The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller Page 5

  “Frank Kelleher.”

  I froze. It was so unexpected, hearing my name like that and after so long. The man stood two feet away and, although his hands were in his pockets, his eyes told me he would use them if he had to. I took a step back.

  He nodded, apparently satisfied that his suspicions had been confirmed. He took a step toward me and, although he was much bigger, this time I held my ground. He had a scar on his chin, a straight purple line that curved up on one side. The color told me it was recent, maybe a year old, and although many things could have caused a scar like that, I suspected that it had come from a knife. His lilting voice told me he was from home, but by the sound of him, I knew he wasn’t from Limerick. I stared at him, at his eyes, at the scar, unable to shake the feeling that we had met somewhere in the past.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said with a sneer, “in America.”

  “It seems you’re mistaken.” I responded calmly as I considered my options. The street was crowded, as it always was. Several people glanced our way, curious at the tension between us.

  “Is that it then?” he asked as his eyes narrowed. “Have you’ve forgotten about Sean too?”

  I flinched again at Sean’s name and the image flashed in my mind: Sean Murphy’s father laid out on the table, the women keening nearby. I stared for a moment as it came to me. His name was Jack, a cousin of Sean’s from Galway who had come for the waking. With Sean himself now dead, and by my own hand, I knew why he was here.

  Several men paused, their entertainment often found in the day-to-day of the street. A fisticuff would be talked about for days to come. I glanced at them then back at Jack as I considered my options.

  “It’s someone else you’re looking for,” I said, tensing, knowing now that there was no way to avoid the fight I didn’t want.

  “You don’t remember me?” he asked, his glare and tone telling me he saw through my lie.

  I shook my head anyway.

  “Oh, but I remember you.” he said with a snarl. He must have seen the truth in my eyes. “You’re the fuckin’ traitor who killed Sean!”

  And with that he lunged. The iron pipe came at me and I stepped forward, thrusting an arm up in defense, the bread forgotten now, soon to be crushed beneath our heels. I drove my other hand into his chin, hearing a crack as his head snapped back. A sharp pain shot through my other shoulder as the pipe connected. Ignoring it, I hit him again in the stomach and he let out a grunt. There was a clang behind me, and I knew he had dropped the pipe. I hit him once more, this time in the nose, and he fell backward. Grabbing the pipe off the cobblestones I stepped forward.

  “The last thing I would ever do,” I hissed at him, shaking the pipe in his face, “is betray my friends.”

  It was then I noticed the crowd, swelling now with men from a nearby pub, full of drink, excited to see a fight.

  “The last thing I would ever do,” I said, “is betray the cause.”

  The shouts and jeers from the crowd rose, and I knew Jack was sure to have friends nearby. It was time to leave. I shook the pipe again and he flinched.

  “Stay away from me,” I warned. Then I pushed my way through the crowd and ran up the street, hoping and praying no one would follow.

  ___

  I shivered in the darkness and knew I should get up and light the stove. There was a creak in the floor above me, then a door closing. As I listened to the footsteps—a neighbor going to the water closet—I rubbed my shoulder, still feeling the pain from last week’s scuffle with Jack. It was a strange thing, I thought as I took in the sounds and smells of the tenement slowly coming to life: the heavy foot, the hushed voices, a slammed door, eggs frying. A year ago, I was being chased, by the British and by my own men. Surely if I could reach America, I had thought at the time, I would be safe. But even so, someone from the IRA had found me and I wondered. With the Treaty that the papers said would soon be signed, was Ireland now safer than America? But that was dishonest I knew—even with the Treaty, would Ireland ever really be safe for someone like me?

  I knew it wouldn’t be long before Jack found me again and, when he did, I was certain he wouldn’t give me a warning before his pipe found my head. I was considering leaving New York and finding work in Philadelphia or Kansas City, somewhere where my past wouldn’t follow me. As much as I wanted to go back to Ireland, staying in America made more sense. It was something I had been telling myself since I had arrived.

