Redemption - Leon Uris [110]
Sure I am an Ulsterman,
From Erin’s Isle I came,
To see my British brethren
All of honor and of fame
And to tell them of my forefathers,
Who fought in days of yore,
That I might have the right to wear
The sash my father wore.
They rained pennies down on the Catholic Bogside to re-humiliate the unfortunate losers and went to the town diamond for a final exaltation of their savior, Oliver Cromwell….
And lest we forget another battle, the Battle of the Boyne, of no less importance than Waterloo and Trafalgar, where their beloved William of Orange, on his alabaster steed, wounded in the right hand, took up a saber in his left hand to lead the charge. King James, the papist, cowering and quivering on a horse of another color, tucked tail and fled, thus liberating Ulster from Vatican venality forever! And ever!
Let us pray.
For the industrialists and other rulers of the province this was the time of year that their religious and political messengers were able to introduce new agendas as well as reiterate ancient fears.
Marched silly and harangued silly, the righteous were easily ignited into anti-Catholic mobs, after a bit of blood and arson.
Sir Frederick Weed’s agenda this year was union busting and, with a captive mob within his yard, had them frothed into burning down the copper shop where most of the Catholics worked. It was, after all, an obsolete facility and well insured by Lloyd’s.
Conor Larkin got wind of the scene and was able to get the Catholics out of the yard. He returned to save Duffy O’Hurley, the driver of Weed’s Red Hand Express, and an essential man in the gunrunning scheme.
The mob caught Conor and nearly beat him to death. Only Robin MacLeod’s last-moment intervention saved his life.
Morgan MacLeod cared deeply for Conor Larkin and in the early days of Conor’s relationship with Shelley, he stood by them forthrightly.
Morgan was a man to be reckoned with: a leader of the Shankill tribe, a deacon in his church, foreman of Weed’s largest dry dock, and an Orange Lodge Grandmaster whose son had captained Ireland’s only Admiral’s Cup team.
No one in the Shankill cared when Shelley became the mistress of a married man. After all, this David Kimberly was upper English, a high midlevel career diplomat. Truth be known, Kimberly had been somewhat of a coup for a Shankill lass.
Conor Larkin was another matter. Although an R.C., he was under the patronage of Sir Frederick himself and also a member of the Belfast Boilermakers. Well, let’s say Larkin was one of the good ones.
Although Conor and Shelley represented a kind of tentative truce, Belfast, a final sludge hole of the Industrial Revolution, passed out its tender mercies grudgingly.
When Conor and Shelley broke up and returned from holiday in England separately, Morgan MacLeod could not help but sigh in relief and hope to God his daughter would fall in love with a good, decent, Protestant lad. But he saw his beloved Shelley grow wan and listless without Conor.
Conor quit the rugby club. Morgan’s information had it that the Larkin was like a dead man.
Morgan MacLeod feared that something would make the two of them rush back together, and he did not know if he could continue to hold a peace in place.
Morgan’s fears came to pass when Shelley returned to Conor after he was beaten in the riots and lived with him, openly nursing him back to health and at the same time defying the natural law of tribal Belfast.
In its tormented and violent history, the Belfast poor of Protestant stripe gave birth to a breed of clever churchmen whose arts were showmanship in Reformation frock and striking fear of the Vatican into their flocks. The cleverest among them often rocketed from tent preacher onto a glory road of wielding great power.
One of these was the Reverend Oliver Cromwell MacIvor, who had his own schools, seminary, churches, press, and a quasi-private armed brigade known as the Knights of Christ, with