Ossian's Ride (4 page)

In the morning, in friendly sunshine, I found Inspector Harwood with a large pile of photographs.

“Now young man,” said he, “I want you to see if you can identify this man Karl or his companion, or the ticket collector, anywhere in this set of faces.”

I looked carefully through the pile, but there was no photograph of Karl, or of his companion, or of the ticket collector. But there sure enough was a picture of Mr. George Rafferty. I flicked it onto the table in front of Inspector Harwood.

“This is the only face I have seen before.”

“Ah yes, Mr. George Rafferty,” remarked Inspector Harwood in a dry voice. “It may interest you to hear that Mr. Rafferty has skipped away; the little Irish bird has flown.”

The last of the day was falling as the boat steamed out from Fishguard Harbor. I watched the land receding, the bright land of Wales, until at last it became obscured by advancing night. Perhaps in a few hours I should be back among those green fields, back among those wind-swept uplands, back with the shame of an instant defeat. Worse still, perhaps I should never come back. With these thoughts in mind I turned to the golden glow that still lingered deep in the western sky. Then at last I made my way below to the second-class dining room.

Over a meal of bacon, sausage and tomato, bread and butter, jam and a flagon of tea, I reflected on the four days I had spent in Swansea. Curiously, instead of being annoyed at the delay, I was rather pleased that I had stuck it out, that I had not been tempted to get in touch with Parsonage. This report would make a better story if I could recount events on the ship of a similar bizarre quality to those that overwhelmed me during the journey from Cardiff to Swansea. Honesty compels me, however, to say that as far as I am aware there were no singular occurrences during the night. There must certainly have been agents aboard in plenty. No doubt there was a current of intense drama running at a lower level, but it never broke through to the visible surface. In short, I spent an uncomfortable night dozing fitfully in the saloon.

Still more of an anticlimax, I must frankly admit that my passage through Irish immigration turned out to be absurdly easy. It is worth recounting, nevertheless, for my first encounter with the Irish authorities was not without its interest. My interrogator was a large, rubicund man, of just the right type to ensnare an unwary victim, especially after a sleepless night.

“Name?”

“Thomas Sherwood.”

“Date of birth?”

“August 29, 1948.”

“Occupation?”

“Student.”

“Where?”

“Cambridge.”

“Father’s name and place of origin?”

“Robert Sherwood, Halberton, Devon.”

“Object of visit?”

“Curiosity.”

“Where do you propose to exercise your curiosity, Mr. Sherwood?”

“Three weeks in Dublin and its environs. One week in the Wicklow Mountains.”

“Why are you so curious?”

“No explanation is needed. Everybody is curious about the developments that are taking place in Dublin.”

“Why the Wicklow Mountains?”

I told him the story of my grandfather.

“H’m. A Mr. John Emmet, your grandfather?”

He rummaged among a pile of papers, and glanced at one particular sheet. Then, apparently satisfied, “Let me see the contents of your rucksack.”

I unpacked slowly and carefully, laying my two books on the table in front of him.

“And how did you come to acquire that great stain across the front of the rucksack?”

I began to tell the story of the lurid events on the train, but I hadn’t gone far before he seemed to swell and to become as red as a turkey. Then he broke into peal after peal of laughter.

“No more, Mr. Sherwood, no more. Yes, we know all about what happened on the train. We’ve got our eyes and ears open, you know.”

He wiped a turkey-red face and became more serious as he stamped my passport.

“There. And now away with you. See to it that you keep to your program. You know the rules. Report each week at any guard station. Don’t think we like all these restrictions on genuine visitors, but they’ve been forced on us by the very dubious segment of humanity that has lately been invading our shores. Stick to Dublin and the Wicklow Mountains, Mr. Sherwood, and you’ll have a very pleasant holiday.”

As I stepped out onto the quayside I could hear his rumbling chuckle. He was of course quite right. No agent in his senses would behave in the way I had behaved. An agent’s deepest instinct is to avoid all conspicuous action. None would have squawked as I had squawked.

