A Star Called Henry (30 page)

—Good, good, good, said old Missis O’Shea.

She poured lukewarm water over my fingers and released them from the frozen handlebars.

—Could you not wait till the summer for your manoeuvereens, young fellow? she said.

—Men trained in the winter win their wars in the summer, I said.

—Well, isn’t that well put? she said.—Come in out of that weather now. It’s a soft day but there’s a hard crust on it.

I parked the Arseless in the long barn and in the morning there were men there waiting for me, men and boys, cold, eager and cranky.

—Are you the fella from Dublin?

—I am.

—Ivan says you’re going to show us how to kill the English.

—I am.

—I didn’t know there was learning in that.

—Ah there, I said.—There’s killing and there’s killing.

—What d’you mean?

—Well, there’s killing and getting caught and there’s killing and not getting caught. And there’s killing the fellas who are paid to catch you.

—The peelers?

—Yep.

—Why would we want to kill them? They’re not so bad.

—Go home.

—I was only saying.

—Go home, I said.—You’re not ready for the fight.

—I am.

—You’re not. Go home.

It was the same everywhere. I’d home in on some poor eejit who was only voicing what all his friends were thinking and I’d have to humiliate him and put all their fears on him until they began to hate him for his weakness and for showing off theirs. There was the Dublin problem to be got out of the way as well: they hated anyone or anything from Dublin. Dublin was too close to England; it was where the orders and cruelty came from. And the homespun bollixes in Sinn Féin and the Gaelic League were to blame too; Ireland was everywhere west of Dublin, the real people were west, west, west, as far west as possible, on the islands, the rocks off the islands, speaking Irish and eating wool; the Leaguers lived in Dublin but they went west for their holliers, to the real people. I was in old Missis O’Shea’s long barn with a batch of the half-real people; they spoke English but they knew that they were more Irish than I was; they were nearer to being the pure thing. Yet here I was lording it over them, not like the English or the old landlords but a bit like one of their own, a returned Yank or something, like them but not enough. I dressed like them - my suit was on Jack Dalton - and I looked like them but I was from Dublin. They knew that I had expertise, that I deserved to be their master and they hated me for it. I didn’t care. I didn’t relish it but it didn’t interest me. Besides, there was some sort of inverse relationship between their animosity and my success with their sisters, wives and mothers. I could live with their hostility.

And this now was nothing special. The lads in the barn wanted to back their friend but they were afraid of exposure. They blamed him for bringing it on, and me for being so genuinely superior. But the resentment and malice weren’t crackling. They were just cold and scared, giddy for adventure but afraid of it. I was going to rescue them.

—Is there anyone watching the road?

A bright spark behind the others spoke now for the first time.

—Sure, that’s all we do all day.

We had a laugh and I told the chap I’d just sent home to keep watch out at the gate instead. He seemed pleased enough at this and the rest were pleased for him.

—That’s the first thing you’d want to get into your heads, I told them, and waited.—As of this morning, you’re all wanted men.

I watched that news register. They were delighted; they always were. Wanted men, just like that, for turning up to meet a Dublin man in a long barn. They started to like me.

—What’s your name, son? I asked the lad who was going out to the gate.

—Willie, he said.

—Willie what?

—O’Shea.

—Any relation to old Missis beyond?

—No.

—Any teachers in the family?

—No.

—Good man. Off you go.

He went out and I stared at the rest until they grew restless and I let my heartache melt into disappointment. There were ten or eleven of them, ranging in age from twenty-three or so down to fifteen and sixteen. Farm boys in big boots made bigger by the season’s muck. They’d be good. They were strong, used to fighting the weather, familiar with their own company. They’d have shot rabbits and stray cats.

—Any spies in the barn? I said.

That shook them. They stiffened and wobbled, tried not to look at each other. Then the bright voice behind them answered for them.

—Not a one, it said.

—How d’you know? I asked them all.

—We’re all chums here. We’re cousins if we’re not brothers.

