The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (16 page)

“How many matches do you have?” I asked then turned back to study the pile of rubble before me as I waited for his answer. The pile of stones, several as big as me, had filled the passageway. The ceiling had collapsed, likely centuries ago.

“A dozen. No more.”

The match went out and Liam lit another. We talked excitedly, our heads filled with dungeons and knights and secret torture rooms.

“We can’t move these,” I said, pointing. “And if we could, what would we do with them?”

Liam nodded. “Sure and it might not be safe beyond,” he responded, a rare sound bit of reasoning from two boys drunk with adventure. “But, still,” he continued, “what do you suppose is on the other side?”

The match went out, and Liam lit a third. We talked excitedly, making plans to return, better prepared for the next time. Then, knowing it was time to leave, before someone discovered what we had done, we turned around and began to make our way back to the shaft of light. Suddenly I stopped. In the wall to my right was a dark, narrow recess. I stuck my hand in and grinned, knowing I had discovered another passageway, one that was partially hidden and visible only from this direction. This passage was much narrower than the main tunnel, and we had to turn sideways to slip though the opening. We saved our matches, using our hands as our eyes instead, and a moment later, we could sense that the walls had suddenly disappeared. Although pitch black, our excited voices sounded different, and we realized that we had entered a chamber. The air was musty and dry with the faint smell of peat. Liam lit another match, one of the few he had left, and the soft light filled the cave, chasing shadows across the walls. A pile of stones was arranged in a circle on the floor, but the corners of the chamber were lost, fading into dark recesses. The match flickered out, and we were plunged once again into darkness. We only stayed for a few moments, Liam striking another match as soon as the one before it went out. Then, with only one match remaining and with little else discovered, we had no other choice but to leave. Back on the surface, we carefully slid the two stones back in place, concealing the opening. We grinned at each other, both knowing that nothing would keep us from coming back.

It was several weeks before we were able to return, school and our farm chores keeping us both busy. But the castle stayed with us, filling our heads and every conversation. We were careful though not to speak of our adventure with the adults. Even then, we knew the strength of their fears and the penalty for our transgression. This didn’t stop us from finding out everything we could, which was little. Then one night at Liam’s house, the seanachie—the storyteller—paid a visit. An old man, blind by then, he reminded me of the hawthorn tree. As if he too had been forced to battle the wind his whole life, his body was bent and his face weathered and gnarled. As he puffed on his pipe, the sweet smell of his tobacco filling the room, he told us the stories, the ones never committed to paper but passed from generation to generation by men like him. We were spellbound, Liam and I, as he spun tales, but by none more so than when he spoke of secret tunnels below some long-lost castle, the nobles using them to escape when the fortress was overrun.

That Sunday, after mass, Liam and I stole away again, this time with two spades and a strip of cloth soaked in paraffin. Wrapped around a stick, we fashioned this into a torch. With light this time, we climbed down into the tunnel again, the glow of the torch filling the passage. Reaching the cave-in, we turned back again and slipped into the passageway that led to the chamber.

Liam moved the torch from side to side; the crackle of the flame and our excited breathing the only sounds echoing off the walls. It was a large chamber, bigger than we had remembered. A few loose stones had been arranged in the middle as if for a fire, with three larger stones arranged around as benches. There was nothing else, but to Liam and me, it felt as if we were the first to set foot inside the chamber since the days when nobles had ruled and knights had patrolled. In the light, the dark recesses we had seen in the corners during our last visit turned into additional passageways. Long gone were our parents’ warnings as we slipped into the first.

Our excitement, however, soon turned to disappointment when, after two tight turns, the passage led to another cave-in, another pile of stones blocking our way. Frustrated, we turned back. The second passageway led to another chamber, this one with barely enough room for the two of us. Unsure what its purpose was but knowing there had to be more, we turned to leave when my boot hit something. I drew back as Liam moved the light.

“Oh, Jesus, Frank! Would you look at that?”

At our feet, partially covered by dirt, was the handle of a sword, the blade broken off just past the guard. The hilt and pommel, although long since tarnished, shimmered in the light. I picked it up and, as we examined it, we talked in excited whispers about knights and sieges and long battles, inventing our own stories for how the broken sword had come to be.

“If we found this,” I said, waving it in front of Liam’s face, “where’s the rest?”

