The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (23 page)

Two nuns guided Liam to a bed while the doctor frowned. He shook his head and sighed, resentful, it seemed, that another patient had been brought into his ward. As if it took tremendous effort, he sighed again and began to check Liam’s eyes and nose. He asked several questions and Seamus answered. The nuns glanced back at me several times. I felt a prickle on my neck, fearful they could see through my disguise.

The doctor placed a black cup over Liam’s chest; two tubes extended from it, and he stuck the ends in his own ears. He was listening to Liam’s heart or lungs or maybe both, I didn’t know. After a long while, he finally pulled the cup away. He stood and said something to one of the nuns. Liam moaned softly while the other nun wiped his head with a damp cloth. The doctor turned and, as if he were just seeing us for the first time, sighed again.

“He has tuberculosis,” he said. “Consumption,” he added with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’ll need to stay here, but…” his words trailed off as he caught my eye.
Surely,
his eyes seemed to say,
you understand
. The lump in my throat made it hard to swallow. The doctor continued to stare at me then raised his eyebrows in question. I stared back, confused for a moment as the hollow ache in my belly grew. I shook my head. He, like the nuns I now realized, seemed to think Liam needed a priest more than he needed a doctor.

“I’ve nothing with me, no oils, no bible…” I said. “There wasn’t time.”

One of the nuns frowned, but the doctor nodded and waved his hand again as if it didn’t matter.

“There are others here who can see to him.”

I let out a breath as a rush of thoughts swirled in my head. For the last two hours, as I’d held Liam in my arms in the back of the cart on our journey into Limerick, I had been hopeful that there was something the doctor might be able do. And if the possibility that Liam might die wasn’t bad enough, here I was dressed as a priest. Playing a priest was hard enough as it was and, while I knew the words, I was certain that the nuns would recognize me for what I was: a fraud.

I stared at Liam, watched the bed linens rise with a wheeze and then settle again as the air rattled in his chest. My friend had suffered greatly because of me, falling into the hands of the British all while I made my escape. And even though I told myself I wasn’t responsible for the sickness that raged in his blood, I felt guilty. The nuns and the doctor backed away as I stepped over to the bed. I bowed my head and closed my eyes and said a prayer—a silent one—but I prayed nonetheless.
He’s suffered enough, hasn’t he?
I pleaded, hoping someone was listening. When I was done I looked up and, as I had seen Father Lonagan do countless times, I raised my hand and made a sign of the cross over my friend, the eyes of the nuns, the doctor, and Seamus on me all the while.

___

The Limerick Workhouse was on Selbourne Road, across Sarsfield Bridge, and only blocks from the Strand Barracks where, Mary had told me, Free State forces had mustered. Built in the middle of the last century, after Britain passed the Poor Laws, the workhouse was more a prison than a dispensary. It was there the destitute traded their freedom and labor for a filthy bed in crowded quarters and rations barely enough to keep a dog alive. As a result of the
great hunger
, the workhouse swelled during the second half of the last century. And it wasn’t long before the poor were joined by the widows, the elderly, the unwed mothers and the orphans—
wretched souls
the British called them, unable to care for themselves. That their plight had been caused by centuries of living under Britain’s rule was never mentioned. Ever benevolent, the British built the workhouse—the
poor house
—a half-hearted attempt to help those in need. It wasn’t until the Sisters of Mercy came to the workhouse hospital late in the last century that conditions improved. Since then, the nuns had been responsible for the hospital, serving both as administrators and as nurses.

It was there that Seamus and I had brought Liam.

Seamus insisted on staying, not wanting to leave his brother’s side. The doctor argued with him, but he wouldn’t budge. Finally, the doctor threw his hands up. He pointed a finger at Seamus.

“You’ll be the next one in that bed,” he said with a huff then turned and stomped off. One of the nuns dragged a chair over by the bed. Seamus ignored them both as he held his brother’s hand.

___

As adamant as Seamus was about staying, he was just as adamant that I leave before it was discovered that I wasn’t the priest I pretended to be, or worse, before I was discovered by someone from my past. I told him I would return the following day, but now I had a new worry. When I did, there would be no excuse for not having my priest’s vestments with me.

