Ashes In the Wind Page 6

  ‘Just like that,’ says Frank. ‘You’re not being asked to do anything I wouldn’t do, haven’t done, myself.’

  ‘How will I recognize him?’

  ‘Easy enough. He’s only the one arm – lost the other in the war. Always in the armchair on the right of the fireplace.’

  ‘One arm?’

  ‘Never mind that. It’s his left he’s missing, and he’ll use his right to shoot you if you give him half a chance. You’ll be on your own, the two of you. They’re on to me in Cork City.’

  The next morning Tomas and Denis set off with Cora back to Cork; this time the revolvers and ammunition are in a box on the underside of the trap.

  At the start of their journey they come round a corner beyond Lissagroom and run into a small good-humoured crowd, mainly men, a few women, all heading the same way.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Road bowling,’ says Denis, excited. ‘Don’t you have it in Kerry? Stand up in the cart and watch – we’ll not get past until they’re done.’

  Tomas sees a man running to a mark, lifting a large ball up and back behind him, then whirling it forward with a leap in a powerful underarm throw, the ball clattering along the rough road. His opponent follows. Each throw is accompanied by a loud cheer from the spectators, who then run forward to the next marks.

  ‘That thing is solid iron, weighs twenty-eight ounces; you’d need to be a strong fella to lift it, never mind hurl it. Look, that one’s marking the best line for his man’s next throw.’

  ‘How far do they go?’ says Tomas.

  ‘Three miles or so. You win with the fewest throws. My uncle won the Cork Championship over the Knappagh course three years ago with twenty-two. You loft the ball over the corner when you get to a bend in the road.’

  The bowling, which involves argument and betting as well as throwing, holds them up for an hour.

  ‘I’ve not seen the like in Kerry,’ says Tomas.

  There are no roadblocks, although beyond Ballygarvan there is a trench, four feet deep and three across, cut into the road.

  ‘Bloody Tans,’ says Denis.

  ‘It’s most likely our people,’ says Tomas.

  The earlier hold-up and the long detour add two hours to their journey, and they arrive in Cork just before the nine o’clock curfew. They spend the night in the Queen Victoria. Tomas has been forbidden by Frank to visit Station Road.

  ‘The house is watched day and night. You’ll wind up inside if you go there.’

  The next day Tomas and Denis walk together along the Quays and cross the north channel of the River Lee to South Mall. The County Club is a late Georgian town house in grey stone with wrought-iron balconies on the first floor. A small brass plate by the door confirms that they are studying the right building. They look at the club for a few minutes; no one enters or leaves, and there is no sign of a police guard. When a man comes out on one of the balconies they walk away to Patrick Street.

  On the following morning they go back to the club by the same route. Tomas goes in first, followed by Denis; the porter at the entrance looks up and looks away. As they go into the smoking room they pull out their revolvers. The man on the right of the fireplace sees them and begins to rise out of his chair, reaching inside his jacket pocket; his left sleeve is empty. Tomas walks towards him, fires twice and the man slumps back into the chair for a moment, chest covered in blood, then gets up as Tomas fires again. He falls forward, tries to speak, lies still as blood comes from his mouth, staining the carpet a deeper red. The three other men in the room are silent and still. The shots have been violently loud in the confined space. In the sudden silence that follows, a waiter drops his coffee-cup-laden tray with a clatter.

  It is all over in three minutes. Fifty yards up the street a car is waiting, and ten minutes later they are back in the Queen Victoria.

  ‘That was easy enough,’ says Denis as they walk up the stairs.

  ‘You didn’t pull the trigger,’ says Tomas. He feels a sick excitement, realizing that this time killing a man had indeed been easy. The power the revolver had given him was real. That night he wonders whether he will see Kitty again and what he will say to her if they meet.

  The following evening Tomas and Michael are sitting in a corner of the Queen Victoria’s saloon bar, each nursing half a pint of mild.

  ‘Stout’s too bitter for me,’ says Denis, and Tomas agrees. Frank O’Gowan comes in, carrying a copy of the Cork Constitution.

  ‘You’re headline news. “Appalling horror in Cork City – five masked men kill defenceless war hero in his chair by the club fire,”’ he says. ‘You did well. The air in Cork City is sweeter for the killing of Inspector Smyth.’

