'Sounds like hard work,' I said. He nodded in agreement as he took a drink, smacked his lips, and set the glass down.
'Now where was I? The Lewis gun, aye. One night, we set up outside the RUC station in Downpatrick. We were waiting for a patrol to come back. Didn't have the Lewis gun on that job, it was to be a quick volley with the rifles, and then disappear. It was a good plan but we had no luck that night. The police came on as we thought they would, and we cut them down. What we didn't know was that a column of Black and Tans were on the road behind us, makin' for the station themselves. They heard the gunshots and came on at a run. I took a bullet in the leg. Two other boys were shot dead, the rest got away. I was draggin' myself after them when the bastards got me.'
'Last call,' Tom said from the bar. I waved him off, and waited for Grady to go on.
'They beat me somethin' fierce, which I can understand. They brought a doctor in for my leg, and then I knew I was in deep trouble. They weren't going to kill me, which meant they had somethin' worse in mind. They wanted the arms dump, you know. A British officer came into my cell, and he knew more about us than I thought he would. He knew of the Lewis gun, of course, but he also knew of the arms dump. He didn't know Mick the Master so he must've got that from someone higher up than him. It was the arms dump they wanted.'
'They did that to your hands?'
'That British officer weren't no toff, I'll tell you. He didn't mind some work with pliers. He had me tied to a chair, my hands bound to the arms. Then he pulled the first nail before he even asked a question, just to show me he meant business, so he said.'
He stopped for another drink. The two men left the pub, a cold wind blowing into the room as they opened the door.
'Then he asked me where the arms dump was. I didn't answer, so he went to work on the next finger.' Grady looked at his left hand, and winced at the memory. 'He told me he was doin' me a favor, starting on this hand, so I could save my right hand if I wanted to. I told him the joke was on him, I'm left-handed. We actually laughed, can you believe it? He said I should tell them everything right then, that no one lasted through ten fingers anyway.'
'But you did.'
'Oh, Billy Boyle, it was terrible, I tell you. But there was the Lewis gun, and I couldn't give it up. The rifles, yes, on the second finger I would've taken them there myself. If not for the Lewis gun, I would've told them all. It was hard work on the officer, and as he moved to the other hand, he grew angry. I was screaming bloody murder, and that got him all worked up too. Finally, there was only one thumb left untouched, and the pain was unbearable. He took to smashing each finger after the nail was pulled, and that hurt like the devil and wouldn't stop either. I couldn't help myself. I told them, I gave up the Lewis gun.'
Grady took a drink, one swallow, then another.
'I gave up the Lewis gun. That officer was so mad I hadn't done it sooner that he took the last nail just for spite. To teach me a lesson, he said.'
'I'm sorry,' I said. I didn't know what else to say.
'Well, that weren't the worst of it. The next day they put me in a truck and gathered up some prisoners from other stations, to take us all to some prison or other they had set up. The convoy was ambushed, and the sound of a Lewis gun broke my heart. But I got away in the confusion. I hid out and made contact with one of my cell. But Mick the Master would have none of me. He knew I'd talked, since the Black and Tans had cleared out the arms dump and killed three lads who happened to be there. He drummed me out of the IRA and told me I was lucky he didn't put a bullet in my head.'
'You went through all that, and he kicked you out?'
'That he did. And after the treaty was signed he let it be known what I'd done. I was persona non grata, as they say.'
'He sounds like a son of a bitch.'
'A hard man, aye. Those were hard times, as are these.'
'You don't sound angry,' I said, wishing I'd ordered my own whiskey at last call.
'I was, for a long time. Now I find myself thinking about the Lewis gun most of all. As if maybe it was recompense, for everything I'd done with it, all the lives I took, even though they were Black and Tans for the most part. If I hadn't hung on to it, this wouldn't have happened to my hands. To Mick the Master, ten fingernails or one, it made no difference.'
'What happened to him?'
'He was protreaty, so he joined the new Free Irish State police. The antitreaty IRA ambushed and shot him. It was a bad end for all.'
'You weren't involved in the Civil War?'
'No, it took me a while to recuperate. When I did, I tried to find the antitreaty boys, since I thought all of our own country is what we deserved. But around here, no one wanted me. Mick the Master had poisoned the well, and even his new enemies remembered I'd been the one to give up the Lewis gun. To this very day, there's folks here who won't speak to me.'
'Why didn't you move south, to the Republic?'
'Strange as it may sound, this is home, I couldn't leave. Even with all the bad memories and too damn many Loyalists about. It's not so bad if I keep to myself and do what work comes my way. Ah, but if not for the Lewis gun…'
We sat together for a long time and said nothing else as the echo of Grady's last sentence, uttered with a sigh and a glance at his terrible fingertips, slowly died between us.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
'I'll see Grady home,' Tom said. 'In this state, he'll never make it alone.'
'He hasn't said a word, this half hour,' I said, looking at my watch.
'He told you about the Lewis gun, did he?'
'Yes. Is it true?'
'Too true, lad. It ruined him. And what little spirit it left, Mick the Master finished off. They call him a patriot, but he was a right bastard, I'll tell you. And that comes from one who fought at his side. Grady doesn't tell his story often, but when he does, it leaves the black dog hanging over him.'
'Did you fight against the British or the antitreaty IRA?'
'I fought the English, after fighting with them against the Turks. But after that I couldn't bring myself to shoot down my mates in the IRA. When they partitioned the north, I put my rifle down and settled for life as I found it. Grady never could. Couldn't leave, and most folks here wouldn't forgive. The three boys the Black and Tans killed were all local, all well liked.'
'It's easy to judge a man, isn't it? Makes people feel so good.' I rubbed my eyes, the weariness of the day, or the smoky peat, almost forcing me to weep.
'Aye. Come, Billy, my new friend. One for the road, on the house,' Tom said, placing a plain bottle on the bar, along with two glasses. 'Local brew this is-poteen, we call it. Whiskey with the taste of the land in it. Blood and rain is what I call it.'
'Blood and rain,' I said, as we clinked our glasses. The whiskey smelled like damp earth and oak leaves, a little musty and sharp tasting on my tongue. It burned my throat and warmed my stomach.
'What do you think?' Tom asked, corking the bottle.
'I think it's the best thing I ever tasted, and Ireland is nothing like I ever imagined.'
'Aye. I imagine I'd feel the same if I went to America. I'd expect gangsters, cowboys, and Indians on every corner. Now I've got to close this place. Help me get Grady into the cart, while I hitch up me horse.'
Grady went with us like an obedient child, and I helped him onto the small two-wheeled cart as Tom put a sturdy bog pony into the harness, leading him from a lean-to shelter. When he was done, Tom climbed onto the cart and gathered up the reins, nodding good night to me. Grady stirred a bit, as if suddenly awakened.
'Mind how you go now,' he said, and then his chin slumped to his chest. I slapped the pony on its rump, and the cart clattered off, the sound of hooves and wooden wheels on hardpack filling the damp night air. Soon they
