The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (24 page)

Seamus sat up.

“They’re reinforcing their positions,” he said at once, his soldier’s eye not missing anything. His eyes darted around then settled back onto the column. I realized he was right. Troops from Clare had mustered at the Strand Barracks first before crossing the Shannon. The Castle Barracks, on King’s Island, was across the Shannon from the Strand. By occupying both, Brennan’s Free State Troops now controlled the bridges, denying Anti-Treaty forces the opportunity to reinforce from the north. They would also reinforce their positions in the RIC Barracks on William Street and Mary Street. They had quickly seized the advantage.

“Fucking Brennan,” Seamus cursed under his breath. Arms still folded across his chest, he stared at the column of men.

We watched silently as the end of the column turned onto the bridge. Despite their disciplined march, several of the soldiers were only lads, I noticed, no more than fifteen or sixteen—perhaps even younger by the looks of them. Three rows from the rear, a lad with red hair spilling out below his cap glanced our way and caught my eye. Despite his uniform and rifle, his eyes held the fear of a child—one who wanted no part of the war that was coming. I felt a lump in my throat as I thought of Tim. I glanced at Seamus, but his eyes were on the soldiers on horseback bringing up the rear.

We waited for the column before we crossed. The whole while, I wore a scowl on my face, a displeased glare to further my disguise. With all that had happened, feigning my own worries wasn’t difficult. Minutes later, I pulled the reins gently and we turned onto O’Connell Street. A Crossley Tender raced by, and I suspected it was more Free State soldiers heading to one of their barracks. Despite the chess game being played out in the surrounding streets, Cannock’s department store was busy. Several women were entering as we passed, seemingly unaware of the two sides fortifying their positions around them. Several blocks away I spotted a group of men and lorries in front of the Royal George Hotel and let the reins go slack. We edged closer as both Seamus and I assessed the situation. As far as I could determine, this was one of two Anti-Treaty positions in Limerick. A block away, I pulled the cart to the side of the road, far enough from the hotel where the men in front wouldn’t see me clearly. And if they could, the dray in front of us would block their view.

The men were dressed in trench coats and caps, their bandoliers and rifles clearly visible. I couldn’t tell for certain, but they looked to be the same ones I had seen earlier, when I had dropped Andrew off in the morning. Two men were struggling with a bureau, building a barricade in front of the hotel with furniture taken from inside. Above, I saw rifles poking out of the windows and the shadows of the men behind them. Two more men were on the roof, their rifles held ready. I stole a glance at Seamus. He was silent, his eyes darting back and forth, taking it all in. 

I glanced back at the door.
Where was Andrew?
I wondered. We had agreed to meet here. Sure we were late, but where would he go? I scanned the street, wondering if he was in one of the shops or if something had gone wrong. Tired of waiting on me, had he decided to walk home?

After fifteen long minutes, I was ready to leave. If we stayed any longer, I feared, we would draw attention to ourselves. I reached for the reins, but Seamus grabbed my arm.

“I’ll go,” he said.

Without waiting for my reply, he climbed down. As he made his way down the curb, I glanced back at the men in front of the hotel. Caps pulled low over their faces, their eyes scanned the street, finally settling on Seamus. My eyes flicked from them to nearby buildings. Across the street, several women pushing prams glanced nervously at the soldiers as they hurried by. They weren’t alone. But many, it seemed, ignored the IRA men and their guns. As we had seen at Cannock’s, the shops along O’Connell Street were busy, drays and lorries continued to make their deliveries, and old men still whiled away the hours in the pubs.

I pulled my father’s watch from my pocket and made a show of fussing with it, keeping Seamus in the corner of my eye. He approached the hotel, and I could see him speaking with three men—soldiers I likely had fought with at one time or another. One of the men shook his head and I sighed, frustrated. They talked a moment more, and the man shook his head again. Seamus nodded and turned, heading back up the street toward me, the men watching him the whole while. Head down, Seamus didn’t glance up until he was just feet away and then he shook his own head, telling me what I already knew. I let out another sigh as he climbed back onto the cart.

