Shamrock Green (13 page)

And Gowry, with a hollow feeling in his heart, agreed.

*   *   *

Turk was up for it. Turk was always up for it. He had brought six bottles of stout and a half of whiskey down with him inside the knapsack, wrapped in the thin blanket that would keep out the chill of the night. He didn't expect to sleep. The boy, Kevin, had come equipped like one of Teddy Roosevelt's rough riders with a bedroll and groundsheet, packets of tea and sugar and several tins of baked beans.

They had walked from the railway station to the inn that overlooked the confluence of waters where the Aughrim flowed into the Avoca. They had tramped up and down for a piece before they found the field, the only possible field, where John Redmond would meet not only with the Irish National Volunteers but with a hail of bullets that would give the bastard something to take back to bloody Westminster with him – so Turk said, rubbing his hands in glee.

Above the field was a wooded hillside with several steep faces and enough cover to hide an army but the road that ran along the margin of the river offered scant protection. The road, that Saturday evening, had been cluttered with cart traffic and folk tramping back from the little towns, and once they had marked the line of the road Turk and the boy had cleared off into the woods above the field.

Hidden by trees and faded ferns they had hunkered under a shelf of rock. It was a fine place to camp, Turk had said, and had opened his knapsack and dug out the bottles. Kevin had been all for lighting a fire to heat the beans but Turk would have none of it and they had eaten the beans cold, washed down with stout.

It had been a long, damp night, though there was no rain.

Turk had talked and talked, his voice low and confiding in the darkness. He had told the boy all he could remember of the wild disturbers, led by General Holt, who had engaged the king's forces, horse and foot, in this very glen and who, being steadfast and disciplined for once, had routed them and sent them trailing back to barracks with their tails between their legs.

Before the tale was halfway done, Kevin had fallen asleep.

Back to the rock, Turk draped the thin blanket about his shoulders and kept watch, dreaming and muttering, keeping himself warm that way. And by the time the sun filtered through the trees and the mist rose from the river, Turk was up for it. By God, was he not!

*   *   *

The mountains seemed higher in the morning light, Gowry thought, as he stepped, blinking, out of the cottage door.

The sergeant had been up for hours by the look of him, though he had drunk twice as much as Gowry and had not gone to bed until well after two. They had sat up talking, the three of them, seated round the fireside with the bottle going back and forth and the sergeant as relaxed as any man Gowry had ever seen, lying in an old rattan armchair with a glass in his hand and his pipe in his mouth, his long legs stretched out, big bare feet toasting on the hearth.

Gowry had seldom talked so openly or listened with such rapt attention. There was no heat in their discussion, however, for they were all agreed that politics was a mug's game and was it not a crying shame that politicians controlled the fighting men and not the other way about. When Gowry finally went to bed he had slept like a baby, falling off the cliff of consciousness with the woman's voice and the sergeant's rumbling laughter drifting up from the room below.

‘Top o' the mornin' to you, Gowry,' Maurice called out. ‘Sleep well?'

‘Aye, like a baby,' Gowry said. ‘And you?'

‘Never a dream to trouble me,' Maurice said. ‘How long will you be with us?'

‘I'll need to be off about half past noon.'

‘Bound for Dublin?'

‘No, for Woodenbridge.'

‘For the parade?' Maurice said.

‘Parade? What parade?'

‘The volunteers parade on Sundays in the field by the river. I've heard John Redmond, the MP, will be stopping by today to address them.'

‘Well, I've no interest in hearing what Redmond has to say.'

‘I thought you supported his policies?'

‘I do,' said Gowry, ‘but that's no reason to want to hear him spout.'

‘He'll need to make a damned good speech to justify himself,' Maurice said. ‘If we don't muster enough recruits for the regiments the War Office won't send us to France. It would be a helluva shame if the Rangers were denied an opportunity to fight because of a few hot-heads.'

‘Are you training men for France?'

