer a stairvin’ man.’ Ned gave him one of the potatoes and Fergus took a huge bite from the tuber, stopped in mid chew and reached into his mouth. He pulled out a tooth and looked at it. ‘Oy ain’ got many o’ deese t’ spare,’ he said, dropping the tooth on the ground and tucking into the first food he’d had in days.
Robert was devouring his spud hungrily and he engaged in a tug of war with Fergus to get the jug from him. It wasn’t hard to overpower the old codger and he took a swig from the jar. He felt the cold burn in his throat as it went down, then he handed the jug back to Fergus. The tinker embraced the clay bottle as if it was a lover. The sheriff addressed Ned for the first time.
‘Is Joe in on the plan?’
‘He is, ‘boot ‘e wannid all d’ mooney in yer purse t’ do it. Given d’ circumstances, Oy let ‘im keep it.’ Robert nodded. Their hunger satiated, and their insides wa
rmed by the whiskey, the three men fell asleep.
It was sometime in the middle of the afternoon when they were roused by the sound of a key opening the lock on the cell. Robert reached under his leine for the pistol, which he’d tucked in his waistband, and Ned clutched the iron bar behind his back. The guard was accompanied by a young lieutenant and, ignoring the other two, they concentrated their attention on Fergus. The lieutenant nodded to the guard, who grabbed the sleepy old man and unceremoniously dragged him from the room, pulling the heavy door and snapping the lock shut behind them.
‘We shoulda jumped ‘em,’ hissed Ned.
Robert had considered it but knew that a daylight escape would have been suicidal.
‘No, Ned, we stick to the plan. We just have to hope they don’t beat anything out of the tinker. If they come back for us, we’ll have no choice. Better to go down fast in a fight than rot away here.’
It hadn’t occurred to either of them that old Fergus had his own plan to end the suffering.
*
The tinker’s wagon pulled into Lackabaun late in the afternoon, but the fellow driving the donkey wasn’t the man who’d visited the village every few weeks for the last thirty years. His accent wasn’t a West Cork one and the explanation he gave about being the nephew of the late tinker didn’t carry much weight. Instead of the usual throng of people who would gather round for the latest gossip, or to make a much-needed purchase, the villagers avoided him as if he had the plague.
He’d had the same reaction on all his stops, but he had his orders and, even if this did seem to him a waste of time, he knew better than to contradict his captain. He decided to spend the night here and he climbed into the back of the wagon to get some sleep. Old Fergus would have enjoyed the hospitality of the various townships but the new man had found the reception chilly, to say the least. Tomorrow, he would travel the few miles to Ballyshee, then onto Inchee Bridge. He dreaded the thought of returning to Glengarrif with no new information because Percival Grey would blame him, not any shortcomings in his own plan.
*
CHAPTER 24
The guard half-dragged and half-carried Fergus to the office of Captain Grey. The English adjutant was horrified at the manner in which the frail old fellow was being treated, but it wasn’t his place to protest so he just followed behind. His captain’s cruelty knew no bounds and did nothing to make life easier for either the Irish or the English who were stationed here. Percival Grey believed that any show of mercy would be seen as a sign of weakness, but all his tactics had done was to stiffen the backs of the populace. This was nothing like the lieutenant had imagined when he’d been at Sandhurst. It would have been easier for him to anticipate a volley of enemy gunfire than to watch what he imagined he was going to witness now. They knocked at the office door and it was promptly opened by Jacob, Grey’s long-suffering man servant.
Percy Grey’s desk was covered with what looked like enough food for a banquet. At first, the lieutenant thought the captain was going to torture the starving old man by eating a meal in front of him but, instead, the commanding officer motioned for the old man to sit down and help himself. Grey held a scented handkerchief in front of his nose, both to mask the smell of the putrid man and to cover his smiling face. He was delighted with his own guile. Fergus knew a man didn’t get something for nothing and he declined the offer, even though the tempting aroma of the food was killing him. The man servant poured a glass of claret for his master and Fergus narrowed his eyes.
‘A man moight have ‘is tongue loosened fer a dram,’ he croaked. Percy motioned for Jacob to place another glass in front of the man.
‘Not dat shtoof, sar. A Carkman drinks whiskey, not dat pig piss.’
The man’s impertinence in criticising his own good taste goaded Percival’s temper, but he managed to keep himself composed, sourly indicating to his man that the old fellow’s wishes should be complied with. Fergus downed the glass in a single gulp and held it up for more. The captain nodded to his servant, who refilled the glass and, again, the old man swallowed the contents in a single mouthful. The tinker held the glass up for a third refill but, this time, Percy’s face flushed with temper.
‘No! You’re having nothing else until you’ve given me something in return. Quid pro quo, I give you something and you give me something in return.’ His face grew redder as he saw Fergus begin to smile.