“Andrew left an hour ago,” he said.

I frowned. “And Tim?”

“Not there,” he said with a shake of his head. “According to that lot anyway.”

“What did you say?” I asked.

“That I was looking for the son of a friend. That his mother was sick.”

“Did you have any problems?”

“No,” he said. He hadn’t recognized any of the men, he added.

“Do they have any idea where we might look?”

He shook his head again.

Sighing, I flicked the reins and turned the cart. The three men were still watching us and, although I was too far away to see their faces clearly, I didn’t want to get any closer and let them see mine.

There had to be other Anti-Treaty strongholds, I told myself, besides the asylum and the Royal George. I was tempted to reconnoiter the streets again, looking for what I had missed yesterday but after glancing at Seamus, I decided it was best to set out for home. He was asleep within minutes, oblivious to the shaking and bouncing of the cart and to the commotion in the streets around him as the city prepared for war.

With a sigh, I flicked the reins and turned the cart. Next to me, Seamus’s chin had fallen to his chest. The lack of sleep and the worry over his brother weighed heavily on him. But it was more than that. I sensed something else: a weariness of the days to come.

I fought back the tears as I held Liam’s limp hand. His breathing was raspy, coming in quick, shallow pants. His cheeks were sunken, and his hair lay matted on his head. His sheets were stained from his coughing, and blood seeped out of the corner of his mouth. The fever was back, and every now and then Seamus wiped Liam’s forehead with the damp cloth. Seamus looked across the bed at me, his own eyes wet.

Earlier, when we arrived, the doctor only shook his head, his eyes telling us what his words couldn’t. The nuns didn’t argue this time when Seamus and I refused to leave Liam’s side. Their eyes, like the doctor’s, told us it was time. There Seamus and I sat, one on each side of Liam’s bed as we had since early morning, oblivious to the chill in the breeze from the open window.

I heard a gasp, and Liam’s frail body shuddered. The lump in my throat grew but, after a moment, his body settled and his raspy pants continued. Wiping away my tears, I closed my eyes, praying for my friend as I had been since we had arrived.

“Frank.” Liam’s raspy voice, barely a whisper, startled me. His eyes were glassy, full of pain.

I wiped my own eyes, not from the shame of crying, but wanting to spare my friend the lack of hope my tears held.

“Aye, Liam. I’m here.” I said softly. “Seamus is too.”

Liam’s eyes shifted, found his brother, and I couldn’t stop the tears now as they stared into each other’s eyes. Without words, Liam and Seamus were talking, sharing one final time a lifetime of pain and sorrow and joy and hope and their bond as brothers. The tears rolled down Seamus’s cheeks as he nodded.

“Frank?”

Liam’s eyes found mine again.

“Aye, Liam.”

“Did we win?”

“Aye, Liam,” I said, nodding and wiping my eyes again. “We won.”

His lips curled, a faint smile. “Ah, that’s grand, Frank. That’s grand.”

Then my friend closed his eyes for the last time. A moment later, he shuddered again, a choking sound in his throat this time, and then he was gone.

___

Liam left the hospital the same way he had arrived, in the back of a cart, his head cradled in my lap.

“We’re taking him home,” Seamus had told the nun, his voice barely above a whisper.

“You can’t,” the nun scolded. “Not until…” Her voice trailed away under Seamus’s glare. She looked at me. There were forms, there were procedures—surely I would understand, her eyes seemed to say. My own glare matched Seamus’s and she backed away.

I stood back as Seamus carefully tucked the blanket around his brother. With his hand, he gently brushed Liam’s hair, stepped back then, after a moment’s hesitation, folded Liam’s hands across his chest. He looked up at me and nodded. Together, we wheeled the bed out of the room, ignoring the reproachful looks from the nuns. A moment later, we wheeled the bed out of the hospital, into the harsh gray light of a city preparing for war.

