Calling upon half the soldiers to follow him, he began physically clearing the road ahead of them, pushing the protesting cottiers out of the way and using the toe of his army boot on more than one occasion when a cottier was slow to move.
The corporal had gained a slow half-mile for the column when an old woman, severely weakened by weeks of near-starvation, dropped dead only yards ahead of the advancing troops. There was an immediate and angry reaction from the cottiers, some of whom had not seen the old lady fall and who genuinely believed she had been struck by the soldiers.
The situation began to look ugly when the Irish men moved forward to face the soldiers and the women and children dropped back to form up behind them.
The young ensign realised he had to take command again and, believing that he and his men were in imminent danger, he ordered his soldiers to load their muskets.
A bloody clash was averted by Kathie Donaghue. She had tried to remain in the background, out of sight, but now she had to come forward and tell the cottier men to back off, explaining that the old lady had died from the excitement of the moment. Reluctantly, the men backed away.
Corporal Garrett urged the ensign to take advantage of the momentary confusion to take the wagons and cattle through the cottiers at speed. While the young officer hesitated, the opportunity passed. A young cottier woman went into labour by the side of the road and any attempt to pass her was out of the question. Angry cottier men the young ensign might have dealt with. Threatening, determined women totally defeated him.
The birth proved to be long and difficult, and the screams of the young mother-to-be unnerved the soldiers. They donated some hastily cooked meat to her, and the ensign sent his own water-bottle. But the young Irishwoman needed more than well-intentioned sympathy and a little food and water. Not until the weak winter sun was sliding down into night did she give birth. The child, a girl, died within seconds of taking her first breath of cold air, and the cottiers buried her in an unmarked grave within a few feet of her birthplace. But it could be said her brief life had served the cottier cause well. It was too late for the soldiers to move on. As the cottiers finally dispersed from the scene, the soldiers prepared a camp for the night, driving the cattle into a nearby field.
The wagon drivers made their own fire some distance away from the soldiers and spoke in low tones about the events of the day. They knew the cottiers had deliberately held up their progress and were sure there was a motive behind the cottiers’ actions. The wagon drivers agreed among themselves they would not become involved in any trouble that might occur. They had been employed by the corn-owning landlord for this one trip. None of his huge profit would come their way and they had no intention of fighting the cottiers on his behalf.
The soldiers were detailed for sentry duty in two-man shifts during the hours of darkness, but it was a cold and blustery night and, as part of their duty entailed keeping the fires of the camp burning, they took care to ensure that this chore occupied most of their time.
The first intimation that all was not well came with the alarmed blowing of the cattle as Dermot and his Kilmar companions drove half their number from the field in the darkness.
Shouting to waken their companions, the sentries ran toward the field, unslinging muskets from their shoulders, only to meet the close-packed cattle spilling from the field toward them.
Dermot and the others were driving the cattle on with sticks, and as the animals jostled each other to squeeze through the narrow gateway they panicked.
The two sentries were fortunate to escape with their lives. One stumbled into a shallow water-filled ditch by the side of the road, losing his musket but saving his life. The second crouched trembling behind a tree that was little more than a narrow sapling as the hundred crazed cattle thundered past without so much as a heavy breath falling upon the terrified soldier.
Their companions in the camp were less fortunate. Half-stupid with sleep, they were hardly on their feet before the cattle overran them, scattering men, equipment and fires in all directions, the ground trembling beneath their pounding hoofs.
When the last of the cattle thundered off into the night three soldiers lay on the churned-up earth. Miraculously, none of the soldiers was dead, although the young ensign was unconscious and they all had broken limbs.
Bootless and quivering with rage, Corporal Garrett called the survivors to him and tried to bring some order to the situation.
Dermot chose that moment to drive the remainder of the cattle through the shambles that had been an army camp. This time the men from Kilmar were right behind them, leading the wagon-horses. By the time the ensuing confusion was over, three wagonloads of corn and a great many cattle were heading back toward Gorey to be handed over to the hungry cottiers who had played their part in the operation.
