Safe Home (The Tipperary Trilogy)

by William Patterson

  ‘Do you have a saddle for that plug?’ he asked. Billy rummaged around and found a dried-out old saddle. He wiped the dust off it with a rag and put it on the cob. The girth was old and cracked and Robert hoped it wouldn’t break and dump him into the road. That would be far too untimely an end for an otherwise perfectly good adventure. The light draught horse was as wide as the big charger he was used to riding, but several hands shorter, so it was easy to mount the animal. Billy handed the sheriff a riding crop.

  ‘Yu’ll be needin dis,’ he said. ‘Dat dead-sided mule won’ pay ya no heed widdout spurs on yer feet.’

  Robert slipped the lanyard of the crop over his wrist. ‘I’ll bring her back first thing in the morning, Billy.’

  ‘Ya bedder had, sir. She ain’t mine an’ I don’ wan’cha t’ have t’ hang me fer a horse t’ief.’

  ‘I did the stealing. I’d have to hang meself.’ said Robert, grinning.

  ‘Safe home, Sheriff D’Arcy. I’ll see ya in d’ marnin’.’

  The old man gave him a nod and began to walk the horse out of town. He tried squeezing the animal with his thighs but it offered no response. He kicked it with his heels and still nothing. He tapped it on the rump with the crop and, finally, the reluctant beast managed to trot for a few steps before falling back into a walk.

  ‘You’re a old lazy bastard,’ said Robert aloud.

  Connolly had polished off the last few drops from the canteen and he held it over his mouth, shaking it to make sure nothing remained.

  ‘You c’n stand d’ farst watch, boyo,’ he said. ‘I’m goin’ t’ shut me eyes fer a bit.’

  Gallagher was every bit as inebriated as his companion but he was still jittery from the spook stories Connolly had filled his head with. Every shadow and every rustle startled him from his stupor. The wind whipped around, ratting the trees like bones and adding to his trepidation.

  Robert reached the first turnoff, just outside Nenagh. If he hadn’t stopped at the livery, he thought, he could be halfway to Gortalocca by now. He whacked the horse on its rump hard enough to sting the animal out of its lethargy and they began to gallop towards home.

  The wind carried the sounds away and the sentry didn’t hear Robert’s horse until it was thirty or so yards away. He felt the hair prickle on the back of his neck. He kicked his sleeping companion but Connolly just rolled over. He levelled his gun in the direction of the approaching sound and fired into the darkness.

  Robert heard the shot, followed immediately by the angry buzz of a musket ball as it whizzed over his head. The horse heard it too and reared up on her hind legs. The saddle girth snapped, just as the rider was about to shout a warning to the sentries, and Robert began to tumble off the horse. Before he hit the surface of the road, a second shot rang out and an ounce of lead hit the old man just below the ribs.

  Life is full of if’s and maybe’s and, no matter how well-laid a plan is, there is always a measure of chance involved. If Robert had chosen to walk instead of ride … if he hadn’t become impatient with the horse’s slow gait … if the cinch strap hadn’t broken and thrown him, the second bullet would have missed its mark as widely as the first. Robert had danced with danger most of his life and he’d always enjoyed the devil’s own luck, but fortune was a fickle mistress. She may flirt with a man for a while but, in the end, she took no lovers and now she had jilted the old man.

  Robert lay in the road. He felt no pain and he knew that painless wounds were the most mortal. He put his hand to his belly then held it up in front of his face, the blood was black. He had been shot through the liver. He might live for an hour or he might live for a week. He closed his eyes and prayed that it would be the former.

  Just as the two guards carefully approached the supine body lying in the dusty road, a misty rain began to fall …. another if. If the rain had started a moment earlier, the powder would not have ignited in the flash pan and the musket would not have fired.

  ‘Maybe he’s a horse t’ief, ‘r a bandit,’ said Gallagher, hoping he was right.

  Connolly used his bayonet to push the man’s hair aside and took a look at his face. ‘Oh Jayzus Christ!’ he cried. ‘We killed D’Arcy! We’ll hang sure!’

  Robert tried to speak but he hadn’t enough air in his lungs. That’s good, he thought, with clarity, the ball went through the lungs. That means I’ll be dead soon.

  ‘See if he’s got any money on ‘im, Gallagher. We gotta get ourselves out o’ here.’