Outside, I untied the horse, nodding silently to the occasional greetings—
Good Day, Father—
as I thought about what to do. I couldn’t stay in Limerick. On our journey to the hospital, Seamus and I had seen signs of the war to come: Free State troops and Anti-Treaty forces marching, the military precision clear in their step, while Crossley Tenders, armored cars, and lorries raced through the city. Free State or Republican, both sides would see me as a traitor, the stain of Argyll Manor difficult to hide. It had been a tense journey into the city, my worries of being recognized and my heartache for my friend filling me with a sense of dread. But with Liam’s frail body cradled in my arms, no one had bothered to stop us. They had more important matters to attend to than the priest and his sick friend making their way through the tense streets to the hospital.

As I climbed up on the cart now, the low rumble of a motorcar startled me, and I turned to see the lorry coming up the block. I studied the soldiers—Free Staters—their faces stern, their rifles held ready; another patrol in a city bracing for war. I felt the prickle in my spine again, and I searched their faces one by one before settling on the officer riding in front. Quickly, I spun away as the lorry approached. I stroked the horse’s neck as I adjusted the bridle. The whole while I could feel the officer’s eyes on me. I prayed he wouldn’t recognize the man he saw—the priest with the dark hair and a pair of glasses perched on his nose—as the same man he had given a lift to only weeks before.

Even with my head down, I could still see him out of the corner of my eye. The smile he had given me when we had discussed Ireland’s future was gone, and the eyes that had been full of hope were now dark. Lieutenant Mullins now wore the face of a soldier.

My disguise must have worked; he turned away as the lorry raced up the street. Several blocks later, I lost sight of it and, in the silence that followed, I could hear my heart pounding in my chest. Thankfully, Mullins and the Free State Troops he commanded were more concerned with the Anti-Treaty forces flooding the city than they were the priest outside the workhouse.  

I flicked the reins and, as the old mare began to plod forward, I considered my options. There was nothing I could do for Liam at the moment, but Tim was still in danger. If he was anywhere, I realized, he was here in Limerick. O’Malley would have ordered all available men, experienced or otherwise, to defend the city.

With the few hours of dull gray light remaining before darkness, I set out in search of the things I would need, and to see if I could learn where Tim might be.

___

I didn’t find Tim, but I was able to see for myself how tenuous the situation had become. As I guided the mare back across Sarsfield Bridge, a column of Free State soldiers in their new uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, was forming in front of the Strand Barracks. Coming or going, I wasn’t sure but I didn’t wait to find out. I continued on William Street, and as I passed by the RIC Post, a handful of Free State soldiers was standing guard out front while the barrels of rifles held by others poked out between the steel shutters above. I couldn’t help but notice the tricolour flag flapping in the breeze. The provisional government had taken this symbol—the same green, white, and orange banner that had been hoisted above the General Post Office in Dublin six years ago when we had declared our independence—as a symbol of the Free State.

I continued down William Street then Mulgrave, passing the Artillery Barracks where the remaining British soldiers were stationed, waiting for orders to ship home. Several soldiers stood outside while the Union Jack fluttered high above the walls. Unlike the British soldiers I had seen two weeks earlier, these carried rifles, the excitement of returning to England gone and their eyes now filled with tension.

Then, moments later, as I approached the gaol, I spied the first Republican soldiers in front of St. Joseph’s Asylum. Ernie O’Malley’s men I was certain; the soldiers I had seen at O’Shea’s barn had finally marched into the city. I pulled back on the reins, and the horse stopped by the prison’s gates.

A dozen men stood out front of the asylum—in their trench coats and caps, rifles slung over their shoulders—with a half-dozen motorcars and lorries behind them. Beyond, there were at least a hundred men in groups below the chestnut trees, waiting, it seemed, for O’Malley’s orders. Although most were sitting, smoking and talking, their darting eyes and cautious glances told me they too were tense.

O’Malley was sure to have sent scouts to reconnoiter the Free State troops, assessing their strength and positions. If what Mary had told me was true—and the Free State soldiers I had seen in front of the Strand and the Police Barracks told me it was—the Free Staters had seized the advantage. The fortified barracks they controlled would be difficult to attack. My heart sank as I estimated the number of men O’Malley had with him. If that’s all there were, they were
outnumbered. Images of medieval sieges and bodies left wounded and dying in the dirt filled my head.

If Tim was anywhere, I told myself, trying to chase the scene from my head, he would be there, with the Republican forces mustering at the asylum. And if he was, Billy and Kevin were too. But, priest or no priest, I couldn’t risk getting any closer. 

