The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (11 page)

Like my stepfather, Billy had fought for the British during what later came to be called the Great War. But unlike my stepfather, who had faced the German army’s artillery and their poison gas in the trenches in France, Billy had been sent to fight in Mesopotamia. He never told us what he had seen or what he had done, but when he came back he was a different person from the one we thought we knew. To the IRA, always short on experience and supplies, men like Billy, who ironically had trained and fought side-by-side with those who were now our sworn enemy, were a godsend. When our brigade was formed, Billy was made officer-in-charge of our company.

He had led us through drills and taught us to fight, not the conventional way but as guerrillas, using whatever we could get our hands on. We trained in small arms and rifles and learned the tactics for rural ambush as well as those for use in the city. We learned how to make bombs and grenades using whatever materials we could steal. We trained in sabotage and learned how to cut telegraph wires, block roads, and destroy bridges. Late in the evenings, we were trained in intelligence, signaling, and communications—the tools of warfare we needed to know. We trained with wooden rifles because real ones were hard to come by. We drilled on Sundays and Wednesday evenings, our farms and jobs keeping us busy during the week. What we lacked in experience we made up in discipline and a knowledge that our cause was just.

Our first task was to properly equip ourselves, which meant getting our hands on weapons. Initially, we took shotguns and muzzle-loading weapons from farmers we knew and from those we didn’t. Some of the muzzle-loading weapons were older than the farmers themselves, but any gun, we reasoned, was better than none. These we passed around so all of our men could become familiar with their workings. When we heard about someone who had weapons we needed, we paid them a visit. Our solicitations weren’t always met with cooperation. More than once we had to convince a reluctant farmer that we had a greater need for his gun than he did, and if that didn’t succeed, we took it anyway. The British eventually learned of our plans and began a similar program, confiscating guns before they fell into our hands. The game had begun.

Our first raid was against six Peelers who we knew favored a certain pub in the evenings. One night, we lay in wait and, when they left, long after midnight and with each having had a few pints too many, we sprang. With scarves tied around our faces, only our eyes showing, and armed with two shotguns, we surprised them and forced them into an alley. One of the men, a big fellow who we knew to be their sergeant, kept looking over his shoulder, and I knew what was to come. When the shout came from the street, a distraction he was waiting for, he lunged. Billy sensing what was about to happen was prepared, and clubbed him with his gun. There was a loud, sickening sound, the crack of the wooden butt against his head, and he fell like a sack of potatoes. Seeing their leader slumped on the ground, blood pouring from his head, the other five put up no resistance. Moments later, we made off with their revolvers.

Days later, we had our first taste of reprisals, the Peelers seeking their revenge as much for the humiliation of having their guns taken by a bunch of peasant farmers as anything else. They didn’t know our names yet or where we lived and so began their intimidation program. They sent out patrols to corner and question anyone whose loyalties were suspect. Being Irish, being Catholic and being a farmer or a tradesman was suspicious enough and, to the British soldiers, suspicion equaled guilt. In the beginning, it was rough treatment: the fist, the club, or the butt of a rifle. They took names and addresses, a young private scribbling furiously, while the sergeant demanded answers. Any hesitation was met with violence. Scare tactics was all it was, and most of it was directed at civilians. Nothing more than a few bloodied noses and a few broken bones, but all that changed one Sunday in April.

There was an RIC barracks about ten miles away. The seven constables were commanded by a sergeant named Murphy who was Irish and Catholic as were many of the Peelers at that time. Unlike other barracks, Murphy’s men generally left us alone, more, we suspected, because Murphy’s loyalties lay with us and not with the Crown. Our intelligence indicated that they had just received a shipment of rifles—Lee-Enfields that were the standard of the British army. While we had no grudge with Murphy or any of his men, we were sorely in need of those rifles
.