  ‘We can’t jus’ leave ‘im ‘ere.’

  ‘If ‘e’s got money, we c’n get away before anyone finds out what we done.’

  The shock had rendered both men stone cold sober and now Gallagher began to cry.

  ‘Jayzus, sir, I’m sorry.’ He sobbed as he relieved the sheriff of his purse and handed it to his companion. ‘Now we’re t’ieves ‘s well ‘s murderers.’

  ‘Dey c’n only hang ya once,’ said Connolly.

  The old man formed his mouth around a word.

  ‘He’s tryin’ t’ say sumpthin,’ said the young deputy, and he bent closer to Robert to hear what he hoped was forgiveness.

  ‘Whattid ‘e say?’

  Gallagher looked at Connolly in astonishment. ‘He said feckin’ eejits….’

  *

  CHAPTER 43

  The lathered horse arrived at the livery stable just as Billy Reardon had finished putting the harness back together, and it went straight into its own stall. The jarvey knew something was wrong. He saw its saddle was missing and he went over to inspect the winded horse, finding flecks of blood on the animal’s flanks. After examining it for wounds and finding none, Billy realised something must have happened to D’Arcy. He headed immediately to the castle.

  The two guards at the castle gate watched as the obviously distressed man ran towards them, yelling.

  ‘Shutcher gob, Billy Reardon. Yu’ll wake d’ whole garrison,’ said one of the men. The jarvey paused to catch his breath and the guards looked on in amusement.

  ‘Looks like Billy fell off d’ wagon again,’ laughed one to the other.

  ‘I ain’t fell off any wagon, but I t’ink d’ sheriff fell off ‘is horse.’

  ‘Be quiet, man,’ ordered the first sentry, sternly. ‘Sheriff Higgins is here, ya daft eejit, asleep in his quarters. If you wake him up, he’ll put ya in d’ stocks. Now go way wit ya.’

  ‘I mean Sherriff D’Arcy …’ The pudgy old fellow bent over and put his hands on his knees. He inhaled deeply and screamed, ‘HELP!!’

  ‘Jayzus, Billy!’ yelled the first guard. ‘Now ya’ve done it! Yu’ll have woke everyone in d’ whole place. There’ll be hell t’ play!’

  Billy Reardon looked from one sentry to the other and realised he wasn’t going to get any help from them so he inhaled deeply, cupped his hands around his mouth and screamed.

  ‘HEEELLP! MURDER!!!’

  If the guards had had a shovel, they would’ve dug a hole and crawled into it. They just looked helplessly at each other and waited for the inevitable. They didn’t have to wait long.

  Sheriff Higgins came running out of his quarters, tucking his shirt tails into his still unbuttoned trousers. He was furious.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on out here!’ he yelled across the courtyard to the two guards.

  ‘It’s Billy Reardon, sir,’ shouted one of them. ‘I think he’s gone mad.’

  ‘I ain’t mad, Mr. Higgins, an’ I ain’ drunk eider,’ screamed Billy, in a state of near hysteria. ‘It’s Sheriff D’Arcy… I t’ink sumpt’in terrible’s happ’ned t’ ‘im!’

  ‘Sheriff D’Arcy is down in Cork, man.’ stated Higgins, abruptly.

  By now, Bernard Higgins had closed the distance between them and arrived at the gates but that didn’t stop Billy from shouting.

  ‘He ain’t, sir. I was jus’ talkin’ wit’ ‘im an hour ago. He couldn’t get past d’ guards so ‘e was goin’ on t’ Gortalocca. I gave ‘im a harse.’

  Billy’s story had a ring of trut
h about it and Higgins knew there was more to this than the ravings of a demented Irishman. He cast an acidic look at the two guards and asked Billy why he thought something had happened to D’Arcy.

  ‘Cause d’ harse showed up wit’ blood on ‘im.’

  ‘Have my horse saddled up and bring him to the livery,’ the sheriff barked to one of the guards. ‘Turn out a few deputies and have them meet me there.’ He turned to Billy and said, ‘Get a grip on yourself, man. We’ll go to the stable and get this sorted out.’

