The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (22 page)

“Might I have a word with you, Father?”

I stopped and turned. The man was hesitant, his troubles etched into his face.

“I’ve only a minute,” I said, gesturing toward the tracks. The train was due into Patrick’s Well junction, and I intended to be on it. He nodded, unsure. I offered a brief smile, knowing I had no choice. He glanced over his shoulder. We were alone at the end of the platform. My attempt to avoid people had failed, and now that he was standing before me, I had to play the part.

“What’s troubling you, son?”

He took a deep breath, unsure, it seemed, how to start. “I’m a soldier, Father,” he said softly. He paused again, unsure now how to continue.

“The IRA?” I asked, suddenly nervous. But when I saw the pain in his eyes, my worry faded. I did my best to appear empathetic. If I was going to play the part, it certainly wouldn’t be as Father Lonagan.

He nodded again.

“You’re not from Limerick,” I said, hoping I was right about his accent.

“No,” he admitted. “Clare.”

“With Brennan?” I asked.

“Aye.” He shifted on his feet. “I know what I’ve done is wrong…” he began again. He shook his head. “Some of the men weren’t even British.”

I thought of the men
I had killed, some Irish like me who for one reason or another found themselves working with the British, as Peelers or informants. But this was his story, I reminded myself, not mine. Even so, I knew his plight. He was here with Brennan’s Free State forces, and he was troubled by the thought of fighting other Irish men, men like himself.

I nodded as he continued. Why he had thought to approach me, I didn’t know. Surely his own priest had shunned him. Why did he think I would be any different? He couldn’t know that my faith, like his tenuous beliefs, had finally been stolen one Sunday, just over a year before.

It was in December 1920, just days before the Argyll Manor bombing, when Father Lonagan read a pronouncement from the Bishop during mass.

“Anyone who takes part in an ambush or in a kidnapping shall be guilty of murder, or attempt at murder, and shall incur by that very fact the censure of excommunication.”

I sat in silence, not quite believing what I’d heard. Our own church was turning its back on us. A stunned hush came over the congregation. The mass continued and when the communion procession began, I quietly stood and slipped out the door, vowing I wouldn’t set foot in a church again.

And here it was, a year later, the war over and the British leaving, and the Church had chosen sides once again. Many of the very men they had condemned a year ago were now forming the new government. Ever mindful of the shifts in power, the bishops had sided with the Free State. I wondered how long it would be before threats of excommunication were directed at the Anti-Treaty faction.

I nodded to the man before me, a lad not much older than myself. While he might have been able to justify his actions as part of the war, as I had tried to justify mine, the guilt still plagued him.

“Our choices aren’t always easy, my son,” I said as I laid my hand on his shoulder. “Especially during a war.”

He nodded, his head bowed.

“Killing is a sin, but sometimes God knows that we have no other choice.” I squeezed his shoulder as I continued. “I know some disagree with me, but I believe our God is a forgiving God. His own son died so that our sins might be forgiven.” Then the words spilled out of my mouth, the absolution, the instructions for penance, the blessing. It was the same thing I had heard countless times myself while kneeling in a confessional.

He let out a breath and nodded. “Thank you, Father,” he said.

I heard the whistle and glanced down the track as the train approached, black smoke trailing from its stack, steam billowing from the wheels.

“Surely God wants Ireland to be free,” I said, “and if your heart is right, surely God forgives you.”

He nodded.

“Now you must forgive yourself.”

He smiled for the first time and shook my hand, the burden he had been carrying not quite as heavy anymore. I bid him farewell.

As I climbed onto the train, I glanced back. He nodded and smiled again and I wondered. Was it a sin to help a man find peace? Was it a sin to tell him the same things I had been telling myself for the last year? I was already going to hell—did one more sin matter?

___

“Frank!” Kathleen shouted, then she threw her arms around me.

I held her tight but suddenly she pushed me away and slapped my face.

“It’s a fine one you are, Frank Kelleher, leaving me to worry, not knowing if you’re dead or alive!”

I frowned. Liam hadn’t sent the telegram as he had promised. I apologized and reached for her, but she pushed me away again.

