Leon Uris (4 page)

As Liam went up to the hills, so Rory headed down to the sea by the path that his stallion Rum Runner knew by rote.

Being in the saddle comforted him, even at such a grievous time as this. His most profound memory of his father’s affection came on his third birthday in the form of his first pony.

Rory was seven and RumRunner four when they made their lifelong partnership. In short order Rory was a full-fledged drover. Moving RumRunner into the midst of a flock was like leaping up onto a cloud, a sky of wool below him and the border collies circling and yapping and nipping butt.

RumRunner knew the weight of his master was heavy this night. As Rory reached into the saddlebag and withdrew a bottle, the horse set himself on automatic; four hours and one fifth of whiskey would see them down to Christchurch.

New Zealand kids were filled with wanderlust these days. They now had justification and rationalization to scream out against the entrapment that closes in on most island youngsters. Had there been no war on, they’d have probably invented one.

From the time of Conor’s visit, much of Rory’s curiosity had been filled by a parade of books, which found their way to him through Uncle Wally. He became a prolific reader,
but strange, his drive to get out of New Zealand seemed pacified.

Rory had not been caught up in the war fever, partly because it made no sense for him to go halfway around the world to fight for the freedom of Belgium.

You inherit this, that, and the other from your parents, sometimes reluctantly. He had found their sense of peace that told him he would do his roving at some future day, when he was entirely ready and sound of mind about it.

By sixteen he was among the best sheep- and cattlemen on the South Island and had talked his father into raising domesticated deer, which was turning into a profitable venture. He also imported a few mules from Cyprus, which turned out not so profitable.

Although the yen to leave was there, the yen to stay was also there. It was Liam’s fears and suspicions that triggered Rory to look to the horizon. He loved the station, the country, his calling.

It had been years and years since he had heard from Conor. Only cryptic mentions of his uncle came in the letters from his other uncle, Father Dary.

But on this night of Conor’s death, the past became the present again and the present took on a sudden urgency. He must follow in Conor’s footsteps.

Even now he adored riding the station with his da, who was quiet and leathery and had wondrous ways with the soil and weather. They said that only pigs could see the wind, but Liam Larkin sure as hell could, he was that keen.

If containing one’s emotions were a kingly value, his father was a great king. His early longings to buddy up with his da had been turned back by Liam’s constant taciturn attitude toward him. Mom and Tommy, and occasionally the girls, got whatever there was of his father’s outward shows of affection.

If being taciturn were truly his da’s basic nature Rory felt he could find a rhythm to it, a good clean way that two quiet men can have respecting and caring for one another.

Rory had caught a drift as a child that the silence and later the snappishness toward him had a wrong rub to it. It was a special annoyance his da had for him from something that must have happened long ago and far away.

It was a dark night, but RumRunner knew the way. Rory dozed in the saddle knowing his horse would advise him if he were about to fall off. He jolted to wakefulness and snapped upright time and time again. Each time he did, he remembered his horror…UNCLE CONOR IS DEAD!

Rory, stop playing the game, he told himself. You’ve a rover’s bone stuck in your throat and you know it and your da knows it. The sourness between them had set in almost ten years ago to the day, when Uncle Conor came to visit.

Liam Larkin understood his son’s itch and he was unable to do the right thing about it. It boiled down to a single word,
Ireland
, and Rory had built his uncle into a deity. Liam’s fear was that the same curse-laden bedevilment would take his son away.

A word of comfort to his da that his love of New Zealand would keep him here, and things would have changed between them in a flick.

Liam saw his son become more like his brother, and it was beyond his scope to do anything about it. As for Rory, he could never bring himself to comfort his da about Ireland.

So, the malice and cancer grew.

UNCLE CONOR IS DEAD!

Tears stung Rory’s cheeks. His throat told him the bottle was empty. He tossed it and looked for the lights of Christchurch. They always seem to come up like the sound of a Protestant hymn. If New Zealand ever fell off the earth, Christchurch would be first to go. It was born dull and stayed that way without curiosity or anger, just a transplanted English garden in perpetual whispers and prayer. This was the Motherland once removed, the old royal and loyal outpost of empire. It was eleven o’clock and Christchurch drowsed. Christchurch always drowsed.

