Worse Things Than Dying: A Fr John Winter Novel

By Roy Hunt

Worse things than dying: A Fr John Winter novel
If you had the power, would you kill your present child to create a better, healthier one?
If you had the power, would you help an old friend and a tortured young man, even at the risk of destroying your own health?
If you had the power, would you take a loved one from their resting place in the grave, if there was a chance you could breathe new life into them?
Where would you stop? How far would you go?
‘Worse things than dying a Fr John Winter novel,’ follows a retired priest, a high-powered cardinal, a demented scientist, a tormented businessman and two disabled lovers who have found love with each other, as they confront these issues and struggle with the most basic of all questions, what does ‘human’ mean anymore?

Bleakmount Parish, Mid-Roscommon 1854-1880; and Athlone and Philadelphia and Virginia, 1984 Ireland.
Living under the shadow of his famous uncle, now a cardinal in Philadelphia, forty-eight-year-old Fr John Winter, by contrast, is burnt out. A failed Catholic priest back living in Athlone where his career started in the 1960s. Now it is 1984. He is older, disillusioned, and utterly exhausted. He spends his evenings in the Royal Hoey hotel in the centre of town, propping up the bar, drinking pints of stout and whiskey chasers. It is December, the days are gloomy and short, it is coming near Christmas. Three months previously, Winter returned from his last posting in Adamsdown and Splott, a working-class area of South Glamorgan in Cardiff down on its luck, blighted by unemployment. His last deed there was to use his psychic gift to help unearth a murder in the basement of an old house on Comet Street that took place several decades earlier. But this very gift is what has exhausted him. He wants no more of, as one person described him, being an occult bloodhound.
Now living in the quiet cul-de-sac of Maple Lane in the town's West Bank, with his loyal housekeeper Mary McLaughlin, who knew him before he left for several postings abroad over twenty years ago, things do not get easier.
They get much more complicated in fact.
His uncle has written to him from Philadelphia. The letter begins, ‘John, if you’re reading this, I might be missing, or dead.’ Winter knows that his uncle runs a secret organisation in the US, determined to stop advances in human eugenics, or genetic engineering, led by one man: rabid eugenicist Dr Eugene Marks.
Through Philip Franks, an old friend of his, Winter meets Samantha Clarke. Franks is an accountant; a cautious man. He knows all the good Winter achieved before leaving Athlone all those years ago as a young, energetic gifted priest. Franks hates to see him descend into the arms of drink. Soon after being introduced to her by Franks, Winter begins a romantic relationship with a thirty-seven-year-old widow. They soon become lovers.
Winter's plan to live a quiet life is further shaken when he receives a letter from an old friend. The friend is Fr Michael Gallagher, formerly a high-flying priest in Birmingham. But Gallagher got into trouble when he had an affair with the wife of one of his major benefactors, a millionaire building contractor. For his penance—and his safety—Gallagher is banished to Bleakmount, a poor, isolated parish in Mid-Roscommon. A place whose inhabitants DNA is still traumatized by the memory of the misery and terror of the famine years and the subsequent land war era.
Gallagher has witnessed Winter use his psychic gift and wants him to use it again to help a parishioner of his. Bankrupt hotelier Ted Ward has moved with his wife Lillian and son David into an old famine cottage on a poor plot of land that he bought years earlier to keep a few horses on. He never envisioned that he would someday have to call it home. Nor did he take into account what secrets and terrors the old cottage might hold.
‘Fr Winter’ is an intoxicating mix of love, lust, hate, and the desir

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Hunt
• Release date: Dec 30, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005537913

Roy Hunt

I am an author in my sixties living in Roscommon, Ireland. At the moment I am researching and writing in two different genres.The first book I call 'Fr John Winter: worse things than dying.' It is a science versus religion scenario set in Athlone and partly in the US. After a period working with my father on a water treatment scheme in Athlone in the 1980s I became fascinated with the medieval town. My stories are set around and in Athlone and the local lake, Lough Ree. The lake has over fifty islands and at least twenty of those have legends attached to them and have been inhabited at some point. In my first book, Mutation, I added a fictional island of my own and I have added another for my second novel, 'Fr John Winter: worse things than dying.' This present book draws on my own experience and research I carried out on Lough Ree, Athlone and eugenics, a subject I researched in depth and became intrigued with.My other 'franchise' (as I like to call it), is based on a group of guys working on construction in Ireland in the 1980s. I have based this book on my own experience working on sites in the 1970s and '80 all over Ireland. This work will also shortly be available on Smashwords on preorder. Think of it as an Irish equivalent of Auf Wiedersehen Pet. :)I put many years of research into Fr Winter, especially on psychic phenomena (Did you know, the author of Sherlock Holmes, Arthur Conan Doyle, was fascinated by the subject?) and eugenics and the science of DNA manipulation (recombinant DNA technology) A gained a BA and an M.Litt in later years which was a great help in doing this research.My Construction guys took a lot less research. I have managed to produce the first book in a year. The second one is three-quarter finished. I hope you will enjoy my stories as much as I have enjoyed putting these worlds together. I have always, from an early age, wanted to write, and I feel so lucky to now finally be getting that opportunity.Thank you and keep reading. Writers are nothing without our readers.

