Redemption. - Redemption. Part 91
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Redemption. Part 91

"No."

"You still owe me one, Winston. Yes or no?"

"Caroline..."

"You owe me one. Yes or no?"

She was tenacious and had him boxed in, cleverly. He dreaded what that debt was going to be.

"I owe you one," he said, "but I am not certain if I am prepared to pay the debt off now."

"Are we sworn to secrecy?" she asked.

"Of course."

"I killed Llewelyn Brodhead."

No further conversation was possible until a bit of whiskey opened the passages.

"I lured him to his death in the most ancient of ways and I shot him. My confederates removed his body and dispensed with it and his vehicle in such a manner he may never be found."

"Your confederates?"

"The Irish Republican Brotherhood. Well, Winston, is it the Tower of London or are you going to pay me the one you owe me?"

"This is dreadful!"

"Let me put it this way, Winston. I am at peace with the assurance that God will dispense me better justice than England has the Irish. Llewelyn Brodhead was going to make a Gallipoli out of Ireland."

This was a battlefield kind of decision he was required to make, a fast and smart one. England would be shaken, half to the ground, over a scandal like this. The well of sympathy for Caroline Hubble could conquer the bloody world! Mere word of the assassination would create the kind of furor that would bring Ireland to the peace table.

But what of the other parts of it? Is it a greater evil to destroy a known evil? Oh my dear Winston...he told himself...how many foul deeds had he buried for the sake of England? He, himself, had ordered assassinations. That, too, was part of the business of running a government. Just another secret in a lifetime that would gather many more.

And the final part of it. He had adored this woman since childhood. She was worth a hundred Llewelyn Brodheads. She had to do this to stop her own dark and depressed descent to death. Maybe, just maybe, he too would lose his own nightmares of Gallipoli.

"I am prepared to settle our account," he said.

"No one knows that I have contacted you on this. It is our secret to the death."

He nodded.

"I blundered my assassination attempt, wounding him badly. He still had enough left to come after me with his pistol. A young British officer, secretly in the Brotherhood, saved my life and in doing so was grievously wounded."

"Please go on."

"This young man, Lieutenant Landers, was one of the heroes of Gallipoli. He and Jeremy were like brothers. He won the Victoria Cross."

"I know who Captain Landers is," Churchill said.

"Give me his life."

Winston stood and a lot ran through him. "I owe Landers as well," he whispered. "What must I do?"

"He's in a safe house in Belfast. As you are aware, ships are now able to travel to New Zealand unescorted and without convoys. Several regular troopships have been partly converted to hold a hospital facility."

Oh, this woman, this glorious woman. She was playing like a chess master now.

"So, we'll put him aboard in a hospital cabin," Winston said.

"First things first," she answered. "There are tens of thousands of records of killed in action, missing, prisoners that are in turmoil, unaccounted for, a general mess...right?"

"Right, as usual."

"Find the records of Lieutenant Rory Landers, New Zealand. He enlisted under that name. Make a final entry in the Landers record that he died aboard ship en route to New Zealand after emergency surgery and was buried at sea with full honors."

Winston understood perfectly.

"But before you do, make a duplicate of the Landers record, only the party's name will be Rory Larkin. His record should be changed to read that he was evacuated from Gallipoli and taken to the base hospital in Alexandria where he spent several months; was sent back to New Zealand and discharged."

"So, Landers is dead."

"And Rory Larkin was never in England or Ireland."

Damned shame, he thought, that he didn't have her planning some of the campaigns. "You are entirely correct, Caroline. Thousands of war records will never be unscrambled. As long as I am engaging in something disgraceful, I'm glad it's for you."

"Us," she said.

"Yes, us. Tell me, Caroline, is he one of those Larkins?"

"Yes."

"I take it he's a good chap."

"Aye, mon, that he is."

91.

Weather seems to be the one thing everyone has in common everywhere in the world, hot or cold, good or bad, wet or dry, it comes up first thing every morning and is our last worry at night.

In the South Island we get a pot full of rain so that sunny days...or hours...are revered like a blessing from a saint, although I don't know if there is a saint assigned to spreading sunshine in the South Island. If there is, he's doing a lousy job.

Today is a little bit of everything, mist, fleeting darkening clouds, chill, wind, and some nice periods of complete calm and the almighty feeling of sun. I guess weather is pretty much like life itself.

Whatever the elements, I still love most to climb to the crown of my hill over my land by my tree and the best trout stream in New Zealand, which is also mine. From up here the world down there seems understandable and manageable. These days when I meditate I seem to come up with a lot better answers.

The latest on Ireland was explained to me up here. It went like this. Sir Roger Casement was hanged. A few days later the British general in Ireland disappeared and has never been found. The executions stopped and those under death sentence were commuted to prison terms. A year later everyone was freed on amnesty including seventeen hundred republicans from the prisoner of war camp in Wales.

In 1918 the Irish voted in the Sinn Fein Party, which recognized the Republic that was declared at the General Post Office in the Easter Rising of 1916. This compelled the British to sit down and talk things over, but they came kicking and screaming all the way.

Whatever the fate of the conferences, Ireland is bound to get the shaft and no doubt will have to gird up for another round of troubles. Nonetheless, we are moving in the right direction.

As for my family, things are in good order, relatively speaking. There are family quarrels, some sickness, misunderstood children, and all the disasters that befall every family in every lifetime. However, the view from the crown of the hill says that the Larkins have come through in grand fashion. From the moment Rory and I declared our love, I got around to seeing my kids differently.

