The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (12 page)

Although I couldn’t have known it at the time, for the next two months, tensions in Limerick would escalate and Ireland would teeter on the brink of civil war. Trouble would begin soon after the British withdrawal, as their forces one by one abandoned the various barracks and garrisons, first in Limerick City and then in the surrounding countryside. We would soon see them parading through our streets in uniforms newly laundered or newly purchased for the occasion. Their march would come with a clipped efficiency and the sounds of the drum, their heads held high and their banners fluttering in the breeze as if they were the true victors. In their wake, Free State and Anti-Treaty forces would rush to secure the abandoned barracks, the nation’s fate hinging on which way Limerick would fall.

But as Kathleen disappeared into the mist, that precipice was still weeks away.

Thinking the only thing I had to worry about was Billy, against Mary’s advice I set off for Limerick City. I had used the last of the hair dye that morning—it wouldn’t fool anyone up close, but from a distance I thought it might. The chemist in Limerick would have what I needed. But more than the dye, I wanted to see for myself if what Mary and Liam had told me was true. I had to find out how bad things were.

It was a nine-mile walk to Limerick, the first few easy as I encountered no one on the road. Farm after farm, I saw men and young boys working the plough, getting the fields ready for the planting. In other fields, cows and goats grazed, and in the hills beyond, collies kept large herds of sheep from wandering. A few men waved and I waved back, knowing I was far enough away that I wouldn’t be recognized. The rich scent of the turned soil, the musky smell of animals, and the sweet smell of hay filled the air. It was a peaceful scene, but it was one that I feared wouldn’t last.

Occasionally, the growl of a motorcar, the rattle of a cart, or the clop of a horse’s hooves would disturb the silence, and I would hide behind the stone walls until the sounds faded. But as I drew closer to Limerick, it became difficult to hide—the lorries and drays too thick to escape. There was nothing I could do but keep walking, hoping no one would pay me any mind.

For the most part they didn’t, but still I was on edge. I stiffened at each sound, turning my head slightly away from the road, only breathing again once those that passed me disappeared ahead. When I saw the buildings in the distance, I let out a sigh. Another hour and then I would be able to lose myself in Limerick’s crowded streets.

I heard the sound of another motorcar and prayed it would drive by like the others before it. But the sound changed, and I could tell the lorry was slowing. I kept walking, trying not to show I was worried, but still I felt myself stiffen as it pulled alongside.

“A fine day it is!”

I looked up and felt a chill run up my spine as I stared up into the face of a Free State Soldier. He was smiling. My instinct told me running would be foolish. Instead I nodded.

“Aye. T’is a fine day.”

He asked me if I was going to Limerick. I nodded again.

“Sure and we’re on our way there ourselves anyhow,” he said, his friendly tone catching me by surprise. He offered me a lift.

Seeing no alternative, I smiled and thanked him as I climbed on board.

There were six of them, all with the new green uniforms of the Free State Army. Most were lads, younger than me, but the officer was my age. The lorry they were in was British. I tried to piece together what that meant as I fought to hide my nervousness.

“From Limerick, are you?” the officer asked. It wasn’t a policeman’s question, I realized, just curiosity. Still, I was wary.

“Nay,” I said. “My family’s from Offaly,” I told them, “but I’ve been to America these last five years.” I smiled but offered little more.

I wasn’t surprised when they began to ask questions, wanting to know if what they had heard about America was true. It was a welcome diversion. The more I talked about New York, the less likely they were to question what I was doing in Ireland. But still I couldn’t resist asking several questions of my own. The officer’s name was Mullins, I learned, and they were all from Clare, part of General Michael Brennan’s new Free State Forces. I knew Brennan, not by face but by name. After the British had declared martial law in January 1921—just as I was settling in New York—Brennan and his East Clare Flying Column ambushed a Black and Tan patrol at Glenwood, near Sixmilebridge. In the ensuing fight, Brennan’s troops killed six Tans and made off with their weapons. That night, in retaliation, the Tans went on the rampage in Clare, burning homes and terrorizing farmers and villagers, most of whom had no connection to the IRA. A fine soldier Brennan was, but now he had thrown his lot in with the Free State.

