Liberty

  George weighed in, looking suddenly sombre, not like his usual cheeky self, and it made me wonder how he really thought this civil war might go.

  ‘Half the bloody loyalists to the Crown these days have Irish blood flowing in their veins and stand by the English out of sheer terror for their own hides. We’ll be uprising against some of our own in this battle. People like Connor Kelly.’

  ‘How will cousin Mary feel about that? He’s now a captain. But he’s never said a word against you two. I’ll take my cap off to him for that!’ I said, thinking that Connor could have squawked on us at any time. ‘Although I just saw him putting the boot into one of the Ballenger boys. I don’t know how Mary puts up with the brute.’

  ‘The Ballenger boys are tough and won’t speak a word.’ Will nodded seriously. ‘But that Connor Kelly, I don’t trust him none. He’s got a wife and son. They can use them against him to get him to turn traitor.’

  I did want to stand up for Ireland and I believed we could win. They had tried to bully the Americans but the American Revolution had put them in their place. After the French Revolution, our rebel leaders knew that it was possible to overthrow one’s oppressors. But I was worried that we weren’t quite ready.

  ‘But we have no French support on the ground, no proper arms, no trained men to go up against the English. We’ll be swatted like insects,’ I said.

  I was sounding like my father but I was concerned that the resistance was being far too hasty to call the rising for that summer. ‘You must be joking with me, Will. Maybe this time next year we might stand a chance … that’s what I thought we were working toward.’

  He shook his head and took my hand, leading me around the back of the cottage, explaining as we went. George traipsed behind us.

  ‘Theobald Wolfe Tone has rallied some French troops, near a thousand, and they are sailing for a landfall in Mayo any day now. Our men are primed and already striking down south round Dublin way. George and I will be riding north to Ballynahinch in the days to come to call our men to stand up and fight alongside our comrades. We’ll need you to rally a team of women to bring food to the troops.’

  I felt a ripple of dread masquerading as excitement. Theobald Wolfe Tone was like a messiah to the rebels. He was a founding member of the United Irishmen and I’d heard his name but never laid eyes on him. If he was commanding it, then it really was going to happen. After all the talk, after all the years of ranting behind closed doors, after so long, suffering at the hands of our invaders, we were finally going to call the supporters to arms and take on the Crown. Foolish or not, I also felt proud to be a part of this. Perhaps we were ready. Perhaps we had always been ready.

  We stood behind the shack and I surveyed the open field with amazement. The boys had been busy felling and clearing the land so that it lay bald and barren, all the way back to a line of trees, so neat and straight that they looked like fence posts. On the trunks of the pale-grey ash trees there were charcoal drawings of faces and other wedges cut into the tree flesh.

  ‘We fire shot into them at twenty, then fifty, then one hundred yards,’ Will told me, proudly. ‘I have a good eye and great aim. George on the other hand …’

  George hooted and threw his head back. ‘The man jests.’ He laughed. ‘I am the hot-shot. Will is Lucky Larry with his aim.’

  ‘You do me ill, Georgie boy.’ Will sulked. ‘I can shoot a red fox at a hundred yards with every shot fired.’

  ‘Now you’re just showing off, lad. Blowing your own trumpet.’ George continued to tease. ‘Trying to impress your betrothed. Why, I bet Betsy could outdo you in a target challenge. What do you say, Betsy?’

  ‘You’re on, boys!’ I said, dancing and clapping my hands. ‘I’m up for it. Hand me a musket. I’ll blow the tree in two.’

  ‘Easy up, lassie, it’s not as easy as it looks.’ Will frowned and went to fetch a weapon. He returned with a musket and pushed a shot ball into the barrel, pressing it in tight with a thin rod.

  ‘We dig the shot out of the tree and reuse it because we don’t have a lot and only thirteen muskets are stashed up here,’ George told me as he cleaned his nails with a small paring knife. ‘All pilfered from Jack’s midnight raids on those English dogs in the barracks. He waits until they’re dead drunk and then walks right in and takes them.’

  ‘And they call us Irishmen drunkards!’ Will laughed.

  ‘Might I remind you that your entire little crop here is for making liquor?’ I laughed.

