A Close Run Thing (26 page)

He sat by one headstone whose inscription was too recent to have undergone any weathering.

Here lyeth the body of Tim McCarthy
of Balineadig who depd this life
June 19th 1797 aged 73yr also
Anorah his wife died Nov 2 1780 AGd
46 years also Tim their son June 4th
1797 Aged 26yr.
God Rest their Souls in Peace
Amen

What, he wondered, had connected those two deaths in the same month of the same year? Had Tim McCarthy, his wife having pre-deceased him, died of sorrow at losing his son? Had some contagion been responsible? Or was it more sinister? Could they have been killed in skirmishes with the militia?
Surely
not the old man.

But curiosity as to how they had come to die was only part of what intrigued him about the stone. More engaging was the simple diminutive ‘Tim’. He felt sure he would not have seen its like in an English
churchyard
: even if Tim had been the lifelong familiar, in death he would have been Timothy. The warmth in that cherished rendering ‘Tim McCarthy’, and the union in death with his spouse, brought to mind Genesis: ‘There was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.’ Here was a special place. These McCarthys were not simply of the past but of a country he did not know. He felt so at peace that he might have lain down in the sun and been put to sleep by the distant cawing of the rooks and the gentle whistle of the wind, had he not thought better of leaving Harkaway to gorge on the rich green grass. Instead he left repose within the walls to the departed, and put an end to his bay’s feasting. As he refastened the bit, tightened the girth and then remounted, he resolved to return soon. And next time he would be in no hurry to leave the walls which had once enclosed so many devout men, and which now provided shelter for the last remains of so many beloved fathers, mothers, children.

Half a mile on down the road – though
track
might have been a more apt description – he crested a small hill to see a plume of black smoke rising over a settlement a few hundred yards ahead. It would have been nothing unusual, perhaps, except that even at this distance he could hear shouting. His first instinct was to gallop there, for it was his duty to go to the aid of authority in a disturbance, and that was what he surmised to be the cause of the shouting. But he did not know the country or its ways and so he decided on
a
more circumspect approach. He checked that his flintlocks were still properly primed and then put Harkaway into a steady canter across the heath, rather than spurring him to a gallop down the road, and made a wide half-circle left towards a clump of trees just short of the settlement. From here he would be able to observe unseen, and if necessary approach the settlement on foot using the cover of the gorse which dotted the heath. He had just tied his gelding to a tree and taken his telescope from its holster when out of the village burst, like Phoebus, a horse hitched to a blazing waggon. At first Hervey thought this to be a consequence of the tumult; but then, as more and more villagers rushed from the settlement shouting, he realized that this alone was the cause of the disturbance. Straightaway he untied the reins, sprang into the saddle and wheeled round to give chase.

A bolting horse, terrified by blazing hay which stays with him no matter how fast he gallops, has a prodigious turn of speed and endurance, even taking account of his cobby make and the load he pulls, and it was all that Hervey could do to press an already tired Harkaway into a gallop fast enough to begin making ground. It was three hundred, perhaps even four hundred yards before he was able to close with the deranged animal, but his difficulties had only thus begun as Harkaway himself began shying at the blazing hay. Hervey used all the leg he could to press his gelding closer to the other horse, and even drew his sword to lay behind the girth, yet it was only after
several
attempts to lean out (during one of which they almost fell as Harkaway missed his footing) that he was at last able to seize hold of the bridle. With all his weight now braced in the stirrups he heaved on it for all he was worth, but still he could not get the cob to pull up. In desperation he was about to leap on to the runaway’s back to try to clap his hands over its eyes (something he had known to bring even an artillery team to a halt) when he saw the river ahead, and the ford with its entry and exit cut into steep banks.

