Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  Roisin noticed that the stock on the shelves of Hogan’s was becoming sparse, as items that were being sold weren’t replaced. When she brought the subject up with Robbie, he became defensive, blaming the vendors for unreliable deliveries. Roisin prayed that she could hold her world together long enough for Robert D’Arcy to arrive back. He would stand for no nonsense and would put things straight in short order.

  Things came to a head when a beer vendor knocked on her door and announced there would be no further deliveries until the overdue accounts had been honoured. Roisin was mortified. In all the years that she had run the shop, the bills had always been paid on delivery of the merchandise. When she brought the situation to Robbie’s attention, he told her that he was the man of the house now and that he would run affairs his own way. She had no doubt that, in a very short time, everything that she and her husband had worked for would be lost. For now, Roisin decided that the best way to handle the situation was for her to stay away from Robbie … would that he would let her.

  *

  Robert slipped quietly into the barracks where the unmarried deputies were housed. Ned was snoring peacefully and Robert made himself comfortable on the cot next to him. The old man lay on his back and looked into the blackness of the dark room. I wonder if being dead is like this, he pondered. He found it hard to sleep, tossing and turning until, just as the sky had begun to get light outside and he had started to drift off into a deep sleep, Ned woke from his slumber.

  ‘Aire we ready t’ leave,’ he whispered quietly, so as not to wake the other men.

  ‘We’ve just got a few things to do, Ned, and then we’ll be gone before any of these beauties are up and about.’

  They made their way out to the stables and there, waiting for them, was Sheriff Wentworth. He was holding a sack.

  ‘I only wish I could go with you boys,’ he said, grinning. ‘I have no doubt that if I did, I’d have some stories to tell my grandchildren.’ He shook Ned’s hand enthusiastically. ‘I’ll send an autographed copy of my book to you in Mary Land,’ he told him. Then he turned to Robert and shook his hand. ‘I hope I shall see you again, sir. It has been an honour to meet you.’ He handed the old man a horse pistol and the sack of provisions. The men saddled up and rode away, leaving Nigel’s words echoing in the darkness.

  ‘Safe home, gentlemen.’

  ‘Whadda we got t’ do?’ asked the deputy.

  ‘Ride to Ballyshee, of course!’ said the sheriff, ‘Our host has provisioned us.’

  Robert felt invigorated but his high spirits were somewhat tempered by the grim look on his companion’s face. He had accomplished his mission so far and now he was determined to help Ned find the girl.

  ‘If we take d’ road t’ward Clonkeen, we c’n turn off after Morley’s Bridge an’ be in Ballyshee by late afternoon,’ said Ned, rhetorically, and he spurred the Hobby into a gallop. They slowed their horses to a jog as they passed through Kilgarvan an hour later. The lower rim of the sun had just cleared the mountains to the east and the golden disk contrasted against the purple and indigo of the slopes. A few miles more and they would cross the bridge which marked the turn towards the looming peaks. When they arrived at the bridge, there were no redcoats guarding the crossing. The horses’ hoofbeats drummed across the old stone arch, disturbing the morning silence.

  ‘We’ll rest the horses here for ten minutes, Ned. They need water and I need to stretch my legs.’ They both dismounted and walked their animals down to the stream’s edge, in the shadow of a stone archway.

  They were soon on the road again, riding helter skelter towards Inchee Bridge. Robert recalled that the crossing had been well-manned when he, Mikey and Morna had been there some days before and he told Ned it was better for them to dismount before they reached the bridge and for one of them to approach it on foot first. The younger man was the most likely candidate as his accent would not arouse suspicion if there were indeed troops guarding it. Ned set off and, after what seemed like an eternity to Robert, he returned.

  ‘Ain’ no troops dere,’ he said abruptly. Robert knew that the nearer they got to Ballyshee, the more anxious the young man was becoming and he had no doubt considered the scouting exercise to be a waste of their time. It was up to Robert to ensure that they didn’t become careless now that their final mission had almost reached its culmination.

  A little over two miles more and the road made an abrupt turn towards the south. This is where they had forded the river and encountered the two French mercenaries. Robert sniffed the air, hoping that the bodies had been found. The last thing he wanted to see now was the decaying corpses of the two men he had assassinated. The bodies had gone and Robert glanced at the place where the skirmish had occurred. He knew that he had been lucky once again but he also knew that, if he kept up this man-of-action malarkey, one day soon it would be his own name on the parchment scroll that welcomed him to hell.