What seemed a simple plan quickly unraveled. Immediately before our attack, we cut the telegraph wires to prevent the Peelers from calling in reinforcements from surrounding barracks. As an extra measure of caution, we cut trenches in the roads just outside of town. This would delay any reinforcements if word of our attack somehow managed to reach them. Then we set fire to the building and, with our guns trained on the front door, waited for the Peelers to escape out the back at which point we would rush into the blaze and seize whatever we could. A dangerous plan certainly, but necessity drove us to such extremes.

However, rather than abandon their barracks, Murphy and his men put up a fight. Volley after volley of gunfire was exchanged but, strangely enough, no one was hit on either side. After an hour, our ammunition was running low, but by this time the fire had taken hold and the Peelers were finally forced to flee. Murphy continued to surprise us. Instead of retreating, he tried to encircle us, and a new battle broke out on the street. Ten minutes later, Murphy and another Peeler lay dead, but with our ammunition gone and the fire raging, it was us who were forced to retreat.

Although we failed to seize any rifles, we viewed the operation as a victory nonetheless. It was a brazen attack against the British and, with two Peelers dead and a barracks destroyed, it showed them we meant business. To the citizens of Ireland, who had been living for seven hundred years under the British, it demonstrated that even a group of poorly trained peasants could defeat the well-equipped forces of the Crown.

It was two days later that we first spied the mismatched uniforms of the Black and Tans, and we quickly learned that the British wouldn’t be satisfied with merely squashing the latest insurrection—they wanted revenge. The Tans went on a rampage, burning businesses and homes randomly. They arrested scores of people, including one publican who, although he had no connection to the IRA other than serving us a pint now and again, was deemed guilty of sedition. His hands and feet were tied, and he was forced to kneel before he was shot in the back of the head. Despite the rope marks on his hands and ankles and despite the angle of the wound, the court of inquiry determined that he was killed while trying to escape.

An eye for an eye, Billy had told us, and one week after the inquest, we captured a Tan. Like the publican, we tied his hands and ankles and forced him to kneel. Then Billy shot him in the back of the head. We pinned a note to his tunic:
Prisoner of the IRA, killed while trying to escape.

And like that, the game had changed, the Tans exacting their revenge, and us, led by Billy, exacting ours. As brutal as the Tans were, Billy let them know that we too could play that game.

___

As I ran across the Sheehys’ fields, the shouts and voices fading behind me, it was clear that the risks had just increased dramatically. Although there was always the chance that I would run into him, as I nearly had the day I arrived, surely now Billy would come looking for me. If I wanted to see Kathleen again, I had to avoid him.

I found Tim’s bicycle where I had left it, a mile from the Sheehys’, hidden in the heather behind the stone wall, far enough from the road that it wouldn’t be seen. I squatted by it for a moment as I caught my breath. After a minute or two with no sign that anyone was behind me, I dragged the bicycle back to the road. On the bicycle, I was forced to follow the roads but since I was going to Mary’s and Billy would be coming from the other direction I thought it would be safe enough.

An hour later, as I made my way over a small rise, there was a clank, and I stumbled on the pedal, barely catching myself before I tumbled over the handlebars. Cursing, I pulled to the side of the road. Glancing behind me, I saw the chain lying broken in the dirt.

A few minutes later, the bicycle hidden again, I pushed my way through the heather past a large oak tree to an open field. It was another ten miles back to Mary’s, I figured, maybe less since I would be cutting across the fields. I glanced at the oak, memorizing the spot—I had to come back for the bicycle—then, with the broken chain in my pocket, I set out across the field.

I managed to make it back to Mary’s house safely and without arousing any suspicion from the farmers and field hands I had seen along the way. I found them behind the house, Kathleen helping Mary with the laundry. It was a busy day; the bushels and bundles were piled high. Mary had a regular clientele, and it seemed there was no end to the amount of the clothes and linens that the rich could soil. Later in the evening, her son Tim would deliver the freshly washed and folded laundry back to their owners and, in return, collect a few shillings and a new set of dirty linens for Mary to wash.

Kathleen, her sleeves rolled up and her arms plunged into the steaming water, looked up. Mary had just come from the house, another large bundle in her arms. She placed the laundry on the bench.