Book preview

Part 1

1854-1880

Bleakmount Parish-mid Roscommon

Carthy’s Hill, Foley’s Fields’ townland.

A poor tenant holding

Chapter 1

Family resemblance

Monday 12 June 1854. Carthy's Hill, Foley's Fields townland, Bleakmount Parish, Mid-Roscommon.

From the door of her small three-room cottage, Hannah Beirne watched as her twelve-year-old son Maurice spat blood from the blow that had downed him. His eyes blazing with anger, he wiped the blood from his lips with a grimy hand and tore back onto his feet. The summer sun of the day was retreating. The evening however was still warm, the day having greedily soaked up the heat into the earth. Maurice jumped back up off the ground in a storm of dust and fury after Fergal Callaghan had punched him in the face. Fergal was their neighbour from across the fields, the youngest son of Declan Callaghan. Fergal had an older brother, a large beefy, red-faced bully called Billy. The boys' mother had died years earlier. Hannah suspected that being married to Declan Callaghan hadn't helped. She had known Kathleen, Callaghan's wife, a strong but gentle woman. Kathleen and Hannah had often spoken in each other's kitchens late at night when the men were out. These things shared between women that remained forever locked in their hearts.

Hey, easy, easy, break it up now! Rick Ward, the uncle to Maurice on his mother's side, pulled the two boys apart. Rick owned a farrier business in Yorkshire, inherited from their father, John, and he had taken a few days holiday to come and visit them.

There was no need to intervene, Hannah's brother was more than capable of handling things. Her eyes, however, blazed with pride. It was right outside their front door and the two boys had got into a fight over some issue known only to them. The blood ran from Maurice's nose and the punch had knocked him to the ground. But it was her son's reaction that made Hannah so proud of him.

Hannah had met her future husband, Bobby Beirne, when he had come over to Yorkshire for seasonal work during harvest time. He was a shy, intelligent hard worker. Hannah was drawn to his gentle nature and humour. He could mend fences, fix carts and could even hold his own in the forge with her father. Bobby had a birth defect that left him with two drooping red-rimmed lower eyelids, which for Hannah only enhanced his nature and inner strength. She had got to know him when the men came in for dinner after a day in the fields. John was not a rich man but had some land leased which supplemented his income in the forge before winter set in. She had grown up knowing her father was a man to be respected. He was a blacksmith by trade but could use his fists if called upon. She once overheard it said about him: 'That Ward has fists like fence posts'. But he was often wicked and short-tempered around the house. John was not a domestic man. He was more at home in his forge, amongst rough men, horses and heat. He never hit them. He didn't have to. The authority in his voice was enough. Hannah had rejected that kind of a man for herself and instead had married Bobby Beirne. A marriage she had never regretted; or at least, very rarely.

His first visit to Hannah and her new husband was on the occasion of their marriage, fifteen years ago now. On this occasion, their father had died. Hannah and Bobby had travelled to Yorkshire for the funeral and Rick had returned to Bleakmount with them for a short holiday and to see his two young nephews, Maurice and Michael. Declan Callaghan came calling to the house the second night after Rick arrived, to offer his insincere condolences. He was no pushover, Hannah knew. Callaghan was a big strong bear of a man standing about five foot ten inches, broad and heavy. Callaghan couldn't help his nature, she supposed. Shortly after he arrived, Hannah dutifully offered stout, and before long she noticed Callaghan became his usual, mocking, braggart self, a pose he was used to taking up in the Beirne household. Rick sat back and said hardly a word. When the 'jokes' became hard to stomach he leaned over, like Hannah remembered her father used to do, putting his elbows on his knees, and stared into the burning heart of the fire, his large strong hands clasped together. Hannah knew what her brother was thinking: he was in his sister's husband's house. It was not his place to utter a word against any man. Callaghan stayed two hours, drank the tea and stout he was offered, and enjoyed his total dominance of the room and conversation. Bobby laughed innocently at Callaghan's often overbearing jokes. He was an intelligent man around the farm, a great father and a loving husband. He just had no armoury, no mental or physical tools available to him to handle insults or sarcasm.

But, Hannah knew, her brother did.

What had pleased her so much about Maurice's reaction to the stunning blow, was that in the townland where she lived, where Declan Callaghan and his two growing, beefy sons, were now a dominant physical force, she knew then Maurice was hers, and her overworked, weary heart soared like an eagle for the rest of the day at that thought. For although she loved Bobby, Hannah knew he was not fighting stock. He was a peaceful man, and that was okay. She loved him for his kind, gentle nature. Such a man around the house was a blessing. Only in rare moments, such as when Declan Callaghan came calling and would insult Hannah with sly, sexual innuendo, in their own home, and Bobby would bow his head and smile meekly while Declan leered suggestively over Bobby's shoulder at Hannah, did she wish for a Ward in the house.

