A Long Way Home

Contents

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Sure a little bit of Heaven fell from out the sky one day,

And it nestled in the ocean in a place so far away . . .

So they sprinkled it with stardust just to make the shamrocks grow . . .

And when they had it finished sure they called it Ireland.

From ‘A Little Bit of Heaven’ by J. Keirn Brennan

and Ernest R. Ball

To my grandfather, John Dillon, an Irish immigrant

Acknowledgements

I am much indebted to Stewart Robertson, Barry Knox, Martin Owen, Carol Hindle, and Ruth Harvey, friends and former colleagues, who have willingly provided advice and encouragement, and especially to my wife, Aurora, for her patience.

Chapter 1

The operation had been planned with great care, although with a naivety that hinted at disaster.

Quinn and three others had stolen explosives from a building site on which some of their number worked, and then, the following day, in the early morning, as darkness was only just surrendering to the sun’s light, they had stolen a small rowing boat from the western bank of the local river, so they could, as they planned it, unseen and unheard, access the central buttress of the bridge. They had rowed as stealthily as they could, doing no more than was needed to keep the boat moving, their oars hardly causing a splash as they made contact with the water, and then, shrouded by half-light, they had successfully fixed the explosives to the wooden bridge. They had cast their eyes along the shady banks and, confident that they had not been detected, Quinn had lit the fuse. They had then withdrawn, as quickly as possible, to what was hoped to be a sufficient distance from the bridge to be safe.

Everything had gone to plan. They had seen no one, and no one had seen them. In the quiet of early morning they had waited for the explosion and the collapse of part of the bridge. Nothing had happened. They looked at one another, dumbfounded. What had gone wrong?

They made the risky decision to paddle back to the bridge to check the explosives. With panic beginning to surge through their veins, and anxiety clouding their thinking, they approached the bridge with far less caution than previously. They were not experts in sabotage; they were just young men driven by a cause. In their agitated state, they allowed their oars to make splashing sounds, and they spoke in voices that carried through the tranquil early morning air and across the river. It was their undoing. They were heard and then spotted by one of Lord Owen’s night patrols, returning after a night’s duty.

Shouts from the patrol confirmed that the group had been seen. ‘Stop. Who are you? What are you doing on the river at this time?’ Quinn and his accomplices panicked. They headed for the safety of the opposite bank and the fields and the woods that stretched beyond it. The patrol, realising that the young men were up to no good, gave chase.

Quinn was the only one to escape the pursuers’ first push. While he, with quick wit and a speedy dart, evaded the members of the patrol, his companions were caught and quickly put in chains.

The whistles and shouts of the pursuers spread across the countryside, bringing out the more inquisitive of those who had just risen in preparation for their day’s labours. But they also attracted more of Lord Owen’s men to the search. They were determined not to allow any of the conspirators to escape.

Quinn knew his ground and what paths to take. His intention was to get back to the village and, if questioned at any time later, protest his innocence. He found it difficult, however, to shake off his pursuers, and the sun—rising and spreading light over the open fields he had to cross—was on the side of the enemy.

Quinn endeavoured to increase his pace, but his legs largely resisted his attempts to drive them harder, and he found that any exertions he did manage just drained his strength. He was breathing hard, and then his breathing lost its control and forced him into desperate panting. From time to time he found that he had to stop, support himself with an outstretched arm, and bend over in an attempt to refill his lungs. The sounds behind him increased in intensity. He was not aware of what had happened to his friends as he had made his escape, but he had the sense that all was lost. The increasing clamour at his rear and on his flanks could only indicate that he had become the sole focus of the pursuers.

He was within sight of the thatched roofs of the village when the fatal shot rang out. The slug hit him with force. It brought him to his knees and sent a searing pain through his body. Everything went black.

