Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  ‘Sir, one of the rifles exploded, sir.’

  ‘Jaeger rifles don’t explode, you idiot!’

  ‘This one did, sir. It was one they picked up from the dead hunter yesterday. It seems the priest had spiked the rifle with a double charge of powder and more than one ball.’

  ‘I don’t believe it!’ screamed the senior officer. ‘I’m surrounded by idiots and incompetents!’

  ‘Yes, sir. The thing is, the two hunters who are left are becoming jumpy, sir. The priest could have easily escaped on horseback, but it seems he circled back around to get behind them. They think he might be hunting them.’

  ‘The gutless, cowardly bastards!’ Percy managed to stand up by holding on to his desk. ‘Which way is he headed?’

  ‘It looks like he’s heading back to Glengarrif, sir.’

  ‘Glengarrif? Why the hell would he go to Glengarrif?’

  ‘I haven’t the foggiest notion, sir.’

  ‘Well … lieutenant,’ said the captain, acerbically. ‘When the fog lifts, be sure to let me know, would you? Now get the hell out of my sight! Someone around here has to do some thinking.’

  The adjutant left the office and, for the first time, he entertained the thought of relieving his captain of his duties. In his present state, he doubted whether Percival was capable of being in command but, of course, that could be seen as mutiny by those sitting behind desks in London. The young officer considered having a drink to calm his own nerves.

  Percival had his own demons to contend with. This priest surely wasn’t mortal, he must be something conjured up by the Papists to persecute him. What if the devil was going to Glengarrif to hunt him down? He felt a warm moisture collect around the crotch of his breeches and flow down his leg onto the floor. If he could hunt jaegers, and dispatch them with impunity, what in God’s name could he do to an English officer? He would leave right away. He would take a contingent of troops as a guard and lock himself in his quarters at Glengarrif. He would bring back all the troops with him and turn the town into a fortress. Would even that be enough, he wondered. The priest could be anywhere. He seemed to be always one step ahead. Perhaps he was getting inside information, perhaps from the lieutenant. It was a well-known fact that junior officers were notoriously jealous of their seniors. He thought back to how he had felt, back in the days when he was second-in-command.

  Percy issued his order. The hunt for the rebels was over and everyone was to return to headquarters immediately.

  *

  CHAPTER 31

  When Robert and his charges began their ride northwest, the highest peaks of Magillicuddy’s Reeks were only just beginning to catch the first rays from the rising sun, and the dark forests were still shrouded in shadow. He hoped that, before tomorrow was ended, they would be in Killarney. On a map, the distance appeared short, but the terrain was undulating with precipitous valleys and steep ridges. The land was carpeted in dense primeval oak forest which had seen neither axe nor settlement. It would be a long trek before they could pick up the little road which skirted Lough Guitane, twelve miles away. From there, the ride into Killarney would be an easy one, along the road which led to Muckross.

  After about two hours, and three miles of arduous travel, they came to the road which led from Clonkeen to Kenmare. Robert scouted ahead and, after several mounted redcoats rode urgently by him, heading south, he went back and brought the young couple to the crossing point. Here, they stopped and listened for the sound of horses and, hearing nothing but the birds and the forest noises, they hurriedly crossed the dirt track. The sheriff broke a branch from a shrub and obliterated the tracks made by the horses. If they stayed south of the peaks of Carrigawaddra and Crohane, they would run into the stream which flowed into the lough. If they found the stream and followed the flow, every brook and rivulet from there on in would eventually enter Lough Leane and Killarney. That meant the threat of getting lost was diminished, or so he thought.

  The old man surrendered his seat on the horse to Morna and he walked ahead, occasionally using the short sword to clear any overhanging branches which impeded his progress. His bones ached and the straps of the basket cut into his shoulders. The girl told him to pass the heavy load to her and his ego momentarily tempted him to decline, but he saw the practicality of the offer and passed the burden up to her. Mikey asked why they couldn’t take a more direct route, instead of the meandering game paths they were following.

  ‘Animals are smarter than people,’ scowled Robert, his sore, aching muscles clouding his temperament. ‘They instinctively know the easiest way and they’ve used these trails for hundreds of years.’ Eventually the trail petered out and there was nothing but forest ahead. The old man called a halt at around noon, to rest the horses, he said. In reality, it was he who needed the respite.