The following morning Rick Ward was up early. He slept beside the boys in a single bed made up by his sister; they were sound asleep. He got dressed quietly and took his Hunter timepiece from the small mantlepiece. In the twilight of the cold room, he checked the time: 5:45 am. He left the Beirnes house and walked across the fields, carefully crossing fences, heading towards Callaghans. It was coming on around six o'clock. The sun would heat the land beneath their feet in another few hours. But just now, dewy cobwebs clung to gorse and bushes. The grass beneath his feet was wet. It was a lovely morning. A morning fit for a man to be healthy, and alive, he thought. He checked the time again and then pocketed the beautiful Hunter timepiece back in his waistcoat. At six feet one in his stockings, the farrier was made of bone and muscle. This morning's stubble covered his square jaw. The thickly veined brown-tanned hands that handled the Hunter with such intelligent care were massive. The fingers broad and long, forged with power from inheritance and work. He made his way towards Callaghan's house. Once he spotted it in the distance, he stopped. He stood patiently under an old oak tree for maybe an hour. Eventually, he saw smoke rise from a chimney. Shortly after that, Declan Callaghan came out. He wore braces pulled over a rough working shirt. He threw the dregs of a saucepan up the garden and returned indoors. Rick Ward made his way down the hill to the house and walked the short distance up the lane to the door.

Rick returned to his forge in Yorkshire the following day. Hannah never asked where he had gone to so early the previous morning. Her life went on as before, doing her chores, raising Maurice and Michael; keeping her head down, being hardworking, humble and good-natured, a rock of strength to her gentle husband. She noticed Declan Callaghan had not visited in a while. But then, one summer's evening he turned up again. He needed to know if Bobby could give him 'an hour or two' in the morning at the hay. The hour or two, Hannah knew, would be an entire day of hard work. Bobby of course said yes and invited Callaghan in.

Declan Callaghan stayed for over an hour, somewhat shorter than usual. All that time Hannah waited for the first sly quip which would open the floodgates for the rest. But it never came. Eventually, Callaghan got up and left, wishing them a good evening.

The following week he met her coming out of the shop attached to Hebron's public house in the village of Bleakmount. It was a walk of three miles from their isolated holding. She breathed deep and swallowed nervously. Declan Callaghan had the smell of drink on him, but all he said to Hannah Beirne was Good day to you Hannah. And isn't it a fantastic day? We're lucky to be alive so we are and that's God's truth, so it is—Indeed we are; lucky to be alive and have our health.

Hannah smiled and wished him good luck in turn and went her way.

That night, before going to bed, Hannah Beirne stood outside their little cottage with folded arms and looked up at the stars. She wondered if her father's spirit, so strong when he was alive, looked down upon them. Now she didn't have to wonder where her brother had gone early that foggy summer morning. She knew for a certainty he had gone calling on Declan Callaghan.

From his bedroom window Maurice watched his mother stare at the stars. His older brother, Michael, with whom he shared the room, was snoring in his single bed like a horse.

He now knew what his mother recognized in him the day Fergal Callaghan had hit him. When Maurice had been struck, he had felt his body burn in anger and he tore back up off the ground and got stuck into Callaghan, even though the dour, bullying Callaghan boy was heavier and at sixteen, had four years on Maurice. Maurice had heard that Fergal was already known as a young fella that would be hard to handle. Maurice would probably have lost the other day if Uncle Rick hadn't broken up the fight. Maurice saw the look in his mother's eyes and it puzzled him at the time. He never saw a woman react in any way to violence other than to put her hands on her head or cover her face and scream or moan. He had been with his father once and they had watched when Declan Callaghan had struck a neighbour, and that was how the poor man's wife had reacted; but not his mother.

But it still puzzled him; at least a little. His uncle Rick had explained it to him before going back home. Uncle Rick told him after Callaghan had pelted him, Hannah knew there was Ward blood, her blood, flowing through his veins. Maurice looked at his sleeping brother. He figured what Uncle Rick meant was that he was more like mum and Michael was more like their father. Maurice felt ashamed of the thought that came sneaking unwanted into his mind. He felt ashamed because he loved his mother—and father as well—very much. The unwelcome, but undeniable feeling he felt was he wished they would have thought he was more like Uncle Rick.

Chapter 2

Unwelcome visitors

Carthy's Hill, 26 years later 10 November, 1880

Michael closed his journal and slid it towards the far end of the table, as far as possible away from the group of men who had just lifted the latch and entered his house. One of the group, a mean faced skinny individual called Johnnie Moran, glanced at Beirne with undisguised contempt. Beirne was an idiot boy and everyone knew it, scribbling in that stupid copybook of his. So why was Callaghan being so patient with him? They were in Beirnes house because Michael's brother, Maurice, had paid a portion of last year's rent arrears earlier in the year in Oneside. Despite a previous warning from the group Moran was a member of, the no-renters, led by Fergal Callaghan, warning them not to. So why not give Beirne a good hiding, smash the place up and get on with it? Now was their chance, with Maurice not at home. Moran knew Maurice was a different kettle of fish. Johnnie had no intention of tangling with Maurice; but he didn't care, he wasn't afraid, even if he met Maurice later, in the pub or at a funeral, because he knew he was protected by the no-renters and their bear of a leader, Fergal, and his brother Billy.

