Leon Uris (70 page)

“Will it matter between you and me if I join his staff?”

Caroline’s face flushed. He was a tough lad, all right. No wonder Jeremy adored him. “I want you to go back to Brodhead’s command, Rory. If it means we take him off our slate, so be it.”

“I’m not a very sophisticated lad, Caroline. It would be better if we leave the General out of it. I just don’t understand all the in-fighting.”

“Like hell you don’t,” she said. “For the sake of appearances,” she continued, totally switching tones, “if you go on Llewelyn’s staff and if he should ask, tell him you relayed his interest to me, and let him know I was quite flattered by his attention. No harm in that, is there, Rory, making the old boy feel good?”

“I’ll tell him I caught a light in your eye at the mention of his name.”

“Welcome to our dirty little games, Lieutenant.”

He put his arms about her and gave her a tight
squeeze. Jaysus, what a woman, he thought. Everything was falling into place so damned well he could fairly believe it.

Although they still held their secrets, they felt a bonding, like mother and son.

It had been a restless night until it suddenly struck her! Caroline bolted upright in bed, flung her covers off and paced, then howled with discovery!

It was nothing that Rory Landers had said that gave him away, so much as the manner he said it. He claimed no Irish ancestry, but certainly one of his parents was Irish. There was too much of a Donegal lilt unconsciously weaving in and out of his conversation.

Good Lord, she had spotted the Larkin face the moment he entered Rathweed Hall and even a similarity of voice. At first she wondered if she hadn’t unconsciously expected Conor to come through that door for the last ten years.

Landers had many of Conor’s moves: his knowing stare, his startling candor, the laugh, the mystery of his travels in Ireland. Of course Rory was aware of Jeremy’s republican leanings. Jeremy knew who Rory really was and never gave him away but left little hints throughout his correspondence to her.

Caroline’s personal assistant, Tony Pimm, was at Rathweed Hall within the hour.

“We need to lift some Army records of a colonial, a New Zealander. I want them duplicated. Lieutenant Rory Landers. Canterbury district or county, Christchurch area, the South Island.”

“Landers? I thought you and Freddie were very taken by him. What’s our man up to?”

“I don’t think he’s Landers. He’s somebody else.”

“I see. Some soldier who knew Jeremy and Chris enough to get into Rathweed Hall and work a swindle on you.”

“No, that’s not his game. The relationship with my sons
is genuine and I adore him. I need information out of New Zealand. Is our office in Wellington properly connected?”

Tony Pimm nodded that it was.

“I think he enlisted under the name of Landers because he didn’t want to carry his real identity into Ireland. Have Overcash in Wellington round up the names of all the stations, owners, and transfers, and the like, and see if anything Irish pops up.”

“Like what?”

“Larkin.”

“Holy Christ.”

“I’d wager he’s Conor Larkin’s nephew and, hang on, Tony, he’s been offered a post inside Dublin Castle by Sir Llewelyn himself.”

“Sixmilecross! Sixmilecross!”

Rory’s heart leapt as the train slowed. He pressed his head against the window of his compartment trying to focus his eyes. The train eased into the lay-by to take on water at the tower. Down the line a conductor helped a woman and little girl off the train to a waiting buckboard and husband.

Rory knew from Jeremy’s description that he was on the exact site of the ambush. British troops had been riding the train, Conor and his party were strung out along the rail and at the crossroads, horses and wagons tied just beyond the bridge in the trees.

His compartment door opened. It was a different conductor. He leaned over Rory, reading the patch on his shoulder.

“New Zealand, is it?”

Rory nodded.

“Me partner sez to me there is a Victoria Cross lad in the military car. And where might you have been to exact this distinction?”

“Gallipoli.”

“Ah, tanks to Mary you’re alive, then. Me own son was wounded at Ypres. Gassed.”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Irish relatives, have you?”

“No, I’m just on leave, touring about.”

“You couldn’t have found a grander place. Er…and what persuasion might you be?”

“I’m an R.C.”

The conductor smiled. “You’re sitting on sacred Irish ground. A very famous encounter took place here. It was some years ago, but the Irish Republican Brotherhood…You’ve heard of them?”

“Sorry, no.”

“Our lads. Anyhow, they laid a terrible defeat on the British.”

“I’ll be damned.”

“Well, best of luck to you, Lieutenant, and it’s an honor and a pleasure to be shaking the hand of a V.C. winner.”

Forty minutes later the first conductor slid the door open. “Rodale Bridge,” he said, “with transfer to Flynn, Crew, Spamount,
and
Castlederg. This is your stop, sir…here, here, you let me help you with your bag.”

Rory debarked to a hero’s salute from the two conductors. A dozen or so passengers made for a waiting shuttle. As both trains moved on, Rory looked about. He could make out the black-on-black of a priest coming over the roadway toward him.

“Uncle Dary?”