I watched for several minutes before I turned the cart around. I should have left then, set out for Seamus’s house—Tara was sure to be worrying and waiting for my news. Instead, I headed back into Limerick.

There was one more thing I needed to do.

___

It was after dark when I heard the slam of a door. The priest, Father Reagan, I remembered, turned, pulled the collar of his coat up below his chin, and set off at a brisk pace up the street. A moment later he turned the corner. From my perch on the cart, I watched the rectory for another few minutes before I climbed down and made my way across the street. I rang the bell, waited a moment, then rang again. A few seconds later, an old woman answered. When she saw me, she bowed her head in the same submissive greeting I myself had given since I was a wee lad.

“Is Father Reagan in?” My tone, far from friendly or inviting, was laced with the impatience of a man used to dealing with servants and one whose authority came from the collar he wore.

“No, Father,” she said shaking her head, refusing to meet my eyes. “He won’t be back until nine.”

I let out a loud sigh. “I haven’t the time,” I said as I stepped forward. “Show me to the sacristy.”

She hesitated, briefly glancing up at me before bowing her head again and opening the door.

“Yes, Father,” she said as I stepped inside.

Ten minutes later, a small black leather burse slung across my shoulder, I left. The burse seemed to grow heavier as I walked back to the waiting cart; the feeling of pending doom was difficult to shake. I hoped I wouldn’t have to use what was inside but couldn’t escape the feeling that I would.

“Will he...?” Tara asked, unable to finish. Her eyes were red. It was clear she’d been crying.

“I don’t know.” I sighed heavily, not wanting to tell her the truth. Consumption had killed scores of Irish men and women, including my father, but children were the favored prey. However, surviving childhood was no guarantee that death wouldn’t find you later. I wiped my own eyes at the thought. That Liam had survived all he had in his life, from the priest who had stolen his childhood to the atrocities at the hands of the British, only to fall victim to the consumption was too much to bear.

“And Seamus?” she asked. The muscles were stretched tight across Tara’s face. Her worries weren’t only for Liam but what might happen to her husband too.

“He insisted on staying,” I said. Her eyes went wide, and I realized she had assumed her husband was outside tending the horse. “I’m going back tomorrow.”

She nodded then dropped her head and stared silently at the table, lost in her worries.

“Has he been sick before?” I asked.

Tara looked up. “Aye,” she answered. “He was sick in the gaol. I think that’s why the British let him go. For two weeks, he hadn’t the energy to so much as climb out of bed.” She shook her head. “He’s never been the same since.”

I sighed. Liam’s sickness had come from prison. I couldn’t help but think that he never would have been captured by the British—and never would have gotten sick—had it not been for me. But it was more than that—it was a chain of events that all started with Billy.

___

Once again, sleep was a long time in coming. What happened during the day only added to the weight of the worries I carried with me. My friend Liam was dying, and there was little I could do to help him. And I still hadn’t found Tim. I sighed. In the silence that followed, I heard the ticking of my father’s watch on the stand beside me. I reached for it. Seeking the comfort it had always provided, I held it over my heart, feeling the rhythmic
tick-tock
in my chest. I had wound it earlier. Now taut, the springs would turn the gears, and the hands would march forward, nothing to stop them until the tension was gone.
Is Ireland any different?
I wondered. As if the springs had been wound, the fragile pact that had once held us together was unable to stop the gears from turning and, minute by minute, Ireland marched closer to war.

As I had finally seen for myself, a tense game of positioning was taking place in the streets of Limerick, the Free State on one side, Anti-Treaty forces on the other, with the British caught in the middle. Limerick was vital to the provisional government’s hold on power. Staunchly Republican, staunchly Anti-Treaty, Limerick was the key. Without it, the Free State government would never gain control of all twenty-six counties. While Dublin, Belfast, Cork, and Donegal watched, the fate of the fledgling nation hung in balance in the streets and lanes of Limerick.

Men who had fought side by side against the British, in a time when we were bound by a camaraderie and a shared sense of the justness of our cause, now regarded each other warily. Even as the Treaty was being signed, now two months ago, negotiations had continued in Dublin and in cities around Ireland to bring the two sides together. The negotiations, I now saw, were doomed from the start.

The IRA as an organization had come together at a crucial time for Ireland when men of different backgrounds and political beliefs joined forces against a common enemy. Young and naive, I hadn’t realized this when I joined, thinking that our differing political views were minor and could be sorted out. Many a night I had sat and listened to the debates, the heated arguments that would last till the wee hours and which more than once nearly ended in fisticuffs. Organizations like Sínn Féin, the Citizen’s Army, the Irish Volunteers, the Irish Republican Brotherhood, and even the trade unions and athletic leagues all had different visions for the future and different thoughts on how we should battle the British.

