Trinity

by Leon Uris

  South of Summer Cove they galloped through meadows blanketed yellow with mule's ears. At Rinncurran the cliffs and point filled up with brick and ivy of Charles Fort where its defenses looked to a narrows passing to open sea. The fort had been built in the middle of the seventeenth century on the site of a Barry Og castle and down through the generations many new masters added on and it grew into a rambling affair. Part of it was still in use as a British garrison.

  Lord Arthur was recognized and waved through the gate ceremoniously. They led their mounts to an abandoned decaying barrack and turned them loose in an overgrown enclosure, then climbed the steps to a promontory wall of the old outer perimeter. Hoping to throw Roger on the defensive, he grimly passed Glendon Rankin's letter to his son. Roger read it and handed it back.

  '"I'm afraid old Rankin's time has come," Roger said crashingly. "I intended to speak to you about his settlement."

  Arthur went dry with shock. "I shouldn't be too hasty . obviously I've come to depend on you heavily but it takes time, a long time, to understand all the intricacies, and the Rankin family has been in it for over a century."

  "Glendon Rankin hasn't the foggiest notion of what is happening today," Roger answered tersely.

  "What I am saying, Roger, is that when you have completely saturated yourself in Foyle Enterprises your own participation will increase accordingly. We simply don't throw away a century of Rankin experience."

  Roger steamrollered over his father's notes of caution. "There have been three major reform bills in the last decade," he said, "and after this next election there will be total reform madness. Glendon Rankin is nothing but a rent collector. He hasn't a prayer of coping with the new laws or the Land League and he can't continue bullying his way by outdated methods."

  "Now, Roger, it's far too early for you to have all the answers."

  Roger explained his concept of controlling everything from planted seed to finished linen to be shipped on Hubble ships and sold in Hubble stores. It was a concept that carried through similarly in wool, cattle and mines. He was getting rid of thousands of acres of low-rental yield land and was converting it into great ranches. On the industrial side, Londonderry was ideal because there was a chronic shortage of jobs and labor remained the cheapest in the British Isles.

  What Roger explained was largely beyond his father's grasp. Moreover, Arthur had gotten wind of the budding friendship with Frederick Weed and was wary of it. He knew Weed to be a bully and a pirate. Roger's seeming naivete over Weed was annoying.

  Lord Arthur slapped his riding crop into an open hand and walked out farther along the wall. "This direction you're plunging into is full of trouble."

  "We've got to get out of the landlord business or sink with it," Roger said. "That's the reality of the day."

  "Frankly, Roger, I find myself becoming most distressed about certain social aspects of this entire movement."

  "I'm not sure I understand," his son answered.

  "We are coming to the end of a century in which we have seen a great deal of — how shall I put it? — enlightenment. I've been doing a lot of reading these days, looking into some of the new philosophies coming from the Continent. The entire Industrial Revolution contains a dark underside. It's not only what Rankin says about the vice and evils of urbanization. Frankly, I don't particularly like the ugly specter of us engaging in child, orphan and female labor and through our factories making a direct contribution to the squalor of the cities."

  Arthur felt good after having said that. It was a spirited statement reflecting a position of social consciousness. He studied the puzzlement on his son's face with a smack of contentment. Good to put him in his place, Arthur thought. Too damned cocksure. Needs a trimming.

  "Do you know what I think, Father?" Roger said.

  "About what?"

  "About your pangs of conscience and new worldly enlightenment. I think you are a bloody hypocrite."

  "I beg your pardon."

  "I said you are a bloody hypocrite. Our fortune is based on ruthless colonization, land seizures and exploitation of the cheapest labor in the world. What do you think the price of a nine-year-old Catholic shepherd boy is and what do you think a peasant woman gets for cottage industry linen?"

  "There's a difference, Roger."

  "What difference?"

  "Land and peasantry is a natural way of life that has gone on unchanged for centuries. No matter who owns the land, the peasant is the same everywhere. Factories and cities are man-made and all the vice that goes with them is man-made. Rankin is right about that."