  ‘Are we lost?’ asked Mikey.

  Robert gave him a sour glare in response. ‘I know where we are, boyo.’

  ‘Where are we?’ asked Michael innocently.

  ‘We’re in a feckin’ big forest, looking for a stream, that’s where.’

  Michael looked down and grinned. ‘Do you remember when me and Robbie lost Mam and Da in Nenagh market that day?’

  Robert narrowed his eyes and the merest hint of a smile crossed his face as he recalled the day. ‘I do, and I caught the divil from your mam for it.’

  ‘You held us by the hand and, when we walked down the street, the crowd parted like the Red Sea. All the vendors gave us sweets and food because they thought we were the sons of the High Sheriff.’

  ‘I remember I put you up on my shoulders because you were said you were too small and your mam and da wouldn’t be able to see you in the crowd. What were you then? Four, five years old?’

  ‘I was just over four and Robbie wasn’t six yet. You know, Uncle Robert, that’s one of my happiest memories.’

  ‘Mine too, Mike. For a while there, I got to know just how your father felt every day of his life.’ The old man looked wistful for a fleeting moment, then cleared his throat. ‘Well, that’s enough of that, let’s see if we can find this stream or we’ll be here all day.’

  Morna had been listening to the two men reminisce. ‘Oy haird water roonin’ a coople hunded yairds back,’ she offered, ‘on a path dat led off o’ dis one, on d’ right.’

  Robert looked up at her. ‘Maybe I should have told you what I was looking for,’ he said abruptly, ‘and we could have saved all the violins and flowers for later.’

  Mikey took the sword and told Robert to ride and he would break trail for the horses. The old man didn’t argue. It was time for the younger one to take the lead and, for the first time in thirty years, he was glad to follow.

  In no time at all, they reached a brook which came from a spring in the mountains to the west, then curved northwards toward Lough Guitane. The stream was shallow and ran cold and crystalline from its source. The bottom was strewn with pebbles of every shade of brown and cream and, as the horses splashed through, jewel-like trout spooked, skittering in every direction across the shallows.

  ‘If we had time, we could go fishing,’ said Mikey.

  ‘And if I had wings, I could fly back to Nenagh and my arse wouldn’t be so sore,’ replied Robert. He thought about what his young companion had said. ‘When we get back to Gortalocca, Mikey, the two of us will go fishing.’

  Morna chirped in, ‘C’n Oy go too!?’

  Robert turned and looked at her. ‘Why not,’ he said. ‘I never heard of a girl going fishing before, but you can be the first.’

  That pleased her. ‘We c’n all t’ree go fishin’, an’ Oy’ll clean d’ fish an’ make d’ dinner.’

  Robert smiled broadly. ‘You’d better keep your eye on this one, Michael. She’s worth keeping.’

  *

  Percival Grey returned to Glengarriff and ensconced himself, along with Jacob, in his office. In the outer office, his lieutenant’s desk was piled high with paperwork which had been left unattended since the whole business with th
e priest had begun. The administrative duties of governing the region had been neglected because of his superior’s personal obsession with finding the cleric. The junior officer stayed up late. He occasionally heard indecipherable rants coming from the other side of the door which separated the two rooms. It was the last time he would ever hear Percival Grey’s voice.

  The next morning, after a few hours sleep, the adjutant bathed, shaved and was just putting on a clean uniform when he heard the muffled but unmistakable sound of a gunshot inside the building. With his shirt still unbuttoned, he ran into the hall which was already becoming crowded with soldiers, some dressed, others in just their breeches, all crowded around the door of the captain’s office. The lieutenant had a cocked pistol in his hand and, for a brief moment, he wondered if Percival’s paranoia was real and that the priest had somehow infiltrated the building and was indeed hunting the officer. The burly sergeant-of-the-guard kicked the door and, when it flew open, the lieutenant went in first. Black powder smoke still hung heavy in the air.

  The junior officer scanned the office and first he saw Jacob standing in a corner with his hands clasped over his mouth, his eyes staring wide. The lieutenant followed his gaze and saw Percival Grey slumped over his desk, blood pooling around his face. He made a vain gesture of checking him for signs of life but, judging from the wound in his temple, he knew it was fruitless. He turned the gun on the only survivor left and asked what had happened. The old black servant began in his baritone voice.