I wanted to ask what soldiers from the Clare Brigade were doing in Limerick but that wouldn’t have been wise. Certainly, I told myself, Mullins and his men had been sent on one errand or another and would soon return to Clare. Besides, these lads hardly seemed hostile. Their eyes were bright and their faces held the hope of new recruits, ones who somehow had managed to avoid the fighting over the last three years.

“Well you’re back now and it’s a good thing you are,” Mullins said as he clapped my shoulder. “We need every Irishman now. There’s a lot to do,” he said smiling, staring off for a moment, dreaming it seemed. “A lot to do.”

I couldn’t help but ask. “Do you think there’ll be another war? It’s all I’ve heard since I returned.”

“Why should we fight?” Mullins answered, “We’re all Irishmen; certainly we can put our differences aside now, for the sake of the country.”

If it were only that easy
, I thought.

___

I left them at St. Lawrence Cemetery—paying my respects to a friend I told them—not wanting to be seen driving with Free State soldiers in Limerick. There were sure to be Anti-Treaty soldiers in the city—men I had known and fought with—and they would certainly take notice of a Free State Army patrol
. Who’s the well-dressed man wearing glasses, the one riding along with the Free State soldiers in their lorry?
It was a question I didn’t want them asking.

I stood by the wrought iron gates of the cemetery and waited until Mullins and his men disappeared up Mulgrave Street. Then I set out up Mulgrave myself. I glanced up at the clock tower as I passed the asylum. I felt a shiver on my spine, remembering a day when Liam and I had gotten too close, only to hear the screams and wails from behind the walls. Set back from the road, the asylum was a dark and foreboding building, its wings stretching out amongst the chestnut trees. It was 11:30 in the morning, the clock told me. I planned to spend a few hours reconnoitering British positions and assessing the mood in the city.

Minutes later I passed the gaol, its stone walls towering over my head, its large imposing green steel door telling everyone that the prisoners on the other side were meant to stay. My spine tingled again. Liam had been held here for a short while before being moved to Kilmainham Gaol in Dublin. I shook the thoughts from my head and continued on. As I passed the Artillery Barracks, a handful of British soldiers stood outside, smoking. Their laughter punctured the air. I kept my pace steady, watching them out of the corner of my eye. Despite my nervousness, they paid me no mind. I made my way up to William Street and the RIC barracks, but no constables were to be seen, Black and Tans or otherwise.

The streets became more crowded and as I walked down Catherine Street, then O’Connell, then Henry Street and finally the Quay, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Limerick had changed over the last year. Yet so much was still the same. Men in bowlers and suit coats hurried by while women, dressed in long skirts, coats and hats—some pushing prams, most not—headed back to work or home after their walk. Young boys, dressed in knickers and caps, played with hoops in the street while others sold papers on the corner, oblivious to the sound of horseshoes clacking off the stones and the roar of motorcars racing by. Hundreds of wires crisscrossed overhead, a black web that stretched as far as the eye could see, while puffy black swirls of smoke spewed out of the stacks on top of every building before trailing away in the wind, making the clouds more gray than they already were. All of this was as I left it a year ago.

What was different, I soon realized, was what I didn’t see. When I had first joined the IRA, there were five RIC police barracks in Limerick City and at least one in most of the larger towns in the surrounding county. At the time, almost all policemen were Irish and almost all were Catholic. But that had changed over the last three years as our war against the British had taken hold. The RIC—the Peelers—were the front line of Britain’s own war efforts and for that reason they became our front line as well. As our raids and attacks grew and our campaign took its toll, Irishmen began to resign their posts, and soon the RIC found it difficult to find others willing to replace them. The British responded by sending in the Tans to replace the Irish Catholics who had resigned and then by closing the more isolated police barracks, some because we had destroyed them, others because they could no longer defend them against our attacks. To us, it was a sign that our campaign was working. Soon, though, it wasn’t just the Tans we had to worry about. As we grew more brazen, the British responded by sending their soldiers and their dreaded Auxiliaries, men who were in many ways worse than the Tans. If that wasn’t enough, the British Army had strongholds—Strand Barracks, New Barracks, Castle Barracks, and Artillery Barracks in Limerick City—where several battalions and infantry regiments, along with their engineers and artillery, hid behind windows shuttered against the peasants and farmers of the IRA. With additional soldiers stationed in Newcastle, Abbeyfeale, Rathkeale, Kilmallock, and Kilfinane, we were severely outnumbered and outgunned, but still we took our fight to them, undaunted by the odds.

