A Whispered Name (30 page)

The men
in Herbert’s Company had been aghast with exhilaration. The war had to end,
someone had said. Their own dead had been avenged. One spoke of planting a
flag. The German front line had literally disappeared in a matter of seconds.

‘That
day Sir, I discovered something else,’ said Flanagan, head sinking slightly
lower. ‘The war has to be fought, I don’t doubt that, Sir. I never have done.
But it was the sight of the
land
torn up like that, and men who hadn’t
blinked lying among lumps of clay … I couldn’t see them as enemies any more.’
His confusion made him shift on the stool. ‘If I was going to join them, I
wanted my death to have a meaning.’

Flanagan
couldn’t finish. He joined his hands and Herbert almost grabbed them, to
squeeze out the connection with Étaples.

‘Tell
him, Seosamh,’ came Father Maguire’s voice from the darkness. ‘Go on, son.’

Flanagan
for once looked at Herbert — as he’d done at his trial: with the tentative
confidence of mutual understanding. ‘After I left Mr Dunne with the RMO I was
on my way back to Black Eye Corner when I came across one of The Lambeth
Rifles. He was finished, Sir, couldn’t stand up. He’d twice run off already and
been sentenced to death. But this time he’d strayed into our lines. He’d easily
have been picked up.’

Herbert
frowned. He flushed hot. He’d been there, in the rain … when Flanagan had
spoken to Father Maguire while some kid crouched weeping against the trench.

‘You
helped him escape?’ said Herbert, in disbelief, his voice straining over a
whisper.

‘I did.’

‘You
took him to Étaples?’

‘Yes.’

‘So he’d
avoid another court martial?’ Flanagan nodded.

‘So
he
wouldn’t be shot,’ Herbert shouted. Flanagan didn’t respond.

‘And
then you came back … knowing that
you
…’

Bewildered,
Herbert bent his own head to look up into Flanagan’s face, but Flanagan’s eyes
were lowered. Squinting towards the darkness, Herbert tried to find Father
Maguire, to understand what this wild story really meant because it still didn’t
make sense to him, but the priest was a vague shape within the shadow, a
presence with arms folded tight.

‘But
why him?’

‘Joseph,
speak,’ said the priest.

Herbert
lost his patience. He kicked back his chair and stumbled towards Father
Maguire. ‘Tell me yourself,’ he whispered. ‘If there’s the slightest chance I
can help this soldier I need to know what happened and why’

‘You
can’t do anything,’ said the priest.

‘I’m
not waiting until dawn to see you proven right.’ His desperation made his
whispering lower but harsh. Leaning forward, he felt the rasp of the priest’s
cheek. ‘Please tell me what this death really means.

By the time Herbert
reached Chamberlayne’s office it was midnight. The adjutant was clearly drunk
though his speech remained as smooth as ever. He guessed that Army HQ was about
an hour and half away and produced a map, identifying the location of a chateau
outside a village. Twenty minutes later Herbert was galloping down a lane
skirting more fields of hops, their frames high and crowded by foliage. The
moon was bright as it had been at Messines. The stars flickered like
phosphorescence in water. The entire landscape was like pewter with etchings of
woods, low farmhouses and drowsy cattle.

General
Osborne had helped the Moore family once before; hopefully he would do so
again, and this time for a cause more worthy.

Chapter Thirty-Six

To Break a Vow?

Clasping his trousers,
Flanagan shuffled to the bed. He lay down, weak from fear, wanting to vomit but
having nothing to draw up from the pit in his stomach. He closed his eyes and
wrapped both arms around himself. Ah, I would be held, he thought. I would have
arms around me, now.

As a
boy his mother had stroked his hair at night, brushing it back off the forehead
with her hand. She’d never spoken, they’d just watched each other in the
darkness, the sound of the sea crashing on the rocks below, a wind whistling
over the young fields that held the seed. Her warm hand, soft despite the farm
work, had slowly smoothed his forehead and to this sacrament of touching he
had fallen asleep. The sea’s thunder had roused him in the morning and he’d
always been surprised to find that he was alone. It had been a lesson: that one
day this hand would be withdrawn, and he would meet the night as a man.