“Rory lad, oh, Rory lad!” Dary sniffed as they embraced. “You gave me a chill just now. I thought for an instant it was Conor walking toward me. You’ve the same manner. God, you’ve Larkin written all over your face, you’re that handsome. Now, did you get to see anything of the countryside?”

“It was a bit fuzzy flashing past the window, but it did remind me more than a little of New Zealand. It’s so green.”

“All the lads who emigrated to New Zealand wrote home the same thing you’re saying.”

They walked to the proverbial Model T Ford. “Compliments of Bishop Mooney,” Dary said. In a moment they were on the road to Londonderry.

“We’ve a million years to catch up on. First, tell me how you’re feeling.”

“At this moment, I feel great.” Rory went over his wounds and prognosis.

“Are you free for a while?”

“Yes.”

“That’s grand,” Dary said. “The bishop has a fishing cottage up in the hills, about ninety minutes’ drive. It’s out of sight and well stocked. It’s ours for as long as we want it.”

“That’s just great. Sounds like your bishop is a right fair chap.”

“Mooney is a dear, dear man. I’ve been at his side since my ordination. He was sent to Derry because they needed a soft churchman then, and frankly, the Cardinal didn’t expect him to last too long. The Bishop has a bad heart, but he’s fooled everyone. I, uh, run a good part of the diocese routine for him, as well as the schools and orphanage. When he passes on I expect I’ll be transferred into a more…traditional situation. In Bogside, you must have Bogside priests, it’s that miserable. We are a mite too liberal, I’m afraid.”

What was not to like about Father Dary? Rory felt the comfort of one who had known him for a thousand years. He felt the first uncanny and unexpected sheer glow of the warmth of family he’d known since he left home. He was taken by the wonderment of it. There was so much to tell and hear and he smiled inwardly at the prospect of the coming days.

“I’ve a notion,” Rory said, “of why you wanted me off the train before Londonderry.”

“
Derry,
” Dary corrected. “Well, there’s been trouble in Dublin and the Brits are rounding up anyone who blows his nose in a green handkerchief. With you gallivanting around in British uniform with a false name, best not to take a chance. You see, we’re heading into Larkin country. If we were so much as to set foot in Derry, much less Bogside, you’d be spotted as a Larkin in a blink.”

“That’s what I figured. I must be able to get to Ballyutogue, though.”

“Our cottage is fairly close by. Most of the village men will be droving cattle into the Derry pens and the women will be selling their lacework there as well. I’ve arranged for us to slip in by dark one night. Your Aunt Brigid is dying to see you.”

They prepared their catch. Dary smoothed the turf fire as Rory pan-fried the trout.

“I’ve heard about the turf fires,” Rory said. “It does smell like angel’s breath.” Rory reckoned the fish was as well cooked as it was going to be. “Well now, wee Dary,” he said, showing the pan, “Jaysus, forgive me, Uncle. I’ve heard you referred to as ‘wee Dary’ all my life, by Conor in particular. I’ll mind my manners. And you’re not that short. We had troops half your size,” and on that mention Rory bit his lip as Chester Goodwood flashed through his mind. Wouldn’t the gaffer squad have loved to have been here now!

“I’ve not heard myself called wee Dary for so many years. Would you continue to call me that?”

“Are you sure?”

“I felt it down to my toes.”

“Wee Dary it is, then.”

Their contentment ultimately found its way into Rory’s officer’s bag and a gift bottle of cognac from Caroline Hubble.

“Mary,” Dary said, “we only see this at Christmas about every fifth year.”

A restless silence fell, which both of them recognized as a prelude to family business. Dary went to his satchel and produced a letter.

“This letter came to me about four months ago from Liam.”

Rory scanned it and handed it back. “I couldn’t read
the Squire’s writing with two good eyes. You’ll have to do the honors.”

“Aye,” Dary said. He wet his lips, then his whistle, with a taste of the magnificent velvet of the cognac.

“My son Rory,” Dary began, “it has taken this long to find the courage to write to you. I am sending it to Dary knowing that in time you will find your way to Ireland.

“Perhaps wee Dary, better than anyone, can explain the meaning of my tears of guilt and personal misery. From that terrible moment you left us, I found myself in the grip of great pain that I knew intimately from my own boyhood. I wore that pain from childhood into manhood. I realize that I have laid on you the same kind of pain.

“I don’t deserve your forgiveness, but I can never rest again until I ask for it and I can never be entirely whole again until I win it. Ballyutogue Station, like its namesake in Ireland, has become a place of sorrow. You haunt the land, my son, every whispering leaf on every whispering tree. Bless you for keeping your letters coming to your mother and sisters and brother. You are ten feet tall in Tommy’s eyes. He worships you.

“We had to put RumRunner down. I wanted the old boy to hold on until you came back but he just laid down one night and refused to get up.

“If prayers will help you, you’ve a powerful amount of them from me, and us.

“I’m so sorry for what I did. Please come back when your roving is done. I love you, son…. Your father, Liam.”