  The sun was almost directly overhead as they climbed up the first slope from the river basin. The forest gave way to scattered, stunted trees, then to yellow gorse and purple heather amidst wiry mountain grass. When they reached the peak of the first ridge, Ned strained his eyes to try and see past the next one, Ballyshee was just beyond it. The old man was conscious of Ned’s sense of urgency but he was also dreading what they would find. Years of fighting other people’s wars in Europe meant he was all too familiar with the cruelties inflicted by occupying troops on civilian populations and it had always repulsed him. It was one thing to face armed troops in battle, but to commit one-sided atrocities on farm communities was spiteful and barbaric.

  Finally, they crossed the last forested valley and the two men steeled themselves for what lay ahead. They walked the Hobbies up the steep slope to the crest and there, below them, lay the ruins of what was once a hard-working little township. Ballyshee had been obliterated. The mud cottages lay collapsed upon themselves, the clay from which they’d been made becoming part of the earth once more. The few stone structures were burnt-out shells and the thatch, which was now in ashes, covered the charred interiors with a fine dust which, from this distance, looked like snow. The walls had already begun to crumble and in a few years time, what were once homes, full of life, would be unrecognisable piles of stones as the Cork landscape devoured the bones of the village.

  The wind had picked up now and it blew into the men’s faces, bringing with it the sickly stench of decaying flesh. The slopes were speckled with the carcasses of dead livestock, mostly the sheep which the town had relied upon for its existence. As the two descended slowly into the valley, the scope and magnitude of the destruction became ever more apparent. Rooks, ravens and buzzards circled overhead, anticipating the macabre feast which lay scattered on the slopes. They rode past a dead donkey, its eyes milky and its belly swollen. Robert saw that it had received a mortal wound and had managed to drag itself up the slopes in the hope of reaching safety. The droning buzz of bluebottle flies and the raucous cry of carrion birds broke the silence. It occurred to Robert that death was not as quiet as one would think.

  Any crops which could be burned had been incinerated, the potatoes and other root crops trampled on by horses. There was evidence that what little remained had been gathered by the survivors. A long rectangular pit of newly-turned earth, which had already been dug through by foxes and dogs, was near the forge. A dug-out hollow exposed the skeletal remains of its newest occupant, as it seemed to reach for the heavens in a grotesque post-mortem plea. Robert knew it to be a hastily-dug mass grave. He had seen this before. Ned had not.

  Robert roused the young man from his shock. ‘We need a plan,’ he said abruptly.

  Ned looked at the old man with dead eyes, ‘Oy t’ink dis may be our fault.’

  Irritation flushed the old man’s face. ‘It would have happened anyway, even if that bastard Grey had found Michael here.’ His anger was not so much channeled at Ned but at the prospect that it might indeed be his fault.

  ‘Is one man’s loife warth a
ll dis?’ said Ned, flatly.

  ‘Well you can sit here and mourn all you want. You can even dig a grave for yourself if you choose, but I’m going to find out what happened to the Galvin girl.’ The old man climbed laboriously up onto his horse. ‘When you’ve finished here, you can meet me in Lackabaun. The people there might know something.’

  Robert spurred the Hobbie hard, taking out his frustration on the horse and, after only a few minutes had passed, he heard the sound of hoofbeats coming up fast behind him. He slowed and let the deputy catch up and together they took one last look down on the townland from the heights above, the wind whipping the ashes up into a swirling blizzard, partially obscuring the once thriving and vibrant settlement of Ballyshee.

  *

  CHAPTER 36

  Roisin soon settled into the little cottage which Paddy Shevlin had built for his family years before. The old pig farmer must have left a little of his spirit there because, despite the situation with Robbie, she couldn’t help but smile when she thought about Paddy. He may have smelled like a pig, but never was there a better-hearted man in the village of Gortalocca. She was pleased to be right next door to Jamie Clancy and his wife. Jamie made sure to call in on her every day and his wife brought their baby to visit almost as often. Roisin was happy to practice her grandmother skills with the Clancy child.

