by Leon Uris
The room was warm and sensuous as it had always been but its sensuality was not because of Des and Atty. It was sensuous for the movement. Wasn't that what she and Des really wanted? Riding on this thing they were achieving together had become their heartbeat. She'd pondered it for long hours after his death. Strange, but in this room they'd never let go for one another. Was the movement their mutual crutch to shield them from themselves? Didn't they know that they were not capable of giving and receiving the kind of love to each other they had poured into the movement?
Everything she knew of Conor Larkin indicated he was no less devoted to the cause. Yet he also had the ability to turn inward to his woman. Des had given her the independence she had demanded within the marriage. His needs from her had been nominal, for he was happy in his own ego. Conor Larkin would possess his woman and he alone would shine in her eyes. Atty knew that.
Could she handle something like that? How many women had sensed that intensity in Larkin and fled from him? How many others longed to taste it and failed? Could a man like that be had in a casual relationship? Or would he be so strong as to make her change her whole psyche to hold him?
He was frightening but so terribly tempting. What would it be like having the first man able to take her over? Atty shivered.
"I want to see you again," she said abruptly. "The play closes in a few weeks. Why don't I come up to Belfast for a visit?" She'd said that before to men she wanted, yet. . .
"I'm flattered," Conor answered. "I'm afraid your fame would precede you and you'd stand out like the lovely statue you are. Frankly, Dan Sweeney and the Council would rightly object to us cavorting about in public, particularly in Belfast."
"I didn't think of that. Would you come down to Dublin?"
"I'm not able to get away very often and, if the truth be known, I don't feel too much at ease among all these high-sounding intellectuals. Sure I love Seamus but I can't get to feel really at home."
"Most of it's blather, all talk. Everyone chatters, chatters, chatters. Arthur Griffith, Yeats, Seamus O'Neill, Atty Fitzpatrick," she said.
"Words are our bullets, Atty."
"Don't think so poorly of yourself. When all the talkers have shot up their verbal ammunition, the Brotherhood is going to have to depend on a handful of men like yourself to get the job done. And besides, you're not so bad with words, yourself. I've read some of your poems."
"Seamus shouldn't go showing that junk. I've not written in a long time."
"You ought to."
"Well, Dan tells me I'll have a world of time once I reach prison."
A second wave of awkwardness was on them.
"Funny," Atty said softly. "I've prided myself on my desirability and my ability to reject. This is rather difficult for me, Conor. I've never asked a man to take me to bed before."
Conor stood and pulled her to her feet. He embraced her fully and held a great deal of woman in his arms as he did so. Then he stood her off. "I think we'd better let it settle for a time."
Atty paled and tears of obvious hurt wanted to show. "I've made a damned fool of myself."
"You're lonely, you want a man, there's nothing wrong with that. You're also a great woman, Atty, and I don't want to do the disservice of taking you on lightly."
She managed a stage laugh. "This is a new experience for me."
"I'm not rejecting you, lass. Surely I was thinking about it the instant we met. Only I realize how unfair it would be to make love to you because I'm still weeping inside for my Shelley. Can you understand?"
She knew all right if she hadn't known it before. She, knew the price of playing with this one would endanger her barriers, smash up the self-containment and self-contentment that she had managed to retain through a successful marriage and three children. He would take her to places inside herself she had never been with herself. For a crazy instant she longed to lead him into the next room and keep it dark and tell him to pretend if he, so wished or to cry aloud in her breasts. But she was afraid, for she had never given anything like that to a man.
CHAPTER FIVE
In the months following the election, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor seized upon the panic of another Home Rule threat, unfolding plans which had become his blood, light and air during fifteen agonized years of waiting. Using his own churches as the sounding boards across the province, he rode on the waves of ancient Ulster fears.
"When the Lord thy God shall bring thee into the land whither thou goest to possess it and when the Lord thy God shall deliver them before thee; thou shall smite them, and utterly destroy them; thou shall make no covenant with them, nor show mercy unto them . . . for thou art an holy people unto the Lord thy God; the Lord thy God hath chosen thee to be a special people unto himself, above all people . . ."
