Trinity: A Novel of Ireland

by Leon Uris

  "Charley," Conor said.

  Charley Hackett, a grizzly number, erased the slate and drew a diagram of the castle basement. "The boiler room is it," Charley said. "In the renovation, a central heating plant was installed with large warm air ducts to every room in Lettershanbo. I am betting that the ducts will carry the blast like a telephone wire. God willing, our dynamite will find its way to three hundred tons of UVF dynamite and their own stuff will blow the place to hell."

  "What if it doesn't work, Charley?"

  "We'll have come a long way to blow out a few windows."

  "Have you ever seen it work?"

  "No, and I won't give you my opinion," Charley said. "However, there is a dynamite man I know whose opinion I value highly and I agree with him. All right now, once you enter the castle, move behind me quickly and quietly, dump your packs in the boiler room and get the hell back to the cave. Jennings, Pendergast and myself are giving ourselves ten minutes to wire everything together."

  Conor took over again. "There is a junction of two corridors at the boiler room. Boyd knows it. Seamus will man the submachine gun in case we draw unwanted company. It's the stickiest spot in the operation. If you'll recall, you all drew lots one night back at Dunleer and I wouldn't tell you what for. Well, Seamus, you drew the short straw . . ."

  "As usual," I said.

  "You are the last one back into the tunnel. You've got to move like fury, for when you leave, the detonation wire will be unguarded for some, ten minutes. If it's discovered and cut, we've come here for nothing. If there's an attack, Seamus has to protect the wire."

  I wouldn't say this was the most frightened I'd ever been in my life. I was saving that for tomorrow but I knew, despite Conor's frowning on the subject, I was going to have a confidential talk with Jesus and Mary . . . I got a grip on myself, said something funny to alleviate the tension, but I almost threw up with fear as I spoke.

  "We have regrouped at the Martello tower," Conor said, "and crossed back to the Inishowen side of the lough, hopefully leaving a shambles and a confusion at Lettershanbo to make pursuit impossible. Atty and one of the brothers from Ballyutogue will remain at Ballybrack Hole with the two lorries. She will stay until one hour before daybreak or when she is certain all are back who are coming back. You will be taken back to the church. We will move up to Boyd's house."

  "Conveniently located high in the heather," Boyd interrupted.

  "From there, young Tim will fade us back into the hills. Believe me, you won't be found. Atty has and will issue you your disbursement instructions. We go out of the hills one at a time, in different directions."

  Conor beat his fist into his hand and re-covered most of the points slowly, then became a grim mask.

  "We go tomorrow. There will be no postponement. The operation has been constructed to move in concert with Barren Costello's raid in Derry and we will be out of communication with him. If we hit rough water and you swamp, we'll not stop and search for you. If you are wounded on the castle side to such an extent you slow us up, you're going to be left. If you require medical attention here, you will be left. You have all volunteered on the basis of taking on a suicide mission. We have done everything possible to get you back alive. Anyone caught is sworn to secrecy. If you spill to the British and they don't kill you, the Brotherhood will . . . all clear?"

  It was brutally clear.

  "Dan," Conor said.

  Long Dan Sweeney had steeled himself beyond his capacity to make the trip without being a burden but the pain was destroying him before our eyes. "Lads," he rasped, "and lassie, I never thought I'd live to see the day that twenty Irishmen would ever prepare, such a mission without creating utter chaos. But . . . here we are . . . and there it is . . . over there. We don't care if this shot isn't heard around the world so long as they hear it in London. This war has been used by the mother of parliaments as their latest excuse to further deny the legitimate claims of the Irish people. It is entirely and poetically fitting that we use the very same war to advance those claims. The success of this mission could well spell the achievement or denial of our goals for this generation of Irishmen. Do your jobs well. This moment belongs to all of us and to the Irish people as well . . . but to one in particular. Do you have words for us, Conor Larkin?"

