by Tony Roberts
Hans charged forward into Case, sending him shuddering into the barn wall which shook under the force. Case gasped and sent a knee up towards Hans’ groin and caught him under the thigh. They rolled in the hay and broke apart, each getting to their feet swiftly. Case got a punch to the cheek which sent him staggering but was aware enough to see Hans striding forward to complete the job and kicked out, catching the German on the knee.
Hans yelled and staggered aside. Case shook his head and circled round, eyeing the big blond opponent. Bridget began moving and Case grabbed her and flung her back onto the hay. “Stay right where you are!”
The girl lay where she’d been pushed and stared in fright up at him.
Hans took the opportunity to rush forward and sent Case tumbling under his charge, and tried to stamp his brains out, but Case rolled and lashed out with both feet, bringing Hans down with an earth shaking crash. Once again both got to their feet and, panting heavily, looked for an opening. Both were bedecked with hay and sweating freely. Hans picked up the discarded fork. “Now you bastard Irishman,” he breathed, “I’m going to stick you good and proper.”
He lunged but Case ducked and sprang up, his shoulder knocking the shaft up, his forehead ramming into Hans’ face. The German cried out and stepped back, dropping the fork. Case sent a blow into his stomach, then his face. Hans staggered up against the doorway, his back against the edge, and Case smashed his fist into his mouth, nose and jaw in rapid succession. Hans’ face dissolved into a mask of blood and his eyes rolled up into his head.
Giving him one last huge punch to the stomach, Case released him and watched in anger as the German fell to the ground in an untidy heap. He turned and eyed the fearful red-haired girl, still sat on the hay. He strode up to her and she made a token effort to avoid him but she knew it was futile. He picked her up and dragged her by her hair to the unconscious form of Hans. “That’s what I do to assholes who fuck up other people’s wedding days, got it?”
Bridget nodded, her eyes wide.
“You, young woman, are in a heap of trouble. I don’t know what Michael O’Driscoll sees in you, but it seems he’s got feelings, so don’t go playing with them, got it? If I catch you with anyone else other than Michael here I’ll beat the living shit out of them and drag you off to your mother and tell her what a whore you’ve become. You got it?”
She nodded, terrified.
He released her and she fell across the bloody Hans. “If I were you I’d get back to the party and forget about this swine; he’s got about as much intention of romance as a stag in rutting season.”
She scuttled off, sobbing in terror. Case spat into the ground in disgust and searched for a bucket of water he knew was around somewhere. He found it and upended the contents over the slumbering man. He spluttered to consciousness and found Case glaring down at him. “You’re not welcome here anymore, Hans Schwarz. Get your ugly bastard self off this land and don’t come back. Ever. If I catch you fucking any of these girls here again I’ll cut that cock of yours off and ram it up your ass. Got it?”
“Yeah, I got it,” Hans said, slurring. “And if you’re ever stupid enough to come onto my land again I’ll make you eat yours. One day I’ll fuck all three of these girls and you won’t be able to stop it.” He got to his feet, wiping the blood off his mouth. “Goodbye, you shithead.”
“Don’t push it, Schwarz.”
Case made sure the German left, walking over the fields towards his own lands, via the Burke farmland, before returning to the farmhouse. Ann saw him and raised her eyebrows. She came up to him, concern on her face. “And what have ye been doing, Case Lonnergan?”
“Eh?” he examined himself. Hay still was to be found in plenty of places and he grimaced and went out of the house to shake it out. Ann came with him. “Ye face, it’s got a dirty great lump on it, like ye’ve bashed it. Or someone’s bashed it.”
“Oh, I fell over the bloody water bucket,” Case said lamely.
“And where’s that Hans boy? Vanished, so he has. And Bridget looking like she’s seen a ghost.”
“Dunno about any ghosts, Miss Ann. Now let’s go inside and enjoy your wedding party, mm?”