He had a gleam in his eye, one to match my own I’m sure, and we set off in search of the missing blade.

We carried the hilt back to the first chamber, leaving it on one of the stone benches to be picked up later. Without hesitation, we slid into the final passageway, crawling forward below the low ceiling until we came upon a third chamber. Standing, Liam held the light high and let out a gasp. We found the broken sword blade all right, sticking up from a pile of bones.

We never went back to the castle. My mother, when she found the handle—poorly hidden in the barn—was after me until I told her the truth. Angered and fearful of the grave consequences that were sure to come from disturbing the spirits, she took the strap to the both of us. Then she told Liam’s father, who, for good measure, did the same.

___

If Liam was right, and I thought he was, the stones we had slid back some dozen years earlier likely hadn’t been touched since. We talked through the night, Liam, Seamus, and I, discussing the castle. Seamus had never seen it, having been warned away by the punishment that Liam and I had suffered. But, like Liam, he thought it might be safe for one night, maybe two, until
we
figured out what to do. He had said
we
, I noticed, finding comfort that both he and Liam would help me.

Before I knew it, the sun was rising. Seamus and Liam wouldn’t hear of me leaving until after breakfast. As Tara slid a plate of boiled potatoes in front of me, Seamus looked up.

“I’ll be speaking to Billy.”

I shook my head. “It’ll do you no good,” I said, explaining that Billy was an enemy that he didn’t need.

Seamus seemed ready to argue, but after Liam shook his head, he said no more. His frown told me he didn’t agree. Knowing Seamus, he was likely to ignore my request.

After finishing my tea, I stood to leave. I thanked Tara for her hospitality then stepped outside with Liam and Seamus.

“Would you send a telegram to Kathleen?” I asked Liam before I made my farewell. “Would you tell her I’m fine? Tell her I’ll be there soon?”

Liam nodded. I hadn’t yet responded to the telegram Kathleen had sent, and she was sure to be worrying.

Seamus had disappeared around the side of the cottage, and a moment later he returned, pushing a bicycle.

“You’ll be taking this,” he said, nodding to the bicycle. I thanked him again but he waved his hand as if it didn’t matter. Then he stuck a small package, something heavy wrapped in butcher’s paper, in my hand.

“Take this too,” he said, his brow furrowed. “You’ll be
wanting
the bicycle but you might be
needing
that.”

I stared at him for a moment, his face that of a soldier’s once again. I unwrapped the package to find a German Luger and six bullets.

“It still works,” he continued as he nodded toward the gun, “but I’ve no more ammunition than that.”

Although grateful, as I stuffed the gun in my pocket, I had a bad feeling that I would soon be forced to use it.

I wasn’t going to Ballygowan, not yet anyway, and not unless I had to. Despite what I had told Liam and Seamus, I had no intention of simply hiding until Billy lost interest in me. Certainly, if I had no other choice, I would take refuge in the tunnels and chambers. But in the meantime, I had things to do and, with Seamus’s Luger weighing heavy in my pocket, I set off. Being caught with a gun could only lead to trouble, and I was half tempted to hide it somewhere along the way. 

“Damn that Brennan!” Seamus’s words still rang in my ear. “It’s a traitor, he is!”

Seamus had told me that troops from Cork and Tipperary—Anti-Treaty Republicans—were on their way to Limerick. Free State troops—more men from Brennan’s Clare Brigades—were likely on their way as well. I had no desire to run into either, and being caught with a gun would make me suspicious to both.

I hadn’t told Liam or Seamus what I had in mind because they wouldn’t approve, certainly not Liam anyway. Disguised as Desmond Condon again, I set out for the Sheehys. It was over thirty miles from Seamus’s farm, but with Seamus’s bicycle, I reached the Sheehys’ cottage late in the afternoon. I settled myself in on the hillside and watched the farm below. The men were nowhere to be seen, off in the fields I suspected. But the women were busy. Angela fetched water from the well while Colleen shook out quilts, one by one, then carried them back to the house. Every now and then I saw Mrs. Sheehy in the doorway, issuing one instruction or another to the girls. The draught horse was grazing in front of the stables.