I grinned, hoping to soften her mood. “Ah, Kathleen. It’s good to see you. Truly it is.”

She stared at me a moment, her eyes dark before she turned and stomped away. I followed her, toward the cottage in the distance. I had made a wise decision earlier, I realized, when I stopped to change behind a wall. Kathleen was already angry and turning up dressed as a priest would only have made it worse. The vestments were now in a bundle slung over my shoulder.

“It’s a good thing for you I was here,” Kathleen snapped without looking back. I followed silently, knowing it wouldn’t do to say anything.

“The Maloneys went into town, but I was feeling ill this morning and didn’t go.”

We stopped by the wall, the path continuing on to the Maloneys’ home. The cottage looked like thousands of others in Ireland: whitewashed stone with a thatched roof and smoke curling up from the chimney.

“Are you…” I began.

“I went for a walk,” she said, cutting me off, “hoping that would help.” She turned, arms folded across her chest. Her eyes were dark but rimmed with red. “Where have you been?” she demanded.

I told her about my visit with my mam and with Mick, but before I could say any more, she cut me off with a wave of her hand.

“And what is it you intend to do now, Frank Kelleher?” she demanded, her voice shrill, her hands on her hips, like she’d seen her own sister do. I never had a chance to answer. “Oh, the likes of you. Off in Limerick, chasing demons, while I’m stuck here, filled with worry.” She poked me in the chest. “It’s a fool you are. When you should be taking me to America, away from the fighting, you’re traipsing around Limerick where there’s nothing but an early death waiting for you!” The pale light cast dark shadows on her face. Her eyes narrowed, her jaw was set, she wanted to fight.

I held my hands up. “Tim’s missing,” I said.

“What are you on about?” she demanded, not ready to give up her anger. Then her face softened and I saw the confusion.

I told her what Mary and I suspected, that Tim had joined Billy’s forces.

“I promised Mary I would find him.”

Kathleen dropped her arms. “Oh, poor Mary.”

She stepped toward me. I reached for her hand, and a moment later she was in my arms, her head on my shoulder.

___

Cousins of Mary’s dead husband John, the Maloneys had welcomed me into their home. When Mr. Maloney learned that I had fought with the IRA, he shared his own stories of his time with the Brotherhood.

“We were prepared to march to Dublin,” he said as he described the confusion in the days before the Easter Rising six years earlier. “There were too many people who thought they were in charge.” He ticked them off on his fingers: “The Hibernians, Sínn Féin, the Brotherhood, the Citizen’s Army, the Volunteers. They all had their own ideas, and no one agreed on anything.” He shook his head. “At the last moment, we were told to stand down. And then we read in the papers what had happened and, in the days that followed, were frustrated that we hadn’t been given a chance.”

The men in Dublin had held out for six days before they were forced to surrender. Ultimately the Rising was doomed as the battles for control within the various factions created confusion. The lack of men and guns, despite the fact that units around the country were ready and willing to join the fight, left the men in Dublin to fend for themselves. In the days that followed, the leaders had been rounded up and sixteen had been executed. But while Britain had exacted its revenge, they had unwittingly turned the Rising’s leaders into martyrs; their executions and then the arrest and harsh treatment of thousands of others finally serving to bring the factions together.

“In a way,” Mr. Maloney said, “it was a success.” He shook his head and smiled wistfully. “I only wished I could have joined you lads.” His right arm rested on his lap—a stub where his hand should have been—and he slapped my knee with the only hand he had left. An accident on the farm, he told me, the cut had become infected and the doctor had no choice but to take his hand. While he could no longer fight, Mr. Maloney and his wife had provided food and shelter to men on the run—men like me—and in their own way had done their part for Ireland.

The Maloneys were gracious hosts, and we sat by the fire till late in the evening discussing what the next few years held for us. There would be another war, Mr. Maloney insisted. With the British gone, the coalition that had held us together would dissolve as each faction sought a different path for our young country’s future. I couldn’t argue for I believed the same.