Ann took his arm and marched him back. “Ye’re no good a liar, Case Lonnergan. I’ll learn what ye’ve been up to another day. But not today.”
Case nodded and eyed Bridget as he entered the room full of celebrating people. She shrank from his gaze, taking Michael’s arm and simpering up to him. Ann saw his look and sighed. “Poor Michael,” she said.
“Aye. Poor Michael.”
* * *
Case stayed after the wedding. He’d planned to go once Sean moved in but not knowing what had happened to Whitby irked him and he rode into town a few times to try to find the man but he had vanished into thin air.
Hans blamed his facial wounds on getting drunk and falling over onto a stone floor but nobody was fooled; he’d been beaten up and it didn’t take a genius to guess who had done it. Bridget trod on eggshells around Case and often spent time over the O’Driscoll place so as not to be near him. Ann settled into married life with Sean and it wasn’t long before she announced she was pregnant, much to Mary’s delight.
Case, Michael and Patrick celebrated by getting Sean roaring blind staggering drunk and they bumped into a crowd of town roughs who took exception to their ribald celebrations and the four got into a fight which ended up with a few stools, a window, two arms and assorted teeth broken. It was a great night.
They regretted it the next morning; nursing various aches, bruises and headaches. Mary had no sympathy for the four, scolding them all and chasing them out of the house. Michael staggered back to his home escorted by Bridget who moaned about Case’s bad influence over him. Michael endured it for a while until he got fed up and told her to shut her whining or he’d put his belt to her ass.
Patrick threw up outside and Case thought a couple of maniacs were busy having a go at the inside of his head with hammers. Sean thought about mucking out the pigs and copied Patrick. Ann threw up to add to the occasion but at least her cause wasn’t drink related.
“Have ye seen this?” Mary slapped the newspaper on the table when Case returned after cleaning out the pigs.
Case groaned, sat in a chair at the table and focused on the bold headlines.
It seemed war was just around the corner.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
President James Knox Polk sat in the Oval Office of the White House and smoothed the magnificent white mane of hair that was swept back from his forehead. It was brushed away from his ears and hung down past his collar. His deep set eyes read the latest dispatch from his envoy in Mexico City, John Slidell. It seemed the Mexicans were not going to budge on the issue of Texas, no matter how much the United States was prepared to offer. Damned stubborn people! He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose and shut his eyes. He was always so tired.
Despite being only fifty, he had never enjoyed good health, but he had abundant energy and had pursued a career of law and politics and now sat in what he regarded as the most exciting position any man of his profession in the world could aspire to. His country was bursting with energy and vitality and immigrants were pouring in. Already boasting a population of twenty million, the urge to expand westwards was irresistible. And who better to populate and develop the vast open areas west of the Mississippi than his nation? The Mexicans certainly couldn’t; their population was a mere third of the States and most of their northern territories were wasteland and empty of inhabitants.
Marauding bands of Apaches and Comanches and other tribes raided the scattered and isolated habitations and the Mexican authorities were unable to cope with it. His nation would change that once they acquired that land. His aim was to unite the entire continent east to west under one flag, and he was close to realizing his dream. If only Mexico would see sense and accept the generous terms offered. They would lose territory, yes, but they hardly got anything from those areas except trouble as it was. B
y taking it off their hands and paying them a huge amount of money, surely the Mexicans would be grateful.
But no. Their damned stubborn and proud neighbors refused to budge one inch. True, they had kicked that dictatorial fool Santa Anna out and imprisoned him, but the group of men running the show down south were unable to come to any decision. Meanwhile their army made gestures across the Rio Grande and postured in an aggressive manner. So far though, they had remained out of Texan territory. He had negotiated with the Texan government and they were in favor of being annexed; they were broke and weary of the fight to keep Mexico out of their land. By becoming part of the United States they would be part of a greater entity, more than enough to see off their enemy once and for all.
