The Devil is an Irishman

by Eddie Lenihan

  In any English-speaking nation this would have been laughed to scorn, but not in France, land of imagination, culture, esprit. And the results were soon apparent. Negotiating-sessions, whether at the Board of Commerce or at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, became much more business-like when word got about that the reward for brisk service was a place at the Presidential poker-table. Even those diplomats and civil-servants who had not the slightest interest in poker could not, for their careers’ sake, let slip such an offer, and so, for the first time in almost a decade (since the Franco-Prussian war, in fact) the country began to assume a definite direction, as if steady hands had at last been laid on the tiller of state.

  Further honours followed: with much ceremony Martin was made Chevalier of the Empire as his Christmas present for 1878 – a rather empty honour, since there was no longer much empire to speak of except in darkest Africa and parts of Asia that were difficult to pronounce, let alone find. Yet it was the thought that mattered, and Martin graciously accepted whatever came his way.

  And so it continued. No matter what government was in charge thereafter – and they were mainly of a Republican hue – he was present with his Devil’s prayerbook to keep each one on course. And when the old Marshal finally relinquished power in January of 1879 he disappeared at once without trace; the gambling members of the Cabinet had almost to be forced to attend his sad handing-over ceremony, since the games were now a seven-day-a-week matter.

  Under the guidance of Jules Ferry the new government seemed fair set to cast off these evil habits, but the good intentions lasted less than a month, and within a year there were worse troubles – the religious turmoil caused by Jules Ferry’s foibles saw to that – and all because of a mere six nights’ consecutive losses to Martin’s deck.

  ‘The same Jules was ever a bad loser,’ was Martin’s verdict. ‘But to take it out on religion, an’ to put the good men an’ women o’ the religious orders walking the roads o’ the world! I never thought he was that low.’

  Year followed year in a glow of prosperity for the man from Ballinruan – carriages, properties, even two personal servants – yet in spite of his enormous prestige and vast, ever-growing wealth, he remained a countryman at heart, charitable to a fault and still easily shocked, though by now he had been seeing

  government from its rotten inner core for well nigh twenty years. The Dreyfus Affair of 1894 proved one such distasteful upset; it was almost the cause of his throwing up all he had

  accumulated in the City of Light.

  ‘If we had a man the like o’ him in Ireland ’tis promoting him we’d be, instead o’ persecuting him,’ he wrote to his wife. Her reply was short and to the point: ‘Just like we did to Parnell, hah?’

  No more was said on this matter, nor about returning home, either.

  And time passed away, old age tightening its squeeze until a day came, just as Europe was flexing its muscles for another great effort to destroy itself, when he felt that his death was upon him. This time he knew it was pointless to call on the services of his doctor, but, kind as ever, he allowed that worthy to twitter and fooster about him; to do less would, he knew, be to wound professional pride.

  The services of a priest he did demand, however. But when the abbé came and Martin explained, in the course of his confession, how matters stood, the holy man shook his head gravely.

  ‘It grieves me to tell you, m’sieur, that I cannot give you safe passage to ze Other Side until zat deck is in my possession. Destroyed it must be.’

  Martin’s face fell. It had been a reliable friend when human hearts and hands had been ranged against him. He could hardly betray it, even now.

  ‘That’s Cáit’s property – she’s my wife, Father – as much as ’tis mine, an’ I can’t part with it without her permission.’

  ‘In zat case,’ and he shrugged regretfully, ‘I can do nothing.’

  He rose to go.

  ‘Tomorow I shall return. Perhaps your mind may change, eh? Think deeply on ze consequences, my friend. Ze Devil, a hard master he is. Beware of ’im. Repent, and fling zese filthy cards from you while yet zere is time.’

  He paused at the door, but continued on out with a sigh and a shrug when Martin showed no sign of flinging anything.

  ‘He’ll come back. There’s no fear o’ that. I never yet knew a priest not to come back to where there was money.’

