The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller (26 page)

Consumed as I was with my own thoughts, I didn’t hear him the first time.

He stared up at me. “I saw him, Father.”

It must have been the confusion in my eyes that made him say it again.

“I saw him,” he said as he searched my eyes. “Tim. He was there.”

I lay behind the tree just below the ridge, the church and the stream that ran past it below me. Through the field glasses that Mr. Maloney had given me, I watched as Seamus, Mick, and a handful of other lads carried Liam’s coffin out the front door, the line of mourners making the sign of the cross as the coffin passed. I shifted the glasses slightly until I found Father Lonagan at the head of the cortege. Liam’s mother, a black veil over her face, followed the coffin, Liam’s father holding her arm. Tara and the family were behind them, followed by the Sheehys, Mrs. Murphy and Martin. My mother walked with Mary and Sinéad. Last came Mick and Padraig, behind everyone else, Padraig having trouble with the rough ground. 

In the middle of the crowd was Billy—a bandolier stretched across his chest and revolver in a leather holster riding on his hip—upset I’m sure that he hadn’t been asked to carry Liam. My own anger rising, I watched two men who had no right to be there, one leading, the other following, as my friend was carried to his grave.

I knew why Father Lonagan was here. But what was Billy doing? Why wasn’t he in Limerick? Had he come here looking for me?

I watched Father Lonagan praying by the mound of fresh dirt and the hole—a raw wound in the ground that would soon hold my friend. I couldn’t hear the words and didn’t need to: words of comfort that held no meaning; the same Latin prayers I had heard countless times, a hypnotic monotone from the mouth of a man who, I was now certain, didn’t believe them himself. The rain began to fall, but I didn’t budge as I watched my friend being lowered into the soil. One by one, first Liam’s mother, then his father and then Seamus tossed handfuls of dirt over Liam’s coffin. When the last prayers were done, two men with shovels began to fill in the grave. Liam’s parents left first with Seamus and Tara, the other mourners following as they began the long trek to Liam’s parents’ house.

I watched Billy leave, Kevin by his side, then slid my glasses back to Father Lonagan.
When a thing is wrong
, I heard my father say,
you have to make it right.

___

I found him in the rectory, standing in front of the window, head bowed, staring outside or praying I didn’t know. He startled at the squeak of the door but didn’t turn and I wondered for a moment whether he had been waiting for me. Finally, he turned and I could see both the fear and the resignation in his eyes.

“Do you think any of that made a difference?” I asked as I gestured with the gun, to the window behind him and the mound of freshly turned dirt in the distance.

He said nothing.

“You betrayed us.” I had to fight to keep my voice even. “At a time when we needed you most, you betrayed us.”

Father Lonagan shook his head, but I raised the gun before he could speak. I gestured out the window again to Liam’s grave.

“You betrayed him.”

He let out a sigh and hung his head.

“You betrayed the collar you wear.” I nodded to the cross on the wall. “Do you think there’s any forgiveness for what you’ve done?”

He lifted his head, his eyes pleading, but he said nothing.

“There’s not an ounce of mercy in you, so don’t be expecting any from me.”

His head hung again and his shoulders shook. I waited. When he finally looked up, his eyes were wet. He sniffed, then wiped his nose and then his cheeks. I shook the gun at him.

“I’m already going to hell, Father, is that it? How many times have I heard that? Surely one more killing won’t make any bit of difference.”

“Please,” he begged, his voice cracking as the tears ran down his cheeks.

I shook my head.

He let out a sigh then made the sign of the cross. With his hands steepled below his chin, he shut his eyes and bowed his head. He was praying—praying while he waited for the bullet.

“Look at me,” I hissed.

He flinched and his eyes snapped open.

I stared at him for a long moment, at this man I had come to hate. I heard my father’s voice in my head.
When there is a wrong
,
you need to make it right
. I thrust the gun at Father Lonagan.

“It’s time for your penance, Father.”