‘What was that sound?’ asked Jamie Quigley as he straightened to his full height. He stood at just less than six feet and carried the broad shoulders and strong arms of a man who had spent a lifetime working on the land—at one time, including that of Lord Owen. He and his wife, Margaret, up early as usual, were digging up their staple diet from the small plot of land around their cottage. Like others in the village, they had little ground to cultivate, and with the recent changes in agriculture, Jamie could earn little income from labouring, explaining their strong reliance on their home-grown potatoes. On such an unimposing piece of earth, it was the only crop that could start to provide adequate nutrition for the family.

It did not take him long to find out the answer to his question. A short while after the sound of the shot, Jamie saw a horse-drawn cart trundle along the dirt path, clearly headed for the main street of the village. He followed it. The cart stopped in the centre of the village by the stone wall of the ancient well. It was here that villagers collected water for their daily needs and where small groups would meet to talk, laugh, or grumble, depending on the most recent happenings in the village or at the nearby weekly market. Today, the sound of the gun had brought them here for a different reason.

‘He was warned!’ shouted Maurice Whitehouse, the chief steward of Lord Owen of Huby, as he pulled a bundle out from under a tarpaulin on the cart and threw it down on to the ground. An Englishman in his mid-twenties and in the employ of English masters, Whitehouse seemed to relish any opportunity to vilify the Irish. His unshaved chin, sallow pale cheeks, piercing dark eyes, and harsh voice were well known to the villagers. His bullying of those who fell behind with their rent along with his unwillingness to listen to reason before despatching a family to the workhouse, led to his being regarded as the worst of the loathed Englishmen who oversaw the Lord’s lands. On this occasion, he was accompanied by four companions, all sitting on top of the cart. Dressed in their top hats, long, dark blue, swallow-tailed waistcoats under brass-buckled belts and fastened down the front with brass buttons, they presented a daunting spectacle to the roughly dressed villagers. They were all six-footers and had at their waists large cudgels.

Whitehouse continued. ‘He refused to stop. The sooner everybody learns to respect the law, the better.’ As he delivered his counsel, he stood up in the cart, raised his right arm and waved his rifle threateningly. ‘Be warned.’

The small crowd that had gathered by the well became increasingly agitated. Men in waistcoats and breeches that were soiled from their previous days’ work began to push their way to the front, anger spread across their faces. One young man swore under his breath, ‘You’ll pay for this one day, Whitehouse.’

Whitehouse and his associates, alert to any danger, began to ready their cudgels, but before the cart was engulfed with angry villagers, or before they were called upon to wield their weapons, the wagon driver pulled hard on the left rein and turned the horses around in the direction from which they had come. The cart rattled at speed back down the road towards Lord Owen’s land. As it disappeared into the distance, its wheels left a trail of dust.

It was not the first time that Whitehouse had behaved so harshly. On other occasions, he had arrived with constables to arrest villagers. The most common offence was stealing from Lord Owen’s property. Some families, threatened with eviction, made every effort to find their rent through what they could steal and then sell. Caught in the vortex of decreasing income and the treads of climbing rents, they saw it as the only alternative to being turned out of their cottages and sentenced to a life in the workhouse. Whitehouse showed little compassion; he was prepared to use the law to make secure what the Irish peasantry regarded as Lord Owen’s ill-gotten gains. No matter how long ago the likes of Cromwell and his soldiers had imposed their will, the Irish still regarded the land as theirs. This belief was the root cause of the injustice felt by these and by many other Irishmen.

The villagers approached the bundle that had been left behind. The material enclosing the object was only loosely folded, but no one appeared keen to rip it open, especially as what was within seemed to be seeping blood. On the exterior were bright red stains, spreading like a patchwork across the loose sacking. The villagers just stood and stared, fearful at what they were likely to find.

It was Paul Doherty who eventually took a knife from his belt, knelt down, and, taking care not to inflict more damage on what was in the parcel, pierced through the coarse cloth. As he tore it open, there were gasps and quiet exclamations of shock. There were no excitable screams or uncontrollable outbursts, just these soft inhales and exhales along with bowed heads and the sign of the cross. Women lifted their pinafores up to their faces as they turned away distraught, while their menfolk stood with anger and frustration slowly seeping into their bones. Mike Quinn was the body in the sack.