He’d stood up now and I could get a look at him. It still wasn’t easy. He was small and relaxed, like a drunk jockey, strolling behind their shoulders.

—And you are? I said

—I’m Ivan.

My contact. The single name I’d brought with me from Drumshanbo.

—O’Shea?

—No, he said.—And there’s no teachers in the family either.

It was my turn to wobble.

—Grand, I said.—That’s the next thing to get into your heads. You’re all wanted men. And you’re spies. Don’t get me wrong, I’m accusing no one. I’m including myself. You’re wanted men for one reason: you’re in the Organisation. I’ll swear you in soon, but you’re here with me this morning and that alone is an act of sedition. Before you even put on a uniform or handle a gun. You’re already breaking the British law. As of now every word you say is important and possibly dangerous. A careless word can get you shot or your pal beside you arrested. The wrong word in the wrong ear makes you a traitor and a spy.

I’d impressed them again. I watched them inflating; they were important, singular men, and I’d told them so.

—So think before you open your gobs.

—It’s the way I always go about it, said Ivan.

—Good, I said.

—What’s your own name, boss? said Ivan.

—I’m Captain O’Linn, I told them.

—You must know what you’re up to if they’ve made you a captain, he said.

—I do, I said.—Right, men. This is the wrong time of day for our kind of business. You’ll be missed and there’ll be talk. Where’s the big house?

—What d’you mean, like?

—The old landlord’s, I said.—Where is it?

—That’ll be Fitzgalway’s, said Ivan.—Shantallow Manor.

—Grand, I said.—Shantallow. We’ll meet there tonight at seven. Sharp. All of you?

There were nods and grunts, no dissenters.

—Off you go now, I said.—You’re a grand-looking body of men and you’ll take some beating when you have the uniforms on you. See you tonight and bring your shovels with you. And go out across the haggard so you’re not seen from the gate.

The compliment would get two or three more to turn up; it had cost nothing and it hadn’t been much of a lie. That and the prospect of uniforms and the excitement of going home the secret way across the haggard; they’d be good for another couple of boys.

—Good day, Captain.

—See you later, I said.

I wasn’t a captain, or any other rank.

—You don’t exist, Collins had said.—Do you understand that, Henry?

—I do, I said.

—We’ll give you your rank when it’s all over.

—I’m not pushed, I said.—It’s all me bollix.

But I called myself Captain for these lads. It made me important in their eyes and it was the rank that a lot of old land agents had had back in the days when they’d had the power to evict and destroy. Here was I, one of their own, carrying the agents’ old label.

—Ivan, I said as he passed me on his way to the barn door.

—That’s me, right enough.

—I want to talk to you.

—And I want to listen to you, Captain.

We went back across the yard to the house. We sat down in the kitchen. Ivan worked the bellows and the new heat poured over us. The fireplace was as big as a room. We sat on stools right inside it. There was a picture of Robert Emmet, darkened by the years and smoke, on the wall beside me. There were old postcards stuck in behind it; there was one of all the 1916 leaders and a Patrick’s Day card from America, a man with a pig under his arm.

—Good lads, good. Good.

Old Missis O’Shea was climbing down from the attic.

—That’s a great blaze you’ve got going there. Use up all the turf on me. We’re surrounded by the blessed stuff.

She looked at Ivan.

—You’re very welcome, young fellow, she said.—I won’t ask you your name. That way, when they ask me for it, I’ll be able to say I don’t know and not have the lie hanging over me, especially at my age.

—It would be a lie, said Ivan,—and a whopper. Sure, I’m the only nephew you’ve got that’s called Ivan.

—Lord God, Ivan Reynolds, but you’re a terrible spoiler. Your mammy was right, God rest her. You’re a desperate wee melt.

—She never said that about me.

—Maybe it was one of your brothers she was talking about, said old Missis O’Shea.—Or your father.

—It was probably him, said Ivan.

They were fond of each other.

—You’ll eat me out of house and home, now that you’re here, said old Missis O’Shea.

—I will, said Ivan.—And I have the captain here to help me with the work.