“And a good day to you, ladies,” I said with a smile.

Kathleen’s eyes narrowed. She ignored my smile as she pulled her arms from the water and wiped them dry on her apron. Her eyes traveled up and down, to the dirt on my trousers, the rip on my shirt—souvenirs from my scuffle with the Sheehys. She frowned.

“What have you been into?”

I glanced down, certain she wasn’t upset at the additional cleaning and mending she would have to do. It was then I noticed that my knuckles were scraped raw, bruises that could only have come from fisticuffs.

Then I noticed the fear in her eyes. For the first time since I had returned—I hadn’t told her about my encounter with the British soldiers yet—she was frightened. Mary took two steps toward me and placed her hands on her hips, an angry stance.

“Frank Kelleher, I told you not to go getting involved.” Her dark eyes bore into mine. “That’s it then,” she said, clearly having just made up her mind. “You’ll be leaving for Abbeyfeale in the morning.”

“You went to the Sheehys and look where that got you! If they’d handed you over to Billy, do you think you’d still be alive now?”

The air was thick, the smoke from the stove and the tension between Kathleen and me filling the room. She was upset at my decision to stay while she went, alone, to Abbeyfeale. She couldn’t stay here, I had argued. Now that Billy knew I was back in County Limerick, he was sure to be looking for me. I wasn’t certain he would come to Mary’s but, if he did, it would be better for Kathleen if she weren’t there. I didn’t think Billy would be bold enough to do anything to Mary—she was a member of the Women’s League, and anything Billy did was sure to anger the
Cumann.
And I didn’t think he would harm Kathleen. But would he hold her as prisoner until I turned myself over? It wasn’t a chance I felt comfortable taking. I could risk my own life, but I couldn’t risk hers.

“But they didn’t,” I protested.

She shook her head. “You’ve met with Liam. You’ve seen the Sheehys. What more do you want?”

“You know I have to see Sinéad. And Sean’s mother.”

“And tell them what?” She shook her head as if I were daft. “You’re wanting to make me a widow and we’re not even married yet. At least Dan had the decency to marry Sinéad before he went off and got himself killed!” Then she stormed out of the house, slamming the door in her wake.

Thankfully, Mary had remained silent throughout our argument, but that wouldn’t last now, not after seeing how upset Kathleen was. I didn’t give her a chance.

“Don’t,” I said, pointing my finger. Mary glared at me. I left her and went out in search of Kathleen.

I found her by the well. Her mood filled the air, and I stopped several feet away. I wanted to wrap my arms around her, to tell her that everything would be fine, that it was only for a short while. But it would only have angered her more. Instead, I stared back at her as I thought what I could say that would soothe her fears. Arms folded, she stared off into the darkness, seeing nothing but her own anger I was sure.

“I already lost you once, Frank,” she said without turning. “That night you came to me, at the Cavanaghs’?” I saw the slight shake of her head. “I never thought I would see you again. I thought I would be forced to have the baby by myself and…and…” She buried her face in her hands; her body was wracked by sobs.

I reached out and put my hand on her shoulder.

“You yourself said it wasn’t safe. Now you want to send me away while you stay here. And to do what, Frank? To tell them that you’re innocent?” She shook her head. “Ahh, you’ll just go and get yourself killed and for what? Just to clear your name?”

“It’s all I have Kathleen.”

“You have me, Frank Kelleher!” She turned and put her arms around me, her head on my shoulder. “You have me.”

“I love you, Kathleen. You know this.”

“If you loved me you’d come with me.”

“I can’t, Kathleen. I need to do this first.”

“Then I’ll stay here,” she pleaded. “With you.”

I told her again that I didn’t think it was safe. I told her I could protect myself but I wasn’t sure I could protect her.

“It’ll only be for a few days. I’ll come as soon as I can, Kathleen.”

“Sure, you say that now, but you won’t. After you see Mrs. Murphy and Sinéad, you’ll go and find some other ghost to chase.”

The trouble was, she was right.

