Chapter One Hundred And Fifteen
Ashes On The Wind
When, in the aftermath of the explosion at the Shelbourne Hotel, Mary had played her formidable part in rescuing Tom from the clutches of constables of the Dublin Metropolitan Police, she had seen fit to lay claim to the fact that her father and Viscount French, the Lord Lieutenant of Ireland were well acquainted. At the time she had not known whether or not this was indeed true; in fact it was not, but now, in February 1920, unbeknownst to Mary and the rest of the family, including Tom and Sybil, matters in this regard had somewhat changed.
For, in the face of worsening disorder in Ireland, in the aftermath of the IRA's attempted assassination of French in December 1919, among many others in the British Establishment, the earl of Grantham had written to the Lord Lieutenant urging the latter to take a stronger line, including the imposition of martial law, the use of volunteers from Ulster to help in policing the south of the country and even the burning of the homes of known republican sympathisers. As events were shortly to prove, Robert's unwise foray into the problems of Ireland was to lead to him being hoisted by his own petard.
Now whether the earl of Grantham's motive in writing to Viscount French had indeed been prompted by a genuine concern for what was unfolding across the sea in Ireland, or rather by Robert's continuing chagrin over the marriage of his youngest daughter to a certain Irish republican journalist, only Robert himself ever knew. But, whatever the truth of the matter, the writing of the letter displayed a marked wont of prudence upon his part and while it was, of course, but one of many received at the Vice Regal Lodge in Phoenix Park on the north side of Dublin, and might well have been overlooked or even passed over, whether by carelessness, or as a result of an informer working for the IRA within the heart of the British Administration in Dublin Castle, the contents of Robert's letter became known to a wider and much more partisan audience than its writer would ever have imagined; and the long suspected family link between the earl of Grantham and a certain up and coming journalist working for the Irish Independent duly reached the ears of senior commanders in the republican fraternity in Dublin.
The Crawleys knew the broad swathe of deciduous trees situated on the far western edge of the parkland that surrounded Downton Abbey, as Lower Wood. This particular plantation marked where the estate began to rise ever upwards from the park towards the lofty summit of Holme Hill some 1,500 feet in height, surmounted by the earthworks of Bury Banks, the Iron Age hill-fort, which dominated both the Downton Abbey estate and the surrounding landscape.
Of all the nocturnal wild animals, which inhabited Lower Wood, which bordered the large meadow attached to Home Farm, none was more instantly recognisable to the five children of the farm, than old Tommy Brock. With his black and white striped mask, his short, fat, brindle-coated furry body, and his stubby legs, he was not only the quintessential badger, but also the oldest and wiliest of his species, which inhabited the numerous setts in Lower Wood. What marked Tommy out from others of his kind was a slightly drooping left ear. This was the legacy of a chance encounter with a young fox, which seeking to escape the unwelcome attentions of members of the York and Ainsty Hunt had sought shelter in a badger sett which he took to be unoccupied.
Had the young fox not been in full flight, he would surely have realised from the fresh droppings and old straw bedding outside the entrance to the badger sett that it was very much in use. Moreover, unfortunately, for the hunted fox, Tommy Brock was watching over two young cubs, whose parents were out foraging. For his part, Tommy was taking no chances with the safety of the cubs. That apart, he did not take kindly to the presence of the intruder or in having his well-earned rest disturbed, and in the confined space and cloying darkness of an earth tunnel far below ground, a short fierce tussle ensued. While this saw off the fox, it left Tommy with various superficial bites and scratches and lasting damage to his left ear. This was never quite the same again afterwards even after it had healed and which, as the years passed, developed a slight droop.
Of course, Tommy was singularly unaware of his name. The eldest of the brood of children from Home Farm, ten-year-old Harry Claybourn, had bestowed this upon him and all because of another chance, albeit peaceful, encounter.
Young Harry had gone out with his father to check on the rabbit snares set near the extensive burrows in the lower reaches of the wood and it was while so doing that a couple of years back, towards the end of the war, he had first caught sight of the old badger one winter's evening.
At the time, Harry had just finished reading "The Tale of Mr. Tod" by Beatrix Potter, having been given the book by Lady Edith when the old nursery up at the Big House had been cleared out. So on seeing the old badger shambling towards him in the lengthening shadows along the pale ribbon of the track beneath the dark sentinels of the tall trees, it was inevitable that young Harry would immediately christen him after the badger in the charming tale written by Miss Potter. Thereafter as the seasons came and went, Harry was delighted whenever it was that he chanced to encounter old Tommy padding through Lower Wood.
