Death on the Holy Mountain (35 page)

As she and her sister departed to their rooms to rest after their ordeal, Lady Lucy wandered out into the little garden on the edge of the water. The battered nymph was still spouting erratic
bursts of water on to the flowers. A red rose beside it was losing its leaves, perfect red petals drifting down to lie on the ground, the colour of blood. Lady Lucy thought of Francis rowing her
out there that very morning, the time passing impossibly quickly. She remembered the look of complete pleasure on his face as the two of them lay back in their gondola in Venice several years
before and were transported up the Grand Canal to the art gallery, the Accademia. She remembered the ecstasy on his face as he stood, transfixed, in front of Giovanni Bellini’s altarpiece of
the Madonna and Child with Saints in a side chapel of the Franciscan church there, the Frari. He had quoted Henry James to her, she remembered, nothing in Venice is more perfect than this. She
tried to blot out the memories of Francis and the children but they kept coming in like the tide. Francis bowling for hour after hour to Thomas in their makeshift nets at Rokesley Hall, teaching
his little boy some of the strokes of cricket. Francis out riding with Olivia, trekking all afternoon through the paths of Rockingham Forest before they returned, exhausted, for an enormous tea.
Francis chasing the twins round and round the dining-room table and up the stairs in Markham Square. She began to pray. Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. The words of the
pilgrims came back to her as they walked round and round the first station on the Holy Mountain. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women. Lady Lucy could see
no reason why it couldn’t be a Protestant prayer as well. She found it comforting, even the last words, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death, Amen. There between the hills and
the mountains with Killary Harbour in front of her, Lady Lucy said seven Our Fathers and seven Hail Marys as the faithful had done at the stations on Croagh Patrick. She called it the Leenane
Station. She offered it up to her husband, wherever he was.

Johnny Fitzgerald had fallen asleep. Occasional low snores broke the silence in the red velvet carriage. The one called Seamus was drifting away, sitting up suddenly every now
and then to remind himself that he was on duty. The one called Mick had the book open on his lap but it was some time since he had turned a page. Powerscourt too drifted in and out of sleep. The
heat was making him feel uncomfortable and he longed for a glass of water. He wondered when they planned to change the horses, these present ones couldn’t last much longer. Then the road
surface seemed to improve. The great lurches that had marked their progress so far were, for now, a thing of the past. Powerscourt could only guess where they were. His sense of geography, never
very accurate at the best of times, had abandoned him altogether. All he could tell from the regular bleatings of the sheep was that they were somewhere up in the mountains. He wondered what a
shepherd would have made of this strange vehicle, doors closed, no sign of life inside, rattling along near Maam Cross.

After ten minutes on the good road, Powerscourt decided it was time to move. The two young men were dozing or asleep. He nudged Johnny Fitzgerald very gently in the ribs. They both arched back
very slowly on their seats to gain maximum purchase. Then, in unison, they drew their knees up to their chins and they launched themselves as hard as they could, boots first, into the crotches of
their enemies. Powerscourt followed this up with an enormous punch with his right hand into Seamus’s cheek. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Johnny doing the same thing. Seamus fell
to his right. Powerscourt reached out his left hand and opened the door. He grabbed the young man by the top of his shirt and the seat of his trousers and propelled him towards the door. Two
vigorous kicks were enough to send him into the outside world. Powerscourt closed the door and turned to administer a final kick to the departing figure of Mick on the other side. Johnny closed the
door. They had left the season of Darkness behind them.

‘By God, that was good, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Give it ten seconds or so and go tell the coachman to keep going for another four hundred yards as fast as he can. Then we
can review the situation.’

No pistol shots followed them up the road. Powerscourt rubbed at the knuckles of his right hand. They would be sore for some time from the punch that felled the one called Seamus. Johnny
clambered out and took up his position beside the coachman. Now they heard shots behind them, three fired at brief intervals first, and then two volleys of about eight or nine rounds at a time. A
scream echoed round the mountains and its noise and the gunshots sent the sheep scurrying for whatever cover they could find. Johnny stopped the coach. Powerscourt had picked up the book Mick had
been reading. It had fallen on the floor at his departure.
The Wind Among the Reeds
, Fisher Unwin, London, 1899, the title page said. W.B. Yeats. And him, Powerscourt thought, a Protestant
poet from Sligo, a man of the Anglo-Irish, read by such an ardent and uncompromising Catholic nationalist as the young man called Mick.

