Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  "I know what you mean," Dan whispered, "I'll not mention her name again."

  CHAPTER TEN

  The crisis which had begun for Frederick Weed with the fall of the Conservative government was over. The labor unrest, general strike, and the threat of trade unions collapsed. In the end, because the workers had been so downtrodden for so long and there was so much disunity between the Catholics and Protestants, they simply didn't have the stamina for victory.

  In his personal war with Oliver Cromwell Maclvor, the results were becoming equally conclusive. The immediate jailing of Vessey Bain and the troublemakers in the yard, the lockout and the bombing of the Moderator's seminary jarred the Shankill and East Belfast. The wind went out of their marching season and the tone of the rhetoric fell from vitriolic to moderate. As the marching season drew to a close the main concern was whether or not Weed would reopen the yard.

  Weed's crowning victory came in the Shankill by-election in which the Unionist candidate crushed Lieutenant Colonel Howard Huntly Harrison and the Loyalist Party with eighty per cent of the vote. The people, might have become disenchanted with the gentry but they were unwilling to cast their fate either to Maclvor or to liberal ideas that would lead to Home Rule.

  Oliver Cromwell Maclvor licked his wounds, swallowed his pride and, in order to salvage a fast-waning prestige, petitioned for a meeting with Sir Frederick.

  Weed kept Maclvor waiting for a week, then summoned him to Oxford were he was delivering a series of summer lectures at Magdalen College to a high gathering of industrialists and executives.

  When they came face to face in his rooms overlooking the Cherwell River it was a highly different kettle of fish than their last encounter. Sir Frederick blasted him with forbidden tobacco smoke and belted down forbidden whiskey.

  The Moderator reckoned that there had been a grave misunderstanding. Forsaking any responsibility for the riot, he blamed it on overzealousness of a few disparate Knights of Christ, who, out of Christian charity, should be forgiven. As for his Loyalist Parry, he said there never had been an intention to challenge the Unionists but merely a wish to have a closer identification with the people in local issues. Finally, he wondered how long Sir Frederick intended keeping the yard closed, as a restless fear was creeping over the Shankill and East Belfast. Was there a possibility of mending things, a show of the old unity to shore up flagging spirits among the people?

  Weed glared coldly during Maclvor's dissertation. "You made a stupid blunder," he began. "You tried to seize power and you fell on your ass."

  "I don't know what led you to that conclusion," MacIvor begged.

  "Let's stop the horse shit," Frederick Weed snapped. The preacher paled. There was no fury, for he held no cards. "Perhaps fifty years from now some of this populist Gladstonian shit may reach the Ulster masses, and, God help them, they will follow a man like you. As for the here and now, decisions will remain in the hands of the men most competent to contend with them. Am I quite clear?"

  "I have come here in the spirit of conciliation," MacIvor said.

  "You came here because you've been routed." He stood and clasped his hands behind him and walked to the tall window and stared at the lovely wending stream outside. His back remained turned to Maclvor as he spoke. "Unfortunately we still have a number of common interests and there are difficult years ahead. With all your loathsomeness and despite my desire to divest myself of you, you still have a necessary function. I trust that from here on out you will fulfill this without making a nuisance of yourself."

  For the first time in his life, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor had nothing to say. He felt lightheaded and drained of energy, yet as Weed's words came through to him he was thankful for his reprieve. "I think we have found the basis of a new understanding," he capitulated.

  "Good. Go to Liverpool and wait for me. I'll be there in a few days. We shall proceed together to Londonderry for Apprentice Boys Day, on which occasion you will make it clear that you support the Unionist principles completely in matters of national policy. I shall appear at your church a few Sundays hence, at which time you will announce from the pulpit that through my generosity that theological thing of yours can start rebuilding. When all of this has been done to my satisfaction I will announce the reopening of the yard, but not a moment before. And keep your fucking Knights of Christ out of my business."

  He returned to the desk, blew a long thin deliberate stream of smoke in the preacher's face. "You may take your leave."