  ‘Jack O’Neal says the redcoats are our greatest customers.’ Will grinned at me with his open smile, all teeth and eyes. ‘He sells it from his back shed for a fraction of the full price of whisky. The bastards love it!’

  ‘So they are funding us without knowing so that we can take them down,’ George ranted triumphantly. ‘The beauty of it. Ain’t it grand, Betsy? The redcoats buy the grog and we pocket the lot to pay the smithies to smelt the pikes for us!’

  I did see the rich irony of it.

  ‘Mind you,’ Will said, looking out over the distant, purple-dusted hills, ‘those thirteen muskets are all we have by way of firearms for the whole brigade at Ballynahinch. The rest of the men will have to fight with pikes.’

  ‘We have some grapeshot but can’t waste it,’ George told me as he carefully passed me the weapon. ‘We are saving it for the hearts and heads and spleens of our English oppressors.’

  Will stood behind me, pressed up close enough to cause me some warmth and showed me how to hold the long, awkward musket. It was much heavier than I had imagined.

  ‘Be careful now,’ he said into my hair, his breath tickling my skin. ‘I stole this from an English soldier.’

  I let my hand feel the wood and weight of the contraption and wondered if Will meant that he had killed the soldier for it, perhaps even with it. I felt faint thinking that I was holding an instrument of death.

  ‘See that one there?’ Will pointed. ‘The charcoal face on the ash tree? There. The middle one. Go for that. The stock will jump back against your shoulder so hold tight and go with it. Don’t drop it.’

  I took the musket and held it high, aiming at the shoddy face drawn into the bark. I closed an eye and focused hard on the target.

  ‘Look down the barrel,’ Will said, stepping away from me and I saw that George stepped back even further, clearly wary of my capabilities.

  With a gentle squeeze, I pulled the trigger and felt the click and then the roar as the beast reeled up against my body, pushing backwards as the shot flew out, so fast it was invisible and I heard it thud against something. I looked ahead, squinting so that I could see exactly what I had hit, if anything. George gave a whistle and Will trotted forward calling for me to secure my weapon. He inspected the tree and looked back at me with a lopsided grin.

  ‘You took the English devil’s head off, Betsy! You’re a better marksman than your brother.’

  ‘You have a fine eye, Betsy,’ George said, coming to stand next to me. ‘A very fine eye.’

  I watched Will dig the shot out of the tree with his pocket knife, flicking his head of curls back out of his eyes. His broad shoulders were covered by a thin, sweat-stained grey calico shirt and his knee-high, green corduroy breeches were pulled down tight into his high boots, showing a nice long curve down over his strong thighs as he bent over.

  ‘Yes, that I do, brother.’ I smiled. ‘A fine eye.’

  After sharing billy tea and some venison jerky, I rode home alone at dusk, singing into the wind, happy to have seen George and Will. Will had kissed me hard and strong on my leaving, enough to make George blush. I couldn’t wait to walk down the aisle and say a resounding ‘I do’ to William Boal. We’d postponed the wedding until the following summer and I wasn’t sure I could wait all that long. Another whole year.

  I galloped my Finn McCool and he loved the run, churning his hooves though the grass clods, kicking up
a stream of dirt behind us. His strong haunches rose and fell as I sat high in my saddle. I felt the power beneath me as he bolted down the lush hills and up the other side until we stood on the final hillock, looking out over the valley, admiring our little farm that was nestled like a white pebble in a sea of green. A coil of thin smoke rose from the parlour chimney so I knew Da must have been up, trying to read by the light of the fire with his one good eye.

  After settling Finn into the stable, I peeled off my riding cap, hung it on the hook and strode down the gravel path to the house, shaking my sweaty mane of hair out as if I was a horse myself. I decided I would slip in the back door through the mudroom, get out of my brother’s clothes and tidy myself up before dinner. My father would disapprove of me riding in men’s attire. As I walked, I whistled and planned an easy smoked-herring pie for our supper. Entering the dim doorway, I choked hard against something at my throat and stopped, gasping and startled, when out of the shadows a man’s face appeared. He was fair and wore a red coat. He smiled down at me like a big fish, his eyes cold and his mouth like a thin, wet slice across his pockmarked face. His arm was stretched across the doorway and he lowered it as I coughed and rubbed my neck.