  But this was France, not Ireland. The abbé did not return. His footsteps died away and Martin was left to his own thoughts in the silence of the gathering night. It was one of the longest he ever spent, and lonely, too. His servant – Ballinruan native thrift had never allowed any more than one to be on duty at any given time, and sometimes, as now, there was no one at all – would not be back on duty until seven o’clock in the morning. Till then he was alone. Or should have been.

  One o’clock sounded. Half-past one. Two. Memories crowded in, both happy and sad, keeping him from sleep. He tossed painfully, this way and that, tried his best to rest, but there was no comfort to be had. Tired, bleary-eyed, he heard four o’clock strike, yawned heavily, then ... caught the scent of something that should not be there. It was the smell of smoke! Fright gripped him. To be burned in bed – that was no fit end for a man of means. He levered himself out on the floor, groaning, then fumbled to strike a light. But before even a spark was lit: ‘Hhumph!’

  A throaty voice rumbled in the darkness. Martin nearly wet himself with the fright of it. A thief in the room? A murderer? But before he could even disentangle his thoughts the voice came again, this time in words, slowly, evenly.

  ‘Don’t mind the light, Martin. There’ll be plenty o’ that where you’re going – an’ heat to go with it.’

  Martin froze. He had placed it now, the voice, and only too well. The Old Lad was here, punctually, for his part of the bargain of the briar. Whose else could it be? For a few seconds there was no sound except the thumping of Martin’s heart. Then the Devil snapped his fingers and the room was filled with an eerie glow, enough to make younger blood than Martin’s run cold, especially since the dull flame flickered from the Dark One’s thumb, which he held out before him.

  Martin stared, and icicles of fear stabbed at his insides; there was nothing at all of feeling on the swarthy face, in the brooding eyes that held him fixed.

  ‘Time up at last, Martin. I hope you enjoyed yourself.’

  He said it lazily, then stepped forward, wrenched open the locked press where the cards were kept now in a golden box, like relics in a shrine. Not the slightest respect did he show to this, only snapped off the lock as if it were a piece of straw. He yanked back the lid and there the cards lay on a satin cushion, worn but still very serviceable. For an instant Martin thought he was going to suggest they play a game, but no. All he did was reach in, grip them gently and sigh.

  ‘Welcome back, children. And thank you for another safe delivery.’

  He pushed the deck lovingly into an inside pocket and for the first time smiled.

  ‘There’ll be more customers for that, I don’t doubt!’

  Then closing a fiery grip on Martin’s arm he propelled him from the room.

  ‘Come. Time for us to hit the road, eh?’

  There was no point at all in arguing. Any court of law, in this world or the next, would uphold his claim to Martin. It was better to go with a quiet dignity if not a good grace.

  When the servant came on duty at 7 a.m. a smell of burning greeted her. She rushed upstairs, to find the bedroom door wide open, the bedclothes thrown back, but no other sign of violence or disorder.

  ‘Seigneur! Seigneur! Où êtes-vous?’

  She might as well have been calling the wind for all the reply she got. And when the police were summoned the mystery naturally deepened since they were anxious to conceal their bafflement by propounding deep theories. Anarchists, obviously, must be responsible – communards, or other enemies of the state – particularly since several safes where Martin kept his cash were found open, t
heir doors hanging askew. Each one smelt strongly of burning and the charred remnants of much paper were found within. The police, even their experts, hard-bitten men who had witnessed every crime conceivable to the imagination, were left scratching their heads.

  Only the abbé, when he was allowed climb the stairs and enter the room towards evening, seemed not in the least surprised. But his opinions he kept closely to himself. What he knew would not sit well with modern scientific police methods, so there was no point in mentioning it. He merely fingered his beads as he made his dejected exit, knowing too well that another soul had slipped through the Divine Net.

  The furore in the newspapers – ‘Rapt! Enlèvement! Meurtre!’ – lasted a week or so, then sank out of sight as it was replaced by some fresher sensation.