Next came the short rail journey from Rosslare to Dublin. It was a clear fine morning with promise of a glorious day as I strolled the short stretch of the Liffey to O’Connell Street. Three huge Guinness trucks raced past me. In truth, these people must be heroic drinkers.

I paused for a moment at the bridge, and then walked quickly to College Green. A porter was on duty at Trinity.

“I believe you have a room booked for me. I’m from the other Trinity—Cambridge. Sherwood is the name.”

He looked over a list in just the manner that porters have the world over. “Yes, sir, you’re on staircase 24, second floor, close to the library. Jim, would you be showing this gentleman the way to 24?” he called to a passing college servant.

My room contained a wash basin and jug of water. I splashed my face liberally, then stripped and climbed into bed. My last thought, before the mists of sleep overcame me, was to wonder whether Papa Percy had used real blood.

He’d certainly taken no risk of my failing to get into Ireland. Plainly the preposterous comedy on the train had completely deceived Mr. George Rafferty, the little Irish bird—the little Irish agent, more like! But it was depressing that Papa Percy hadn’t seen fit to tell me just what was afoot; he evidently took me to be very dumb. Perhaps he was right at that, for until my second interview with Inspector Harwood I hadn’t really understood what was going on. The crowning insult was the showing of the picture of poor Mr. Rafferty. Maybe I am dumb, let me admit it, but not quite to that degree.

One last disturbing thought: How was it known that an Irish agent would just happen to be in my compartment? Was every train to Fishguard packed solid with them?

My first day in Dublin passed with little event. I slept until mid-afternoon, had a snack at a rather palatial “self-help” restaurant in Grafton Street, and then spent the hour or two before Hall learning the detailed geography of the college.

I was welcomed at dinner by a lively group of students, for the most part medicals and scientists up for the Long Vacation. We went along later to the rooms of one of them, and talked away twenty to the dozen until about 1 A.M.

Apart from this congenially familiar situation, there was a good reason for satisfaction: a product of the suspicious mind with which for good or ill I happen to be possessed. Was it possible that Parsonage had overbid his hand? Had not my passage through immigration been just a little too easy? Suppose the Irish were wise to me, as the Americans say. Would they send me home, jail me or just watch me? Obviously they’d follow me around and see who I contacted. Bad for Mr. Colquhoun! In any case, after the outrageous events on the train, it would manifestly be prudent for them to keep an eye on me, at least for a day or two. Here my association with the Trinity undergraduates would be immensely valuable. No one, not even the most skillful actor, could masquerade successfully as a student in their company. No pretense could possibly survive for more than a minute or two. It would be clear to the authorities that at least in this respect I was exactly what I claimed to be.

At this stage I might add a word or two about my plans, rudimentary as they undoubtedly were. Ostensibly I was to spend roughly a month in Ireland, of which the main portion would be passed in Dublin and its environs. The balance of my visit was to be in the Wicklow Mountains. And I was to report to the police at the end of each week. This then was the official position.

I had decided that I would not break loose from this schedule until the end of a fortnight. I would spend the first week in

Dublin. The time would not be wasted, for Dublin was a useful barometer. It is true that the real power of the Irish economy lay to the west, but some measure of it must show itself in the capital city. I would take long walks, checking up on the tremendous building development that seemed to be going on. The speed of this development would give some idea of the strength of the underlying driving force.

After reporting dutifully to the police at the end of the first week, I would go down to the Wicklow Mountains. The whole point of this was to provide a good excuse for my outdoor clothes and mountaineering boots. I would have real need of these over in the west. This was of course the reason behind my Emmet story.

Also it shouldn’t be too difficult to find out if I were being followed, once I got into the hills, that is to say. Assuming that I was not, I intended to return to Dublin, check again with the police and then at long last head toward Kerry. In this way I hoped to have a whole week in which to cover my trail before there should be any real foundation for official suspicion, which would of course be roused when I failed to show up at the end of the third week.