It was a new moon, barely a sliver, just right for a pair of men down from the hills, skimming over the land, unseen. A tad of moonbeams flitted in and out of the rapidly moving clouds. Dary as well as all the kids in Ballyutogue, knew the route, which for generations had held hideaways and a passage for republicans on the run.

Father Cluny, an out-and-out republican dressed in peasant’s attire, warmly welcomed Dary and Rory. First they went to the forge, which was always unlocked. It was
dark until Father Cluny got the lantern working. Rory went from bench to bench, anvil to bellows, feeling the tools, ancient enough to have once been held by Conor. The fires in the pit softly glowed, setting off the sweet smell, and outside he found the stone fence and the well. Everything seemed so small.

“We’d better get to the cottage before Brigid has a stroke,” Father Cluny said.

At the crossroads the hanging tree outlined itself. “Up there is our fields,” Dary said. Rory could near see his da and Tomas coming down the road and Conor, in smithy apron, all meeting and slipping into Dooley’s for a quick one to face the missus with.

Rory’s knees gave to trembling as he stood before the Larkin cottage. It sprang open and Aunt Brigid, penny-plain as Rory had envisioned, clutched him as a steady stream of tears cascaded down her face.

The meal, of course, had been days in preparation. Rory related Liam’s fine life in New Zealand and what each of his sisters and his brother was about and he assured Brigid the home was devoutly Catholic.

“You know my beloved da, Tomas, and Kilty were not exactly holy men, but they made their peace with God. Conor never did, but you might for yourself, and in his behalf, might you not?” she inquired.

Brigid rattled on about her late husband Colm, finer in death and memory than he had been in life, what with his smelly pipe and smellier dog…God rest his soul…a good man with his acres…but never much for intimacy.

Rory’s poor eyes tried to find every inch of the cottage, the room where they had all been born, up the ladder to the loft where Conor and his da bedded down until they left home.

Rory was overcome, just like so. He needed to be left alone for a half-hour of pure trembling, having no idea how overwhelming the experience would be, or why.

At last the four of them made to the graveyard. Dary held a torch and pointed to each stone.

The first stones were very old, with lettering in Gaelic, and worn flat. Rory ran his hand over one of them and crust crumbled in his fingers.

“That’s your great-great grandfather Ronen, about 1800, between Wolfe Tone and Robert Emmet,” Dary said.

“God, can you imagine. Conor told me about Ronen’s brothers taking him down from the whipping post and spiriting him to Donegal, his bones poking through the flesh from the flogging….”

“Aye,” Brigid said, “he is the patriarch of the Larkins of Ballyutogue along with his wife, Nellanne.”

“The next two are memorials to the families of Cathal and Aidan. Unfortunately none of their bodies made it back here, except Aidan’s.”

“Cathal,” Rory said from memory, “and his wife Siobhan and their four girls all boarded a death ship in 1848 on their way to America. The two youngest girls died a horrible death aboard ship. The others called America their final home, except Cathal, who made his way back here to die. And Aidan was killed fighting to save his cottage and fields. His wife Jenny died in the workhouse and their six kids disappeared forever in a foundling home.”

“You know it well,” Brigid said. “In ’47.”

Reading with his fingers, Rory lit up. “Jaysus, does this say Kilty?”

“Indeed it does,” Brigid said.

“Then this must be his wife Mary and their three wanes.”

“They died of the hunger, and your grandfar, Tomas, dug them under and awaited his own demise only to be saved by Kilty’s miraculous return,” she went on.

“Tomas…Finola…”

“The fine stones and all the restoration work was done through the generosity of your father, Liam, God bless him.”

Brigid’s voice faded into the background. “This is the best-kept plot in Donegal…I put fresh flowers on it from
my garden…people come from all over to see these graves….”

Rory took the torch from Dary’s hand as he came to the final stone. Dary led the other two away, retreating to the church.

Rory played the light close, then ran his fingers over the carving, again and again and again.

CONOR LARKIN

SON OF TOMAS AND FINOLA

BORN 1873-DIED 1914

PATRIOT

“I’m here now, Uncle Conor. You knew I’d be. I was too late for the Rising, but there wasn’t much I could have done. It didn’t go too well at first, but memory of it refused to dim. They’re trying to clean the country out and intimidate us one more time.

“So much to tell you about Jeremy and Caroline and me and even Major Chris.

“It’s like a miracle took place. Liam wrote and asked for forgiveness. I never heard music so beautiful as the sound of wee Dary reading me his words. Dary says you and Tomas got things turned around. It wasn’t all Liam’s fault, our troubles. I want so badly to make things right at home….

“Uncle Conor, I think I know why I am here in Ireland. I’m in a position to strike a blow. I think I know what I am going to be called upon to do. You’ve got to help me now and give me a sign that what I’m intending to do is the right thing. It’s a right and a wrong too big for me to figure out alone. Send me a message, man….”