  Frank takes them up to the bar and orders three whiskeys.

  ‘It’s a celebration,’ he says, talking more loudly than usual. ‘By rights it should be five whiskeys for the two of you.’ He sees the look on Tomas’s face. ‘We’re among friends tonight,’ giving a little wave of his hand that pulls in the six other men standing at the bar.

  Each of them nods to Frank. The tallest, a man with a strong jaw and unruly dark hair, is Michael Collins, who introduces himself in a gravelly West Cork accent and shakes hands with Tomas and Denis.

  The Big Fellow is already a legend among the Volunteers. At first sight he doesn’t stand out; he is wearing a dark suit, well-polished black shoes, and his grey Homburg is on the bar beside him. Tomas has seen the Police Gazette description.

  ‘Clean-shaven, youthful appearance, dark brown eyes, regular nose, fresh complexion, oval face, five feet eleven inches high, about thirty years of age, dark hair. Generally wears trilby hat and fawn overcoat.’

  Frank says, ‘Mick wants us in Dublin, Tomas. Denis, you’re to stay in Cork.’

  Denis looks relieved.

  ‘I’ll need to get a letter to my mam,’ says Tomas. ‘She’s heard nothing from me since Staigue Fort. I’m killed or captured for all she knows.’

  ‘You do nothing, no letter-writing,’ says Frank. ‘We’ll get a message to her, put her mind at rest.’

  There’ll be little rest for my mam if she knows what I’ve been doing, thinks Tomas.

  Frank leans forward on the bar and orders another whiskey for himself and the Big Fellow. They clink glasses. To Tomas’s astonishment Frank starts to sing in a sweet tenor voice. The others around him join in, the Big Fellow beating his hand on the bar in time with the tune. Frank looks at Tomas with a half-smile, then sings the second verse.

  And we’re off to Dublin in the green, in the green

  Where the helmets glisten in the sun

  Where the bayonets flash and the rifles crash

  To the rattle of a Thompson gun

  I’ll leave aside my pick and spade, I’ll leave aside my plough

  I’ll leave aside my horse and yoke, I no longer need them now

  And I’ll leave aside my Mary, she’s the girl that I adore

  And I wonder if she’ll think of me when she hears the rifles roar.

  When the song ends the little group breaks up.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ says Frank to Tomas as he leaves. ‘Denis, you can go home.’

  Tomas spends the next two days wandering around Cork City. He buys a copy of the Cork Constitution, reading and rereading the front page, matching the lurid description of the killing to his own much briefer memory.

  He knows a visit to Station Road would be too risky, and stops a barefoot boy on the Quays, gives him a shilling and careful instructions, blushing as he speaks.

  ‘Wait till she comes out of the house, follow her to the market, and tell her to meet the Kerry man on Patrick’s Hill at noon on Thursday. Come to the Queen Victoria that evening and there’ll be another shilling for you. Her ma doesn’t approve of me.’

  The boy smiles and trots off down the Quays.

  On Thursday, Tomas is waiting on Patrick’s Hill, hears the cathedral clock strike twelve, and an hour later walks back down, thinking his shilling was
ted. At the foot of the hill he meets Kitty walking quickly towards him. She takes his arm and they go back up the hill to the place where Kitty had pointed out the landmarks of the city three weeks before. A lifetime. They sit on the grass holding hands. Tomas leans across and kisses her on the cheek; Kitty puts her hand on the back of Tomas’s neck and presses her lips against his for a long moment.

  ‘Walk me home,’ she says, and Tomas, still in the spinning moment of his first kiss, stands up and they walk together down the hill.

  They are still holding hands, when Kitty asks, ‘Were you involved at the Constitution Club?’

  Tomas stops, turns to look at her. ‘I was.’

  Kitty lets go of Tomas’s hand when they get close to Station Road.

  ‘He was a bad man,’ says Tomas, and echoes Frank’s words, ‘Cork’s a better place without him.’

  ‘That’s as may be,’ says Kitty. ‘But Staigue Fort was a battle, soldier against soldier. This was...’ she is about to say murder, changes her mind ‘...cold-blooded.’