  ‘Da massuh wuz drinkin’ las’ night an’ e’d fall asleep an’ den wake up fer one maw drink an’ den fall asleep again. Early dis mawnin’ ‘e said out loud … I don’ think ‘e was talkin’ t’ me but I ansud anyway. He axed what was goin’ t’ happen to him an’ I tol’ a story about Juju. I tol’ ‘im dat sometimes dere’s people dat can call up a spirit ‘r a ghost ‘r somethin’ t’ get eve’n wit’ someb’dy who did ‘em wrong an’ dat dere ain’t no callin’ d’ dev’l off once he got stoddit. I tol’ ‘im dat once d’ demon got finished wit’ dem Prussians, ’e’s gonna walk right through dat door ovah dere an take d’ massuh t’ hell wit’ im. I thought he w’s gonna shoot me when ‘e picked up dat gun but instead he said dat ‘e wasn’ gonna let d’ pries’ win, an’ den ‘e jus’ blew ‘is brains out.’

  Lieutenant Cuthbert couldn’t charge poor, long-suffering Jacob with anything. After all, he’d only told a spook story, the captain had taken his own life by his own hand.

  ‘Go and get your wounds taken care of, Jacob. When the surgeon gets finished, come back here and clean up this mess. Then your duties to Captain Grey are finished. You can continue working here for a salary or you can go but, as far as I’m concerned, you’re a free man.’

  ‘Well, suh, if it’s all d’ same t’ you. I gots nowhere t’ go an’ a free man c’n do whatevah he wants to, so I’ll stay right heah an’ do whut I w’s learned t’ do.’

  When the office had emptied, the lieutenant remained behind for a few moments. He looked down at Percy and addressed him as if he was still alive. ‘Well Pussy, I thought you were a cruel bastard when you were alive and, just because you’re dead, my opinion of you hasn’t changed. We’re out of the priest-hunting business as long as I’m in charge. I don’t give a rat’s arse which church or what god these people have, I’ll keep commerce going. The crown will get its blood money and I’ll keep the peace in my own way. So instead of saying goodbye, Captain Percival Grey, I will say, ‘Good riddance and I hope you get what you deserve. The priest won!’

  Lieutenant, and now acting Captain, Cecil Cuthbert had assumed command.

  *

  The afternoon sun was quickly losing strength as the trio of travellers arrived at the road which skirted the eastern shore of Guitane Lough.

  ‘We’ll carry on for another hour before we make camp,’ said Robert. ‘From there, it’s only about nine miles to Killarney and we should arrive by tomorrow afternoon. Then we can get you two some new clothes and get you on a coach the day after.’

  Morna looked aghast. ‘Ya mean shop-bought clothes?’

  ‘Well we haven’t got time to wait for you to make a dress, Morna, so yes, a shop-bought one.’

  It seemed a ridiculous extravagance to the girl. ‘Oy never h’d clothes dat came fr’m a shop.’

  ‘Is there enough money?’ asked Michael, doubtfully.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Robert. ’Our friend Ned is a rich man and he’s allowed us to borrow some of his treasure.’

  The young couple were now riding double again, with Robert on the lead horse, when Robert’s horse snorted and held its nose high in the air, running out its top lip.

  ‘What is it?’ asked the young man as the old sheriff reined his horse to a stop.

  ‘He smells another horse,’ said Robert and the old man strained his eyes to see upwind. They waited to see what would unfold and Robert took the horse pistol from his waistband and reprimed it. He tucked it back under his brat and waited, his hand still clutching the grip. Finally, a man appeared, slumped in the saddle of a filthy grey horse which had seen better days. He walked very slowly towards the three.

  Robert turned to Michael. ‘Whatever happens,’ he said quietly, ‘you dig your heels into that horse’s sides and you get yourself and the girl out of harm’s way.’ He handed Ned’s purse to Morna.

  As the animal and rider approached, Robert saw first one man, then another two on foot behind him. A flicker of recognition passed across the sheriff’s face. It was the one-eyed derelict from the bar in Killarney a couple of weeks ago, the same one who had expressed an unholy interest in the two Hobbies. He seemed to be unarmed, except for his three burly cohorts. Robert recognised them as the brothers of the livery boy who Ned had cuffed that same evening. The old one-eye spoke first.

