Rescuing Mr. Gracey (43 page)

Her body contracted as if tortured. She could bear no more. Rising, she stumbled toward home, contemplating how much both of them had lost. In the time she had been gone, the tiny village had swelled with hundreds of soldiers.
Your fault, Mary Smyth…all this is your fault.
Her eyes blurred with tears as she dodged between horses, wagons, uniformed men, shouting residents.

Loving Alec Gracey had triggered a great civil war.

When she entered the hut, her father stepped toward her and bundled her into his wide, warm arms. She clung to him as to a solid branch against the rush of a riptide. After a moment, Mary realized her mother also made small circles on her back, and Patrick’s hand reassuringly clasped her shoulder.

“You know me mouth oft runs away wi’out me permission, Mary,” Patrick said. “I feel mighty sorry ’bout all you’re experiencin’ and hate that I added to it.”

Agnes wrapped her shawl around Mary’s shoulders. “Well, the Graceys did not take Da’s job, or mine either. Michael’s still earning money in Belfast too. It’s not as if we have no income…”

“Aye, and once you marry Sean in three weeks, he’ll help us with food,” Brian piped.

Her body was too heavy to support. Collapsing into a chair, she bowed her head. “I don’t deserve any of you after what I’ve brought to this house.”

Joseph expelled a puff of air. “You mean how you got a young gentleman to show us how to plant flax and teach us how to make a profit, or are you talking about how he got Patrick a job that paid such an excellent wage that we paid off the Gombeen man?”

Mary lifted her eyes, thanking her father with a warm smile.

“’Tis me guess the homes in Castlewellan will be missin’ us more than we’ll be missin’ them,” Maureen added. The family laughed, softly and sadly.

Joseph slapped his thighs as if to close the door on regret. “’Tis time for prayer, children.” They each pulled out their corded rosaries and knelt. “Lord, you know the danger we have at our doorstep this very night. We ask that you protect our family and all the families in Dolly’s Brae from whatever evil has been planned. Also, Lord, I would hate to have the earl get me farm. Show us the way. As always, Your will, not mine.”

The following morning, they discovered an anonymous source had warned the authorities of a plan to riot at Dolly’s Brae on July twelfth.
Thus, sufficient troops had been sent to discourage any violence.

“Though the Brits may wish to be of help, I doubt their presence will protect any of the natives from the Orange,” Joseph told his family that night. “We must prepare for the worst.” The word passed quietly to the Ribbonmen that the plan to meet on the hill tomorrow morning would still take place.

The morning dragged, minute by slow and worrisome minute—no work to perform and very little food to prepare. By midday, Joseph roused the family, ordering everyone outside.

“Sitting around is a waste of our time and a friend to our worries. Besides, I heard the flax makes good baking flour.”

Each family member hesitated, concerned but silent. Everyone knew the flax needed two more weeks before it would be fully ready for fine linen. But starvation would not wait two weeks. Flax would be their food source, not their income.

Mary embraced the work, pulling the flowered plants from the stalk up, laying the plants upon straw to dry and then back to the field to pull. Her hands blistered, her shoulders cramped, all her soft muscles rebelled. Yet she was grateful. The activity diverted the heaviness of her heart and relieved the guilt of loving Alec Gracey.

A quarter of the field now pulled was stacked in piles to dry by sundown. Too tired to do much else, the family slept well that night.

It would be the last night…

~ 41 ~

“And if they ever come back again…”

Lord Robert Jocelyn, the third Earl of Roden, clutched an excited hand around his cane. What a beautiful sight this afternoon had brought—the hundreds of Orange led by many musical bands and a company of dragoons, magistrates, and public officials.
Must be ten hundred men or more, more still if women and children are counted.

The moving throng of people below reminded him of bees—bumping and colliding, eagerly doing their part for the protection of the hive. One side of his mouth curled with satisfaction. All he needed to do was provoke the hive, and the unit would swarm and destroy a target.