  ‘More cold-blooded than shooting your father, worse than a firing squad?’

  ‘About the same, I’d say. Best leave me here.’

  As they part, she brushes Tomas’s cheek, not this time with her lips but with her fingers, and then walks swiftly away. Tomas’s intense happiness at the top of the hill has been replaced by sudden, confused misery. He watches as Kitty turns the corner without looking back.

  8

  TOMAS THINKS DUBLIN is to Cork as Cork is to Drimnamore; Cork is a big town, Dublin a proper city. He and Frank travel up together by train. Frank is exultant when they arrive at Kingsbridge Station.

  ‘This is the place,’ he says as they walk down Upper O’Connell Street. ‘Nowhere else counts for a candle.’

  Their billet is in the Summerhill Dispensary, a ramshackle building that houses a Registry of Births, Marriages and Deaths, a chemist’s shop, a saddler. On the three floors above there are thirty small bedrooms sharing a bathroom and kitchen at the end of each corridor. Medical staff from the nearby Rotunda Hospital occupy most of the rooms, but it is soon clear to Tomas that there are several other Volunteers in the building.

  Frank is a taciturn companion. Tomas’s questions receive either a monosyllabic reply or silence, and Tomas soon gives up trying to find out what is going on. After two days a messenger arrives who has a hurried conversation with Frank in the street. He leaves two bicycles behind.

  A week later they are with Michael Collins in a small room above a haberdasher’s shop.Tomas notices the sign as he and Frank walk in. ‘Sullivan’s Gentlemens Outfitters’ it reads. He nudges Frank.

  ‘Look, must be my cousin,’ and gets no reply.

  Michael Collins is sitting behind a wooden table covered in papers, a revolver acting as a paperweight. Behind him is a large-scale map of Dublin inned to the whitewashed wall. Fifteen red crosses mark streets clustered around the centre of the city. The room gradually fills up as men arrive in twos and threes. Tomas recognises one face from the bar of the Queen Victoria.

  Michael Collins stands up, leans forward, places his hands upon the table and looks around the room until the quiet chatter dies away.

  ‘We’re going to wipe out the British Intelligence network in a single morning. The Cairo Gang, fifteen of their best men in Dublin. Next Sunday’s the day. Same day as the GAA match at Croke Park. You’ll be able to disappear into the crowd. Donal will tell you your detailed instructions and timings. Nothing in writing, no notes.’

  Tomas and Frank are given a name and address – Captain Newbury, 92 Lower Baggot Street, close to St Stephen’s Green. Early on Sunday morning Tomas goes to Mass.

  ‘Much good may it do you,’ says Frank. ‘Light a candle for me. And one for Captain Newbury.’

  Tomas doesn’t go to confession, doesn’t take Communion. He is troubled by the thought of the morning’s work – Staigue Fort and Ashtown were little battles, as Kitty had said. This was to be another... He cannot find a word he likes for what they are about to do.

  Tomas and Frank arrive at Lower Baggot Street just before nine. When the housekeeper answers the door Frank pushes past her, asking in a whisper where the officer’s rooms are. Too frightened by the grim-faced men and the drawn revolvers to speak, she points up to the first floor. They run up the stairs and burst through the door on the landing. Newbury, still in his pyjamas, is halfway to the window as both men fire. Newbury falls forward, crashing through the window glass, and hangs, half in, half out of, the room.

  As the firing stops, Tomas hears a woman scream; Newbury’s wife is standing in the corner of the room. She is heavily pregnant, holding up her hands as if to push them away when they leave the room.

  As they leave the house, Tomas looks up and sees the woman trying to cover her husband’s jack-knifed body with a blanket. They walk to the Ha’penny Bridge and drop their revolvers into the river as they cross.

  ‘We’re to make for McCarthy’s boarding house in Mountjoy Street later,’ says Frank. ‘Dublin will be crawling with Black and Tans and Auxiliaries.’

  ‘Did you see she was pregnant?’ says Tomas. Frank does not reply.

  They get to McCarthy’s in the evening; most of the Apostles are already there in an upstairs room. This time Michael Collins is triumphant.