I stole a glance at Kathleen. Her brow was furrowed, filled with worry as images of the future she wanted to escape played in her mind.

___

I took a deep breath, taking in the sweet, pungent smells of the manure spread across the fields before the planting, and with it the newly turned soil, rich and fertile. The wind shifted and carried with it the burning peat from the Maloneys’ fire. The moon hung low in the sky, a rare sight during an Irish winter, the pale light fighting its way through the clouds.

Kathleen and I continued on, an evening stroll and a chance to talk in private.

“I met with Father Leahy,” Kathleen said.

“Aye.”

“He wants to meet with you.”

“Just me?” I asked.

“Yes. He wants a private meeting.”

“And will he allow us to wed?” I asked. “Will he give Margaret a proper burial?”

Kathleen nodded then bit her lip. “That’s why he wants to meet,” she said hesitantly.

“Does he have concerns?” It was a stupid question I knew but one I had to ask anyway. A friend of Mary’s, Father Leahy had agreed to bury Margaret in the church cemetery, in consecrated ground, despite the fact that she had never been baptized. Surely the bishop, if he learned of this, would never permit it.

“I don’t know,” Kathleen said. “I think it’s only a formality. What priest could marry a man or bury his child without meeting him first?”

I nodded but said nothing. I wondered what Father Leahy wanted in return.

“He told me we can’t hold the child responsible,” Kathleen continued. “It’s what’s in our hearts that matters.”

“Aye,” I said. Father Leahy wanted to assure himself that I was a Catholic and a pious one at that. While I too believed that an unbaptized baby was innocent—what kind of God would punish a child for dying before the priest could bless her with holy water?—Father Leahy’s plan was unusual, though I suppose he had the right given the risk he was taking.

“I’ll meet with him,” I said. While I wasn’t sure of my own convictions, I wouldn’t take a chance with my only child.

Kathleen squeezed my hand. “He said he has to baptize her, then register her.”

“But she’s already…” I began then caught myself as I realized there was more to this than I had thought. Father Leahy hadn’t agreed to baptize Margaret just to please Kathleen and Mary. He had no other choice. Margaret couldn’t be buried in the churchyard without recording her birth and death in the parish records. And she couldn’t be buried unless she had been baptized first. The parish records had to match.

I nodded as the picture became clear. This was Father Leahy’s price. He wanted to ensure that Kathleen and I were wed. I also suspected that he was concerned about the dates on all of the documents. Would they show that Kathleen and I were wed, then Margaret was born, then she was baptized and then she died, in that order? I suspected that was what he wanted. It would allow Margaret to take my last name and the stone marker to reflect Kelleher instead of Coffey. Without that, it was likely to invite questions from the curious, and that Father Leahy couldn’t permit. It was likely to invite questions anyway since Kathleen and I weren’t members of his parish. How Father Leahy planned on handling that I didn’t know.

“You’ll have to go to confession,” Kathleen continued, interrupting my thoughts.

I frowned but said nothing. I had already confessed my sins, to Liam, to the Sheehys, to Sinéad, to Mrs. Murphy. What good would it do to tell a priest? Still it was a small price to pay to ease Kathleen’s worry.

“I need to go back,” I said. “Tomorrow. I have to find Tim first.”

Kathleen nodded. We stopped walking. She turned and held my hands. “But you’ll come back? And you’ll meet with Father Leahy?”

“I will, Kathleen,” I promised.

My trip back to Patrick’s Well was uneventful; the scowl on my own face warning people that the priest they saw had his own worries and couldn’t be bothered with theirs. Mr. Maloney had wanted to take me to the station but I had refused, walking the four miles instead.

“It’ll be no bother at all,” Mr. Maloney had insisted.

“Aye,” I had told him. “Thank you. But I’ll not be putting you out any more than I already have.”

Kathleen had given me a strange look, unsure why I would decline Mr. Maloney’s kindness. But I had to change back into the priest’s vestments before the station. Mr. Maloney would probably have understood, but Kathleen wouldn’t. And if he had given me a lift on his cart, she was sure to have come along.