Michael's deceased father couldn't deny him. He had the same crimson, round face as his father, Bobby, but was mercifully spared his father's red-rimmed eyelids birth defect. Michael rarely worried. He was as happy and content as a person had any right to be in a troubled world. But his unconcerned nonchalance could sometimes have a disturbing effect on others. Johnnie Moran, for instance, wanted to abuse Michael at every opportunity. And most times they met, he did; verbally, if not physically.

Fergal Callaghan was five-ten and built like a square block. He was accompanied by three others, including his older brother Billy. Billy wasn't as intelligent as Fergal, but was willing to carry out his brother's instructions, no matter how unpleasant. But then, to Billy, smashing crockery in kitchens or hurting inoffensive people was not necessarily unpleasant work. He had a gun, broken at the stock and pointing towards the ground. But Michael could see the shiny brass heads of two cartridges in the barrels. The second accomplice was Johnnie Moran, in his thirties, skinny and sly. He usually went about with the head of a slash hook, sometimes called a scythe, a curved, moon-shaped steel tool for trimming hedgerows, under his long black coat. Being part of Callaghan's band of no-renters had given him prestige in the parish he had not previously possessed. Now people acknowledged him with a respectful lifting of the hand or cap before moving quickly on. When he walked into a pub by Callaghan's side, there was a momentary hush before conversation resumed.

The third man with Fergal was Liam Drury; slight of build, with a mop of greasy black hair, combed back. He had one bad eye, the left one. Drury was more intelligent than either Billy or Moran. And he was much more dangerous. He had lost an eye in a knife fight in England years ago and was suspected of still carrying such a weapon on his person, though Michael had never seen it. Drury was cautious and had the sense to use violence sparingly. Land was Drury's and Moran's motivation. Unable to rent land directly, they had sublet from Callaghan. In return, Callaghan had recruited them to the no-renters. There were more in the group. But four was considered enough to visit and intimidate Michael Beirne, especially with his brother Maurice not at home.

Outside, the freezing cold November night held the area in its dark icy grip. In every direction stretched bad land, some of it covered in a rash of rushes and bog; the rest painstakingly cultivated for the potato crop they relied on. Following a countrywide economic recession and local potato crop failure two years in a row, the Beirnes, like most of their poverty-mired neighbours with small holdings, were suffering badly. The prospect of the workhouse hovered over them like a terminal disease. But last June Maurice had managed to scrape together a half-year's back-rent for their landlord, Lord Black, in Oneside. The Beirnes were lucky in this regard. Lord Black, although an absentee Landlord for most of the year, as he was an MP in Parliament, nonetheless had a good agent, a local man, John Dillon. But the Huntstown based de la Hunte—the village was named after him; he owned it—whom the Callaghans were obliged to rent from, was a different man entirely: cruel, hard-hearted and unpredictable. He had carried out several evictions over the last three years. With few exceptions, all the land around the parish of Bleakmount was his. All rented out to a mass of struggling tenants. The Beirnes, nearer to Oneside, were just outside de la Hunte's area of influence. The population had never stopped falling since the famine of 1847 to '50. It had cleared hundreds of them out. The townland of Foley's Fields, where the Beirnes had their thirty acres, was reduced in number from eighty families in the 1840s to twenty-six by the late 1870s.

Twice now Michael, Fergal Callaghan said, but you're just not listening. Michael smiled meekly. Fergal was a rough man. He was about forty-two, Michael knew. He was a regular in Hebron's public house in the village; nearly always surrounded by men whispering in a group. Michael went into Hebron's from time to time, on his way back from shopping in Huntstown, three miles to the east on the road to Boyle, or maybe a fair day in Sandford, seven miles to the south-east on the way to Roscommon. He was happy on those occasions, and that happiness would sometimes give him the courage to have a mineral—an orange or a lemonade maybe—and a game of rings in Hebron's bar. Unlike his brother Maurice, he was a pioneer; he didn't drink and he was deeply religious. But if Fergal and his friends were there, and you could find them there anytime, from early morning until past midnight, Michael would drink his mineral quickly and leave.

And now they were in his house and they were angry.

The trouble had started again nearly two years ago, Michael remembered. Crops failed due to bad weather. Potatoes, still the staple diet of the population, were scarce. People were asking if it might again get as bad as 'Black '47'. The local people had coined the phrase and it had been picked up by the papers: 'Black '47'; 1847, the worst year of the famine. The year the bulk of them starved, went to the workhouse, emigrated or died. But Bobby and Hannah Beirne, Michael and Maurice's parents, had survived. Their father had only been in his mid-thirties then and his youth and strength had seen him through. That, and a gift for getting the best from almost nothing. But it took a terrible toll. Bobby died of a fever the winter of 1855, aged only forty-two. Hannah, a lovely woman and seven years younger, heartbroken and weary from poverty and struggle, followed her loving husband nine years later, dying of pneumonia in 1864, aged only forty-four. Her death had almost broken Maurice's heart, for he had sensed in his mother a potential and spirit that had never been realized. But by then he was twenty years old and an able farmer. Michael, two years older, did not possess his brother's intelligence or drive to run an impoverished holding.