Warning himself to steady his breathing, Roden inhaled slowly. So close. So very close.
Last year’s humiliation will be vindicated. This year we will not retreat like a pack of cowering dogs to the inferior pagans.
Yet timing must be perfect. He did not want the masses of Orange loyalists sloppy drunk, for that would render them ineffective. Yet they must be inebriated enough to excuse bad behavior.

His smile broadened. Flicking his wrist, he drew the attention of the waiting steward. “I ordered thirty barrels of ale, port, and whiskey for their consumption, and I wish each to be empty by sunset.”

The elderly man bobbed before disappearing. Within minutes, hurried men rolled more wagons onto the field.

A roar began in the middle of the gathering, then spread like a hot wildfire to the farthest region.
Drink, my good fellows…drink until ’tis time to march home again—through Dolly’s Brae.

Except for the betrayal of Alec Gracey, all else went as planned. The earl’s lips compressed. What a disappointment. Not only had Gracey disappeared two days ago, his father refused to surmise where he traveled. A brief growl released a portion of his anger. Once this day was at an end, he would make assurances the Graceys suffered their own demise.

But today, the unfolding victory below was to be savored like a fine cognac.

A roar rose up from the center of the park as the stewards opened yet more barrels. “Hail the Earl of Roden, hero and defender.”

His heart matched the pulsating war cry from his adoring fans. Waving, he now could not contain his smile.
Yes, my simple folk…my little people. You will soon be my defenders…mindless soldiers, obedient puppets armed with guns, swords, pikes, and muskets.

Aligning his expression, he closed his eyes and let giddiness rush all about him. His hands rose higher as he accepted the adulation. Orange flags waved, Orange banners proclaimed dominance, pipes and slurred voices sang anti-Catholic songs. The earl’s finger tapped with the rousing songs.
Aye, sweet revenge is but moments away, waiting and impatient as I.

He checked his pocket watch. Five o’clock. Finally. He inhaled to steady his thudding heart. Now he must light the fires of rebellion, ignite the passion, and send ignorant farmers into a directed frenzy…

Jocelyn walked to the platform and motioned for quiet. The crowd, like a rolling wave, pressed forward. The whisper of the wind was the only sound.

His great, booming voice commanded the attention of the crowd. “My loyal friends of the queen… I bid you welcome to my humble home.” Applause traveled from the front to the back. Quiet returned. “I am anxious to express how grateful I am for the spontaneous and unsolicited visit this day on the occasion of our glorious anniversary.” He paused briefly. Everyone knew the rally was by no means spontaneous or unsolicited, but the earl had to have certain historical words in place…in case.

“The hundreds of loyal men that I see—the waving banners of fifty lodges—how I wish every loyal man could have joined us today.”

The crowd pushed ever closer, hungry to be fed something—something to quench this thirst that had grown all day. Like an artist painting a canvas, Roden knew how to blend fear with blame and victory with persecution. “My fellow Protestants, in the midst of this terrible blight, never forget who brought our nation to this low point and who drinks away our profits and siphons off food. ’Tis time to cleanse this nation of all that has brought it this low.”

The cheering masses, as expected, clamored for revenge, bellowed their hatred. The earl suppressed the urge to dance with joy.
So close…so close.
“We have had much to complain of from the various parties who have ruled the country for these last twenty years. The rowers have brought us into deep water. We have seen heavy blows and great discouragement given to Protestantism. But maintain your loyalty—never forget your motto,
Semper Eadem
, involving the preservation of our rights.”

He stood back, momentarily admiring the effect of the rousing speech. Their hands now raised to fists, their guns now waved in the air.
This year—aye, this year will be so different from last. Even with the ridiculous military and constabulary standing by at Dolly’s Brae, my own spy said he believed they would not stop the marchers.

He chuckled and rubbed his hands together. Raising a cup of whiskey, he bid the crowd to do likewise. “Tonight, we will
not
march around our foe…nay. We will
not
allow Rome to take over our nation. Tonight we travel through the village of Dolly’s Brae and retake our dignity lost by last year’s defeat. In doing so, you are triumphantly and boldly repeating our victorious history of the Battle of Boyne. I command each of you. Do your duty as loyal Protestant men.”

