Rescuing Mr. Gracey (44 page)

A marcher broke away. Another. The snaking line now moved from the road to the grassy field. The soldiers shouted for them to get back but did nothing more.

“They’re moving to the homes, Joseph.”

“They intend to fire the homes and crops,” said another.

He hated that the militia had blocked their best defensive stand. He knew their rifles would do them little good here at the top of the hill. “Go. Move and defend. Hold your fire if you can…”

From the side, Joseph saw ten-year-old Hugh King hurrying toward his father. “Go home, Hugh,” he shouted. The boy stopped, confused. Suddenly, Joseph heard a shot. Then another.
Merciful God.

An explosion of gunfire everywhere ricocheted off the hill defended by Ribbonmen.

Ten men fell within his range, and Dolly’s Brae disintegrated into chaos. Little Hugh fell, blood pouring from his chest. Anne Taylor, an eighty-five-year-old widow, their neighbor for most of his life, was being dragged down the road. She kicked and hit the Orangeman, and then, suddenly, her head was smashed by the blunt end of a musket.

Joseph aimed his rifle at the Orangeman when something in his sight froze all movement. A man carrying a torch ran toward his field. “Patrick, go toward the village. I’m to home.”

His heart slammed his chest. How had he left his home undefended? He was too far away.
Stupid man.
Should he lose his crops, his family would starve.

The entire valley became a misty haze of gray ash as flames lapped out from behind burning huts and soldiers continued shouting worthless commands. As Joseph ran, his throat burned, and his hand clutched his weapon. Too far. Too damn far. His lungs screamed for more air; his legs moved like clay. Outrage filled his mind. Who dared enter his property? Who dared crouch to destroy his field? In that desperate moment, Joseph knew he would kill anyone who stripped his family of food.

And then his thoughts slammed toward panic when he saw Mary trying to defend the field. And Maureen.
Merciful heaven. God above, save them.
Still too far away to offer any help, Joseph screamed again, but the sound disappeared among echoes of cries and screams of terror. “No.”

Joseph gasped. Maureen, fighting with all her might, tumbled to the ground, limp, when the man fisted her across the face. The man now had Mary by the hair and dragged her forward.

Joseph had a clean shot, his finger on the trigger. He would kill this man and not regret one moment.

Whack
. His ability to think, to move imploded when some force struck him in the knees. Falling, tumbling, powerless.

 
~ 43 ~

“So now my song at last I’ll end,

 
my pen I will throw down…”

Mary saw the man toss her mother to the ground. Outrage pumped in her blood. “Stop or I’ll bash your head,” she said, raising the shovel above her head.

The man rose from his crouched position. He laughed as if she had just told an entertaining story. “You won’t deny me this victory,” Mr. Bender said as he swiveled toward her. “And you won’t be hitting me over the head again.”

His torch licked the sky, hungry for fuel. Bender’s arm stretched over a tall flax plant.

The vivid memory of the lake—his breath, his touch, his smell—terrorized Mary’s ability to think. The shovel slipped from her useless hands. “Please…” was all she managed.

Bender’s mouth tightened, twisting with a distorted imitation of a smile. Mary’s jaw dropped as she watched Bender toss the torch. With a whoosh, it flew into the air, circling, circling, circling, slowly traveling a destructive path, down, down, down.

She heard herself scream, but the sound was warbled and disappeared into the ash-filled air.

Bender wrapped his arm about her waist and snapped her to his chest. She drowned in the stink of whiskey and cigars. He pinched her jaw, forcing her head to turn toward the fire. “Look what you’ve done to your family.”

Orange, yellow, and black leaped, triumphantly consuming the field like dancers on a stage of ripe flax. “You’ve destroyed them just like you did Alec.”

“Ya devil,” Mary said, her courage returning. She stomped on his foot, jammed his stomach, then spit in his face.

“You’ve given me a headache, girl,” he said, his voice laced with excitement. “I think it’s time I do the same for you.” A fat arm roped her neck and squeezed. She struggled, twisted, kicked. Her desperate fingers clawed for air.
He’s going to kill you, Mary…he’s going to…kill.