  ‘We’ve killed fifteen of their best men, it’s a knockout blow. They’ve taken McKee and Clancy, and I think Fitzpatrick is dead, God help him. The Tans and the Auxies went mad in Croke Park this afternoon, opened fire on the crowd, killed more than a dozen, two of them children. But believe me, boys, it’s been worth it. Just mind how you go for the next week. They’ll not be particular who they pick up.’

  ‘Newbury’s wife was pregnant,’ says Tomas.

  There is a long silence; as they leave the room Michael Collins pats Tomas on the shoulder. ‘Newbury had to be killed,’ he says.

  Two days later Tomas is picked up by a patrol of the Auxiliaries on his way out of the Dispensary; Frank has already gone back to Cork. Tomas is taken to Jury’s Hotel in Great Dame Street, commandeered as an Auxiliary stronghold. He is pushed into a small room by three Auxiliaries, who set about Tomas with fists, boots and blackthorn sticks without speaking. Tomas winds up on the floor, bleeding from a deep cut on his forehead, one eye completely closed, bruised all over his body.

  ‘That’ll teach you to resist arrest,’ says the last one to leave, giving Tomas a parting kick.

  The next day he and three other Volunteers are taken to Mountjoy Jail. They don’t acknowledge each other. As they walk through an inner courtyard their guards point out bullet holes on the far wall.

  ‘That’s where we shoot rebels. Your lot’ll get the noose.’

  There are over a thousand men in Mountjoy; every evening a crowd collects outside the walls to shout encouragement to the prisoners. In a series of identity parades the British try to weed out the active Volunteers. Tomas can barely stand at the first parade; he is wrongly identified by a policeman as one of those involved in a murder two days before. His documents prove he was already a prisoner at Jury’s.

  At the second identity parade, the Baggot Street housekeeper is there. The soldiers escort her, shaking, white-faced and terrified, to the security of a sentry box with a slit cut in its back at eye level. She identifies Tomas, who is immediately put into solitary confinement. A fortnight later he is tried, found guilty of murder.

  ‘You killed three people,’ says the judge. ‘You shot Captain Newbury in cold blood, and you were responsible for the death of his wife and unborn child when she miscarried the following day.’

  Tomas is condemned to death. After the trial he is taken to Kilmainham Jail, where he is weighed, measured, washed and photographed. This, he is told by his escorts, is where he will be hanged.

  9

  BURKE’S FORT IS insulated from the world of The Troubles. Only the Irish Times, arriving a day late, keeps John in touch with the turbulence that killed his mother and William, a
nd swept him up and out of Kerry. He has pushed the horrors of a year ago to the back of his mind, until one morning over breakfast Charles, uncharacteristically reading the news pages instead of going straight to the racing section, asks John, ‘Know any Sullivans from Drimnamore?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Well, they’ve convicted a Tomas Sullivan, one of the IRA squad who killed the Intelligence officers. They’re all to hang.’

  John reads the paper carefully when Charles has finished breakfast. It describes in detail the trial, conviction and sentencing of Tomas and two others, including the words of the judge as he condemned Tomas, ‘not for one murder, but for three’.

  John wonders what, if anything, he should do, then decides to try to see Tomas. Several days later he is in Dublin to visit his solicitor, a dusty man who tells him over lunch in the Kildare Street Club that he has two thousand pounds in the bank before lawyers’ fees.

  After lunch he finds his way to Kilmainham Jail; outside there is a crowd of fifty or sixty men and women, most of them, judging by the shawls of the women and the heavy nailed boots of the men, up from the country. The men are smoking and some of the women are running rosary beads through their fingers or reading from well-thumbed missals. The iron gates of the jail are studded and painted black. Above the gates a writhing five-headed monster is carved in relief.

  John attracts curious glances; his clothes set him apart from the crowd. After waiting for half an hour he asks the man next to him how to get to see a prisoner.

  ‘What does an Englishman want with a prisoner? It’s a warder you’ll be wanting to see, surely.’

  ‘I’m not English, I’m from Kerry,’ says John, realizing as he speaks that this is no longer true.

  ‘Are you, so? Ask at the building over there at the end of the wall. Your voice might get you better treatment than the rest of us.’

  In the administration office John joins a long queue, and after an hour in which most of those in front of him are told to go away he is asked by the sergeant in charge who he wants to see.