Thunderous stomping and cheering boomed off the walls of the castle and trembled the ground below. He hailed them one final time. The people surged forward. “Aye, and do not molest anyone.” He paused, then roared his final command. “Yet, if you are opposed, in any way, I bid you, oppose force with force.”

Like a great destructive beast, the crowd turned as one and marched straight for Dolly’s Brae.

~ 42 ~

“We’ll give them ten times more.”

Thumping like an evil heart, drums echoed from the hills, closer, closer. Joseph swiped his sweaty hand against his rough muslin shirt, then repositioned his musket. The haunting sounds of screaming pipes shivered his spine.

He watched as soldiers stood to attention, blocking the road used last year to turn the marchers back. Muffled lyrics wafted up the road. He crouched lower. From this distance, the little village seemed wrapped in a hushed wait.

He clamped his jaw as the first bobbing torches, weaving like a slithering orange snake around the bend, passed through the readied British soldiers.

Too many. There were twice as many as last year. Briefly closing his eyes, he estimated his men were outnumbered three to one. At best, his raggedy troops, so ill equipped, might prevent the Orange from damaging crops or buildings.

“They’re coming through Dolly’s Brae,” he called to warn those hidden behind him. Whistling the signal, Joseph watched as torches lit in the semicircle about town. He prayed their bluff of force would work.

Seconds later, well over a thousand men marched up the hill five to six abreast, drums hammering, accompanied by ribald and insulting shouts and songs. They fed each other’s hatred, waving fists, raising their guns.

His stomach twisted; his hand tightened on his musket. Now close enough to see their faces, he knew they were drunk. Stumbling, weaving, they already seemed too uncontrolled. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to St. Michael, the archangel in charge of battling the devil. These men thirsted for the blood of the natives.

Joseph checked his musket once more. He clapped his hands to be heard above the loud shouts of his foe. “Be brave. We are sober. They are not.” As a weary general, he watched the first row of magistrates and leadership wander off the road. Throngs of Protestants now spread out their line, pressing over the road, scattering farther from their path.

The British militia, nervous and uncertain, verbally directed the Orange to stay upon the road. Joseph observed Father Morgan running toward Major Wilkinson, the man in charge of the army. “Please, sir. Don’t ya see what’s happening? Tell them to stay on the road. Keep them from the village.”

Major Wilkinson grumbled to his sergeant, “The Protestants deliberately chose to march through Dolly’s Brae instead of keeping on a good road. With all those weapons, they mean trouble. Order them back to the road.”

Joseph wanted to laugh at the man’s ignorance. The Orange would not go back on the road just because they’d been told to do so. He had tried to warn the major yesterday of the Protestant intent, but he’d scoffed at the warning.

Joseph saw the other priest, Father Mooney, rushing families into their homes while Father Morgan continued pleading with the major. “Please, sirs. Do your jobs and disband the march. Can’t ya tell they are scattering about? They mean us harm.”

One of the soldiers shoved the priest with the butt of his rifle, knocking him to the ground. “Get out of here, pagan idol worshiper, and let us do our job.”

Joseph wanted to slam the man’s face but was distracted from that scene by the toss of a torch that landed atop the thatched roof of a hut. The little roof burst into flames.

Major Wilkinson boomed a warning at the Orange leaders and magistrate. “Not a shot to be fired, gentlemen…move forward…no shooting. No tossing torches either.”

Joseph shouted to his own waiting group, “’Tis coming. Expect the worst but hold your fire and ignore the insults…”

He could see more and more Orange marchers wander farther and farther from the road. The major kept shouting, but the commands were ignored.

“Be ready, men. Be ready…” Joseph shouted, his own breath tightening. Every instinct warned of doom, but he was not sure where the fighting would break out first. “Hold, men. Hold.”