Will Thomas - To Kingdom Come

Now he looked interested. “Was it Ancient Irish Myths and Legends ?”

“Yes, I believe that was the title.”

“How fortunate to find a copy! There’s not much written on the subject so far. It’s mostly oral traditions. To tell you the truth, I’ve been collecting the old Irish fairy tales myself for months. I’d like to publish a collection of my own some day. Which was your favorite?”

“I think the one about the Giant’s Causeway. That was Finn MacCool, was it not? Does the Causeway really exist?”

“It does, though I have yet to see it myself. You can find a postal card of it in any shop in Dublin.”

“I should like to see it sometime,” I said. I wanted to question him more thoroughly about his poetry and the old legends of Ireland, but just then the players were beginning the match.

Hurling, as it turned out, was a rather simple game for anyone who had ever played football or hockey. The object was to get a ball into a goal at the far end of the pitch. There was a goalkeeper, several defensive players in back, mid-fielders, and forward offensive players attempting to score. Points were awarded for putting the ball over the crossbar or into the goal.

That is the game in theory. In practice, it is two groups of men beating one another with sticks. They smote shins, pounded each other on the backs, and barely missed cracking skulls, all in an attempt to get at the ball. It seemed as if a brawl was attempted, and, somehow, a game broke out. I could all too easily see how it had begun as a way to keep warriors in condition.

The game continued for over an hour. The members of O’Casey’s front line, including O’Casey himself, were formidable, and many was the time the ball shot over the goal. The middle line was good as well, smartly turning the ball back to the forwards. The team’s weakest link was its goalkeeper. The fellow was terribly outclassed, the ball flying by his right ear, his left, between his hands, and behind his back. Every point made by O’Casey’s team was matched by another as the sphere flew unerringly into the goal. It was only by O’Casey’s ferocious efforts in the final minutes of the game, that the Irish team emerged triumphant by a mere three points. Another few minutes might have tied the game again.

It being Sunday, the pubs were closed, but we were taken to a friend’s home after the scrimmage. The drinks were provided by the other team, who seemed not to bear any ill will for the various contusions, scratches, and missing teeth engendered by the competition. Their blue jerseys stood intermingled with the faction’s green. Everyone drank far too much stout, save O’Casey, who drank only water, and Yeats and I, who nursed a lone pint each for most of the evening. Yeats pestered O’Casey until he agreed to let him come home with us.

Finally, we arrived at the O’Casey residence-Eamon, McKeller, Yeats, myself, and two mid-fielders who were twins by the name of Bannon. It was a tall, thin, four-story house, like many in Liverpool. O’Casey invited the others in, and after the hurling equipment had been deposited in a heap, we entered the parlor. The first thing I noticed as I stepped into the room was Cyrus Barker, sitting across from Dunleavy, with several pieces of paper and cups of tea between them. A conference had been going on. The second thing I noticed was the young woman pouring tea. Now I could see why Willie Yeats had been so eager to come back with us.

I sat down beside Barker, hoping to discover what he had been doing while I was off with the younger faction members. I knew if there was anyone who could ask the right questions of Dunleavy and open him up, it would be the Guv. I didn’t want to do anything that might arouse suspicion, not merely because it was dangerous but also because I didn’t want to jeopardize Barker’s plans and thereby endanger the Royal Family.

My nose caught the scent of lilac water, and a small, pale hand settled a teacup in front of me. Something-instinct, if I had it-told me not to say a word to O’Casey’s pretty sister but to concentrate on the meeting. I knew not how she was mixed up in all this. Women and their intuition are a deep subject, and if it were possible that anyone might penetrate my disguise, it could be she. After all, hadn’t I read in the Carleton book that women could be as deeply involved in factions as men?

“Maire,” Eamon O’Casey said, and raised his chin in a dismissive gesture. She finished pouring the tea, and as she passed by Yeats, said something low in his ear. He trotted after her. Lucky beggar, I thought. I would have liked to follow her myself.

Colonel Dunleavy turned easily in his chair and regarded the young men about him like a benevolent father. His dove-gray suit, with its buttons of brass, gave him a military appearance, and with his white teeth and chin beard, he cut a commanding and persuasive figure. I could see how he was able to gather loyal men about him.

“Good afternoon, boys,” he said. “Did we emerge triumphant on the field of battle today?”

“We did,” McKeller piped up.

“Good. I told you these English lads didn’t stand a chance against you. You gentlemen are the tip of the spear that four million people in our homeland are holding. You are the best of the factions. But this shall be as nothing compared to the defeat we will deal the English government three weeks from now.

“London will be knocked off her pins. We will alert the other factions of the I.R.B. afterward, but by the time they arrive, we shall be in charge; if they wish to participate in the New Ireland, they shall have to line up behind us. I need hardly mention that the pacifistic, Queen-courting Mr. Parnell will not be receiving any post higher in our newly formed government than rat catcher.”

That elicited a few chuckles from the young men in the room. Parnell had little to recommend himself among this radical element of the Irish Republican Brotherhood. All the young men were leaning forward in their chairs, listening eagerly to the American colonel’s words.

They looked like soldiers, I thought, or worse, zealots ready to die if their plans did not work. Dunleavy’s impassioned remarks made the quest for Irish freedom seem like a search for the Holy Grail.

“I know you gentlemen have voiced concerns regarding the dynamite we’ve been using,” Dunleavy went on. “That is with good reason. It has failed to go off on several occasions, and Mr. van Rhyn, who is an explosives expert, has warned me that it is most dangerous. He has agreed to rid us of it safely and to provide new infernal devices. He assures us that he has made more nitroglycerin than Mr. Nobel himself. Normally he does not respond to requests to demonstrate his extraordinary abilities, but for once, for our eyes alone, he is willing to bend his rules. He and his assistant, Mr. Penrith, have promised to give us a show of their skills within the week.”

A show within the week? I couldn’t help but shoot a glance at my employer, but he was sitting coolly in his chair, fingers laced across his ample stomach, as immobile and aloof as a statue, save for the smoke rising from his pipe. I wasn’t sure I was proficient enough for some sort of demonstration, and I had no idea what kind of skills Barker possessed. Feverishly, I began going over the various formulas in my mind and what materials were required for each and just how we were going to obtain them. Dunleavy introduced my employer, who addressed the group.

“I am not a public speaker, gentlemen,” Barker said. “I am a simple bomb maker, with a knack for tinkering and a fascination with destructive force as a means of progress. Your country stands on the threshold of the modern world. Great changes will occur before the new century begins, and I have decided to stake my life and future upon Ireland. The age of swords and cavalry charges shall soon be over, and we shall be the ones to usher in a new era. I look forward to meeting each one of you and to working with you for the worthy cause of your country’s freedom. Thank you.”