Now times were bad again. And to make matters worse, the safety valve of emigration, work in England, had been cut off. Something, the Roscommon Messenger said, to do with a downturn in the worldwide economy. Maurice had not gone to England this year. They would miss the money he usually sent home.

But to Michael's mind what was worse was that Fergal, his brother Billy and several more like him, hadn't gone to England either. Michael looked forward to those months when he knew the Callaghan brothers were gone to England for seasonal work. Usually about three months. It meant he could go into Hebron's of an evening and hold court with men his own type: simple men, small tenant farmers with nothing on their minds but the price of cattle and feedstuffs and maybe a lot of chatter about rent, landlords and Parnell. But because the Callaghans went to England and sent money home to an ailing farm they were known as good men. Despite the fact when they came home, they spent the winter months in idleness. Much of it in pubs in the surrounding towns of Huntstown, Oneside and Sandford, and in Hebron's in the village.

De la Hunte at the present time was insisting that the arrears be paid, and he was again threatening evictions on those more than a year behind. The fact was, most of the tenants were in arrears to some degree.

Now Liam and Johnnie were looking around the Beirnes kitchen. Normally, Michael, always friendly, always smiling, would offer tea, or maybe a bottle of stout. But he kept silent on this occasion. He feared for their little home. He wished Maurice was here. Maurice would know what to do. He always did. This was their second warning not to pay any more rent. But Maurice got on well with Black's agent, and his thirty acres was well kept and well run. Maurice, Michael knew, had plans to expand. And he was courting; that was where he was now, out seeing a girl. Michael wondered, how had Callaghan found out that Maurice had paid back in June within hours of Maurice's visit to the land agent? One of Fergal's many spies had probably seen Maurice call to the agent's office in Oneside, where Black's agent had his headquarters, and told Callaghan over a pint later in the day. Later that night, they had called on the Beirnes. Now they were back to remind Maurice not to pay his next instalment in December.

Michael, we know Maurice paid his rent in June last. This visit is to remind you both, don't pay the next due instalment!

Michael was the first to hear the stamping of feet outside the kitchen door. He knew what it meant: mud being cleaned off boots by stamping and scraping them on the flagstones. He breathed a sigh of relief. Maurice was home. Maurice would know what to do. The latch lifted, the door swung open and Maurice Beirne stomped in.

Maurice did not look anything like his brother. He stood six-one in his socks. He took after his mother's side of the family. His face was angular, his clean-shaven jaw set square and his eyes flinty blue. His arms were long, and large blue veins carried a rich supply of blood to his strong, capable hands. Before his mother had died, she had told him proudly that he looked just like his grandfather, Hannah's father. No, Maurice was nothing like his brother, and Fergal knew this only too well.

What's all this? He directed his question directly to Fergal.

You know what this is, Maurice. You paid your half-yearly rent last June. This is to remind you not to pay the next instalment in December, Callaghan replied.

You have enough on your side. And we still owe plenty. That was arrears I paid in June. And when I pay in December, I will still be in arrears.

De la Hunte nor the rest of them get no more blood money until we get a reduction. And no one should have to pay for these last three years, Fergal said. He remained calm, but Beirne’s defiance was hard to swallow. Everywhere else he went he met with frightened compliance to his wishes.

How come you didn't go to England this year? Maurice asked Fergal, never taking his eyes off him. He ignored the others. Fergal was the leader. Maurice wondered what would come next: smashing the place up as a warning was usually the next step. It had happened to a few of his neighbours. Good people caught between a rock and a hard place: if you didn't pay, the landlord threatened you with eviction; if you did pay, the no-renters called round and smashed up your home. After a few threats went unheeded, that was the inevitable outcome.

Same as you, Maurice. No work. We have no choice now only fight our corner here. We've got to stop paying rent until the weather improves and the land recovers.

Yes. Well, you won't solve it above in Hebron's, Michael said.

Maurice turned to his brother in amused annoyance. Michael had a habit of saying the most inappropriate things when he was nervous.

That didn't go down well with Johnnie Moran, who already had several pints of Hebron's stout flowing through his veins. He piped up: We'll solve it starting right here, Beirne. He then took a swipe at the kitchen dresser with the scythe, but before the weapon could smash the cutlery on the dresser, Moran found his wrist in the vice-like grip of Fergal Callaghan's hand. They'll be none of that here in this house tonight, Moran. If you ever do anything like that again without my say-so I'll break your arm, is that clear?

Moran had the brain of a hen, Fergal knew. Both Moran's own unthinking action and Callaghan's warning would be a distant memory within hours. But it suited Fergal to show Maurice that he was a reasonable man, and in control of his men.

A sudden stillness fell on the group.

