2

*

Canon Hanrahan had covered his eyes and his head with a warm, wet cloth. These headaches of his were crippling, sometimes knocking him off his feet for days.

Patrick returned to the hearth. In no time he swept the lose dirt up and had built a peat fire. Not long later, he had the old man’s supper cooking as well.

The bark of a dog, shouting and a horse’s whinny attracted his attention. Banging on his door dragged him outside and into a fine drizzle.

Old Mrs. Keenan held the attention of a throng. “And where would your Christianity be?” she cried, with hands on hips and anger in her eyes. “The Lord himself said forgive and forget.” Behind her, Patrick made out a horse drawn cart. A much too familiar man, slick with rain and dressed in English attire, tightened the reins. A rain drop ran under Patrick’s collar and a chill penetrated his spine.

The old horse whinnied. Kicking up her heels, she nearly kicked the old woman in the back of the head. “Bloody nag,” The man controlling the horse cried, as he fought with the reins.

Donny Duffy staggered. He lifted an old British hunting rifle in the air. He tried to aim at the man in the cart, but couldn’t maintain. He nearly dropped it. Raising it again, he pointed at Enid Kelly. “Ya bastard, you,” he shouted. Enid darted almost beneath the animal’s rear hooves. The horse hopped sideways, knocking into the cart and nearly toppling a woman from her seat. Chickens fluttered their wings and some tried unsuccessfully to take flight.

Eamonn Darcy reached for the rifle and Kieran Griffin drunkenly pushed him aside. A small, black dog stood between Kieran and Eamonn. It raised onto its back feet, trying to defend Eamonn, snapping at Kieran’s arm. The man didn’t notice. “Ya wouldn’t be remembering, laddy, would ya? This bugger starved Bridey O'Brennigan, and blew up Liam O'Brennigan.”

“He’s going to hurt the wrong person,” Eamonn shouted as Donny tried to lift the gun again.

“Shoot the bugger,” a face in the crowd shouted. “Give him the same mercy he showed us!” Someone grabbed Mrs. Keenan’s arm and tried to pull her aside. She planted both feet and fought the man off.

Patrick hurried into the fray, relieving Donny of the rifle, and pushing either him and Kieran Griffin back. The old nag reared up on its back legs. Eamonn pulled old Mrs. Keenan out of the way of its hooves. “Stop it,” Patrick ordered. “All of ya.”

“And how is it that ya spent months in his prison, that you would be protecting him?”

“I did,” Patrick returned. “Mrs. Keenan is right. Forgive, that is. It’s over. Whatever this man returned here for, give him a chance to tell us.”

“Like he gave Bridey and Liam?”

Patrick charged forward, yanking Kieran Griffin off his feet and onto his knees. “I sat in his prison for months,” Patrick charged “Because I protected Liam O'Brennigan and the others. You drank yourself silly and complained about the British when they weren’t around to hear it. Go back to the jug, Kieran. Take your friends with ya.” Griffin blinked, and then eased Patrick’s fingers from the cloth at his neck. Slowly he pulled himself from the pebbled way. Patrick waited. Grumbling they were, as Kieran Griffin and his friends stumbled away. “Go on, the bunch of ya,” Patrick called to the others gathered about. Reluctantly they wandered off, leaving Eamonn, Mrs. Keenan and the occupants of the cart. Patrick passed the rifle to Eamonn and turned to calm the horse. “Easy, lassie,” he cautioned, latching onto its harness. She snorted and stepped back, as he stroked the animal’s snout. She calmed.

Brigadier Wendall climbed down and circled the cart. “Father Plunkett,” he nodded, adjusting his riding gear. “I suppose I should offer my thanks for saving us from the rabble.”

“And if I were to tell you I’m hoping ya choke on your words?”

“Still quick with the retorts?”

Patrick led the horse off the path and tied its reins to a post. “You and your lady should be coming inside before we have another riot. Have ya eaten?”

“I have. Although Lady Talbot has not.” Wendall nodded at the woman in the cart. He helped her step down. A creature like her was unfamiliar to Patrick’s senses. Tall, thin and pretty, but her hair was short and unladylike. Her tan colored coat barely covered her dress, and that ended just below her knees. She wore tight fitting boots with tall heels, which were better fitted maybe for city streets than for mucking about in the country. She wore a billed cap made from thin saddle leather. Strapped about the bill were spectacles like what Patrick wore, only with cloth straps instead of wire.

“Lady Talbot, is it?” She smiled nervously at him. He nodded at his open door.

The Parochial House was as big or as small as the other homes along the way. The aroma of fresh cut straw, roasted herbs and warm, rich stew greeted them at the door. The interior was dark and gloomy. It was clean, although the furnishings were sparse. Lady Talbot paused at one of only two wall hangings, and that was a newspaper photograph in a homemade frame.

It was the story of the martyrs who held the Dublin Post Office in 1916 during Easter week. It wasn’t until after they were hung that the Irish realized the significance of the event. Every good Irish home had at least one copy of that photo hung somewhere. The strife began later, after the Great War in France and Germany. After serving well and faithfully in the British military, Irish men came home from the European mainland thinking that life would be better because of their loyalty. It wasn’t. Life hadn’t changed, although the Irish had. That’s when they rebelled.

