Chapter One Hundred And Forty Five
Retribution
Cork, 8.30am, Sunday 2nd January 1921.
Although more than a fortnight had now passed since the destruction wrought here in the centre of the city both by the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries, the acrid stench of burning still hung heavy in the frosty air. Nonetheless, despite an overwhelming military presence, with troops out in force and manning the numerous military checkpoints, in some parts of the devastated, looted city, some semblance of normality had returned with those shops that could having re-opened, the trams were running once again and pedestrians, horse drawn vehicles and motors were back in evidence on the streets.
Of course, many Corkonians still could not believe that only a couple of weeks had elapsed since their fine city, which many, with some degree of justification too, regarded as the true capital of all Ireland, had ceased to be as they had known it. With its two cathedrals, one Catholic one Protestant, the latter dedicated to St. Finbarr down on Bishop Street being especially magnificent, its many chapels and churches likewise serving a whole clutch of religious denominations, the English Market with its numerous stalls selling all kinds of produce, the fine sweep of shops lining both St. Patrick's Street and George's Street, the Imperial, the Metropole and the Victoria, hotels which boasted every available modern amenity and convenience, the imposing civic buildings such as the Carnegie Library, the City Hall and the Opera House, its electric trams and its railway stations (there were no less than five of those) its public gardens such as Fitzgerald Park and the Mardyke, its busy quays and wharves: Morrisons, Popes and Union to name but a handful and its prosperous streets lined with fine town houses, the citizens of Cork had every right to be proud of what they, by dint of their own labours had both achieved and created here in their city standing proudly on the banks of the River Lee.
Even with the violence now engulfing the country, there was no reason to expect that anything here in Cork would ever really change. Until that was when on 11th December 1920, in one single night of burning and destruction and an orgy of looting by British auxiliary forces, everything did change, irrevocably so, to the extent that it was difficult to comprehend that things had ever been other than as they were now. Not that for a single instant anyone here believed Sir Hamar Greenwood Chief Secretary for Ireland who was loudly insisting that both Sinn Féin and the people of Cork were those who were responsible for the destruction of their own city and steadfastly refusing the rising clamour for an impartial inquiry into what had taken place.
Yet, on this bright Sunday morning, with the bells of the cathedrals and churches already ringing out over Cork, none of what had befallen the stricken city was of the slightest concern to the young man now making his way along Albert Quay beside the south channel of the river, his cap pulled down, his hands thrust deep inside the pockets of his new trousers, having just arrived here in Cork on the early train from Skerries Road, with a distinctly propreitorial air, young Fergal strode purposefully on along the quayside towards the Parnell Bridge.
The trousers had been an unexpected Christmas present from Miss Maeve, who had also sent him the price of his railway ticket into town and asked him to tea this afternoon at her fine house over on North Mall. She had something else to tell him or so her letter had said. What that was, Fergal could not begin to imagine. Still, that would have to keep. This morning he had another appointment to keep and it was that which had brought him into Cork early on this bright January morning.
His way into the city took him directly past what until a couple of weeks ago had been the City Hall and the nearby Carnegie Library; both now blackened and burnt out. On the pavement beside the ruins of City Hall, as indeed elsewhere in the city, a group of citizens had gathered yet again to view and to bemoan the wanton destruction that had occurred here.
However, if for Cork and its citizens the world had been turned upside down, just a week or so ago so too had it been for Fergal; in fact, ever since just before Christmas when he had received that first letter from Miss Maeve enclosing money for his railway fare and asking him to meet her for tea at her fine house on North Mall and where she had given him his unexpected new pair of trousers.
What she had then told him had come as a complete surprise; that the journalist, her cousin, who had inherited the estate at Skerries was now dead, having been killed during the burning of the city. Not that Miss Maeve seemed unduly concerned by what had happened, either to Cork or to her cousin; indeed, far from it. Very soon she herself would be returning to live up at the Big House. Miss Maeve had something else to tell him too, but that she said would keep until the New Year when he came here again to the house on North Mall. Would he like to come here again? And when Fergal, eyeing the last piece of fruit cake had nodded his head and readily assented, a date had been duly agreed, though what it was she wanted to tell him, why she could not tell him then and there, Fergal could not begin to imagine.
