Leon Uris (71 page)

Time was winding down at the fishing cottage. All bridges had been crossed, except the big one. Dary wasted no time in getting to it.

“What are your plans, Rory?” he asked.

“Probably head back to Belfast and Lady Caroline.

Maybe I’ll take her up on the use of her house in Dublin. Hit the pubs. Make a dent in Dublin. I plan to go to the west. Everyone says it’s beautiful.”

“You’re lying in your teeth, Rory Larkin.”

“Me?”

“When you’ve heard as many Bogside confessions as I have, you become fine-tuned to the modulations in a liar’s voice. You’re going to join Brodhead’s staff, isn’t that what?”

“Maybe.”

“Ho, I’ll say a big ‘maybe’ for you.”

“I don’t want to appear too anxious. What I think is that I’ll ask for a trial period so I can back out. It’s easy enough to use my medical situation as an excuse to leave. Maybe I’ll have some more surgery on the hand. The eyes may have to wait. Just so I can ride a horse. Maybe, I’ll find a lass to read to me.”

“I’m talking about Larkin parading around as Landers inside Dublin Castle. You’d be doing a balancing act on the sharp side of a knife.”

It is family, Rory thought. The man is a priest. Should he know or not? So far, Rory had been able to hold it to himself alone. A secret happens when two or more people know and then it’s not apt to be a secret anymore.

“Let me help you, Rory,” Dary said. “You’ve kept republican matters out of our lovely new friendship. I have not been sympathetic unless it pertained to a family member. Did you know I organized Conor’s escape from Portlaoise Prison?”

“You…what!”

“Of course, you’ve had no way of knowing. I’m serving a beautiful bishop who desperately needs my help. But I’m starting to see things differently-first, since Conor’s death, and in more recent days, in revulsion over the executions.”

“Ah, wee Dary…”

“I still keep my distance from the Brotherhood, but I’ve never closed the door on a man on the run.” Dary’s mouth tightened. “I am a Larkin.”

“Something else you think you’d like to tell me, Father?”

“You’re clever, just like your uncle. Rory lad, a priest is really a core of a man papered over with layers and layers of dogma, like the skin of an onion. An enlightened bishop and the Larkin name has compelled me to peel layer after layer off me to find if a real man exists in there.”

Dary stopped and closed his eyes and turned his back.

“Hey, man, what’s going on?”

Rory turned Dary around. Yeah…they could tell one another. Dary’s voice wobbled…. “I know a terrible truth. Ireland is never going to be free unless Irishmen spill blood for it. It does not make me a Brotherhood man, but it makes me understand those who are.”

“So, what goes on now with the layers coming off? Half-man, half-priest?”

“More than you know,” Dary whispered.

“And you know that I came to Ireland to find the Brotherhood. Is there anything left of it since the Rising?”

“Aye,” Dary said, “I’ll take you there.”

A small phalanx of guards briskly entered the dining room of the Russell Hotel, examined and okayed it. General Sir Llewelyn Brodhead fumed in and was ushered to the prime private booth on the corner window as his men took up their stations around him.

Brodhead was in a snit. There had been two days of solid argument between himself and London until, at last, he had to give in to orders to cease executions of the Rising leaders until further notice.

Just when we had the Irish on the run, Brodhead thought. Damned American editorials were now chastising the British! This was an internal affair, damnit! Putting the Irish down was the question, not winning a popularity contest in the United States. Well, he thought, 10 Downing Street will see. They’ll resume the executions within the fortnight, he told himself.

Whiskey arrived. Brodhead stared down to the street. Another squad of guards had cordoned off the General’s car, escorting vehicles and passage to the Russell Hotel.

Suddenly the mood turned from gray to gold as Caroline Hubble showed at the dining room door. She never failed to lift eyebrows wherever she appeared.

It was her suggestion that they meet openly and in a public place. Caroline was often seen in men’s lairs with high government officials, industrial leaders, and luminaries in
the worlds of art and theater. And, lest we forget, it was risky to gossip about her. Since she had been a young lady, she had won the reputation of coming right on at a gossiper and filleting them in public.

Caroline toured the room, stopping at table after table for chitchat, so when the curtain closed her in with Sir Llewelyn, it caused no turned heads or wagging tongues.