  Maclvor beat a hasty retreat. As his hand touched the doorknob Weed came to his feet and his fist thumped the desk.

  "Maclvor!"

  The preacher froze.

  "What gave you the idea that a phony little evangelical adventurer could overturn three hundred years of imperial experience and usurp the Frederick Murdoch Weeds of Ulster?"

  *

  On August 8, Seamus O'Neill received the following cable from Owen O'Sullivan in Liverpool. HAPPY BIRTHDAY. MAY YOU LIVE TO BE TWO THOUSAND YEARS OLD. ALL OUR LOVE. THE FAMILY.

  A day later Conor met Duffy O'Hurley for lunch at the Grand Central Hotel. He seemed calm enough as they spoke in tones below the quiet of the room.

  "How's the train look?"

  "Fucking arsenal, that's what. I'll be glad when it's over."

  "As will I," Conor said. "I take it everything went smoothly with O'Sullivan?"

  "He's an artist. Everything's well concealed. On the other hand, I wouldn't want to be riding around with it too long."

  The waiter interrupted.

  "How are you feeling, now?"

  "Getting better. I kicked a few footballs yesterday. Mostly for the team's morale."

  "Think you'll play this season?"

  "Maybe, maybe not. I've been asked to travel with the club. The lads are still shaken from the riot."

  They looked up and placed their order. The waiter left.

  "I'll be moving out of Belfast tomorrow," Duffy said. "I'll be leaving Sir Frederick and party at Derry for the celebrations. At the moment there's a good chance I'll be deadheading down to Dublin on the Great Northern route."

  "Let's see . . . Strabane . . . Omagh . . . Portadown Newry . . ."

  "That's it."

  "We've never dumped in that area before. I'll see if I can get things organized on a contingency basis. When will you know for certain?"

  "When we get to Derry I'll ask Sir Frederick what plans are for the train. We should arrive in the late afternoon."

  "I'll wait for a telephone call from you from five o'clock onward at the General Post Office. That will give me the rest of today and half of tomorrow to get something organized."

  "For Christ sake, get them bloody crates off my baby."

  "I'll do my best. We're both of the same persuasion on that account."

  "Conor."

  "Aye?"

  "I know I did it for money but after what you done for me and Calhoun I'm glad I did it."

  *

  AUGUST 10, 1907

  Conor patiently read his magazine, glancing up to the big wall clock from time to time in the telegraph section of the General Post Office on Royal Avenue and Berry Street. It bonged the hour of eight.

  "Mr. Larkin."

  He closed the magazine and approached the desk.

  "Your call from Londonderry finally came through, sir. You can take it in stall number four."

  "Hello."

  "Hello, it's me. I had a pleasant trip. Sorry I couldn't get to a telephone earlier."

  "That's all right. What's the word?"

  "I'll be leaving here tomorrow night around nine or ten o'clock along the route we discussed."

  "We'll be ready for you."

  Conor could hear a sigh of relief.

  "We'll be watching out for you, say, from half ten onward. The signal will be somewhere between Beragh and Pomeroy. You know the lay-by I mean?"

  "Near Sixmilecross?"

  "Aye, Sixmilecross."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The pas
sing of old Rinty Doyle was ever so sad. He had been barely making the public house and the shebeen, much less the fields to work, and jawed a constant complaint of aches from gutted teeth to swollen joints. After he came down with pneumonia and the fever got him, it settled right in his head. Of a night before the full moon he crept down from the loft and ran from the cottage in his nightshirt up to the fields in a delirium.

  It was not until the following morning that he was discovered by the men on their way up to work. Old Rinty was standing there, shirttail flowing and a club in his hands, blocking the gate to the communal pasture.

  "Get off my land!" he screeched, brandishing his shillelagh. "Get off my land!"

