The Hawthorns Bloom in May (19 page)

‘An’ they said it would be over by Christmas,’ John said bitterly, after he’d read out their names, one foggy evening, as Rose sat knitting socks for the local soldier’s support group.

‘The papers did, John, but you remember what Sarah told us,’ Rose replied quietly.

‘Aye, I’d forgot. Her man Simon said it might start small, but it would grow to be a big thing. I think what he was sayin’ was that we diden’ know the half of it, though those wou’den be his words, wou’d they?’ he asked with a hint of a smile.

Rose smiled too. If there was one thing that did give her pleasure it was the way John always referred to Simon as ‘her man, Simon’. Even before Sarah’s visit to Cleeve, John had referred to him as
her
man.

She remembered how he’d done the same thing with Alex some years back. He’d spent a few hours in his company, asked a few questions and by the end of the evening he simply referred to him as ‘our cousin, Alex’. That was John’s way of summing up a situation he’d figured out to his own satisfaction. She didn’t know how he did it so quickly, but he was seldom wrong. He’d known from Sarah’s response that Simon Hadleigh was right for her, and that was that as far as he was concerned.

‘What about Alex?’ Rose asked, her mind following its own logic.

‘How d’ye mean?’

‘Do ye think he’ll go?’

‘No, I don’t,’ he said firmly. ‘I’ve put it plain to him. I’ll not be able to keep things goin’ if he does,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘What’s the use of one more soldier at the front if we can’t keep up
the War Office orders for the gear to keep them fighting?’

‘But is it not hard on him, John?’

‘Aye, there’s been the odd jibe more than likely from boys too young to go,’ he said coolly. ‘An’ maybe he’s had a white feather. I wou’den know, but Alex is very like our Sam in some ways. If they make up their minds what’s right, they’ll not shift. An’ Alex knows I just can’t do without him.’

In the months that followed there was no good news for anyone. The winter, wet and cold in Ballydown, was even more severe in Flanders where men spent days on end in flooded trenches under continuous artillery fire. In March 1915, Patrick Doherty and his brother Sean were killed in the battle for St Julien. Their wives, Eileen and Bridget, received identical letters on the same day telling them their husbands were missing, presumed dead. Sam wrote to Rose asking her to come and visit Mary who was so distraught the doctor had to be called.

Rose went to Donegal and did her best, but Mary was not to be comforted. She was so locked in her own grief she seemed quite indifferent to their plight. Nor was Sam any more successful in his efforts to rouse her. He at least had the comfort of knowing he could ensure that none of his eleven great-nephews and nieces would starve on the pittance of a war widow’s pension.

Rose came back home and struggled for weeks with a chest infection picked up from one of the children. Sarah had to postpone the visit to Dublin she and the children had been looking forward to in the Easter holiday, so she could look after her. Rose had just managed to get to her feet again when John started coughing. It was the beginning of May before they were both well again.

‘What’ll you do, Sam, if it does come in?’

Sitting on an empty five gallon can of lubricant, Alex Hamilton looked across at his friend, one late October afternoon, the light in the workshop already dim, though it was not long after four o’clock.

Sam drank deeply from his mug of tea, arranged his small daughter Rose, more comfortably on his knee and considered for a moment.

‘Well, being a Quaker there was never any question of going to fight,’ he said slowly. ‘I was clear in my mind about that from last August, but I did think maybe I ought to apply for the Ambulance Corps,’ he said slowly. ‘Then the boss asked me to consider what would happen if I went. I suppose he said much the same to me as Da said to you. Sure
you can’t keep an army in the field if there isn’t the supplies.’

Alex nodded encouragingly.

‘Mind you,’ Sam went on, a slight smile creasing his oil-streaked forehead, ‘you could argue we could do without jam in time of war, but I’ve heard it said that poor people who live on bread and tea would be in a bad way if it weren’t for the wee bit of sugar and jam they have to give them energy. An’ we have our quota for the troops as well.’

‘So you wouldn’t go?’

Sam looked down at the dark head tucked into his free arm. The child sat quite still, content and slightly sleepy. But Sam wouldn’t answer Alex’s question in front of her. He knew there was little Rose missed.

‘Good girl,’ he said, sliding her gently to her feet. ‘Take Da’s mug over to the house. Ma’ll be wondering where you’ve gone.’

She took the mug, gave him a great beaming smile and shot her hand out towards Alex.

‘Yours too,’ she said sharply.

Alex laughed, finished his tea in a long swallow and handed it to her.

‘Thank you,’ said Sam, as she took it silently.

‘Thank you,’ she repeated obediently, as she turned away and ran off through the open door.

