by Leon Uris
*
Twenty hours later a drowsed Shelley allowed some light into the room. She drew the curtains, lifted the shade and looked down to the sidewalk where a pair of lads leaned against the walls, hands in pockets, loafing. One nudged the other and as they looked up one of them tipped his cap and nodded to tell her the place was guarded.
Conor blinked his eyes and forced the slits apart, then groaned terribly at the awareness of pain. He, steadied himself to work his mind backward and recall events. His hand slowly left the covers and he felt his mouth and the bandages about his head and ears. The agony stemming from his body made movement almost impossible and each breath a shock.
"Shelley . . ."
"I'm here."
"Shelley . . ."
"Don't talk, love. You've had a terrible ordeal. The doctor has come and gone. He said someone else might have been crippled, even dead. It will take, a few weeks to get on your feet and a few months for the pain to subside but you're going to come out of it all right."
"Water . . ."
She got her weight beneath him to help him upright. Half the water spilled down his chin and neck, for he was unable to control it.
"Robin ran all the way home, then to Blanche's, and told me you'd gone back into that riot. I came here and waited. The two trainmen brought you back. Conor … I’ll not leave you again."
As she laid him back on the bed tears fell from the corners of his eyes.
"Shhh, shhhh. It's been no good this way, man. I'd rather be dead than go through another nine months of it."
The gurgle of him crying made her weep as well.
"It will do no good to throw me out because, every time you do, I'll just come back," she said. He groped about until she gave him her hand. "It doesn't matter what you're doing, Conor. It makes no difference to me. I'm not asking for the world. All I want out of life is whatever time we have together. That's all I want, man."
"Shelley. . . I'll ruin your life . . ."
"Sure, you've done that already. Being apart is the most terrible ruination I can endure. Listen to me. This is the one thing I'm completely sure of. When you go out of that door I'll never question you about where you're going or what you're doing. I'll never demand a minute of your time you cannot freely give. But when your day is done, where your bed is, that's where I'll be from now on . . ."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Frederick Murdoch Weed's and Brigadier Maxwell Swan's reply to the riot was breathlessly swift! As the mob milled at the King William Channel on the second morning, fighting flared when the Catholics arrived to work. Not having had their full cup of blood on the first day, the Knights of Christ wanted more. One Catholic was killed and another seriously injured.
Swan's special squad personnel pinpointed the leaders and during the day warrants were issued. That same evening Vessey Bain, Joey Hooker and twenty other Knights were rounded up, arraigned and locked up in the Crumlin Road Jail without bail, for inciting a riot, extensive property damage at the yard and the murder of the Catholic worker.
They were advised they were all under suspicion at work until such time as their innocence was proved. Further "prayer" meetings and Knights of Christ assemblies within the yard were forbidden on pain of instant dismissal.
The Reverend Mr. Maclvor, who had been in Cookstown, returned immediately to Belfast and announced an open-air protest rally on the steps of the City Hall. He called Lieutenant Colonel Harrison and the top cadre of the Knights together to draw up rally plans, which called for a march on the Crumlin Road Jail afterward. The meeting was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a representative of the Attorney General's office who informed them that a requested permit for the rally had been rejected, that the gathering would be illegal and the consequences apt to be severe if they defied the order.
As battle lines shaped up by the minute the word came back to Maclvor that the military barracks at Holywood, Lisburn and Bainbridge were on the alert with supportive Constabulary units to converge on Belfast if Maclvor cared to test the ban.
In the past such niceties as permits to hold open-air meetings were only loosely sought and enforced. Subsequent riots had always been of an anti-Catholic nature, and deemed as fair sport to alleviate the tension and fears of the Protestant workers. After such a riot, if it had been a severe, one, a commission of inquiry generally condemned the behavior but rarely was anyone called to account.
This time the riot had been against Frederick Murdoch Weed and this time the meeting and march would be directed against a penal institution of the Crown. That made it a different game. Oliver Cromwell Maclvor might have caught the attention of the masses but the Hubble/ Weed combine was one of generations-standing with Dublin Castle, personal friends of the military commanders, and closely allied with the judicial and legal systems.
