Chapter I - Ghosties

I

Ghosties

February, 1923

Brigadier Ian Wendall drew in London dampness to steady his nerves. He next attempted to steady the tremor in his hand. If he concentrated. Yes. Now could he maintain it? He gave in after a moment and tucked his hands behind his back in a fine military stance. He turned towards the townhouse, and the face at the door. The little woman wore a crisp white apron over her dark dress. Obviously the Lady had been warned of his approach.

Lillian welcomed him, took his cap and overcoat, and guided him to the deep red parlor. His eyes were immediately drawn to an enormous fireplace, its ornate brass fan and thick wooden mantle. Above the mantle, Emily had hung a portrait of Reggie in full military dress.

A military home indeed. Reggie had brought her or sent her relics to memorialize each of his travels, and no matter where Ian looked, he found one. And somehow, she had managed to squeeze it all into this room. Silk from China and lace from Ireland had been made into table scarves. An array of ivory horns had been carved into animals, or a parade of animals from the Veld and gathered dust on tables and shelves. African tribal masks, animal skins, a variety of percussion instruments from every nook in Asia and Africa, bamboo and boa bob picture frames from every cranny were displayed on walls and tables.

A small footstool stood before Reggie’s chair. It had been made of tiger skin with ivory trim and weighed so much, Ian was confident that once Emily found a place for it, no one moved it again. What possessed her to carry it home from her one and only voyage out of England was beyond Ian’s comprehension.

He turned aside, hoping to find something not so obviously foreign and came across an ornate teak wood screen. A bamboo hostess cart with raised edges peeked out from behind it. On that side of the room, heavy white silk draperies opened onto the street.

Emily Talbot, a medium size brunette of thirty, offered him her hand. Last time he had seen her she had worn large, springy curls. Now she wore her hair short and wavy. Her straight brown dress came to mid calf. “Lady Talbot,” he said formerly.

“Lady Talbot? I take it your news is not good.”

“No. It isn’t.”

The woman turned to her servant. “Lillian, brandy please.” She nodded at a hearty fire. Ian escorted her across a slightly worn Oriental rug, and between sofas, to an overstuffed olive colored brocade chair. She sat daintily, and bounced once. She seemed to need momentary reassurance of her hold on life. He sat across from her in a matching chair. “Have you heard anything?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t.”

“And should I assume, Brigadier, that by your expression, you’ve accepted the worst possible outcome?”

He nodded again. The fire warmed his knees and feet, and left his backside to soak up chill still lingering in the room. Obviously she had had this room closed off for a while. He turned towards her again. “How are you holding up?”

“Frightened, but healthy,” she explained, rubbing warmth into the skin beneath her sleeves. “The children are frightened. I’m afraid I’ve never been good at concealing my feelings.”

Lillian arrived, carrying a tray with a brandy decanter and two glasses. She poured, handing the first to Ian, and the other to the Lady. The Lady swirled her drink in her glass, before drawing deeply. Undignified, maybe, but not surprising knowing Emily Talbot. “So tell me, Ian. What do you know?”

He cleared his throat. “I‘ve contacted regiments formerly serving in Ireland, hoping that Reggie is with one of them. And nothing. I‘ve telegraphed the Constabulary in Dublin, Londonderry and Belfast, and again nothing. And neither Scotland Yard nor the Home Office have any information about him. I’m willing to believe that if he is still in Ireland, he is on Innisfen.” Again, Ian concentrated on the hand that held the brandy glass, making an attempt to cover his tremor by imitating her swirl. “How much has Reggie told you about Innisfen?”

“Virtually nothing.”

Ian nodded. “I’m sure he had his reasons.”

“Tell me about Innisfen.” The word tripped off her tongue like a curiosity that would find a home in her private museum. “If I read right, there is something of a civil war happening in Ireland. Is Innisfen involved?”

That surprised him, and he took a moment to study her. After all, this wasn’t a discussion concerning her own bad behavior, the current gossip or even her social calendar. “I’m impressed.”

“I do pick up a newspaper now and then,” she said with a smile.

“Innisfen.” He downed most of his drink. “Life on Innisfen was a daylight nightmare. It is an island off the Irish coast, in the County of Louth, barely south of Ulster. We commandeered it several years back.

“The last I heard from the area,” Ian continued, “Is that the Irish Regulars, formerly the I.R.A., were attempting to keep all comers off the Island. By agreement, we left behind quite a sizable amount of ordinance. The least advisable action is to allow it to fall into the hands of what the I.R.A. refer to as the Irregulars. And if I know the I.R.A. of Innisfen and Killelea, they will succeed.“ Ian attempted a smile. “I’m of the opinion that our Government hopes that the Irish will use the ordinance to blow themselves up.“ He cleared his throat. “They are brutes, to say the least. If you’re considering a trip to Ireland, wait. At least until Innisfen and Dublin are secured. As I understand it, most of the fighting is in the west.“

“And Louth is?“

“East.“ He nodded at his glass and took another swig. Yes, indeed. The very act of imbibing soothed the tremor. “As I said, our Government officials are hoping that the Irish will do themselves in. That way we can walk in afterwards and take up where we left off. If you ask me, we’re better off rid of Ireland.”