Over sherry…his second whiskey…she unpinned her hat and laid it aside.

“I have to say,” she said, “I was delightfully surprised when Lieutenant Landers said…well, you found me…. Well, he said some lovely things.”

Brodhead blanched and cleared his throat. “I trust it was all proper,” he said.

“Good Lord, yes. After all, Llewelyn, we’ve been good friends for what? A quarter of a century, anyhow. When one becomes a widow, old relationships can take a turn.”

“I certainly didn’t mean to be leading a cavalry charge,” he said.

“Just putting your big toe in the water to test it out?” she said, taking control of the conversation. “Well, here’s to Landers, who delivered me with great skill and aplomb.”

They clinked glasses.

“Did Landers mention to you that the War Office has agreed to make an exception regarding his injuries if he goes on staff with me?”

“Well, I think he’d make a superior officer,” Caroline said.

“Agreed,” Brodhead nodded. “He’s not all that refined, backwoodsman and all that, but he has ‘future colonel’ written all over him. He is shrewd, resourceful, gets things done. And men are willing to follow him as, thank God, they are willing to follow me.”

“He told me he was going to think hard about staying in the Army,” Caroline said.

“Like all young men coming out of battle and hospital, Landers needs a bit of time for procrastination. He’ll come in. Loves danger. Hard charger. In his blood.”

“Both Freddie and I have taken a fancy to him. He makes us feel almost like, well, Jeremy and Chris are still here. I expect to see him before you do and I’m going to put the good word in for you.”

He ordered quail. She opted for salmon, off the bone.

Over nibbling they lowered and lifted eyes and smiled and she blinked hers and he staunchly held his level until they were staring at one another, bang-on.

“Is my interest in you in any way being encouraged?” he ventured.

“Well, what do you think, Llewelyn?”

“There is a possibility, then?”

“There’s always a possibility.”

He felt warm. He stifled his desire smartly by staring down to St. Stephen’s Green and mumbling that it hardly seemed the place of a recent battle. He mentioned how fortunate for Countess Markievicz and her rabble that he had not been commanding the opposition troops.

Having restored himself to the task ahead, he mellowed his way into the next phase with utter sincerity. “So long as Roger was alive, despite your unhappy separation, I’d never have dreamed of doing anything out of line. Alas, my own marriage has been virtually nonexistent…for more years than I can remember. Beatrice is a…decent sort.”

You bet, Caroline thought, decent and extremely well situated politically, socially, and economically.

“I still have utmost respect for Lady Beatrice as the mother of my daughters, though I had to finally reconcile not having sons…not that my daughters aren’t lovely women…but a man should have a son….”

“Yes, Freddie had the same problem with my being a girl,”

“But you’ve overcome it. Being a woman, I mean. Oh dear, I’ve just put my foot in my mouth.”

“I admire you coming right out with what everyone thinks.”

“Caroline, there are ten thousand men in the British Isles who would cut off their right arms just to be sitting here with you.”

Like the ten thousand arms that floated from Gallipoli to North Africa, she thought.

“May I ask. What about this Galloway fellow?”

“Gorman? He has been a devoted companion. He’s terribly amusing.”

And would like at your treasury, Brodhead thought.

“We have loads of the same friends in the theater and among the writers. We share a great number of political feelings, to be frank.”

“Well, you were always your own man, so to speak, when it came to politics. Freddie and Roger learned to live with it. I rather admire that in you. Fair play, that’s what we’re all about. And, uh, the quiet moments of your relationship with Galloway.”

Caroline hedged, allowing herself a moment to reflect. “Shall I say that I would not have been so taken by your attention if Gorman and I had more suitable intimate relations?”

“I take it, then…”

Salad arrived. He mumbled that it was too vinegary. Suddenly her hands were on his. “I’m hungry for a real man,” she said, and looked away quickly.

Dessert was wordless. She assisted him quietly in getting his cigar lit.

“I didn’t intend to be so forward,” she said.

“You are delicious,” he said, taking a long draw. “Can’t get enough of these Havanas since Gallipoli.”

“Too bad Freddie can’t smoke them anymore.”