Roger Hubble had been right in that his interests would continue to be served by Maclvor despite the split between them. The preacher added little new in a place screaming for social change, warming up the same old stew and serving it. The Protestants of Ulster had been hammered by the theme for three, centuries until it had become an integral part of their mentality from birth. They were one side of the Irish trinity along with the British masters and the natives, and they continued to be manipulated away from the real issue of betterment of human life for the common people.
One more time it was dragged up by telling them they were the same as the ancient Hebrews in pursuit of their promised land and privileged people in God's eyes. All that was new was the first step in shedding an age-old automatic tradition of politically following the gentry. All that was really happening was a subtle change of the guard. Yet Maclvor hypnotized the throngs and he in turn became more and more steeped in his own vision of his messianic power. Tent revival meetings overflowed where there was no church. Massive, outdoor assemblies followed where there was no tent.
A decade earlier he had formed the Knights of Christ, an elitist group, an inner circle of the ultra righteous. Their true purpose, the core of a mob, had been held in check for the propitious moment.
As his evangelic wildfire burned over Ulster, he subtly converted the Knights of Christ into a vanguard "for the defense of the Protestant faith from assault by satanists, papists and turncoats." As though the Orange Order were, not already in business for precisely the same purpose, Maclvor's scheme required a private army. Using former military officers and numerous. off-duty Constabulary as group leaders, the Knights were drilled in roughhouse tactics. Although he was skating on thin legal ice, the authorities vacillated and remained inert. Within a period of months a body had been created to bully local situations, create havoc on signal, and disrupt certain gatherings of dissident preachers, for no other gospel was true gospel but Oliver Cromwell Maclvor's.
New Universal Presbyterian churches shot up, seemingly overnight, in Armagh, Lisburn, Carrickfergus, Coleraine, Bangor and Lurgan. These were stocked with clergy rushed through his "theological" school on a four-month course and ordained by the Moderator himself.
As the year of 1907 came into being, a riot was instigated by the Knights of Christ in the Catholic area of Downpatrick over the hiring of three Catholic teachers in a new public school. Coming off the incident with success served as a forewarning of larger things to come in Belfast and Derry later in the year.
With his troops in place and his institutions established over the breadth of the province, Oliver Cromwell MacIvor pulled his coup. Traveling to London to get the greatest coverage, he called a press conference and announced the formation of the Loyalist Party.
"We have followed the old order obediently and have been led down the primrose path for our efforts. The plain Christian folk of Ulster whose lives are the most affected now intend to make the decisions concerning themselves and the future of their province. This is a party of the people. The era of subjugation to the old ruling class has come to an end." After which he unloaded the party's slogan, OUR ONLY CRIME IS LOYALTY.
There it was, the grand scheme unfurled, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor's Univers
al Presbyterian Church, Oliver Cromwell Maclvor's Knights of Christ, and Oliver Cromwell Maclvor's Loyalist Party, the father, the son and the holy ghost . . . an unholy trinity.
*
Nineteen-seven came in restlessly. A great deal of reform had taken place on the land and, with it, a period of relative well-being. The focus of poverty was squarely on the cities. These were in a state, of squalor. In Dublin alone nearly half the population lived in dwellings of one family to a room. Half of these lived six persons to a room. Human degradation was rampant and there was little, in the way of British industrial investment to alleviate it except in the loyal counties of Antrim and Down.
As the labor movement was heard and made inroads, the Protestant working class of Ulster examined its own situation and found it not to be all that exalted. It began to penetrate to the Protestant worker that his class had been used. It was a situation that could only be corrected by unity with the Catholic working class.
Strikes erupted and a dialogue between Catholic and Protestant worker took place for the first time in Belfast's sordid history.