Now that the war with the British was over—and before the Crown could withdraw their forces—old ideologies and old rivalries had surfaced again and threatened to shatter the tenuous peace that had settled over the country.

These thoughts and images of Liam filled my head, and sleep, as it had for weeks now, refused to come until just before dawn.

___

I woke early to the smell of the turf in the stove and realized that Tara was already up. I lingered for a moment, sorting through the jumble of thoughts in my head. Unable to make sense of any of it, I finally rose and dressed quickly, anxious to escape the thoughts that plagued me. After a cup of tea and a piece of ham, I patted Tara on the arm and stepped out into the gray mist of the early morning. Thirty minutes later, after feeding and watering the horse, I hitched her to the cart and set out for Limerick.

It was but a short while later when I pulled back on the reins, slowing for the flock of sheep in the road. An old man—a shepherd—walked in the center, the flock moving with him, the bleats comforting in the stillness of the morning. A collie darted back and forth, keeping the strays from wandering too far. I sighed, finding solace in the moment. This old man and his dog tending their flock, as countless generations had before them, reminded me why I had joined the IRA. It was as much for the old man that I had taken up a gun as it was for myself. And now, having finally succeeded in throwing off the shackles of British oppression, we were free to be Irish once again. I nodded and bade the old man good day as I passed, feeling a little more optimistic than I had the night before.

My mood continued to brighten when, a short while later, there was a break in the clouds. I felt a warmth on my neck and soon on my back. Glancing behind me, I saw the sun rising low over the Galtee Mountains in the distance. A rare thing to see, the Irish winter sun—I hoped it, like the old man and his sheep, was a sign of good fortune.

I passed the road to Ballyneety and, a short while later, I came upon a young lad, a boy no more than twelve, standing in the ditch, waiting, it seemed, for me to pass. His eyes were downcast and he wore the look of a man, his own troubles as well as those of his country evident in the droop of his shoulders. He had a bundle slung over one. He reminded me of Liam. Knowing I shouldn’t, I slowed then stopped beside him.

“A fine day it is,” I called down.

He startled, looking up cautiously, wary of the priest that had stopped to speak to him.

“Aye, Father. A fine day.” He looked down again, hoping, I was sure, that I would be on my way.

“And where might a lad such as yourself be off to on such a fine day?”

His head jerked up, uncertain. “My brother, Father.” He paused. “He left to join the army.”

I nodded, hiding my surprise. “The IRA?” I asked.

“Aye,” he nodded then shook his head. “But not the traitors in Dublin,” he added with a hiss. Then, realizing what he had done, he bowed his head again. “Sorry, Father.”

“He’s not for the Treaty, is he?”

The lad hesitated then shook his head.

“Neither am I,” I announced.

He looked up in surprise.

“Where’s your brother?” I asked.

“In Limerick,” he responded. He held up the bundle. “Me mam sent me with this.”

I nodded as I pictured the worried mother, sending food to her son. I couldn’t help but think of Mary. I studied the boy for a moment, knowing I shouldn’t but also knowing I had no other choice.

“I’m going to Limerick,” I said then offered him a lift. After a moment’s hesitation he climbed on board.

“I’m Father Byrne,” I said as I stuck out my hand. Surprised again, he shook it and offered me a thin smile.

His name was Andrew, he told me, and his brother, Diarmuid, had joined the IRA, Billy’s Anti-Treaty brigade. Diarmuid, he said, was sixteen and had been sent to the Royal George Hotel, on O’Connell and Roches Streets. I had passed it yesterday but hadn’t noticed anything unusual—certainly nothing that told me it had been commandeered by the IRA.
What else had I missed?
I wondered. I agreed to drop Andrew off. If Diarmuid had been sent there, maybe Tim had been as well.

As the city drew closer, Andrew grew quiet.

“A lad I know joined too,” I said, then told him about Tim. “His mother doesn’t know where he is. She’s asked me to find him.”

He nodded but said nothing.

“He’s only fifteen,” I said, describing Tim. “Tall and thin like a willow and with curly black hair.” I described the scar on Tim’s chin. I paused and searched Andrew’s eyes. “Would you look for him?” I asked. “At the hotel?”