Within the hour, cottiers would be straggling across the countryside in every direction, weighed down with corn and great joints of hastily slaughtered beef.
But the young men of Kilmar paid a high price to fill the bellies of the cottiers.
Had the young ensign not been trampled and badly injured by the cattle, the outcome of the raid on the Wexford-bound column might have been a total victory for the men of Kilmar. Under his leadership the soldiers would have spent the remainder of the night running around in the darkness, uselessly trying to round up the missing cattle. As it was, Corporal Garrett assumed command.
Unlike the more inexperienced soldiers, Corporal Garrett slept with his musket at his side, and it was for this he reached the moment he was awakened. He guessed immediately the real motive behind the stampede. As a young boy-soldier he had listened to the old campaigners tell of their days in Ireland. The use of cattle as a diversion had always been a favourite tactic with Irish partisans.
When the second wave of cattle overran the camp, he made straight for the wagons as soon as he was able. He was in time to see the third wagon being driven away and snapped off a quick shot at the two indistinct figures on the high wagon-seat. He heard a loud cry of pain, and Corporal Garrett knew his musket-ball had found its target. Then the soldier heard the frightened blowing of horses and the jangle of harness from the darkness nearby. He surprised two men backing a horse into the shafts of a fourth wagon. Wielding his musket as a club, Corporal Garrett struck one of them to the ground.
The second man immediately took to his heels, but the Corporal ran after him and brought him down with a hard tackle.
The two men rolled over and over on the ground, exchanging wild punches until some of the soldiers, attracted by the noise, came to the aid of their corporal and helped him subdue the violent fisherman.
‘There is another one over by that wagon,’ panted the Corporal, rubbing his bare foot where he had caught it on a rough stone. ‘Bring him over here, then fetch a torch so we can have a look at them.’
A torch was quickly lighted, but the soldiers who went to the wagon returned empty-handed.
‘Damn!’ swore the corporal. ‘I thought I’d put him out for good. These Irishmen must have heads like cannon-balls. Never mind, we’ve got this one. Let’s have a good look at him.’
The prisoner was on his knees, held by two soldiers. Corporal Garrett took a savage grip of the man’s hair, jerked his head back and in the wind-distorted lighr of the flaming torch looked down at the mud-streaked face of Eoin Feehan.
‘Well, my beauty, your days of raiding and thieving have come to an end. You’ll trample no more English soldiers with your wild Irish cattle.’
‘What will we do with him, Corporal? Tie him up and take him back to Dublin?’
‘What for? So some smart-talking lawyer can get him off with transportation and a better life in Botany Bay than he’s ever known before? Oh no, my lad.’ The Corporal jerked his head into the darkness. ‘How is the Ensign?’
‘He’s still unconscious.’
‘Then we’ll deal with this Irish bog-trotter in our own way. Who’s got a bayonet to loan me?’
A sh
ocked silence followed, rill the Corporal said, ‘Come on! What’s wrong with you? Don’t tell me you’ve become squeamish all of a sudden. This Paddy tried to kill us – or do you think he sent two hundred cattle charging over sleeping men to give us a big laugh? Here, you – give me that.’
Corporal Garrett seized the handle of a bayonet from the belt of one of the soldiers and withdrew a two-foot-long blade from its scabbard. Twice slashing the air in front of him, he pushed the point of the bayonet against the skin beneath Eoin Feehan’s chin as the squirming fisherman tried to force his head back from the cold steel blade. Turning to the others, the Corporal said, ‘He was killed during the fight for the corn wagons, are we all agreed?’
There was neither agreement nor disagreement from the soldiers, but one or two of them licked their lips nervously.
The Corporal turned back to Eoin Feehan.
‘If you’ve got a prayer you want to say, then you had better make it a quick one, Paddy. I’m going to count to ten silently, then the point of this bayonet will come out through the back of your neck. Right, start praying…. I’m counting.’
