The Rebels of Ireland (131 page)

“My father believes that Rathconan should be his,” Willy said with a smile. “He will never rest in his grave until that mad old woman has given him his own land, at least. But you know, Father,” he said almost gleefully, “the estate was never ours at all. The right
ful heir is this young lady sitting in front of you now.” He turned to Caitlin with a grin. “I have been longing for the day when the two claimants could see each other face-to-face, Caitlin. Now you'll have to fight it out!”

But his father only smiled at her benignly.

“I can see you're an O'Byrne,” he said. “No doubt of that. As to whether your branch should have had this place, or mine, that is a question too long ago to think of. Certainly it was your ancestors who were chieftains here, when mine were not. But you know,” he turned to Willy, “I've a piece of news for you, and for this young lady, as regards the estate. There is an heir. A Budge.” He said the name with mild disgust. “A cousin forgotten by all of us, but remembered by the old lady, it seems. He's to have it after her, if he wants it. And I dare say he will.”

“I didn't know,” said Willy. “What is he called?”

“His name is Victor Budge. He lives in England. He has been in correspondence with her. He has done some military service, but I understand he works for a brewery now. I do not know in what capacity. My impression,” Fintan O'Byrne added with faint irony, “is that he is not always employed.”

He took them all round the place, and walked them a little way up the hillside, to where there was a magnificent view. Pointing along the slope, he indicated to Caitlin the area where you could still see the outline of the fields that had been planted with potatoes before the Famine. The more time she spent with him the more she liked him. When it was time for them to leave, she parted from him with real regret.

Was it possible that Willy had some other motive in introducing her to his father? she wondered. If so, he gave no sign of it.

For on their return journey, he seemed to want to talk about a very different subject.

“You know,” he said, “that there is going to be another fight.” Indeed, small skirmishes between the British government forces, and the Irish Republican Army, as the Irish Volunteers now called them
selves, had started months ago. “Unless the British and the Ulster Protestants are ready to concede something that de Valera and the Sinn Fein men in the Dail can accept, then there's no alternative. And when that comes”—he glanced at her—“the women were very important in the rising, you know. They'll be even more important in the future. You could have an important role.”

“I was just a courier.”

“A brilliant one. You have remarkable talents. And of course,” he smiled, “you can pick off any man at a hundred yards.”

“I'm not sure I want to,” she said. “I support the cause but…” She hardly knew why it was—not cowardice, she was fairly sure—but she didn't want to join the armed struggle any more. “I will consider it,” she promised him. “If I want to do anything, I'll let you know.”

“As you wish.” He gave her a nod which seemed to imply that he respected her decision. “You know your own mind. That's for certain.”

He drove her back to Fitzwilliam Square and left her at her house. When she thanked him for the day, he seemed quite pleased. But perhaps she was a little disappointed that she never heard from him again. Not for more than a year.

He was right, of course. The fight couldn't be avoided, because neither side could give what the other wanted. It was a grim little business at first, especially because the skirmishes tended to be between the IRA and their fellow Irishmen in the government constabulary. The pace was heated up by the young IRB man, Michael Collins, who with his daring raids and lightning strikes was making quite a name for himself. But it was very partial warfare, all the same. The British government finally struck a deal with the Ulster Protestants, giving them a separate parliament of their own up in the northern counties. But that meant that the Catholics of Ulster were once again trapped under the dominance of a Protestant caste, as they had been in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Soon there were riots up in Ulster.

But for the rest of Ireland, there was to be one more hateful invasion. In began in January 1920.

“If they had to send help,” Sheridan Smith complained, “could they not have found men better than these?”

The Black and Tans. Ex-soldiers and sailors, mostly, quickly recruited. Mercenaries really, to fight the Irish guerrilla tactics of Collins's IRA. When they joined, or arrived in Ireland, they were given standard issue army trousers, which were khaki, and green police uniform jackets. This ugly mixture of khaki and green soon earned them their descriptive nickname: Black and Tans. By the latter part of the year, there were ten thousand of them in Ireland. And their game was very simple: strike and retaliate. Shoot first and ask questions afterwards. Suspicion is proof, especially if the suspect is dead. In many ways, they ignored law and justice entirely. When Collins and a hit squad caught and killed a group if British intelligence officers one Sunday morning in November, the Black and Tans didn't bother to go looking for Collins. They just went round to the big football game in Dublin's Croke Park and opened fire on the crowd. Twelve innocent spectators were killed in that affair.