  Roger bristled. "My God, man, my God. I do not believe what I hear. You are seeking enlightenment. Well, I'd better enlighten you about what I've found studying the estate records. Do you have the vaguest notion what they contain?"

  "Rankin has always represented the earldom's interests"

  "You don't know because you've avoided those books like leprosy. Just because you appointed a surrogate doesn't absolve you of the filth he's done in your name."

  "I f-f-f-forbid this discussion to continue. . ."

  "Forbid, do you? Well, you're not getting off this wall until you hear," Roger said, coming around to face his father, his neck swollen with anger as he shouted: "Your allowance, your greed, have kept us pinned to the wall since the minute you became Earl of Foyle. Bloody extravagance piled on bloody extravagance. Two worthless racing stables, a villa in the South of France, Clara's obscene shopping sprees, ten-thousand-quid yachts; your tailor bills alone would clothe half of Londonderry. But all of that was quite all right because you didn't allow yourself to know what Glendon Rankin had to do to keep your bloody allowance coming. He took it out of the hide of your tenants, that's what. For every ten pounds of seed he sold in the spring, he collected fifty in the autumn. For every expired lease he extorted bribes for renewals. He was in league with every gombeen man in Donegal, cutting himself in on outrageous interests and manipulating crop prices. Have you the slightest idea of how many people have been evicted under your humane regime? How many bills of ejection Rankin signed in your name? Oh there's more, Father, much, much more . . ."

  Arthur's riding crop lashed out but Roger stopped it harmlessly with his forearm. "You're being ridiculous, Father. You hit like a woman."

  Arthur turned into a trembling mass as his son grabbed him and shouted in his face.

  "You're no better than me or your father, the famine Earl whom you despise. No better at all, so spare me your tuppenny philosophies in the future."

  "Have you quite d-d-d-done?"

  "No! As of now I'm directing the enterprise . . . everything. You'll get your bloody allowance but I don't want your meddling. It's either me or you can go hang yourself with Glendon Rankin."

  "Roger," Arthur whimpered, "Roger," he cried, clutching his son's arms desperately. "My son . . . you're not serious. . ."

  He removed his father's hands, firmly. "I'm afraid I insist we reduce this to an understanding in writing."

  "My own son . . . blackmail!"

  "Indeed not, Father. I shall resign immediately. I shall do so steeped in the joyous knowledge that Glendon Rankin will have you in bankruptcy within three years."

  "All right . . . all right . . ." Arthur whispered. "I'll think about it. I'll give you an answer."

  "No, Father. You've spent your entire life in idle thought and evading reality. You'll give me your answer here and now."

  "I'm appalled, totally, utterly astonished!"

  "You shouldn't be," Roger said coldly. "This has been coming since you rushed me into the breach years ahead of my time. You pushed me here, Father. You pushed me here in order to keep blood off your doorstep."

  There was no way out for Arthur except to leap from the wall. A bugle from the fort pierced the air, adding to his sense of frenzy. Echoes of a master sergeant letting go with a barrage of exaggerated commands found their trinity way up to them. Roger remained imperturbable, without bluff or bluster. It was neat surgery. What little fight
his father had was dissipated. Arthur now spoke in a whine.

  "What on earth shall I tell Glendon Rankin?"

  "A simple document with your signature will suffice. I'll do the rest."

  "Very well." He passed Roger like a man freed from a trap and looking for air to breathe.

  "Father, there is another matter."

  Arthur turned.

  "The political picture is grim. When I was in Belfast I was asked if you would be available for some appearances during the Twelfth of July celebrations. I tentatively accepted on your behalf."

  "You've no right to do that."

  "I said the picture is grim."

  "Londonderry and Hubble Manor is bad enough. I haven't been to Belfast for the Twelfth in fifteen years. Besides, what on earth would I do for an entire month until Apprentice Boys Day in Londonderry?"

  "Hamilton Walby is in serious trouble. Your presence for the month is required."

  In the last gasp of independence he was ever to make against his son, Arthur Hubble rose to what anger he was capable. Roger knew the protest was based on the fact he'd miss the best of the Kinsale social season and would have to incur Clara's wrath. "I shall not," Arthur said pointedly, "subject myself to a month of drum beating, pedantic speeches and hysterical hymn howling. I. . . shall . . . not . . . go!" With that he walked down the crumbling steps to the enclosure and mounted his horse.