We went to bed late, neither of us happy.

___

The next morning I found Kathleen at the table, sipping a cup of tea. I had been outside, helping Tim with the horse and cart.

I put my hand on her shoulder and sat in the chair next to hers. I heard Mary behind me, coming from the room she shared with Kathleen.

“It’s time,” I said softly.

Kathleen nodded and stood. “I’ll get my things,” she said without looking at me.

While I waited, I could feel the heat from Mary’s eyes on my back.

Kathleen was only gone a moment. When she returned, I took her case. She put on her hat. I helped her button her coat, a small gesture, an intimacy I hoped would last us both until I saw her again.

“I’ll follow you shortly,” I said then kissed her softly on the cheek.

Her face somber, Kathleen nodded but said nothing. Her eyes refused to meet mine.

We stepped outside. I handed Tim Kathleen’s case then I helped her up onto the cart. Mary held out a blanket of heavy wool to ward off the chill and the mist in the air. I draped this over Kathleen.

“I’ll see you in several days, then,” I said again. Then I gave Kathleen another kiss on the cheek and hopped down.

She nodded, her jaw set.

“Mind yourself now,” she said, her eyes briefly on mine. Then she turned and faced forward, wanting, I was sure, to get the parting over.

Without a word, Tim flicked the rains. I stood and watched them for a while, the soft clip-clop of the hooves fading in the dense winter air. Soon they disappeared into the mist. As much as I didn’t want her to go, it was for the best.

I turned to find Mary. Her eyes bore into mine.

“It’s a dangerous game you’re playing, Frank Kelleher,” she said, “and one you’ve no right to, not after what happened.”

Ignoring Mary, I turned back and stared off into the mist where Kathleen had gone. She could have taken the train from Limerick, but I thought it would be better to stay away from Limerick. As it was, she would take the train from Patrick’s Well, some nine miles away, and would arrive in Abbeyfeale in the afternoon. Mary had arranged by telegraph for her friends the Maloneys to meet Kathleen at the station. Away from Limerick and the people who knew her, Kathleen would be safe for the time being.

“You don’t know the half of it,” I heard softly behind me. I turned back to Mary.

“What do you mean?”

She took a step closer and shook her finger at me. “Do you know what it’s been like for the last year?”

I shook my head.

“She left the Cavanaghs soon after you fled. For six months she saw no one but Tim and me.”

Mary’s eyes were steady on me, and I suddenly felt embarrassed that I had never asked.

“Every time someone came, Kathleen had to hide. She couldn’t let anyone see her, not when she was with child. She was so afraid that Father Lonagan would learn of her condition.”

I sighed. Father Lonagan—the priest at St. Patrick’s Church, the church I had attended every Sunday since I was a wee lad, sandwiched between my mother and father on the cart as we made the nine-mile trip. If he had learned of Kathleen’s condition, I had no doubt he would have insisted she be sent away. Everything we had learned about our faith, about our church, we had learned from Father Lonagan. He had baptized all three of us, Kathleen, Mary, and me, as he had most of the people I knew. He had heard our confessions and forced his penance on us. Each week he had given us the communion bread, his tireless efforts to save us from the sinful life we each led was nothing less than heroic. Father Lonagan
was
the Church. And the Church that we knew—the Church of Father Lonagan—did not believe in mercy.

“She hasn’t been to a mass in over a year.” Mary continued. “How could she? Then after the baby died, she was convinced that it was her fault.” Mary shook her head. “I certainly couldn’t ask for Father Lonagan’s help, now could I?”

I shook my head and she continued.

“I’ve known Father Leahy since we were children. His family’s from Rathkeale, but when he became a priest, he was sent to Abbeyfeale. I sent him a telegram, and a week later he came. It took that long for Kathleen to stop crying.”

“I’m sorry, Mary. I didn’t know.”

“Ahh, you didn’t know,” Mary said, abruptly dismissing me with her hand. “You didn’t know and you didn’t care.”

She turned on her heel and left me there, like the fool I was.