Unlike many of his kind, Tommy was a solitary creature and rather than settle and make a lasting home in but one of the extensive setts deep within Lower Wood, he preferred to travel between several and hole up in whichever took his particular fancy. Those of his species which inhabited the setts on a rather more permanent basis duly welcomed the old badger into their midst as one of their own as and when he happened to appear in need of lodgings whether for the night or for a lengthier stay. His compatriots all knew of Tommy's spirited defence of the two cubs and his resultant tussle with the fox, so in the collective view of the Lower Wood badger community old Tommy had earned the right to lay safe and snug underground wherever he chose, while up above him the seasons ran their round.
On this particular night late in February 1920, as usual Tommy was minding his own business, ambling slowly and peacefully along one of the narrow tracks that he knew so well, and which wound beneath the bare arching canopy formed by the skeletal branches of the trees in Lower Wood.
Tonight, as indeed on most nights about this particular time, Tommy was thinking of nothing other than a late supper of earthworms and acorns. Despite the harsh over-night frosts of the last few days, Tommy knew where he would find a plentiful supply of his preferred delicacies, hidden deep below a bank of dried leaves, which over the years had gathered in abundance beneath the grove of oak trees, which marked the entrance to the plantation from the meadow belonging to the Home Farm.
The Downton brook shone silver in the fitful moonlight, and having waddled through its cold, shallow waters, Tommy padded slowly down the final short slope into the grove of oaks on the very edge of the wood. It was at this point that Tommy paused, cocked up his one good ear and sniffed the cold night air several times with his sensitive snout. His keen senses registered the fact that something was not quite, as it should be.
Tommy continued to sniff.
Yes, he recognised that particular tang. After all, he had smelt it several times before, most recently at the end of last summer when one of the hayricks in the yard at Home Farm caught fire - the acrid stench of burning and of smoke. The noises he heard now he had also heard previously - the crackle and roar of flames, the frightened shouts of men and women, and the furious clanging and ringing of bells. However, tonight those same noises were much louder; almost deafening in their intensity.
It was then that Tommy heard other noises closer at hand, of two male voices, of hob-nailed boots on the hard surface of the track, and shortly thereafter smelt an odour, which he had come across but once before. The latter Tommy associated with the noisy machines, which passed back and forth along the wider track on the far side of the wood and which, caused the old badger to shuffle off into the safety of a thick covert of brambles.
The two young Irishmen, their caps pulled low, their dark workday clothes splashed with paraffin stains, passed quickly by on the narrow track, completely oblivious to old Tommy hidden nearby in the dense undergrowth.
"Not far now" said one, shouldering his pack.
"What's that you say Jimmy?"
"I said not far now. To the place we left the lorry".
"I hope you be roight, Seamus", said the other. "Time we wrapped and run!"
He glanced back over his shoulder through the trees to where the abbey blazed furiously in an inferno of red and orange flame, and laughed.
"May the devil bless 'em!" In his eagerness to curse, Jimmy all but sprawled headlong over a tree root.
"Damn these blasted bunnans!"
"Whisht!" cautioned Seamus.
Sometime after the two Irishmen had disappeared off down the moonlit track, into the depths of the wood, Tommy ventured cautiously out of the bramble thicket. By now a slight breeze had risen. On the edge of the thicket, Tommy paused and sniffed the air. As he did so, something soft landed gently and unbidden on the tip of his snout. Startled, Tommy shook his head, and glancing up, saw that the sky was now filled with a mass of swirling grey and white flakes, looking very much like the snow which had fallen here heavily earlier in the year; only these things, whatever they were, were certainly not snowflakes.
Tommy probed the queer stuff with the tip of his snout, saw it crumble into nothing at his touch. No, it was definitely not snow: that was cold and wet. This stuff, whatever it was, was dry. As Tommy watched, the queer, feathery motes continued to drift ever downwards towards him from out of the velvet darkness of the night sky, landing softly, silently, without a sound, on the ground, and coating the floor of the wood. Shaking his head in puzzlement, but now satisfied that whatever they were, they posed no threat to himself, Tommy resumed his interrupted journey and ambled down into the grove of oak trees. Once there he busied himself rooting about in the leaf mould, completely oblivious as to the drama now unfolding away across the broad expanse of the meadow, beyond the buildings of Home Farm.