An Irish Heart

by C M Blackwood

  “We have to go,” she said suddenly. “It’s time to leave.”

  “Please don’t,” I said miserably, all of the sorrow in the world settling itself down into my heart.

  “It’s not forever,” she said softly. “It’s just . . . for now.”

  I wanted to ask for how long – but she knew no more than I did. I just held her tightly as the sun began to fade; I felt her arms falling away from me, felt the bed drop out from under me. All warmth and light disappeared in an instant.

  I opened my eyes warily, praying for the room that had just spun away from me – but my eyes were met only with darkness, and my false hopes were dashed once more against a wall of solid rock.

  ***

  I can still mark the exact moment when I lost all the spirit that was left in me. I ceased moving entirely; I would not cross the room to eat; I did nothing but lie on the cold stone, with closed eyes and a bleeding heart.

  “Decided to stop eating, there, darlin’?”

  Even their taunting went almost entirely unnoticed. I say almost, because it was not what they said that bothered me; it was only the fact that their voices broke my precious silence.

  It was all I had left. In absolute silence, one can dream of anything. If there is nothing to hear, and nothing whatever to confirm your situation, you can create anything you want. You can believe in anything – even if, in your heart of hearts, you really don’t.

  There is little more to say about that time in my life. It was horrible; it was lonely. I’ve already said that. Now I suppose there’s just the ending to tell.

  Chapter 33

  One day, there came a great and overwhelming racket that was impossible to ignore. Little did I know that I would be more thankful for that mess of noise, than I had ever been for the silence.

  “What in the hell is going on, Jones?” came a shout from the hall.

  “I don’ know! Aren’t ye the one who was supposed to be guardin’ the front?”

  “Don’t you put this on me!”

  “Shut up, both of ye! Just help me get them out o’ here!”

  I couldn’t help it; I was hanging on every word. I wanted to know what was happening.

  “Push them back! Push them back out the doors!”

  “There’s too many of ‘em! I can’t – Oh, Jesus, Johnny, look out!”

  I heard a gunshot, followed by a short wail.

  “Johnny!”

  There was no response from Johnny. I took that to be a bad sign for the son of a bitch.

  “Damn it, Blackie, I told you not to fire in here!”

  No, it couldn’t be . . .

  “No, Jones, don’t fire! You’re going to end up shooting one of us.”

  “But, what about Johnny . . .?”

  “Go get him a tourniquet and shut up about it.”

  “Good man,” said the voice that was still in question. “I’m sure that we can come to some sort of an agreement. No more killing, what do you say?”

  Was it her?

  “What kind of agreement?”

  “You give me the prisoners – and I won’t kill you.”

  A laugh. “You’re joking, woman.”

  “I most assuredly am not.”

  “Well, then, you’re an idiot. Do you really think I’m going to hand my prisoners over to you?”

  “They’re not your prisoners. They’re my people. Give them back to me now – or you will deeply regret it.”

  “You have quite a sense of humour.”

  “Do you see me laughing?”

  “Push them out!” he hollered. “Get her out of here!”

  There was another round of fire. I held my breath.

  “What’s going on out there?” Myrne asked fearfully. “Do you think we’ll be shot?”

  “Who cares?” I replied.

  The commotion without was reminiscent of a pub brawl – with firearms present.

  “Jesus, are any of you even trying? It’s nothing but a woman and a bunch of fools! Push them out!”

  I struggled to my feet, sucking in as deep a breath as I could manage. I was sure she would not hear me, but . . .

  “Abbaline!”

  Nothing. Of course.

  “Abbaline!”

  There was another gunshot.

  “ABBALINE!”

  I don’t know if I’ve ever screamed so loudly in all my life. It felt as though I had ripped out my own throat.

  The din died down for a moment. It seemed I had alarmed both sides of the fight.

  “Did you hear that?” said Abbaline.

  “I heard it,” replied a man.

  “Was that who I think it was?”

  “I think so.”

  “O’Brien!” called Abbaline. “Answer if it’s you!”

  “It’s me!”

  I was sure I had no voice left.

  The fighting seemed to go on forever; but there were only the three gunshots. Everyone seemed to have decided that, firing indoors as they were doing, in such close quarters, was an idea somewhat less than wise.

  Finally, I heard someone shout: “I’ve got them! I’ve got the keys!”

  “Go and open the doors, then!”

  It was a few minutes before the fellow (whom I did not recognise) reached our door. “Come on!” he said loudly. “Hurry, come with me!”

  Myrne and I ran out on rubbery legs, into a throng of clashing men. I took a hard elbow to the face, and fell to the floor; Myrne reached down and pulled me up in an instant. After that, it was just like being whisked away by a raging river. I had next to no control over what direction I went. I had no say in the matter, as I went crashing into the wall; there was nothing I could do, when I was mashed up face to face with Bobby Jameson.

  It seemed, though, that the tide was sweeping me towards the front doors. They were so close, yet so far away . . .

  I felt the repeated crashing of countless limbs against my own; heard an assortment of unintelligible cries.