  And the golden box? As soon as it was finished with as evidence it was returned to Cáit in Ballinruan, under RIC escort. Naturally, such visitors caused much interest and many questions, though none of them directly to Cáit. And she, for her part, chose to make her neighbours none the wiser, though a few of them did catch a glimpse of the box.

  But a few days after the visit she was observed entering a bank in Ennis, a large, obviously heavy, package in her arms. And when she emerged back on to the street her hands were seen to be empty.

  Maybe this is why it was whispered at the time, and is still rumoured today, that that same box rests in a steel safe in a vault at Bank Place, Ennis, unopened, unclaimed after all these years.

  But that may be no more than hearsay. For everyone knows how quickly each little grain of fact becomes festooned and decorated with rumour in that part of Ireland. Yet, how stubbornly it has resisted the years ... and grown ever more certain with the passing of time.

  Strange, indeed ... Truly odd.

  Larry and the Devil

  There’s a saying in Ireland: ‘God is good, but the Devil isn’t bad, either – if you know him!’ There lies the bother, of course: getting to know him in a way that’s safe.

  Larry Hartigan lived with his wife Sara in County Limerick, in the parish of Athlacca, and even though his neighbours looked on him as a strong farmer, Sara was stronger. Part of her strength came, without doubt, from her hatred of all drink stronger than milk – which was unfortunate, because Larry liked nothing better than a skite with his friends now and again, especially one where there were heady brews to lend energy and fire to the songs and dancing of the assembled Gaels.

  At that time, at funerals, weddings and all other outings, there was sure to be drink a-plenty, whatever else. It was cheap, and the people liked it. For that reason all such gatherings were sorely looked forward to; they were among the few reasons poor people had for carrying on in the drudgery of daily living. Athlacca was no different to anywhere else in that regard. All that was needed was the hint of an excuse; a death in the parish was as good an excuse as any.

  Old Mick Fogarty died. It was as simple as that. Larry, as well as every other able-bodied person of sound mind in the parish, would have to present himself at the wake-house on at least one night out of the customary three. That was the least that might be expected. It would hardly be decent not to appear and send a few prayers after the soul of their neighbour, after all.

  But when he was going out the door of his kitchen that night, Sara’s last words to him were: ‘Listen, you! Be warned. Don’t touch a drop. An’ be home early. Say your prayers an’ come out of it, like a good man.’

  He said he would, but promises are one thing, the keeping of those promises another thing entirely, especially when pressure and temptation are applied to do the opposite – as they soon were to Larry. For when he walked in the door of the wake-house, the first thing that was put into his paw was a crock of poitín. No wake would be correct or complete without plenty of the same stuff; maybe that’s the reason why the priests hated the very sight of it!

  He dithered for a second or two, remembering Sara’s words, but he was too fond of it to resist for long.

  ‘It’d be bad manners not to take it,’ he said to himself, ‘an’, sure, one won’t do me no harm, anyway.’

  But one led to two ... three ... four, and so the night slipped on. Those present were in a serious, subdued mood, naturally enough, and Larry didn’t feel he could just up and walk out. So he stayed, joined in the spirit of the proceedings and drank as much as he was offered.

  But some time during the night – or, more correctly, in the early hours of the morning – a little thought wormed its way up from the depths of his befuddled mind, and that thought was of Sara at home, sitting up waiting for him. He stirred himself.

  ‘Oh! Oh, I must be going,’ he croaked, and tried to make his way to the door. Unfortunately, in that place where there was only one door when he came in earlier there were four doors now, all of them dancing and jumping as if they were doing a polka. He blinked stupidly, swayed and nearly fell. Lucky for him there was a woman nearby who was more sober than he was. She caught him just before he went into a spin and put him sitting on his chair again.

  ‘Begor, Larry,’ said she, ‘you’re looking a small bit shook. Sit down quiet there now an’ say your prayers, an’ you’ll be all right. What’s your hurry, anyhow?’