If they were meant to frighten, they did. If they were intended to impress, they did not, for they were despised. But if they had your identity as a “Sinn Feiner,” they were after you like a pack of wild dogs.

It was five days after the Croke Park incident that early one afternoon, Caitlin heard a knocking at the front door of he house. As she happened to be in the hall, she opened the door herself, and was rather surprised when Willy O'Byrne stepped into the hall, closed the door quickly behind him, and said:

“Would you like to save my life?”

“If you tell me why.”

“I've not much time. I got one of the Croke Park Black and Tans. His best friend is after me. I was trying to kill him as well, but he
has reinforcements. I gave them the slip only a moment ago, in the lane. But they'll go house to house I'm sure. They know me, unfortunately.”

“By name?”

“And by face.” He glanced out of the window. “Better get out of sight. Unless you want me to go out and face them.”

“This way.” She indicated the drawing room, which was at the back of the house and gave onto the garden.

“The irony is, you'll never guess the name of the man that's after me. God I should have shot him first, before the other one.”

“Tell me.”

“Victor Budge. The old woman's heir. Out-of-work army man. He's a devil. I'll see him dead yet.”

The knocker on the front door sounded. Caitlin had to think fast. “If you go out through the garden, there's a lane at the back. But…”

“Exactly. They'll have a man waiting there.”

She looked at the window that gave out onto the back. It had long, heavy curtains that fell to the floor and, in the best manner, swept the carpet like a long train on a dress. It was so obvious, it would do.

“Get behind it and don't move,” she said. She would have to think very fast indeed.

A moment later, the maid announced that some soldiers wanted to come in. Caitlin sat down on an upright chair near the centre of the room.

“Show them in.”

“There were half a dozen of them. The officer was a big man with a brutal face. She smiled at him.

“We are searching for a fugitive. Has anyone come into this house?”

“Only yourselves. But what sort of fugitive is it? Am I in danger?”

The idea that she might be in danger did not seem to interest them.

“Dark-haired man.” The officer was looking round the room.

“I am Countess Caitlin Birne. And you, Sir?”

“Beg pardon. Captain Budge.”

“Budge?” Her face lit up as if she'd hoped to meet him all her life.
“You are not connected with Mrs. Budge of Rathconan? But you must be.”

“She is a kinswoman.” His manner altered, softened a little.

“I cannot help you with any fugitive, Captain Budge, but I do hope you will stop and take a little tea with me.” She looked at his men. “I know the Captain's family,” she explained, unnecessarily, with a beaming smile. “Do sit down. I will call for tea.”

“Really can't,” said Budge.

“Your aunt is one of our greatest characters. You know, of course, that she says she's coming back to Rathconan in her next life, as a bird? Don't you think it wonderful?” Budge looked awkward. “They say she has worn the same turban and never taken it off in thirty years,” she rattled on happily. “You have seen her drawings of the naked Indian dancers, of course.”

By now Budge was growing red. His men were looking as if they'd be glad to hear more.

“Do you also, Captain, believe in the transmigration of souls?” she ventured.

“Certainly not. Church of England. Eccentric old lady. Must go.”

“I do wish,” she said wistfully, “that you'd stay.”

But the little group of Black and Tans were already being led out of the room. After the front door had closed behind them, there was a long pause. Then Willy's voice came from behind the curtain.

“If I'd laughed, that would have been the end of me.”

“I suppose,” she said, “you'd better stay here for a bit.”

It was that evening after they had dined together, and they were sitting alone in the drawing room, with the curtains carefully drawn, when she found herself looking at him thoughtfully. He was a handsome man. He was capable of warmth, but never, she felt sure, as much as his old father was. Well, she thought, he has proved right about most things, all the same. If that makes him cold, it is his destiny.

He was looking at her.

“Have you ever had a lover?” he asked.

“No.” She paused. “I assume there have been many women in your life.”

“A few. Of course.” He nodded, then smiled. “Do you think it's time?”

“Yes,” she said, “I think it is.”

It was certainly time. For him, God knows, she thought, as for any other. He stayed in hiding in her house for ten days.