Now though, as I walked through Limerick, the effect of the Treaty was evident. Most of the British military units stayed in their barracks, waiting for orders to prepare for departure and their journey home. The occasional British troops I saw were congregating outside their barracks or casually patrolling, more out of boredom than out of need, waiting, too, it seemed for their chance to go home. The Tans, too, seemed to be less conspicuous, the few Peelers I saw wearing the normal RIC uniform instead of the mismatched one we had come to loathe.

I found the dye I needed but continued to wander the streets, trying to get a sense of what else had changed in the city. At one point, I found myself in front of the Bishop’s Palace, across the street from the post office. I studied the building and debated getting my money but, in the end, I decided it wouldn’t be worth the risk. When I was last in Limerick, the IRA had men in the post office and, although the troubles with Britain were ending, given the current tensions, I suspected that the men inside were still providing information to the IRA. And that meant to Billy.

By three o’clock, I had seen what I needed. Daily lives, on hold for the last two years, were cautiously returning to normal. I sensed that people were happy that the fighting was over but were still nervous with British soldiers on Irish soil. After seven hundred years—an eternity—it appeared that the British would finally be leaving. But still I felt a tension.

Strangely, other than Mullins and the troops from Clare, I saw little evidence of the IRA, neither the Free State forces nor Anti-Treaty factions. But I felt their presence nonetheless and that made me nervous. Maybe it was what I didn’t see. Maybe it was my soldier’s eye. And then again maybe it was my own imagination. I wasn’t sure what drove the feeling. But in the busy streets, I sensed a widening divide in the IRA, between the groups of men, unseen now but no doubt plotting behind closed doors.

It was in this tenuous peace that I set out to confront another demon that still haunted me.

“I was wondering if I would ever see you again,” my mother said. She was sitting by the fire, a mound of burning embers covering the pot-oven on the hearth. Black soot from the fire stained the whitewashed walls above. Her face was puffy, haggard, full of lines, and her eyes held a sadness I knew all too well. It was something I had seen in many from my mother’s generation and from her own mother’s as well. Beaten down, she was worn out and old before her time. It was a look of resignation, recognition that the life she knew would never get any better. We Irish had lived for so long under the British, maybe this was now in our blood. But as I stared at my mother, I knew there was something more.

Not waiting for my response, she turned and squatted in front of the fire. Using the hem of her heavy woolen dress so she wouldn’t burn her hands, she lifted the cast-iron pot out of the embers and hung it on the hook. Then she lifted the lid to check inside. Steam rose from the pot, and the smell of the sweet cake baking inside filled the air.

My mother lived in Drommore, in the same house my grandfather had built. Some fifteen miles from Mary’s, it had taken me four hours of walking, time enough to sort out my thoughts before I arrived. While my mother tended the stove, I looked around the room and was surprised to see that little had changed since I was last there, almost five years before. Two heavy wooden chairs sat by the stove, the finish on both almost black from too many layers of stain and too much soot. I felt a lump in my throat. The chair on the right was the same one my father had sat in each night as he held me in his arms and told me his stories. It belonged now to a different man, I thought sadly. Everything looked exactly as it had when I left, but so much had changed.

“He’ll be back shortly,” she said, not bothering to turn around. She dropped the lid back on the pot, then lowered it back into the embers. After placing a shovel of smoldering coals on top, she sat again and stared up at me.

I considered her words. Earlier, hiding behind the wall, I had watched my stepfather hitch the horse to the cart. Then, with the plough tied on the back, he steered the dray down the lane. Going to the village, to Patrick’s Well, to see the blacksmith, I had thought at the time, to get the plough repaired. But now I wondered. Was he merely returning a borrowed plough to a neighbor? I glanced out the window.