We're going now. Maurice, you've been warned for the last time. Pay no more rent until the landlords give some ground. There's a land meeting in Sandford next week. O'Brien will be there, along with O'Kelly and Dr Cummins. It'll be advertised in the Journal and the Messenger. Come to the meeting. You'll see, we should all pull together on this, instead of fighting among ourselves, for God's sake. Callaghan's voice had become reasoning, almost pleading, a decent man having to do an unpleasant, but necessary job. They started to file out the door, watched by the Beirnes. Michael looked at his brother, wondering what Maurice thought of it all. Michael always took his cue from Maurice.

Don't pay the rent, Fergal repeated. We're sorry, Maurice. But we won't be back so long as you pay no more rent. Fergal ushered his men out before him into the freezing dark night.

We shouldn't have paid, Maurice, why did you pay? Michael asked. He was shaking and his voice had a tremor in it.

Maurice turned to the fireplace and placed the black kettle on the hook over the fire.

Let's have a cup of tea now, Michael, Maurice said.

Chapter 3

A special brother

Carthy's Hill, Monday 27 December 1880

It was nearly dark!

Where in God's name was he?

He had sent him back to the house over half an hour ago for two more posts to finish the fencing.

Maurice was sure his older brother was getting worse. God knows he had never been great. Always slow, singing away happily to himself. 'Not a care in the world', their mother, God rest her soul and give her the light of heaven, used to say. But lately, he was blessed diabolical. You couldn't rely on him for anything.

He would have to go up himself. By the time he walked across most of their thirty-acre holding to their small, low, three-roomed cottage in the top field bar one, found out whatever-the-hell Michael was doing, and got the stakes, it would probably be too late, too dark, to trudge back across the rushes and wet ground to finish fencing the lower field until morning. And he had wanted, badly, to finish tonight.

There was tension between Beirne and his neighbour, Fergal Callaghan. He had come down earlier only to find Callaghan's cattle, about twenty of the brutes, all over the two bottom fields. It hadn't been hard to put them out. They knew well where they came in and they just followed their own path back into Callaghan's land as Maurice stood behind them and gently whooshed them along. It wasn't the animals' fault. The fence had been weak, he supposed, in that spot. But you could have no weak spot where Callaghan was concerned, either in your fencing, or in yourself. Callaghan was a big, strong, rough brute, yes, but he knew his place if you were able to stand up to him. Callaghan had been known to muscle in on vulnerable neighbours' land. He just let his rough herd of cattle nose away at your fence and make their way through. The longer the situation went unchallenged, the more the marauding beasts saw the newly annexed territory as theirs and the harder they were to shift. And you could expect no help from Callaghan.

And that was before he became head of the no-renters. Now Callaghan's power and reputation had grown considerably. Put simply, Maurice knew, honest people now went in fear of Fergal and his group.

But there was no point in discussing or sharing his worries with Michael. Michael was a friend to everyone, living in a dream world of his own, whereas Fergal had his brother Billy to back him up.

He trudged back across the fields towards the house on the hill. The house stood on what was originally a nine-acre impoverished plot called locally Carthy's Hill, in the townland of Foley's Fields. It was originally owned by a man called Carthy back in the eighteenth century, and the name had remained with the small piece of land. His father and mother had eked out a miserable living from those nine acres. The house stood on the best of the land, the top-most section comprising about three acres. Maurice had got the chance a few years ago, when one of the neighbouring tenants, a man called Michael Foley, old and unmarried, had died, to increase his holding. He had rented the deceased man's plot of twenty-one acres from the landlord. As he headed back towards the house up an incline the land improved. Here the ground was good: fine fields, great for hay. The bottom fields, close to fifteen acres, were soft and wet in the winter, rushes abounded there. He kept cattle in the bottom fields, solid, hardy small black cattle. They didn't require much. In the winter, they could stand up to the weather and forage for themselves with the aid of hay. There was an open shed near the gate, the exit to the narrow, rutted lane that led out to the main road about a mile away. This shed provided shelter in the winter months for the few cattle he had not sold off by November. He passed the shed and followed the beaten path from it to the house. He went round the back and found his brother. He stared at Michael's back with vexed frustration. Michael was messing with the four pigs they kept near the back of the house.

Michael, what are you at!?

I'm giving a bit to the pigs.

Michael, why didn't you bring back the two stakes as I asked you to? Didn't I tell you I wanted to finish fencing off Callaghan's cattle in case they broke in again tonight?

But I was going to get them now in a minute.

Michael, it's dark now. The pigs could have waited until we got back to the house. The fencing is below in the bottom field. Maurice felt his temper rise. Michael always had an answer, an excuse. But nothing ever got finished unless Maurice himself took charge.

Well ... I just thought—

But Maurice didn't wait to hear what Michael had 'just thought'. You couldn't win with Michael. You just couldn't. He had sent him for the two stakes because it was easier than actual fencing. Maurice had remained behind, fencing. It required guile and tact, using a limited supply of wire, which was expensive to buy, and supplementing this with carefully placed bushes, rocks and shrub. If he had gone for the stakes himself, there would have been no progress made while he was away. It wasn't that Michael was lazy, as such. He meant well, he was always moving in that slow motion way that he had, almost as if he were in a trance. He was always doing something. But nothing ever seemed to get finished. Michael was just not capable of completing any task.

