*
Eamonn and Tim brought horrid tales from the mainland, and instructions
from Patrick on removing the Brits from the Island. The expression Wee Sean
wore throughout the worst of the story had to be something like the expression
he wore on the day he awoke, finding himself floating away. “Would you prefer I
get Jerry Corrigan to come with me?” Brendan asked.
“I’d be preferring you leave me home and drown Jerry Corrigan,” Wee Sean
responded. “Only I think he’d be turning up again before the goat does. The
sooner we’re getting under way, the less time I have to think about it. Eamonn,
Tim, go home. Take care of your Mother.” Wee Sean said goodbye to his lads, and
then went off with Brendan to find the Brigadier.
“You’re here to kidnap me,” Wendall exclaimed when the pair shook him
awake. He had passed out in a sea of green, and from the looks of him, might be
expecting to awake in the harbor again rather than the center of the parlor
rug. He squinted angrily, leveling the evil eye on both men. “I knew it. Sooner
or later I’d be the brunt of an I.R.A. plot.”
“Actually,” Wee Sean began, picking up a nearly empty bottle of Scotch
whisky from where it had rolled against a claw footed chair leg. “We’re here to
share. You wouldn’t be having anymore of this, now would you?” A mouse darted out from behind the chair leg,
and scurried beneath a sofa.
“Is that my ransom. A bottle of Scotch?” Wendall pulled up on his hip.
“Krupp, evil little bastard, you demanded prisoners for.”
“No prisoners left,” Brendan reminded, pulling the man off the floor.
“Come on with ya. Father Patrick says we have to get you out of here. We’ll be
taking you and the Lady up into Ulster by boat. According to Patrick, the ‘new
I.R.A.’ wants ya.”
“Ha,” Wendall laughed, as Brendan and Sean pulled him forward, “You’ve
been deposed.”
“If that means that bunch at the Pub is listening to their beers talking
to ‘em, I guess we have.” Brendan nudged Wendall. “So, you got anymore of that
Scotch whiskey with you?’
Wendall rubbed the back of his head and glanced about the room. His eyes
came to rest on the fireplace. Wee Sean crossed the room and peaked up into the
flue. A grand smile and an easy reach brought down a sooty, but full bottle.
Patrick’s instructions took them further along Carlingsford Bay, to a
small town called Milesbog still within the County of Louth. Patrick had family
there. In no time they beached their rowboat, although according to Sean, anytime
in a boat was too much time. But then a knock on a door brought smiles,
recognition and a warm reunion. Sean opened the Scotch as Brendan explained why
they had come.
“Not that I want that bugger under m’roof,” Maude Dempsey, a short, round
brunette explained. “But if Father Patrick sends the I.R.A., I’m supposing it’d
be all right.” The local I.R.A. promised to carry the travelers to safety
across the bay to Ulster.
* * *
With or without his Dad’s approval, Connor Corrigan decided to keep
himself at the ready and beside Wee Sean Darcy’s family. He took Dad’s ancient
hunting rifle with him. His mother hurried to help Maureen with the
arrangements. They offered Old Man Keenan their condolences, and murmured quick
prayers for the repose of the Old Woman’s soul. Then Connor took up a post at
the door, keeping an eye on the Pub. Eamonn breathed a sigh of relief. “Tim
isn’t much more frightening than m’sister, Mary Kate, is,” his friend
commented. “I’m glad to see ya.”
Old Man Keenan drank himself silly and sobbed uncontrollably as the two
women washed and dressed his wife. Father Patrick arrived soon after Mrs.
Keenan had been placed in a coffin. Canon Hanrahan came not long after that.
Both priests blessed the house and the people within, and then blessed Mrs.
Keenan. Father Patrick brought sacred oils with him, and reannointed her.
The wake began as Maureen Darcy lit candles and placed them on a table at
the head of the coffin. Mourners arrived. The musicians of the Village brought
their fiddles and drums, their tin whistles and their squeeze boxes, and
housewives brought food. The men brought poteen. The older women began to wail,
and the younger couples began to dance. Children played in front of the
cottage, chasing dogs, chickens and balls made of rags. Connor began to relax.
He could see a hint of the harbor from the doorway, and sighed when he
noticed a boat crossing over from the direction of the Island. The sun would
set soon and only the bravest would attempt the crossing before the lighthouse
was fully lit. Before he could welcome his Dad and whoever else came with him,
the group from the Pub crossed the way. Connor straightened himself up, looking
for a sign of Donny Duffy. Kieran Griffin and Michael Smith led the way. “You
aren’t welcome here,” Connor told them, blocking the door with his bulk.
“’Wasn’t us, lad,” Kieran replied attempting to push past.
“I said,” Connor repeated, “You’re not welcome here.”
Kieran stepped back a moment to study the situation “’Tis you, laddy,
that’s going to stop us from paying our respects?”
“If I have to.”
Eamonn pushed in beside him. “With m’help.”
“Ah,” Kieran drew back, turning to his cronies with a laugh. “’Tis the
two of them. The laddies, here. They’ll be keeping us from the wake.” Kieran
turned sharply on Connor, growling through gritted teeth, and looking as fierce
as a pooka. “I told ya, lad, we had nothing to do with this. ‘Twas Donny Duffy
all by himself.”
“That isn’t what I saw,” Eamonn challenged. From behind the group two
men, each with a good deal of bulk on his bones, rounded the corner off the
wharf.
“Me neither,“ Father Patrick pushed up behind the pair. “The bunch of you
go back to the Pub.”
Kieran turned about to his friends again. “Father, you were there,” he
said without rancor. “You talked to Donny, himself. You know we had nothing to
do with this.”
A big hand settled on Kieran Griffin's shoulder. He turned quickly,
wringing his mouth up in another scowl. It turned to shock when he realized who
had him. “’Tis this the leader of the new I.R.A. I’m hearing about?” the elder
Corrigan sneered.
“Hey, Jerry, how are, lad?” Kieran tried to put his hand out.
Connor’s Dad leaned down a bit. “Not happy,” he growled, knocking aside
Kieran’s hand. “Someone is spreading rumors about replacing the I.R.A. As long as
there’s a chunk of skin missing from m’arse because of an exploding piece of
railroad tie, I’ll not be entertaining being replaced by a bunch of pub flies.
Now tell me about how Mrs. Keenan met her end.”
Kieran retreated a step, his hand rising to the bill of his cap. “’Tis
Donny. Ya know how crazy he is when he’s drinking.”
Rory Murphy picked at something on Kieran’s jacket. “So where would Donny
be now?”
“I don’t know. Father Patrick told him to be avoiding all of yas. I’m
thinking he’s headed to Lough Larton. He’s got family there.”
“Something tells me he’d swim to America if he had to,” Rory laughed.
Dad laughed, too. “Aye, he would at that.” Dad started past Kieran with
Rory at his heels, but when Kieran tired to follow, Dad turned on him again.
“Ya heard the lad. You aren’t welcome here. Go on back to your Pub, Kieran. No
free Guinness here.”
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