Hervey would never know whether he steered them into the ford or whether that was the way the runaway had determined on, but they plunged in and he now dropped his reins to pull on the cob’s bridle with both hands, trusting to his legs alone to turn Harkaway sharply up against the bank downstream of the exit – a bold gamble on a well-schooled horse, let alone a green one. As he had further gambled, the bank was too steep to jump – though the runaway attempted to, rearing between the shafts as burning hay fell around. But all forward movement had now ceased and Hervey sprang from the saddle in order to separate cob from cart. Holding on desperately to its reins, he used his sword to slice through the straps which held the yoke in place. As he cut through the last one he let the reins go and the still-terrified animal lunged from the shafts, leaped the bank and bolted again. Hervey cursed furiously, and, though he had burned his hands, he vaulted back into the saddle (his bay having stood quite still throughout not ten yards away drinking from
the
stream) and took off again after the runaway. For a common horse it would give a blood a good run over this distance, he rued, and it took him another half-mile to catch it and bring it to a halt.

They trotted back to the village in a lather, each exhausted. They gave the waggon a wide berth, for all its timbers were now fiercely ablaze, and were met at the edge of the settlement by the crowd of villagers who had alerted him to the distress and who had then watched his dramatic intervention. They were barefooted and looked pulled down. But, more than that, they were silent and unsmiling.

One old man, though how old it was difficult to tell, in thick tweed trousers and rough flannel shirt, stepped forward to take what was left of the runaway’s reins. ‘Buíochas le Dia! Go raibh míle maith agat, a nasail!’

The words meant nothing to Hervey, but the sense was clear enough. He had little idea how much the villagers had seen, but the return of the horse was probably cause enough for gratitude, whether or not its value was less than O’Begley’s five pounds. As he dismounted, those nearest stepped back, the reason for which he could not judge – mere apprehensiveness he suspected. His overalls were thoroughly soaked and his face was black, but it was the backs of his hands, beginning to blister, that were the object of the older man’s attention.

‘Are ye by yerself, sor?’

For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether to draw his sword.

‘I mean, sor, them hands – they’ll be needing seeing to.’

An old woman, black shawl over her head in spite of the heat of the afternoon, stepped forward and took hold of one of them, examining the burns.

‘Tar liomsa nóimead,’ she said, beckoning him through the crowd, which parted to let her lead him and Harkaway towards one of the turf-roofed cottages. She motioned him to enter, and he had but an instant to decide whether or not to risk handing over Harkaway, pistols and all, to the boy who had followed them. It was, said his instincts, a moment for trust.

The old man came in after him. ‘Fior cinn fáilte,’ he said quietly with a bow of the head, indicating a chair near a window which, with the door, was the sole source of light for the room.

‘My father says you are welcome.’

Hervey looked round to see a much younger woman – little more than a girl – standing in the doorway. Her hair was copper-red and as thick as a blackthorn bush. Even in the poor light he could see that her looks and complexion would have been the envy of many a fashionable in St James’s.

‘Caithlin, where is the balsam?’

‘In the stone jar beside the yeast, Mother. I’ll get it,’ replied the girl. Turning to Hervey she smiled. ‘You see, we speak English perfectly well. It is by choice that we speak Gaeilge, though.’

The old woman relinquished the task to her daughter
and
sat down in a chair near the smoking fire to stir a pot simmering away gently. Hervey now felt it time to say something – anything – for here seemed the very opportunity he had been seeking.

‘I am Lieutenant Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons, in Cork,’ he offered.

‘And I am Michael O’Mahoney, sor, and right grateful for saving my horse. This is my wife Brigid and my daughter Caithlin.’

Caithlin O’Mahoney, now crouching at Hervey’s side and smoothing the balsam on his hands, looked up and smiled again. Hers were the only native smiles he had seen since leaving Cork, but such smiles they were – warm, open, full and free, in such contrast to the sullenness of the rest of the village. They did more to soothe the pain in his hands than the balsam. He almost sighed with the ease, but suddenly the dim light by which she worked failed and he turned to see two men filling the doorway as completely as if the door itself had been closed. He braced himself ready to spring up with his sabre. Only when the two moved into the cottage and the light from the window fell on them did he see that they were unarmed – young men in their twenties and with the same thick copper-red hair as Caithlin O’Mahoney. She seemed unperturbed by the scowls on their faces, her own smile scarcely diminished.

‘Fineen, Conor,’ the old woman began roughly, ‘say welcome to this officer. He has saved Finbarre, and burned himself in the bargain.’