“So tell me about your life there.“

Comfort in his present situation came easier after another nip. “Our lads were dregs, drunks, derelicts and murderers. And unfortunately, as bad as the locals are, I believe we had more to fear from our lads than we did from the I.R.A. Where do I think Reggie has gone off to?” He growled at his drink now. “I honestly think our lads did him in before we left the Island. They hated him.”

Emily reached for the decanter and refilled her glass. “I know well enough he wouldn’t back down to anyone.”

“If it’s any consolation, Reggie was a very brave man.”

“No, Ian, it isn’t. One way or another, I would feel better if at least I had an answer. On the other hand, if Reggie decided suddenly to holiday in, oh, say Dublin or Cork, with a red haired Irish tart, I’d have a reason for feeling so angry at him.”

*

A few weeks later:

The keel of the small boat scraped the pebbles lining the shore. Wee Sean Darcy jumped from the boat first, water rising up above his boots, and nearly to his knees. By the looks of the man, he’d heave his breakfast if he had to spend another minute in that floating tub. Father Patrick Plunkett lifted his skirts and jumped in behind Wee Sean, soaking those same skirts nearly to the hem of his jacket. Liam enjoyed that. Father would be tugging wet wool away from chapped legs all day.

Better yet, Sprite lifted his big, ugly mug and barked. “Here, boyo,” Liam called. “Come see me.” The huge wolfhound lurched forward and out onto the sand. Straight to Liam, he came sniffing the ground about him and wagging his tail.

Ah, but it ‘twas good to see his boyos. Liam O'Brennigan vaguely wondered what took them so long to return home. But then here they were.

Three others helped Wee Sean and the Priest pull the boat onto shore. Each removed a pack and a bed roll from the interior. Did Liam know his boyos well enough? He could lay odds on what they were carrying in their boat. There would be hand tools, shovels, hoes and the like, and enough flax seed for the whole of them to be planting without the benefit of an old nag. That would have to be done first. Of course it wouldn’t be enough to get the old linen factory going again. That would take at least another year or two. Bridey’s brother, Brendan Kelly, would have potatoes and onions to plant in his own garden. The Priest, no doubt, carried a fishing pole, the Gospels and a skillet, as well as a hand full of vegetables to cook. Wee Sean carried a lantern tied to the lash about his waist. Once on the strand, he attempted to shake the water from the wick without spilling any of the lamp oil. There might be a jug with more oil to get them through the night buried in Wee Sean’s pack, Liam thought. Rory Murphy might have shears in the hopes that there would be sheep roaming about the island. Now, for sure it would be that Jeremiah Corrigan carried a football made of rags. The question would be then, who was it that would be carrying the poteen? 

Liam O'Brennigan pulled his shoulders way back, and fell in line with his mates as they stepped away from the strand. Sprite followed, bouncing about and howling as if he had something important to say.

Each man glanced about, showing hope and concern, and maybe not expecting either. Brendan Kelly reflected the after effects of a night of drink. Father Patrick attached himself to Brendan’s elbow, and steered the group in the direction of the churchyard. Jeremiah Corrigan nodded and patted Brendan on the back. Liam stepped aside as the whole of them paused to discuss the missing piers. A lot had changed in a short time.

“It amazes me,” Bridey commented as she materialized at his side, “That the bunch of them are still alive.”

Liam glanced at the gaunt, starved figure of his red headed wife. She was pretty once. “You have something to say to me, finally?”

Bridey shook her head and slipped into the background. ‘Hell of it all,’ Liam thought, following the group up the concrete path leading from the bay. This was a British improvement. It ended at a burned out hovel that had once served as a store house for Irish wool, linen and grain destined to be shipped to Dublin, Manchester or points beyond. Amazing how it is that they could improve so much while destroying so much more. 

Beyond, the Celtic countryside opened up to the rocks, newly sprouting greenery and hillside. One could see most of the island rise up from this point. Few trees and several small bushes remained, and none larger than the typical Republican could hide behind.

To the right of the storehouse rubble, the ruins of the village of Fenton faced the shoreline like the hairs on a mole. Rocks competed with plant life on the Island, and many of the residents joked about eating them in times of hunger. Indeed every building, the roads and the many fences were made of stone.

Now, Erin took back her own. Without residents and their attempts at maintenance, clover grew up between rocks in the roadway, in gardens, and along walks. Heather swayed with each new breeze blowing in from the harbor. The buildings had been torched, meaning the roofs and the better part of the interiors had burned. One couldn’t be sure if the walls and stone fences had been knocked in by force or by neglect.

To the left of the storehouse, the old dun left a ragged stone pock mark on the horizon. The British had commandeered it a few years ago to use as a fort, as it was intended to be used when first built hundreds of years earlier. The Brits had arrested Bridey, and held her there while trying to convince her to lead them to Liam. Liam unsuccessfully tried to rescue her. The Brits had scraped his remains off the walls after his charge detonated prematurely. The saddest part about it all was Bridey’s surprise when she crossed to the other side.