  So, there it was, round and round the universe, round and round the circle of life. It all begins and ends in the same place, doesn't it? Conor and me in Ballyutogue. We all come home eventually. As he stood before us bow he was no longer the stern commander, but he bore the look of a young boy, smoldering . . . far away from us . . . how strange, how very strange. He was surrounded by men who worshiped him and a woman who loved him beyond loving. He seemed unaware. Was he fulfilled at last? Had he reached so much as a single answer to his long, sorrowful journey? Ah, Conor lad, Conor lad. It is so good to be here with you at this moment. I would not have missed it for anything. Not even for the day of the rising.

  "If there are some among you who do not come back, I am sorry I was not good enough or thorough enough. As for words? Well, there, is too much magnificent literature and too many pedantic ballads as well that spell out our longing for freedom. What can a fool like myself add to all that? As Catholics we learned to accept mysteries as children. Some of those who questioned mysteries found that they weren't mysteries at all. But there is a mystery that defies all attempts to explain it There is no mystery more intense than a man's love for his country. It is the most terrible beauty of all. No greater tragedy has befallen our people, who, through generations of suffering at others' hands, have lost this furious love of country. Tomorrow, we open our case to rekindle, that flagging spirit"

  *

  The air was sweet and cool beside my daddy's grave. I sat next to him pretending I had a flute in my hands and was fingering a dancing tune to make him smile.

  I heard movement nearby at the Larkin plot, then saw the figures of Conor and Atty. I became transfixed by them and committed the unpardonable sin of eavesdropping.

  "Oh, God," she whispered, "hold me, man."

  Atty cried softly in Conor's arms, then he spoke to her above the tombs.

  "I have seen another truth," he whispered. "It only came to me here and now. If you love your country, then you must try to make it live beyond your own paltry mortal moment. Here I am among them all and perhaps I am to join them soon. My ma . . . Greatgrandfar Ronan … my Grandfar Kilty . . . and my daddy. I was wondering, have we Larkins come to our end in Ireland? Brigid is sterile, Dary is a priest, and Liam's wanes will never know their Irishness. I realize that I have tried to commit the crime of not daring to need you but I always have and I do now. I want to come back and I fancy you carrying my baby."

  "I'm as fertile as the plains of Kansas," she, said, "but not to wait too long."

  "Aye," he said. "I'll be back from this one all right, for I know truth. Of all the hazy ghosts, the wandering and the hells of doubt, it comes down to a single thing. It is you, Atty . . . It is you I'd call for at the moment of my death."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Our equipment was checked and rechecked. Rendezvous points, routes, elapsed times, details of duties were gone over throughout the day. Every hour a weather report was brought in from an observer at a high point overlooking the lough.

  By late afternoon the British patrol boat was seen steaming southward toward the mouth of the river into Derry. We knew it would remain in port until darkness, then make its night run against poachers.

  Most of us had been thrown out of the Church because of our republican leanings but, let me tell you, there was a lot of unabashed praying at the altar as the hours droned on. We tried to sleep but it was impossible and the late meal was largely uneaten.

  Our first shock came when Conor tersely ordered us to clean up the church and remove all trace of our presence.

  Lord Louie came back from weather observation grunting unhappily. It was clouding up fast outside. That much was fine, for we hoped for cloud cover. But I knew t
his place and Conor did as well and I could see from the way he received the news he feared a storm behind the moving front

  *

  The first dullness was on the sky. Barren Costello and five members of the Derry Irish Republican Brotherhood unsheathed a stolen delivery van from its hiding place in an abandoned potato warehouse at Quigley's Point on the coastal road. KNOCKDARA LIVERY COMPANY, the repainted sign on its side read. Costello drove with his son Cassidy at his side and the other four tucked in the rear. They headed to the Derry waterfront and the Caw & Train Dock where the Glory of Ulster was berthed.

  Since its renowned daylight gun run the German grain ship had become a celebrity in its own right. As a new symbol of the besieged, thousands of Protestant school children and Orange Lodges came to the shrine. An enterprising gentleman, Mr. Edwin Cowley, himself a past Grand Master, converted the Glory of Ulster into a day cruiser around the lough for charter by Orange and Unionist groups.

  The waterfront was virtually deserted at this hour as the Knockdara Livery Company van pulled to a halt alongside the ship. Costello knew there would be but a single watchman aboard. He and Cassidy grabbed a pair of tea chests out of the back and made up the gangplank.