___

I knelt in front of Liam’s grave, staring at the small puddles forming in the mound of newly shoveled dirt. One by one, they overflowed their sides, and little streams of muddy water snaked their way down to the wet grass that surrounded the hole that held my friend. The rain dripped off the brim of my cap, and I could feel the water soaking into my trousers.

“You were a better friend to me than I ever was to you,” I said softly as my own tears fell with the rain.

I don’t know how long I knelt there, the rain soaking through my clothes, weighed down by the guilt that my friend was in the coffin instead of me. Had I died that night in Argyll Manor, along with Dan, Tom, and Sean, Liam never would have been captured by the British. But it was more than that, I told myself again. When Billy had chosen to sacrifice me to save his cousin, Liam’s fate had been determined. Father Lonagan wasn’t the only one who needed penance.

I finally stood and, as I shook the water off my coat, a chill ran up my spine. Through the heavy, wet air, I caught the faint smell of a cigarette. I reached for the revolver as I spun on my heel. Mick was standing by the gate to the graveyard. He waited a moment until I lowered the gun and nodded. He walked over to join me. I stuck the revolver back in my pocket.

“I figured you would be here,” he said softly.

I nodded.

“He was a good man,” Mick said.

“Aye. He was.”

We both stared silently at the mound of earth, at the Celtic cross—a simple iron cross with a ring circling the intersection. It was the only marker.

“How have you been?” he asked.

It took me a moment to realize what he meant. I told him what I had done since I’d last seen him and what I had left to do.

“Billy was asking about you,” he said. “At the waking.” He nodded toward Liam’s grave, “And here today.”

I said nothing, my anger starting to build again.

He cleared his throat, a smoker’s cough. I glanced over.

Hands in his pockets and collar turned up against the rain, he gestured with his chin toward the trees and the hills and the country beyond.

“There’ll be another war soon,” he said. “But we still haven’t finished the last one.” He paused for a moment before continuing. “I spoke to the lads. There’s not a one that agrees with what Billy did.”

I stared at him for a moment.

“Aye.” He nodded as if he read my mind. “When a thing is wrong, you have to make it right.”

___

I had intended to go back to the castle but spent the night at Mick’s instead.

“Who’s with us,” I asked.

We were sitting in his cottage, the horses and animals fed and watered. I wore one of Mick’s shirts and a pair of his trousers. My own wet clothes hung by the fire. I felt like a child dressed in his father’s clothes—Mick’s shirt and trousers hung from my small frame. But they were dry, and the heat from the fire finally began to thaw the chill in my bones.

“Padraig and Martin,” he said, ticking them off on his fingers.

“And Seamus,” I added. “Maybe.”

“Aye. And, with you, that makes five.”

I smiled for the first time that day. The weight that I had felt pressing on my shoulders suddenly felt lighter with Mick and the men behind me. But it wasn’t enough.

“We don’t have any guns.” I said, frowning. “Just the one,” I added patting my pocket.

Weapons had been in such short supply that we rarely kept our rifles and revolvers after an ambush. The quartermaster would store them in the cache, but they were often lent to other units for their own raids. After the ceasefire, the quartermasters of all units quietly gathered any remaining weapons from the men, lest they fall into the wrong hands. Now, with another war looming, it had been a wise move—for Billy and the troops in Limerick. But still it left Mick and me in a quandary.

“We can get guns,” Mick said as if he were talking to himself. “Enough to do the job, anyway.”

I stared at him, frowning.
How?
I wondered.

“A half dozen revolvers,” he continued as if reading my thoughts. He blew a stream of smoke up toward the thatched roof above. “And maybe one or two rifles.” He paused and looked at me. “But revolvers would be better in Limerick.”

“How?” I finally asked out loud.

Mick leaned forward. “Padraig had a cousin in the Tans.”

The Tans?
I hadn’t known that.