The silence lasted for only a few short seconds and then a hoarse tortured sound came from Eoin Feehan’s throat.
‘Wait! I’ll do a deal with you.’
‘A deal? What do you have that you think I want?’
‘Names. I’ll tell you the names of the others who were with me tonight, if you let me go.’
The Corporal looked with disgust at the face of the man before him. Eoin Feehan’s eyeballs were rolling back in terror and his whole body trembled uncontrollably.
The soldier shrugged. ‘Names are no good to me. One Irishman is much the same as another as far as I’m concerned. You can give me all the names you like; there are too many of you cottiers on the roads of Ireland for us to stop every one of you and ask for names.’
‘We are not cottiers. We are fishermen, and I can tell you where to find the others.’
For the first time Corporal Garrett showed interest in what Eoin Feehan was saying.
‘Fishermen, eh? How many of you were here tonight?’
‘Eight. There were eight of us.’
‘So you’ll give me seven names and tell me where I can find them.’
‘Yes, if you’ll only let me go. Please….’
Eoin Feehan was breathing with difficulty now, fear paralysing the muscles of his diaphragm.
Corporal Garrett turned to his men. ‘Well, what do you say, lads? Do we make it seven for one? Or is it better to kill the goose we’ve got?’
Eoin Feehan’s hope of survival lay in the fact that the soldiers were reluctant to see a man killed in cold blood. One of them said, ‘Let him go, Corporal. We know his face. We’ll find him again if he’s lying to us.’
‘Are you lying?’ The point of the bayonet drew blood as the Corporal leaned on the weapon.
‘No. I swear it!’
‘All right.’
The bayonet was eased back, and the Corporal casually wiped the bloody tip of the blade on Eoin Feehan’s shirt-front as the reprieved man slumped before him, aware that he had been within five brief heartbeats of death.
Tapping the flat of the blade against the palm of his hand, Corporal Garrett said, ‘Before we begin, what is your name.’
‘Feehan, Eoin Feehan.’
‘Right, Eoin, my name is Corporal Garrett and I want us to understand each other from the very beginning, because if you lie to me there will not be a rock in the whole of Ireland large enough for you to hide under. Do you understand that?’
Eoin Feehan nodded, fighting to keep the fear from his voice. ‘I won’t lie.’
‘Good. Who are the men who were with you tonight, and where can we find them?’
Eoin Feehan gave him the name of every man who had been on that night’s raid, leaving out only one. His brother, Sean.
When he had ended, the Corporal frowned.
‘Why should fishermen get themselves mixed up in something like this? They aren’t starving.’
‘We belong to the All-Ireland Association. We thought we ought to do something to help the cottiers. We didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt—’
‘Shut up!’ Corporal Garrett’s contempt for the man before him hid the excitement he felt at the disclosure Eoin Feehan had just made.
‘Isn’t this All-Ireland Association led by Eugene Brennan, the MP – the man who was acquitted in Dublin on a charge of treason?’
‘Yes.’
Corporal Garrett looked at Eoin Feehan thoughtfully. He regretted giving his word to set him free. His evidence against the All-Ireland Association would be welcomed by those in authority. However, if he, Corporal Garrett, could arrest members of the Association for an attack on the Army, it might lead to fresh charges being laid against the Irish MP. It might even lead to the outlawing of the All-Ireland Association. Such a coup should result in Corporal Garrett rapidly becoming Sergeant Garrett.
There was a sudden commotion from nearby and one of the soldiers cried out that he had caught one of the raiders sneaking back.
As other soldiers went to his aid, a white-faced Eoin Feehan snatched at the sleeve of the Corporal in alarm.
‘He must have seen me here!’
‘Probably. So what?’
‘He’ll know I’ve told you everything. He’ll get word back to Kilmar, telling them.’
‘That’s your problem. Nothing to do with me.’