I found Mary coming out of the fowl-house. She glanced up at my approach and wiped her hands dry on her apron. Her look was hopeful. I shook my head and her face dropped. I told her about my visit to Kathleen and she nodded, understanding that I had my own worries. But I had returned, this time with Kathleen’s reluctant blessing, to find Tim.

“Are you sure he left with Billy?” I asked.

She nodded again. “Aye. I saw them talking by the well, and later that evening Tim was gone.” She let out a breath. “O’Malley’s forces marched to Limerick yesterday.” She told me that both sides were now entrenched, each in their own strongholds but, as of yet, no shots had been fired. Still, more troops, Free State and Anti-Treaty alike, continued to march toward the city.

Too tired to make it back to the castle, I decided to spend the night at Mary’s. She had done enough for me and I didn’t want to put her in any more danger than I already had so I spent the night in the cow-house. The fowl-house was close by, and Mary’s chickens were the best sentries. They were sure to wake me if anyone approached. I didn’t think Billy would come for me, not tonight—he would be preoccupied with what was happening in Limerick City. Still, I thought, he had surprised me before. Hopefully the events in Limerick were enough to ensure my safety for one more night.

Despite that, as I settled into the hay, I knew that Billy would never give up his search for me. He wanted the past and his own lies to stay buried. And when I fled Ireland a year ago I had unwittingly helped him; unable as I was to tell anyone what had happened in Argyll Manor. But when I returned, Billy had no choice but to try and stop me before I could tell the truth. By now, I was sure, he had learned that I had spoken to the Sheehys again and to Sinéad and to Mrs. Murphy. What would he do? Would he tell them that
I
was the
bréagadóir
—the liar—insisting again that I had betrayed my own men for British gold? Would he tell them that I had only come back to seek amnesty? He would, because he had no choice. If he didn’t, his own betrayal would be laid bare. By hiding his nephew’s sins, he had committed his own. He had betrayed Tom, Dan, and Sean, and he had betrayed me. He had betrayed the IRA.

Had Rory been anyone other than Billy’s nephew, his body would have been found on the side of a lonely, rain-soaked boreen, a note pinned to his chest warning others that the price paid by a traitor was death. And had the Volunteers discovered what Billy had done, sacrificing me to save his nephew, it would have been his own body found in a ditch.

It was a dangerous game. To find Tim, I had to find Billy. When I returned to Ireland, I had given him wide berth, knowing I had little chance of convincing him of my innocence. Yet he had known all along, and I realized now that a confrontation with Billy was something I could no longer avoid. My only hope was to choose the time and the place. Only then would I stand a chance to free Tim and to set things right.

I had inherited more than dreams from my father. I had inherited his sense of justice.
When a thing is wrong
,
you have to make it right
. Telling the Sheehys, Sinéad, and Mrs. Murphy wasn’t enough. I had to make this right.

My burdens and the dreams that came with them had kept sleep at bay for a few weeks, and that night was no different. It was a while before I finally drifted off and an even longer while before I woke.

The bang of a door startled me and I jumped up, instantly reaching for the revolver. With my heart banging in my chest, I saw Mary standing over me. I lowered the gun and waited for the lecture. Instead, she stared at me for a moment.

“I’ve made breakfast and your tea’s waiting,” she said softly then turned and stepped outside. I shielded my eyes against the light—a gray Irish winter light but bright nonetheless. I checked my watch. It was 8:30—dawn had come and gone. Tired as I was, I had slept through the cry of the rooster and the clucks of the hens. As I glanced around I saw the cows were gone. No doubt Mary had let them out hours earlier. Weary and with the aches of an old man in my back, I stood and stretched, trying to chase away the stiffness.

I stumbled out of the barn to the shrill of the chickens. They scattered before me but quickly regrouped after I passed. They were drawn together, finding safety, but were wary of outsiders. Still rubbing sleep from my eyes, I paused and stared back at the birds as the thought struck me: Could that be what had happened to Tim?