The Brigadier had seen that newspaper photo often enough, and even rolled his eyes as the Lady tried to read in the darkness. She gave up after a minute or so, obviously not as impressed as the Irish were, and glanced about at the other wall hanging, which was a small Crucifix. 

Patrick picked another clump of dried peat from the stack against the wall and heaped it into the fire. “We haven’t much to offer,” he said, pulling out the chair for the lady. “What we do have we’ll share.” He indicated that the Brigadier should pull a stool up to the rough hewn table.

“It smells wonderfully,” she said, pulling the chair in. “What is it?”

“Stew,” Patrick responded. “Potatoes, carrots, onion, eggs and fish.”

“Doesn’t smell anything like the potatoes we had on the road.”

Wendall pulled up his stool. “Father Plunkett has a reputation as quite a cook. Possibly one of the few in the area.

Patrick examined the man. “You’ll be recognizing the bowls,” he commented, turning to his hearth. “We divvied what was left in the dun between us after you left. Most here have little. Sheets and table linen make decent shirts and dresses, and the draperies could be used for trousers or blankets. And in some homes, dishes, forks and spoons were a luxury we didn’t have. Only Jesus, Himself, would be knowing how many children will be returning when the dun school reopens.” He ladled his stew into four bowls and set them out. “Excuse me,” he said finishing up.

Funny how things had changed. He had thanked God at one point for  being rescued from the dun after four months of incarceration. After that he made a point of returning weekly to minister to Bridey and the others. And here today, Brigadier Ian Wendall thanked him for his timely rescue. Should he gloat?

Canon Hanrahan called out. “We are having visitors, are we?” Patrick ducked into the next room. Canon Hanrahan sat on a straw mattress, attempting to pull himself up. Patrick explained who their visitors were. “If ‘tis all the same to you, I’ll be taking m’dinner in here.” the Canon replied.

“If that’s what you want.”

“’Tis.”

Patrick returned a moment later with a bowl and spoon. The old man took it with a word of thanks, and squinted painfully in Patrick’s direction in spite of the fact that little light seeped through one small, window.

Patrick sat, crossed himself and said Grace. He glanced at his guests. Brigadier Wendall paused respectfully, waiting for Patrick to finish, while Lady Talbot watched him over her raised spoon. She chewed as he crossed himself again. Patrick picked up his spoon. “How is it you’re back?”

The Brigadier nodded at the Lady and picked up his own spoon. “We’re hoping to learn about the disappearance of Major Reginald Smote Talbot.”

“I didn’t realize Major Talbot was missing.”

“The question is,” the Brigadier said, exhaling heavily, “If I asked you if you knew where he was would you tell me?”

“I have no reason to lie now.”

“You admit to lying back then?”

“I admit to taking measures to protect m’own.”

The man’s expression turned hard, the same expression Patrick remembered way back when he refused to tell Wendall how to find Liam and the others.

“It wouldn’t do either of us any good now if I told ya where we hid the I.R.A.,” Patrick commented.

A moment passed before Wendall gave in. “No, it wouldn‘t.” He tasted his stew, and nodded with appreciation. Lady Talbot seemed to be thoroughly enjoying the meal. She studied her spoon, smiled at it, and licked the bowl of the spoon before dipping it back into the broth. “Again, the question is do you have any knowledge of the whereabouts of Major Smote Talbot?”

“No, I don’t. I thought he’d be leaving with the rest of ya.”

“You’re not aware of any I.R.A. plot to kidnap him or take his life?”

“Major Talbot, no,” Patrick assured his guests. “He’s a fair man. You on the other hand were in the midst of many plots.” Patrick used his spoon to direct the Brigadier’s attention away from the subject “I’d be suspecting that if he is missing, your guards would be having more to do with it than the Republicans. Those men weren’t half as tame as demons from hell itself.” Patrick, realizing his indiscretion, glanced Lady Talbot’s way. “M’apologies.”

She noticed his apology but not his curse. “Sorry?”

He shook his head.

Wendall grunted, but then nodded at the Lady. “That’s as much as I tried to say back in London.”

“I’m still holding out hope,” she said in a stately manner, “That Reggie might have found some little Irish tramp and is off romping through the clover with her.”

“Is your Molly O’Sullivan about?”

“Nay,” Patrick explained. “The best we can figure is that she’s taken off with a lad from Waell's Crossing. We’ve been entertaining other villages in football matches, and they were our last challenge.”

Brigadier nodded.

“That’s it then?” Lady Talbot exclaimed. “This Milly O’Sullivan is the only tramp about?”

Patrick turned on her. Her behavior was as odd as her clothing. “Your husband did not spend his free time here as the others did. I wouldn’t be thinking he’d take interest in her.”

“And why would that be?”

“Molly O’Sullivan,” Wendall explained, “Mated with anyone willing to part with a bottle of her favorite brew.”

“So?”

“Your husband drank very little.” Major Wendall studied her. She shrugged and returned her attention to her meal.

