Duffy was at the bottle, hard. Conor evaluated a man in a fit of nerves. No use turning the screws on him now. In his state of mind and with his temperament, he could make a real blunder or blurt it out drunk.
Conor poured himself a short drink, watching the driver fight to control his heaving chest, then dab up the rush of perspiration.
Conor downed the shot and got up. "I've got to talk this over with some people," he said.
"Now, for God's sake don't get any ideas I'd do anything against the Brotherhood. Once them boxes is out of the tender, my lips are sealed and you've got to tell them that."
"Calm down, man, just calm down."
Duffy gulped and half fell into a deep chair once the ordeal of getting it off his mind was done.
"I want to know one thing, straight on, no shit," Conor said.
Duffy lifted his eyes, again filled with fright.
"Does anybody know about this other than you and Calhoun Hanly?"
At that instant Duffy gave it away with a rather wild telltale hesitation. His eyes darted away from Conor's, then he knew he'd better control himself. "No," he snapped too quickly.
"I mean anyone, including your sister?"
"What makes you think that?"
"Because when you're scared you drink, and when you drink you talk. Doxie O'Brien is your best friend and you talk a lot to him. Does Doxie know?"
"On my mother's grave, he doesn't know."
"I hope it's a true statement for Doxie as well as for yourself."
"You've got to believe that, Conor."
"I'm not sure. I'll get back to you in a few days."
*
Oliver Cromwell Maclvor continued to raise the stakes, press his audacity and openly scorn his former masters. If there was a center point of his hatred it was the fact that the gentry loathed him, never accepted him as an equal, never granted him the respect he craved. He intended to make them pay dearly for the lifelong snub.
A decision was required when an off-year election was called to fill a vacancy on the Belfast Corporation Council, a Shankill seat held by a Unionist crony of Weed until his death created an opening.
Maclvor's first thought was to run for the Council himself but the gamble was too great. If he lost it would be a terrible blow for his infant Loyalist Party. He chose instead the one man among his followers who had achieved a bit of status and stood a notch above, the masses and was an answer to the gentry's snobbery.
The first candidate to represent the Loyalist Party was to be Lieutenant Colonel Howard Huntly Harrison, a retired army officer and titular "commander" of Maclvor's troops. HHH, as he was universally called, was a dull, bitter baggage who never ceased grousing at being passed over for higher rank in the military and knighthood. He found his cup of vengeance playing soldier at the head of Maclvor's corps.
The by-election for the Shankill seat became a focal point. Maclvor sensed that Weed's position had become vulnerable as a general strike rocked Belfast and crossed sectarian bounds with Catholic and Protestant workers joining hands. Brigadier Maxwell Swan had his hands full these days with the labor situation, so to make things more difficult for him, Maclvor's people openly campaigned for HHH in the yard. As this went unchallenged the Knights of Christ within the complex began holding prayer meetings during the lunch hour, bullying workers to attend. The tactic was simple. What quicker path to power than to challenge and disrupt Weed inside his own kingdom? Swan's special units now had the additional mission of keeping close eye on the Moderator's activities.
With the marching season at hand and Lambeg drums uncoiled before Orange halls across the province, the million flags bloomed like wildflowers. Weed Ship & Iron took on the scant of an unexploded bomb.
*
"O'Hurley's running scared," Conor said. "He's not too smart and his fireman's twice as dumb. I've no proof but it's my belief he's gone and blurted it to Doxie O'Brien."
Long Dan had lived a life of walls caving in on him but he'd never gotten totally immune to it. The Brotherhood was desperate for the weapons. "Typical," he grunted. "I don't see as we have much choice but to close down the operation."
"Not quite," Conor countered. "I've got to have one more crack at it. The plans are worked out. If the train sits still in the yard for just a few weeks I know I can make the conversions. Weed is making a last trip to England just before they sell off the old engine. In payment for letting O'Hurley and Hanly out of the deal, I say we make them carry one last load."
"How many?"
"Up to a thousand Lee-Enfields, maybe even more."
"What the hell am I supposed to say, Conor? You know what it means to us and you know the risk as well."
"I say give it a try. That will be the bargain. One trip, one thousand guns, then the operation is over."
