The Rebels of Ireland (132 page)

If the affair was not continued, she was not greatly hurt. She had known, she supposed, that it would not be. He had made another journey to America. And after that he was away again.

And she was glad that she had taken no further part in the fighting, for the painful choices that followed would have been impossible for her. When, a year later, the Sinn Fein negotiators, including ruthless Collins himself, had signed a treaty with Britain to bring the conflict to an end, it had been an imperfect thing. Ireland was to become a Free State, a dominion of the British Empire like Canada. Six of the northern counties were to be grouped together in a safe haven for Protestants and an oppression for the Catholics still living there. Even the border was unclear. She could see why de Valera refused to go along with it.

But she herself, like the majority of Irish people, could live with even an imperfect treaty, perhaps not forever, but for a generation. And when de Valera and his followers started a second conflict, at war with their own colleagues now, she found herself asking not why, but when—when will it ever end? The Civil War was full of anomalies. Collins, the IRB firebrand, was now defending the compromise treaty, quite ruthlessly, against a new republican army known as the Irregulars. Old comrades in arms were killing each other. Collins himself was assassinated before it was over. Strangely, most of the women she had trained with in Cumann na mBan, had chosen to go with de Valera. Even kindly, funny Rita had done so.
Caitlin could not have gone that way herself. And when, in 1923, the conflict had finally wound down, she had been relieved only that the Irish Free State, however imperfect, could now live in peace.

Only once was she called into action. Late in July, in 1922, she received an unexpected letter. It was delivered by hand by a boy on a bicycle who would not stay.

When she had read the letter, she did not hesitate. She went to the bank and made a withdrawal. She packed a number of items carefully, including one or two that she might need herself. She owned a car, nowadays, which she liked to drive herself. She carefully put everything in it, told the housekeeper that she might be away for a few days, and drove southwards towards the western side of the Wicklow Mountains.

She found the farmhouse quite easily. It was near the village of Blessington.

He was remarkably little changed. It was obvious that he had suffered a good deal, and having examined his leg, she told him: “It's not a break, but it's a very bad sprain. You'll have to rest it if you want to walk.”

“It's good of you to come,” Willy said. “I knew you would.”

“What happened?” she asked.

The story was not a long one. She hadn't been entirely surprised when she'd heard that Willy O'Byrne had joined the anti-Treaty republican forces in the Civil War. And things were going badly with them. He'd gone out to rendezvous with republican forces gathering from several parts of the island at Blessington. They had been badly mauled by the Provisional Government men and had to fall back. From Blessington, they had had to disperse. But he couldn't walk, and as he'd quarrelled with the leader of the men who'd gone up into the hills, he'd thought it best to wait down there alone. “It's over for me, I think,” he told her. “The struggle isn't worth it any more.” But he couldn't just wait for the Provisional government men to find
him. The Civil War was proving a far bloodier business than the old conflict with the British had been. “If they find me, I'm a dead man,” he told her calmly.

“I can hide you in Dublin if you want,” she said.

“No. It's Rathconan I'd like to get to,” he replied. “I think my father could look after me. If not…”

“I brought you two hundred pounds,” she said. “That would take you to France, if you need.”

“My only worry,” he said, “is those fellows who went up into the mountains ahead of me. They were an undisciplined rabble, and they had no love for me.”

“I'll drive you up there,” she reassured him, “and I brought the Webley.”

It was a small, winding road. Now and then, looking back, one could see the huge panorama of the Liffey Plain spreading out all the way to Kildare. Willy sat in the front with her. He seemed more interested in looking ahead. Once passing a cattle man, he asked if a party of troops from Blessington had come up that way the day before. Yes, the man said, but they'd taken the road southwards. They hadn't gone across the mountain road towards Rathconan. This seemed to please Willy considerably. “We shall be there soon,” he remarked. “You'll see my father again.” Going over the top of the mountain pass and starting to descend again, the little road was hardly more than a track. And as at last they came towards Rathconan, a little group of children by the roadside turned to stare, and ran to spread the news; for a motor car was a rarity indeed up there. As they approached, she smiled as she caught sight of the long, lovely vista down towards the Irish Sea. The car backfired with a loud bang as they passed the gates of the big house. She laughed. If old Rosa Budge was there, she'd probably think it was a message from the spirit world.

