Not Quite Dead (18 page)

“That is the man Kelly at the heart of it,” said the lieutenant, indicating the six-foot bruiser with the hooked nose at the other end of the bar, presently downing three fingers of whiskey after braining a man’s idea pot. This he had accomplished with his own
bhata
—a fearsome blackthorn implement with multiple notches for men reefed, and a head with lead stuffing to break any bone, and wicked bumps left from branches along the shank, sharpened to tear the skin on contact.

“Kelly it is at the front of it.”

“A bad member and it’s a fact.”

“Put a crack in his head and the wind will come out of him,” said O’Reilly, scratching his chin with the nail of his little finger, which he had grown more than an inch long for some purpose.

Continued the lieutenant, turning to whisper into Devlin’s ear:
Be dog wide now as I put the heart crossways in them
. He took a step forward and stood in a slight crouch, as though waiting for the moment to spring.

Devlin watched the lieutenant closely from his blind side: a trim, compact man in a duster coat, over the tunic of an infantry officer and deerskin breeches, and shoulder-length hair beneath a top hat set at a precise angle.

The lieutenant had managed the Irish Brotherhood admirably— but at what cost to his immortal soul? To kill a man out of rage and disgust was one thing; to profit from his death was another. True, Devlin was guilty of the deadly sin of anger, and would carry it to his grave and beyond; he did not wish to add the burden of monetary greed to his already compromised soul.

Yet he did not bring up the point. He could not meet O’Reilly’s good eye, for it seemed to peer straight through a man. Nor did the other eye bear looking into, for it put him in mind of the eternal pit of hell.

What to make of a man with a missing eye, who did not cover the empty socket with a patch like other men, but left the hole open? Was it intended to intimidate? If so, it succeeded in grand fashion: in normal light the socket put one in mind of a death’s head, while in the presence of a flame it would glow bloody red. Meanwhile, the other side of the face might laugh at a good crack like a normal man. As an additional chiller for Devlin came the knowledge that, whatever horrors he had seen for himself, O’Reilly had seen worse, and done them too.

“To cause fear in the enemy,” the lieutenant once explained, “you do not simply conquer a town, you burn the cathedral—and with the townspeople in it.” Was this what he intended to convey in the Topham matter? Was it a message, a proclamation?

Even if not, most unsettling it was to hear him talk of “harvesting” a man, and Devlin had no stomach at all for the watching of it.

For certain, O’Reilly had a plan on him, and he preferred not to share it with Devlin.

On the saloon floor, the melee continued in waves of sporadic violence, with pauses for drink. True to the lieutenant’s observation, the
Na Coisantoiri
were not yet up to a party fight and were getting the worst of it, with two boys badly hurt on the floor and crying for their mothers, though not near croaked. As well, several grown men sprawled about in the bloody sawdust, and a few lay quite still— whether Catholic or Protestant there was no telling, now.

For the most part, however, injuries were superficial. Most of the men swung not true shillelaghs but regular walking sticks of oak and brass, which they waved in the air as though whipping a horse, with none of the skill of the true Whiskey Dance. Nonetheless, it was clear that, were the fighting to go the hour, the boyos would be lost to discouragement if not injury. Therefore, the lieutenant, according to custom, stood ready to claim the lead Orangeman, to call him out and thus spare his own people.

O’Reilly watched the fighting keenly, gauging the rhythm of it, awaiting the proper moment to initiate a match with the “cock of the tin …”

“Is that Fergus Kelly?” he cried suddenly, stepping forward and raising his
bhata
against the pillar with a sharp crack. The shout was well timed, for it cut through the room like a siren.

Leaning against the bar, Kelly raised his
bhata
in return, and answered in the traditional way. “Throth and it is that same on the sod here. And is that Dougal O’Reilly?”

“The same,
ma buchal
, and how is your mother’s son, Fergus?”

“Can’t complain as time goes, and how is yourself, Dougal?”

“In good health at the present time, thank God and gentle Mary.”

Kelly’s
bhata
gave the bar a thunderous clout for emphasis: “Only take this anyhow to mend your health, ye bloody popist.”

