Redemption - Leon Uris [303]
77
“Sixmilecross! Sixmilecross!”
Rory’s heart leapt as the train slowed. He pressed his head against the window of his compartment trying to focus his eyes. The train eased into the lay-by to take on water at the tower. Down the line a conductor helped a woman and little girl off the train to a waiting buckboard and husband.
Rory knew from Jeremy’s description that he was on the exact site of the ambush. British troops had been riding the train, Conor and his party were strung out along the rail and at the crossroads, horses and wagons tied just beyond the bridge in the trees.
His compartment door opened. It was a different conductor. He leaned over Rory, reading the patch on his shoulder.
“New Zealand, is it?”
Rory nodded.
“Me partner sez to me there is a Victoria Cross lad in the military car. And where might you have been to exact this distinction?”
“Gallipoli.”
“Ah, tanks to Mary you’re alive, then. Me own son was wounded at Ypres. Gassed.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“Irish relatives, have you?”
“No, I’m just on leave, touring about.”
“You couldn’t have found a grander place. Er…and what persuasion might you be?”
“I’m an R.C.”
The conductor smiled. “You’re sitting on sacred Irish ground. A very famous encounter took place here. It was some years ago, but the Irish Republican Brotherhood…You’ve heard of them?”
“Sorry, no.”
“Our lads. Anyhow, they laid a terrible defeat on the British.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“Well, best of luck to you, Lieutenant, and it’s an honor and a pleasure to be shaking the hand of a V.C. winner.”
Forty minutes later the first conductor slid the door open. “Rodale Bridge,” he said, “with transfer to Flynn, Crew, Spamount, and Castlederg. This is your stop, sir…here, here, you let me help you with your bag.”
Rory debarked to a hero’s salute from the two conductors. A dozen or so passengers made for a waiting shuttle. As both trains moved on, Rory looked about. He could make out the black-on-black of a priest coming over the roadway toward him.
“Uncle Dary?”
“Rory lad, oh, Rory lad!” Dary sniffed as they embraced. “You gave me a chill just now. I thought for an instant it was Conor walking toward me. You’ve the same manner. God, you’ve Larkin written all over your face, you’re that handsome. Now, did you get to see anything of the countryside?”
“It was a bit fuzzy flashing past the window, but it did remind me more than a little of New Zealand. It’s so green.”
“All the lads who emigrated to New Zealand wrote home the same thing you’re saying.”
They walked to the proverbial Model T Ford. “Compliments of Bishop Mooney,” Dary said. In a moment they were on the road to Londonderry.
“We’ve a million years to catch up on. First, tell me how you’re feeling.”
“At this moment, I feel great.” Rory went over his wounds and prognosis.
“Are you free for a while?”
“Yes.”
“That’s grand,” Dary said. “The bishop has a fishing cottage up in the hills, about ninety minutes’ drive. It’s out of sight and well stocked. It’s ours for as long as we want it.”
“That’s just great. Sounds like your bishop is a right fair chap.”
“Mooney is a dear, dear man. I’ve been at his side since my ordination. He was sent to Derry because they needed a soft churchman then, and frankly, the Cardinal didn’t expect him to last too long. The Bishop has a bad heart, but he’s fooled everyone. I, uh, run a good part of the diocese routine for him, as well as the schools and orphanage. When he passes on I expect I’ll be transferred into a more…traditional situation. In Bogside, you must have Bogside priests, it’s that miserable. We are a mite too liberal, I’m afraid.”
What was not to like about Father Dary? Rory felt the comfort of one who had known him for a thousand years. He felt the first uncanny and unexpected sheer glow of the warmth of family he’d known since he left home. He was taken by the wonderment of it. There was so much to tell and hear and he smiled inwardly at the prospect of the coming days.
“I’ve a notion,” Rory said, “of why you wanted me off the train before Londonderry.