Fintan O” Byrne's cottage seemed to be deserted. She looked inside. No sign of him.

“Do you want me to help you in?” she called.

“No. I'll sit here in the sun,” Willy said. “I'll stay where I am. If you walk down the lane to the Brennans, they'll probably know where he is.”

“You'll be all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be, at my father's house at Rathconan?”

“I'll be back,” she said.

The feel of the afternoon sun on his face was really very pleasant. It seemed to Willy that when the business of war was over, he could do worse than return up here. He might find a wife. It was time he married. What should she be like? Like Caitlin, perhaps, but not like Caitlin. Money was a terrible thing, when you came down to it. The ten days he'd spent in her fine house on Fitzwilliam Square had taught him that. Comfortable, splendid even. But suffocating. By the end of it, he could scarcely breathe. He hadn't told her that, though. No point. Apart from that, he'd loved her. Should he ever tell her so? he wondered. He closed his eyes.

Had he not been up in the safety of Rathconan, he'd have heard the steps when they were farther off. As it was, they were only ten feet away when he heard the soft tread on the turf. Even so, he didn't open his eyes. He tried to decide who they belonged to. Not Caitlin. A little two heavy. His father? Possibly. One of the Brennans? Could be. He smiled and waited.

“Asleep?”

He opened his eyes. The thickset face was smiling. The eyes hard. The twin barrels of the shotgun a foot from his nose.

“Heard a car backfire. Thought I'd take a look. Never know who may be paying you a visit, these days.”

Victor Budge. He'd forgotten him. Supposed he'd gone back to England. Willy was quite sure that he'd have heard if old Rose Budge had died and Victor had come into his own. Mind you, with all the fighting and the travelling of the last few months, he'd been sadly out of touch with his father.

“Is old Mrs Budge…?”

“Alive and well. Still waiting to turn into a hawk.” He seemed to find this funny. But the gun didn't move. “We have an arrangement. I take care of the estate now. I've been up here two months. I wondered if I might see you here some day.”

“Aren't you afraid? A man like yourself mightn't be liked too well up here, I should say.”

“I'll take my chances. We have a score to settle. You killed a friend of mine, remember?”

“Perhaps. A long time ago.”

“I don't think so.”

Caitlin had told him she'd brought her pistol. He wondered where it was. He didn't think she'd be carrying it with her. Under the seat perhaps? He could try to dive for it, but he'd have to be right. First time. Even if his leg let him move like that. He couldn't think where else to try. On the other hand, to duck like that: afterwards it would look as if he'd been too much of a coward to face his death.

He might make a grab for the barrel of Budge's gun. Foolish thought. Budge knew what he was doing. He'd just die looking like an idiot. So he learned back.

“You would shoot a man in cold blood?”

“I'll shoot you like a dog.”

“How will you explain it?”

“Doubt that I'll need to. Times like these.”

“Ireland's curse upon you, then.”

Caitlin heard the bang when she was standing outside the Brennans' cottage. She ran. She raced up the track towards the car, in time to see that Willy had been pulled onto the ground. A man was walking away. He was carrying a shotgun. She looked down at Willy's face. It wasn't there, just a great red mess of flesh and shot.

She reached under the car seat, and called out. She man turned. She recognised him. Victor Budge. The Black and Tan who'd come
looking for Willy. He recognised her, too. The girl who'd known old Rosa. He frowned as he worked it all out.

“You killed him,” she called.

“What of that?”

The single shot caught him exactly between the eyes. She hadn't lost her skill. She stared at Budge for a moment, nodded to herself, and put her Webley on Willy's right hand, curling his fingers round it.

She heard voices. She stepped back. Several people were arriving. One of them, she saw at once, was old Fintan O'Byrne.

At first, seeing the bloody mess of the face on the ground, he did not understand. Then, as she came towards him and took his arm, he did. He bowed his head and sank to his knees.

He had been kneeling by Willy for a minute or two when he looked up at her.

“They shot each other?'

“They must have,” she said.

“I thought the two shots were some time apart.”

“They can't have been.”

He paused to look at her a long while.

“No. I must have been mistaken.”

He got up stiffly to his feet, walked over to Victor Budge, noted the hole neatly between the eyes, and nodded. As he passed by her again, he touched her arm, and quietly murmured, “Thank you.”