Mary saw her mother and Brian silently approach from the side.

Bender jammed an icy metal muzzle to Mary’s temple. “Back off or she’s dead,” he said, the hand holding the gun as steady as a rock. Maureen and Brian froze.

“Brian, Mam, do as he says,” Mary urgently pleaded, knowing too well his craven appetites. “Back up.”

Bender shifted to point the gun against her back and twisted Mary’s arm until she cried out, pushing her forward toward the village’s center.

“Get Da,” she heard her mother scream to Brian.

Guns and screams, orange banners and hot flames, collapsing huts, smoke, and the metallic smell of blood all merged into a chaotic nightmare of images. The Orange had so completely overrun order that sanity fled along with the soldiers, who ignored the violence taking place. No one noticed that a man held a gun to her back.

Suddenly, behind her, a reprieve. Her father screamed her name. “Mary…” She jerked from the clamped hand on her shoulder. Her father stood feet away, musket in hand. Relief washed over her.

The hefty attacker whirled, placing her in front of him as his shield. He made a strange gleeful sound, then hugged her to his bulk. “’Tis too perfect. Mr. Joseph Smyth himself has come to defend his daughter. So many triumphs at my fingertips.”

Joseph’s jaw tightened; his brows lowered. Mary saw the wariness on his face, the debate about the level of danger facing his daughter. That hesitation gave Bender the advantage. A heavy gun now pointed at her father’s chest.

Mary slammed her elbow into the man’s hefty gut.
Oomph.
The gun discharged. Bender bent forward, trying to recover from her unexpected attack. Smoke trailed out of the pistol’s barrel, already and uselessly discharged. She kicked the weapon to the ground, but then he grabbed her leg and tripped her.

Joseph’s musket clearly aimed at Bender’s chest. “Let her go, sir, or say your prayers…”

Bender growled. Jerking her hair, he forced Mary to stand and arch her neck. A knife appeared and threatened her throat. The sharp edge probed her skin. Blood trickled free. “Stay away, Smyth, or she’s dead.”

Joseph lowered his gun, hand clenched and ready for one defensive opening.

Shuffling, Bender yanked her back against his stomach as he scooted them awkwardly backward. Blood dribbled from her neck; whiskey and sweat choked her throat. Frightened eyes sought refuge. Her father followed, waiting for the right second to shoot the man…and she was glad.

“Officer,” Bender shouted to an idle soldier. “Arrest that man with the gun, by order of the Earl of Roden. His name is Joseph Smyth, the leader of the Ribbonmen and traitor to the queen. He has a gun pointed at me.”

“No,” she started to scream, but Bender edged the knife deeper. “Shut up or die right here,” he whispered harshly.

Two militia, without question, pulled her father down. “That man has my daughter,” Joseph screamed, his hands stretching for Mary. The butt of a rifle slammed his head. She watched helplessly as they dragged her father’s limp body down the road.

Bender cackled like a witch. His sweaty arm soaked her shoulder; his smelly breath assaulted every sense. They lurched in and out of a frenzied crowd that swelled and rushed as they got closer to the center of the village.

As if wickedly inspired, he laughed. Suddenly, she was shoved through the double doors of St. Michael’s Church. Stumbling, falling, she slammed against the hard wooden edge of a pew.
Whack
. Ears ringing, Mary squeezed her eyes against the sharp pain in her head. Her ears rang, her heart tripped, every limb seemed too weak to rise.

She heard a scrape, a clank, and knew he had bolted the doors. The flare of light from the torch he’d grabbed drew her attention toward the front of the church where he paced. “I warned him. I did warn him. He just would not stop. He ruined everything.”

Mary wondered if Bender had slid into one of his dazes. Inching her bottom along the floor toward the door, she kept an eye on the fat man, who tightened the circle in which he paced. He looked up, frantic, until he saw her. As if reassured, he began to mumble again. “I told the earl. He did not see the danger. Yet he continued to nurture Gracey instead of me. I should have been entrusted with the seat. I would never have betrayed him to the natives…”

While he was thus distracted, she managed to get a few feet closer toward the door. His laugh startled her. Her terrified heart stopped. His head tilted oddly, and his eyes seemed glazed, far away. His anxious expression melted. “I did everything he asked of me. I burned the field. I had Smyth arrested. Now the earl must choose me. You see, I was the better choice all along.” He rolled his head up toward the ceiling and squeezed his eyes shut.