Mike’s family were long-standing in the village. There had been Quinns in Rose Cottage for as long as anyone could remember. They were a popular family and could always be relied upon for support. Mike, the oldest of the five children, was a much respected young man. He mixed easily with other young men in the village, carried out his responsibilities to his family, and supported his local church, serving as an altar boy and singing in the choir until his voice had broken. He had not been seen about for a couple of days and questions had begun to be asked among his friends as to his whereabouts. Nobody seemed to know, not even members of his family. Rumours had spread, but there had been nothing concrete.

What was not well known was that Mike was a member of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, a secret society dedicated to freeing Ireland from the English. Membership of the society was a banned practice, and anyone belonging to it could expect the most serious punishment if caught. Over the previous two days, Mike had been involved in the mission, planned by the Brotherhood, to interfere with the wooden bridge that was a critical link across the River Feale that separated Lord Owen’s land from the main road to Listowel. The intention was to disrupt the movement across the river of the landowner’s produce and stock. It was the secrecy surrounding the activities of the Brotherhood that left the villagers unclear as to what Mike could have done to deserve this fate. It would be later in the day before they learned.

Having split open the material of the bundle and having revealed its contents, a speechless Paul looked up at those around him. Those looking on were equally shaken. Paul did not know what to say. Mike had been one of his friends.

He had also been a friend of Will Kennedy, a feisty individual, who now knelt by Paul at the side of Mike’s body and created in Paul a deeper sense of tension, as he tightened his large fists and then his lips across his teeth. Will’s poise and his facial expression reflected genuine loathing for those responsible. A sickening feeling arose at the back of Paul’s throat. He had to place his hand on the rough ground to steady his body, as the foul taste combined with a weakening in his knees. Even as a twenty year-old man and someone seen as a stalwart of the village, the sight of Mike’s vandalised body gave him an unexpected jolt. Mike’s back had been split open and his face still bore the anguish of the pain as the bullet had made contact. Although they saw him as level-headed and thoughtful, those around Paul would not have been surprised at the animosity towards Whitehouse that was kindling in his breast.

‘Somebody will have to go and tell Mrs Quinn.’ Despite having to wrestle with his inner feelings, Paul was the first to gather any sort of composure. The villagers looked at one another, each fearing to take the responsibility of breaking the dreadful news to Mary. The silence, seeming to last an eternity, was broken by Jane Cassidy.

‘I’ll go. Mary’s a good friend of mine.’

‘I’ll come with you,’ said Jane’s husband, Ed, and the pair, their heads bowed with the fear of the sadness they were about to bring to Mary and her family, made their way despondently along the road to the Quinns’ property. They were not sure how they would break the news. Such a dreadful, unexpected death had no justifiable explanation, no matter what Mike was supposed to have done. ‘How can Owen’s men do that?’ Ed Cassidy asked as though talking to himself. ‘There’s supposed to be laws.’

‘Laws for some, and laws for others,’ muttered his wife, expressing a feeling shared by many of the Irish cotters. A large number of those gathered could not understand what the Irish had done to deserve the treatment that they received from the English. While they starved, the English carted away crops and meat; while they lived in hovels, the English inhabited grand houses; and while they were penalised by the courts, the English made the laws. Even though they knew of countrymen who had prospered under English rule, they, like the majority of Irishmen, felt downtrodden, and they harboured hatred for the English. Whether the hatred should turn into armed conflict was less of a certainty. There were those like Paul who believed that patience, perseverance, and persuasion provided the only sensible solution. For others, however, confrontation was the only way. It was the road chosen by Mike Quinn, and it was the road that had resulted in his death.

When the Cassidys reached the house of the Quinns, Ed, still nervous about their mission, knocked on the door. ‘Is your Mum in, Johnny?’ he asked as the figure of Mike’s young brother appeared at the door.

‘Mum, Mr and Mrs Cassidy are here.’