  Those who knew Rinty knew he had never owned much more than a pair of shoelaces, much less his own land, and recognized at once that he had gone daft

  They fetched Brigid, who like to got her head knocked off when she approached him. As the men closed in after him he ran up higher, throwing rocks down at them and continuing to scream, "Get off my land!"

  Not wanting to harm the old dear by taking him by force, they summoned Father Cluny. He, likewise, was not recognized by Rinty. After a long discussion they sent a party into the township and returned with Dr. Cruikshank himself. By that time Rinty had hidden himself in the caves up in the heather. An all-day search proved futile and darkness forced them to call a halt till morning. During the night they all heard him again and saw him as well, by the full moon, running around above the cottages, his voice pitched like a departed spirit: "Get off my land!"

  Of the next morning he was found mercifully deceased. Although she had been hard on the old scut, Brigid was likewise kindly to him, keeping him on long after he was capable of a day's work and seeing to it he got a decent meal and enough of a dole to allow him the comfort of his nightly pint. Actually she thought so much of old Rinty that she allowed him to be buried in the Larkin plot despite the fact he was quite a distant relative. All who knew the Larkin graves knew they were the most beautifully kept on Inishowen and allowing Rinty to rest there was high honor indeed for such a person of little consequence.

  Need of a good strong field hand was long overdue and, after seeing Rinty into purgatory, Brigid set out to find one, when queer and unaccountable fate intervened in the matter.

  Mairead O'Neill likewise got away one night from the burden of too many years, leaving her son Colm a man in great necessity. When Colm's mother died, Brigid's heart softened.

  She and Colm had lived side by side for a lifetime, during which she saw little of note in him. He was locked in the closet when good looks were passed out, with a personality to match.

  Living with ghosts and memories had become her second nature. She remembered young handsome Myles McCracken, whose image grew in stature with every passing year. She remembered her epic stand against Tomas and Finola (God rest their souls) when they attempted to foist Colm on her. And that's to say nothing of her equally epic stand for her rights to the land. She was the custodian of the family ashes.

  On the other hand, Colm didn't hold many thoughts about anything. From his cradle to his mother's death, the precious son had not lifted a finger within the house on his own behalf. With Mairead around, he never so much as learned to butter his bread properly.

  Mind you, it was not that Colm had suddenly grown attractive in middle age, only not quite so unattractive. Their homes being side by side, as well as their farms, brought them into numerous discussions of mutual interest about horse trading, marketing, working their fields and the like. With the passing of his mother and in his state of despairing helplessness, she could do little else than extend Christian mercy. Colm hung around the Larkin kitchen as much as the traffic would bear and Brigid predictably swept around his feet and complained about inheriting a non-paying star boarder.

  Of an evening or two, now and then, she'd allow Colm to have the comfort of her fire. Actually, he was harmless enough, content to puff away at his pipe, and of course they had their farms in common to discuss.

  It was not that Brigid was totally and completely without suitors and they did indeed sniff around on occasion. But these were men twenty years or more older than herself who got a glint in their eyes only after seeing her fine cottage and prosperous fields. It was a sorry and washed out lot, the best among them being widowers with large broods and in search of a house slave.

  Come a ceilidhe or wedding or fair or wake, it seemed natural enough, being as they had lifelong adjoining cottages and fields, that they attend together . . . but certainly not as an intended couple.

  Her years of built-up disdain for Colm tempered to toleration. There were some decent points about him. He was a good farmer and trader. He paid his rents and debts on time. His drinking was within bearable bounds. Moreover, he said the rosary every day of his life with his blessed mother and never failed to attend mass.

  As one month led to another and these into seasons and years, Colm O'Neill became accepted by her as a reasonable human being, his good traits admired and his bad ones not as bad as once feared. It occurred to her, in their daily dealings, Colm was not exactly what one would call a hard man. He'd never bang on tables as had her father and brother. He'd do what he was told so long as he was fed, his fire smoored and his cows milked. He'd never raise his voice, much less lay a hand on her in anger. All of this was highly commendable. There was another side to it. The bed. It was so empty. Yet thought of sharing it with Colm continued to be utterly disgusting. He was less than better than nothing. It was the bed that seized her up with apprehension. She was awkward and inexperienced and it would be difficult at best. With Colm it would be impossible.

