Death on the Holy Mountain lfp-7

by David Dickinson

  If you ever go across the sea to Ireland

  Then maybe at the closing of your day,

  You will sit and watch the moon rise over Claddagh

  And see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

  She didn’t like the bit about the closing of your day very much. She prayed that Francis would find a way to escape long before he could see the sun go down on Galway Bay.

  Powerscourt knew that the road would be bumpy whichever direction they went. He was sure that they had gone down the hill towards Leenane but which fork in the road they had taken he could not tell. There were occasional shrieks from the wild birds and loud bleatings from the sheep whose tenure of the road was so rudely interrupted by the carriage. He and Johnny could only wait.

  He began piecing together in his mind random thoughts that might have a bearing on his investigation. They were like fragments of unsolved code in his brain, or strings of numbers that could mean so much to a mathematician, looping and circling round each other, spiralling away on a journey of digits that could lead to chaos or infinity. What had the young man called Seamus said that morning? He talked about the right of the Irish people to own the land of Ireland. Somebody else had talked about land, Connolly, that was it, the very first man with the vanished paintings he had seen, who had virtually thrown him out of the house. Hunger, Connolly had said, there’s a hunger for land so strong out there that on market days you could practically smell it. He thought of the tall, impossibly slim figure of Young James at Butler’s Court, saying very firmly that he never played cards for money. He thought of Uncle Peter’s account of Parnell’s funeral and the honour guard of young men from the Gaelic Athletic Association with their hurling sticks who accompanied the dead hero all the way from the railway station around the city to his final resting place at Glasnevin Cemetery. Why, only that morning he had gone out to meet the Major under a homemade flag of truce that consisted of a battered shirt wrapped round a hurling stick. He thought of Johnny Fitzgerald’s drinking companion, the defrocked Christian Brother, and his account of how to seize power in Ireland. He thought of the young man opposite, Mick, saying he’d rather die than capitulate. Suddenly he remembered a different young man singing ‘The Minstrel Boy’ in the concert party at Butler’s Court, Thomas Moore’s lament for his friends slain in the ’98 Rebellion. In the ranks of death you’ll find him. Maybe, Powerscourt thought, defeat had to be celebrated because victory never came. Maybe Ireland’s glory compensated for failure, the failure of every rising, the failure of every land campaign to dislodge the English from Dublin Castle. When the men with the pints of porter in their hands belted forth the words of ‘The West’s Awake’ or ‘A Nation Once Again’, they could, briefly, believe in Ireland’s glory. For, in truth, the west was not awake, the nation was as far away as ever. The songs took over from the truth, a whole nation incapable of distinguishing dream from reality. A nation once again, his history tutor at Cambridge had once asked acidly, when was the again? How far back did you have to go, to the High Kings of Tara or Finn McCool or the Firbolgs or the Tuatha De Danann, creatures all well dressed and clad in Irish myth? It was all nonsense, his tutor said, in a dusty room in Cambridge where reason thought it had long ago defeated the myths of glory.

  He raised his eyes briefly for his first eye contact with their jailers. They were no longer conversing in Irish. The one called Mick was reading a slim volume extracted from his pocket. Somehow Powerscourt doubted if it was Patriotic Ballads of England. Seamus was staring at the floor. They were beginning to look a little drowsy – it was now quite hot in the coach with no fresh air coming in and the Major’s men had kept them awake for most of the night – but they were not asleep. This was not the spring of hope, it was much closer to the winter of despair. The worst of times.

  Lady Lucy had a strange conversation with the liberated ladies. The Major had escorted the freed fillies, let out into the paddock, as he mentally referred to them, into the main sitting room of the hotel and brought a bottle of champagne. Then he fled, saying he could not bear the thought of not being with Powerscourt and Johnny Fitzgerald in their time of need. They had, they assured Lucy, been well treated, apart from the food which was bad except for the days when a very slight young man made them his grandmother’s Irish stew. The first time, said Mary Ormonde, it was excellent, the second time it was acceptable, the third time it was revolting, the young man seemed to have forgotten some of the ingredients, like the meat and the potatoes. They absolutely refused to go back to Westport until Lady Lucy’s ordeal was over. If Ormonde wants to come and see his own, his wife declared, he could get on his horse and ride here.