“I’ll not be asking what you’ve done or where you’ve been,” my mother continued. She folded her arms across her chest. Despite what life had done to her, she still had her pride. But then her eyes softened and she turned away, an excuse to check the oven she had checked only seconds before. “You’ve had no reason for coming back, I know,” she said softly over her shoulder.

No, I hadn’t
, I wanted to say. But seeing her now, seeing what life had done to her, the things I had planned to say no longer seemed important.

“I’ve been to America,” I said.

She sat back in her chair then folded her hands in her lap before she nodded. “Aye,” she answered as if she already knew. “And how have you been?” She gestured with her head. “You look good.” The last part sounded hopeful.

“Aye.” I smiled. “America’s grand.”

She smiled back, and for a brief moment her eyes glistened and I could see the dream they once held. Then she caught herself.

“You have work? You’re getting enough to eat?”

I sighed and sat in my father’s chair, across from my mother.

“I can’t stay, Mam.”

“I know.” She nodded.

“I only wanted to let you know that I’m fine.” Unsure, I reached out and took her hand. “I wanted to see how
you
were getting on.”

She nodded, suddenly unable to speak. After a moment, she looked away and wiped her eyes.

“I thought you should know,” I continued, “I have a wife now.” It wasn’t true—not yet anyway—but I suspected God, if he was watching, would forgive my lie. My mother had lost her hope, for herself at least, years ago. But I sensed that she still held hope for me.

Her hand over her mouth, she let out a small cry. Then she leaned forward, tentatively. I hesitated a moment, unsure myself, then, chasing a life full of memories from my mind, I pulled my mother into my arms.

___

Love and affection weren’t common in our home, the mood often matching the clouds and storms that blew outside. Sure, when I was four or five, my father would bounce me on his knee and tell me stories. With his soft voice and dancing eyes, he painted a picture in a way that no one else ever could. I remember struggling to stay awake, warmed by the fire and by his embrace, his stories filling my head and soon turning to dreams when my eyes grew heavy. It was years later when I realized that those very dreams were his own; dreams that would forever remain just that, for life, then death, had other things in mind for him.

Soon it was that the times in front of the fire became but a memory, the chores on the farm and my mother’s sharp tongue taking their place. And soon it was when I noticed the change in my father. The eyes that danced and the voice that carried me away were lost to the worry that now seemed to be always etched into his face. Maybe it was the poor harvest or the price of potatoes or the cow that suddenly stopped giving milk. Then again, maybe it was the sickness that would claim him years later.

As for my mother, it was a rare occasion when I saw her smile—a stern, cold woman she was. But then I thought I knew why. Death seemed to surround her, and if it couldn’t have her, it seemed, then it took the ones she loved. She had steeled her heart, preparing herself for the pain that always seemed to be on her threshold.

My parents had three other children before my mother gave birth to me—three older brothers who I never met, all dead before I was born. Two died as infants, my father told me, and one died after falling below the hooves of a horse. Then, when I was two, my mother gave birth again, this time to a little girl. She had been named Ann, after my grandmother. A pretty girl with fair hair and a bright smile, my sister was. She died a year later, falling into the fire while my mother fetched more wood. Watching my sister, seeing her clothes in flames, hearing her screams was one of my first memories and one that to this day invaded my dreams.

After Ann, my mother had no more children. Like my father, she would hold me too, sometimes so tightly I cried. I was never sure if it was from love or from a stubbornness.
You’re the only one left
, she seemed to be saying,
and I’ll be damned if he’ll take you too
. She would hold me on her lap in front of the fire in the evenings. Together we would rock while she hummed. It was always the same tune, a sad melody that made me want to cry.

Both her sisters died when I was young, one in childbirth and one from polio. While my mother did her best to hide her tears, for me death took on a different meaning. I remember the fear and the excitement of the wake, for it was one and both at the same time. My grandfather, when he died, was laid out on the kitchen table. The neighbor women arrived early to help prepare the body and, after that, the food. On the day the wake began, the house filled as people came from long distances to pay their respects. Many stayed for several days, as the wake didn’t stop when the sun went down nor did when it rose the next day. While my grandfather lay peacefully on the table—a candle burning nearby, his hands folded around a cross—the best of food was served and the whiskey and stout were poured. While the men drank and told tales, the women keened. The time was filled with stories and games and while an older boy and an unmarried girl might sneak away for some privacy, a few moments away from the chaperone’s eyes, the younger boys, myself included, learned how to fight out by the barn. Many a fond memory I had of wakes.