  I climbed out of bed and lit the oil lamp—the single gas lamp on the wall hadn’t worked since the day I had let the room. Shivering, I opened the stove and stirred the ashes from yesterday’s fire. After I threw in a few small pieces of wood and a handful of coal, the fire began to smolder and I put the kettle on for tea. I picked up the newspaper, the one I had purchased the day before, and read the headline again. King Calls Party To Ratify Irish Peace; Amnesty to Sínn Féiners. The Treaty, if approved, would end centuries of British rule and oppression in Ireland, or at least in most of it. But it was a steep price that Britain demanded. They had laid claim to the six counties in the north, to most of Ulster. Like many Irish in New York, I was angry with that provision. I had hoped that the negotiators Eamon DeValera had sent to London would be able to secure more. But, if the Treaty was signed, the twenty-six counties of the south—including Limerick, Dublin, and Cork, and the cities I had known—would soon be free.

  Since the truce in July, just five months earlier, I had learned what was happening back home from the newspapers and on the radio that Mrs. Hirsch played in the evenings while we ate. Daily, it was discussed and debated on the streets and in the saloons of the Lower East side. But to see it in black and white brought a finality to what I and so many of my Irish brothers had fought so hard and so long for.

  As the room began to warm, I dressed for the day’s work. The kettle hissed and I poured myself a cup of tea. I took a sip. Distracted by the news and what it meant for Ireland, and more importantly what it might mean for me, I hadn’t let the tea cool long enough. Cursing, I put the tea down. As I ran my tongue over the burn on the roof of my mouth, I wondered if now was the time.

  Ever since I had arrived, although I had made a new life in a new land, my old life was calling me home. The political tensions were easing and, although many were upset about the six counties in the north, most of Ireland, the papers seemed to say, was prepared to lay down their arms and begin anew.

  Kathleen wasn’t the only reason I wanted to go back. There was unsettled business—the events of a year ago and those that had taken place well before wouldn’t rest. The thought of going back continued to nag me. And if the Treaty was signed, I wanted to be part of what was taking place. I wanted to do my part to help build a new nation.

  I didn’t know what to do. I sipped the tea, careful this time to avoid another burn. It was a difficult decision and one that I would have trouble making. But as I would learn later that evening, it was one that had already been made for me.

  ___

  It was six o’clock when I returned home that evening. I climbed the five flights of stairs to find Mrs. Hirsch waiting for me in the hall.

  “Good evening, Mr. O’Sullivan,” she greeted.

  “Good evening, Mrs. Hirsch.” I smiled but received only a nod in return. A few months ago, I had learned why Mrs. Hirsch never smiled, not anymore at least. I had asked about the photograph on the wall in her apartment. In it, Mrs. Hirsch was smiling as she stood next to her husband. Both were smartly dressed as were the children in front of them. The boy and the girl—I couldn’t tell who was older, but they couldn’t have been more than nine or ten years old at the time—were smiling as well. The only one who wasn’t was Mr. Hirsch. The photograph was from 1912 and I wondered later if perhaps Mr. Hirsch knew then what was to come. Both children would have been my age now, but it wasn’t meant to be—they both had died of the Spanish Flu two years ago. In some ways, I suppose, I reminded Mrs. Hirsch of the children she had lost.

  Less than a
year later, Mr. Hirsch would fall below a horse and carriage as he was crossing Broadway. A heart attack, the doctors had said. He was no longer able to get out of bed. Mrs. Hirsch worked in one of the garment factories sorting buttons for a few hours each day, just enough, I suspected, to pay the rent. The rest of her day was spent caring for Mr. Hirsch.

  “Another letter,” She said as she pulled the envelope from her sweater.

  I hid my excitement. Kathleen’s letters had come once a month, and all, like the first letter, had been cautiously written, with only passing mention of the troubles at home and no mention at all of our relationship. After the truce had been announced, I had asked several times what it meant, but her neat, plain handwriting only provided vague answers. I handed Mrs. Hirsch the package—beef tongue was all I could steal today—and she handed me the letter.

  “A woman dropped this off this morning.”

  I looked up at Mrs. Hirsch. She frowned, and I couldn’t help but think that something was wrong. I looked at the envelope and felt a sudden emptiness in my stomach. It was addressed to Frank Kelleher.