RumRunner trotted on through to the Lyttleton Harbour, where an oasis of levity from the outside world had filtered through the Christian ramparts.

Wally Ferguson’s Sheepmen and Miners’ Exchange was the lone sanctuary from all that goodness. Wally’s operation centered around the sheep and cattle pens by the docks. There was a bunkhouse hotel, warehouse, auction barn, and the most active pub on the South Island.

Wally’s greatest asset was an ability to size up men: good, bad, truthful, liar, fighter, coward…that one will fold up in one season…that one will make a go of it…that one’s a right yahoo.

In the beginning, when Mildred and Liam had been evicted from Bert Hargrove’s station, Wally had made an astute judgment and took the young and frightened couple in. What to buy, when to buy, how to buy, good land, bad land, safe ships, diseased ships, market up, market down, good ram, bad ram—all of this was shared with Liam Larkin, more so because he hated Bert Hargrove, but mostly because he knew a winning team when he saw one.

That kid, Rory Larkin, became a kind of alter ego, winning at the fairs, almost good enough to play rugby with the All-Blacks, and a fighter of devastating proportions.

Rory could hold his feelings in like his da, Liam. The lad was always much of a loner except for the girls who couldn’t keep their hands off him and their legs crossed.

Likewise, there were many differences between father and son, but the greatest of these was Liam’s ability to stuff in his rage, no matter what.

Rory was able to contain himself for only so long, and when he erupted it could be monumental and he could be dangerous.

RumRunner stopped at the corral gate. Rory whistled. Old Glenn the stableman limped over from the bunkhouse and let them in. The journey ended, the whiskey hit with a delayed punch. Rory needed a hand to dismount and he leaned against the fence, blurry.

“My, my,” the old man said, “get your ass to the bunkhouse, I’ll sack you down as soon as I take care of your horse.”

The intensity of pain was stronger than the effects of mere alcohol. Rory came together in a fuzzy sort of way. “I’m not after sleeping yet,” he said. “Night’s young and I’m wasting good drinking time.”

“You’ve got enough in you to keep the House of Lords drunk for a month.”

“Glenn, just take care of my fucking horse.”

“All right, but mind your manners. There’s a foursome of thugs down from the copper mine just dying to get into a piss-up. And see Wally before you go into the bar. He thought you might be coming down.”

Rory heaved in a sigh to prove he was absolutely sober, thanked RumRunner, and started across the corral.

“Rory. We’ve heard about Conor Larkin. I’m sorry, man.”

Rory stopped for a moment and surveyed a landscape of pens bulging with sheep and three ships at dockside. The bar would be full. A tinderbox.

Rory knocked and entered Wally Ferguson’s office, slumped into the chair, and hung his head. The feel of Wally’s two strong hands tightening hard on his shoulders helped so much.

“Glenn says they know about it here already. How did they get the news so quick?”

“I think your ma must have held the cable for a couple of days. I called her and told her it was in the newspaper today. Some of the republican journalists in Dublin must have put it on the wires before it could be censored.”

Rory lifted his head to see a newspaper on the desk. He closed his eyes and bit his lip.

“You’ll have to read it to me.”

“‘It is confirmed that the Ulster Volunteer Army arsenal and barracks of Lettershambo Castle in County Londonderry was destroyed by a raiding party of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, reversing an earlier report from His Majesty’s Spokesman that the explosion was an accident.

“‘Details now emerging seem to indicate that a small raiding party crossed Lough Foyle and was able to enter the castle by a series of hidden caves and tunnels.

“‘The explosion which occurred at 4:22
A.M.
was so great that it could be seen and heard from Scotland down to Londonderry City. No figures of casualties have been released but informed sources say that over a hundred officers and men in the garrison have not been accounted for. Damage has not been made public, but from the power of the blast it is believed that tons of dynamite stored within the Castle were ignited and that tens of thousands of weapons along with millions of rounds of ammunition were destroyed.

“‘Only two bodies of the IRB raiding party have been recovered and identified. One was Daniel Hugh Sweeney known in the republican movement as “Long Dan” and believed to be in command of the illegal organization.

