Chapter Twenty One
Magneto Or Battery?
So, at the final tally, one of his own men - a married man with two small children - killed outright, and two others, one of them his own ruddy driver to boot, seriously wounded. Four of the damned "Volunteers" - Christ, the bloody bastards even had the nerve to call themselves the Irish Republican Army - shot dead.
Another was under guard in the back of one of the lorries. Of course, he'd heard the screams, pleading for them to stop; couldn't fail to. Well the little bastard could beg all he liked; it was too damned late for that. Stathum didn't blame his men for what they'd done and wouldn't begrudge them their bit of fun; after all, Maxwell had been a popular sergeant. So if his lads hadn't been exactly gentle when they'd caught the little bastard, it was hardly surprising. No more than sixteen or thereabouts and begging for his mammy, for his bloody beads, or so had said his corporal.
As for those of the bastards who'd got away from the fracas, well they were being sought for by his men; house to house "searches" the army termed them. The Shinners couldn't ... he paused. Wouldn't be that far away; must, he reasoned, be local to the neighbourhood. Well, so be it. He'd told his own chaps not to be too squeamish in their pursuit of the bastards! Break a few sticks of furniture; break a few bones if they had to! We shot the ring leaders of their so-called "Rising" back in '16. If I had my way, thought Stathum, I'd do the same with these bastards now. And the sodding rest of them too! Hang the consequences. And the bloody Shinners too! Show everyone over here that we mean business.
Stathum drew heavily on his cigarette, exhaled deeply, and then angrily ground the stub into the dirt with the heel of his boot. Reaching inside his tunic for his monogrammed silver cigarette case, he pulled it out, snapped it open, and extracted another cigarette. Replacing the case, while he fumbled in his pockets for his lighter, he let his thoughts drift back; then wished he hadn't.
The boy.
Stathum had to admit that what he'd seen after following his corporal over to the farm and entering the yard had made him feel physically sick; so it wasn't surprising that he'd seen one of his own men vomit up his own guts over by a hayrick.
The only thing … the only single, sodding thing that had made this evening's whole flaming business slightly more bearable than otherwise it might have been was meeting a kindred spirit; in the unlikeliest of places - here in the middle of nowhere on a quiet country lane six or so miles north east of Dublin...
"So what do you think of her then?" had asked Stathum. Ever since he was a small boy, when his father had bought one of the first motors in Lavenham back in '07, an Austin, a great beast of a thing with a 30hp engine, he'd been mad about motors.
"She weighs in at about 37 cwt. And very reliable too. Unless ..." Stathum paused. The young man eyed him curiously.
"Unless what?"
"Well, unless some bloody, flaming Shinners decide to take pot shots at her! You've seen the state of the bloody radiator? Christ, man! It looks like a flaming sieve!"
The young man nodded his assent.
"That I have" he observed ruefully. "Mind you, the Morris is in a far worse state!"
Stathum nodded glanced over at the other motor, then flicked open his cigarette case again, offered a smoke.
The young man shook his head.
"Thanks, but I don't. As for the radiator, well, I'll tell you now, it'll take more than a couple of bullet holes to do any real damage. And anyway, those can be plugged easily enough; the bodywork made as good as new. Mind you ..." He eyed the shattered glass. "The windshield and one of the headlamps will need replacing".
Stathum nodded.
"My driver can take care of all of that, when he's recovered".
"What kind of ignition?"
"Eh?"
"Ignition. What kind?"
"Magneto".
His compatriot nodded.
"And yours?"
"The same". The young man paused. "Mind you, battery powered ignition is much more reliable. Kettering won a Dewar Trophy for that back in '13. Mark my words, that'll become standard in no time and an end to all of this bloody crank starting".
"Can't come soon enough" observed Stathum.
"What's the compression?"
"Ratio of 4:1 or thereabouts".
"That would make sense. And a stroke of say what? 5 inches?"
"5½ actually. The bore's 4 inches".
"What about the lubrication?"
"Pressure".
"And you said four speed right hand change gears?"
Stathum nodded.
"A cone clutch and torque tube drive shaft?" asked the other.
"Yes, with worm and quadrant steering. The suspension is elliptic ".
"And the brakes? What, pedal for the front wheels and lever for the rear?"
"Exactly so".
"She's an impressive motor. A real thoroughbred".
Stathum nodded, unable to conceal how impressed he was by the young man's obvious knowledge of motors.
"You're a bit of a thoroughbred yourself!"
"I rather think some would say I'm more of a mongrel!" The young man smiled; the same endearing lop-sided grin.
"Well, don't let that ever bother you. When it comes to motors, you certainly know your stuff" laughed Stathum.
"What's she like on petrol consumption?"
"About 13-15 miles a gallon". 18 gallon tank. A good turn of speed too. Top's about 55 mph" added Stathum with a grin.
The other man ran his hand almost lovingly over the smooth, metallic surface of the motor.
"55mph? I could only ever manage 40 with mine at most. That … that was with my foot hard down on the floor. Not that I really got much chance to do it mind. Short trips you know. Down to the station, into the village, occasionally a bit further afield, over to town. And that apart, the old girl didn't like it!"
"The motor or your passenger?"
"Passenger" said his compatriot with his cheeky, lop-sided grin. "Well one of them. An old lady" he added by way of explanation. He paused, glanced over in the direction of one of the army lorries, then smiled broadly. "But her grand-daughter ... she really likes a good turn of speed!"
Stathum himself grinned. He nodded in the direction of the young dark haired woman helping, he observed, to tend to the injured on both sides of this evening's fracas.
"A nurse I think you said?"
The young man nodded.
"Marvellous girl. Very pretty if you don't mind me saying so".
The young man grinned, flushed red.
"I don't. And yes, she's a nurse".
"Your wife?"
"Well, actually, she's my fiancée. We're getting married on Saturday".
"My very warmest congratulations. I owe her my thanks on behalf of my men. Will you introduce me to her?"
The young man nodded.
"All right" he said shyly.
The two men walked slowly over to the nearest of the two lorries.
"By the way, what did you say your name was again?"
"I didn't, but since you ask, it's Branson. Tom Branson".
The two men had now reached the nearest of the two lorries. On hearing their approach, at the very last moment, the young dark haired woman left off what she was doing, turned, smiled, and stood up.
"And this, this is my fiancée. Darling may I ..."
A pair of dark brown eyes gazed down into blue.
"My God!" exclaimed Stathum "Sybil!"