Liam passed on the temptation to smile. His antics were no worse in the end than a gnat buzzing in one’s ear. They had a greater hell dealing with Bridey’s tongue.

The whole of his living boyos mounted stone steps leading to the opposite side of the Island. The old stone church had been located back there. The building itself had come down, but not even the British had the stomach to disturb the rest. Liam slipped on ahead, figuring he’d meet them in the Churchyard.

“You’re wrong, you know,” Bridey told him now. She stretched out across a nest of neatly arranged rocks and hiked her skirts. Her shoes had disappeared. Toes, insteps, heals and ankles, calves and knees, all without an once of fat. “The old codger could care less about desecrating cemeteries. He liked m’red hair. He told me that, you know. He liked the color of m’hair and the size of m’breasts.’

Liam turned back towards her. “Your breasts are large, are they?”

“So they’ve shriveled away.” She examined the front of her dress. “I’m blaming you for that, too.”

He glanced off in the direction of where his mates approached from. “I’d apologize again, but something is telling me you aren’t interested.”

“M’only interest is in making your eternity into hell. Two life times with the same results. I’m surprised you haven’t taken them with us this time.” She nodded at the group as they neared.

Father Patrick pointed in Bridey’s direction. Brendan broke ahead of his friends, approaching the graves quickly. Without hesitation, he knelt and with red chapped hands, retrieved a stone from between Bridey’s feet for examination. Sprite lowered himself to the ground and pushed in next to Brendan. The mutt yowled in his conversational tone, and pushed Brendan’s arm with his nose. The man scratched the dog behind the ears. “Aye, Sprite,” he said. “Liam’s right here.”

Brendan had changed since the last time they saw him. Liam felt her sadness as she pushed up to watch her brother. He hadn’t joined the Priest and a handful of others when they returned to bury Liam and Bridey. The Brits were looking for him then. Now Brendan looked older and tired, ready to fall over and sleep where he landed. “There has to be some wood on this God forsaken island,” Brendan said. “The buggers couldn’t have burned everything they touched.”

“Wood? For what?” Corrigan, a behemoth of a man, asked.

“A mold,” Brendan explained.

The Priest stepped away. This was the highest, most visible point on the Island, and it was here where the church had stood. The floor remained, and an odd stone or two. One of the few remaining trees sheltered the floor. A single warbler stretched up, offering his song to the heavens.

The Priest wiped his face with a calloused hand, pushing up the wire framed spectacles he wore and pressing his fingers hard into his eyes. Black Irish. The man had the same dark, straight hair that Liam had, that Murphy and several of the Islanders had. He had a strong jaw line and chin, heavy worry lines in his brow and bags caused from lack of sleep beneath his blue eyes.

“Patrick,” Brendan called. “You have no objection, do you?”

The Priest turned again, facing Brendan. “Objection to what?”

“A monument of sorts. Stack rocks, paint it with pitch and carve their names in it.”

“No, they’re deserving of at least that.”

Liam clasped his fists as Bridey laughed. “What I’m deserving of,” she said after a moment, “Is a fine home on the Highside, a hearth, chickens, sheep, a vegetable garden. And children.” She laughed again, and rolled towards Liam. “Do you think m’brother can fashion me children from rocks and pitch, Liam?”

“Bridget,” he cautioned quietly.

“Bridget,” she returned. “Never mind Bridget. If Liam hadn’t slipped up again, I might have a child or two.”

Liam turned and dissipated. He’d find his rest elsewhere.

The Lowside, a dent in the land, slipped downward from Fenton. He found his respite on a rock nearly the size of his old homestead. He liked to watch as the little yellow mutt the Brits left behind, tended his charges. A sheep would stray and that mutt would yip and snap at the animal’s flanks. Funny thing about life. Here was this dog, hungry, skinny and forgotten; where his sheep were fat, fluffy and needing a shearing. The smells and the textures. If only he could milk a goat or shear sheep again. Bridey was right. He screwed up.

“’Tis amazing,” she commented, dangling one skinny foot from the rock behind him. “What we’d have to do in order for the others to be remembering us so fondly.“ She kicked her foot out as if fancy free and fully enjoying his discomfort. “I’d like to say that I’d be alive if you hadn’t blown yourself up, but the fact is I didn’t expect to be finding you here after all I’d been through.”

“Is that it then? You hoped to be away from me?”

“I had hoped,” she began, swinging her foot to and fro, “That I had given myself to a cause without having you waste both our lives.”

The man slowly turned on his wife. “Am I wrong here, or was it our intention to rid ourselves of the Brits?”

“What is your point, Liam?”

“Do you see any Brits here?”

“Living or dead?”

Liam pulled himself to his feet. “Woman go haunt someone who bloody gives a damn.” He turned his back on her and charged off towards the harbor.

Link to Ghosties - 1