  As she and her sister departed to their rooms to rest after their ordeal, Lady Lucy wandered out into the little garden on the edge of the water. The battered nymph was still spouting erratic bursts of water on to the flowers. A red rose beside it was losing its leaves, perfect red petals drifting down to lie on the ground, the colour of blood. Lady Lucy thought of Francis rowing her out there that very morning, the time passing impossibly quickly. She remembered the look of complete pleasure on his face as the two of them lay back in their gondola in Venice several years before and were transported up the Grand Canal to the art gallery, the Accademia. She remembered the ecstasy on his face as he stood, transfixed, in front of Giovanni Bellini’s altarpiece of the Madonna and Child with Saints in a side chapel of the Franciscan church there, the Frari. He had quoted Henry James to her, she remembered, nothing in Venice is more perfect than this. She tried to blot out the memories of Francis and the children but they kept coming in like the tide. Francis bowling for hour after hour to Thomas in their makeshift nets at Rokesley Hall, teaching his little boy some of the strokes of cricket. Francis out riding with Olivia, trekking all afternoon through the paths of Rockingham Forest before they returned, exhausted, for an enormous tea. Francis chasing the twins round and round the dining-room table and up the stairs in Markham Square. She began to pray. Our Father which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. The words of the pilgrims came back to her as they walked round and round the first station on the Holy Mountain. Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee, blessed art thou amongst women. Lady Lucy could see no reason why it couldn’t be a Protestant prayer as well. She found it comforting, even the last words, pray for us sinners now and in the hour of our death, Amen. There between the hills and the mountains with Killary Harbour in front of her, Lady Lucy said seven Our Fathers and seven Hail Marys as the faithful had done at the stations on Croagh Patrick. She called it the Leenane Station. She offered it up to her husband, wherever he was.

  Johnny Fitzgerald had fallen asleep. Occasional low snores broke the silence in the red velvet carriage. The one called Seamus was drifting away, sitting up suddenly every now and then to remind himself that he was on duty. The one called Mick had the book open on his lap but it was some time since he had turned a page. Powerscourt too drifted in and out of sleep. The heat was making him feel uncomfortable and he longed for a glass of water. He wondered when they planned to change the horses, these present ones couldn’t last much longer. Then the road surface seemed to improve. The great lurches that had marked their progress so far were, for now, a thing of the past. Powerscourt could only guess where they were. His sense of geography, never very accurate at the best of times, had abandoned him altogether. All he could tell from the regular bleatings of the sheep was that they were somewhere up in the mountains. He wondered what a shepherd would have made of this strange vehicle, doors closed, no sign of life inside, rattling along near Maam Cross.

  After ten minutes on the good road, Powerscourt decided it was time to move. The two young men were dozing or asleep. He nudged Johnny Fitzgerald very gently in the ribs. They both arched back very slowly on their seats to gain maximum purchase. Then, in unison, they drew their knees up to their chins and they launched themselves as hard as they could, boots first, into the crotches of their enemies. Powerscourt followed this up with an enormous punch wit
h his right hand into Seamus’s cheek. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Johnny doing the same thing. Seamus fell to his right. Powerscourt reached out his left hand and opened the door. He grabbed the young man by the top of his shirt and the seat of his trousers and propelled him towards the door. Two vigorous kicks were enough to send him into the outside world. Powerscourt closed the door and turned to administer a final kick to the departing figure of Mick on the other side. Johnny closed the door. They had left the season of Darkness behind them.

  ‘By God, that was good, Johnny,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Give it ten seconds or so and go tell the coachman to keep going for another four hundred yards as fast as he can. Then we can review the situation.’

  No pistol shots followed them up the road. Powerscourt rubbed at the knuckles of his right hand. They would be sore for some time from the punch that felled the one called Seamus. Johnny clambered out and took up his position beside the coachman. Now they heard shots behind them, three fired at brief intervals first, and then two volleys of about eight or nine rounds at a time. A scream echoed round the mountains and its noise and the gunshots sent the sheep scurrying for whatever cover they could find. Johnny stopped the coach. Powerscourt had picked up the book Mick had been reading. It had fallen on the floor at his departure. The Wind Among the Reeds, Fisher Unwin, London, 1899, the title page said. W.B. Yeats. And him, Powerscourt thought, a Protestant poet from Sligo, a man of the Anglo-Irish, read by such an ardent and uncompromising Catholic nationalist as the young man called Mick.

  They could hear horses coming at speed. ‘Powerscourt,’ shouted the Major, ‘are the two of you all right?’

  ‘Never better,’ Powerscourt replied cheerfully, ‘bit thirsty, that’s all. Catering department non-existent among these nationalists. Thirst must be meant to be good for you. What was that firing a moment ago?’

  ‘Young fool,’ said the Major, ‘the one you must have thrown out on the left-hand side of the road, thought he’d take us on. Must have seen he was outnumbered about twelve to one. Maybe the natives never learn to count out here. Anyway he loosed off a few, couldn’t shoot straight incidentally, so we had to reply. He’s gone,’ the Major looked round at the desolate landscape for a moment, ‘to the great peat bog in the sky.’

  ‘I think he always preferred death and glory, that one,’ said Powerscourt. ‘Nothing finer than giving your life in Ireland’s cause. What about the other fellow? He told us his name was Seamus but he’s really called something else. I think he was the brains of the enterprise.’

  The Major laughed. ‘Brains, was he? Well, he’s not looking too clever at the moment. Doubled up, he is, whichever of you two kicked him in his private parts did for him good and proper. Pity we’ve only got one in the bag, but better than nothing.’

  Powerscourt thanked the Major for his swift appearance on the scene. ‘We were right behind you all the time,’ said the military man. ‘Had a bet on what time you’d break out, actually, Powerscourt.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Damn it, I think I may have won. I said you’d see off the little green people five minutes ago. Good show, what?’