A little further on along the quay, having like many others been stopped and searched at the British army checkpoint, Fergal made his way on foot across the Parnell Bridge. Once over the bridge, Fergal turned left and headed down the broad thoroughfare that was South Mall, lined on either side with its fine town houses and towards the imposing bulk of the Imperial Hotel which stood at the corner of Pembroke Street. Drawing level with the hotel, on the other side of the street a dark haired man waved his newspaper at Fergal, who crossed the street and disappeared into the doorway by which his compatriot had been standing, close to the side entrance of the Imperial on Pembroke Street.
Unaffordable by the likes of Tom and Sybil Branson, the four storey, ashlar and stucco clad Imperial on South Mall was Cork's finest hotel and much favoured by officers in the British army.
On this chill, cold Sunday morning, ensconced in a warm, luxuriously appointed fourth floor bedroom at the front of the building overlooking the street, naked apart from the white towel around his waist, a man reclined comfortably at his ease on the double bed. Smoke from his cigarette spiralled up into the air while from outside came the familiar sounds of the motors and the trams moving slowly along the street below.
A new year and life was exceedingly good; the more so after receiving a verbal report of what was to happen later tonight, out at Allihies on the lonely, windswept Beara Peninsula. The news had been exactly what he wanted to hear, but for the moment that would keep. A late breakfast, then luncheon here at the hotel. There was, Miles understood, a rum little club which had opened just off North Main Street. Perhaps they would go there this evening.
The door from the adjoining bathroom now opened and, clad in a brightly coloured, silk kimono tied loosly at the waist so that the, towelling her damp tresses of red gold hair, radiant, glowing with health, her skin rosy from her bath, Maeve came into the bedroom.
"You look beautiful. Come here".
Seeing Miles sprawled at his ease on the bed, his eyes dancing with mirth, Maeve smiled, but made no immediate to join him on the bed. Then, eventually when he repeated his summons, she moved slowly across the carpeted room, stood before him, waited while he rose and drew her into his arms; yielded passively to his embrace while he stroked her hair and explored her mouth with his tongue.
As Miles lowered her onto the bed, Maeve met his eyes for the first time; saw that he was amused by her affectation of indifference. Well, thought Miles, given time that would all change. That too was another debt to be charged to Tom Branson. Not that Maeve even seemed to recall how all those years ago she had rebuffed Miles's advances. Not that then he had been much older than Branson himself, but that Maeve should have given herself so freely to her young cousin while denying herself to Miles, that had rankled and festered which was why he had joined in with the thrashing Branson's cousins had given him. Anyway, all things now being equal he had the last laugh. Miles smiled and captured Maeve's mouth with his own.
A moment later and there came a knock at the door.
"Ah! Breakfast, at last".
"Now, do like I told yous and you'll not get hurt. Understand?"
In the darkened corridor on the top floor of the Imperial Hotel, just opposite the door of the linen room, the young waiter nodded his head and Rory Donovan at last released his hand from across the mouth of the terrified youngster. The waiter glanced nervously again at the group of men lurking in the shadows, among them a lad who look not much older than himself and just as scared. The palms of Fergal's hands were damp and sticky; the inside of his mouth curiously dry; seeing the waiter looking at him, Fergal downcast his eyes and averted the other's all too incisive gaze.
With faltering steps, pushing his loaded breakfast trolley in front of him, the waiter set off slowly down the corridor. Halfway along it, he stopped and rapped tentavively on a door on the left.
"Yes? What is it?" barked an impatient voice from within.
The boy somehow managed to stammer out a reply.
"B... breakfast, sir".
"Very well. Come in!" barked the gruff voice.
The frightened boy now nodded his head at the group of men just behind him in the corridor and then moved on to the next bedroom along where once again the young waiter rapped on the door, this time a little more smartly.
"Breakfast, sir".
"About time! The door's unlocked".
Glancing nervously at the group of men, again the waiter nodded his head. By now they had split into two groups, were silently positioning themselves in equal number at each of the doors on which the young waiter had knocked. As they were doing so, shoving his trolley to one side, causing china and cutlery to crash to the floor, the boy took to his heels and fled down the corridor; at which point one of the men quickly toook aim with his Webley. Just as deftly, Donovan deflected the barrel of the revolver with his hand and shook his head.