  “We’re almost there!” said Myrne. “Mind the steps.”

  But I fell, anyway. I rolled down into the dirt with several others, only to be pulled from the fray once again by Myrne.

  “Get away from the steps!” he said. “Run!”

  We ran as far as we could; ran until we fell to our knees in the dead grass. The sound of our breathing, and the clouds of fog that billowed up, as those breaths clashed against the cold morning air, filled the space around us. I tried to speak, but to no avail. Myrne seemed as if he was having just as much trouble.

  We stayed there on the ground for a long time. I watched the crazed shuffling that continued to flow out and around the doors of the prison, glad that I was far away from it. It seemed that either side was dealing with so many of its own difficulties, no one even noticed us.

  I considered running away, then. But Abbaline was still inside – so how could I leave?

  “Let’s go,” Myrne said to me, taking hold of my arm.

  “No,” I said shortly, shaking free of him. “I can’t go yet. You don’t have to stay with me.”

  He sighed, but sank back down to the ground all the same.

  ***

  About an hour later, I heard my name being called. I looked around to see Blackie striding towards me.

  “Well, if it isn’t you, miss!” said he. “Now come on with me, you and your friend there. We’re getting ready to go.”

  Myrne and I rose up off the ground, and floated after Blackie, like two ghosts just slain on the battlefield. I looked all around me; there were at least a hundred other people, all of them just as dirty and miserable-looking as I was. They were all clustered together, trying to make sense of whatever it was that had just happened. I think they were still trying to figure out if it had been a good thing.

  “Where’s Abbaline?” I asked, when I had finally caught up with Blackie.

  “She’s still inside. Just finished tying up the last of the soldiers.”

  “They’re not dead?”

  �
��Just the one.”

  I felt myself growing angry. “Why didn’t you kill them?”

  “Well, miss, there was no need to – we got you all out just fine.”

  “But – but what about what they did? I’ve been here for months, Blackie! Jesus Christ, look at me!”

  Blackie was beginning to look nervous, and it seemed that he wanted nothing more than to be standing anywhere other than next to me.

  “I’m really sorry, but I don’t give the orders.”

  “Of course you don’t, you low-down little –”

  “What’s going on here?”

  Blackie looked up and saw Abbaline; and relief spread quickly across his face. He hurried off in an instant.

  “Were you having a problem with Blackie?” Abbaline asked me.

  “I was only sharing my opinion with him.”

  “And what opinion would that be?”

  “Don’t play stupid, Abbaline, you’re anything but.”

  She was not offended, not in the least. She seemed rather amused.

  “I just saved your life – and while I appreciate your input, my little darling, I’m afraid that I must just be missing the gratitude in your voice.”

  I scowled.

  “Oh, no matter. You’ll come around in good time. For now, though – go on and join the others, and I’ll round you all out of here.”

  When she had walked a short distance away, Myrne whispered to me, “How do you know that woman? And that man?”

  “Old friends,” I muttered, stomping off towards the rest of the group.

  ***

  “All right,” Abbaline said, standing at the very front of the flock. “This is what we’re going to do.”

  Her men stood behind her, numbering no more than twenty. They were all quiet, facing straight ahead and listening intently. I recognised a few. There was Blackie, of course – but there also was the fellow named Tom. I remembered Brazier Street, and how the two had seldom ever been out of one another’s company.

  “We’re going to a safe place,” Abbaline went on. “It’s not far from here, only five or six miles. When we get there, we can work on getting you all back to your families. But for now, just stay close – keep it quiet, and keep it moving.”

  And we were off. Myrne and I walked at the back of the pack, knowing that we were not fit for the task of attempting to keep up with Abbaline and her men. At least, this way, we had only to match strides with a few old men, and a woman with a broken cane.

  “At this rate,” Abbaline shouted back, “we’re not even going to make it before nightfall!”

  But no one picked up the pace. I felt my own muscles straining, pulling and twisting and threatening to cramp.

  “Five or six miles is like a hundred,” Myrne said to me, “when you haven’t walked for a year.”

  I looked at him. “A year?”

  He nodded. “Just about, I think.”

  “Jesus, Myrne.”

  He shrugged, and gestured to the rest of the crowd. “Some of them suffered much longer than that.”

  I was silent, trying to imagine it.

  I looked to my left and saw Tom there, trying to help some of the elderly on down the road.

  “Tom,” I said.

  He glanced up at me. “What’s that?”

  “What’s the date?” I asked.

  “Tenth o’ November.”

  “Thank you.”

  He nodded gruffly.

  “What do you care about the date?” Myrne asked me.

  “Nothing,” I answered, thinking to myself.

  November the tenth. It seemed that each past November had been host to some particularly life-changing event – that of 1914 consisting of dealing with the aftermath of my murdered father; that of 1915 being a trip to Dublin which eradicated everything I had built in betwixt.

  1916: Released from a months-long imprisonment.

  It just never failed, did it?