‘Move
over,’ said Father Maguire.

Flanagan
edged towards the wall. The priest lay down beside him.

‘Give
me your hand, son.’

They
held hands. Father Maguire’s touch wasn’t as firm as usual. When he’d gripped
Flanagan’s shoulders he’d been a sculptor managing clay but now he was tender,
as if his strength had always been a bluff.

‘You
said nothing to Mr Moore of Lisette,’ said the priest.

‘No.’

‘Would
you like me to explain?’

‘Yes.’

He
thought of Lisette on her knees, begging him to stay She had a brother who
worked on the docks in Boulogne. Flanagan could have hidden in the cellar with
Doyle and waited for a safe passage to England. But the boys had been waiting
for him at Black Eye Corner.

‘I’ll
go to Inisdúr,’ said Father Maguire, his grip tightening.

‘Thank
you.’ Flanagan thought of the rocks near Meg’s cove. From the cliff top, on a
misty day you couldn’t see the waves below The ocean was like a basin of milk
near the boil. ‘Will the army tell them I was shot for desertion?’

‘No.
They’ll say you died of wounds. Nothing more.’

‘Good.’

Though
Muiris and Róisín wouldn’t give a second thought to the British or their laws,
a shameful death would still crush them. They wouldn’t pay their taxes, but
they’d be mortified if dragged to court on a summons.

‘What
shall I say to them?’ asked Father Maguire.

Flanagan
thought for a long time. The candle was guttering. Bricks danced overhead, the
meandering salt lines bright and unreal.

‘Tell
my father I’ve returned to the land, and my mother that I saw wonderful things
beforehand … unimaginable things. That I heard a nightingale on a summer’s
evening. And tell Mr Drennan I died a rebel.’

It wasn’t
quite the protest the old Fenian would have dreamed of, but to his own mind
Flanagan had made a stand nonetheless: in this place of chance and brutal
uncertainties, he had chosen the manner of dying: and it had purpose; it had a
meaning.

‘Seosamh?’

‘Yes?’

‘Don’t
hold out any hope. There’s nothing to be done. No one can help you now I’m
sorry to speak like this …’

‘I know’

‘Mr
Moore has lost his senses, and when he returns to them he’ll understand what you’ve
done:

Lisette.
Did Lisette understand why he’d come with Owen Doyle, of all people; why he’d
brought him to her? He thought of the hair he’d only touched once. It had been
so very soft. This was a longing the matchmaker well understood. It was his business.
‘A man has need for a companion, Seosamh,’ he’d said. ‘Don’t be carried away
with books.’ Beetle eyes, he had. ‘There’s flesh and there’s paper.’ A gambler
he was, on horses and all four-footed things that crawled upon the earth.
Flanagan hadn’t known his father had made soundings, that the matchmaker had
been to see the fields. When Flanagan had walked down to the slip, the barley
had been lush with promise. Did Lisette understand? Did she understand that
Flanagan had gambled the trial, and lost, but won in another way?

‘Father?’

‘Yes,
son?’

‘Will
you ask Mr Moore to visit Lisette? I think he can explain to her why I came
back; and maybe she can explain why I ran away Would you do that for me, so?’

‘That I
will.’

Outside
boots fell hard on the flags, coming closer. A lone marcher came ahead. The
sentry stamped his foot. A rifle butt struck the ground. Orders were spoken
with brittle authority. Keys rattled.

‘Father?’

‘Yes?’

‘I’m
frightened.’

The
priest’s grip was so tight that Flanagan’s knuckles crunched.

‘They’re
early’ said Father Maguire, thickly.

Both
men swung around on the bed and stood up as the door banged open. The candle
flickered, casting light upon an officer. His Sam Browne belt glistened. A cap’s
nib covered the forehead and the eyes were black.