  ‘Dems me harses! Oy rec’gnoise ‘em an’ Oy saw dem farst.’

  ‘They’re my horses,’ said Robert, firmly.

  ‘No dey ain’. Ya shtole dem offa d’ men wit’ uniforms on.’

  ‘They’re mine,’ repeated the sheriff.

  ‘Well, now dey ain’t,’ said the old fellow. ‘Dey belong t’ me.’ He squinted his one good eye and grinned at the girl lecherously. ‘D’ garl’s moine too.’

  Robert turned his horse slightly so the animal’s head was out of the line of fire, and he fired through his cloak, hitting the one-eyed desperado in the stomach. The man disappeared into the gun smoke and, when it cleared, he was on the ground clutching his belly.

  ‘Ya killed me, y’ harse t’ief,’ he rasped. ‘Ya killed ol’ one-eyed Jack Beatty, an’ Oy curse ya.’

  The flash from the priming pan had set light to the sheriff’s leine, and he was too busy tamping out the fire to hear the man’s words. Morna’s eyes were as big as saucers, she had never seen a man shot before. What she didn’t know was that her own father had met the same fate only days before.

  ‘Aren’t we going to help him?’ asked Michael. His uncle ignored him and placed the last ball into the big gun, priming the flash pan as he rode slowly onwards, holding the weapon in his lap.

  ‘What happens to the others?’ Mikey protested.

  Robert rode steadily onwards. ‘You kill the head, the body dies.’

  *

  CHAPTER 32

  Ned spent the night in a tiny grotto at the confluence of a stream and the Glengarriff River. The ceiling was no more than two feet high and the cave, which was under a huge flat stone, was about five feet deep. He hadn’t slept much in the last few days and the exertion had taken a toll on his body. His food bag was empty and he poured the last few crumbs into his mouth before slipping off into a deep sleep.

  When he woke, the sun was already high. He poked his head furtively out of the cave mouth and looked around, half expecting the Prussians to be waiting. The only sound he heard was the rush of a waterfall. He had calculated that Glengarriff was only a few miles away and he decided that, since no one there would remember who he was, he would venture to the edge of town and get
some food, perhaps even some information. As he buried the grey Franciscan frock, he thought to himself; Oy dawn’t t’ink Oy was cut out fer dis pries’ business. It’s fair too dangerous fer a man o’ me gentle demeanor. It was late afternoon when he walked into the village.

  The pretty little town beside the bay was a beehive of activity. Red-coated soldiers walked around in groups of two or three and the locals were out in numbers, as if it was a holiday of some sort. A moment of panic swept over Ned as it occurred to him that perhaps there was going to be a hanging. If that was so, then the reason he’d not seen hide nor hair of the Prussians for the last couple of days might be that they’d caught up with the sheriff and the young couple. He found a pub called The Sheep’s Tail on the outskirts of the village and he walked inside and placed a penny on the bar. Without asking, the proprietor put a pewter flagon of ale before him. Ned took a long draw on the cup before addressing the bartender.

  ‘Is dere soome kind o’ fair ‘r celebration in town t’day?’

  The taciturn barman’s face broke out into a huge smile. ‘There is, we’re havin’ a wake,’ he said.

  Ned felt the flesh on his arms raise into bumps. ‘Who’s d’ guest o’ honour?’

  The barman answered with more than a hint of glee. ‘It’s dat mis’rable fecker, Pussy Grey!’

  Ned kept up his casually disinterested expression and pondered for a moment before taking another slug of the brew.

  ‘Did ‘e get sick ‘r sumpthing?’

  The barman leaned in close. ‘Da ward is, he blew ‘is feckin’ brains out.’

  Ned drew back. ‘Whoy would ‘e do a t’ing loike dat?’

  The bartender had an explanation, because bartenders always have. ‘He w’s huntin’ fer a priest in d’ mountains an’ d’ priest conjured oop ‘n ellymental.’

  Ned looked doubtful. ‘We don’ have dose in Ireland. Dey coome froom Afreeka.’