—A captain no less, said old Missis O’Shea.—Don’t tell me the name now. It’s dangerous enough knowing the rank. And you’ll have a mouthful of tea with it.

—Not for me, I said.—I hate the stuff.

—Sure, don’t I know it, Captain, she said.—I just love the way you keep saying it.

While old Missis O’Shea murdered the food at the fire Ivan and myself shifted our stools to the window and got down to talking. He listed off the useful men to know and the men to stay away from. He filled me in on the geography and the politics of Rusg -

—Rock solid, boy. To a man and cat.

and the four or five parishes around it -

—Go-boys, the lot of them.

while the smell of old Missis O’Shea’s cooking joined the heat coming from the fire.

—D’you like the girls, Captain? he said.

—They’re better than the boys, I said.

—Now you’re talking, he said.—No competition. There’s some nice republican young ones around these parts and one or two game ones with no interest in politics at all. I’ll point you at them.

—Thanks for the offer, Ivan, I said.—But I’ve never needed help on that score.

—You’re not a captain for nothing, Captain.

—You’ll be a captain yourself one of these days.

—Please God, he said.

—Are ye too busy to sit at the table, Captain? said old Missis O’Shea.

—We are, said Ivan.

—It wasn’t you I was talking to, but I don’t hear the captain disagreeing with you. You’ll have it in your hand, so, she said.—Sure, it’s hardly a dinner at all.

It was incredible, the nicest stuff I’d ever tasted. Griddle cakes, and a bit of cabbage that was perfect. I wasn’t used to fresh vegetables and, judging by the grub that had come my way in friendly houses all over the country, not many other people were either. Stirabout and slidderjacks and cakes of rough bread the size of bike tyres, flitches of cured bacon that had been hanging for centuries from hooks in the kitchen ceiling, spuds, spuds and more of them, good, indifferent and rotten, and strong, rough tea a small-sized rat could dance on. I wasn’t complaining. It was grand and it was filling and as good and better than what I’d grown up on. I’d never known freshness and surprise, so I didn’t miss it. Until I put old Missis O’Shea’s griddle cake into, even before I put it into my mouth, when its steam grabbed my nose hair and fucked it.

—Fuck—Pardon the language.

—That’ll be the griddle cakes, she said.—They’re not too bad today.

—They’re - I don’t know what word to use, I said.

—I’ve tasted worse, said Ivan.

—I’ve never eaten cabbage before, I told them.

—It’s not too bad, said Ivan.

—No, I said.

They hadn’t understood, so I spoke again.

—This is the first time in my life that I’ve ever eaten cabbage, I said.—And d’you know what?

They were speechless; I could tell by their faces; stunned. The creature from Dublin; they’d known we were different but this news I’d just thrown at them was the most shocking thing they’d ever heard. Old Missis O’Shea brought her shawl up to her face.

—And d’yis know what? I said.

—What’s that? said Ivan.

—This is worth dying for, I said.

I pointed at the food.

—The right of the people of Ireland to eat grub like this.

And I meant it, every word. Old Missis O’Shea hid under her shawl.

—You’ve a friend for life there, Captain, said Ivan.

—He’s a fool of a boy, said old Missis O’Shea,—but he’s hit the nail on the head this once.

And she ran out into the yard.

 

 

Drilling the new men on the local big shot’s demesne was an idea I’d picked up from Ernie O’Malley, that and digging the graves.

—It’ll rid them of that fear and respect they have for the planter, he’d said when we’d last crossed paths, in the Glen of Aherlow. We’d slept the night on the ground and woken up white with the frost.

—Are you frightened of anyone? he’d asked me.

—No, I said.

—They are, he said.

He meant everyone else, the people of Ireland. He wasn’t a long walk older than I was, Ernie, but he had the stance and talk of a man who’d lived many big lives and learnt well from all of them.

—They’re frightened of their betters, he said.—And that means virtually everybody they encounter outside of their own tight circle. It’s the result of hundreds of years of colonialism. And that’s our task, Smart. We have to convince them that they have no betters.