‘We would be delighted to train men for front-line combat,' Maurice said, ‘but we've no weapons and no sign of weapons, so it's just drill, drill and more bloody drill.' He tossed the hay-bag into the shed. The ponies stood in the big paddock, their tails to the breeze, all sturdy and patient. From across the plain a church bell announced an early mass. Maurice put a hand on Gowry's shoulder and clapped him as if he were a pony, or a homesick recruit. ‘If you do happen to bump into old Johnny Redmond at Woodenbridge this afternoon,' he said, ‘tell him from me that the Irish brigades are ready and willing to fight but that we need proper weapons to do it. Tell him to convince the English that we need arms.'

Gowry laughed. ‘Sure an' I will,' he said, then, linking arms with the affable sergeant, went back into the cottage to eat.

*   *   *

There were more flat caps than bowlers in the field by the river and a multitude of dogs sniffed about the legs of the volunteers. There were two or three officers in uniform with lanyards and sheathed swords but not a revolver among the lot of them that Turk could see. Only a handful of the rank and file had rifles and when he wriggled closer Turk saw that most of them were dummies. There were pikestaffs here and there but nothing sleek enough to be hurled across the river or into the wooded slopes. The parade was casual and disorganised, not at all like the Dublin parades Turk had marched in; the Woodenbridge volunteers looked like what they were, farmers pretending to be fighting men.

Squinting down at the gathering Turk felt vague distaste for the job he had to do; the men below might have been his cousins or his uncles and, in spirit at least, he was one with them. He focused his attention on the officers, those tools of authority with their braid and swords and strutting manners.

Crawling on his belly through the yellowing ferns, he searched for the best angle from which to place his shots.

Kevin was back in the woods loading the rifles. They had picked up the rifles from the roadside without a hitch and so far Fran Hagarty's plan was working.

Turk felt a lot better now he had the rifles and was on the move.

He studied the field carefully. Rank and file faced the river. He would fire over their heads. One officer – MacSweeney? – kept fishing out his pocket watch and glancing anxiously towards the high road; Turk reckoned that Redmond must be due to arrive very soon.

The field had been mown and was covered with tufts and tussocks and the officers in their tall riding boots hobbled and lost balance now and then. The men were steady, though, as they formed up and squared off into platoons. There were a hundred or more spectators gathered round the perimeter of the field, old men mostly, and boys in knickerbockers and stiff collars, all thoroughly enjoying themselves on that fine Sunday afternoon.

Turk found his spot, a stubbly hump in the midst of the ferns, the crown worn bare by rabbits. He eased himself on to his backside, cross-legged like a tailor. He braced his elbows against his hips and aimed an imaginary rifle. There would be no killing; Fran had been adamant about that. By Gad, though, would it not be a joy to pop off an officer or two and see their sabres spin away and their heads burst open when the bullets struck?

He sighted on MacSweeney, shaped a soundless little
‘pah-pah-pah'
with his lips, then, grinning, blew away invisible smoke just as Johnny Redmond's lackeys appeared on the path from the high road and MacSweeney marched across the grass to greet them, drawing his ceremonial sword as he went.

‘Yes,' Turk said, under his breath. ‘Yes,' then retreated backward through the ferns to fetch young Kevin and the guns.

Chapter Seven

They brought him into Dublin Castle through the gateway at the top of Cork Hill; Dublin Castle, that dismal pile of brick and stone disposed around two courts at the top of Parliament Street. He had never been inside the castle before, for he was not the sort of man who kept company with government officials and he had no interest in visiting the state apartments. His father had told him about the horrors of the place, however, the Devil's Half Acre, where in the old days rebels had been flogged and tortured and thrown into prison.

He was sweating heavily inside his uniform, his hands so knotted on the steering wheel that he could scarcely make the lock that brought the limousine into the courtyard. He was scared all right and when the detective, Ames, poked him with the barrel of the revolver he almost jumped out of his skin.

‘What is it now?' Gowry said, shrilly.

‘We can't go any further,' Ames told him. ‘Stop here.'

Gowry braked, slewing the rear wheels on the damp cobbles.

They had entered under the Bedford Tower, under the statue of Justice, but he didn't expect to find much justice here. The detective hunkered beside him. In the back seat were another plainclothes copper and two RIC constables.