The fly in the ointment was Seamus Colquhoun. A visit to Marrowbone Lane was not to be avoided, for I simply did not have anything like an adequate amount of money. But whichever way I tackled this hurdle, there was an awkward stride to be made. Perhaps the best plan would be to put off seeing Colquhoun until the end of the second week. There would then be less chance of my being followed. But would I necessarily find Seamus at home? It would be infuriating to be delayed and to lose part of my solitary week of grace. But if I hied myself to
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Colquhoun more or less straightway, I should be maximizing other risks. Suppose Seamus were being watched? The more I thought about the business, the less I liked it. With this reflection I fell at last asleep.

In spite of all I had heard, I was quite unprepared for the tremendous changes that were sweeping through Dublin. The city was being systematically demolished and rebuilt. Whether for some reason of plan or of sentiment, the architectural tidal wave had not yet reached the area of College Green. This was of course why I had not seen it on the first day.

The new layout was of a kind that must surely be unique, for by and large the place was being converted into a vast area of smooth lawns, flower beds and clumps of trees. Dotted here and there were medium-tall buildings, about twenty stories high, some apartments, other offices and shops. The materials were very largely glass and metal, the metal very beautifully colored—bronze, sea blue and delicate yellows shaded like spring flowers.

The geometry of the matter was of course perfectly clear. By the use of tall but not too tall buildings, space was being employed far more efficiently than it is in broad, flat cities like London. But instead of using the gain to crowd more and more people into the same area, as Americans have done in all their big towns, Dubliners were wisely laying down floral parks and handsome tree-lined avenues.

All this was surprising enough, but what astonished me more than I cared to admit was the news that it was still less than a year since the whole rebuilding plan was first put into operation. In about ten months almost the whole of the city north of the river had been reconstructed. I resolved to discover something of the methods that were being used, which plainly must be of a novel kind.

This little project proved maddeningly difficult. It was tolerably easy to get into buildings that were nearing completion, and very interesting they proved to be. I spent many hours engrossed in the details of internal layout, lighting, soundproofing of apartments and so forth. But try as I would, I couldn’t get anywhere near the early stages of any construction. Every new structure was invariably cordoned off, not just in the immediate vicinity of the building itself, but over an extensive area around it.

It would have been easy of course to break through one of these cordons and to get past the guards. Such irresponsibility was not to be thought of, however. Already I was attracting some degree of attention. A fellow, whom I took to be a detective or security officer, seemed to have a knack of turning up wherever I happened to be. In itself this appeared to be a good sign rather than a bad one. For the man was not at all skillful. He was perhaps just about right for keeping an eye on an inquisitive student, but no counterespionage service would have employed him on a mission of importance. Even so, I refused to take any unnecessary risk, since it would be absurd to run foul of the authorities over some comparatively trifling incident.

In any case it needed very little to give one the key to the problem. I think it was on the third morning, in the neighborhood of what had once been Winetavern Street, that I caught a glimpse in the distance of a huge mountainous object that seemed to move. At first I thought that my eyes must be at fault, but thinking over the matter afterward I saw the sense of it. I was to see many such moving mountains later on, so I will say no more at present about this particular oddity, except to add that it convinced me of the stupidity of trying to keep the whole business secret. If a casual visitor could ferret the matter out in three or four days, what was the sense of it? The Irish were now making the same silly mistake that the rest of the world had been making for fifty years past. It is notorious how the governments of Britain, the U.S.S.R., the U.S.A. and France sat on scientific secrets, the same so-called secrets, of course, each under the impression that they were unknown to the others. A lot of broody old hens.

One particular building occupied my attention very closely, the new Central Rail Station. By all normal standards this edifice was a sheer impossibility. It was built according to an elegant, bold plan with immensely long horizontal arms of unsupported metal. Even to the most casual eye these arms should have broken instantly under, the weight they were required to bear.