‘Flanagan,
out.’ It was Captain Chamberlayne’s voice. ‘I have no intention of using this
firearm,’ he observed, holding a Webley & Scott with two fingers as though
it were wet and sticky ‘but I shall happily despatch you if you behave in a
manner remotely unbecoming a member of the eighth Battalion. The same
stipulation applies to you, Father, though I appreciate yours is a Divisional
appointment. Either way is that understood?’

Flanagan
flung a look to Father Maguire but he, too, was baffled.

‘I
said, OUT,’ repeated the Captain, leaning against the wall, eyes lifted high.

Flanagan
walked up the steps, his left hand gripping his trousers. At the top the sentry
moved to one side, his rifle lowered, the bayonet blade dull in the moonlight.

‘He’s more
windy than I am, Flanagan,’ said the Captain by his ear, ‘so I wouldn’t scare
him if I were you. Stop right there.’

Flanagan’s
eyes rapidly became accustomed to the night. The moon was high and nearby cloud
shone with the same silver radiance. Ahead of him stood a line of men shoulder
to shoulder … none with a helmet or cap. His heart beat viciously and the
muscle in his bladder fluttered. ‘Can I relieve myself?’

‘Absolutely’
said the Captain. ‘Take your time … in fact, I think I might join you.

After a
short trip into a shadow Flanagan was back before the sentry with the lowered
bayonet. Captain Chamberlayne appeared at his side, pistol once more held
between two fingers. He swayed slightly and said, ‘Private, the men here
gathered represent the interests of your battalion. They are the proud remnants
of your section. With others they will play the Lancashire Fusiliers, but they
will do so in your name. Now they wish to receive your handshake.’

Each of
the men who’d waited near Black Eye Corner for Flanagan’s return came forward
and took his hand: Stan Gibbons, ‘Pickles’ Pickering, Tommy Nugent, ‘Chips’
Hudson, and the RSM, Francis Joyce. Mr Chamberlayne handed round cigarettes and
then his lighter scraped, the flame revealing each face.

‘Have
your got your head around the off-side rule yet, Joe?’ asked Pickles.

‘Sure,
it’s a crazy notion,’ pouted Flanagan. ‘Ruins the game’s flow’

The
banter ground to a halt. No one else could speak. They stood huddled and
awkward, blowing smoke, tiny red lights whipping through the darkness.

‘Listen,
Joe,’ muttered Joyce, ‘none of us think you left your mates. We don’t know what
you did, but you were never a slacker, and never a deserter.’

The
rest added their strong agreement, thumping Flanagan’s shoulder, shoving his back,
the rough gestures of desperate friendship.

‘You
went off-side, mate,’ quipped Stan.

They
laughed and Captain Chamberlayne nodded at the RSM. The men shook Flanagan’s
hand again and, before he could think of anything to express the scale of his
emotion, they were dark shapes heading away from the school.

‘I know
you’ve made a vow of some kind,’ said the Captain, ‘but this may ease things in
the hours to come: He reached into his jacket and pulled out a bottle of whisky
‘Start drinking at half past four. That’s not advice. It’s an order.’

Flanagan
took the bottle by the neck. ‘Thank you, Sir,’ he muttered. Not that far away
he could just make out the road cutting through the flat fields towards the
abbey Joyce and the others were a bulk of huddled shadow upon it, crawling
towards the camp; but another shape moved, opposite the school gates; a figure
stepped out from behind a wall. Whoever it was didn’t budge another inch. He
just watched.

‘Sir,
would you pass on a message to Mr Hammond?’ said Flanagan.

‘Yes.
What is it?’

‘Tell
him there are lots of Flanagans in the army.

Turning
his back to the silver sky and the moon and the range of stars, Flanagan
descended the steps. When the cellar door had been locked shut Flanagan could
just hear the Captain addressing Corporal Mackie. ‘Remember what I said. This
didn’t happen. I may be drunk, but the RSM and his boys are sober, and they can
be very nasty this side of no-man’s-land.’

Father
Maguire tipped the candle to drain the wax and the flame spread along the wick,
lifting the light. Flanagan, feeling unsteady and bewildered, sat down on his
side of the table. They each looked at the bottle between them: ‘Old Orkney’. An
officer’s brand.