Like Tommy, for example. I had him slated as the minor partner in the ranch, never stopping to think that Tommy might have a few plans of his own. So, one day his teacher calls me in and shows me some of Tommy's paintings of scenery and Maoris and the animals and says, "Liam Larkin, this boy is an artist, a gem who will go as far as his ambition will carry him. He needs training."

Well, shyte, what does a South Island schoolmaster know? Then Mildred showed me Tommy's hidden trove of drawings and paintings. There were sketches of me that spoke off the paper, they were that fine. And one of his mother like to brought me to weeping. See, he never showed me his art because he was afraid I'd be disappointed by him not wanting to be a rancher.

Christ, I hope a person can make a living by painting pictures. My position was real clear. I was going to do everything to encourage and support him and I'd be there if, God forbid, he fell on his ass.

So Tommy Larkin is in Paris. I don't know how much art he's learning yet but he sure is getting an education on women and having a hell of a time.

Madge, my oldest girl, was the only one to fulfill her mother's dreams. She married a nice boy, Donnie, who got through the war in one piece. The government gave out veterans' homesteads and he's doing very well on a good section of land. I've a grandson from them, already.

My major problem with Madge and Donnie is to try not to give them too much too soon. Anyhow, Donnie is a proud kid, up from poverty and determined to make it on his own.

I might add that I showed extraordinary tolerance by making no fuss over him not being a member of the true faith. He's a good hunting partner. He used to have to bag a rabbit when he was a kid, or go hungry. I kind of hope they raise their kids as Catholics, but on the other hand, it doesn't really make much difference now, does it?

If Tommy fooled the old Squire here, Spring totally flabbergasted me. She got into a group of anthropologists who were studying Maori origins and customs and became completely taken with that sort of work. She wants to spend here life learning the various native tribes and peoples of the South Pacific islands.

Now I can't honestly figure out the value of such a profession. Well maybe, if she spent her time tracing Irish roots, that would be different. But, mind you, my daughter Spring is the first accepted and only female anthropology student in the London School of Economics.

Spring is no beauty but well endowed, and she has a way with the lads, and although she likes them and they like her, her anthropology comes first...so she writes. She and Tommy exchange London and Paris visits often and apparently know how to have a good old time. Mind you, these kids never...hardly ever...ask for extra money. You know how good it makes me feel that I can provide this life for them?

I suppose the Larkin of us all is Father Dary. He's not "Father" any more except that he's an expectant father. He fell desperately in love with a magnificent creature, I'm told. Her name is Rachael and she's the daughter of Atty Fitzpatrick. Rachael is the fancy spelling for Rachel.

When he returned from the war and resigned the priesthood we figured there would be hell to pay, but his Bishop, Mooney, made a powerful stand on his behalf on his right side and the Countess Caroline Hubble made an equally powerful stand on his left.

Dary had given years of devoted service in the Bogside, working the bottom of the pit. Powerful support arose for him from the people.

The Larkin name in Derry and Donegal is not to be underestimated, and I suppose his Rachael girl is able to charm the devil's grandmother.

Caroline Hubble helped sponsor his founding of an institute of advanced study and personal tutoring for exceptional students from all over Ireland.

In his last letter Dary said he was seriously considering running for the late Kevin O'Garvey's seat, be it in the British Parliament or an Irish Parliament.

Brigid...well nothing much will change there. She remains the keeper of the ashes.

Like I said, things are in pretty good order, relatively speaking. I've got a special love for Georgia. I have signed over a hundred acres of land and with my help and government help built a rehabilitation facility large enough to hold twenty war veterans at a time.

It is not that she and her staff can restore them to full physical or mental health, but she can do enough so that when they leave, they can carry on a useful and independent life. Three of her lads are excellent hands on the ranch. For our little country of a million people, our losses were terrible...just terrible.

Hey! Hey! Hey! By God, there's sunshine for you! Not from that lazy saint up in the sky but sunshine coming up the hill on horseback through the mist.

Rory and Georgia. They are so hot for each other I swear that one of these days they're going to get into bed and fry each other to crisps.

And would you ever look at little Rory sitting in the front of her daddy's saddle and Georgia riding with their son...my grandson. He's a real thumper, that boy. Do you know what they named him? They named him Liam, after me.

Can you ever imagine something like that?

Here is an excerpt from A GOD IN RUINS.

by Leon Uris From HarperCollins Publishers

1.

Troublesome Mesa, Colorado

Autumn 2008

A Catholic orphan of sixty years is not apt to forget the day he first learned that he was born Jewish. It would not have been that bombastic an event, except that I am running for the presidency of the United States. The 2008 election is less than a week away.

Earlier in the day, my in-close staff looked at one another around the conference table. We digested the numbers. Not only were we going to win, there was no way we were going to lose. Thank God, none of the staff prematurely uttered uttered the words "Mr. President."

This morning was ten thousand years ago.

I'm Quinn Patrick O'Connell, governor of Colorado and the Democratic candidate for president. The voters know I was adopted through the Catholic bureaucracy by the ranchers Dan and Siobhan O'Connell.

My dad and I were Irish enough, at each other's throats. Thanks to my mom, we all had peace and a large measure of love before he was set down in his grave.

All things being equal, it appeared that I would be the second Roman Catholic president in American history. Unknown to me until earlier this day, I would be the first Jewish president as well.

Nothing compares to the constant melancholy thirst of the orphan to find his birth parents. It is the apparatus that forms us and rules us.

Aye, there was always someone out there, a faceless king and queen in a chilled haze, taunting.

Ben Horowitz, my half brother, had been searching for me, haunted, for over a half century. Today he found me.

Tomorrow at one o'clock Rocky Mountain time I must share my fate with the American people. You haven't heard of Rocky time? Some of the networks haven't, either. Lot of space but small market.