"Let him go, Damien. He's just a lad. Where the feck's Johnny got to?"
"Back along there; throwing his feckin' guts up in the jacks". Kieran hawked and spat derisively on the polished floor in disgust; jabbed his thumb savagely in the direction from whence they had all just come.
"Jaysus! Well we can't wait any longer" hissed Donovan. "Ready, is it?" Glancing nervously at each other, caps and trilbies pulled low, the other men nodded.
"Now!" said Donovan softly.
Wrenching open the door they burst into the hotel bedroom and opening fire with their revolvers, their compatriots just along the corridor doing likewise, but, even before the IRA men burst in, alerted by the pre-arranged signal of the ringing of the telephones in each of the bedroom their occupants had already made preparations of their own.
Hastily pulling Maeve along with him, Miles had rolled quickly off the bed, yelling at her at the same time to keep her head down. It was just as well that he did, as a spray of bullets now peppered the wall behind the bed where but a moment ago the two of them had been lying, crazing and shattering the glass in the windows overlooking the street, smashing china and splintering woodwork.
From the side of the bed Miles now hastily returned fire with his own Webley; his first bullet hit Damien in his right arm; the second caught Donovan full in the mouth and exited through the back of his skull, spinning his lifeless body around in a spraying welter of blood and fragments of shattered bone.
Already forewarned by the absent Johnny, the detachment of Black and Tans, waiting in an impatient state of readiness in another of the hotel's bedrooms and on the very same corridor, now made their move.
"Feckin' hell" yelled Fergal, losing control of his bladder, soiling his new trousers, as flecks of Donovan's blood and brains spattered his face. This was not how it was supposed to be. Target practice, however extensive, in the burnt out ruins of Fermoy House had not prepared him for the realities of killing other men, even if they were British officers.
Thoroughly demoralised and thrown into complete disarray by the sudden, unexpected death of Donovan, the others fled the scene, running straight into a storm of bullets fired from close range from the carbines of the Black and Tans now crouching at the far end of the landing, lying sprawled on the floor of the corridor and at the top of the main staircase of the hotel.
Throwing down the Smith and Wesson he was carrying, young Fergal also bolted and ran. Luck was with him that day, for as he did so, for some reason, Fergal turned to his left, where shielded both by the bodies of his compatriots and the abandoned breakfast trolley, ducking down, keeping low close to the wall, he made good his escape along the corridor where at the far end a darkened flight of back stairs led down to the street.
Fergal did not stop running until he was in sight of the Parnell Bridge where to avoid attracting attention he slowed his pace, approaching the army checkpoint at a slow amble. Singularly unaware of what had happened and except for a dark wet stain on the front of his trousers,with nothing to betray Fergal's involvement in what had taken place at the Imperial, the soldiers on duty at the barricade simply waved him through. Once across the bridge, with all thought of afternoon tea on North Mall for the present forgotten, Fergal set off at a lope along Albert Quay back to the railway station.
Upstairs on the fourth floor of the Imperial Hotel, hearing and recognising the clearly terrified voice of her son, Maeve was horrified.
"Let go of me!" she screamed angrily. Tearing herself free of Miles's restraining hand, screaming, Maeve rushed out onto the landing.
"Fergal! No!"
Of course, Maeve never stood a chance; cut down and killed instantaneously in the murderous hail of bullets.
With the shooting now over and the smoke along the landing and corridor now slowly beginning to clear, the Tans moved quickly among the fallen IRA men executing any who were still alive. Visibly shaken Miles appeared at the doorway of his hotel bedroom, knelt down by Maeve's bullet-ridden, lifeless body. It didn't make any sense but then not much in life did. Why on earth should she have been so concerned for the life of one of these men?
Hearing footsteps he looked up.
"A good job done" said Miles beginning to rise.
"Almost" said the Tan.
"Only almost?" queried Miles. He looked up wonderingly.
"That's what I said" replied the other. Pointing his service revolver directly at a now horrified Miles, the Tan simply pulled the trigger.
A short while later, in the military barracks down in Kinsale, in Major Percival's office the telephone on his desk rang insistently. Percival picked up the receiver.
"Percival".
"Sir" The major recognised the caller's voice immediately.