Padraig’s cousin, he said, had been in the British Army. He had fought in France but had stayed in England after the war, the only place he could find work. When the British began to recruit former soldiers for the new police force they were sending to Ireland, Padraig’s cousin—thinking he would be a policeman and not a bully—saw it as a way to return home. When he realized what the Tans were all about, he left, but not before stealing weapons and setting fire to the barracks himself.

I chuckled. I had always thought the IRA were responsible for burning that barracks.

“He gave the guns to Padraig,” Mick continued. “And then he fled. The last I heard”—he paused as he sucked on the cigarette—”he was working on a steamer out of Sydney.”

Padraig, for one reason or another, never turned the guns over to the IRA; he had kept the secret well.

We discussed our options, looking at each from a military standpoint. A direct attack would be foolhardy. Although Billy had lads like Tim and Diarmuid, we knew he also had a full company of men who had seen battle. Andrew’s descriptions of what he had seen inside the Royal George and the Glentworth had told me as much. Billy had set up a defensive position in front of the hotel—the furniture and the men with rifles in the windows I had seen myself. But now, apparently, the temporary barricades had been fortified with concertina wire and sandbags. We would never get past the front door.

“Could we get Billy by himself?” I asked.

Mick shook his head. “I’ve never seen him travel without Kevin and one or two other men.” He gestured with his cigarette, pointing out the door. “And with what’s happening in Limerick, he would be foolish to go off by himself.”

Billy was anything but foolish. I sighed. I had the men and guns, but I still didn’t have a way to free Tim and Diarmuid. I looked at Mick, unsure what we were going to do. Mick, as I had seen him do countless times, sat back, stared at the fire, and let the thoughts tumble around in his head. Every now and then he sucked on his cigarette then blew rings of smoke up toward the roof.

Just when I was ready to give up, he smiled.

“There may be a way,” he said, “if the story I heard is true.”

And for the second time that night, Mick surprised me.

“Father Lonagan is gone,” Mick said as he examined the revolver. “He’s not been seen for days.”

“Good riddance,” Seamus hissed.

“Where did he go?” Padraig asked.

“And what does it matter?” Seamus responded.

“You never liked that one, did you?” Padraig said with a laugh, poking Seamus in the ribs.

Seamus shot him a look. “He’s the devil himself, that one.”

I listened but said nothing. Mick’s eyes shifted between Seamus and me, as if he couldn’t make up his mind between the two of us. I ignored him as I studied Seamus.
What had he done?
I wondered. 

With a grunt, Seamus stood, his chair scraping on the stone floor.

“What does it matter?” he asked again, softer this time, as if he were asking himself. A moment later, the door banged and Seamus was gone.

I pushed my chair back, wanting to follow, but Padraig grabbed my arm.

“Leave him,” he said. “He’s not been himself.” 

I nodded and sat again, turning my attention back to the guns on the table. Liam’s death had left me angry and bitter and hollow inside. I could only imagine what it had done to Seamus. I sighed. Where Father Lonagan was I didn’t know. I hadn’t given him a choice, telling him he had to leave—Limerick, Ireland, the Church—he had to leave it all. Maybe he had, I thought.

Still, as I glanced back at the door, I wondered.

___

We waited by the crossroads, outside of town, knowing that he had to come this way. Mick and I crouched behind the walls with our revolvers. Padraig was across the lane, a rifle held ready. Seamus and Martin were on the opposite corners, both of them unarmed.

Martin had wanted a gun too but didn’t put up too much of a protest when I told him he wouldn’t be needing one. Whether he knew how to use one or not wasn’t something I wanted to find out in the middle of an ambush.

Seamus saw it differently.

“I’ll have no use for one,” he had said when Padraig had tried to hand him a gun. He held up the club. “I won’t be needing it anyway.”

Seamus would be fine. But it was a long wait, and I worried about Padraig. The crouching and hiding wouldn’t be good for his leg, even if it was no longer there. I had told him that we could manage without him, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

“Sure and what do you know about an ambush?” he asked, the grin spreading across his face. Despite the grin, I knew it was more than the thought of action that made him stay.