Polk gazed out of the window out onto the White House lawn. So beautiful in the height of summer. He decided to up the offer to $25 million for California and the lands in between that and the Mississippi. Surely the Mexicans would accept. He was confident Congress would agree to the revised offer. War was never the first resort, only the last. He knew though that if Mexico refused this offer war was inevitable. If they turned down the money offered, then that amount could go to raising a volunteer army for the fight ahead. If Mexico would refuse his offer of money, then that land would be taken from them by force.
* * *
Case stood before the recruiting officer at Richmond. He stared ahead, his hands smartly down by his sides. He’d made his decision to go finally and had spent an awkward few days preparing to leave and say his goodbyes. He’d promised to write and visit, and told them he’d be in the army for a three-year period only. After that he’d come back and see how things were.
Ann was disappointed he wouldn’t be around for the birth of her child but Case got a promise from her to write when the happy occasion took place and he’d see what he could do to visit. Patrick was particularly sad to see him go but knew there was nothing that could keep him there now that Sean was there and Patrick practically grown up. Bridget ignored him, predictably, but Michael and Sean gave him a good sending off accompanied by some illegal alcohol they’d made themselves. Case still believed he had a touch of the hangover a week later.
Elizabeth said nothing, just stared at him with those wide eyes and Case wondered if she was carrying a full set of guns at times. The real surprise was Mary who, contrary to his expectations, cried and got him to promise he’d write. Maybe the woman actually would miss him.
The recruiting officer sported a huge mustache and side-whiskers which was a stark contrast to his bald pate. Case found the current fashion in hairstyles somewhat amusing, and they appeared to be competing in size and their bizarre inventiveness. “Well, Mister Lonnergan, isn’t it?” he drawled, eyeing Case’s papers that had been stamped in New York. “Why do you want to join the army?”
“I’ve done plenty of fighting before,” Case said easily, “and reckon I’m best suited to the army life.” He wondered about that himself; was it the curse that compelled him to return to a warrior’s life time and time again? He always tired of fighting but it seemed no matter how much he tried to avoid it, he always found himself drawn to the wars of mankind. And when a war came, he found he volunteered readily enough. Maybe it was part of the curse, subconsciously pushing him along that route.
“What army?” the recruitment officer asked, looking up at the scarred man with interest.
“British. South Africa. Fighting the Boers and Zulus.” It wasn’t true, in fact he’d been fighting the British, but he wasn’t going to say that. The Zulus he had fought, and hard bastards they were too.
“You’ve fought in arid conditions?”
“Aye; plenty of that in the veldt.”
The officer seemed impressed. “What age have you?”
Case resisted the temptation to tell him eighteen hundred and forty. He’d probably be thrown out into the street. He decided to play it safe. “Thirty.”
“Okay, let’s see you do press-ups, right there.” He pointed at the floorboards in the office. Case dropped to his hands and knees and effortlessly completed twenty press-ups in ten seconds. He stood up, hardly bothered. The recruitment officer appeared very thoughtful indeed. “You’re a very fit man, Lonnergan. Any illnesses suffered in the past?”
Case thought a moment; no unless you count plague. “None I can recall.”
“Can you handle shoulder arms? A musket or rifle?”
“Both.”
“We’ll see. Okay Lonnergan, sign here and you’ll be sent to the training camp outside Petersburg. You’ll get $7 a month and three meals a day. Can’t get better than that!”
Case grinned and signed, finding his signature of CRLonnergan a little strange. Best get used to it; that was his identity. And he was once more a paid soldier in the army of the United States.
At about the same time in Lynchburg a tall man stepped off one of the canal boats that plied the waterway between Richmond and Lynchburg. He looked about, calmly taking in the busy scene, and strode away from the bustling jetty and through a narrow gap in between two warehouses and onto the street beyond. Briefly getting directions to where he wished to go from a passer-by, he made his way along two more streets and found himself outside the Catholic Church.