The troops I had seen two nights earlier had fought together before. They were experienced soldiers, part of several brigades sent to take Limerick back from Brennan’s forces. These war-hardened men would never trust Tim, a sullen fifteen-year-old boy with no fight in him.
So where was he?

___

I visited my daughter’s grave and, when I returned, I found the bicycle leaning against the side of the cottage. I wheeled it around to the front where I found Mary.

“And how did this get back here?” I asked her. I had left it hidden in the heather, some ten miles away, on the road to Croom after my first visit to the Sheehys.

“Tim found it,” she answered. “Right where you left it.”

“Tim found it?” I asked, confused. I remembered Tim and I discussing taking the cart to retrieve it. But we never did. I was surprised that he had gone alone for it.

“It was John’s,” Mary said, as if she had read my thoughts.

I nodded, then shook my head when I realized that it was probably here the last time I had visited and could have saved me a lot of walking. I inspected it, running my hand along the chain. I stood and wiped my hand on my trousers.
He even fixed that
, I thought with a grin.

Dressed as a priest, I made it to Liam’s safely. The people I saw nodded politely, but no one bothered the young priest as he passed by on his bicycle. I found Seamus outside hitching a horse to the cart.

“Ah, Frank,” he grinned when he saw how I was dressed. “You’re up to your old tricks again, are you?”

I offered him a thin smile as I leaned the bicycle against the wall and helped him with the harness. “Many a man on the run before me hid behind the cloak of a priest,” I responded.

“That they have,” Seamus answered. “That they have.” He paused as he studied me, trying, I was sure, to find the answer in my eyes. “Have you had much luck?” he finally asked.

I shook my head then told him of what I had done since we last spoke. His eyes darkened when I told him about Rory and what Billy had done after the bombing.

“That little shite.” His voice was a hiss. “I never trusted that one.” He paused. “And now Tim’s with him? Do you know what that means?”

I nodded, but he continued to stare at me as if he were still waiting for my answer. His eyes, dark and full of worry, told me I had missed something. Suddenly, it became clear, and I felt a hollow pain in my stomach. Tim was in more danger than I had thought. Billy had no loyalty to the men he fought with. He had abandoned Padraig after he was wounded, and he had willingly sacrificed me to save his nephew. Tim and the other new recruits, untrained as they were and untrusted by the IRA men who had already tasted war, would be used as fodder—a diversion—while the more experienced men flanked the enemy. It would be a slaughter.

“I have to find him, Seamus,” I said, a lump forming in my throat. “Before the fighting starts.”

Seamus nodded. He started to say something, but the door banged open and Liam stumbled outside. Tara was on his heels, her voice sharp, frustration and worry etched into her face. I glanced from Tara to Liam. Something was wrong. Liam was pale, and the glistening in his eyes told me he had a fever. His shoulders sagged as if he hadn’t the strength to hold himself up.

“He should be in bed,” Tara said, her anger, it seemed, directed at both Liam and her husband. “But he doesn’t listen.”
He
, I suspected, could have been either Liam or Seamus.

Liam began coughing, a deep hacking sound. He swayed and began to sag. Both Seamus and I rushed forward to catch him before he fell. His hands and one sleeve were bloody, and when I lifted his chin, I saw more blood on it and his lips besides.

“How long has he been like this?” I asked, as a hollow pit settled in my stomach.

“Since you left,” Tara answered.

My hands below his arms, I led Liam back to the house. Now I knew why he hadn’t sent a telegram to Kathleen. Gently I wiped the blood from Liam’s hands and face and we put him back in bed. He lay there listless, his head damp from sweat, his breathing ragged. Tara handed me a damp cloth and, as I held it to my friend’s forehead, I tried to chase the image from my mind. I had done the same thing to my father.

“We have to take him to Limerick,” I said, glancing up at Seamus.

Seamus nodded, his eyes wide. Tara frowned as she looked down at her brother-in-law then back at me.

“Consumption?”

“Aye,” I said. Once again I pictured my father—his eyes filled with pain, his hair lying matted and limp on a forehead damp from fever, his once strong body skin and bones, his coughing threatening to shake apart what little was left. That’s how he was right before he died.