Maurice was sick of it; he was sick of it for a long time, now that he came to think about it. The constant battles with Michael were stupid, demeaning. He longed to work with someone like Frank Egan, in the neighbouring townland of Grange. He worked with Frank from time to time, helping him save hay, fencing, or driving cattle to the fair in Sandford. Oh God, how different those days were. Frank farmed fifty acres of decent land. Although Egan's land was rented from de la Hunte in Huntstown—a landlord more feared than respected—he gave Egan no trouble, and Egan gave him none. Maurice was luckier. Lord Black was okay, and the agent, Dillon, was a good man. He had learnt much from his father, who had been Black's agent during the famine years. And they had been bad, very bad, years. Dillon senior had been a big help to the tenants back in '46-50, when they nearly all starved to death. Like his father before him, you could reason with Dillon Junior, as the locals called him. Therefore, Maurice had also kept his rent up to date, or no more than one year behind, as he was now.

This was some achievement. Nearly every one of his neighbours were in arrears of over one year. But Maurice, now thirty-eight years old, was a great worker. Several of the farmers he had gone to work for in England for a few months each year had praised him. A few had wanted to keep him on permanently. He was tempted. But what could he do? No way was he bringing Michael to England with him, and he just couldn't leave him on the farm all alone. Just abandon him. He just couldn't. And besides, he had promised Mam he would watch over Michael. If he left, Fergal Callaghan would have the land taken over, and Michael working for him, within the year.

So he stuck to seasonal work in England, just enough to subsidize the farm. At home he made do with days when he could leave Michael around the house and go working with Frank. On those days, there was no stupid confusion, no pointless arguments, no laments of 'I just thought'; 'I will now, in a minute'; or 'Take your time, can't you'; just a day of calm, intelligent work and communication.

But Maurice always felt guilty when he thought of his brother in this way.

And then there was Frank's sister, Catherine.

Maurice knew he loved Catherine. But what was he to do? Bring her to live with him and Michael in Carthy's Hill? At best, she would descend into annoyance and frustration as his mother had done when trying to deal with Michael on a day-to-day basis. At worst, she might go crazy and end up in the lunatic asylum in Ballinasloe.

They had been out a few times. Oh, the sheer joy of her company lifted his heavy heart, whether it was walking on the road or sometimes a day out in Sandford. Maurice sensed he could take things further with Catherine. No, more than sensed he could. He knew he could. He knew it because of the way she sometimes glanced up at him, her easy familiarity with him as they stood close together, touching, with no hurry on her part to move away, like she could leave her warm hand rest on his strong arm all day. She was beautiful: auburn hair, brown eyes and a skin tanned from outdoor work. It amazed him that he could keep her affection, that he got to share the time and company of such a wondrous creature. She never judged him; never pressed her opinions on him or showed anything towards him except patience and dare he think it, love? But what was he to do? He had wanted to move the relationship to the physical level now for months. But he could not see beyond that event. What would happen to them then? This mental barrier he seemed incapable of surmounting. Because if she was to do that, if she was to honour him in that way, then he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he would be the happiest man in all of Ireland and how could he handle such happiness? He had never been that happy. Like heaven, he could in fact only guess what it might be like. That amount of happiness did not work in Bleakmount. Like a rare plant in a perfect climate, it would be crushed and destroyed in the harsh daily reality of farming a thirty-acre tenanted plot in such a place. Only by staying hard, shielding his heart and staring out at the world with cold, cynical eyes could he survive in Bleakmount. But Catherine Egan could breach those defences in a heartbeat; this he knew beyond any doubt.

He lit the lamps in the kitchen and stoked the fire. Michael had come in and Maurice listened to his brother singing to himself as he wrote in his journal in his room. His heart grew heavy as his mother's words came to him from across the long years. He saw the blank stare of incomprehension in his brother's eyes as Maurice had chastised him for not getting the stakes and coming back as he had asked him to. He had seen the same blank look many times. As their mother used to say, 'He's as unconcerned', when describing yet another confrontation with Michael. Maurice carried the weight of their loss around with him every day.

Michael continued to sing in his room. While he did, he slowly brushed away the dust from a corner of the cold stone floor near his window beside the bed and carefully removed a loose flagstone. He reached in and slowly lifted out the copybook he kept hidden there. It was wrapped in cloth. He sat back on the bed with his prize and began to unwrap the copybook. Then he began to do one of his favourite things in the whole wide world. He painstakingly, with a small pencil he had bought in Huntstown, began to write in what he and Maurice had done today. He wrote pedantically, leaving almost no details out: Got up this morning at 7. Fed the pigs. Me and Maurice then had breakfast. He continued in this vein for about an hour. By that time, he had reached the point where he and Maurice had gone fencing. We didn't get the fencing finished. Maurice didn't bring enough stakes with him the first time and I had to go back to the house for more. But by then it was too dark, so we will have to finish tomorrow.

He began writing another sentence when he heard footsteps outside in the yard and a loud knock on the kitchen door. They had visitors. He cocked his head and listened for a moment. Then he left the diary aside on the bed and went to look.