‘Tis roight y’are, sar, I ain’t give ya nothin’ in r’turn.’ The skinny old man’s face was split in a rictus grin now as he motioned for Percy to come closer to him, then closer still, as if he was going to share a secret with him. When the captain’s head was just inches away from his own, Fergus spat something in his face. Percival Grey reeled back in horror, grabbed a heavy glass inkwell from his desk and, in act of unmitigated fury, struck the old man on the head. Ferguson the tinker died instantly.
‘Get that abomination out of here!’ Grey screamed at the guard, who was able to pick up the limp bag of bones with one hand. After the corpse had been removed, and the door closed, Percy Grey looked for whatever had been spat at him. It was a tooth.
*
The commandant fingered the letter of introduction which had been written by Sheriff Wentworth from Kenmare, then held it over a candle flame until it was reduced to ash.
‘There you are, Sheriff D’Arcy, you no longer exist.’ He called his adjutant into the room and instructed him to take the two remaining prisoners to Seal Point in the morning with a detachment. There, they were to have them strangled and thrown into the bay.
‘Who are they, sir?’ enquired the lieutenant.
‘Just a couple more rebels, best forgotten.’
Back in the cell, the two men were waiting pensively. The redcoats taking Fergus had put a new light on the situation, and they’d had to work out a plan for if they came back for them too. They decided that they’d lure them into the cell, that Robert would shoot whoever was carrying the musket and that Ned would have to dispatch the other with the iron bar. If they came back with three or more, of course, there would be a fight and there were no guarantees as to who would win. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the only one they had.
Hours passed and no dreaded sound of a key rattling the lock came. It was time to get the escape plan started. They repeated the same procedure as the previous night and Ned slithered out into the night air. The rain had let up considerably but the weather was still soft with a slow drizzle. Robert handed him the iron bar and the pistol but warned him, for the hundredth time, to use the gun only as a last resort. They waited for Joe’s gunshot from the west side of the town.
The gunshot came, followed by two more shots in rapid succession … the nervous sentries had fired wildly into the night. Ned went around to make his move on the guard outside the cellar, but he wasn’t there. He must have responded to the fusillade of shots and left his position unattended.
‘Shite!’ said Ned, under his breath. ‘He took d’ feckin’ keys with him!’ He went back around to the window of the cell and whispered to Robert what had happened.
‘Use the bar, Ned, and pry the feckin lock loose!’ Ned did as instructed and the door was open in no time, both men surprised at how easily the lock had sprung. Must be a French lock, thought Robert. The guard was still nowhere to be seen, so the two men hurried off into the night to find the horses.
Percival Grey had been roused from his sleep by the sound of the gunshots. He was still in a foul temper because that bloody old Irish sod had drunk his spirits, then died before he could get any information about the other prisoners out of him. He told the adjutant to send two of the jaegers after whichever rebel had fired the shot. He guessed that the shooter would head down to the Caha Mountains on the Beara and, if so, he would send a detachment of mounted foot to guard the Healy Pass. Those bastards on the Beara would probably give refuge to the scoundrel, so if he got south of the pass, he’d probably never be caught.
Robert and Ned found their mounts and galloped the ho
rses hard, until they got a couple of miles out of town.
‘We have to rest the animals for a while, Ned. When morning comes they’ll find out we’re missing, then all hell will break loose.’ They watered the animals, then carried on towards Knockboy at a trot.
‘We’ll be past d’ town befar daybreak,’ said Ned, ‘an’ If we’re lucky an’ don’ get lost, we should get t’ Gougane by noon.’ Robert took out his compass and took a bearing, they were going roughly northeast. Ned frowned at the gadget. ‘Dat t’ing won’ do ya mooch good here,’ he said. ‘We gotta follow d’ lay o’ d’ land, even if it ain’t direck.’
Robert put the device back in its pouch. Ned was right, this terrain was more like Wicklow than what he had become used to in Tipperary. The deputy tossed a potato to the sheriff and it occurred to Robert that, for all his own meticulous planning, Ned had been better prepared than he was.
‘It’s a lot diff’rint bein’ d’ hares instead o’ d’ hounds,’ said Ned rhetorically. They continued onwards until the sun rose and, only then did they rest their mounts again, just past Knockboy.
*
Captain Grey was roused abruptly from his sleep by someone frantically pounding on his bedroom door.
‘WHAT DO YOU WANT?’ He screamed so loud that his voice cracked. His second-in-command entered his room in a state of agitation.
‘The prisoners, sir,’ he said breathlessly, ‘they’re gone.’
‘That’s what I ordered, you blithering idiot,’ said Percy through gritted teeth. ‘I wanted them gone.’ The lieutenant was sweating and out of breath from the run he’d made from the gaol.
‘No, sir, they’re gone. They escaped.’ Percy’s mind was a whirlwind of consequences. If that bastard D’Arcy made it back to Tipperary, his own military career would be over. He’d be lucky if he was mustered out. He would probably face a court’s martial. He could live with disgrace but if he was put in front of a firing squad… He shook his head. Think, man, he told himself, think. The lawmen would probably head straight back to whatever fecking town they came from.
Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy) Page 15