A few hours later, several dark shapes appeared in the distance, coming up the hill behind the stable—Mr. Sheehy and the boys were returning for the day. As they drew closer, I could see that it had been a successful day. Barry carried a leather tie, two rabbits dangling on the end. Pete and Mr. Sheehy walked beside a second horse, the empty rock sled dragging behind. Seeing the rabbits made me hungry and, while the Sheehys prepared themselves for the evening, I sat back and ate the potatoes and bread that Tara had packed for me. It was my first meal since sunup.

Soon I could see the soft flicker of yellow light from the lanterns in the widows, the smell of the grilled rabbits strong in the air. It grew dark as night settled in and the temperature dropped. Thankfully it wasn’t raining, but still I shivered as I kept an eye on the cottage.

Sometime later, the door opened and Mr. Sheehy stepped out, silhouetted by the light from behind. He stood there for a moment and soon was joined by Pete and Barry. While Mr. Sheehy shuffled to the outhouse, Pete and Barry trudged over, one to the stable, the other to the cow-house, the night’s chores to do. Tall shadows raced back and forth from the lantern that swung by Barry’s side. A short while later, the door of the outhouse banged open and Mr. Sheehy joined his boys in their chores.

It was some thirty minutes later when I saw them again. Pete closed the gate to the cow-house—the goats and the cow settled in for the night—while Mr. Sheehy and Barry stood in front of the stable. Pete joined them, and all three stood for a moment in the soft glow of the lantern. I couldn’t hear what was being said—not that it mattered—then Pete and Barry turned back to the cottage, the light chasing the shadows to and fro, until the shadows, like the two boys, disappeared inside.

I saw a flash of light as Mr. Sheehy lit a cigarette. He stood there for some time, outside the barn, the glow of his cigarette flaring then dimming then flaring again. It wouldn’t do to speak to him now, not with Barry and Pete so close by. As if he too agreed, Mr. Sheehy tossed his cigarette to the side. A moment later, the door to the cottage banged shut behind him. I settled in to wait and it was several hours before the lights in the cottage finally went out.

Cautiously, I made my way down, giving the cottage wide berth. Behind the stable, I stood still for a moment, listening to the sounds of the night. There was a rustle and a cackle from the fowl-house followed by low moans from the cow and the soft, high-pitched whinnies of the horses. The animals could sense I was near. Thankfully, the one sound I didn’t hear was the growl of the Sheehys’ collie. I hadn’t seen Fergus the last time I was here and I hadn’t see him today. He must have died, I suspected. That the Sheehys hadn’t another dog surprised me.

I whispered softly and, after a moment, the animals quieted. The cattle door was closed but not locked and the cow and goats stirred again when I slipped inside. I calmed the animals one by one, letting them smell me then stroking their necks, all the while with the soothing sound of my voice in their ears. As for the horses and the hens, they were in their own sheds and there was little I could do but wait. My whispered words must have worked or, more likely, the cow finally decided a man as small as me couldn’t possibly be a threat. She regarded me for a moment then folded her legs below herself and lay down. Soon the cow-house was quiet and a moment later the hen-house and the stables went quiet as well. I found a corner, away from the stalls and settled down into the hay.

I slept fitfully, my dreams leaving me anxious, and I woke well before dawn. Quietly, I slipped out of the barn and made my way back up the hill. In the chilly darkness, I settled in to wait. It wasn’t long before I heard noises from the cottage. They were soon followed by the creak of the door, loud in the stillness of the morning. Three shadows slipped outside. They stood quietly for a moment, stretching and a yawning, chasing the sleep away. Then each went off in different directions, Barry and Pete to tend the animals and Angela to the well. In the windows of the cottage, I saw the flicker of light as, one by one, the lanterns were lit. Soon I could smell the peat from the fire again.

The day’s work began early, as it always did on a farm. The cow was milked, buckets of water were fetched from the well, the animals watered and fed. The few eggs were collected from the roost, and soon I could smell the breakfast on the stove mixed with the sweet odors of burning peat. My stomach grumbled. I hadn’t eaten since yesterday, the potatoes and bread that Tara had given me long gone now.

At first light, Barry stepped outside again, Caroline by his side. A sack draped over each of their shoulders, they set out down the lane. The school was eleven miles away, and they wouldn’t return until afternoon. Pete came next, letting the cow and the goats out before disappearing inside; cleaning the stalls I was sure. As daylight grew, he stepped outside and then began loading straw from the hayricks into the handcart to replace the straw in the stalls. Mr. Sheehy had joined him by the time he finished and together they brought a load of peat to the house for the fire.