Maurice heard the footsteps outside on the stone path; more than one pair. Visitors weren't that unusual. Still, it was late. And he wasn't expecting anyone. Some worry he couldn't articulate furrowed his brow and it was with a grim countenance that he opened his kitchen door. It scraped across the flagstone floor. It needed re-hinging; Maurice mentally noted. The minute he opened the door he knew his subconscious mind had been right. This was not going to be a good night. Fergal and Billy Callaghan were standing there. They were accompanied by four others. In their hands were improvised weapons: pick axe handles, forks, and, beneath the coarse bulky coats they all wore against the weather, Maurice suspected other implements. And Billy carried his shotgun.

Maurice's jaw set and he smiled.

It wasn't the pick axe handles that worried Maurice so much, nor the sight of the long- barrelled shotgun in Billy's hands; although, Maurice knew, Billy was shifty and unpredictable. But it was none of those things that really bothered Maurice. No, what really bothered him was the strong smell of whiskey and stout coming to him across the cold night air from their breath. He moved back as the group swept uninvited into his home like a virus.

We've come to talk about the rent, Maurice, Fergal Callaghan said.

Chapter 4

Discussion at gunpoint

Carthy's Hill, the night of Monday 27 and morning of Tuesday 28 December 1880

They all stumbled into the house. Maurice silently allowing the intrusion. Afterall, these were his neighbours. He noticed Fergal Callaghan's face was bloodshot red from whisky. The smell of it permeated the air.

You had this coming, Maurice. You know we had to call. We told you, we warned you— don't pay any more rent until we get our demands met. You didn't listen. Fergal's breath stank of whisky; Maurice felt it fill the kitchen.

Billy was standing behind him. At his brother's shoulder, where he usually was, Maurice noticed. It was ten o'clock at night. There were four other men with the two Callaghan brothers, the two who came to threaten him in November, and two more. Maurice knew them all. He had done favours for all of them in the past, and they for him. But now the land war was setting neighbour against neighbour. But, Maurice suspected, something else was driving Callaghan. He was never very passionate about farming; agitation, political or militant, could well be his true calling.

You paid off last year's rent arrears in Oneside before Christmas. You were seen, Beirne, Billy said from behind the safety of his brother's broad shoulders. Billy was a decent pint drinker, Maurice knew; fifteen to as much as thirty on a good day. And Maurice could tell at this very moment he had drunk in the region of between ten and twenty. He looked around at the others. They all had downed a good skinful.

A neighbour called Brian Moran had joined them from the previous time they had called. He and Johnnie Moran (no close relations), were just hangers-on. Maurice could pick them up and toss them aside like hay. They were there because they were influenced by Fergal, or maybe Billy, recruiting on his brother's behalf. They had no doubt gathered steam today with talk of landlords, agents, middlemen and rent in the many pubs in Sandford. Brian Moran was okay; just innocent. Of heavy build, he boosted a beetroot red face and had a loud, booming voice. His voice vibrated and his head shook when he spoke. He was generally well thought of in the community. He was a decent enough man, just argumentative and bull-headed; but the sort of neighbour that would help you with a calving or other emergency. He was mired in poverty. And worse, he had his smallholding of four acres sublet from Callaghan, as had his shifty namesake, Johnnie Moran. Despite the impoverished holding, having land, however small, gave them prestige in the community. It turned them from landless labourers into small men of means. They had land. The fact was, de la Hunte would never have given them a tenancy, so they had only been able to enter the market by subletting from Callaghan. Therefore, he had given them a hand up and they owed him. And since both of them had their plots—about four acres in Brian's case; about three in Johnnie's—taken from Callaghan they were swayed by his opinions in matters of politics. They would never make money on four and three acres, Maurice knew. He had to work in England to live on his thirty; and he sometimes sub-let extra land from reliable men, such as Frank Egan. But land in Co Roscommon gave you a social edge. In the pub, you could converse with better men about the price of feedstuffs and the heavy burden of rent. That was all the two bachelors, Brian and Johnnie Moran, cared about. They spent more time labouring on Callaghan's seventy-acre holding, Maurice knew, than they did on their own plots.

The fifth man in the group, the greasy-haired Liam Drury, was slight of build, but like a wasp hovering around while you were working, you needed to watch him, he could sting. The lids of his empty eye socket were half shut. Maurice wasn't sure what was there, an artificial eye, or the dead remains of the original. But it gave Drury a greasy, dangerous character; which was fine with Drury. He was the sort of character devoid of any real feeling and could be picked up to do some havoc any evening with the promise I'll see you right. Or better still, hard cash if it was available. Drury might be small, but he was known to be quick with the boot and Maurice suspected he carried a knife. But what Drury did have, Maurice knew, was a sense of proportion. Drury would fight quickly with someone on his own social level: a small tenant or a landless labourer, but he would not attack Maurice without severe provocation. Maurice didn't intend to give them any such excuse. It was time for cool heads.

The other addition to the previous time, along with Brian Moran, the sixth man, was Andy Ford. He was a different matter. Ford stood about five foot ten inches tall. He wore heavy work boots. His square jaw was covered in