Faster, knowing she was almost out of time, Mary dug her heels in and slid back until she felt the door at her back. He made that cold screechy sound that chilled her blood. “Once Gracey hears she’s dead, he’ll give up the election.”

Slowly, inch by inch, Mary rose to stand. Bender had stopped moving, his heavy breathing the only sound. He turned, searching the floor. He seemed confused.

She held her breath, her trembling hand fumbling behind her for the bolt.

“He thinks his politics will make Ireland better for her.” He laughed and resumed his pacing. “But now she will be gone.”

She dared not turn her back on him for even one second. Fumbling, shaky fingers felt along the door, found the knob, clasped the latch. Every movement, every sound she made, no matter how minor, seemed amplified, vibrating off the walls, the floor, the statues.

He was pacing again, mumbling. She pulled. The rusty bolt would not budge. Her mind reviewed the necessary steps for escape—turn, quickly jam the bolt up, quietly scrap it back, pull the handle, open the door. Run. Run. Run. Could she manage all that before the insane man came out of his ranting?

She held her breath as Bender faced the altar, shaking his fists at the crucifix. “Filthy pagans. Filthy, stinking pagans, thinking they could contaminate our Parliament.”

Now, Mary Smyth. Now.
She whipped about. Her hand fumbled on the bolt. Too slow. The bar was too heavy. The screech was too loud.

She heard him roar. Fury found her. She was plucked away from the door and thrown across the room like a toothpick. Her back whacked against a sharp edge. Her mind wanted to fade, but Mary clamped her jaw and forced herself to stay conscious.

“It is regrettable that, on the day of the riot at Dolly’s Brae, the Catholic Church burned to the ground,” he muttered rapidly. Mary was tossed into the priest’s chair before she could recover from the dizzying effects of her injuries. She tried to slap him, tried to punch and kick. He slugged her face. She slumped, exhausted, hopeless.

An altar rope tied her to the chair, slung about so that feet, arms, and hands were immobile. “Tragically, Miss Mary Smyth, who is presumed to have entered the church to pray, died within…”

Bender panted liked a heated dog as he took the tabernacle candle. His eyes glowed with victory. “So regretful I cannot stay to see the end,” he hissed. “’Twould please me exceedingly to see you burned alive, but I am to be the next member of Parliament, you see, and must not be associated with your murder.”

“Sir,” Mary said desperately. “You don’t wish to do this. My father saw you drag me here. He will testify that you killed me. All your plans will be ruined.”

For a moment, Bender paused. He furrowed his brow, then paced. Finally, he looked up and chortled madly. “You stupid woman. I will go to the earl this night. He will arrange for your father to be tried for treason.” His breathing was now excited. “Joseph Smyth will be blamed for all this chaos. ’Twas his Ribbonmen that fired that first shot, don’t you see? ’Twas their fault the night turned to murder. He too will be dead before month’s end.”

With one final laugh, Bender flipped off the key from the wall and tossed the tabernacle candle onto the cloth-covered altar.

Furious flames roared to life. Mary heard him chuckle as he slammed shut the back door. The screams outside the building were loud, terrifying, but nothing matched the horror inside. Her body quaked with fear as desperate hope disintegrated. Her lungs filled with smoke. Coughing spasms racked her body. Fire licked near her feet.

Mary screamed and screamed, twisted and rocked to be free. The flames grew larger and larger, lapping at the wooden altar steps, the statue of St. Michael, the picture of Our Lady of Mount Carmel, disfigured with black soot.

Now her screams disappeared within the heated roar of the fire. She rocked until the chair tipped. Her side thumped to the floor. Mary pulled and twisted at the rope, but the binding grew tighter with each effort.

Her lungs struggled. Frantic, she lifted tear-filled eyes toward the gold tabernacle above.