In the following hours the Moderator and his people had to consider the difference between bullying one's way through an almost defenceless Catholic enclave and taking on the Crown. He inched away from the showdown, citing divine, revelation as his reason for avoiding further bloodshed.
The height of the marching season had always been a traditionally slow time at Weed Ship & Iron. Many of the workers wanted time off between mid-July and mid August to partake in the plethora of Orange activities. The tone was set on the glorious Twelfth of July with a massing of lodges and bands from all over Ireland, the march through Belfast and the rally at Finaghy Field. This was followed by another immense gathering a day later at Scarva Castle for an annual re-enactment of the Battle of the Boyne. Those Orange feet stayed in motion for a solid month, culminating in Londonderry for Apprentice Boys Day.
During this time of year it also became more and more popular to have workers' holidays. Travel agencies, an institution that had been operating in England for several decades, were making inroads in Ulster and arranging specially priced group tours of England and southern Ireland.
To accommodate all this the work force had been rotated, leaving half on and half away. This year came the blunt announcement that, beginning July 10, Weed Ship & Iron would close down completely and remain closed down until further notice. In that move, Sir Frederick went directly to the heart and gonads of the situation. However thinly veiled, it was an economic lockout with the finger pointing directly at Oliver Cromwell MacIvor as the instigator.
On July 8, two days before the yard was scheduled to close down, all of Belfast was awakened at three in the morning by a bombastic explosion from the Shankill which shattered windows in a half-mile radius and lit the night blindingly. When the dust had settled the Universal Presbyterian Missionary and Theological Center and its adjoining publishing facility no longer existed.
Although the bombing was labeled as the work of labor agitators, seditionists and papists, most people had other thoughts. The short war all seemed to boil down to a single issue and that was the upcoming by-election for the vacant Shankill seat. If Lieutenant Colonel Howard Huntly Harrison won, it would spell the success of a populist candidate and a warning that the new order was here to stay despite the establishment's harsh countermeasures.
Of course, if Weed's Unionist candidate prevailed, the Moderator's long dream would suffer an awesome setback.
*
Doxie O'Brien's large comfy house was located near Queen's University and the Botanic Gardens in a lovely Belfast area where affluent Catholics were welcome. Closeness to the university gave off airs of both liberalism and aloofness from all that Belfast sectarianism. The Catholic teachers, lawyers, doctors and Doxie O'Brien's who lived there were pretentiously aware of their elitist difference.
Doxie's best friend Duffy O'Hurley resided just a few blocks away as did the Hanlys. It was a nice place to raise children.
A month after the shipyard riot Conor was able to get about stiffly, his ribs still heavily taped but the assortment of wounds within palatable bounds.
Doxie puffed up and boasted as he showed Conor about his home, introduced him to endless childre
n, one of whom was named after the late Queen and another after Frederick Weed. They settled in Doxie's personal glory hole, a heavily photoed den. Doxie cracked the whiskey bottle. As he did with home, furnishings and well dressed children, so did he boast about the quality of his liquor, Bushmills, black label.
"What's on, Doxie?"
"As you know, even though the yard is closed, Sir Frederick has kept the lads on the club on salary and most of them are working out quietly up at Rathweed Hall."
"I heard as much."
"He has confidentially informed us, Derek and myself, that he intends to make the tour this year. It would be a pity to cancel. I think we have a shot at the championship. Well, anyhow, I took the liberty of checking with the doctor, who is of the medical opinion you'd be fit for play in about another six weeks."
Conor didn't say anything. Doxie had been a good player and a decent enough coach but wasn't much at hiding his intentions. Doxie had at his Bushmills and paddled about the den with deep concern. "As you also probably know, none of the Catholic lads have returned to practice."
So that was it. Conor wondered why Frederick Weed had chosen Doxie as an emissary. He had a good rapport with the man, himself. The only possible reason was the Catholic issue and certainly the two of them could have discussed it better than he and Doxie. It occurred to Conor what he already knew and that was that the British had learned almost nothing about the Irish after centuries of dealing with them.