I shifted my position, trying to ease legs stiff from sitting. Moments later, Pete led the horse to the cart, and I hoped my long wait would soon be over. After hitching the horse, Pete and his father talked quietly before Pete climbed up. With a gentle flick of the reins, he drove the cart out onto the lane. Although I was a fair distance from the road, I lay flat, hidden by the heather as he passed by.

Mrs. Sheehy and Angela were doing the laundry, a steaming bucket of water set on the bench outside. Mr. Sheehy said a few words to them then stepped into the barn. Minutes later he appeared again, two draught horses in tow. I watched as he led them around the barn, across the field, soon disappearing over the hill. As I left my perch, careful to avoid being seen by the women, I had a feeling I knew where Mr. Sheehy was headed.

I found him again, some thirty minutes later, struggling to hold the plough steady, as the horses pulled the heavy blade through the stubble of last year’s crop. Newly furrowed ground, rich and black in the winter light, trailed behind. Hidden behind the stalks, I watched for a while, waiting for him to take a rest as I knew he eventually would. Finally, he let the reins go slack and the horses stopped and, after a moment, began nibbling at the dried stubble at their feet. Mr. Sheehy took off his cap, wiped his sleeve across his brow, then knelt and picked up a handful of soil—inspecting it, I knew, for any clue as to what the ground would yield come harvest time.

Pushing that thought from my mind—I hadn’t come here to discuss farming—I crept forward. Desmond’s glasses were stuffed in my pocket, but there was nothing I could do about my hair. I tugged my cap low, hoping it covered most of my head and that Mr. Sheehy wouldn’t notice the little black that stuck out.

I walked up behind him, as quiet as I could, stopping about ten feet away. He was on his knees, still inspecting the soil. Suddenly he stiffened, then his head spun around. There was a brief moment of alarm in his eyes before they darkened. He jumped up, something I hadn’t expected from a man his age. His fists were balled at his sides. His eyes flicked back and forth and there was another flash across his face as he suddenly realized he and I were alone. The horses behind him startled and lunged forward. Without Mr. Sheehy to hold it steady, the plough flipped over and dragged behind. After several paces the horses slowed then stopped but they continued to regard me warily. Mr. Sheehy ignored them, his eyes boring into mine. Lucky for me, he didn’t have the fork with him this time.

I had my hands up, my palms out.

“Sir,” I began, “it’s only a daft man who would come back.”

“Then it’s a daft man you are, you little shite!”

“Sir,” I pleaded, “I promise I’ll not waste your time or your patience. I only ask that you listen to me.”

“And why should I?” he snarled. “You killed my son!”

I let out a breath. “I did, sir, but he was dead already.”

He flinched at my words, his eyes narrowing. He was confused, I could see.

“I’m not a traitor, Mr. Sheehy,” I continued, not giving him a chance to respond. “I’m not an informant. It was only by luck that I was outside when the British burst in.”

He stared at me, dazed it seemed by my words, but his body remained tense, ready to fight.

“You know me, Mr. Sheehy. You have since I was a wee lad. Tom was my friend.”

He flinched again. It was subtle, but I caught it. Still, he said nothing. 

“I’ve no reason to come back,” I continued, shaking my head. “Not now. Not with the threat of another war and not with Billy after me. But I had to, sir. I had to tell you what happened that night because the story you know isn’t true.”

He let out a small sigh, and I saw the doubt creeping into his eyes.

“Tom was a hero, Mr. Sheehy. He did his part for Ireland. He did, sir, just as Dan did and just as Sean did.” I paused and took a breath myself. “I did my part too, sir, and not a day goes by that I don’t wish it were me instead of them that had been killed.”

A single tear ran down his cheek, and his shoulders sank as he slouched forward. He suddenly looked old and frail. It was then I noticed his hands: the fists he held before, the angry hands that wanted their revenge, were gone. Now they were what they had always been, the gnarled hands of a farmer. Yet they were more: they were old and tired, the hands of a man who had buried his son.

He sank to the ground, worn out from the anger and the pain he had been carrying. I heard a small cry and watched as Mr. Sheehy, with his head in his hands, began to weep.