"You have something to report?"
"Sir". Percival now listened impassively while he was advised of what had just come to pass at the Imperial Hotel.
"Capital! No loose ends", said Percival and promptly replaced the receiver.
The Imperial Hotel, Cork, 12 noon, Saturday 8th January 1921.
Carson had seen to it that a suite of rooms had been booked for them at the Imperial where, on occasion, albeit in better times and under happier circumstances, past and present members of the Crawley family had stayed previously.
Despite it being winter, the night time voyage across the Irish Sea on the S.S. Waterford from Fishguard to Ireland proved singularly uneventful, apart from Mary declaring that their cabin was cramped which, perhaps, had rather more to do with her suffering from an inexplicable bout of mal de mer, than with the dimensions of their accommodation per se and which, if only to Matthew, seemed more than adequate. It was, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep, singularly odd; Mary was usually such a good traveller.
However, nothing could have prepared either Mary or Matthew for the devastation both they and Anna saw on their arrival in Cork the following morning.
Seen at first from the deck of their steamer and thereafter from the comfort of the motor sent by the Imperial to collect them from the quayside and convey them to their hotel, on seeing the damage which had been done to the city earlier in the month, all three of them were horrified.
Nothing they had read in the papers over in England had prepared them for the reality of what had happened here but a couple of weeks ago. While stopped at yet another British army checkpoint, Matthew said to Mary that for him, the burnt out ruins of Cork brought back unpleasant memories of the war; reminded Matthew all too vividly of what he had seen, both at Arras and at Ypres.
On their arrival at the Imperial, Matthew and Mary were shown immediately to the suite reserved for them by the hotel manager; a balding, florid little man who, perspiring heavily, apologised obsequiously and profusely for the bullet scarred state of the landing, explaining that a most regrettable incident had occurred here in his absence but a matter of days before.
Despite Matthew eyeing the bullet holes with evident concern, having assured them both that they would be perfectly safe, the manager seemed disinclined to elaborate further upon the nature of the incident to which he had just alluded.
Nonetheless, the suite to which they were now duly conducted proved more than satisfactory to Matthew. Not so Mary who considered the whole establishment, bullet holes and all to be thoroughly provincial and it was not until much later in the day, well after luncheon in fact, that Matthew obtained the necessary pass promised him by the British military authorities which would enable them to travel out to Skerries the following evening, in the motor provided for them by the hotel.
The Imperial Hotel, Cork, 7.00pm, Sunday 9th January 1921.
Dinner that Sunday evening was a somewhat subdued affair.
Matthew's meetings the previous afternoon with his contacts in the military over at the Victoria Barracks had produced nothing of any real substance and only vague promises of assistance.
The military situation here was much worse than Matthew had imagined, was fast deteriorating and searching for one missing Irish journalist, even if he was Matthew's brother-in-law was not uppermost in the minds of the officers to whom the future earl of Grantham had spoken. Matthew was devastated. He had hoped for much better, had wanted to be able to give Sybil some good news, a reason to believe that Tom was alive, but that now seemed hopeless.
Meanwhile, dinner itself was not to Mary's liking and to Matthew's embarrassment and mortification having cursorily perused the menu she promptly declared that it was decidedly uninspiring. Nonetheless, it did not go unnoticed that, uninspiring or not, Mary more than did justice to the all of the courses placed before her. Clearly, reflected Matthew while enjoying his dessert and with a wry smile, evidently Mary had recovered completely from her unexpected and so far unexplained bout of sea sickness.
Skerries House, County Cork, 8.00pm, 9th January 1921.
Silently, the group of armed men moved out from under the covering shelter of the trees and onto the grass where, ahead of them, the mass of the house loomed dark against the blackness of the night sky.
"Seamus, yous and the others do like I told yous and go round the back. The rest now come with me".
In their twos and threes, the men fanned out; crouching, keeping low, they ran as fast as they could across the frost covered lawn and towards the distant house.
Upstairs, in the lamp lit bedroom, Sybil had retired early; although not to sleep. In her misery, she lay huddled on the bed, their bed, Tom's vest and pyjama bottoms clasped tightly to her, breathing in his scent, only now to be suddenly alarmed from downstairs by the unexpected sound of breaking glass.