They muttered a passable greeting, the scowls remaining but re-directed at their sister.

‘These are my sons, sor,’ explained the old man, ‘two of them anyway.’

‘Good day,’ Hervey said. ‘I am sorry I cannot offer my hand, as you can see.’

Neither son responded, leaving the cottage instead without a word.

‘Forgive the boys’ manners, sor,’ said the old man, discomposed by their exit.

‘Sure they’re mad with themselves that it had to be an outsider who came to your aid, Father – and an Englishman at that. Everything that happens passes them by. I wonder they don’t go to America as they’re always vowing to.’

‘We are at war with America, miss,’ Hervey had said before realizing that ‘we’ might not have been the word the O’Mahoneys would have used.

The old man sighed. ‘Will the English fight everybody, then? Ireland is a peaceable enough place: there’s no cause for fighting,’ he said, handing a cup to Hervey now that Caithlin O’Mahoney had finished with the balsam. ‘Sláinte!’ he said, raising his own.

‘Sláinte!’ replied Hervey – the word was familiar enough from many nights in the Peninsula with Highlanders. He took a sip and knew immediately what it was. The old man winked, and Hervey laughed.

The regiment had returned from Dublin a week later, and after one night in Cork the squadrons had
dispersed
to their outstations, one troop each at Mallow, Bandon, Tallow and Gort, and three in Limerick, plus smaller detachments in places like Skibbereen, leaving one troop and headquarters in Cork itself. The best part of Munster was thereby covered by light, mobile reinforcements able to support the garrisons of infantry in the major towns, though what threat the native Irish were, from his perception of their condition at Kilcrea, Hervey could scarcely imagine. His own troop remained in Cork, but his initial disappointment at not being sent further west all but disappeared when, some weeks later, Captain Lankester took three months’ home leave, giving him temporary command. ‘I hear you have been riding the countryside,’ Lankester had said to him when handing over. And to Hervey’s reply his troop leader had fixed his gaze and added accusingly: ‘I hope you have not started developing romantic notions about this place. It will be so much the harder when you have to draw your sword. Stay detached, Mr Hervey.’

Lankester was, by Hervey’s own reckoning, the most humane of officers, and such an injunction might have given him cause for thought; but, since he would admit not the slightest fanciful attachment to the country, there was, to his mind, no cause. It was true that he had been back to the ruins at Kilcrea. He had learned that it was an old Franciscan house – Father O’Gavan, the priest whom he had met on his second visit to the village, had taken him there one afternoon. Hervey had been to Kilcrea village several times, in fact, and he
had
begun to learn something of both the language and the people. He had come to know the O’Mahoney sons not as
Fineen
and
Conor
but as
Finghin
and
Conchobhar
, and not as O’Mahoney but
O Mathghamhan
. Was this not all useful intelligence (if not of direct then at least of indirect value to the authorities)? Caithlin was a good teacher and had already given him a rudimentary understanding of the language. He learned, too, that the brothers were married, with smallholdings of their own in Kilcrea, tenants in their own right. Too young to have been with Tone’s United Irishmen, Hervey had little doubt that they would have been if given the chance. Neither of them could read or write, unlike their sister, and though they tolerated his presence whenever he came to the village they would not welcome him. Caithlin’s father, on the other hand, had grown positively to relish his visits, and he and Hervey had drunk many cups of poteen together, preceded always by the wink. But Lankester had nothing to concern himself about, Hervey had assured him.

Lord George Irvine, now quite recovered from his wound, had remained the while in Dublin where he filled – in a temporary capacity, it was understood – the appointment of commander-in-chief’s military secretary. Command of the regiment had once more devolved on Joseph Edmonds, who had elected to leave his wife and daughters in Norwich (the speculation in the mess was that gentlemanly lodgings in Cork were
beyond
his means). By convention, as commanding officer, he ought to have quitted his rooms in the mess and taken even the smallest bachelor establishment in the city. At first he had shown some interest in the apartments being constructed in the old fort at Huggartsland, amid the market gardens on the western edge of the city, but instead he had remained in the barracks, to the increasing discomfort of the few other officers with whom he shared the mess.