They could hear horses coming at speed. ‘Powerscourt,’ shouted the Major, ‘are the two of you all right?’

‘Never better,’ Powerscourt replied cheerfully, ‘bit thirsty, that’s all. Catering department non-existent among these nationalists. Thirst must be meant to be good for
you. What was that firing a moment ago?’

‘Young fool,’ said the Major, ‘the one you must have thrown out on the left-hand side of the road, thought he’d take us on. Must have seen he was outnumbered about twelve
to one. Maybe the natives never learn to count out here. Anyway he loosed off a few, couldn’t shoot straight incidentally, so we had to reply. He’s gone,’ the Major looked round
at the desolate landscape for a moment, ‘to the great peat bog in the sky.’

‘I think he always preferred death and glory, that one,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Nothing finer than giving your life in Ireland’s cause. What about the other fellow? He told
us his name was Seamus but he’s really called something else. I think he was the brains of the enterprise.’

The Major laughed. ‘Brains, was he? Well, he’s not looking too clever at the moment. Doubled up, he is, whichever of you two kicked him in his private parts did for him good and
proper. Pity we’ve only got one in the bag, but better than nothing.’

Powerscourt thanked the Major for his swift appearance on the scene. ‘We were right behind you all the time,’ said the military man. ‘Had a bet on what time you’d break
out, actually, Powerscourt.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Damn it, I think I may have won. I said you’d see off the little green people five minutes ago. Good show, what?’

Johnny made a special request. ‘Does anybody have anything to drink in this godforsaken place?’

The Major looked at his troops. ‘I am blind,’ he said, ‘I cannot see a thing.’

Half a bottle of John Jameson was handed over to Johnny Fitzgerald who took an enormous swig. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you so much. By God, that tastes good.’

‘I say,’ said the Major, ‘I’m forgetting my duties. We’ve got a couple of spare nags with us. Thought you might like to totter back on your own. Leave all this mess
to us,’ he waved his hand at the corpse on one side of the road and the doubled-up figure on the other, ‘we’ll clear it up.’

As Powerscourt and Fitzgerald began the ride back to Leenane a vicious hiss pursued them down the road. ‘Traitors, bloody traitors to Ireland, both of you.’ The face of the one
called Seamus was doubled up with pain as he spoke but there was no doubting his sincerity. One of the troopers kicked him hard on the side of the head.

‘Shut up, you piece of Fenian shit,’ said the trooper. ‘From now on you can learn some bloody manners. Don’t speak, unless you’re spoken to first.’

Lady Lucy Powerscourt was still at her prayer station in the garden late that afternoon. She watched the street that led up to the Maum road. Twice in the last half-hour she
had heard horses’ hooves and human voices but it was only a farmhand and a man come in to buy some tea from the store. Still she waited. She said more prayers. She looked at some fishermen
unloading their catch and a man from the hotel kitchens obviously haggling about prices. A priest went by on his bicycle and smiled at Lady Lucy. Three small boys trotted past her kicking at a
stone in the road. Then she heard laughter that she thought might be Johnny Fitzgerald’s. Johnny had a very distinctive laugh. She wondered if she should run down the road to meet them, if it
was them. Something told her not to. If her prayers had been answered, then it was only proper to wait in that place for her deliverance. She heard Francis’s voice. The two of them were
hidden temporarily by a bend in the road. Then she saw them, rather dirty, rather dishevelled as if they had been in a fight, but not wounded or hurt. She pulled out a handkerchief and waved it
furiously.

‘Francis!’ she shouted. ‘Francis!’

One of the horses broke into a gallop. ‘Lucy, my love! Lucy!’