The night dragged on and my thoughts wandered.
Why had he come back?
I wondered. It was a foolish thing to do. Sure, the same could be said about me. But my return was to marry Kathleen and to right the wrongs of the past. As for his return, I could only guess. Our paths had crossed only a handful of times, the last on a cold December night a year ago, and my life had changed forever. Now, his was about to change too.

It was a quarter past midnight when I heard the curse then the faint sounds of steps on the wet road. I watched as the shape appeared, weaving side to side, feet heavy with drink—we had seen him go into the pub earlier—or dodging the puddles from the earlier rain, I couldn’t be sure. Either way, he was alone which would make our task easier.

He passed by and, in the faint light, I saw him. Tall, thin, his light hair pale in the glow that seeped through the clouds. He wasn’t drunk, I could see now, just a cautious man on a wet road. Either way, it didn’t matter.

I slipped silently over the wall, the wind masking any noise I might have made. I came up behind him.

“A fine night for a walk, Rory.” I said.

He spun around, a look of alarm on his face. Then I saw the soldier in him. His eyes darted around, weighing his options, until he saw the gun. His eyes flashed from the revolver in my hand up to my eyes then back to the gun, trying to decide, I guessed, whether he should take his chances. I gave him a moment, to build up his hope, then whistled softly. There was a rustle and a curse—the curse coming from Padraig as he climbed over the wall. A moment later Rory was surrounded, but his eyes still darted around, looking for an escape.

“Three good men, Dan, Tom, and Sean were,” I said, breaking the silence. Rory grimaced at the names. “They’re dead now because of you.”

“I had no choice,” he said defiantly.

“Ah, but you did,” I said as I stepped forward. “Many a man before you and many a man after took their torture,” I added, thinking of Liam. “And many died without ever betraying the Republic.”

He cringed at my words.

“Traitors, spies, and informants,” I continued, my words heavy in the wet air, “they’re all treated the same.”

Rory’s eyes flashed to Seamus then Padraig then Mick before returning to me. I saw the change. He dropped his arms by his side, and I saw the slight shake of his head, a dismissive gesture that told me he thought he knew something I didn’t. It wasn’t much, but I caught it. Then he smirked.

“And what do you think Billy will do?” he asked. “When he learns what you’ve done.”

Before I could stop him, Seamus lunged forward. “Shut your gob hole, you little shite!” he hissed and brought the club down on Rory’s head. There was a sickening thud and Rory’s eyes flashed wide before he collapsed to the ground.

Seamus stood over him, staring down at the limp body lying in the mud at his feet.

___

The light from the oil lamp cast long shadows in the cottage. The room had grown cold, and Mick was busy stacking more peat on the embers in the fire. He stood, brushed his hands off on his pants and sat again, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth. The room brightened, the shadows from the lanterns fading like the spirits at first light. A few minutes later, I began to feel the warmth.

I listened to them debating: Seamus, Padraig, and Martin. Only Mick was silent, staring off at some unseen spot on the wall, puffing, as he usually was, on a cigarette.

“It’s all of us or none of us,” Padraig insisted.

“Ah, you’re crazy,” Seamus said. “You’ll just get us all killed.”

“Seamus is right,” Martin interjected. I was surprised; I had expected him to side with Padraig.

Mick looked up but said nothing. He turned to me. We stared at each other for a moment then he gave me a small nod, knowing, I’m sure, what I was about to say.

“I’ll go alone,” I said, and they all turned. “I’m the one he’s after and, besides, Tim is my nephew.”

“Diarmuid’s there too,” Padraig said.

“I know. But he’s my worry, not yours.”

“What Billy does is all our worry,” Padraig insisted. He had a point. Each had lost something because of Billy, if not directly then through the chain of events he had set in motion.

I shook my head. “Sure and Billy will come after the lot of you, Padraig. If I go myself,” I added, “Billy will never know you were involved.

His eyes narrowed. “Aye, he wouldn’t,” he said as he nodded toward the door. “Not if you put a bullet in him.”