‘Yes, it is. I’ve kept my word to you. You’ve got to protect me. You must kill him.’
Corporal Garrett looked at Eoin Feehan in disgust and spat at his feet. ‘Are you telling me your life is worth something and his isn’t?’ He looked at Eoin Feehan until the fisherman turned his head away.
‘All right, Eoin Feehan. It just so happens that I don’t think any Irishman’s life is worth very much. For that reason alone I will kill him. Not to please you.’
With the bayonet glinting in his hand, the corporal walked to where the soldiers held their struggling prisoner.
Eoin Feehan heard the harsh bark of the corporal’s voice. Then there was a sudden silence that brought him out in a cold sweat. The silence was broken by a stifled scream that died away in a bloody gurgling as Corporal Garrett cut the prisoner’s throat.
Eoin Feehan looked up as two of the soldiers dragged a limp body face downwards through the dirt toward him and deposited it at his feet.
Corporal Garrett said, ‘Before you go you can tell me which of your friends this was.’
He turned the body over with his foot and Eoin Feehan looked down at the wide-eyed slack-jawed face of his brother Sean.
Chapter Twelve
The raid on the escorted wagons had gone terribly wrong for the young men from Kilmar.
The turning-point had been the moment Corporal Garrett put his musket to his shoulder and pulled the trigger. Until then, everything had gone exactly as it had been planned. With two loaded wagons already on their way to the cottiers and another about to pull away behind the one he was driving, Dermot knew the exhilaration of success.
He felt the blow from the musket-ball without even hearing the sound of the shot. It was as though someone had punched him low down on the right side of his body. Seconds later the fire from the wound flared up inside him. Gasping that he had been shot, Dermot passed the reins of the horse to his companion and gave way to the nauseous darkness that roared inside his head and poured out to engulf him.
At the handover point a rough dressing was put on Dermot’s wound and a makeshift stretcher constructed to carry him home.
Anxiously, the fishermen waited for the fourth wagon, but it did not come. Eoin Feehan and one other man were missing. When the fishermen agreed that they dared wait no longer, Sean Feehan declared he would return to search for his brother while the others hurried Dermot to Kilmar.
Shortly before they reached the village, the man who had been detailed to steal the fourth wagon with Eoin Feehan caught up with them and told
of Eoin’s capture. He told them he had given Sean Feehan the same information.
The fishing village was not asleep, despite the lateness of the hour. The raid on the grain-wagons had been a well-kept secret, but with so many young men missing from their homes it quickly became apparent that something was afoot.
When the men carrying the unconscious Dermot entered the village, doors banged open and heads appeared at windows. As questions and answers were called back and forth across the narrow street, men began pulling on their clothes to follow the small procession.
It was a grim-faced band of adventurers who trooped into Norah McCabe’s house and laid her son on his own bed. He had regained consciousness intermittently along the way, and the aggravation of the pain by the bouncing of his stretcher had brought him bolt upright, screaming in agony. Now he was so weak he seemed to be hardly breathing.
Norah McCabe looked at Dermot’s bloodless face and as she examined the wound sent one of the young fishermen to fetch old Bridie O’Keefe to the house.
‘While she’s coming the rest of you can tell me exactly what has been happening.’
The fisherwoman listened in tight-lipped silence as she busied herself removing Dermot’s clothing and cleaning the ugly inflamed area around the blue-edged bullet-wound.
While she was working, Kathie Donaghue entered the room. She had been waiting in the small cottage on the hill for news of the raid and had seen the sudden increased activity in the village. Now she stood in silence beside the bed as the water in the bowl used by Norah McCabe became red with Dermot’s blood.
When she heard the full story of the night’s events, Norah McCabe shook her head in incredulous disbelief. ‘Did you honestly believe you would get away with such stupidity without something like this happening?’
When none of the men replied, she turned to Kathie. ‘Did you know about this?’
The Music Makers Page 11