‘I wouldn’t want to go,’ said Sam. ‘I’ve thought long and hard an’ I’ve decided my job is to stay here,
but surely with conscription I’d have no choice but to go,’ he said doubtfully. ‘I know in England they let Quakers go into the Ambulance Corps, but they still make them go. If it came in here, surely they’d do the same, wouldn’t they?’

‘I honestly don’t know, Sam. One paper says one thing and the next one something different. But one thing’s for sure, I’m likely to get called up before you do, unless I take a trip down the aisle.’

Sam looked puzzled, until Alex gave him a big smile.

‘Did ye not read that in England there’s an awful lot of proposing going on?’ asked Alex, laughing. ‘Single men are to be called up before married men.’

Sam managed a smile.

‘Have you someone in mind, Alex?’ he said slyly.

‘If I had, I wouldn’t insult her like that,’ Alex came back at him.

‘There’s not much we can do till we see if it goes through,’ said Sam slowly. ‘There seems to be a lot of opposition to it in this country. Maybe, if the worst comes to the worst, we could go together. Would you be willing to consider Ambulance work?’

‘More than willing, Sam,’ he said vigorously. ‘My problem is I’m not a Quaker, nor any religious persuasion, but I cannot bear the thought of killing a man. Maybe I’m a coward,’ he said uneasily.

‘How would that make you a coward, man?’
Sam retorted vigorously. ‘Sure what’s brave about killin’ a fellow creature?’

‘I see your point, Sam,’ he said, standing up, ‘but I’m not convinced that I’d be much good if I was faced with the muzzle of a gun, or found myself under fire.’

‘Sure how do any of us know what we’ve in us, till it’s put to the test?’ Sam said, as he walked back over the workbench. ‘I’d say m’self ye’d be right reliable in a tight corner, but for both our sakes I’m hopin’ we’ll not be put to the test.’

The fourth Monday in April 1916 was a bank holiday throughout Ireland, but while bank officials might be looking forward to enjoying the blue skies and warm sunshine that had settled in over the preceding weekend, it was not a holiday for shops, offices or factories. If the spindles were silent at Millbrook, it was only because of major maintenance work begun on Saturday which would take until Monday evening to complete.

At Liskeyborough, Sam Hamilton woke at five, bright light already streaming through the skylight of his barn making bright patches on the narrow beds of his two eldest sons and the spare one now installed for Alex when he stayed overnight at a weekend.

He carried his clothes downstairs, washed and dressed in the room adjoining his workshop. It had once been a stable and he’d set it up with cupboards
and washstands and a water tap supplied from a tank on the roof. Still wearing some comfortable old shoes, he tramped over to the house to make his breakfast.

All was silent, the sunlight pouring through the back windows as the sun rose higher. Moving round quietly, he blew up the fire, put the kettle on and cut slices of bread from a baker’s loaf which he buttered liberally. Only when he had eaten and drunk two mugs of tea did he take off his shoes, reach into the cupboard for his boots, and pull them on.

For a moment, he stood in the centre of the room, looking around him as if there was something in his mind he’d forgotten. He shook his head. Whatever it was, it wouldn’t come back to him. He’d told Martha he’d be away early and back very late and reminded her to wake the boys. He had the key to the gate of the works in his pocket, his watch in his waistcoat, some money in his wallet and a handkerchief in his trouser pocket. All he had to do was lift his coat from the peg and put on his cap.

Running his eyes round the empty kitchen once more, his breakfast things neatly gathered up on the table, his eye caught the small shelf where he kept his books, not the manuals and specifications, they had their place in the barn, but his Bible and a few volumes of prayers and reflections. He had
little enough time ever to read them, but they were there, a source of inspiration and a comfort, when the world seemed full of badness.

‘
Lord, you are there at my going out and my coming in,
’ he said to himself, wondering where the phrase came from. Was it something he’d read recently or something he’d memorised a long time ago?

Or perhaps, he decided, as he pulled the door quietly closed behind him, it was a gift of the spirit to hearten him for the day.

By a quarter to eight, he and Mickey Doyle had loaded the lorry, checked her out and were ready for the road. As they left the yard, the women workers hurrying up the hill pulled out their white head-covers from their pockets and waved at them. Mickey waved back, but Sam returned their greeting with a big smile as he manoeuvred carefully down the narrow access.

The lorry was running sweetly and Sam was well pleased with her. He relaxed at the wheel and settled himself for the long drive. Mickey was no trouble to anyone. A small, wiry man, much stronger than his height and breadth would suggest, he sometimes talked away about the passing scene, or his family, but he never minded if he got no reply.

‘Isn’t it a powerful day, Sam?’ Mickey began, as they headed south. ‘Won’t the wee ones have a
great time trundlin’ their eggs? Where do your ones go?’

‘Up to the obelisk,’ Sam replied, his eye on an approaching vehicle.

‘Where’s that?’

