Conor smiled and winked at me.
I think I repeated the name of our Savior twenty times, and his fine mother another twenty. He had smelled the rhythm of history itself. He knew that Irish people could be outraged in this manner. But his plan was filled with blood...our blood. I feared the asking, but I managed. "What will the British do even if we have declared independence and have a provisional government? You know we can never beat them on the battlefield."
"I've been thinking about it," Conor said.
"So you have."
"Aye. How does a small native force deal with a large foreign army throughout history? First, we win the people over so that every house in the land is a hideaway and every pair of eyes is spying for us. In the countryside we ambush their convoys and disappear into the landscape. We splatter out rail bridges and power stations. We assassinate their constabulary in the villages and towns. This will force them into their barracks and we will own the countryside. Lock their soldiers in so they are no longer free to dance with our lassies at the Saturday ceilidhi. Keep them looking over their shoulders."
"Can that happen?"
"Once the ship of freedom sets sail, it cannot be deterred. Too many new leaders will emerge from the ranks, too many people willing to follow them. And in the cities we will destroy their infrastructure by hit-and-run raids on their vital installations and force them to tie up thousands of troops to guard them."
"Conor, the British are not going to stand by and let this happen."
"Yes," he agreed excitedly, "they will be faced with two distinct choices. They will come to the conference table..."
"Or?"
"Or start to burn Ireland to the ground, and the more they burn, the angrier the Irish people will become."
"But who will come to save us, Conor?"
"No one, Seamus, it's Sinn Fein, Ourselves Alone."
"You and I have always feared the resolve of the Irish people."
"Aye," he said, "and it's going to be sorely tested. But when in all of man's history has freedom been handed to a people as a present? The Irish will deserve their freedom if they are willing to bleed and sacrifice for it. We have to crave our freedom more than the other fellow wants to keep us in his fist."
Stop! Stop, Conor, stop! My head is dinnlin'. Was this the ultimate fantasy, the grandiose theory of a man who had spent too much time pondering alone, or had he captured the crest of a movement on Gaelic wings that had been swelling to this crescendo since before the turn of the century?
He made remarkable sense. Something had to give in Ireland. The republican Sinn Fein had already rushed in to fill the political vacuum being left by the failing Irish Party. The Brotherhood did have an operational capacity.
Conor spoke common sense. He spoke of attainable goals. I realized that he had already picked out the target for the first big strike, and I knew what it was.
"Now, just what is it that we're going to take out in this big old raid we're going to make?"
"We aren't going to raid anything. You are not invited. That is a definite absolute."
"Don't make me sneak in through the back door," I said.
"You're too small."
"Bullshit. The greatest raid in Irish history and you are going to close me out after all the miles of muddy road we've walked together?"
"I'm thinking we'll need a highly placed writer of your caliber to immortalize things."
"Bullshit, Ireland has too many bad writers and twice as many orators to fail to immortalize you. You think it's too dangerous."
"I don't know how dangerous it is, see," Conor lied. I always knew when he was lying to me. If he was sitting, he always scratched his knee, three times, quickly. If he was up and walking he'd quicklike bite his lower lip. He scratched his knee, stood, and bit his lip. "There are more than a dozen targets under consideration," he continued.
"Bullshit," I explained.
"Don't even think about the half of it, Seamus. The target is only going to be known by myself and Dan, so dismiss any wild guesses."
"I'll not make a wild guess. I'll tell you the target, directly and precisely."
Conor narrowed his eyes and glared at me.
"Now then," I began, "It's going to be a target in Ulster. So, we're talking about the naval base in Belfast or the British Army Command at Castle MacStewart or cut the cable to England and so forth and so forth. However, if I were a lad who grew up in Ballyutogue and summered the flock for two years at the derelict castle grounds of Lettershambo, and as kids me and my best pal had found a cave at low tide on the lough leading to a tunnel into the castle..."
Conor's eyes breathed lightning.
"And later I worked on the restoration of Lettershambo, and the Ulster Militia stored maybe a hundred thousand guns in it along with a million rounds of ammunition, then I might be considering such a target...if the tunnel is still intact."
"It's still intact," Conor whispered.
"Myles McCracken's brother Boyd is the best poacher on Lough Foyle. He stole enough fish from his lordship to feed the entire village when the crops went sour. And Boyd is a Brotherhood man who can get us over Lough Foyle."
"We carry a few hundred pounds of dynamite into the castle."
"Charlie Hackett," I said, naming the best dynamite man in Ireland.
"Charlie Hackett," Conor repeated.
"Well, what the hell are we going to do with a few hundred pounds of dynamite?" I asked. "Put our initials in the castle wall?"