Then Francis was beside her, holding her tight in his arms. ‘My own love,’ she said, ‘you’ve come back! Thank God! Oh, thank God!’

Half an hour later Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in his bath. Lady Lucy was plying him with champagne as she listened to his adventures.

‘There’s to be a great dinner tonight, Francis,’ she told him. ‘To celebrate the release of the ladies and your escape. The Major organized it before he left. He said he
might sing a song, the Major.’

‘God save Ireland,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if the Major sings a song.’ He wondered if a wake had been organized too in case he and Johnny had not returned but he didn’t
like to ask.

‘And Dennis Ormonde is coming from Ormonde House,’ Lucy went on. ‘He’ll be so pleased to see his wife again.’

Lady Lucy left to attend to some matters in the bedroom. There was still some time before dinner. Powerscourt rose slowly from the waves and draped himself in a series of towels. He thought of
A Tale of Two Cities
again. It is a far better thing I do now, he said to himself with a wicked grin, than I have ever done before. He advanced into the bedroom and kissed Lady Lucy firmly
on the lips.

‘Francis,’ she said, and then in a different tone altogether, ‘Francis!’ She moved to close the curtains. The worst of times were over.

Father O’Donovan Brady had made Cathal Rafferty tell his story of the strange goings-on in the Head Gardener’s Cottage three times. He made copious notes. He wrote
the names of the two participants in a small black book in large capital letters. He knew he would return to reread this material over and over again in the days ahead. He gave Cathal ten shillings
with instructions to keep watching. Cathal, after all, was carrying out the work of the Lord. Then Father Brady poured himself a generous glass of John Powers and sat down to plan his campaign.

Central to this strategy was the Protestant parson, the Reverend Giles Cooper Walker, the man who had read the prayers at the concert party at Butler’s Court. Ordinary Protestants, the
Father had been taught at theological college, were little better than heretics. Protestant clergymen were worse, much worse. The priest wondered if he should consult with his bishop about the move
he was planning, actually calling on the rector and, much more difficult, being polite to him, something he knew he would find much more taxing. Nevertheless, he told himself, unusual times need
unusual measures. Our Lord would never have succeeded in His mission here on earth if He had carried on according to the ancient principles of the Pharisees. It was time to seize the hour and
tackle the vicar in his own quarters. So it was that at eleven o’clock a few days after Cathal’s visit Father O’Donovan Brady was knocking on the front door of the Protestant
rectory, a handsome early Georgian house with roses blooming in the small front garden.

The two men were as different in appearance as they were in religion. The Catholic was short and round. The Protestant was tall and very thin, as if he didn’t have enough to eat. Father
O’Donovan Brady was ministered to by his striking twenty-three-year-old housekeeper. The Reverend Cooper Walker was ministered to by Sarah, his wife of fifteen years, who might not have had
the bloom of youth of the housekeeper but was still a handsome woman, regularly admired by other clergy at diocesan conferences. The Catholic had no children. The Protestant had three, two boys and
a girl, who were only a trouble to him when he contemplated the expense of educating them and bringing them out into society. Father Brady had never left Ireland, indeed he had only once visited
the north where his visit accidentally coincided with the parades of Orangemen on 12 July, where hatred of Catholics was a central feature of the proceedings, and left him determined never to
return to such a place again. The Reverend Cooper Walker had been attached to a parish in Oxford for a time – he had been a noted theologian in his youth, and his professors had tried with
all their might to persuade him into an academic career, but Cooper Walker turned them down, saying his version of God called him to the service of real people in what he naively called the real
world rather than that of the saints and sinners of the second and third centuries AD. Among the rich of North Oxford and the poor of Jericho the Reverend Cooper Walker had seen the pain caused by
unhappy marriages, the damage that could be done by a love that went wrong or alighted in the wrong place. Father O’Donovan Brady’s God resembled Moses on top of the mountain, tablets
in hand, entrusted by a fierce and unforgiving God with the salvation of his people, however harsh the punishment. The Reverend Cooper Walker’s God resembled Christ feeding the five thousand
and saying blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.