Patricia Falvey (23 page)

When it was time for a break, I made my way through the crowd to get a breath of air outside. A number of young fellows lounged outside the door, drinking from flasks and laughing. They called out to me, and I answered them. One of them elbowed the other and whispered. The rumors had spread that I was involved with James and the resistance. I denied them, of course, but there was a part of me liked the respect it earned me. I walked on past them and stopped a little way down the street near a lamppost. As a UVF armored lorry rumbled by, the young men jeered at it.

“We meet again, Miss O’Neill.”

I swung around. “I see you still have the habit of creeping up on a body,” I said.

The cheeky grin I remembered appeared. “It’s wonderful to see you, too.”

Owen Sheridan shook my hand, and a tingle ran up my arm. Under the light of the gas lamp, I saw lines etched deep on either side of his mouth and across his forehead. Gray flecks streaked his blond hair. He had changed. I knew he was about thirty-one, but he looked like an older man.

“I’m glad you’re home safe,” I said quietly.

“Thanks,” he said. “And how have you been?”

I shrugged. “No complaints,” I said.

“You look well.” He hesitated. “Married by now, I suppose?”

I glared at him. “Is that what you think all women want?”

“Forgive me. I forgot that you are your own woman, Miss O’Neill. I believe you did tell me that before.” He smiled at me, and his eyes shone violet in the shadows of the streetlamp. “You never wrote.” It was not a question, but his voice had a touch of sadness.

I shrugged again. “I told you I wasn’t good at writing.” A silence hung between us. “I got your letter,” I began, “and—”

“So this is where you are hiding.” James’s lilting voice rolled over my shoulder as he put his arm around my waist. Startled, I moved away from him, heat searing my face.

“Er, this is James Conlon,” I said to Owen. “James, this is Owen Sheridan, the mill owner’s son.” My voice was calm, but I was shaking inside with a sense of foreboding.

Owen bowed politely but did not move to shake hands with James.

“I’ve heard of you, Mr. Conlon,” he said.

“And you’ll be hearing more, no doubt,” said James.

“James works at the mill, and his da before him,” I put in. Jesus, what was wrong with me at all? I was blathering on like an eejit. Where had these nerves come from?

“I’m surprised he has time,” said Owen, and there was no mistaking the ice in his voice.

“James took me to hear Michael Collins. He’s a grand orator.” Jesus, would I ever shut up?

“So I hear,” said Owen. “There was a time, I suppose, back in my more profligate days, when I would have admired him myself.” He looked straight at James, and his voice filled with anger. “But I have been in a real war, Mr. Conlon, and I have seen what violence does. It is never the answer.”

“I served in the war, too,” James shot back, “and this is as real a war as that was.”

“No. It is not. It is merely an uprising by a few who are not patient enough to wait for the political process to take its course.”

“Political process my arse!” shouted James.

I stepped in between them and tugged at James’s sleeve. “Come on, James, it’s time I was getting back.”

But James shrugged me off. He moved closer to Owen, planting his feet squarely in front of him. Owen did not move.

“And who controls the political process but the likes of yourselves?” James was shouting now, and a crowd began to gather. “You’ll stamp out the Catholics like those that came before you. Is the political process going to give us back our land or a fair chance at jobs?”

There were rumblings of, “Good man,” “You’re right there,” from the crowd. But Owen remained calm.

“You have a job, Mr. Conlon, and a well-paid one. As does Miss O’Neill here.”

Sudden anger hit me. I forgot my earlier nerves. “You needed us all during the war,” I shouted. “Who knows how many of us will be sacked now that the soldiers are home? Anyway,” I finished lamely, “it’s not that well paid.”

Just then the young curly-haired blond woman who had been sitting at the head table came up and caught him by the arm.

“Owen? Owen darling. You’ll catch your death out here.” Her voice was English, polished, and Protestant.

Owen turned around. “I was just coming in, Joanna,” he said. “No need to fret.”