“What do you suggest we do, Caroline,” he came out with, at last.

Caroline shook her head and shook it again. “I think we ought to retreat to our individual domains and give it some good hard thought.”

“My dear, don’t ask me to cut it off entirely.”

“Certainly there are numerous social occasions where we can see each other. I’ll bring Gorman along and you arrive with Lady Beatrice. I think no private contact for now. If we continue to have the same feelings, we’ll have to arrange to discuss it.”

“Nothing is going to change with me,” he said.

“It came on so suddenly,” Caroline said. “It must have been hiding there somewhere for years. I know I am with a very strong and trusted friend. And I know you will never betray me.”

“Caroline, hush up.”

I trust you, Llewelyn, she thought, because you love that uniform more than anything in your life, and in any scandal, dear Beatrice will have you reduced to the rank of private.

“Having said all this,” Caroline said, “this brazen hussy here feels very shaky.”

“Will you be at the Officers’ Ball at Dublin Castle?” he asked.

“I never pass up the chance to dance with young men.”

“Grand,” he said, “lovely.”

As the curtain opened his troops doubled their alert.

Father Dary crossed the Gratton Bridge over the river Liffey onto Ormond Quay Upper, the recent locale of gun and cannon fire. Rubble-cleaning crews compelled him to take a zigzag path. He climbed the stairs to the law offices of McAloon and Fitzpatrick and wedged his way into Theo’s cluttered mash of a room.

“Father Dary,” Theo greeted him, “are you down in Dublin to offer condolences on the Rising? Rachael will be delighted.”

“Theo, you’re a bona fide ass. How did you all come through?”

“We’re reeling about. Look at the center of the city, would you. You might have thought we had ten divisions inside the GPO rather than a hundred misplaced clerks, bartenders, and bookies.”

“Have the executions really stopped?” Dary asked.

“For the moment, thanks to your prayers and those of others.”

“Your mother?”

“Somehow she slipped through the cracks. Countess Markievicz is under sentence of death. Maybe one lady per Rising is sufficient. Mom hasn’t been active since Lettershambo. She still represents a great figure in Irish eyes. A weird dust is settling all over this. The British reac
tion has been insane, just plain insane, against everything they say they stand for.”

“I think everyone knows what they’re saying to us,” Dary said.

“Yes, but…” Theo began, unfolding himself from his seat, standing, and trying to find pacing room but finding none.

“But what?”

“Have some priests in your diocese, who never breathed a republican breath in their lives, started to whistle a different tune? Are they a little pissed about shooting Irishmen against the wall with impunity?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve heard some damned hard remarks.”

Theo tickled the tip of his nose. “My nose itches. I can smell it. Not much, Father, but a drift of anger is on the wind. Know what I heard secondhand out of the Castle? The British Ambassador in Washington sent an urgent cable to the Foreign Ministry in London to stop the executions. Seems that the editorials straight across America are now asking hard questions about what really happened here. Tidbits, only tidbits, but Jesus, wouldn’t it be lovely to have it all boomerang on them? It’s about time something decent fell our way. Meanwhile, I’ve still got eighty people under death sentence, and a British prison ship carrying four hundred of our lads left Kingstown today. No one has been publicly charged with anything.”

“So, how’s it going to play out?”

“Maybe further executions will be suspended. Maybe some of them will be commuted to life in prison or something shorter. Maybe, maybe, can’t be sure. The one thing that
is
certain, Sir Roger Casement is in the Tower of London and they must get him in a show trial, to justify their behavior.”

“I’ve had an interesting visitor,” Dary said suddenly.

“Oh?”

“Rory Larkin. Conor’s nephew from New Zealand.” That engaged Theo’s attention.

“He enlisted about a year and a half ago under the name of Landers. He intended to make his way to Ireland and he didn’t want to carry the Larkin name in.”

“Bright fellow.”

“Very bright. He won a field commission, survived Gallipoli, and has won a Victoria Cross. He and Jeremy Hubble became very close. Through Jeremy he learned about Conor and your mother. He wants to meet her.”

“That would be lovely. Anything else he wants?”

“The Brotherhood,” Dary said bluntly. “He wonders if there’s still a Brotherhood?”

