Jenkins said, leaning forward and pointing his finger at me, 'That's a different matter. Mahoney came north lookin' for trouble. If he'd stayed at home and minded his own business, he'd be alive still. But he didn't, and paid the price. I don't know who killed him but you can't tell me an IRA man didn't deserve such an end.'
He relaxed back into his chair. 'Now, mind you, I only say these things about your sergeant as pure conjecture. How I would have approached it, if it were my problem.'
'I can't argue with you about Mahoney; he knew the chances he was taking,' I said. I stuck my feet out in front of me, letting the heat from the stove warm my boots. 'I came here from Brownlow House. Is it true that the Royal Black Knights have their headquarters there?'
'The Royal Black Knights of the British Commonwealth,' Jenkins said stiffly. 'That's no secret. Yes, they do.'
'Are you a member?'
'No, I never bothered with it. I'm a member of an Orange Lodge, no need for another meeting to go to. The Black Knights is more for businessmen who wear a suit and tie, if you get my meaning. Mud on your shoes doesn't set well with that bunch. The manager of my bank, he's one,' he said, crooking his thumb at the canvas Northern Bank bag.
'You also have to be purer than pure, don't you?'
'Aye, no connections with the Roman church, none atallatall. What do you want with the Royal Black Knights?'
'Nothing, just curious,' I said. 'Do you have any ideas about who stole the weapons from Ballykinler?'
'Why the IRA, of course. Who else?'
There was a knock at the door and Frances entered with a tray that held a pot of tea and two enamel cups in which dark tea steamed. She set the tray down on a small table between us and left without a word. We both added sugar.
'Ach, that's good,' Jenkins said, smacking his lips. 'Now tell me, who else but the Fenians would have stolen them guns?'
'I meant names; do you know any names?'
'I'm not one to hang about with IRA sympathizers. I wouldn't know the name of any of that rabble.'
'You've heard of Red Jack Taggart?'
'Old Red Jack? Sure, his name is well known, bloody Bolshevik that he is. Or was, some say. They say he saw too many comrades put up against the wall for thinkin' different than the party line. What makes you bring up his name?'
'Because I saw him the other day, firing a BAR at me. He killed another American.'
'So Red Jack's come north, has he then? Well, there's a name to put to that theft and killing.' He slurped his tea.
'Not that you know much about the IRA,' I said with sarcasm.
'You can't help but pick up a few things here and there,' Jenkins said. 'I go all over Ulster making pickups and deliveries. A man hears things.'
'I know what you mean. Like I heard that Heck may want to look at your books.'
'Yes, exactly! Not that my books aren't all in order but I do appreciate knowing when the police may come calling, so we can put the kettle on, you know.'
'Wet the tea,' I said.
'Now you're learning, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle. Not bad for a papist Boston Irish Yank.'
'I'll take that as a compliment.'
'You should take it as a warning too, boy. A friendly warning. There's them who would not be so welcoming. You Americans from Boston forget where you came from. Those of us who have stayed have not lost our memories. Memories that go back hundreds of years.'
'We're all on the same side in this war, aren't we?'
'You've a lot to learn. There's half a dozen sides to every question asked in Ulster, and don't forget it. Now drink your tea. I'm sure Frances didn't spit in your cup.'
He grinned but I wasn't so sure and I held my hands around the cup for warmth and watched the dark, steaming tea for signs of Frances.
'Who told you I was coming?' I asked.
'Oh, I hear things. I heard a new Yank was nosing around looking for them guns, and his name was Boyle. That was the real news, that the Yanks sent a man with a name like Boyle. A Catholic.' He pronounced it cat-o- lick.
'It takes a thief to catch a thief,' I said, echoing what I'd already been told.
'That's a big pack of thieves you're after. You may need some help.'
'If you hear anything about the weapons or Red Jack, I'd appreciate a word.'
'Why would I do that?'
'Because I warned you about Heck. Because fifty BARs in the hands of the IRA is a lot of firepower, and I doubt the stout defenders of the faith, good Protestant lads that they are, can stand up to that.'
'Good reasons, them. All right, if I hear anything, I'll let you know. Just keep it quiet, where you got it from.'
'You can reach me-'
'I know where to find you, Mr. Lieutenant Boyle, any time of the day or night, don't you worry.' He sipped his tea and stared at me with unblinking eyes. I didn't want to match that look; I don't think I could have. I set the tea down and held my hands out to the fire, close to the heat, as I felt the weight of centuries of hate bearing down on me. The hearty, friendly businessman's facade had cracked and in those dark, hooded eyes I saw the depths of the gulf that separated us. I saw my ancient enemy whom I'd been taught to fear, fight, and hate. It brought to mind a poem recited by a nun in religious class, an Irish poem she'd read with joy, about the differences between Irish Catholics and Protestants. I only remembered one line: The faith of Christ with the faith of Luther is like ashes in the snow.
I was now certain Frances had spat in my tea.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Jenkins and I left together, he to drive to the bank to make a deposit and me to get back to Newcastle. It was slow going; the narrow roads were wet and crowded. Military convoys choked them, truckloads of GIs going to or from maneuvers, crammed shoulder to shoulder, heads bowed under their steel pots. They all looked alike in their sodden uniforms, faces hardly visible between turned-up collars and helmets canted against the rain blowing into the canvas-covered trucks.
This was how some generals saw them, squads and platoons of soldiers, a percentage certain to be casualties, all of them ready to be sacrificed for a promotion, none of them with a name or a face to remember in your dreams. Maybe that was why they made us march in step. It made it impossible for the individual to stand out. I'd seen plenty like that. General Fredendall in North Africa, who commanded II Corps and had his engineers dig underground shelters for his HQ seventy miles from the front. Uncle Ike blew his lid when he heard about that, and not long after sent George Patton to relieve him. I'd also had occasion to meet up with General Mark Clark a few times. He was the genius who decided there wouldn't be any bombardment at Salerno. Plenty of faceless GIs, including Brennan's pals, died because of it. But General Mark Clark was still there, spending as much time as ever making sure every press release 5th Army put out had his name alone on it. GIs had started to call him Markus Clarkus for his desire to take Rome, not so much from the Germans as before the British.
There were plenty of fine senior officers, men like Colonel Jim Gavin, whom I'd seen up close in Sicily, weeping over the graves of his men after the stand at Biazza Ridge. And Uncle Ike himself. I didn't know anyone who agonized more over the price in lives this war had claimed, and who shouldered a heavier burden, short of a dogface with a fully loaded combat pack under fire. So why was I so hard on him? Thousands of miles from home, under the twin pressures of politics and death, what was wrong with enjoying a little affection? Kay worshipped him, and she knew what the deal was, I hoped. I couldn't see him ever leaving his wife. Kay had to know this was