‘Bring them in, Johnny,’ Mary called in a cheerful, unsuspecting voice. She had been busy with activities in the cottage, and although she had heard the shot she had not felt compelled to go to the village well; she had put the gunshot down to hunting guests of the Lord and, undisturbed, had continued to do what tidying was possible in the limited space of her small cottage. She turned as Jane and her husband entered. Jane’s anxiety was transferred to Mary as if by osmosis, and she sensed tragedy. In a voice shaking with apprehension she asked, ‘What is it, Jane?’

It was Ed who thought it better if he intervened, and, eliminating fuss, he outlined for Mary what had happened. ‘I’m afraid we have very bad news, Mary. The gunshot you may have heard was fired by that idiot Whitehouse. He was firing at Mike.’

‘Is he hurt?’

‘I’m afraid the worst has happened, Mary.’ Ed had to move forward quickly to prevent Mary collapsing on to the earthen floor. All the fears a mother has for her children welled up inside her as she felt her legs giving way. And then, like the rush of water through a breaking dam, her pain burst out in a scream of anguish.

‘Mike, Mike, where are you?’ she said in a voice that was hardly audible, as she was led to a chair. She sank low, her back bending until her head touched the hem of her skirt around her knees. It seemed an age before she looked up again, and by the time she did her children had gathered around her, sharing her feeling of desolation. Her husband, Jack, was on a journey somewhere between the village and Listowel and had still to be told the sad news. ‘Where is he? Where is he? I must see him,’ she said, trying to gain control of her emotions, her shaking hands and her trembling legs, weak from the shock, as she tried to pull herself to her feet on the arm of Jack, her second son.

‘Just sit, Mary. They’ll bring him here,’ Jane offered in comfort. She went across and helped Mary back into her seat. ‘Come on, love. What can I say? It’s terrible, and I can’t say how much I feel for you.’ And then, through gritted teeth and with a frightening intensity, she added, ‘That Whitehouse will burn in Hell.’ Regaining her composure, Jane put her arm around Mary, and the tears of both of the women ran down their cheeks unrestrained.

* * *

The villagers standing around Mike’s body were still in shock. They had seen Jane and her husband head off in the direction of the Quinns’ house, but they had done little else. Some had temporarily gone on to their knees in silent prayer.

It was Paul who eventually cut the silence. ‘Can somebody get Father O’Malley?’

‘I’ll go,’ offered Tom Jameson, crossing himself.

Father O’Malley was the parish priest. He had served the village for more than ten years and had grown to love and respect his parishioners. In return, they gave him tremendous support, all of them being regular attenders at Sunday Mass and other special liturgical celebrations. He could walk into any cottage unannounced and at any time of the day to a warm welcome, typified by, ‘Sit down, Father. Now can I get you anything?’

Father was quietly preparing something for breakfast after his morning prayers when Tom knocked on the door. ‘Come in,’ he called, slightly turning his head in the direction of his front door.

‘Father, there’s been a tragedy in the village. Can you come?’

‘What’s happened, Tom? What’s the problem?’

‘It’s Mike Quinn. He’s been shot. He’s dead.’

‘Good God. I’m with you now.’

The priest moved quickly towards the door, collecting his decorated white stole from its hanger and placing it around his neck. He also picked up his well-used prayer book. Tom described what had happened as the pair walked towards the centre of the village. Troubled, Father O’Malley stepped through the gap in the group of villagers as it opened up for him and stood over the body. He sensed the pain, anger, and feelings of injustice that rippled through the crowd.

His first action was to make the sign of the cross, which he followed by reciting, in Latin, prayers for the dead. Those around him responded with ‘Amen’. The atmosphere among the villagers was one of deep sorrow, but, in line with their beliefs, it was tinged with hope for Mike’s future in death.