  “Is that you?” Mrs. Hirsch asked. “Frank Kelleher?” She was still frowning, her gaze was steady on me.

  “Yes,” I heard myself say. Someone knew my real name and where I lived. Sharing my secret with Mrs. Hirsch hardly seemed to matter.

  I looked at the envelope again. There was no stamp from the post office. I stared at my name but didn’t recognize the handwriting. I flipped the envelope over. There was no return address.

  Frowning myself, I looked up at Mrs. Hirsch.

  “She wouldn’t give me her name,” Mrs. Hirsch continued. “She only said it was important that I deliver that to you.”

  I turned the letter over in my hand as my mind raced. I couldn’t stay here—after Jack and now this letter, it was no longer safe. I wondered again about Philadelphia and Kansas City and whether I could find a job there.

  “Supper will be ready in thirty minutes,” Mrs. Hirsch said. I looked up, and she held my eye then nodded once before turning away. My secret, it seemed, would be safe with her. But was that enough?

  I unlocked my door, the letter feeling heavy in my hand. I lit the oil lamp but didn’t bother with the fire. With a sense of dread, I slid my fingernail, still dirty from the day’s work, below the flap.

  Dear Mr. Kelleher,

  We’ve been introduced once before but you wouldn’t remember me. It doesn’t matter. I’m from Ireland. I came to New York six months ago.

  I knew Kathleen Coffey in Limerick. I visited Kathleen and her sister Mary in March, before my journey. Kathleen made me promise not to tell anyone and I wanted badly to honor that promise. I have had a long time to think and pray about this.

  When I saw Kathleen, she was with child. She didn’t want to tell me but I wouldn’t let her be until she did. I know you and Kathleen were courting.

  God willing, the baby has come safely. I’ve written to Kathleen but I couldn’t ask directly. I’m sure you know why. I pray for Kathleen and the baby every Sunday and I light a candle in the church when I can. I pray too that Kathleen and God will forgive me for this letter. But the world is not kind to women such as Kathleen, Mr. Kelleher. I’m sure you know that.

  I’ve done what I set out to do and whatever you decide is your business.

  Sincerely,

  A Friend

  I let out a heavy breath when I finished reading. I pictured Kathleen as I had last seen her: three in the morning and she had been sitting in bed, her knees pulled up to her chest. Her fingers had been playing nervously with the medal dangling from the chain she wore around her neck. I realized now that the fear I had seen on her face wasn’t only for me, it was for her too. As I slipped out the door, she had continued to twist the medal around and around.

  I should have known then. I had seen the medal clearly but with the excitement of the night, with the IRA after me and with the British right outside Kathleen’s window, it hadn’t made sense. I glanced at the letter again. It made sense now. Kathleen had been wearing a St. Brigid medal—St. Brigid, the patron saint of mothers and babies.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Limerick City

  January 1922

  It was cold and gray when I first saw Limerick in the distance. Like they had been when I fled, the fields were barren, waiting for the first planting in six weeks’ time. Hayricks dotted the landscape, and trails of smoke—white swirls against a dark sky—rose from the chimneys of the white-washed stone cottages that we passed. In the hills, I noticed an old man tending a flock of sheep. They were clustered together under the watchful eye of a collie who circled the flock, keeping the strays from wandering too far. I thought of my grandfather.

  In addition to the pigs, my grandfather had tended a flock, some three dozen sheep. When I was eight, it became my job to help shear them, once in the spring and once in the fall. It was tough, dirty work, but so were most things on the farm. Like the man I now saw out my window, my grandfather had a collie to help him. I think that dog understood my grandfather better than my grandmother ever did. Using nothing more than hand signals, sometimes over great distances, my grandfather and the dog worked as a team and never lost a single animal. My grandfather died in my tenth year and my father—sick himself I later realized—sold the flock the day of my grandfather’s funeral. Like I would do years later, the dog disappeared one day, broken-hearted I’m sure that both the man and the sheep he loved were gone. Four years later, my father, God rest his soul, died of consumption, and the responsibility for running the farm had fallen on the shoulders of a scrawny fourteen-year-old boy named Frank Kelleher.