"During the restoration, I helped install the central heating boiler. It is only twenty or thirty feet from where the tunnel enters the castle."
"I know..."
"From the boiler there are large pipes, a foot in diameter, going to every room and hall in the castle. Hot-air ducts, they're called. One of the rooms holds their dynamite stash, probably several hundred tons of it. If we can blow up the boiler it will shoot a fierce concussion through the ducts."
"And blow their dynamite stash," I whispered.
"Aye, take down Lettershambo with their own dynamite."
"W-w-will it work?"
"We'll know for sure when we push in the plunger."
For a moment I swooned, then looked at him, crazy-like. Why, that would be like blowing up Gibraltar! I looked at him again. He was dead serious. Obviously, he had worked it out in his mind down to the most finite detail. I just must have fallen into a chair and mumbled.
In time, night took over Cork. After the magnitude of what was contemplated sunk in, we both thought of what Ireland would be like the day after Lettershambo was blown up. Suddenly the worth of my entire life was clear. Conor and I, two bumpkins out of Ballyutogue, had reached a moment of euphoria together, in fulfillment over what we had lived to try to accomplish.
Conor Larkin's face showed the wearies. What a fitting way to bow out, I thought. Bow out? Bow out! Of course. As I rethought it, I sensed his awesome journey of a great deal of joy, of tragedy, and of melancholy reaching a climax in a burst that would shake the British Isles. Larkin intended to put every drop of his energy and wisdom into the raid and then depart the scene.
This realization was not that difficult to come by. In a sense he was going to be the first casualty of his own convictions that north and south would never unite. His decision to dot the "i" and cross the "t" with the great raid had been meticulously, if unconsciously, calculated.
Conor was always the lone voice. He knew it would be drowned out in a nationwide Irish rising. He knew such a rising would be an Irish stew. He could control his raid, but he could not control events after that.
Was it not Conor at his purest? Here was a man in an underground army who had never once pulled the trigger, who had refused to take any command that demanded he give an execution order.
I'll tell you the heart of the matter. I knew what Dan and Atty suspected strongly, that Conor Larkin was not a killer. A well-defined raid, yes, but an insurrection with blood all over the cobblestones? He had no more stomach for it than he had for executing an informer. No matter how he had been brutalized, he could not command men to their death or order the cold-blooded murder of the enemy leaders.
Conor had looked down the rest of his road in life. Atty had brought him great comfort and peace, and he depended upon her as he had never depended upon anyone. And he loved her, profoundly, and was amazed that he could find love again. That was his problem, you see. Life for a fugitive was dead-ended. He knew he would never live another day as a free man. He knew he would never last long enough to even dream about an amnesty. To continue on, he would eventually be gunned down or jailed for life or hung.
More and more, Conor Larkin's eyes told me that he had studied his mirror and had seen Long Dan Sweeney.
He and Atty girl had spoken idly of a child between them, both knowing the other was not exactly telling the truth but allowing the sweet thought to remain.
Conor had come to love Theo and Rachael, but to what avail? He could not watch them flower or partake in their daily ups and downs. Their visits were a few times a year and all too short, and when they left Dunleer, Conor was heartsick for days.
The shadow hovering over Conor was the same one that hovered over myself as well. Our great mutual failure was that there was no son after us. For him, the Larkin name would be done in Ballyutogue, forever.
We let the room stay dark, with only our voices touching. In a matter of minutes he would spirit away into the night to another room no better than this one, perhaps one with a cot and the agony of Jesus on the wall, and groan himself into sleep.
"What are you thinking of these days, Conor?"
"Rory Larkin," he said. "I was able to write to him often when I was in America. I'm afraid the last letter he got from Ireland was over a year ago."
"And you from him?"
"Not possible. When I have a chance to speak to Dary, there's always a coded message sending me a bit of love. Rory's to be of age shortly. Shyte now, I wonder why he's always on my mind."
"He's your boy, in a manner of speaking."
"Of course, I know that. Seamus, I don't want him playing the patriot's game. I'd die if he followed in my footsteps. But in a year or so, Irishmen and Irishwomen are going to declare themselves a free people. What a moment in time that will be. A Larkin ought to be there."
That one hit me like a shot. "You'll be there," I said harshly.
"Ah, you know. Can't totally count on it. Mind you, now. I've done all in my power to get the raiding party out alive and back across the lough. It's not a suicide mission."
"Except for yourself and Dan Sweeney. Maybe you've assigned yourselves to holding a rear guard?"
"You're too bloody smart. Don't tell anyone, runt."
"I'm afraid I understand. As for the rising, Rory Larkin will be there. I can almost sense him on the way."