"Small wonder they haven't come back," Conor said. "They stood a good chance of ending up like I did."
"That's surely the case," Doxie agreed. "Anyways, I've talked to them on an individual basis. You know, all of us being of the same faith. Well, Sir Frederick has given me the responsibility of getting the family back together, so to speak. He's put a high priority on the matter and it means a lot to me, personal. There's the Australian tour to consider, likewise."
Conor's failure to respond irritated Doxie. "Well, here it is, Conor. If you was to call a meeting of the Catholic lads and give them the word, they'd return to practice. Sir Frederick told me to tell you you're wanted with the club even if you are unable to play."
"I'll let you know," Conor said, getting up to leave.
"Some goddamn way for you to act!" Doxie burst out with a tinge of desperation. He needed an answer. "You owe some loyalty to Sir Frederick."
"For what?"
"For what, Jesus, man! Didn't he throw Vessey Bain and Hooker into jail? And what about you and Robin's sister getting a two-week holiday in Bantry Bay? Didn't the entire family, Jeremy and Lady Caroline herself, render personal apologies? Where's your fucking loyalty, man?"
"The next day after I got mine they came back and murdered Nappy Flynn. He was bashed in so bad his wife and eight kids didn't even recognize him. And Dick Talbot, twenty years at the yard and now in a wheel chair for life. Not one bloody fucking quid!"
"Sir Frederick can't be paying off every goddamn widow and cripple in Belfast. The precedent would be dangerous. The man's got to take care of his own, no more, no less."
"Sure, he's good to his pet monkeys but don't get the idea they threw Hooker and Bain into prison for me. And as far as Larkin and Weed are concerned it's all even up. Value given, value received, so spare me the loyalty bullshit."
Doxie wrung his hands. What he couldn't say was that he had to have the tour to Australia. Weed and Crawford had promised to resettle him down under as coach and manager of the new Sydney team. He had to deliver the Catholic boys.
"You got it all wrong, Conor. It's all the agitation from all the radicals and anarchists that makes the Prods go crazy and turn to rioting. Weed built his yard with his own two hands."
"Sure, Doxie. It's good that some of the R.C.s like yourself understand that so well."
Doxie crimsoned, then began to sniffle. "You can rap me about my loyalty. I was an over-the-hill mick, one foot in the gutter and the other in the grave, when him and Derek picked me up. You're fucking right I'm loyal and I think it's time the other Catholics on the team he's treating so decent give him the same consideration. He told me personal that he wants this championship more than he ever wanted anything in the world. It's up to us to give it to him."
"Christ, Doxie, when do you get your bowler and Orange sash?"
"Fuck you, Larkin! I know what the fuck you're up to!"
As quickly as he said it, he choked on it and his eyes widened.
"What am I up to?" Conor asked softly.
"I didn't mean nothing."
"What am I up to!"
"Nothing, nothing. I . . . I . . . I only meant . . . I can't stand no disloyalty to Sir Frederick."
Conor placed a hand on Doxie's shoulder. "Don't do anything foolish, man."
CHAPTER NINE
"The train left for England last night," Conor said to Dan Sweeney. "Funny pair of ducks, Duffy and Calhoun. They came to me like two kids still in my debt for saving them. They've their own bedrooms on the second car with their own keys and locks. They're willing to fill them with guns and at no extra cost. They sure blow hot and cold."
"Good luck, that. What will the haul be?"
"With the extra boxes Owen is making and what I've fitted myself at the yard and now with the use of their bedrooms, I'm thinking in terms of two thousand rifles and twenty thousand rounds."
Sweeney flipped his pencil down, whistled, jammed his hands into his pockets, paced, lit a cigarette and smoked it down in a half dozen puffs. "Two thousand," he whispered as though he opened the lid of a pirate's treasure. "It's mind-boggling."
Conor had never seen him excited before. Sweeney allowed himself a moment of it, then returned to his grim groove.
"You're sure O’Brien knows?"