The Unionist, Orange establishment counterattacked in full blast. Oliver Cromwell Maclvor, who had no true program of his own other than that of a vulture feeding on a diseased carcass, outdid them all in the battle to keep the working classes divided. Once again Roger Hubble proved correct in his prediction that the preacher would continue to work inadvertently in their behalf.
Despite, the universal unrest and mounting labor problems, Sir Frederick Weed went about the business of being humanitarian and benefactor on his own terms. His newest project was to give the province an Ulster Rail & Marine Museum, to be erected near Boilermaker Stadium.
After the tour, Conor Larkin had been assigned to the project for the purpose of repairing locomotives collected for its permanent exhibition. In the interim, the Red Hand Express had made two more trips to England, to convey Lord Roger to and from the House of Lords and to take Sir Frederick on an extended business foray. On both occasions O'Hurley got the train into the O'Sullivan foundry and picked up a load of weapons.
With the gun running continuing smoothly, Conor began considering ways of raising the haul by hiding additional carriers in the private cars and engine, as well as the tender. There were innumerable ingenious possibilities for making sliding panels and false floors and even attaching boxes to the undercarriages.
With the latest Red Hand model off the drawing board and about to go into production, Conor formalized his own thoughts and was ready to approach Duffy O'Hurley with his ideas and carry out some of the conversion right at the yard while the engine and tender were being built
It had been a devastatingly long and lonely time without a glimpse of Shelley MacLeod. More than one, night he prayed that Dan Sweeney would transfer him away from Belfast, but he knew in reality it was impossible, so long as gun running continued through the yard. He longed for the day Sweeney would tell him to start to piece together some small Brotherhood units so at least he would have a working relationship with other men thinking and talking about the same thing.
"Too early to start forming units," Dan said, "far too early. Patience, is the elixir of revolution."
Conor lost his appetite for the theater and all those things that had once consumed a bottomless curiosity. On one occasion he traveled to Dublin deliberately to visit Atty Fitzpatrick, but it was no good, for Shelley MacLeod would not set him free.
In the beginning, thought of spring rugby practice was welcome. He'd be out in the open, rubbing elbows with old mates, working off some of the pent-up frustration. As he walked out to the grounds the reality of thirty bruising games up ahead came to roost. He was approaching his middle thirties now. Toward the end of the last season it had taken him a few more seconds to lift himself off the ground after a jarring contact and a half day longer for the stiffness to leave his body after a game. Last year there had been the excitement of Shelley, a close comradery with Robin and the pure pleasure of the exuberant Jeremy Hubble. All of that would be gone now.
Jeremy kept up a weekly correspondence with Conor, one filled with the excitement of a young man on the rise. He had managed to acquit himself well in his first terms at Trinity College and he wrote that he had gained a stone in weight and ought to be right at the top of the Trinity team. He aspired to play for the national team as had his grandfather, but alas, further travel with the Boilermakers was out.
*
Conor and Robin had nodded to one another when they passed in the yard but exchanged no words. On the first day of spring practice it was Robin who sought Conor out.
"I think we'd best have a few words," Robin said and they went out of sight behind the stands.
"I know it's awkward as hell for both of us," Robin began, "but we've got to be in close contact for half a year. It'll be best for us and the team as well if we're on decent terms with each other."
"Those are my feelings as well," Conor said.
"Good, I thought you'd understand."
"And how're Lucy and Matt and your dad and Nell?"
"We couldn't be better, man. Matt's grown like a weed and he misses you like blazes. If you must know, so have I."
"Robin, I don't know what Shelley ever told you but none of our problems had anything to do with the family."
Robin shook his curly head slowly. "She's not said a word about it or hardly a word about anything else as well."
"How is she?" Conor whispered.
"Sorely, man."
"Did she ever take up with the Kimberley chap again?"
Robin shook his head no. "Bleeding Jesus, I don't know what happened but, from the looks of it, it's killing the both of you."
"Certain things couldn't work. We'd have been foolish to try."