“May God help the filthy Protestant who would disturb a civilized meeting of honest men,” replied the lieutenant, and delivered a blow to the pillar as if to split it in two.

By now the general fighting had stopped entirely, anticipating a duel between chiefs. All stepped back to clear a space on the floor, that they might witness the sportive crack to come. For their part, the
Na Coisantoiri
took this opportunity to pull their wounded aside
in preparation for an exit, for that is the drill—first the diverting action, then the tactical retreat.

“Fergus Kelly, do you have the sand to face me without your bum-boys behind you?”

“There be no bum-boys but yours, Dougal O’Reilly, popist frig that you are, And are those your choirboys I see?”

This exchange signaled the beginning of the stage known as
wheeling
—a ritual joust of wit and insult, accompanied by huzzahs from supporters, so that one built upon the other, until the two came to blows.

“A red nail on yer tongue, Kelly, and a red stone in yer throat, and may the devil roast the jigger off ye.”

“I’ll see to it that you never comb a gray hair. Your bread is baked, Dougal O’Reilly, and it’s a fact.”

“It is I who will break your head for you, Fergus Kelly, may you go stone-blind so that you will not know your wife from a haystack.”

“Short life and an evil death to you.”

“May the devil cut your head off and make a day’s work of your neck.”

“Cromwell’s curse to you. A death without a priest in a town without a clergyman, on a high windy gallows and with Oscar blowing.”

“And the curse of sweet Mary on you. May the seven terriers of hell sit on the spool of your breast and chase you over the hills of Damnation.”

“Dougal O’Reilly, you popish rascal, I am ready for you. I have what you’re going to get in for you a long time!”

“Fergus Kelly, you are claimed!”

“O’Reilly, you’ll get it, please God!”

Before the name of the deity had come clear of Kelly’s mouth, the lieutenant sprung for him. Making a feint as if he intended to lay the stick on his ribs, O’Reilly swung it past without touching, and bringing it swiftly around his own head, made his move with a powerful backstroke, right on the temple of the taller man. As a reward, in an instant his own face was spattered with the blood that sprung from the wound.

Undeterred, Kelly staggered forward, holding his
bhata
two-handed as an extension of the arm and fist. He was looking to work close, for he was not used to the lieutenant’s
pionsa
style, like classical saber
fighting, well suited to his military past. Instantly O’Reilly sprung back, and was again advancing with full force when Kelly, turning a little, clutched his opponent’s stick in his right hand. Being left-handed himself, the lieutenant struggled to wrench the cudgel back, when Kelly gave him a terrible blow upon the back part of the head, which laid O’Reilly stunned on his face on the floor.

There came then a deafening shout from the Orangemen while Kelly stood waiting for O’Reilly to be in the act of rising, when he planned to deal the popist a blow across the head.

The cool of the lieutenant was remarkable. “Look at your party coming down upon me,” he shouted to Kelly, who turned momentarily to order them back—and now the lieutenant was up on his legs.

In fairness, it was impressive to see the cool of both men as they faced one another, eyes kindled with fury yet tamed to the wariness of experienced combatants, calculating upon the contingent advantages of attack or defense.

To the men watching it was a moment of artistic interest as the wiry man and the powerful man stood in opposition. No man’s judgment could name the man likely to be victorious. Nor, on viewing these two contrasting frames, made equal by science and elegance of form, could the eye miss the bulges in the trousers of both men— likewise, the gooter of every man in the room, Devlin included, had become similarly dilated with passion for the fight.

Sensing the tension of the moment, the lieutenant raised his cudgel and extended it transversely between himself and his opponent. Kelly instantly placed his against it—both weapons forming a St. Andrew’s cross so that the two stood foot to foot, though with the head of the smaller man in line with the chest of the other. Their necks were laid a bit back as was the weight of their bodies, for balance, their fierce but calm features only a foot apart.