  "Hello there," Darren called, "is anybody aboard?"

  In a moment the ancient watchman reluctantly stuck his head out of the wheelhouse window.

  "Who's down there?" he demanded.

  "I've two cases of tea, sir," Darren called back.

  "Tea? Who the hell ordered tea?"

  "Mr. Edwin Cowley, sir. It's for the temperance ladies cruise next Sunday."

  "Hell of an hour to be making a delivery."

  "Sorry, governor. My van broke down."

  "Well, just leave it there on the deck. I'll take care of it later," the watchman called.

  "Sorry, governor. I need your signature. I'll bring it up to you."

  Darren dashed up the ladder with his son behind him and went into the wheelhouse. Cassidy shoved a pistol into the man's belly as his father applied the pipe to the back of his head.

  Darren stepped out and whistled and three of the lads in the rear of the van boarded. One headed to the engine room and the other two cast off the docking lines, then jumped on. The remaining man drove the lorry off.

  In a matter of moments the Glory of Ulster was under steam and cruising slowly up the River Foyle. St. Columba Park on the Protestant side of the river was filled with late picnickers and strollers. On seeing the Glory of Ulster they waved and cheered. "Captain" Darren Costello tooted the boat's whistle in response.

  They had glided past the Naval Docks and the patrol boat, which was receiving its crew for the night run around the lough. When the river widened past the Clooney Light, the watchman was carried down to the engine room. Costello didn't want it this way but the man could identify him and his son later. He was killed with a single pistol shot through the head.

  A mile upriver it narrowed dramatically at a point known as Boom Hall. The site was named for the place where the forces of King James had thrown down a boom to block entry during the siege of 1689 and prevented relief supplies by sea. Borrowing a passage from history, Darren Costello maneuvered the ship sideways in the narrow channel, then opened the valves, scuttling her in the same spot the ancient boom had been lowered.

  The Glory of Ulster settled in the shallows in a neat piece of work, making passage from the docks into the lough impossible and sealing the patrol boat in Derry. They rowed ashore to the waiting Knockdara Livery Company van on the Limavady Road and fled.

  *

  Ten minutes later the three-man guard at the Green castle Barracks was quickly and efficiently dispatched.

  *

  At the same moment the Glory of Ulster met its ironic fate, the two lorries pulled into the cove at Ballybrack Hole where the five curraghs had been hidden in the tall grass. We moved them to water's edge, loaded our equipment and waited for darkness. Conor gathered us about, explained Darren Costello's part in this and reckoned we could now scratch one British patrol boat.

  He went off, checking his watch every minute or so, sneering at the sea, worried by its mounting anger. It was getting very choppy with thickening clouds emptying the first sprinklers of rain. We could usually see Lettershanbo from this point but it had faded ominously from view.

  I had been in a fearful state on the drive, up the coast, not daring to so much as budge. As Lord Louie gave us our compass points I felt a strange bliss. What kept me from breaking into an open sweat was a sudden sense of unreality about the whole, thing. I was detached from danger, in some kind of euphoria that left me untroubled. Had I found the secret of brave men under fire?

  Conor put his arm about my shoulder and pulled me aside.

  "Sorry about you drawing the short straw," he, said.

  "Somebody had to get it."

  "Well, don't go waking up the guard over there and haul your ass down that tunnel fast," he said.

  "Not to worry. Look, Conor, I've a bit on my conscience," I said. "I overheard you and Atty in the churchyard last night."

  "I've only been able to keep one secret from you in my life," he said, referring to our destination during the training at Dunleer. "I almost spilled that. So, you heard."

  "Aye. Did you tell her the truth?"

  "I want to come back, Seamus, and I want to have children with that woman."

  "That's grand." Euphoria or no, I looked at the darkening water and almost doubled over with fright. Conor's hand gripped my shoulder.

  "You're not alone," he said.

  Funny, I had never thought of Conor Larkin being scared . . . funny . . . He turned from me and went to Atty.

  "I'll see you in a little while," he said to her.

  "I'll be here," she answered. Her eyes cried out that she loved him so much she'd forgive him even if what he had said was a lie.