Patrick led them out to the wharf not long before sunset, thinking that it might be best to be taking them across when most of the others were occupied with their dinner. When the Brigadier respectfully offered to row, Patrick agreed. “Aye, I’ve done this once already today.”

Half way across, Wendall turned nostalgic. “How many times I crossed this channel I can’t remember.”

“A few of those times ya had no business walking,” Patrick reminded. “I’m remembering finding ya passed out and beached.”

“Me? Are you sure that wouldn’t have been Sergeant Krupp?”

“Nay,” Patrick chided. “It was yourself all right. And next to ya was an empty jug of yer Scotch whiskey.”

Ian laid back, pulling he oars into him. “If I remember straight, I locked a bottle of Scotch safely away.”

“If it’s the same bottle I’m thinking of, it’s the same bottle I shared with the I.R.A.” Patrick turned aside to watch the waves lap the sides of the boat, catching the reflection of the setting sun in the waves.

Wendall frowned as he lifted the blades from the water for the return stroke. “Did you enjoy it at least?”

“It wasn’t poteen.”

“What’s poteen?” Lady Talbot asked in a half interested manner. She watched the approach into Innisfen, the waves, the gulls and a snapping fish or two.

“It is a most vile brew,” Wendall explained. “Made from distilled potatoes.”

“Is there anything in this country not made from potatoes?”

“Actually,” Patrick broke in, “We’ve grown all varieties of vegetables, flax, barley, wheat and rye. And then the British imposed their authority on us, and took all of our crops, our pigs and sheep, and left us with a small plot of potatoes. It surprises me that more of us didn‘t starve to death at his hands than did.”

She turned her nose up. “I’ve only eaten potatoes since landing here, and I’m tired of them now.”

Brigadier Wendall clenched his teeth in a pained expression. “What is it?” Patrick asked. “Afraid of hearing the truth about potatoes, are ya?”

“How many times do I need to be told?”

“About what?” Lady Talbot asked.

“God created a potato blight,” Patrick answered as a wave lifted their craft up and dropped it gently again. “The British turned that blight into a famine. They were afraid that if they gave us bread, we wouldn’t buy it later. The truth of it was, most of us didn’t eat bread because we didn’t have the money to purchase it to begin with. We ate potatoes while our crops went back to England. And when the potatoes went bad, we starved.”

“When was this?” Lady Talbot asked.

“About seventy years ago,” Wendall charged. “You did mention you felt the Irish were an angry race. I doubt Father Plunkett would disagree after his little speech.”

“Angry?” Patrick asked, raising a brow towards Wendall. “Angry is it? The fact that you’re here without being assaulted anymore than you had might be an indication that our anger is cooling down a bit.”

Patrick hopped out of the boat in his usual manner, only to come face to face with Jeremiah Corrigan. The man began to pull the boat in, but when Wendall turned about to face Corrigan, Jerry released his hold on the gun rail and backed away. Wendall emerged from the boat, and helped Patrick to beach it.

Corrigan took off. The trio made their way up the strand towards the concrete walkway. “You’re probably safest here anyway,” Patrick explained “Spend the night at the dun.”

Before the group mounted the steps, a rush from behind the old store house ruins backed the trio onto the strand again. “If it isn’t the I.R.A.,” Brigadier Wendall commented as Corrigan, Murphy, Wee Sean Darcy, and Brendan Kelly pressed forward.

“Aye,” Jerry Corrigan commented “’Tis the I.R.A. And damn you, you bloody limey. Ya got a lot of nerve coming back here.”

Wendall drew himself upright in his finest military manner, tucking his hands behind his back. He tightened the muscles in his neck and chin, causing them to ripple. He turned to the Lady. “Well, Lady Talbot, if your husband disappeared at the hands of the Irish, these would be the men responsible for his disappearance.”

Corrigan spit. “So lock me in your prison and drag it out of me. I wouldn’t be the first person to die of starvation in Erin.”

“An angry race?” Ian smiled contemptuously. “We would have come earlier except for a little matter of a civil war.”

Corrigan spat again. “Oh, you’re going to blame us for that are you?” He glanced about at the others. “Like starving to death. Our fault because the British went out of their ways to relieve us of our food and our dignity.”

Ian raised his hands slightly at his sides. “I’ve never caused a civil war in my life.”

*

“Civil war?” Liam whispered. “What in the bloody hell happened here?”

“Aye,” Jerry Corrigan charged. “As if you all aren‘t to blame. We were forced to give up Ulster just to have our own country. On our own soil no less.”

“Your people agreed to it. Your Michael Collins. Isn‘t that your National hero? Blame him.”

“Blame him?” Brendan charged. “Blame him and Arthur Griffith. Only that it killed Arthur in the end. Couldn‘t live with himself.”

“Arthur Griffith is dead?” Liam turned quickly on Reggie. Reggie wasn’t paying attention to him. The ghostie’s attention was on that unusual woman with the short hair and shorter skirt. A prolonged quiet fell as Liam swallowed this new bit of news.

Link to The Brits Return 3