  ***

  When we finally arrived at the camp, I fell down on my knees in the mud. I could stand no longer; and neither could Myrne. So there we sat in the muck, breathing heavily and watching as the scenery blurred with the blood that was pumping through our brains.

  It was quite a while before I saw Abbaline again. It was far past sundown when she came to the tent in which I was lodged with Myrne. She poked her head through the flap, said my name, and disappeared.

  Apparently, I was expected to follow.

  “Where are you going?” asked Myrne.

  “How in the world should I know?”

  I found Abbaline outside another tent about twenty yards away. She did not acknowledge me at first – she was talking to some scruffy little man in a black wool cap

  – but when she finally looked up, she smiled.

  “We looked in so many places,” she said. “I was beginning to think that we would never find you.”

  “You say that as though you were actually looking for me.”

  “You say that as though you didn’t want to be found in the first place.”

  “You don’t say.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “You sound angry.”

  “Me? Never.”

  “You know, I tried very hard to find all of the people that were lost – all of the people who didn’t get sent to the jails. And you weren’t even a soldier!”

  “I know that. I should never have even been there!”

  “And why is that?”

  “Because it was their cause. Not mine.”

  “And why isn’t it yours?”

  I realised that I had no answer to convince either Abbaline or myself; and I was not prepared to start thinking about it.

  “I’m sorry about what you’ve gone through,” she said. “It happened to a lot of other people, too. Most of them weren’t as lucky as you, though.”

  I could see her throat working as she said this; and I knew that she was thinking of Tyler. My heart softened towards her, but I could not keep myself from saying, in something of a harsh voice:

  “Yes, Abbaline. I consider myself very lucky.”

  “I don’t expect you to be happy about any of it – I’m just telling you the truth. Maybe today is not the day for you to best appreciate it.”

  “I’ll be no more appreciative than I am right now.”

  Abbaline frowned. “No, you probably won’t. Not for a long time.”

  “Was there something in particular you wanted to talk to me about?”

  “By your way of thinking, apparently not. We’ll be moving soon to a safer location – but I’m sure that you don’t care about that.”

  “You’re right. I really don’t.”

  “Oh, Kate, have you really grown so hateful? Even to me?”

  “So it would seem.”

  It was one of the few times, in all the time that I knew her, that I ever saw such a sad look upon Abbaline’s face.

  “All right, then,” she said. “Goodnight, Kate.”

  “Goodnight, Abbaline.”

  And so I was off, feeling somewhat guilty – but knowing that, if confronted with Abbaline again that very moment, I would say nothing differently.

  ***

  That night, I lay silently on a musty-smelling bedroll, staring at the shadows that danced across the side of the tent. There was a fire burning a few yards away; I could hear men talking, laughing.

  I wondered what in the world they had to laugh about.

  Only a small fragment of candle burned inside the tiny tent. (None of the other prisoners had been granted a tent. Their numbers were too great. But Abbaline had made one of her men give his own up to me; and of course this only served to increase my earlier remorse.)

  Myrne had borrowed a book from someone, and was occupying himself with the reading of it. I was very tired, but I did not ask Myrne to blow out the light; I had spent so long in darkness, I was not keen on being plunged back into it again.

  I watched the shifting of the shadows for a long while, but finally turned my
head just a bit so I could see Myrne. He was lying propped up on one elbow, reading intently, his brow furrowed in concentration. Now that I could actually see him, his being alone with me, in such a small space (not much smaller than the cell we had shared) manifested itself to a higher import. It made me think of Tyler. His hair was almost the same colour, and if I didn’t look too closely at his face . . .

  “Kate?”

  I was startled by his voice. Not Tyler’s voice – not even close.

  “What?”

  “You were staring at me.”

  “Was I? Sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry. It only surprised me.”

  I turned my head away, and closed my eyes.

  “Kate?”

  “What?” I repeated, this time with a note of frustration.

  “Nothing. Never mind.”

  “What is it, Myrne?”

  “Oh, nothing, really. I just thought it would be nice to talk for a bit?”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It just seemed better than silence.”

  “Only sometimes,” I said.

  “Yes, sometimes,” he agreed.

  “Is this one of those times?”

  “For me.”

  “For me, too, I suppose.”

  “How are you feeling?”

  “The best that I can, considering the circumstances.”

  “They could be worse.”

  “They could always be worse. But it’s still about as bad as I can stand.”

  He went quiet, and after a few moments, I turned to look at him. “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking.”

  “Has the time for conversation passed already?”

  “Oh, no. It was only what you said. It made me think.”

  “What about?”

  “Well, you know. About everything that led up to this second, here in this tent. So much has happened – and yet it all sort of falls away, to leave me here in this moment. It makes my head swim a little.”

  I studied his expression, so earnest and kind. He looked so young – so much younger than I knew he really was. He was like a small boy.

  “You know,” I said, “I don’t even know your first name.”

  “Oh, my. You don’t? It’s Matthew.”

  “Matthew Myrne?”

  “Matthew Meniah Myrne.” He flushed a little. “My mother always thought it had a nice ring to it.”