  ‘Well, if it isn’t the charming Miss Betsy Gray,’ he hissed, and I felt a bead of his spittle land on my cheek. ‘We’ve just stopped by to pay you and your daddy a visit, just to ask a few questions. Follow me, will you, lovely?’

  Rubbing my bruised voice-box, I coughed again and walked behind him on legs that suddenly felt like they were made of wet sand. It was the rude soldier from the inn.

  Inside the parlour, two more soldiers stood by the fireplace. My father was kneeling on the floor and my stomach rolled. I ran to him but was stopped by a firm hand around my arm. It hurt.

  ‘Oh good.’ The fat soldier laughed. ‘Tommy Little’s found your daughter, Mr Gray.’

  ‘Yes, Jack,’ Tommy replied, pushing me into the room. ‘Sneaking around outside.’

  ‘What is this? What are you doing?’ I shouted.

  ‘There have been uprisings all over the south,’ Jack said through his yellowing teeth. ‘And while we’ve squashed the rebellion down there, thanks to informers, we want to know if there are similar plans afoot in these parts. Thought your father might be able to shed some light.’

  ‘I’ve told you we know nothing,’ my father groaned.

  ‘We have no knowledge of insurgent activity,’ I pleaded. ‘I swear. Let my father be. He is old and frail. And he is a loyalist. You know that! He has sworn an oath to the King.’ I was sure my father had only taken that traitor’s oath to save his children. Most people who had taken it had the same reason. Even though they resented the English occupation, self-preservation was a mighty incentive.

  ‘Your son, George Gray?’ the tall soldier by the fire asked, while taking a poker from the tray, reaching it into the flames. ‘You say he’s over on the Motherland? Working the docks?’

  ‘I did, he is,’ my father stammered. ‘Gone for months now.’

  ‘Along with my husband-to-be, William Boal,’ I added.

  The tall man with the thin moustache looked up from the fire, squinting across at me.

  ‘Is he now? And your sister? Married to Jimmy Ballantine, wasn’t she? Where is she now? Last I remember she was squeezing out a baby and you were sallying forth for a midwife.’

  I took a sharp breath and glared at the soldier, my mind racing, my memory being kicked liked a recalcitrant horse. Yes. I remembered the seedy face. The tiny slash of hair above his lip. I went cold and looked at the other two soldiers: the one with the bulging belly, Jack, and the other, Tommy Little, behind me, with his pockmarked face. I shut my eyes and sent a prayer to heaven. These were the very same three that had taken Annie for questioning.

  ‘My sister married a Catholic, Jimmy Ballantine, and we suspected he was a rebel,’ I said carefully, slowly, measuring each word. ‘Seems we were right. He was nicked, wasn’t he, and fled, taking my sister along with him. We had naught to do with them and haven’t heard a whisper of a word from them since.’

  ‘So why was you caring to get a midwife for her?’ fat Jack asked, narrowing his eyes.

  ‘She was my sister and in need,’ I said squarely. ‘I am a good Presbyterian woman and could not stand by and do nothing. I am God-fearing and know the difference between right and wrong. We were at Connor Kelly’s place, a good Monaghan man. We don’t dice with the rebels, sir. Not my father, my brother, Will or me.’

  The tall, moustached man paced up and down in front of the fire as if he were a general commanding his troops.

  ‘See, Betsy,’ he said in a voice that I did not like one little bit. ‘There’s been talk. People talk, you know, when pressed. And the talk on the street is that your brother and your lover are oath-swearing United Irishmen. Liberty Men.’

  ‘It isn’t true, sir!’ I shouted.

  ‘Well now, lassie, you are very pretty when angered.’ He smiled.

  I bristled, looking away as he raked his eyes over me.

  ‘I don’t care much for the boy’s attire you are wearing.’ He leered. ‘Is that your riding gear? Where were you riding to this afternoon, Miss Betsy Gray?’

  ‘Just out over the hills,’ I said. ‘My horse needed a run. His legs were getting bound up and I am mostly stuck here with my ailing da.’