Dan's fist beat a tattoo on the table "I'm not backing away from the responsibility but it's got to be your choice, your decision alone."
"Go," Conor said.
Long Dan nodded. "I want you out of the Weed yard as soon as you make the conversion. We've got better use for you than playing rugby in England."
"Aye, if truth be known, I'm ready. It's getting ugly in there, Dan, bloody ugly. Prayer meetings and vigils, talks of riots. It's a nasty place."
"Huh," Dan laughed, "it's Belfast, it's always been Belfast."
*
Conor's final plan called for two more bronze boxes in the water tank and one in the coal bin, two smaller ones in the engine and a series of plates at various places along the undercarriage of the cars, creating a series of false, bottoms. The goal, one thousand rifles.
*
"That's it, lads," Conor said, looking first to Duffy O'Hurley, then to Calhoun Hanly. "I want no conversation about it unless we run into technical difficulties. Otherwise you carry the guns in or take the consequences." The fireman nodded that he understood.
"Duffy?"
"Aye, but you swear it's the last run, you swear that"
"You've my word."
"Aye," O'Hurley said.
"We start converting as much as we can in the yard. The rest will be done in Liverpool."
Conor stood and threw a packet of money on the table "Here's half in advance. Our show of good faith. The Brotherhood intends to keep its word in all matters. You understand, all matters."
CHAPTER SIX
It was the Fourth of July, American Independence Day. Just as Ulstermen likened themselves to the ancient Hebrews coming to the promised land of Ulster, they identified as strongly with their Scotch-Irish emigration to America.
Besides, any reason to break out the band was a good one. The marching season approached full blaze. Weed Ship & Iron floated on an ocean of red, white and blue Union Jacks and a bibliography of Orange slogans.
It was also rumor time. Annual rumors rolled from lilting tongues punctuated by the bang of the Lambeg. Rumor of a sellout by the British Parliament, rumor of a papal plot, rumor of a Catholic conspiracy to gain equality in Ulster through the labor strikes, rumor of a deepening depression.
During the noon hour there was to be the annual gathering at the "Big Mabel" dry dock where massed Orange bands would play and oration would commemorate the American holiday. With the by-election coming up, the Loyalist Party demanded that Lieutenant Colonel Howard Huntly Harrison be allowed to address the throng just as the Unionist candidate was scheduled to do. When this was denied, the rumor was on that the Knights of Christ were going to make trouble.
Conor divided half his time between the locomotive works and restoration work at the half-completed Rail & Marine Museum at the far end of the complex. On this day he was at the museum building piecing together a vintage 1850 South Eastern Railway "Folkstone" engine. As it neared noon he was alone, for everyone drifted down to Big Mabel and the celebrations. He looked up from the scattered parts to see Robin MacLeod enter the building breathing heavily as though he had been running.
"Hello," he said curiously. When he caught Robin's expressio
n of panic his first thought was that something had happened to Shelley.
Robin looked about to see there were no listeners. "I got to tell you something," he gasped shakily. "I been looking all over for you . . ."
"What is it?"
"Look, man, don't ask no questions but don't go back into the yard."
The strains of "Dixie" could be heard drifting from the concert a quarter mile away at Big Mabel. Conor sensed it at once. Riot! Almost all of the yard's two hundred Catholics, including the lads on the club, worked in the copper plant near the locomotive works. For some odd reason it was the one craft not brought over from Scotland. Whenever trouble hit the yard, the copper shop got it first. And then Conor clutched! Duffy O'Hurley and Calhoun Hanly were in the locomotive plant today!
"There's going to be a riot, isn't there?"
"Don't ask no questions, just get out."
"Maclvor's people, those Knights . . ."
"Look, man, will you just leave!”
"Are you certain of it?" "Aye, I'm certain. Morgan heard it at the church."
"Some bloody church," Conor spat. "Have you warned the other lads?"
"I can't, Conor, I can't. I don't care for myself, but it would be too easy to figure out who did it and it could mean Morgan's ass."
"They're your mates!"
"It's them or my dad. The lads on the club will be able to fend for themselves. But . . . but . . . but . . . I had to come and warn you, no matter."