But when my own father died, his wake had been different. He too was lain out on the table, and while the games, the stories, and the drinking took place around me, I couldn’t help thinking that nothing would ever be the same again. His dreams would die with him, and soon within me as well, as the burden of the farm—once my father’s—now became my own.

I think my mother knew as well that the past was gone, never to be reclaimed. And so while the burden of the farm fell on my shoulders and I lost myself in the toil and sweat of the chores, my mother sat for months inside, by herself, staring at the fire. For her, the wake didn’t end, even after we put my father in the ground.

I was surprised then, when one day two years after my father had died, she told me that she was too young to be a widow. Then she announced that she would be getting married again. Somehow, while I was out toiling in the fields, she had managed to find herself another husband.

___

I knew my time was running out, and I think my mother did too. Still she poured my tea.

“Billy’s been asking for you.”

“Aye,” I said, nodding.

Although she suspected that I was involved with the IRA she’d never asked. Which was just as well because there were some things I didn’t want to talk about.

I coughed, not quite sure how she would take my next question.

“Is he treating you well?” I asked, although I already knew the answer.

She looked away for a moment. When she looked back, I saw the same tired old woman I had seen when I arrived. She didn’t need words to tell me what he had done.

Before I could say anything else, the clip-clop of hooves and the snort of a horse startled us.

“Quick,” she said jumping up. “Out the window with you!”

I shook my head as I stood. “I’m not running this time.” I took my mother’s cup from her hands and gently placed it, with mine, on the table. Then I joined her by the fireplace again and waited. A moment later, the door banged open, and his bulk filled the doorway.

He stopped, seemingly surprised to find me there.

“So you came back, did you, you little shite!” he snarled.

He stepped into the room. I stood my ground. He saw the cups on the table and walked over. He glanced inside, then looked up at my mother. I saw the darkness in his eyes before they fell on me.

“Don’t be thinking that you’ll be getting anything more from me,” he yelled. And with that he swung his arm, knocking both cups off the table. They shattered when they hit the wall, the tea forming little rivers all the way to the floor. My mother cringed, and a small cry escaped her lips.

“You’ve had your tea,” he roared as he stepped toward me. “Now go!”

I could smell the whiskey on him now, and when I didn’t move he raised his fist. I was prepared. I hit him once in the stomach and twice in the face. He stumbled, and when he held his hands up to protect his head, as I guessed he would, I hit him again in the stomach. He let out a grunt and, when he doubled over, I slammed my knee into his nose. He crumpled to the floor.

I glanced back at my mother. She was cowering on the other side of the room.

“Mam,” I said, waiting until she looked up at me. I nodded.
Everything will be alright,
I wanted to tell her.

She nodded back, seeming to understand, and I turned back to the groaning hulk on the floor. My stepfather rolled to his belly and tried to push himself up. I kicked him in the side and, with an
oof,
he fell back to the floor. When he pulled his arms in, protecting his side, I kicked him between the legs. He let out another
oof
and curled up, groaning and panting on the floor.

I grabbed the iron from the fireplace and waited.

“Turn over,” I said softly, but my tone let him know I meant it.

He did but this time with his hands held protectively between his legs. I stared at him, this man I hated, then thrust the hot iron at his face. He cringed, turned his head and let out a yelp, a terrified cry. When he opened his eyes again, I held the iron inches from his eyes.

“I’ll be going,” I said evenly, each of my words measured. “But if I ever hear of you laying a hand on my mother again”—I paused to make sure he understood—”I will come back, and mark my words”—I shook the iron—”I will kill you.”

He flinched. Then I tossed the iron and he flinched again. It banged off the hearth—the clang of metal on stone, his panicked yelp, and my mother’s heavy breathing the only sounds in the room.

I helped my mother up and sat her in a chair by the table. I kissed her cheek then, after taking a moment to give my stepfather another warning look, I stepped out the door.

The IRA had taught me well.