___

Liam was waked at his parents’ house in Drommore, a stone’s throw from my mam’s cottage. Like my own father had once, Liam’s father raised pigs and made his life from the land. Tara, one of Liam’s cousins, and my own mother had prepared the body. Liam was laid out on the table, the white sheets, ones that had never covered the living but were reserved for the dead, tucked neatly around him. A crucifix lay on his chest, and the beads of the rosary were laced through his fingers. On the table beside him, the candle flickered. Seamus, as he had done right up till the end, took his seat next to his brother. His parents—Liam’s mother and father—sat beside him. I knelt by my friend and said a prayer. When I finished, I stood and turned to Liam’s mother.

“Ah, he looks good, Missus Ahern.” I said as I patted her arm.

She glanced up at me and nodded. Her dark eyes were set above puffy, round cheeks that sank inward by her mouth, and the skin hung loose on her jaw. She looked much older now—I hadn’t seen her since the day I had fled my own house years ago—but in only a day the death of her child had surely aged her in a way that no years could. The tears, I could see, would not be long in coming.

“Tara did a fine job laying him out,” I said, the first of many who would tell her the same in the hours to come.

She nodded again then thanked me. Her eyes held mine for a moment before she let out a sob and grasped my hands.

“Look what they did to him, Frank,” she pleaded. “Look what they did to my Liam.”

I held her hand for a long moment, fighting back my own tears. Empty chairs were arranged around the room and in the next as well. The first of many mourners, and Liam’s friend since we were lads, I was expected to sit with the family throughout the day and the night as well, eventually joining the men in the kitchen for a
wee wan
when the bottle was passed.

“I can’t stay, ma’am.”

“I know,” she said, patting my hand now, and I wondered how much Liam and Seamus had told her. I turned to Liam’s father.

“I’m sorry for your troubles, sir.”

Mr. Ahern looked up and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said quietly before his eyes settled again on the empty chairs across the room. Staring straight ahead, hands folded neatly on his lap and his spine stiff with Irish resolve, he would remain there for hours throughout the endless procession of neighbors and friends all come to mourn his son. People would soon fill the cottage, and the haunting sounds of the keening would soon fill the air.

I left quietly before it did.

___

Word of Liam’s death had traveled quickly, as news of a death usually did, and within days, those who needed to know were told. Telegrams and telephones weren’t needed, nor would they have done any good, as the people who knew Liam had little use for either.

By the time I reached Mary’s, it was late afternoon. I found her outside, hitching the horse to the cart. She watched as I climbed off of the bicycle and leaned it against the wall.

I shook my head, a silent answer to the question in her eyes. I told her what I had done since I had last seen her, of my search in Limerick for her son. She nodded, her eyes wet. I knew it wasn’t only for Liam. She nervously smoothed the wrinkles off of the black lace dress that I had only seen her wear to funerals. Today she wore it for Liam but I sensed she was filled with dread that she would soon be wearing it for her own son. We stared at each other in silence for a moment.

“What will you do now?” she asked.

“Go back to Limerick,” I said.

“Tonight?”

I thought about it for a moment. “Tomorrow. I’ll stay at the castle tonight.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” she scolded gently. “You’ll stay here.”

I opened my mouth to protest but never got a chance.

“Billy’s sure to be in Limerick,” she reasoned. “And if he isn’t, he’ll be paying his respects to the Aherns. He certainly won’t be coming around here.”

I didn’t think Billy was capable of showing such compassion, but I understood what she meant. Billy had other worries at the moment and wouldn’t be looking for me. A moment later, Mary flicked the reins on the cart. I watched as she disappeared into the mist. I stuck my hand in my pocket and found my father’s watch. I felt the ticking, but this time I wasn’t able to find any solace in the rhythm. Instead, it only reminded me that Tim was still missing and I had little time left to find him.