"Has it got anything to do with . . ." Robin cut himself short. "Never mind, it's none of my business. Look, Conor, I don't want you to take this personal but under the circumstances I talked to Derek and told him it would be best if we weren't roommates this year."
"Sure I understand," Conor answered.
"Well, let's go up and get our glorious welcome."
The first team meeting always took place in Sir Frederick's private lounge on the roof of the stands. Amid trophies to past eminence, a veritable gold and silver mine, the annual dissertation flowed thick and gooey. After introducing the prospective new players who were being sized up to have their brains knocked in, the personalized history of the team and one man's vision was told without so much as a blush. The manager then said dead on that they had a clear shot at the championship and his assistant said the juniors had never looked so good. It appeared the three converted Irishmen, Weed, Crawford and O'Brien, had cornered the market on blarney. Saving the best till last, Sir Frederick held out bait of an Australian tour now in tentative negotiation . . . if the team came through.
When they adjourned to the players' lounge, Duffy O'Hurley was at his station before the Guinness tap. Conor had not seen him in several weeks during which he had pinpointed his plans to expand the gun running capacity.
"Ah, the squad looks bang up this year, fit and raring to go," Duffy extolled. "Mind you, Doxie told me we're making a run at the championship and I quite agree. We'll not have the early season losses as last year."
"Aye," Conor said. "We'll be tough."
"And I hear there's talk about Australia. By God, I can see myself opening the throttle on those vast stretches."
"Not with me aboard, I hope. Say, Duffy, lad, it's been a long time between drinks."
"I've been on the go, running the wheels off the tram. Haven't set down in Belfast for more than an overnight for a month."
"How about us getting together for dinner and a few rounds tonight?" Conor said.
"Sure, Conor, sure. That sounds grand."
*
Duffy O'Hurley was comfortably situated in the Hotel Balmoral on the Lisburn Road arterial in what was benevolently referred to as a mixed neighborhood. As a man whose status t
ranscended sectarian lines, Duffy reveled in his own image. He was but a short walk from the homes of his sister and brother-in-law, Calhoun Hardy, and his best friend, Doxie O'Brien.
Conor was disturbed the instant Duffy let him into his apartment. The big driver wore his midnight eyes and it was only seven in the evening. The bottle on the table was half emptied for supporting courage, as he was in obvious and nervous need to unload.
"I've been meaning to talk to you but, as you know, Sir Frederick's been running my ass off. He's in constant touch with the Castle over these labor strikes."
"What's on your mind, Duffy?"
"First, I don't want nobody in the Brotherhood getting mad at me. I've done everything you asked. Me and Calhoun talked about it, what with a new train and a new tour coming up. We want out. One year of this shit is enough."
"Anything gone wrong?"
"It's nothing in particular, I've just had it."
"It's a bad time to pull out. The scheme's moving beautifully and we still have lots of weapons to bring over."
"At the rate we're going, it'll take ten years and something's got to muck it up along the line sooner or later."
"Need more money?" Conor said softly.
"Not really. All I do is drink it up or gamble it away. Man, it's the fucking tension. I spend half my days, and nights as well, thinking up excuses to get the train here, get the train there. Sometimes when I think I'm dead heading they'll stick on servants or some goddamn minor executives. And this shit of getting into Owen's foundry every time, we're in Liverpool is wearing me out Then sometimes I'm riding around Ireland for two weeks with them fucking guns in the tender. It's wrecking my health, Conor."
"You've got to give it one more season," Conor said bluntly. "I've worked out plans to increase the capacity of each run to just about a thousand rifles."
"Oh, shit," O'Hurley moaned. "I had a fucking notion you was going to slice all the cars apart. I had the notion almost like a vision in a miracle the minute I heard Sir Frederick was putting a new private car on the drawing board. I said to Calhoun, and these is my words, ‘When Conor hears about it he'll turn the train into a rolling arsenal.’ Man, I want out before the new engine gets on the tracks. If you got any notion of reworking these cars inside the yard, forget it. It'll be our necks for sure."