He turned toward me. “Miss O’Neill,” he said, his voice formal, “this is Miss Joanna Wharton, my fiancée. Joanna, this is Eileen O’Neill.”

The woman nodded her head. “Oh yes, I know. I think you are a wonderful musician, Miss O’Neill. It’s such a pleasure to have you entertaining us.” She turned to Owen. “Come along, darling, it’s freezing out here.”

Owen Sheridan turned back to me and bowed. “Good evening, Miss O’Neill. I would give you a piece of advice about keeping dangerous company, but I have always known you to be a woman with a mind of her own, so I doubt that anything I say could change it.”

He bowed curtly to James. “Mr. Conlon.”

I watched him walk away with Miss Wharton, his hand resting on the small of her back as he guided her toward the door. I was suddenly aware of the cold, and I folded my arms across my chest to warm myself. As I watched them go, a cold, empty feeling settled inside me. Joe Shields’s words came back to me. What a fool I was. How could I ever have thought? Thought what? That Owen Sheridan would have an interest in the likes of me? There, I had admitted it: the lingering, faraway, childish fantasy that I had never allowed to grow but had nursed just the same. And I had been stupid enough to think she was his sister! The cold feeling inside of me melted under the hot weld of my shame.

By the time I had linked James’s arm and marched with him into the hall and up to the stage, I was ablaze with anger. When Owen Sheridan and his fiancée had seated themselves at the head table, I pulled James toward me and kissed him long and hard on the mouth. By the time the whistles and applause from the crowd had died down, I mounted the stage erect and confident. All doubts were gone. I opened my arms and embraced Eileen O’Neill, warrior.

Insurrection

T
he rifle thudded heavily against my thigh as I walked back and forth across the Newry Canal bridge. I held it hidden under my coat, its barrel cold in my hand. It was a strange and dangerous thing, like an extra limb that grew out of me of its own accord. I wondered at its power—to protect and to slaughter. I wondered would I have the strength to control it. I glanced down at the Customs House on the embankment below. James and his men crept toward it under cover of darkness, carrying bricks, paraffin, and matches. The building was dark. I prayed there was no one inside. Outside the black water lapped at the moored ships, sending them creaking as if ghosts walked their decks. A cold wind wailing around them, like a cry from the deep, sent shivers down my back. The strong smell of oil wafted up from the canal. I thought back to the day I had ridden with Ma to the Royal Bank of Newry and marveled at the colorful ships with their flags stirring in the breeze. How excited I had been. How innocent.

I quickened my step as a stranger approached from the other end of the bridge. It was a man, not too steady on his feet. He tipped his hat to me.

“Good night, missus,” he said, his voice shaky with the drink.

“Good night,” I said, and hurried past him.

I wore a long coat and heavy boots, my hair tucked up under a hat. James had appointed me the lookout on account of the fact that a woman seen walking over the bridge late at night would arouse less suspicion than a man.

It was February 1919, and tensions had grown all over Ireland. After the general elections held in December of the previous year, a majority of those elected refused to take their seats in the Parliament in London. Instead, they formed their own parliament in Dublin, called Dáil Éireann, and declared the Irish Republic. This new—and unlawful—body was led by a fellow named Éamonn de Valera, whose political party was called Sinn Féin, Ourselves Alone. At the same time, the various militias that had fought under the banner of the Irish Volunteers formed a new military force called the Irish Republican Army (the IRA) and were recognized by Dáil Éireann as the official army of the Republic. Under the leadership of Michael Collins, the IRA vowed to fight for full independence from England for the entire island of Ireland. This set the British Army and police in motion to our south, while the Ulster Volunteer Force went into action in Ulster. The Anglo-Irish war had begun in earnest, and James began receiving orders from the IRA leadership. Burning the Customs House was our first big assignment.

“You know what to do,” James had said before he left me on the bridge. There was an edge of nervousness in his voice.

“Of course I know,” I snapped. “Haven’t we been over it a dozen times?”