  "Stand by," Conor ordered.

  "I love you, Conor," I heard her call but he did not hear because he was at the water's edge. He slapped me on the backside and got to one side of the curragh.

  "Get in, Dan. Let's go, Charley. Hang onto the reel of wire while we cast off. Good luck, lads!"

  We slid the boat in, climbed quickly over the side and picked up the oars. In the strange manner of curraghs, the oars had no blades but were constructed to slum above tide and currents. In a few seconds the raised bow cut into a whitecap, split it and oozed out of sight of the cove.

  The crossing should have taken no more than twenty minutes but the wind in mid-channel blew in from the open sea and began to push us around fiercely as well as whip up the waves. We were bouncing and crashing, bouncing and crashing with every stroke. Charley Hackett held the compass, redirecting us every third or fourth stroke. Dan peeled his ancient eyes for the others but he could not see them. Every team was struggling on its own. It became a mess with Charley and Dan bailing to keep us from swamping, ourselves drenched and in the dark and the curragh bobbing like a cork.

  At dead center of the strait we heard chilling screams.

  "Someone's swamped!" Charley cried.

  Cries followed the screams.

  "Let's have a look, Conor!" Charley broke.

  "Sit down and shut up," Dan ordered. "Sit down, Charley!"

  "Pull, Seamus," Conor yelled, gritting his teeth and shutting out the desperate cries for help. A wave nearly bent us in half and we were in a struggle to keep upright. Water poured into mid-boat as the tar and canvas stretched and grunted to the ripping point.

  "Quarter into the waves, Seamus^'

  We spun in a convulsed circle. Conor grabbed me and shoved me out of my seat, taking over my oar. He brought the boat under control as I bailed with Dan and Charley, then he played agilely with the swells and chops. He danced and tiptoed through it like his daddy would have done.

  "I see land!" Charley cried.

  "We may have to ride a wave in like a shot," Conor cried. "Charley, Seamus, prepare to jump when I tell you, grab the bow, hold it high. D
on't let it crash straight down!"

  Suddenly we tore at the shore atop a high, hard-moving breaker. The boat catapulted . . . closer . . . closer . . .

  "Now!"

  Charley and I went in up to our necks, then lifted to hold the bow high and keep the boat from smashing up. I was lifted off my feet, then dunked, then lifted. I clawed with my feet at the rocks, gagging from water and with shots of pain from the bashing. Conor was at my side adding his strength.

  "Run at the beach!" he screamed.

  We hurled ourselves. The curragh eased onto the sand as though it had been riding on glass. Dan tumbled out and all four of us dug, dug, dug, getting the boat up to safety. Out came the machine gun, out came the ammunition box, out came the wire reel and the stretcher to carry it.

  We sank to our knees, allowing the luxury of a minute to double over and gasp.

  "All right, up. Dan, Charley, set up the gun. Seamus, take the boat up behind the tower!" Somehow we had landed within fifty yards of our destination. Conor was in the water, scanning for other boats.

  In they limped. A second curragh was a quarter of a mile off target. We could see them stagger and reel. The boat was shattered on landing and broke apart.

  Conor herded them into the tower.

  Then came Gilmartin, who, along with Lord Louie, was the best of the sailors. He mastered his craft in safely, then collapsed face down. Conor dragged him up the beach with my help. We knew that one boat had swamped but one more was due. Conor ordered me to get Gilmartin to the tower.

  "I'm going back down and find the other boat," Conor said.

  "Wait . . ." Gilmartin gasped. "We're it . . ."

  "There's one more out there."

  "No, they're both gone. I saw it. Pendergast flipped over and swamped. I fished him out while passing. He was dead."

  "The other . . ."

  "Lord Louie. He almost ran over the top of us, then broke in half . . . oh, Jesus . . . Jesus . . ." Gilmartin screamed.

  "Shut up, goddammit!" Conor bellowed. "Shut up! All right, let's get up to the tower."

  *

  A curious, cautious boarding party inched on the Glory of Ulster, consisting of naval personnel, port authorities and Constabulary. A search of the ship turned up nothing. The dead watchman was well hidden in an inaccessible flooded part of the hold.