“‘The second body was that of Conor Larkin, a longtime Brotherhood operator whose whereabouts had been unknown since a jailbreak from Portlaoise Prison almost six years ago. He had surfaced in America for a time then disappeared again. Larkin won national fame for an earlier gunrunning exploit that culminated in his capture at the well-known ambush at Sixmilecross.

“‘Sweeney and Larkin were killed manning a machine gun, apparently covering the retreating raiding party…’ and so forth and so forth,” Wally said. “He sure went out in style, Rory. I guess you might consider me to be a royalist,” he continued, “but if I were Irish I’d probably have another point of view. I met him when he was here ten years ago. He was a gentle man unable to escape the curse he was born into.”

“Thanks, Wally.”

“Now, what about the squire?”

“Oh God, my da’s brains must really be unhinged now. We—he and I—are like one of his fine pieces of Waterford crystal. Ever see one of those things smash? It’s not into
chunks and slivers but a billion little flakes that can’t be put together—not by the two of us, anyhow.”

“Have you got the guts to stay in New Zealand?”

“Stay? Hell! Don’t you understand, Wally? Conor was so tall he cast his shadow halfway around the world. Now it’s settling like a black cloud. Ballyutogue and Ireland and Uncle Conor have been left unspoken through the years except in snippets of fear. The ghosts of Tomas and Kilty and Ireland have been rankling every corner of our land and every inch of our house. Uncle Conor’s unseen presence can fairly choke you at times.”

“Your da is a good man,” Wally said.

“So am I,” Rory answered. “Don’t worry, between the squire and Mom Larkin that station will prosper till eternity.”

“Ah, jumping Jesus,” Wally moaned.

“Let’s heist a couple,” Rory said rising.

“There’s a bunch of beasts in there from the mine including Oak Kelley.”

“Good,” Rory said, “Oak is just the ticket.”

“Wait, I’m coming with you.”

“‘S’truth, Wally, take my word, I’m sober as the Virgin.”

“That’s not what I’m worried about. Your face isn’t cleaned up from your last donnybrook up in Wellington. I don’t want a homicide on your record as well.”

The barroom had a certain raunchy stateliness to it. It was sturdy and its walls told of the hunting and fishing glories of the South Island in heads stuffed and fish embalmed in fighting poses. It was aged and sturdy and reeked lovely with a magnificent blend of ale, whiskey, tobacco, and various aromas from the pens outside.

Wally nodded to his big Maori bartender to be alert. Times like this were why Wally kept the furnishings simple. The lowering of all voices and the entry of tension was automatic as Rory found a space at the end of the bar and Wally stood slightly behind him.

The four mashers from the copper mine quickly positioned themselves on either side of Rory. The chief
troublemaker quickly took charge of his role. They called him Oak and he was known as a terror around the mining camps. Oak won most of his fights without throwing a punch, he was that fearsome-looking, with pocked face, red beard, and hands the size of cannonballs.

“I hear some pigshit by the name of Conor Larkin attacked a British fort in Ulster,” Oak said for openers.

“Bloody disgrace,” a mate chimed in, “what with Irish boys in the trenches in France having dirty traitors stabbing us in the back.”

“And I’m drinking to the man who blew Larkin’s guts out,” the third said.

“Yeah,” said the fourth, completing the alliance. “Us fighting a war, our lads dying in France, and that murdering jailbird committing treachery.”

“If you’ve spoken your piece,” Wally said, “would you mind retiring to a table so as further commerce won’t suffer interruption.”

“I want to know how this Larkin boy here feels about the matter,” Oak said.

“I’m very sad,” Rory said softly.

Too softly. Wally knew what Wally knew. The big Maori bartender reached down and wrapped his hand around a staying pin.

“We’d like you to step outside so we can express our sorrow as well,” Oak taunted, “but first, what say about a toast to our beloved King.”

“Ah now, gentlemen,” Wally said. “It’s four against one. That’s kind of unsporting, Oak.”

“Aye,” Rory agreed, “that’s indeed cowardly. Isn’t that cowardly!” he shouted to the room.

“Tell you what we’ll do,” Wally said quickly. “I’ll put twenty on Rory here, but no four against one.”

“Then I’ll only have to fight them two at a time?” Rory asked.