“Three quick shots,” said James. “That’s the signal.”

“I know!”

He nodded his head. “Aye, all right, then.”

As he signaled the rest of the men and started down the embankment, I called out after him, “Good luck.”

I watched the drunken man stagger away over the bridge, and all was quiet again. I strained my eyes for the sign of any police cars or Ulster Volunteer boyos in their armored lorries. We had picked a Sunday night on purpose, thinking there would be fewer people about than on a weeknight. It seemed we had made the right decision.

The silence was broken by several thuds followed by shattering glass. James and his men threw bricks through the Customs House windows and scrambled through the openings. They had rehearsed over and over how they would carry things out. I held my breath and waited. Within minutes, black smoke poured from the open windows, curling into the air. Then balls of flames, like devil’s tongues, lapped at the sky, lighting up everything around in their red glow. I watched them, mesmerized. A mixture of fear and excitement rose in me. The flames shot higher, exploding in showers of sparks over the moored ships. In the midst of the flames, I saw Ma’s gaunt face and Lizzie’s wide, feverish eyes. I saw Da’s gnarled hands and Frankie’s lost, soulless stare. I wanted to toss all the bad memories into the fire and watch them burn down to ashes.

A sliver of light caught the corner of my eye. I snapped myself back to the present and swung around. Jesus, they were coming. The police were coming. I froze as I watched the two circles of light draw closer. I watched myself, as if in slow motion, take the rifle from under my coat and point it toward the sky. I squeezed the trigger and jerked back from the impact of the shot. Twice more I squeezed, and the reports echoed through the air. I watched as the car screeched to a halt. Two policemen jumped out and raced down the embankment toward the fire, while I stood rooted to the ground in the middle of the bridge, the rifle dangling at my side.

Suddenly a hand grabbed my arm and tugged me forward.

“Run, Eileen. For Jesus’ sake!”

James dragged me to the other side of the bridge and down the far embankment. He plunged me into the middle of a pile of empty flour sacks that were stacked on the quay. He threw himself on top of me and pulled a tarpaulin over both of us, then made a small hole in the pile where we could look out and watch the Customs House as it was consumed in the flames.

“Will you look at that,” breathed James. “Isn’t it a grand sight?”

I opened my eyes and looked out. My whole body quivered from fear and excitement. James smelled of smoke and oil and sweat.

“Did they all get away?” I whispered.

“I hope so.” He chuckled. “Jimmy Traynor threw himself in the canal, and Paddy O’Keefe jumped in after him. They may have to swim all the way to Camlough.”

“Why didn’t you go with them?” I breathed.

“Because you, my darling Eileen, were standing like a statue on the bridge waiting to be lifted by the police.”

My cheeks burned. “I was going to run.”

“Aye, and pigs might be going to fly.” Then, in a gentler voice he said, “It’s all right, love. It was your first job. You did well. Without your warning we would have been sitting ducks.”

We lay side by side in silence, watching the Customs House burn. Bells clanged as the fire brigade arrived and began dousing the flames in a frenzied effort to save it.

“I suppose this is just the beginning,” I whispered.

James rolled over and looked at me. “Aye.” He smiled. Then he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips. It was not how I ever imagined my next kiss with James would be—if I had imagined it at all, it certainly would not have been in the middle of a pile of flour sacks, almost choking for air. His lips were soft and hot as they pressed hard on mine. All thought left me. I kissed him back as violently as he was kissing me, matching him gasp for gasp. I kissed him until I had no breath left in me. Then we tore at each other’s clothes. I felt a cold rush of air on my bare thighs, then James’s hot limbs on top of mine. The raw cloth of the flour sacks clawed at my buttocks as James thrust inside me. My cries pierced the night air, fusing with the urgent, shrill wails of the police sirens and the clamor of fire brigade bells, creating a strident harmony that soared to the heavens. I knew at that moment that a bond had been forged between James and me that would be there forever. I thought briefly of another bond and another man before I closed my eyes.