I sighed. Padraig was right. Outside in the stable, Rory lay on a bed of hay, his hands and feet bound, a strip of cloth stretched over his wounds. Padraig was right; Rory knew us all. But as much as I wanted to leave him by the side of the road—bound and shot, a traitor with a note pinned to his chest—without him I had no chance of freeing Tim and Diarmuid.

The cottage was quiet for a moment, the only sounds the crackling of the peat in the fire and a soft groan from Padraig as he rubbed his leg.

“Someone needs to stay here,” I said, gesturing toward the door.

Padraig looked up, frowned, but said nothing.

“And if something goes wrong…” I continued, the sentence unfinished but the thought clear.

The four of them sat silently for a moment. Finally, Mick nodded again, having made up his own mind, it seemed, and leaned forward. “Frank’s right,” he said.

Padraig’s eyes darted back and forth from Mick to me. Finally, he sighed then nodded. Still, it was clear that he wasn’t happy with the decision.

___

We spent the rest of the night discussing our plan. Going to Limerick now was foolhardy but we had no choice. Padraig had reluctantly agreed to stay and guard Rory. He was upset to be missing the action, but I had been watching him for the last few hours. Lying in wait for Rory had taken its toll. Since we had returned to Mick’s barn, he had been rubbing the stump of his leg, where his real one ended and his wooden one began, a grimace on his face the whole while.

Seamus and Mick would go to Limerick with me. Martin would too. But as he wasn’t a soldier, he would serve as a lookout. He would bring word to the others if anything went wrong.

In the fowl-house outside, the hens began to stir, and the first gray light of day filtered through the windows of the cottage. Seamus looked at each of us.

“It’s done then,” he said. Not waiting for an answer, he stood and stretched. As if it took all of his energy, he slowly lowered himself to the floor. Close enough to the fire to be warmed by the embers but not close enough to catch a stray one, he closed his eyes. It was no more than a minute before he began to snore. Padraig was next, limping off to Mick’s bed while Martin joined Seamus on the floor, hoping for a few hours’ rest.

Too tired to sleep myself, I followed Mick outside into the cool air of the morning and stopped for a moment to watch the sky brighten over the hills to the east.

“I’ll look in on him,” I said and Mick nodded, lost in his own thoughts as he usually was.

I left him staring at the hills and slipped quietly into the barn.

Rory was where we had left him, asleep now, bits of straw stuck to his bloody hair. The cloth we had used to dress the wound was dark with blood and had begun to work itself loose during the night. His hands were bound behind him, and his feet were tied to the post. He was asleep, his mouth open, his breathing heavy to match that of the horses. I stared down at him for a moment, in the darkness of the barn, and couldn’t help but think of Tim. He looked more a boy now than a man, Rory did, asleep before me in the hay. What he had done was surely a sin, worse than the many I had committed. It would be so easy, I thought, to end it all here, to avenge Dan, Tom, and Sean. To avenge Liam. In my pocket I rubbed my hand along the handle of the revolver. It would be so easy.

“Don’t do it, Frank,”

I turned at the voice and there was Martin.

“Without him, we haven’t a chance to free Tim and Diarmuid,” he said.

I sighed. I turned back to Rory. He must have heard the noise; he opened his eyes. He let out a low moan, the throbbing in his head awaking as he did. After a moment of confusion, a struggle to remember—where he was, why he couldn’t move his hands and feet and, surely, about the pain that was coursing through his head—his eyes found mine. They were glazed and unfocused in the dim light. He shook his head as if to clear it. With a sudden hiss of breath and a loud moan he closed his eyes and lay still again.

I stared down at him, unable to feel anything but contempt.

“He’ll kill you,” he hissed quietly through clenched teeth. His eyes were still closed, but he knew I was there.

I said nothing. Finally, he opened his eyes again. I stared at him a long moment before he looked away. His eyes took on a downcast look, one that said he knew his fate was coming and there was little he could do to stop it.

I turned on my heel, brushing past Martin on the way out.