  ‘And a good thing that is too!’ Tommy Little beamed, his face red and shiny in the glow of the firelight, lighting up his scars like milk pox.

  ‘We are loyalists,’ I said, standing tall, pretending to be brave. ‘We cannot help you with your enquiries because my brother is in England. We know nothing of any uprising. We are farming people and care only for our cattle and crops.’

  ‘Tell us where your son is, Mr Gray!’ The tall man threatened, brandishing the hot poker from the fire dangerously close to my father’s face. ‘Tell us and we will leave you and your daughter be. If your son is carousing with the rebels, we will not blame you. Bad apples can fall from good trees. But if you are hiding anything, covering for him, you will be held accountable and so will Betsy.’

  My father’s eyes locked with mine and held fast. I tried to say one and a million things to him so he might understand but his eyes were bloodshot and I knew that one eye could barely see more than clouded shadows. As furtively as I could I shook my head very, very slowly from side to side. He could not divulge my brother’s whereabouts, if he did indeed have an inkling that the Portsmouth story was a lie, otherwise George and Will would end up run though with bayonets, strung from the branch of an oak or simply disappearing like so many others, never to be heard from again.

  ‘Betsy,’ my father croaked. ‘Elizabeth, darling. Go and put on some supper for these good men and leave us be.’

  ‘No, Da,’ I said slowly.

  I did not want to be sent from the room so that he might betray George to save our hides. Da would do it for me, but not himself, and I could not let that happen.

  ‘Where are George Gray and William Boal?’ Little shouted from behind me.

  I shivered with dread, but again, very carefully, shook my head, my eyes never leaving my father’s face.

  ‘In England. On the docks,’ he told them, sadly.

  ‘See, we know this is not true.’ The one known as Jack laughed. ‘We intercepted correspondence by his hand some days ago.’

  ‘This is news to me,’ my father barked, and coughed but I could tell he was not really surprised. ‘I am a loyalist and my son knows it. He would never tell me if he was involved with the rebels because I would disown him.’

  The three men looked at one another and something passed between them.

  ‘Very well,’ the soldier with the poker said, resting it back on the stone hearth. ‘You are a man with many connections and are well thought of by the establishment. But your daughter is betrothed to Boal and knows more tha
n she lets on.’

  ‘I do not, sir!’ I baulked. ‘I have not seen nor heard from my brother or Will in months.’

  ‘Take her,’ the man directed Tommy Little and in an instant two strong hands had clasped mine behind my back, stringing my shoulders together tightly.

  I winced and my father yelled. ‘Unhand her!’ he cried.

  I was marched out the front door, my hair falling about my face and I went into a panic. From behind us I could hear my father begging for them to let me go, promising to tell them whatever they needed to hear, true or not.

  Out in the courtyard I was spun around and the three men encircled me, smiling, grinning.

  ‘We remember you well, Miss Betsy,’ the man with the moustache leered. ‘You wouldn’t dance with Tommy at the Old Inn at Crawfordsburn …’

  Images of the soldier jamming the butt of his musket into Will’s belly assaulted me.

  ‘And your friend Annie O’Neal.’ Jack laughed cruelly. ‘I suppose you’ve been missing her. She just wouldn’t play nice. Too surly and feisty for her own good.’

  ‘You killed her!’ I whispered.

  ‘Oh, not straight away, love,’ Tommy Little hissed into my ear.

  I shut my eyes. I remembered Annie’s intelligent face and the way she held onto me on the back of the horse, the way she stiffened against me when the soldiers appeared, the way her boots sounded as she dropped off the horse to the dirt below.

  ‘We don’t really want to know where your brother is anymore.’ The tall man, who seemed to be the more highly ranked, smirked. ‘It’s too late for that now. What pretty yellow hair you have, Betsy.’

  The man reached out and touched my hair and I recoiled, pulling a face and feeling like I needed to visit the privy.

  ‘Oi there,’ a loud voice called and I looked up, startled, to see a man in a large hat with a neck scarf concealing the bottom of his face beneath the eyes, sitting on a big black horse that I immediately recognised as Will Boal’s. ‘What business do you have with that woman?’