  Robert lay alone on the Lough Derg road and looked up at the starlit sky. He coughed and a bit of bright foamy blood oozed out from the side of his mouth. He had always wondered how he’d die. He wondered now whether, if he could get his feet under him, he might be able to elude the inevitable just one more time. He tried to push himself up but it just made him cough up more blood, so he settled back and gazed at the night sky again. He had the same feeling the headache medicine gave him. His mind became foggy, his thoughts vague and he began to drift away. He was in a forge and he was young again.

  Higgins arrived as Robert D’Arcy’s last spark of life spluttered and died. He dismounted and felt the neck for a pulse, then he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped some of the blood from the old man’s face, almost tenderly. He addressed the lifeless corpse of his superior.

  ‘By God, sir, you were a stern old bastard. But I don’t think anyone ever really knew you. You’ve died as you chose to live … alone. God rest your soul.’

  Higgins was right and he was wrong. It was true that Robert Flynn D’Arcy’s steely exterior had always given a harsh impression to most. But he was wrong about him being alone. Robert had a best friend, his younger brother, Liam. Now the two best friends and brothers were reunited once more and Robert Flynn was not as alone as Higgins imagined.

  Sheriff Bernard Higgins assumed the role of commander. The other deputies arrived and surveyed the scene of the incident. Higgins picked up the empty canteen and sniffed it.

  ‘Find Connolly and Gallagher,’ he ordered, his tone one of disgust. ‘They have a lot to answer for.’

  Connolly and Gallagher had been making their way eastwards, toward Ardcrony. As the sun rose, they excited the deep forest and spotted a few cottages.

  ‘We need t’ get outta dese uniforms,’ hissed the skinny man.

  Gallagher’s world was crashing in around him. ‘I ain’t gonna run,’ he stated bluntly. He dropped his musket and walked towards the road that led to Nenagh.

  ‘Yer feckin’ mad,’ spat Connolly, as the young man walked away.

  One of the cottages had laundry drying on a hedgerow and the older deputy began a stealthy approach in the half light of dawn. Just as he was taking some clothing, a woman screamed from the doorway. A second later, her four young sons bolted through the open door and confronted Connolly. He tried to fire his musket but he’d forgotten to reload it after shooting the sheriff. The young men surrounded him like wild dogs worrying a sheep. He feinted with his bayonet and tried to face them, but he was surrounded. Rather than close on the armed man, one of the fellows picked up a stone and threw it at him. Taking the cue, the others began to pelt him with rocks. Finally, one struck home and knocked the deputy senseless. He dropped his musket and they fell in on Connolly to teach him a lesson.

  The two deputies were brought before the sheriff that afternoon. The magistrate was sent for and a jury hastily convened. In a matter of a few minutes, and in accordance with the law, both men were found guilty of murder. Before their sentence was read out, the men were allowed to speak in their own defense. Gallagher showed remorse and Connolly tried to place all the blame on his cohort. The judge was having none of it. It had been decided that both men were complicit in the killing of the sheriff and they would be hanged in two days. It was left to Higgins to decide what means of execution would be utilised. He sentenced Gallagher to be hanged from a gallows. Connolly didn’t fare as well. His vain protestations of innocence had infuriated Higgins, who was a gentleman and a man of honour. The older deputy would be put on the back of a donkey cart, and a noose placed around his neck. Death would not come swiftly for the coward. In two days’ time, the sentences would be carried out in front of the castle gates. Higgins intended it to be a spectacle and an example of how justice would be administered from now on, even with lawmen.

  The town was teeming with crowds of people when Ned and Mary arrived.

  ‘Is it alw’ys like dis?’ asked the girl.

  ‘No,’ replied Ned. ‘Dere mus’ be sum’thin’ happ’nin’ t’day.’ He craned his neck to try and see what was going on as they rode their horses forward, through the throng of humanity. People cursed and swore as Ned muscled the horses through the tide of peasants. He stopped and asked a trader what was the reason for the festivities. It was as he suspected, a hanging was due to take place. Sheriff D’Arcy had wasted no time in reasserting his authority, he thought. He asked a second man what the crime was and the man told him two men had killed the sheriff. Ned’s skin prickled and he felt a sensation of numbness sweep through his body, starting at his head and working its way down to his feet.

  ‘Do you mean Higgins?’ he asked, hopefully.

  The man shook his head. ‘No,’ he replied, grinning. ‘It was that bastard, D’Arcy.’

  Ned felt his face flush and he nudged the Hobby over until it stepped on the man’s foot.