He yanked on the handbrake, turned off the engine and waited, sweating in the cool evening air.

Ames poked him again: ‘Out.'

Gowry climbed from the seat and lowered himself to the cobbles.

The constables went out through the side door, batons unsheathed.

At least they hadn't cuffed him. Perhaps they would do so now.

When they'd pounced on him outside the Nugget he'd assumed they would impound Flanagan's motor-car and jail him somewhere in Wicklow. Instead they'd shoved him back into the driver's seat and told him to head for Dublin.

‘What am I supposed to have done?' he'd shouted. ‘You can't just go lifting me for no reason. I've passengers to collect.'

‘Passengers, is it?' Ames had said. ‘Where are they then, these passengers?'

‘I – I don't know. Maybe they're up at the hotel.'

‘Aye, and maybe they've fled wi'out you.'

‘What do you mean? Fled?'

‘Done a bunk,' the cohort had said. ‘Run off.'

‘They were brothers, two of them, attending a funeral.'

‘Brothers, were they?' the cohort had said. ‘I don't doubt it.'

‘Attending your funeral, McCulloch,' Ames had said, and laughed.

‘What's going on? What the hell is going on?'

But they had parried all his questions and wouldn't even tell him what crime he was supposed to have committed, or where they were taking him.

He had heard of this happening to mysterious figures in the secret societies, to militant socialists and those suspected of being in league with the Germans, but he had chosen to believe that everyone who was lifted and imprisoned without a fair trial was guilty of sedition in one form or another. It was not a point he'd dared argue with Charlie, though, for Charlie knew everyone who was anyone in the organisations and Charlie, God help him, still believed in martyrdom.

Ames grabbed his arm and jerked him round to face the arch that led to the lower court. Gowry resisted. ‘What'll happen to the limousine? I'm supposed to be responsible for Mr Flanagan's motor-car.'

‘You've more to worry you now, McCulloch, than Flanagan's motor-car,' Ames said and steered him beneath the archway and across the lower courtyard to the Ship Street gate.

Ship Street: Sheep Street: lambs to the slaughter: heads around the walls: the old tower towering over him: before him the oldest part of the city, narrow alleys and streets, mostly dark and dirty, tenements inhabited only by the poorest classes. Gowry knew that the story of the city was contained therein and that the names – Nicholas Street, Fishamble, Bridge and Winetavern – reeked of history and worried that perhaps he might be on his way to becoming part of it.

They marched him between them, pinning his arms. He watched the sky darkening into night, clouds coalescing, the damp reddish tint of autumn twilight compressed by the narrow ways. He heard his heels echo on broken pavements, the
skiff-skiff-skliff
of the detectives' shoes. Then they pushed him into a doorway.

He saw another door, solid as the Rock of Cashel. It swung open. He was bundled into a building, a tall clean building that rose up like a pencil-box in the midst of the stinking tenements. And when the door thudded shut behind him he was engulfed by a great black wave of despair.

*   *   *

‘It is not incumbent upon me to declare charges at this stage in the proceedings,' Vaizey said. ‘Under the new emergency powers act, however, I may detain you for a period of three days if, in my judgement, you represent a threat to security. Do you understand that, Mr McCulloch?'

‘I do,' Gowry said.

‘Do you know why you have been brought here?'

‘No, I do not.'

‘I suppose you'll be telling me next you don't know what happened at Woodenbridge this afternoon,' the inspector said.

‘I only know I was jumped on by a dozen policemen at the Nugget Hotel.'

‘You still stand by your story then?'

‘Story?' Gowry said. ‘What story?'

‘The story you told to my man.'

‘I didn't tell him any sort of story,' Gowry said. ‘I was given no opportunity to tell him anything before he—'

‘Something about a funeral, I believe.'

‘That's no story; that's the plain fact of the matter,' Gowry said. ‘If you're not willing to take my word for it, check my logbook. I was hired to drive two men from Dublin to the Nugget Hotel at Woodenbridge yesterday afternoon and collect them again at three o'clock today.'