He knocked on the door and waited, looking around and seeing nothing that interested him. Finally the door opened and the priest stood in the doorway, looking at the new arrival. The man unbuttoned his coat to reveal a dog collar like the priest’s.
“Good morning, father. I am Father Lynch from St. Peters in Philadelphia. I am visiting Lynchburg and of course wished to visit this house of God while here.”
The resident priest, Father Sutton, smiled and welcomed him in. “What brings you to Lynchburg, brother?”
“Ah, well,” Lynch smiled, sitting down in the armchair offered, “well that’s a bit of a story. I’m on a sabbatical, so to speak. I am to visit a man who was in my parish but fled to this town last year. He is a tormented soul and I do hope I can find him to save him in the eyes of God.”
“Do you know this man by name?”
“Yes, he is called Whitby. A sinner and a man disfigured by the loss of one hand. I am afraid he had traveled down the path of darkness but I am hopeful I can make him see the light and change his sinful ways.”
Sutton nodded. “I have heard of this man. He is in the town jail at present. I believe the sheriff arrested him recently for trying to start a gambling den and brothel; fortunately here the townsfolk do not tolerate such establishments and they are good Christians, if mainly on the Methodist side.”
“Ah, well, then I can visit the sheriff on the morrow. In the meantime could I impose upon you and stay here the night?”
“Certainly, Father Lynch,” Sutton was at his most accommodating. He showed the visitor where he could stay and then showed him the church in order to pray and even help him in saying Mass that evening. Lynch was honored and smiled even wider when he recognized the entrance to the crypt that Sutton was obviously ignorant of.
After everyone had gone from the church following Mass, and Sutton had retired to bed, Lynch crept back into the church, armed with a short but strong looking bar and carrying a lit torch in his other hand. He knelt by the stone flag in the center of the nave after sliding the carpet to one side and pulled the slab up; he knew of the hideout as did all the members of the Brotherhood but he was sure that nobody else did.
He’d finally gotten authority from the Elder to go investigate the disappearance of the Lynchburg portion of the Virginia cell and had been given the name of one contact. No others were known, and Lynch wasn’t sure if any of the cell had survived what he was certain had been something Longinus had done. The Beast was connected to whatever had occurred, he was convinced.
The stone flag was slid along the floor, revealing the narrow entrance and Lynch descended, keeping a careful eye on the stairs in case anything was lying on them, but the route to the bottom was clear. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, a musty stal
e atmosphere. He caught sight of the door at the far end and made his way over to it and tried to open it but it was locked. Cursing, he tried to force it but the portal was stout enough to prevent his access.
The smell was stronger here and he had an idea what lay behind it but that would have to wait. Now he had to plan on how to get on the other side without raising the suspicions of Sutton or anyone else. He left, replacing the stone slab and carpet in the nave and was gone, leaving the church silent and dark.
The next day he found the sheriff’s office and presented himself, stating he’d come to see Whitby on an errand of mercy, trying to save a sinner’s soul. The policemen in the jail smiled cynically and commented under their breaths that this was one sinner beyond saving.
Whitby was surprised to see a visitor, even more so that it was a priest. He’d been resigned to a dubious fate ever since the sheriff’s men had raided his new place in the canal dock area of town and taken him away. It seemed his luck was just downright out, ever since in fact that bastard Lonnergan had appeared on the scene.
He sat, chained to a wall ring, facing the tall, somewhat disconcerting figure of Father Lynch. The priest glared down at the rat-faced individual, scruffy and dirty, unwashed, unkempt and smelly. One hand was missing and in its place was a dull hook. No doubt it had been gleaming when new but the filthy aspect of this man would have extended to the appendage.
“So, Mr. Whitby,” Lynch began, “you are down on your luck, it would seem. I fear your future is somewhat bleak.”
“Don’t take no clever guessin’ fer that,” Whitby growled, looking through the bars to his right onto the corridor where two policemen were sat playing cards. “Got any miracles in yer bible?”