  Big Frankie indeed.

  ___

  “Look!”

  The sound of the woman’s voice brought me back to the present. I glanced behind me and smiled. The young mother, holding the baby in her arms, was pointing out the window to the steel gray surface of the river as the train entered the valley.

  “That’s the Shannon,” her husband said.

  I had spoken to them briefly when we boarded. They were from Wexford and were visiting the man’s relations in Limerick, something denied him for the last few years due to the war. His wife had never traveled farther than Waterford and, to her it seemed, Limerick was a world away. Relying on the name I had used for the last year, I had introduced myself as Michael O’Sullivan from New York. We had chatted about Ireland. They were tired of the war and supported the Treaty, even if it meant an Ireland divided.

  They chatted excitedly, and I half listened as the husband told her about the river and what lay ahead. I stopped listening. I already knew what lay ahead on the river, but I wondered now what lay ahead for me. On the journey over, I learned that although the fighting had stopped and the British would soon be leaving, the mood in Ireland was changing. For two years we had fought side by side, united in our desire to drive the English out of our country. But now, there were growing tensions between those who supported the proposed treaty with Britain and those who didn’t. The supporters, Free Staters they were called, celebrated our independence, a victory that had been centuries in the making. But the Anti-Treaty faction saw that the freedom Britain offered wasn’t free at all. Ireland was to remain a dominion of the British Empire, and the Irish government would be required to take an oath of allegiance to the throne. How was that different from today? I wondered. Worse, Britain laid claim to three of Ireland’s most valuable ports and proposed transferring a portion of their debt to a fledgling nation that had no means to repay it. But it was the partition above all else that caused the most debate. The six counties of the North—most of Ulster—would remain part of Britain. It was no surprise that the British wanted to keep Belfast and the North for themselves. While Limerick and the south and west were primarily farms, Belfast had foundries that made iron, textile mills that made linens, and boat yards that made ships. These businesses were controlled by Protestants whose loyalty to the King had been an economic decision as much as an
ideological one. They were invaders—English and Scots—who had been given the land that British occupiers had stolen from us. Under the Treaty, Ireland would be forever divided. In exchange, Britain would withdraw its forces from the twenty-six counties of the south.

  “It’s the best we could hope for,” a man I met on the ship had argued, something I would later hear time and again. “It’s a path to freedom.”

  I was careful to avoid the debates, not wanting to draw attention to myself. But I didn’t agree. So long as Britain required that we bow to the king, so long as they kept a strangle hold on our economy, and so long as they kept the north, we would never be free. It seemed that the country I had dreamed of during the dark, lonely nights in New York was a myth.

  “Look, there’s Limerick!” the woman said as she pointed to the buildings in the distance.

  Limerick, I thought, both excited and worried. I had to be careful. Even with the war over, the year I had been gone hadn’t been enough to ease the grudges. We Irish were pretty good at hating—we’d been hating the British for over seven hundred years. I suspected there was enough hate left over for me, for a traitor.

  To the gentle swaying of the train, the rhythmic shush of the steam engine, and the clackity-clack of the wheels, the baby in the woman’s arms behind me had fallen fast asleep and remained so for the last three hours. Like the mother and father, I’d kept my own window up lest the black smoke from the coal boiler soil the baby’s dress. I was a father now too, a thought I still hadn’t grown accustomed to. As I had since the moment I had received the letter, I wondered again about my own son. That the baby was a boy was certain. I don’t know how I knew, I just knew. What did he look like? I wondered. Was he fair like Kathleen? Or did he have my own dark features?

  There had been no time to ask. The day after I received Eileen’s letter—she was one of the Cavanaghs’ other servants and I was certain the letter had come from her—I had written to both Kathleen and her sister Mary, telling them that I was coming. I gave them no time to protest: two weeks later I stood on the deck as the boat sailed out of the harbor and New York faded in the distance behind us. I hoped my letter arrived before I did. But to be safe, I had sent a telegram from Cobh after the boat reached port.