“Of course there is. Since the Rising more men about the country have wanted to join than we have room for. It’s a case of gaining our senses and forming a new leadership. The Brits have done a pretty fair job in rounding up our top people.”

“There is still a central authority, then?”

Theo nodded.

“And you and Atty are in contact with them?”

Theo was about to hedge, but that was nonsense. He was talking to Conor Larkin’s brother, the man who engineered a most illegal prison break. He also sensed that Dary had his own sense of outrage over the executions.

“Yes,” Theo said. “What is this…”

“Rory Landers.”

“What’s his story, Dary?”

“He’s very young, early twenties. A lot of things remind me of Conor. He feels overwhelmed, obsessed with a need to do something in Ireland, especially now.”

“Why?”

“It’s the Larkin fate.”

“He’s in uniform?”

“More than that. General Brodhead wants him on his staff in Dublin Castle.”

“Ah Father, it’s far too early in the day for you to be drinking.”

“As Christ is my savior,” Dary said.

*  *  *

Rory, Father Dary, and Theo were at their buoyant best, as were two of the most delightful ladies in Dublin. Dinner was a lark, the first without awful tension since the Rising and killings. Long misplaced laughter covered the coming serious intent of the meeting.

Theo, a man who saw everything, saw Dary and Rachael eagerly volunteer to do the dishes for the lack of wanting further conversation with anyone besides themselves.

As Atty and Theo took Rory up to the library on the top floor she remembered the first time she had taken Conor there. They gathered close to the turf fire.

Theo also saw the unmistakable shock of electricity that blew off the instant his mother and Rory Larkin shook hands. Atty was more than twice the young man’s age but had suffered little loss in her regal manner, her great presence, and still had more than her share of beauty. Theo hoped that Mom was merely startled for the moment. Lord Almighty, those Larkin men have a thing about wanting to get into the Fitzpatrick women’s knickers. It was hell being the head of this family.

Theo repeated his feeling that sands were shifting in Ireland. “If it keeps running this way,” he said, “we’re going to vote Sinn Fein in in two years and Sinn Fein will pull out of the British Parliament and declare recognition of the Declaration of Independence.”

“And?”

“Ah, the real fun starts when the Irish try to rule themselves. Well, Mom,” Theo said with a sigh, “it’s time to drop the bomb.”

“Rory’s a Larkin and he’s looking for the Brotherhood,” Atty said.

“I am,” Rory said.

“What about this British uniform…and your arm?”

“I’ve been invited, not commanded but invited, to go on General Brodhead’s staff in the Castle.”

Silence. Atty was looking at a young Conor, was she not? Daring like Conor, who dared to go inside Weed Ship & Iron and doctor Sir Frederick’s private train to run guns. Conor at Lettershambo…himself over there with a Victoria Cross for gallantry. She began to shake. Theo held her.

“Now, Mom,” he said strongly.

“Are you his ghost, or what? This isn’t true.”

“I’m not Conor. I never will be Conor. But there is something I can do. I know that. Ireland’s really bleeding now. I’ve got to make my mark.”

“Playing the Landers game inside Dublin Castle,” she murmured, “is going to get you into the cell next to Roger Casement in the Tower of London. If they don’t get you soon, they’ll get you, maybe by a slip of the tongue or just being in the wrong place for a moment. No, I’ll not have it.”

“Here’s my thinking,” Rory said, ignoring her entreaty. “I can pull out cleanly any time I want. All I have to do is say my eyes are worse and I’m off to England the next day. The minute I go into Dublin Castle, I’m looking to plan something that can be accomplished. Soon as that is in order, I’m out of Ireland.”

Atty was unable to make a decision. She groused with herself. It was all the tension, all the nightmares coming back again in this lad’s form. Why the hell did he come to Ireland! All that was left of the high council were threads. Any action now would have to be approved by one of the survivors like herself.

She and Rory locked eyes, as they were prone to do for semi-instants, half-seconds. Theo, still not missing a thing, finally spoke up.

“Rory is in a position too important for us to pass over. I agree that he can’t stay too long. No matter the risk, he goes in,” Theo said.

“Good,” Rory said.

“I won’t agree,” Atty said.

“It’s my responsibility. You’ll have to come around.”