When Father had completed what he had come to do, he suggested that Mike’s body should be covered again and taken to his mother at his home. A more fitting covering than the blood-stained cloth was found and placed over Mike before Paul picked up his body. Paul set off down the street with Mike’s head lolling over his left arm and his weighty legs hanging down from his right. The procession that followed Paul towards the Quinns’ house was like a funeral cortège. Father O’Malley walked just behind Paul, his hands clasped, his head bowed, and his lips moving in prayer. The villagers followed, some whispering prayers and others wiping tears from their eyes. The pace was slow, determined by Paul, as he bore the weight of Mike’s body.

* * *

Mike’s mother and brothers and sisters were at the door as the procession approached. Mary was being supported by Jane Cassidy, but nothing could hold back the sobs. Paul stopped to allow Father to approach first and whisper comforting words as he encircled Mary in a compassionate hug. He could do no more, especially as Mary had only one thought in her mind: to see her son. She reached out to Mike as Paul approached the door of the cottage. She picked up his hand and kissed it and passed her palm across his forehead. She was distraught. The children stood back against the wall of the cottage, the youngest unable to comprehend fully what they were watching. Space was made for Paul to carry Mike into the cottage and lay him across the rickety, wooden settee. Having placed Mike carefully, he crossed himself, turned and left Mary to her grieving.

Chapter 2

A few weeks later, Paul and Will were sunning themselves on the stone wall overlooking the village. The two of them had been sorely affected by what had happened to their friend, although in different ways. For Paul, it offered a lesson in how not to respond to English rule, while for Will it stirred emotions of hatred and the desire for revenge. The fateful day of Mike Quinn’s death had left its mark. In a wider context, it had entered village folklore and reinforced the abhorrence with which English law and its enforcers were held.

Positioned as they were on the hill, looking down on the village, they had a bleak insight into what life may hold for them. Their eyes followed the dirt path down to the rough, unpaved main street, defined by the ruts of horse-drawn carts. It was lined with cottages, some terraced, in threes, others detached. Occasionally, short pathways, on which they could see other cottages, branched off. They were constructed of roughly dressed stone, compacted with clay. Some villagers had made use of boulders to give sturdiness to the walls. A number of the cottages on the main street, mostly detached ones, were coated with lime plaster, and thus they had a more finished look. Most roofs were made of thatch, supported by the boughs of trees that had been roughly adzed, while a few others were of local stone slate. At the furthest end of the village, one thatched roof, that of the Connolly’s home, a family Paul knew to be in dire straits, was sagging and revealed the edges of its supporting boughs. Almost all the cottages had solid, panelled wooden doors. Paul and Will were able to spot, however, the occasional halved doors, the top one usually left ajar to allow an easing of the oppressive atmosphere within.

Paul and Will could see the potatoes, circling around the cottages, beginning to thrust through the rich soil, the greenness of the foliage marking their health, and, around some, patches of turnips and green vegetables. They could also see the occasional pig in its pen, either lying on its stomach enjoying the sun or grunting its way through the muck that had collected on the floor; in the harsh winters, they would be inside the cottage. Two belonged to Paul’s father, who was rearing them for meat. There were also hens, clucking their way from one piece of waste ground to another.

Looking beyond the cottages they could also pick out the green of the fields. Once they had been rich with crops, the lush heads of yellow and green swaying in any slight breeze. Their presence had offered the possibility of extra income to many of the cotters and their sons; the need for labourers to till, plant, and harvest ensured that they could supplement the subsistence level of produce they garnered from their own tiny plots. Now, the fields were mainly for pasture, feeding the sheep and cattle of Lord Owen, who lived most of his life in England and was only rarely to be seen in the vicinity of the village. This change was a cause of great anger among the villagers, particularly among men who were like the fathers of Will and Paul, whose main skill was concerned with the land, what it produced and what it supported. Seemingly without any thought for the consequences for those in the village, the Lord, acting in his own self-interest, had turned arable land into pasture. By doing so he had thoughtlessly stripped them of income. A short time later he had raised the rent he demanded for some of the smallholdings, smallholdings that the villagers resented having to pay for at all, as they believed they had been seized from them, illegally, by the English.