  Mick Sheridan dropped in to see her every Sunday, with his pony trap, and he took her to the service at the Church of Ireland in nearby Johnstown. They both knew she needed to keep up appearances if she was to maintain the ruse which Liam had used to acquire the property. By all outward appearances, she was still a Protestant, but that was just to keep the English from confiscating the land. Mick was a gentleman and, when they neared the church, he would let Roisin dismount and walk into the chapel as a properly-mourning new widow. It would keep the tongues from wagging.

  Robbie had got what he wanted for now and so he gave his mother a wide berth. She saw him occasionally as he walked over to open the shop but when she had any business to take care of, or if she needed any groceries, she would let Jamie’s wife do it for her.

  She was sweeping out the house one morning when Robbie, seemingly on his way to open the shop, saw her and waved. It was the first acknowledgement she’d had from him since he’d decided he was the boss, and she took one hand off her broom, returning the gesture half-heartedly. She went about her business and Robbie walked over towards her. It was too late for her to go back inside the house and so she stood waiting. He was amiable and gracious towards her and Roisin knew him well enough to know that meant he wanted something.

  ‘I haven’t seen ya in a couple o’ days, Mam,’ he chirped.

  ‘It’s been over a week since you kicked me out of my own house,’ she said acidly.

  ‘Aw, Mam. I t’ought we’d been t’rough all dat.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she replied, ‘not by a long chalk.’

  ‘Aw well, dat’s not what I come over t’ talk t’ ya about.’ He reached over to put his hand on her arm and she put it behind her back involuntarily. He pulled his hand back as if he’d been scalded.

  ‘What do you want, Robbie?’

  ‘Aw Jayzus, Mammy! Is dat any way t’ talk t’ yer only son?’

  Roisin bristled, both at his insincere tone and at the words he spoke, but she held her composure. Robbie thought he was doing well so far because she hadn’t taken a swing at him with the broom, so he persevered.

  ‘Dat auld sod, Gleeson, says if I don’t reckon wit’ d’ bill for d’ poteen an’ d’ beer, him an’ his sons are goin’ t’ come over an’ cut me toes off.’

  ‘Isn’t that grand,’ she replied. ‘You won’t have to cut your toenails, so.’

  ‘Mam, I’m serious. If you’d seen ‘is face when he said it, you’d know.’

  ‘How much do you owe?’

  ‘Almos’ eight shillin’s.’

  ‘Eight shillings? However did you manage to run up that kind of a bill, Robert?’

  Robbie knew he was in hot water now. His mother only called him by his full name when she was about to lower the boom or, in this case, the broom.

  ‘Cuz d’ t’ief charges more when ‘e sells ‘is gutrottin’ swill on account.’

  ‘Tell Gleeson that I think it’s only fair he charges you a shilling a toe. Tell him, that way, he owes you two more barrels.’

  ‘Mam, please,’ he pleaded. ‘Yer makin’ jokes an’ dis is serious.’

  ‘You told me you’re the man of the house. Now you want to be a little boy again?’

  ‘Ah ferget what I said, I was in me cups. I’ll always be yer boy, won’t I Mammy?’ Robbie had managed to dig himself out of some of his worst holes with this tactic and it seemed to be working again.

  ‘Your father and I have some savings,’ she relented. ‘I’ll bail you out … but just this once, mind.’

  Robbie hugged his mother and kissed her on the cheek. He knew those savings had always been sacred to his family and now he had finally broken the piggy bank. Roisin went back inside and, when she came back out, she handed him the money. Robbie whistled as he walked away and Roisin went about her work, eight shillings the poorer.

  *

  Michael and Morna boarded the coach in Limerick to embark on their journey to Nenagh. They would arrive in just a few hours.

  Robert and his young companion rode into the village of Lackabaun in the late afternoon. They could feel eyes upon them as the villagers cast furtive glances at the two strangers riding fine Irish horses. If eye contact was made, the villagers would look away and pretend to be otherwise occupied.

  ‘You’d better do the talking, Ned. I’ll just pretend to be your idiot companion … again.’

  Ned ignored Robert’s attempt at levity. ‘It’s bedder dat way, sar,’ he said. ‘Oy don’t t’ink anybody’ll be talkin’ t’ strangers here, t’day.’