  Roger followed, reaching down and lifting the gate handle. "We'll be leaving day after tomorrow," he said matter-of-factly. "I cabled Mother in London. For appearances' sake, it will be best that the two of you attend to your public duties together during this period. Mother will be joining us in Belfast. I suggest you arrange a trip for Clara to Paris or Italy."

  Roger spurred away, leaving father and horse immobile.

  CHAPTER NINE

  In the end, Lord Arthur went quietly.

  In Belfast on the Twelfth of July he rode in a long line of open carriages filled with Anglo ascendancy aristocrats in a deliberate reminder of Ulster's connection to the motherland. Thousands of Orangemen from hundreds of lodges were piped by dozens of bands along a well grooved route to Finaghy Field where an ominous annual tone was set and Protestant Belfast was again pitched to a hairline away from a riot.

  The return trip to Belfast came as a bitter disappointment to Roger, who had anticipated a renewal of velvet combat with Caroline. She had left for Paris and the idea of her wallowing among the Claude Moreaus disturbed him deeply.

  With the glorious Twelfth done, the Hubbles retreated to their lair outside Londonderry, where Roger and Arthur went about shoring up Hamilton Walby's fences and the business of getting rid of Glendon Rankin.

  Rankin got his summons in the form of a cold, impersonal letter. He would receive a reasonable life pension and use of a Scottish summer retreat belonging to the Earl. Exile without confrontation. It was the same kind of tactic he had used to rid the earldom of unwanted tenants and enemies.

  Rankin knew what the rest of it would be. Many unsolved crimes and abuses against tenants would be dug up from the past and attributed to him in an effort to purge the records. After he had departed, rumors hinting of his frauds would be circulated. Roger Hubble would then magnanimously make a public statement that he wished to bring no dishonor to the family who had served the earldom so well and let matters die without an investigation. Glendon Rankin, who had served as hangman, knew the victim had no chance even if the victim were himself. In the end, he too went quietly.

  Lord Arthur's appearance at Hubble Manor, his rush to Hamilton Walby's aid and preservation of the union with England was on every Protestant lip. As Apprentice Boys Day loomed, hospitality and housing tents were erected on the grounds of Hubble Manor and Londonderry set the stage to renew the battle for Ulster. The undercurrent of the summer's seething bubbled on the surface from great deep wells of righteous anger all set to spew forth on the holiest of Orange days.

  *

  Four days before the great event, Inishowen was flagellated by a three-day storm that seemed to indicate that the Almighty himself had taken personal note of the situation in Ulster and was roaring a judgment of approval. Hubble Manor buttoned down under the lashing as flinching, cringing flashes and crashes revived every ghost story known about the castle.

  Lord Roger labored in the library unannoyed by the crackle and batter, and looked up from his desk as a knock persisted on the door. "Come in."

  It was his father who approached him, obviously disturbed.

  "Yes, Father?"

  "Someone has arrived."

  "Who?"

  "A Reverend Maclvor."

  "Maclvor? I don't believe I know the name."

  "You'd better see him. Very strange sort," Arthur said. Roger followed his father into the main foyer. A man of perhaps five and a half feet stood dead center. Outside, a fresh salvo of thunder stretched the manor's timbers. The man was cloaked in grim Presbyterian gray, Inverness cape and a wide-brimmed terai hat of soft felt. Although escorted in by an umbrella-bearing servant, he bore effects of the rain. His face was shiny from it and it dripped from the edges of his hat. Roger advanced. The man's face was baby smooth and he was thin-lipped. His eyes darted out a constant challenge.

  "My son, the Viscount Coleraine," Arthur said.

  "Oliver Cromwell Maclvor," the preacher answered in a resonant baritone that belied his diminutive stature.

  "I don't seem to recall," Roger said. "Have you come with an Orange Lodge?"

  "I was to have arrived with Sir Frederick Weed. I am early."

  "Oh yes, forgive me," Roger said.