On this particular day, everything within the village looked idyllic. Villagers were wandering around sleeveless, with most of the men divested of their waistcoats. Some had settled into chatting groups. The stray passer-by would have envied the sight that he or she would have beheld. What could be more perfect than the calmness of village life, augmented by a smiling sun, the occasional drone of a bumble bee, and the singing of a skylark high in the sky? But to the likes of Will and Paul, day-by-day life in the village was one of austerity, even though it was an austerity that they had grown used to. The rigour of life in the village was so familiar to the young men that it simply reflected normality.

Even the moorland, which in better times would have provided the space for villagers to wander aimlessly in its freshness, an opportunity to become immersed in the sweet scent of its abundant flora, and the excitement of disturbing a hare, a rabbit, or a ground-nesting bird, was seen as little more than a resource from which families extracted fuel to feed their cooking fires and, through winter, to heat their homes. It had, for much of the year, an emptiness that Paul and Will had grown accustomed to. Even the hardship they associated with it fitted in to the regular pattern of their lives. Like all the menfolk in the village, they were used to spending time on the moor, extracting the turf from the bank that had been handed down through their families for generations. The back-breaking work, which brought sweat to their brows and bodies, involved their digging deep into the soft belly of the moor, passing through the various shades of colour until they reached the black turf, the best for burning. After they had released it from its earthen pit, they placed it on the moor and left it to dry. Sometime later, they had to clamber up and across the moor to construct stacks, designed to allow the passage of air and further drying. Once they reckoned that the turf was ready, a judgement made after further visits, their job was to wheel it by barrow to the shed by their cottages in readiness for burning.

In its own way, the view of the village and its surrounds provided a context for their conversation, although what they were discussing had little to do with their visual observations.

‘So what d’you think?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘What d’ you mean you don’t know?’

‘Well, I’m not sure.’

‘Look, we have to make up our minds.’

Will answered in his usual truculent way when he was talking about the English. ‘But we don’t really know whether or not it’s any better than over here. Anyway, who wants to go and live with more of those bloody Englishmen? I don’t reckon they’ll treat us any better there than they do here. Look what happened to poor Mike. We both know Whitehouse shot poor Mike, but who was it for—his bloody English Lord.’

‘Ye, but we may have more chance over there to make a bit of money and gain a bit of respect. Then we won’t give a toss what they think of us. We’d be no worse than them, and we’d have no need to give them cause to go round and shoot us. I know it sounds stupid, but how else can you look at it?’

Paul’s response was in line with a view he expressed often—that one should earn respect and use that as a means of moving forward. It was the approach that steered him away from any of the groups that sought to use force in the name of Ireland. He had seen too many of his countrymen suffer without any tangible gain as a result of taking a more aggressive route. He feared for Will with his ingrained hatred of the English. Whereas Paul was willing to look for compromise, a characteristic admired by some in the village, others believed that Will, with his belligerence, made much more sense.

Will suddenly sat up straight and pointed with his right hand. His mind was obviously elsewhere. ‘Look at that,’ he said, excitedly. He had spied an owl, which must have mistaken day for night, dropping like a stone on to some poor, unsuspecting, creature. A second later, both boys watched it take to the air again and head off to the nearby trees, its claws bedded in a mouse.

The drama over, Paul, in exasperation, said, ‘You should know something about getting to England and what it’s like over there. I spent the other day describing what I’d heard about it.’ He fiddled with the button on the jacket that he had no need to wear. Today, the sun, high over the Kerry hills, spread unusual summer warmth and brought beads of sweat to his forehead. His mother had bought him the jacket some months previously when at the market in Listowel. He had grown to love it and was rarely seen without it. It had a thick, woolly, texture, ideal for winter, and it had a wide collar that he could pull across his throat if the wind sought to penetrate the more exposed parts of his body. It had large enough pockets for most things that he would ever wish to carry with him. Today, they contained an old piece of rag, a piece of string –it was a remnant from the string he had been using to tie up a bundle of wood meant for the fire for cooking—along