Now O’Reilly made an attempt to repeat his former feint, though with variations, taking his measure to land another blow, this time on the left temple. His move was rapid, but equally quick was the eye of the bigger man, whose cudgel was up in ready guard to meet the blow. The two weapons met, with such surprising power that they bent across each other into curves. An involuntary
huzzah
followed from all parties—not so much at the skill of the two men as in admiration of the cudgels themselves, and the judgment with which they
must have been selected. And certainly the instruments did their duty. In a moment the two shillelaghs crossed each other in the opposite direction, and again the sticks curved as the two men stared at one another, their eyes burning, while the sight and smell of blood kindled a deeper ferocity.

Now Kelly made a move to practice on O’Reilly the feint that had been practiced on him. Anticipating the blow, the lieutenant stopped the blow with his hand, intent upon holding the staff aloft until he might visit Kelly, now unguarded, with a leveling blow.

As Kelly pulled on the cudgel with his collected vigor, O’Reilly suddenly released his hold; Kelly, having lost his balance, staggered back. A serpent could not have struck more quickly than the action of the lieutenant as his cudgel rang with tremendous force on the unprotected head of his enemy. Kelly fell, or rather was shot, to the floor, as though some superior power had dashed him against it, whereon he lay, quivering spasmodically from the blow.

A peal of triumph rose among the Ribbonmen as O’Reilly stood over the enemy, awaiting his return to the conflict. Yet Kelly did not stir.

Gouge him! Gouge him!
shouted the
Na Coisantoiri
.

O’Reilly stooped a little, peered closely into his opponent’s face and exclaimed: “Why then, is it acting the dead man you are? I wouldn’t put it past you!”

Gouge him!
‘The boys shouted in unison, and began pounding their sticks rhythmically on the floor, in the way that African savages pound spears upon their shields.

Nodding assent, O’Reilly reached out with the little finger of his right hand, the one with the uncut nail, and plucked out Kelly’s eye, which rolled onto the floor like a monstrous white tear. Now the lieutenant bent down, took Kelly’s eye in his finger and thumb—and put it in his pocket.

No man chose to break the wonderful silence as O’Reilly strode to the bar and accepted a glass of the good whiskey. Meanwhile, able-bodied boys assisted the injured to their feet, while others dropped to their knees and began collecting teeth from the floor.

“I think the sport is over, gentlemen,” he said, raising the glass. “Good health to all here.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTTEEN

Germantown, Philadelphia County

A
s you approach Fern Rock Station and the country mansions of Meetinghouse Road, well before you reach the open expanse of the Germantown Cricket Club, the fifty-foot wooden tower with its crown of thorns becomes impossible to ignore, being fathoms taller than any neighboring tree or steeple.

The Quakers, Shakers, and Dippers who first settled Germantown regarded the builders of that tower with uncommon hostility—that their first gesture upon arriving in the New World was to proclaim to one and all that the Communists of Economy Manor had reached a point some twenty feet closer to heaven than anyone else.

The occupants of the weaver’s cottages at the far side of the pitch would have gladly burned the offending structure down. As though anticipating such an attack, the first thing the Communists built after the tower was a stone wall. Then they constructed dormitories with slit windows on the first floor so that, were an attacker to mount the stone wall, he would be standing in front of a firing squad.

Should the intruder penetrate even further, gun holes were drilled into all outside door frames; as a last resort, it was said that tunnels had been laid to facilitate a quick evacuation to a concealed location.

As far as the Communists were concerned, such precautions came from hard experience comparable to the Jews in Germany. To be at odds with one’s neighbors had long ago become an assumption, even a perilous source of pride.

The movement known as communism had been antagonizing traditional guardians of power ever since the fourteenth century, the Dark Ages, when hospital beds and social assistance of all kinds disappeared with the monasteries, and Communist institutions became the hospitals and almshouses of their time.

Naturally, the papacy deplored these incursions, for the stated reason that such sects easily lapsed into heresy—a word with such heavy
freight that persecution followed as night follows day, led by militant orders such as the Jesuits.

With the discovery of the New World, it was natural for Communist denominations to look abroad for a more favorable circumstance.

At first, America showed as inhospitable a face as did Europe. Virginia remained strictly Anglican, while Massachusetts was resolutely Puritan—albeit in watered-down form after an excess of witch-burning. The spiritual terrain had been staked out, fenced, and as jealously guarded as in Europe.