  "I was attending to the Lord's work on the way and came separately."

  "You are most welcome. Father, the reverend was invited here at the request of Sir Frederick. He is to preach at the Cathedral. Your bags?"

  "They have been attended to."

  "Have you had supper?"

  Maclvor gave off an odd cynical smile. "When you get caught up in the Lord's work, you sometimes forget"

  "Well then, why don't you get yourself dry and we'll send something up. It will be quite comfortable by the fire. May I join you?"

  "As you wish," he answered, following a servant up the stairs.

  A half hour later Roger halted before the preacher's apartment and knocked. A low, unintelligible moan from within was heard rising and falling on the pitches of the storm. Another sharp knock went unanswered. A gasping, strangulating sound sent Roger bursting into the room.

  Oliver Cromwell Maclvor sat before the fire swaying back and forth like an old Jew at prayer with the rattling in his throat ranging from a choking wheeze to a gurgle.

  "Are you quite all right?" Roger inquired.

  The answer was unintelligible. Roger moved in to get a look at the preacher's face. It was glistening with sweat and his eyes rolled back, showing white.

  "Reverend Maclvor!"

  He was snapped from his trance and leaped to his feet. "Who told you to come! You interrupted! Get out! Get out!"

  Roger backed away curiously.

  "No . . . wait," Maclvor said, falling back to his chair. "Forgive me." He looked up and tears fell down his cheeks. "Do you know what it's like to have the Lord speaking to you? No, of course you don't. No one does. Kindly . . . kindly take your leave . . ."

  When Roger departed, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor went to the water basin calmly, dunked his face, then did in the meal ravenously, quite enchanted with his performance.

  *

  The awesome Lambeg drums resounded from village to village like tribal messages on the dark continent. Kilted Orangemen stood before Orange Halls in the towns and villages and hamlets bombarding the countryside. During the summer-long marching season no place was immune from the drums' tattoo and no place too remote from the cocky jig steps of the dancing marchers.

  They had poured into Belfast by the tens of thousands for the Twelfth of July to celebrate their victory over the Catholics at the River Boyne in 1690. The marching season
moved to its climax in their holy city of Londonderry where they would worship their savior, William of Orange.

  They came by rail from Coleraine and County Tyrone and County Donegal and County Fermanagh and up from Dublin. They came by chartered boat from Belfast and Counties Down and Antrim, and Canada and England and Scotland where the Glasgow Orangemen were the most fanatic of all.

  Londonderry was under siege again, this time by the heirs of her ancient defenders. When all the houses of all the brothers were filled, encampments resembling ancient tented regiments spread along the hills of the Waterside district and the grounds of Hubble Manor. Every house and cottage of a loyal family flew the Union Jack side by side with the Red Hand of Ulster. Hundreds of archways were erected on main thoroughfares of the cities and the diamonds of the towns and these wore flower chains and bore portraits of beloved King Billy and beloved Queen Victoria and proclaimed, GOD BLESS THE EMPIRE and GOD SAVE ULSTER and REMEMBER 1690 and GOD SAVE OUR QUEEN.

  The clans made their pilgrimage to the holy city for the holy day to revel in centuries-old victories over papists and croppies at the River Boyne and Enniskillen and Aughrim and the Diamond and Dolly's Brae. Now, at the sanctum sanctorum Derry's walls.

  Up the east coast of Inishowen on both sides of the River Foyle, bonfires inflamed the skies to satanic hues. In Londonderry about Irish Street and the Waterside and the old walled city, "The Protestant Boys" banalized the air, and for a penny a good Orangeman could kick the Pope in effigy for a worthy charity.

  With an election coming up and the natives given the right to vote, the annual renewal of Protestant passion took on the air of a holy war.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I was dinnlin' with excitement when my daddy told me I was to go to Derry with him for a meeting of all the Irish Party candidates of three counties. I sped along the familiar route from our best room, across the yard and over the wall toward the Larkin cottage. The voices of Tomas and Finola raised in argument brought me to a halt before their byre.

  "A dirty time to be calling you into Derry," Finola said, "with all those crazy Orangemen ready to go on a rampage."