"Duffy says no but I think so."
"Will he keep his mouth shut?"
"Time will tell."
"Two thousand rifles. The line of making a judgment is so thin, Conor. I have to say again, you are the one dealing with these people and it will have to be your decision."
"If Doxie knows he also knows it will be the last gun run. He knows I suspect him. He knows I've called the Catholics together on the team and given him his chance at the Australian job. All told, if he knows, he should hold still. On the other hand, I may be all wet."
"Go or no go, Conor?"
"For two thousand rifles, we've got to gamble."
Dan nodded. "I'll contact Owen O'Sullivan and advise him it's on. He will return a cable to Seamus when the guns are loaded. How long will Weed be in England?"
"No more than a few more days. He's due in Derry for Apprentice Boys Day." Conor grunted from a jolt of pain in his back.
"How's the healing coming?"
"Slower than I figured."
Sweeney treated himself to a one-snort laugh. "There's a rumor out that Bain and Hooker are going to get off scot free. Want to do something about it?"
Conor glanced suspiciously and shook his head no.
It was the kind of question Long Dan asked when he was fishing. Dan had posed it deliberately. He had had Larkin on his mind excessively. Larkin would be pulling out of Belfast soon. Up to now he had looked like a leader. Dan was ready to move him to the Council but there were things he had to be sure of. Could Larkin pull the trigger, even on the ones who had beaten him half to death? Was Conor's lack of desire for vengeance good judgment or a weakness?
"I remember once when me and Brendan Sean Barrett was in Strangeways Prison and Brendan was acting up. They was hell on Fenians. He was fed dog and cat guts for a solid month. That son of a bitch, all he would do was look at them and smile. Like to drove them crazy. Eventually he went on a hunger strike, confused the hell out of them and made them back down. We ran into the prison governor in America years later. He'd retired there. Brendan had him cold."
"And?"
"He just kept smiling."
Dan stretched his long frame and the eternal flame lit the eternal cigarette. "I had the same sort of experience. There'd been a f
ight in the yard, a man was killed and I was one of those charged with the murder and moved into the death cell. From there I could see my scaffold being built. When it was completed there was this one warder, Harold Barr was his name . . . Harold Barr . . ." The old man's eyes still angered with the memory of it. "Harold Barr marched me out to the scaffold every night, tied me by the legs and dropped me head first through the trap door. The length of the rope was such that my head came within an inch of bashing on the stone floor. Mr. Barr would release me only after I sang him an Irish ditty or passed out first."
"And?"
"We met by chance. He was on holiday doing some pike fishing around Lough Derg on the River Shannon."
"Did you smile?"
"I broke his neck with my bare hands and dumped him in the lake."
"What ancient parable are you about to impart, Dan?"
"You're getting out of Belfast, as you know. I'm not sure where you're going. I'd like you on the Council and I know what jobs I'd have in mind."
"What is that?"
"It would require a lot of moving around."
"And making decisions to break the neck instead of smile?"
"Something like that," Sweeney answered. "If I move you into the work I have in mind it could put you on the run."
"Talk plain to me, Dan."
"I was glad when you returned from England last year. For a moment I thought we were going to lose you. What I'm telling you now is words from a wise old man. I was sorry to see you go back to that woman. If you're moved up in the ranks as I wish to do it would be an absolute disaster course to continue living with her. Make the break, Conor."
"No," Conor whispered. He stood slowly, jerked the table from the floor by its legs, wheeled about and smashed it into the wall, shattering it.
"Do you know what I mean, Dan!"
There had been moments like this, of course. Moments when he as commander had been issued a challenge. Larkin confused the hell out of him. So daring on some things, so smart . . . yet so full of human frailties. Indeed, would he pull the trigger on his worst enemy? Indeed, was he cut from the cloth of a man ready to make the ultimate personal sacrifices required? Indeed, was he too much of a loner like Brendan Sean Barrett? Sweeney teetered on the brink of accepting the challenge, then suddenly shoved his hands into his pockets, turned his eyes down from the frozen, fierce man before him.