"And how's that, now?"
"It's the Larkin fate," I said.
The knocks on the door of the hideaway house always jolted me. Two of our lads had arrived to escort and guard Conor to his next stop. The street below looked clear and calm. Conor laid his paw on my shoulder and smiled. "I love you, Seamus, and that's a fact. See you soon."
I could see the three of them in shadows moving with precaution as usual, into the dark. It was time for weeping, but I did not weep. I had a few drinks, instead. My man Larkin was done in. But, by Jesus, the poet-warrior would write his own amen.
Part Four.
That Wild.
Colonial Boy.
48.
Rory Larkin had confused himself grandly. When one contemplates the unknown and is about to set sail into it, he conjures up certain images accompanied by certain sensations. As the images became stripped by reality, Rory found himself dangling in a strange place. The unknown was not unfolding as his mind's eye had seen it.
After Conor's death at Lettershambo Castle in Ireland, Rory had a clean rationale for bolting New Zealand. He became so anxious to get off the South Island and enlist in the army, he could have run atop the water like Jesus.
Then came a jolt, an unexpected reaction. He was unable to say good-bye to Georgia Norman. He certainly had not expected the sudden fierce chill that all but immobilized him. His mind stumbled about trying to understand what was happening.
He stood at her cottage door, dumblike, and saw a peculiar look on her face as well, and he began shaking. When he tried to speak he found himself twisting back tears. He walked back into the parlor and slumped.
"I've an idea," Georgia said quickly. "Why don't you enlist in Auckland? I'll go with you on one of the coastal steamers. That way we can have a final fling at sea."
Smashing idea! Or maybe, commuting a sentence? At any rate, Uncle Wally Ferguson was the man. Wally knew all the captains and half the crews.
Rory pondered with Wally about the chances of the Squire chasing him down. He was still several months shy of twenty-one and a member of an essential wartime industry. No, Liam Larkin would not run after his son. It was a matter of stiff-spined pride. He'd not look for Rory to bring him back, nor would he wish him well.
This journey had been on Rory's mind long before the war. It would eventually find its way to Ireland. The name Larkin entering Ireland was bound to set off alarms.
Eight years back, a certain Horace Landers owned land adjacent to Liam Larkin's growing sheep station. When the price was right, the Squire acquired it and Landers retired in England. Rory had grown up with the Landers kids and knew their kitchen as his own. If and when there were future inquiries about Rory's origins, he felt he could easily deal with them by using the name of the departed Landers family.
The idea of the steamer to Auckland was filled with excitement and mystery and would give Rory some space to examine his conflicting sentiments.
The once small but opulent fleet of passenger boats only did an overnight to Wellington these days. When the Wellington-Auckland railroad opened in '09, most travelers opted for the speedier nineteen-hour overland route.
Uncle Wally did have just the boat. The Taranaki was a coastal freighter with special passenger accommodations for four nights at sea, and it just happened to be in port. The old triple-screw steam turbine held the Lord Nelson Suite, the finest high-Victorian accommodation afloat in these waters. Once a man left Christchurch booked into the Lord Nelson, it was not necessarily with his wife. As the sheepmen prospered, the Auckland run was made idyllic, anonymous, and pricey...with service such that guests would not have to leave their staterooms. Privacy was assured so that those who wished were the first to board and the last to debark.
Mr. and Mrs. R. Landers were slipped onto the Taranaki several hours before general boarding and were whisked to and ensconced in the Lord Nelson Suite.
Even the strongest of lovers who love one another half of forever, like Rory's mom and dad, are overtaken by a repetition, a pattern of steady comfort, a constant value, a level of satisfaction. If they are smart enough, they can reignite when a drift starts.
For Rory Larkin, who was young but wise in the ways of women, some were more exciting than others, but each adventure had a sameness to it...the hunt...the victory...the escape. If you stay too long, he learned, the very thing that brought you together starts to pull you apart. Better to spit it out early on and save a lot of grief down the line.
That held true until he met Georgia Norman. When Sister Georgia unbuttoned her starched uniform, his approach was a smile and an attitude of kind humor and a flip now and then into sheer madness.
Georgia Norman's difference did not take long to become apparent to Rory. It was not a contest of win or lose. Georgia enjoyed what she had going. She did not condemn herself because of her lamentable marriage or curse her husband or condemn herself for being so un-Christchurch-like. She was not awkward after lovemaking, like the usual refrains of "Now that you've seen me naked, please close your eyes while I dress." Georgia liked herself and whatever she had been given. She was on the lookout for constant discovery or letting him in on places she had already been. She made a guy feel glorious, that's what, as if he were the most wonderful chap she had ever seen.