the language? Was this a place reserved only for Catholics of substance?
He sat by one headstone whose inscription was too recent to have undergone any weathering.
What, he wondered, had connected those two deaths in the same month of the same year? Had Tim McCarthy, his wife having predeceased him, died of sorrow at losing his son? Had some contagion been responsible? Or was it more sinister? Could they have been killed in skirmishes with the militia?
But curiosity as to how they had come to die was only part of what intrigued him about the stone. More engaging was the simple diminutive ‘Tim’. He felt sure he would not have seen its like in an English churchyard: even if Tim had been the lifelong familiar, in death he would have been Timothy. The warmth in that cherished rendering ‘Tim McCarthy’, and the union in death with his spouse, brought to mind Genesis: ‘There was Abraham buried, and Sarah his wife.’ Here was a special place. These McCarthys were not simply of the past but of a country he did not know. He felt so at peace that he might have lain down in the sun and been put to sleep by the distant cawing of the rooks and the gentle whistle of the wind, had he not thought better of leaving Harkaway to gorge on the rich green grass. Instead he left repose within the walls to the departed, and put an end to his bay’s feasting. As he refastened the bit, tightened the girth and then remounted, he resolved to return soon. And next time he would be in no hurry to leave the walls which had once enclosed so many devout men, and which now provided shelter for the last remains of so many beloved fathers, mothers, children.
Half a mile on down the road — though
A bolting horse, terrified by blazing hay which stays with him no matter how fast he gallops, has a prodigious turn of speed and endurance, even taking account of his cobby make and the load he pulls, and it was all that Hervey could do to press an already tired Harkaway into a gallop fast enough to begin making ground. It was three hundred, perhaps even four hundred yards before he was able to close with the deranged animal, but his difficulties had only thus begun as Harkaway himself began shying at the blazing hay. Hervey used all the leg he could to press his gelding closer to the other horse, and even drew his sword to lay behind the girth, yet it was only after several attempts to lean out (during one of which they almost fell as Harkaway missed his footing) that he was at last able to seize hold of the bridle. With all his weight now braced in the stirrups he heaved on it for all he was worth, but still he could not get the cob to pull up. In desperation he was about to leap on to the runaway’s back to try to clap his hands over its eyes (something he had known to bring even an artillery team to a halt) when he saw the river ahead, and the ford with its entry and exit cut into steep banks.
Hervey would never know whether he steered them into the ford or whether that was the way the runaway had determined on, but they plunged in and he now dropped his reins to pull on the cob’s bridle with both hands, trusting to his legs alone to turn Harkaway sharply up against the bank downstream of the exit — a bold gamble on a well-schooled horse, let alone a green one. As he had further gambled, the bank was too steep to jump — though the runaway attempted to, rearing between the shafts as burning hay fell around. But all forward movement had now ceased and Hervey sprang from the saddle in order to separate cob from cart. Holding on desperately to its reins, he used his sword to slice through the straps which held the yoke in place. As he cut through the last one he let the reins go and the still-terrified animal lunged from the shafts, leaped the bank and bolted again. Hervey cursed furiously, and, though he had burned his hands, he vaulted back into the saddle (his bay having stood quite still throughout not ten yards away drinking from the stream) and took off again after the runaway. For a common horse it would give a blood a good run over this distance, he rued, and it took him another half-mile to catch it and bring it to a halt.
They trotted back to the village in a lather, each exhausted. They gave the waggon a wide berth, for all its timbers were now fiercely ablaze, and were met at the edge of the settlement by the crowd of villagers who had alerted him to the distress and who had then watched his dramatic intervention. They were barefooted and looked pulled down. But, more than that, they were silent and unsmiling.
One old man, though how old it was difficult to tell, in thick tweed trousers and rough flannel shirt, stepped forward to take what was left of the runaway’s reins. ‘Buiochas le Dia! Go raibh mile maith agat, a nasail!’
The words meant nothing to Hervey, but the sense was clear enough. He had little idea how much the villagers had seen, but the return of the horse was probably cause enough for gratitude, whether or not its value was less than O’Begley’s five pounds. As he dismounted, those nearest stepped back, the reason for which he could not judge — mere apprehensiveness he suspected. His overalls were thoroughly soaked and his face was black, but it was the backs of his hands, beginning to blister, that were the object of the older man’s attention.
‘Are ye by yerself, sor?’
For a moment he hesitated, wondering whether to draw his sword.
‘I mean, sor, them hands — they’ll be needing seeing to.’
An old woman, black shawl over her head in spite of the heat of the afternoon, stepped forward and took hold of one of them, examining the burns.
‘Tar liomsa noimead,’ she said, beckoning him through the crowd, which parted to let her lead him and Harkaway towards one of the turf-roofed cottages. She motioned him to enter, and he had but an instant to decide whether or not to risk handing over Harkaway, pistols and all, to the boy who had followed them. It was, said his instincts, a moment for trust.
The old man came in after him. ‘Fior cinn failte,’ he said quietly with a bow of the head, indicating a chair near a window which, with the door, was the sole source of light for the room.
‘My father says you are welcome.’
Hervey looked round to see a much younger woman — little more than a girl — standing in the doorway. Her hair was copper-red and as thick as a blackthorn bush. Even in the poor light he could see that her looks and complexion would have been the envy of many a fashionable in St James’s.
‘Caithlin, where is the balsam?’
‘In the stone jar beside the yeast, Mother. I’ll get it,’ replied the girl. Turning to Hervey she smiled. ‘You see, we speak English perfectly well. It is by choice that we speak Gaeilge, though.’
The old woman relinquished the task to her daughter and sat down in a chair near the smoking fire to stir a pot simmering away gently. Hervey now felt it time to say something — anything — for here seemed the very opportunity he had been seeking.
‘I am Lieutenant Hervey of the Sixth Light Dragoons, in Cork,’ he offered.
‘And I am Michael O’Mahoney, sor, and right grateful for saving my horse. This is my wife Brigid and my daughter Caithlin.’
Caithlin O’Mahoney, now crouching at Hervey’s side and smoothing the balsam on his hands, looked up and