  They stopped outside the village shop. It was the local bar, grocery and hardware store and, as such, was the centre of commerce in the little township. For the two men, it was also to be the source of the information they needed. While Robert tied the horses, Ned went inside and ordered two beers.

  When Robert walked in, Ned brought one of the tankards over and set it on a little table, leaving the other on the bar.

  ‘You set here, sar,’ he told his companion, ‘an’ if anybuddy tries t’ talk t’ ya, tell’em yer deef.’

  Ned strolled back to the bar and, soon, he had become engaged in conversation with the proprietress. The plain, dowdy woman was captivated by the young man who seemed to have money to spend and it wasn’t long before Ned was back at the table with a huge smile spread across his face.

  ‘We got ‘er!’ he hissed, triumphantly. ‘She has a cousin lives here in d’ village an’ she’s stayin’ at ‘er house.’ Robert went to stand up. ‘Set down, sar. She waited sixteen years fer me t’ show up. She c’n wait ‘til Oy finished me beer.’

  Robert dropped back. ‘You’re so feckin’ Irish,’ he replied, his face deadpan.

  They made their way to the neat little whitewashed cottage which the woman in the bar had indicated and Robert stayed mounted, holding Ned’s horse, while the young man knocked on the door. A blonde girl who looked to be in her late teens answered, she was holding an infant. She looked curiously from Ned to Robert and back to Ned, who spoke first.

  ‘Oy’m here t’ see Mary Galvin,’ he announced.

  The woman’s jaw fell slack. ‘Den ye are d’ hoywaymen she’s been rattlin’ about. Oy t’ought she w’s daft, what wit’ all dat’s happ’ned her.’ Ned assured her that he was not the invention of a distressed girl. ‘Oy’ll go an’ ask if she’ll see ya.’

  Ned could see into the little cabin and, as his eyes adjusted to the dim light inside, he saw Mary cowering in a corner. ‘You tell’er dat Oy walked across half ‘o Ireland t’ git back here an’ if she t’inks she c’n get rid o’ me dat easy, den she really is daft.’

  Mary got up with an effort and shuffled to the
door. Her long blonde hair hung in disarray.

  ‘Oy don’ t’ink you’ll want me anymore, Ned,’ she said, almost in tears. ‘Oy don’ tink any r’spectable man’ll want me anymore.’

  ‘Oy heard what happ’ned in Ballyshee an’ Oy still came back fer ya. So git yer shtuff an’ we’ll get outta here an’ go far away.’

  Mary looked at her cousin. ‘Well, Breda,’ she said, ‘it’s goodboy so. Oy prob’ly won’ ever be back again.’ The two cousins embraced, both trying to hold back the tears. After a moment, Mary pulled herself away and locked the young woman’s eyes for a moment, as if trying to etch the memory of her face in her mind, then she kissed the baby’s head and turned to Ned. ‘Oy’m ready.’

  The young couple walked out of the cottage into the daylight and saw Robert with the big horse pistol trained on the forehead of a rough-looking fellow in his forties. They appeared to be locked in a stalemate.

  ‘Tell dis’ eejit t’ put d’ gun down,’ the grubby man said to no one in particular. The sheriff’s face was expressionless and he motioned to Ned to mount his horse. Ned helped Mary up into the saddle first and she winced with pain as she sat.

  ‘Ah sure good riddance t’ d’ whore,’ shouted the lout. ‘She ain’ done nuttin’ but eat me food an’ croy in d’ carner fer d’ las’ week. She’s nuttin’ boot an’ Anglish whore.’

  ‘Shoot ‘im,’ said Ned, ‘ar let me do it.’

  Robert shook his head. ‘If every arsehole was shot, we’d all be dead.’

  The scruffy man scurried towards the door of the cottage, pushing his wife and baby out of the way. When he got inside, he closed the bottom half of the door behind him, more confident on his own territory.

  ‘Ya whore! Mary Galvin,’ he screamed. ‘If ya w’s a real woman, yudda died befar dey could do dat t’ ya.’

  That was too much for Ned and Robert knew it. His eyes blazed and, before the man could lock the door, Ned kicked it in and knocked him sprawling inside.