He considered it for a moment then nodded. Whether it was because he thought I was a priest or because his own worries filled his head, he never questioned why I had asked him to do something I should have been able to do myself.

I thanked him, feeling a small sliver of hope that Tim might be at the Royal George.

“Father?”

I glanced back at Andrew. In his eyes, I saw Mary and Kathleen and his own mother. There I saw the worry and fear that someone his age shouldn’t know. 

“Will there be another war, Father?”

“I don’t know, son.” I shook my head, not wanting to lie but also not wanting to tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”

___

Liam had been moved to a special ward for people with consumption. I found Seamus where I had left him, by Liam’s side. Liam’s bed was by an open window. The other beds in the room were full, nine other men all struggling, like Liam, to breathe. Seamus nodded when he saw me but said nothing. His heavy eyes told me he hadn’t slept or if he had it hadn’t been for long. Liam was the same: a scratchy whine as his chest rose slightly followed by a ragged wheeze as it settled uneasily once again. He continued to cough up blood, a sure sign of consumption, the doctor had told us yesterday. He was asleep, and the shine on his forehead told me that he still had the fever.

“You can’t stay here,” I said softly. “There’s nothing you can do.”

Seamus looked up at me but said nothing.

“Tara needs you at home.”

Finally, he nodded but turned back to his brother as if he had no intent to leave. At least not yet.

I decided to give him some more time.

I found the doctor in the hallway, chastising a young lass with a mop and bucket. Her head hung low; she cringed at his sharp hiss. I couldn’t help but picture Father Lonagan but quickly put the thought out of my head. I had more battles than I could handle at the moment and didn’t need another. The doctor turned and sighed heavily when he saw me. His look let me know that, priest or no priest, with the beds full, he had little time for someone as healthy as me.

“How is he?” I asked.

The doctor shrugged. “Only time will tell,” he said. He went on to explain that the best treatment for consumption was fresh air. The windows in the ward were kept open as often as possible and, once a day, most patients were moved outside to a covered veranda. Some benefited from surgery to the lungs but, for most, it was the fresh air. Still, many didn’t survive, he continued, and Liam was quite sick.

“Although,” he added, his tone offering a glimmer of hope, “his condition has improved slightly since yesterday.”

What the doctor had seen, he never explained, and, before I could ask, he hurried off.

Returning to Liam’s side I felt the nuns’ eyes on me once again. I looked down at my friend and sighed, knowing what was expected of me. I opened the burse I had stolen from Father Reagan’s sacristy. I ignored Seamus’s frown as I placed the two small vials—one for oil and one for holy water—on the table. This was followed by a small, gold container—the pyx, I think Father Lonagan had called it—that held the communion wafers. As I placed the bible on the table, I took a deep breath, knowing I couldn’t avoid what came next.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.” The Latin spilled out of my mouth as I anointed Liam’s eyes with the oil, pardoning his sins as I had seen Father Lonagan do to my own father. I did the same with Liam’s ears, and then his nose, his lips, his hands, and his feet. The whole while I could feel the nuns’ eyes on me, or maybe they weren’t the nuns’ at all, I thought, as I tried to avoid looking up at the cross on the wall.

___

“Surely you know Father Reagan,” one of the nuns said as Seamus and I stepped out into the hall. “He’s in the next ward.”

“Aye,” I nodded but said no more as I grabbed Seamus’s arm and steered him down the hall. I had no desire to meet Father Reagan or any other priest, knowing for certain they would recognize my lie immediately. It wasn’t until several minutes later when we stepped outside into the sun that I let out the breath I had been holding.

As we readied the horse, I explained to Seamus what we needed to do. He was weary and needed sleep. There was nothing he could do for Liam, but maybe helping Tim would bring him some relief. This is what I told myself, but I knew it was a lie. The real reason was that I couldn’t do it alone. Shaking the thought from my head, I pulled the cart around, and we made our way down Shelbourne Road.

Ten minutes later, I pulled back on the reins and the horse slowed. Seamus, who had been dozing next to me, looked up. I nodded in the distance. A column of soldiers was turning onto Sarsfield Bridge. Their new green uniforms told me they were Free Staters. Other than Officer Mullins and a few other men I had soldiered with over the years, the Free Staters, most from Dublin and County Clare, I was told, wouldn’t know me. I repeated this to myself as I edged the cart closer. Rifles slung over their shoulders, they marched with a precision.