  ‘In the name o’ God, let me go!’ he croaked. ‘I must get home or I’ll never hear the end of it.’

  He struggled up again in spite of her and started for one of the four doors he could still see dancing where there should be one only. He made a drunken man’s choice: the wrong one. His forehead collided with the wall and he collapsed in a flurry of whitewash-flakes.

  ‘God help us all this night, but poor Larry is takin’ oul’ Mick’s death fierce hard, entirely,’ said one man crouched by the fire, sucking his dúidín.

  ‘He is. He is,’ nodded a companion. ‘Fierce to the wide world, isn’t it, what a bit o’ grief’ll bring a man to.’

  After three or four attempts to get out, someone came to the conclusion that something other than grief was blinding Larry’s eyes. He found himself being picked up by strong hands, dusted off and steered outside.

  ‘Hi, Larry,’ said a voice that seemed a long way off, ‘I’d go home the shortest way if I was you. ’Tisn’t safe to be out this time o’ the night any more with the blackguards that’s in it now.’

  With many good wishes the door was closed behind him and he was left in the darkness, alone except for the rustling of unknown busy couples in the bushes around. He looked here and there vacantly out of bleary eyes and saw nothing for a few minutes. Then the limewashed piers of the gate gathered themselves out of the haze and beckoned him to start his journey there.

  He stumbled towards them, almost fell, but made it at last after several half-circles and many steps sideways and backwards. He threw his arms round one of them and held on for dear life.

  ‘Saints preserve me this night,’ he gurgled, ‘but if I don’t go home soon she’ll kill me.’ He had still sense enough left to realise that. He began to debate with himself whether he should take the road or go by the fields, but that was the poorly attended debate and one that was quickly over: ‘I better go the shortest way, whatever else.’

  He started out from the safety of his pier the best way he knew how – on his hands and knees – and crawled along the road, taking both sides, until he came to the stile he was looking for. Now, at last, he felt safer. Home was only a few fields away. Unfortunately, that was where the drink betrayed him one more time. He was no more than halfway across the first field when he realised, from the slope of the ground, that he was going in the wrong direction. Yet, no landmark showed itself and as he veered this way and that he began to regret that he had left the road; however long it might have been it would at least eventually have led him to his own door.

  A clammy sweat insisted on gathering itself on his back and he could feel it trickling into the depths of his trousers. It was an uncomfortable sensation. Desperately he tried to pull his wits together, but they would have none of it. They were be
nt on going their own way, and did so now with a vengeance. Larry flopped down and almost cried. But the thought of Sara of the fierce welcomes soon set his legs in motion again and eventually, by keeping close to the hedge, he found the next stile. By repeating the same process in that field he came, at length, on the third opening. But the night was moving on, and at the rate he was progressing it would be morning at least before he laid eyes on his house. Sara was even now probably making delicate preparations to receive him!

  In that third field he stumbled suddenly to a halt. There before him, flowing silently, was the stream which bounded his own farm. Glassy-eyed, he stared at it.

  ‘Well, blast it,’ he mouthed petulantly. ‘How did I forget about this? An’ how am I going to cross it?’ – for there was no bridge, only a narrow beam of timber. He continued to stare stupidly, then, with the confidence of drink whispering, ‘Go on! Try it,’ in his ear, he gathered himself and laid his left foot gingerly on the plank. It held firm. Smiling, he put the other foot in front of the first. Still safe and sound. His courage growing with every step, he was making noble progress when, near mid-way across, disaster struck. For whatever reason he faltered, stopped, and once he was no longer moving a fit of the staggers came on him. Instantly the plank turned over and down went Larry with a roar and a splash. And so it was that he had his first bath in six months.

  He shot up like a tomcat out of cold water, and made for the opposite bank, spluttering and shaking water from himself. He dragged himself out, very sober now, and stood shivering, looking down at the stream, poison in his eyes.

  ‘May the devil take me if I ever come this way again,’ he spat and turned miserably for home, hugging himself for warmth.