‘On across the railway from our house and up the top of the next hill,’ Sam replied, glancing at him now the road was clear. ‘Sure ye can see it for miles around. Have ye never noticed it?’

‘Ach, aye, I know where ye mean now,’ Mickey said, light dawning upon him. ‘The stone finger on Cannon Hill. I diden know ye called it an obelisk.’

Sam smiled to himself. Mickey was no great scholar. He’d left school at the first possible moment and he had some difficulty writing. Fortunately, he had a good memory. He’d learnt the bills of lading off by heart, so he could check those out himself without any difficulty, but anything new was a trouble. More than once he’d had to help him out on the quiet.

The journey went well, down through Dromore and on to Newry, the Mourne Mountains to their left a sharp outline against the clear sky. Sam thought of his mother standing by her door looking out at them, as she so often did. Suddenly and unexpectedly, a pleasant, windy day on Church Hill came back into his mind, a day he’d trundled his egg with James and Hannah and Sarah.

For many quiet miles thereafter, his mind moved so far away into that world of childhood he almost forgot about Mickey, so they were already halfway over the bridge at Drogheda when he realised that Mickey had made his usual joke.

‘Aye, an insignificant wee river to have caused such a lot of bad feelin’,’ he agreed, smiling, as they crossed the Boyne and turned off the road to an eating house where they knew they’d be well looked after.

It was not yet noon, but they were hungry and grateful for the generous meal of meat and vegetables, well covered in a rich gravy. Sam was always amazed at the quantity of food Mickey could put away. He was so thin, he looked as if a proper meal would be too much for him.

They’d made good time so far, but they didn’t linger over their meal, for Sam reckoned the next part of the journey would be slower. He always let Mickey drive the lorry from Drogheda to the outskirts of Dublin to give himself a break before the difficult manoeuvrings in the crowded streets, but being less experienced, Mickey found it hard to keep up speed.

The traffic built up quickly after Sam took over again on the outskirts of the city. There were family parties in side cars going out for the afternoon, the occasional motor with young men in blazers and women in motoring hats, the ends of their veils
streaming out behind them as they spun merrily northwards. Twice, they had to slow down until the road was wide enough to overtake columns of marching men out on manoeuvres.

‘Boys, they’re doing a good speed,’ Mickey declared, when a party of cyclists wearing bandoleers and armbands whizzed past them as they turned into Dorset Street.

But Sam needed all his attention for the road ahead, for they were into the heart of the city with trams coming and going as well as all the carts and delivery vehicles. He thought the streets seemed busier than usual, but perhaps it was just the number of people strolling around in the sunshine.

As always, Mickey was memorising the route against the day when he hoped to be driving it himself with his own helper, but Sam paid little attention to his recital of street names as he came down Capel Street and turned right along the Liffey. Watched by the holiday makers and followed by small boys swinging their arms and not looking where they were going, were yet more parties of green-clad figures. Sam had to reduce speed and creep along behind them until he was able to make a detour to avoid them. The side streets round St Patrick’s Cathedral were quieter, if narrower. Shortly after crossing the river, he saw the familiar twin towers of the biscuit factory.

Weary now, but grateful the last half hour was behind him, he swung wide in the roadway so as to place his vehicle neatly between the entrance pillars. As he drove through he heard an ear-splitting burst of gunfire. A bullet whistled past his cheek leaving his shattered windscreen to collapse in tinkling fragments as a crowd of shouting green figures swarmed round them.

‘Jesus, Joseph and Mary,’ said Mickey in a whisper, as he crossed himself.

‘Out, at the double, hands up,’ a voice roared. ‘Higher, higher. Hands above your head. Round here to the front of the vehicle,’ the figure continued furiously, waving its rifle up and down as if to emphasise the point.

With his legs still stiff and vibrating from the effort of the last hour, Sam climbed awkwardly down from the cab, his hands above his head.

As the soldiers pushed him towards the front of his lorry, a bayonet poked him in the back. He could feel the heat of the engine on his shoulders as the soldiers closed in around them. Somewhere to his right, he heard another fusillade of shots.

‘What
is
going on here?’

The voice was quiet, educated and angry. The green-clad figures parted to allow an officer to come through their ranks and stand looking at them. The officer said something, but although Sam saw his lips move, another burst of gunfire
close by made it impossible to hear what he was saying.

‘Go and tell those fools to hold their fire,’ he said furiously to the man who had roared at them to put their hands up. ‘They are
not
to shoot anyone or anything, unless we are attacked from the castle or by the British Army. Is that clear? And see that gate is shut and guarded,’ he went on, whirling round to address another armed man. ‘And get back to work,’ he said more quietly to the remaining watchers.

‘I think I can possibly handle two unarmed prisoners without your help,’ he said sarcastically, as the rest of the Volunteers melted away.

