Chapter Thirty Six

 

 

Just after dawn, Michael awoke with a start. He thought he’d heard muffled voices. Was it a dream? Suddenly, there was a loud crack and the front door came crashing down. A half-dozen men armed with rifles rushed into the cottage. A dazed Michael looked up at them and thought he must be dreaming. It had to be another one of his nightmares. But then the small, wiry man with the broken nose ducked through the door.

Michael tried to get up, but one of the men smashed the butt of his rifle into Michael’s neck and he fell back down.

Two other men trained rifles on Mam and Da, who huddled together, terrified.

“I’m looking for Dermot Ranahan,” Chief Inspector Cronin announced. “Where is he?”

“Gone from here,” Michael said.

“Gone where?”

“I think he said he was gonna join the British army. You might look for him there.”

At a nod from Cronin, the man standing behind Michael smashed the rifle butt down on the back of Michael’s neck again.

“And what’s your name?” Cronin asked.

“Michael Ranahan.”

“Where were you yesterday, Michael Ranahan? A man fitting your description was seen riding a horse on the Cork Road.”

“I don’t own a horse.”

“One was reported stolen near here.”

“Probably for food,” Michael said.

That response got Michael another crack of the rifle butt.

“Take him outside,” Cronin said.

Two men dragged Michael to his feet and shoved him through the door.

There was a black constabulary wagon in the yard. Inspector Cronin went to the wagon and pulled a curtain aside. Frankie peeked out the window nervously.

“Well?” Cronin asked, pointing at Michael. “Is this one of them?”

Michael held his breath. He didn’t recognize the man, but obviously he was an informer and informers were never to particular about who they fingered, especially if there was a shilling reward in the bargain. But to Michael’s relief, the man shook his head.

Cronin looked disappointed. “All right, he said to the men holding Michael, let him go.”

As soon as the men let go of Michael’s arms, Michael charged at the man who had smashed him with the rifle butt and slammed him to the ground. He rolled on top of him and, grabbing the man’s hair with both hands, smashed his head into the ground.

Suddenly, Michael felt cold steel as Cronin pressed his revolver into Michael’s neck. “That will be enough of that. Get up.”

Reluctantly, Michael rolled off the half-unconscious man and stood up.

Cronin put his face so close that Michael could smell cigar smoke on the man’s breath. “If your brother’s alive, we’ll find him,” Cronin said softly. “If he’s dead, then that’s one less bog trotter to worry about, isn’t it?”

 

It was days before Michael could bring himself to go back to the church. He wanted desperately to see Emily, but he knew she would ask him about Dermot’s whereabouts and he didn’t know what to say. Finally, he couldn’t keep away any longer and he went to the church after his work on the road gang.

By the time he got there, it was late and all those seeking food had gone to seek shelter for the night. Emily and Goodbody were having a cup of tea when Michael came in. And once again, seeing them together like this, a devil’s brew of jealously, anger, and sadness welled up within him. But, as usual, Marcus Goodbody, with his good cheer and warmth, quickly dispelled any notions that there might be anything going on between him and Emily—at least on his part.

“Michael,” Goodbody said, coming forward to shake Michael’s hand. “My friend, where has thou been? We have been most worried about thee.”

Michael mumbled about being busy working on the road gang and tending the crops.

Emily offered Michael a cup of tea. Tea was something he had never drunk before working in the soup kitchen. At first, he disliked the bitter and weak brew and wondered why Emily and Goodbody insisted on drinking it every afternoon. But as foul as it was, he drank it anyway, because it was one way of reaching into the mysterious and wonderful world of Emily and Goodbody. But, over time, he found that he actually liked it, and looked forward to taking afternoon tea with them.

Michael took his cup. “Thank you, Emily.”

“We missed you,” she said, turning away from his intense gaze to stir her tea.

“Aye.”

Aye? Is that all you have to say, you eejit? All the way here you’ve been practicin’ what you would say to her and now all you can say is—Aye?

Then she asked the question he’d been dreading. “Where’s Dermot?”

“Gone,” he mumbled.

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Just gone.”

Emily looked at him with a puzzled expression. “Gone off to be with his friends or gone for good?”

“He won’t be comin’ back.” Michael felt tears welling up and quickly turned away.

Goodbody saw there was something wrong and came to Michael’s rescue. “Emily, I think that Michael does not want to talk about his brother just now.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

Michael, stirring his tea furiously, said nothing.

“I pray the harvest is bountiful this year,” Goodbody said. “Does thee pray for the same, Michael?”

“Michael?” Emily tugged at his sleeve.

“What? Oh, aye.”