At once, Sybil reached for her dressing gown and hurriedly pulled it on. Having turned up the wick, picking up the lamp from off the table beside the bed, holding it aloft, as quickly as she could, Sybil hurried out onto the landing. As she reached the head of the main staircase, she stopped, looked down into the dimness of the hall, to be confronted by the sight of several men wearing caps, dressed in dark clothing, with rifles and ammunition pouches. Behind them, smashed glass from the front windows of the hall now littered the stone flagged floor.
"What do you want here?" asked Sybil desperately trying to keep her voice sounding neutral, even if it was all too obvious what the men had come for, as several of them were carrying large cans of petrol. One of them now stepped forward, moved to stand at the foot of the staircase. Looking up at Sybil, deferentially, the man pulled off his cap, stood fingering the brim. Those with him now did likewise; shuffled their feet and looked extremely embarrassed.
"Beggin' your pardon ma'am, but I must ask that you leave. We've orders to burn this house".
The Imperial Hotel, Cork, 9.00pm, 9th January 1921.
With dinner over, having been given clear instructions as to how to reach Skerries House, leaving Anna behind at the hotel, Matthew and Mary set off; although since arriving here in Ireland attempts to contact Sybil by telephone had proved fruitless. According to the hotel manager, it was likely that the wires were down, a regrettable but not uncommon occurrence these days given the present deplorable circumstances.
However, given the fact that Sybil had made it perfectly clear in her most recent letter that she was perfectly capable of looking after herself and that she had every intention of staying on at Skerries at least until she had news of what had become of Tom, Mary thought that, in the long run, it was probably for the best that her younger sister did not get wind of their impending arrival.
Some time later, having left the city well behind them, for all the reports in the press of bands of IRA terrorists roaming about at will and unchecked, on this bitterly cold January night, the countryside between Cork and Skerries proved to be all but deserted and thankfully they met with no trouble whatsoever on the road.
"It surely can't be much further" said Matthew, a degree of exasperation now clearly creeping into his voice.
In the darkness, Mary shivered and nodded her head sympathetically; exceedingly grateful for the fact that Matthew, with his love of speed, had so far managed to keep the motor on what hereabouts passed for a road. Dearest Tom, whom Mary earnestly prayed nightly would soon be found safe and well and come home to darling Sybil, even if in her heart Mary no longer believed it to be the case, had been a much safer driver.
"I do rather hope so, darling". Although the hotel had furnished them with travelling rugs before they set off, one of which Anna had helped Mary wrap around her legs to try and help keep her warm, it had been to no avail; it had now begun to rain and Mary was chilled to the very bone.
"Ah! At last! Here we are". Without even for an instant slackening speed, causing Mary to grab hold of her hat and to cry out in alarm, Matthew wrenched the steering wheel to the left, steering the Crossley off the road between two weathered stone gateposts and onto the rutted, overgrown drive leading to Skerries House.
"Good God! What on earth's that?" he asked as, just ahead of them, the inky blackness of the night sky was suddenly shot with fiery red.
Through the driving rain, the headlights of the motor illuminated their way ahead along the twisting, turning, neglected drive. Moments later, the motor swept out of the trees and with gravel flying now screeched to a sudden stop.
"My God! Matthew, look!" exclaimed Mary horrified and clutching her husband's arm tightly. Ahead of them, burning furiously, Skerries House was engulfed in a roaring, swirling mass of soaring flames.
Allihies, Beara Peninsula, County Cork, one week earlier: just after midnight, Sunday 2nd January 1921.
Not far from the sea, in fact, within earshot of the crying gulls and of the white-tipped waves breaking on the shore, on the remote Beara peninsula, on the far south west coast of Ireland, beneath the towering peaks of the Slieve Miskish mountains, there lies the village of Allihies.
Within living memory, the district hereabouts had seen much mining activity in the pursuit of copper ore, but now the mines had closed, the last of them but a few years ago. Even so, the rocky landscape, studded with sheep tracks, dotted with stunted trees bent almost double by the strength of the prevailing winds, was also yet pocked with remnants of its past industry: the tall chimneys and ruined engine houses, grim, silent, standing sentinels, amid the vast spoil heaps of waste and the numerous flooded, uncapped pitshafts, some of them many hundreds of feet in depth.