‘Now who are you and what is your business here?’ he said sharply. ‘Don’t you know that Dublin is now in the hands of the Provisional Government and this factory is a military strong point. We are entitled to shoot at sight anyone threatening our security. What is this vehicle carrying?’

‘Jam, sir,’ said Sam, whose arms were beginning to ache.

‘Raspberry and strawberry and a small quantity of marmalade,’ added Mickey helpfully.

‘Well, we’ll see about that,’ he said curtly. ‘Right, you two, over here, against the wall,’ he went on, taking a pistol from his belt and waving at them. ‘You, McDairmid, have that lorry searched. Take six men and open those containers. Send two more
men to cover this pair while I question them.’

Sam was grateful for the patch of shadow that lay against the wall to which they were now directed, but one look at the two young men who had pointed their rifles at them told him they were in more danger from them than from the officer’s pistol. He had never in his life handled a rifle but he’d watched many a man handle equipment in the workshop. You could always tell when a man knew what he was doing. This pair didn’t have much idea.

‘Where are you from?’ he began curtly.

‘Richhill, County Armagh, sir,’ replied Sam coolly.

‘A good Orangeman I suppose, from that part of the world?’ he said, looking pleased with himself.

‘No, sir.’

‘What? What’s your name?’ he went on looking at him curiously.

‘Sam Hamilton, sir.’

‘That’s a good Protestant name,’ he said firmly. ‘And you’re not an Orangemen?’ he said disbelieving.

‘I’m a Quaker, sir.’

‘Are you now?’ he said, his tone softening slightly. ‘All right. Put your hands down.’

Sam lowered his arms gratefully. He’d done many an awkward job up over his head, but he’d no idea how painful it was to keep your arms in the one place for so long.

‘Name?’ he said, swinging round towards Mickey.

‘Mickey Doyle, sir.’

‘And are
you
an Orangemen then,’ the officer snapped.

‘No, I am
not
,’ he replied promptly. ‘I’m an Irish Volunteer, the same as you are yourself, sir,’ he said proudly.

‘In the name of goodness, if you’re a Volunteer, what are you doing here?’ he asked furiously. ‘Why aren’t you out with your company in Richhill?’

‘Because the manoeuvres was cancelled for yesterday,’ Mickey said crossly. ‘It was in all the newspapers. But a man came up from Dublin and told us forby. He said the whole thing was off.’

The officer looked back over his shoulder to where his men were unloading drums from the lorry. Sam thought he caught a curse and a comment about traitors, but the noise of rolling barrels and a further outbreak of rifle fire drowned out the rest of his comment.

‘Put your hands down, Doyle,’ he said looking at him impatiently. ‘I don’t propose to take prisoners, you’d only be a nuisance when we’re attacked,’ he announced, looking from Mickey to Sam and back again.

‘What is it, Kearney?’ he asked, more agreeably, as a dark-eyed young man approached him, his rifle
held somewhat more confidently than the two who still eyed Mickey and Sam uneasily.

‘Jam, Commandant. As they said. Raspberry and strawberry. Rather good actually, sir.’

Somewhat to Sam’s surprise, the commandant smiled warmly at the young man, then swung round to address him again, a slight hint of amusement still touching his lips.

‘Sam Hamilton,’ he began wearily. ‘Can you explain to me why you should be bringing jam to a biscuit factory?’

‘Yes sir. If you open a tin of the fancy ones they’re mostly squares and rectangles,’ he explained, trying not to look at the young fellow with the rifle pointing at him, ‘but in between you’ll see two or three wee oval shapes. There’s a bit of a dint in the middle of them and that has the jam in. They’re very nice,’ he added, matter-of-factly.

‘We’ve unloaded the lorry, Commandant. Was that correct?’ asked the young man.

‘Quite correct, Kearney. Might come in useful,’ he said with a pleasant smile. ‘See it’s stowed in the kitchens and tell the Cumman na Bhan women.’

‘Right, you two. We’re likely to be attacked at any moment. You, Doyle, will you vouch for your Quaker friend here if I let the pair of you go? Straight out and back up to Ulster. I’ll give you a pass to get through our men. They’ll have closed the roads by now.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Mickey Doyle with enthusiasm.

The Commandant searched all his pockets before he found a piece of paper. He scrawled something on it and handed it to Sam, who thanked him and tucked it carefully away in his waistcoat.

‘Your people did good work in Cloughjordan, so I’ve heard, Sam Hamilton. It wouldn’t be my way, but then we can’t all be the same, I suppose. Now, on your way. Get out of here as quick as you can.’

Pausing only to remove the shattered glass from the metal bodywork covering the engine, they turned the lorry in the yard of Jacobs, waited for the gate to be opened for them and drove straight out, up the road past Dublin Castle and back across the Liffey.