  If, however, it was her decision to marry him she could not go into God's church and make sacred vows while lying in her heart. Every man had his marriage rights and every woman her sacred duty to produce children. Could she bring herself to do it?

  A long visit with Father Cluny provided some of the answers. The priest intimated that Brigid would not be alone among the women of Ballyutogue who found the sexual experience with their husbands a sacrificial part of life. God, the priest said, had never intended that the sexual union be a pleasurable aspect of marriage. Carnal delights in themselves were terrible sins and any good Catholic wife had to come to understand that these should play no part in the marriage.

  The point was, Father Cluny impressed, that Brigid loved Jesus and Mary more than she abhorred the idea of performing her Christian function as wife and mother. Once she realized love of God was what prevailed, she could accept the discomfort of sex.

  Father Cluny was a wise man indeed and gave Brigid much to consider. Yes, she concluded, after much meditation and prayer, she loved God enough to bear the revulsion. After all, wasn't that what most of the women of Ballyutogue felt?

  *

  The harvest was in and it had been a fine one. Days and nights became long and idle this time of year and Colm found himself spending more and more time in her cottage. Despite her love of God, she never quite got onto the idea of sleeping with the man.

  … so there he was of a winter's night sitting by her fire like his lordship at the manor, playing glink with his crony, Muggins Malone . . .

  … what was forthcoming did not take long to come forth . . .

  "I’ll thank you not to be dragging in half the mud of the town and tracking it through my house . . ."

  … at which Muggins slipped off quietly to Dooley McCluskey's . . .

  … leaving Colm scratching his head and looking about for telltale footprints. "There's no mud here at all," he said. "Sure we left our boots in the byre before coming in."

  "Well, maybe you did this time," she snipped, "but it seems I spend half my waking hours cleaning up after you and attending to Your Worship's needs."

  Colm scratched his head some more, then mumbled his way to the byre door, plopped on his prat and tugged on his Wellingtons.

  "And where do you think you're going, Colm 0"Neill?"

  "Home."r />
  "Or Dooley McCluskey's?"

  Now you've got to realize that Colm was a docile sort, and not too quick in receiving heady thoughts either. This one was quite clear. He grunted to his feet. "Indeed I can go there if I want to," he said, "we're not married, you know."

  It was true she had ministered to a number of his needs since the departure of his beloved mother but she was making inroads into his freedom as well. It was a freedom guaranteed by Mairead since his birth and had negated any desire for the burden of a wife. Brigid Larkin now displayed the evils of matrimony. Why shouldn't he drink at Dooley McCluskey's? The crops were in. The rents were paid. Why the hell shouldn't he?

  Just as clearly some new thoughts dawned on Brigid. There were damned fool concessions men demanded and she'd have to be wise enough to accept this if she intended to attain him as a husband.

  "Aw, come now, Colm," she cooed. "I've the kettle on and tea will be but a minute."

  "I don't want no tea," he pouted. "I want a hardy go."

  She pacified him by producing a bottle of poteen, then oozed about saying as how she was constantly concerned over his well-being since his saintly mother had departed. This was followed by a practical discussion over the terrible waste of cottages, two fields and two of everything. The money that could be saved was in staggering amounts.

  Colm half heard it and half didn't, for he was after testing his newly discovered authority and polished off several slugs of poteen in rapid order, which upped the level of his courage as he did. He wobbled to his feet, inhaled and burped the belch of true manhood. "I have seen the way you treated Rinty Doyle. Why, the old dear groveled about like a mongrel. And speaking of dogs, I'll come here no more until mine is welcome to share the fire with me. Why, woman, you keep this place like an institution. The cows are even afraid to shit in your byre!"