  Johnny made a special request. ‘Does anybody have anything to drink in this godforsaken place?’

  The Major looked at his troops. ‘I am blind,’ he said, ‘I cannot see a thing.’

  Half a bottle of John Jameson was handed over to Johnny Fitzgerald who took an enormous swig. ‘Thank you,’ he said, ‘thank you so much. By God, that tastes good.’

  ‘I say,’ said the Major, ‘I’m forgetting my duties. We’ve got a couple of spare nags with us. Thought you might like to totter back on your own. Leave all this mess to us,’ he waved his hand at the corpse on one side of the road and the doubled-up figure on the other, ‘we’ll clear it up.’

  As Powerscourt and Fitzgerald began the ride back to Leenane a vicious hiss pursued them down the road. ‘Traitors, bloody traitors to Ireland, both of you.’ The face of the one called Seamus was doubled up with pain as he spoke but there was no doubting his sincerity. One of the troopers kicked him hard on the side of the head.

  ‘Shut up, you piece of Fenian shit,’ said the trooper. ‘From now on you can learn some bloody manners. Don’t speak, unless you’re spoken to first.’

  Lady Lucy Powerscourt was still at her prayer station in the garden late that afternoon. She watched the street that led up to the Maum road. Twice in the last half-hour she had heard horses’ hooves and human voices but it was only a farmhand and a man come in to buy some tea from the store. Still she waited. She said more prayers. She looked at some fishermen unloading their catch and a man from the hotel kitchens obviously haggling about prices. A priest went by on his bicycle and smiled at Lady Lucy. Three small boys trotted past her kicking at a stone in the road. Then she heard laughter that she thought might be Johnny Fitzgerald’s. Johnny had a very distinctive laugh. She wondered if she should run down the road to meet them, if it was them. Something told her not to. If her prayers had been answered, then it was only proper to wait in that place for her deliverance. She heard Francis’s voice. The two of them were hidden temporarily by a bend in the road. Then she saw them, rather dirty, rather dishevelled as if they had been in a fight, but not wounded or hurt. She pulled out a handkerchief and waved it furiously.

  ‘Francis!’ she shouted. ‘Francis!’

  One of the horses broke into a gallop. ‘Lucy, my love! Lucy!’

  Then Francis was beside her, holding her tight in his arms. ‘My own love,’ she said, ‘you’ve come back! Thank God! Oh, thank God!’

  Half an hour later Lord Francis Powerscourt was lying in his bath. Lady Lucy was plying him with champagne as she listened to his adventures.

  ‘There’s to be a great dinner tonight, Francis,’ she told him. ‘To celebrate the release of the ladies and your escape. The Major organized it before he left. He said he might sing a song, the Major.’

  ‘God save Ireland,’ said Powerscourt, ‘if the Major sings a song.’ He wondered if a wake had been organized too in case he and Johnny had not returned but he didn’t like to ask.

  ‘And Dennis Ormonde is coming from Ormonde House,’ Lucy went on. ‘He’ll be so pleased to see his wife again.’

  Lady Lucy left to attend to some matters in the bedroom. There was still some time before dinner. Powerscourt rose slowly from the waves and draped himself in a series of towels. He thought of A Tale of Two Cities again. It is a far better thing I do now, he said to himself with a wicked grin, than I have ever done before. He advanced into the bedroom and kissed Lady Lucy firmly on the lips.

  ‘Francis,’ she said, and then in a different tone altogether, ‘Francis!’ She moved to close the curtains. The worst of times were over.

  PART FOUR

  TREAD SOFTLY

  The Minstrel Boy to the war is gone,

  In the ranks of death you’ll find him;

  His father’s sword he has girded on,

  And his wild harp slung behind him.

  Thomas Moore

  15

  Father O’Donovan Brady had made Cathal Rafferty tell his story of the strange goings-on in the Head Gardener’s Cottage three times. He made copious notes. He wrote the names of the two participants in a small black book in large capital letters. He knew he would return to reread this material over and over again in the days ahead. He gave Cathal ten shillings with instructions to keep watching. Cathal, after all, was carrying out the work of the Lord. Then Father Brady poured himself a generous glass of John Powers and sat down to plan his campaign.

  Central to this strategy was the Protestant parson, the Reverend Giles Cooper Walker, the man who had read the prayers at the concert party at Butler’s Court. Ordinary Protestants, the Father had been taught at theological college, were little better than heretics. Protestant clergymen were worse, much worse. The priest wondered if he should consult with his bishop about the move he was planning, actually calling on the rector and, much more difficult, being polite to him, something
he knew he would find much more taxing. Nevertheless, he told himself, unusual times need unusual measures. Our Lord would never have succeeded in His mission here on earth if He had carried on according to the ancient principles of the Pharisees. It was time to seize the hour and tackle the vicar in his own quarters. So it was that at eleven o’clock a few days after Cathal’s visit Father O’Donovan Brady was knocking on the front door of the Protestant rectory, a handsome early Georgian house with roses blooming in the small front garden.