A little after midnight, some distance from the village of Allihies, under the patter of falling rain and the cover of a misty darkness, on an isolated, pine fringed, rutted, stony track, an army lorry had growled and lurched to a final stop. A matter of moments later and the prisoners had been ordered out of the vehicle.
Of the eight of them brought here from being held in custody in a variety of places both in and around Cork, two could hardly walk, among them Tom who had to be helped out of the lorry by some of his fellow prisoners to stand as best he could along with the others in a ragged group beneath the dripping branches of the trees, the where while water ran along the muddy track in rivulets, the night air chill and damp.
Like the rest of them, with his hands tied behind his back, the rope cutting mercilessly into his wrists, Tom was now prodded and pushed forward at the point of a bayonet, off the track and into the belt of trees.
Beaten black and blue, his right hand a swollen and a crusted mass of dried blood, stripped to the waist, shivering with cold and fear, barefoot, his feet bleeding, numbly, wordlessly, Tom stumbled on along with all the rest. After all the bestial brutality he had witnessed and been subjected to over the last few weeks, he no longer had any doubt of the infinite capability of other human beings to inflict exquisite suffering upon their fellow men. Nor did he have any doubt that his captors intended to kill him and the other prisoners; knew that his last moments on this earth were now fast ebbing away.
Yet even in his abject his misery and pain, Tom's final earthly thoughts were still, predictably enough, of Sybil and of little Danny.
"For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame".
He wondered how they were faring without him, what would become of them both and of the child she was carrying; a child he would never live to see. Unheeded, unseeing, his tears now falling fast, Tom staggered on.
A short distance away, in the middle of a debris strewn, grass grown clearing stood what yet remained of the Curlew Mine. Abandoned many years since, surrounded by a crumbling group of stone buildings, the open mine shaft yawned wide. It was to here that the pitiful, sorry huddle of eight men were now herded and one by one, pushed forward over the edge into the yawning blackness of the abandoned mine, their frightened, terrified screams echoing up the shaft as they fell.
Although it was unlikely any one of the prisoners would have survived their fall, a few moments later so as to ensure they finished the job, having pulled out the pins, the Tans who had brought their captives to this desolate, infinitely remote spot, now tossed a dozen or so hand grenades down the shaft; the resulting explosions, deafening in their report, ensuring that there would indeed be no survivors.
Now, with what they had come here to do swiftly accomplished, with the occasional laugh, smoke curling languidly from cigarettes, the living had no wish to linger in this desolate place. Without so much as a single backward glance, the group of Tans turned and walked the short distance back to where the empty army lorry, its engine already running, now awaited them. Minutes later, the lorry was in motion bouncing back down the rutted track towards the road leading to Castletownbere and thence onwards to Bantry.
Behind them in the mist, in the chill winter darkness, in the forest clearing, a cloud of dust and debris still spiralled up from the depths of the derelict mine. Although somewhat muffled by the deepness of the old workings, nonetheless, the noise made by the detonation of the dozen or so hand grenades continued to rumble on, reverberated dully in the depths for but a short while longer, then at last faded away and silence settled over the abandoned shaft.
It was over.
Author's Note:
The Imperial Hotel still stands on South Mall, while the street itself also retains a large number of fine Georgian houses.
George's Street is now called Oliver Plunkett Street.
Sir Hamar Greenwood Bt. (1870-1948) then Chief Secretary of Ireland and closely identified with the setting up of both the Black and Tans and the Auxiliaries did indeed blame Sinn Féin and the citizens of Cork for what had occurred.
It is a fact that during the Irish War of Independence and the Irish Civil War on many occasions those who burned the "Big Houses" were apologetic, polite and distinctly embarrassed by what they were doing, sometimes rescuing furniture, paintings and even children's toys before setting fire to the house concerned. In the long run, all this needless arson actually achieved was to deprive Ireland of much of its architectural heritage.
The mining of copper at Allihies on the Beara Peninsula began in 1812. All the mines had closed by the end of the nineteenth century, although an unsuccessful attempt to resurrect one of them was made towards the end of the Great War.
The words Tom recalls are from "The Land of Heart's Desire" by W. B. Yeats.