  ‘Ouch! Ya stupid fecker.’

  Ned kept ploughing forward until he could see the faces of the murderers. He recognised them immediately as two of his former colleagues. A new wave of numbness engulfed him, sweeping away his anger towards the lout he’d just trampled on.

  Gallagher was marched up to the gallows, his hands tied behind his back. He was asked if he had any last words. He opened his mouth as if he was about to say something, then closed it when words failed him. A hood was pulled over his head and the noose tightened around his neck. He didn’t wait to be pushed from the gibbet and, as he stepped off, the only sounds to be heard were the thrum of the rope as it came taught and his neck as it snapped.

  Connolly was fighting as he was dragged out next, loudly protesting his innocence and screaming about injustice. He was put on the back of a donkey cart and a sack was pulled over his head. Seconds before the cart was wheeled away, Higgins cut the bonds that held his hands. Connolly struggled and kicked, pitifully trying to haul himself up in an effort to grab a last few breaths. Higgins pulled a pistol and shot the man, dead. He remembered the words of Sheriff D’Arcy.

  ‘There is no room for malice in the administration of justice and no one should ever take joy in a man’s death, no matter what evil deed he’s done.’

  Ned and Mary left the crowd behind and continued on towards Gortalocca. Ned didn’t want to find out about his mentor’s death from any stranger, he wanted to hear it from Michael’s mouth.

  In his mind, men like D’Arcy were immortal. They aren’t, of course, and soon the world forgets they even existed. Robert had known that. Ned was yet to learn it.

  *

  CHAPTER 44

  It was just before noon when Ned and Mary walked the horses into Gortalocca. First they had to find out where Mrs. Flynn lived so they could deliver the news. Ned tied both animals up outside the crowded village store and opened what looked to be a newly-painted yellow door. The place was abuzz with people talking about a shooting and what had happened on the lake road a couple of nights before, and the snippets of conversation Ned caught made his guts tighten. There was a young man behind the bar, doling out refreshments, and he directed Ned next door.

  They left the Hobbies tied and he and Mary trudged to the cottage. The shock had begun to wear off a little and Ned hoped he could trust himself to speak. Death was always an acquaintance but some deaths were unfathomable. He knocked and Michael answered the door, solemn-faced. He recognised Mary, of course, from his time in Ballyshee but he didn’t immediately remember Ned. Nevertheless, he ushered them both into the hous
e and closed the door behind them.

  Morna and Mary locked in an emotional embrace for a moment and Ned was left standing awkwardly. Tears came to Mary’s eyes when Morna asked her what had become of Ballyshee. Mary held the delicate young girl’s shoulders and pushed her to arms-length. ‘Dere is no Ballyshee, mo chuisle,’ she said and her own eyes filled.

  ‘What aboot me family?’

  Mary hugged her close again. ‘Dey’re gone, love. Yer da got shot along wit’ mine an’ yer mam and a few udder women wen’ off intuh d’ hills an’ we nev’r seen dem again.’

  Morna rested her head on Mary’s shoulder and began to sob.

  ‘Oy’ll go back an’ see if Oy c’n foind’em, Morna,’ volunteered Ned.

  ‘You’ll do no such t’ing,’ Mary snapped at her future husband. ‘It’s too late now. Da moun’ains ‘s a’ready ate dem up.’

  Morna reached out and took Ned’s hand in hers. ‘She’s right. Ya already done enoof an’ Oy won’t have ya takin’ yer life in yer hands again.’

  ‘Oy swear Oy’ll go if ye want me to. Oy gimme ward on it.’

  Roisin spoke up for the first time. ‘You will not,’ she said. ‘I just lost one old man who gave me his word he’d find someone for me. I won’t be party to sending a young one out on a fool’s errand.’

  She picked up two letters from the table. ‘I have two letters here,’ she announced. ‘They’re from Sheriff Robert Flynn.’ She saw no need to address the dead man by his usurped name. ‘One is addressed to me and the other is for all of you. I’ll read yours.’

  ‘I, Robert D’Arcy, being of sane mind, do bequeath the following:

  Six pounds sterling to my nephews, Michael Flynn and Jamie Clancy, in the hope that they will build a permanent blacksmith shop in Gortalocca.

  Three pounds to my nephew, Robert Flynn, in the hope that he will find his way.