"Get out of my way," Conor said.
"I won't let you go back there, Conor. I don't care about the others but you're like a brother to me."
"I'm not your brother! I puked inside every time I walked in your home and saw your bloody fucking Orange sash hanging there! Now stand aside, boy!"
Robin backed up, fingers darting out at Conor's chest "I can't let you."
As Conor tried to push him out of the way Robin uncorked a pair of punches to his face but they only dented and did not stop the larger man's momentum. Conor's blacksmith hands gripped Robin and flung him to the concrete floor like a sack. As he rushed past, Robin crawled quickly to his knees and brought Conor down from the rear with a brutal tackle. They thrashed on the ground clawing and hacking for a hold and as it grew wild, knees and elbows whacked and thudded.
I wish I was in Dixie, hooray hooray.
Conor reached his feet first with Robin all over him. Again his great hands pried himself free and they stood nose to nose slugging until Robin faltered and backed up wobbling under the blows. He lurched blindly, half dazed. Conor put a vicious bear hug on him until he wheezed for breath and, as it deflated him, his face purpled and his eyes rolled back. He faulted. Conor released him and he crumpled to the ground.
He flung the door open. The quickest route was to cut diagonally across the playing pitch, down the channel road and over the high bridge to the steel mill side.
Somehow Robin MacLeod got up and came at him from behind. Whap, in the back of the neck, whap, whap, whap. Conor reeled and as Robin gathered strength for a last surge he was met with a backhand followed by an awesome blast to the stomach. As Robin sank to his knees, Conor booted him in the jaw, lifted him up and sent home the blow that laid him unconscious.
When Johnny comes marching home again, hurrah, hurrah.
The noon whistle shrieked!
The grass under Conor's feet melted and the grandstands blurred. Down King William Channel to the bridge. He climbed the steps and stopped for an instant in the middle.
"Oh, God!"
Several hundred men moved as a mob in his direction, wielding clubs with spiked ends, crowbars, wrenches and rivets. He shot over and down the stairs to the row of small support shops and tore into the copper plant.
"Riot! Riot! Catholics out of the east gate! Riot! Riot! Catholics out!"
As a melee flooded past him to escape through the rear, he returned to the entrance and caught sight of them pouring over the bridge. He looked behind him. Catholics were fleeing for safety with but an iota to spare.
"Locomotive shop," he gasped, "locomotive shop." He, inched along hugging the buildings and came to an end, then girded himself for a dash over open ground just as the mob reached the copper shop and blasted in flailing.
"Papist pigs!"
"Death to the Taigs!"
"Kill them!"
"Fuck the Pope!"
"Traitors!"
Conor made his move.
"There's one!"
Weaving through the locomotive assembly with exquisitely gained knowledge of the place, he found Duffy and Calhoun loafing in the foreman's office unaware of the chaos outside. He seized them both and dragged them from the office.
"You gone crazy?"
"There's a riot on!"
"Oh, mercy, Jesus!"
Conor looked about desperately for an escape route. There was none. Blurred images of the rioters formed up on the frosted windows outside, encircling the building.
"Up on the engine, quick," Conor commanded. "Hide inside the boiler."
"Get up here with us," Duffy cried.
"No, they know I'm in here. They'll tear the place to pieces looking for me and they'll find you as well. Go, go, go!"
As they disappeared to tentative safety, Conor allowed himself a few steadying breaths, then walked directly at the main door at the same instant it was breached. Seeing him standing calm and unarmed, the mob screeched to a halt.
Vessey Bain, a Catholic hater of demented proportions and most noble of the Knights within the yard, hissed rage but even so he knew an attack on Larkin would be no easy out.
"Out of the way, Larkin," Vessey snarled, "there's Taigs here and we're getting them."
Conor held fast.
"You fucking papist son of a bitch! You're no privileged character!"
"Weed's ass licker, that's what!"
"Aye! Kill the fucker!"
Before Vessey could make a decision a half dozen rivets were hurled out of the pack. Conor crashed in blackness as one found its mark on the side of his head.
He regained consciousness after a dousing and strained but found himself held in place, lashed, spread eagled to the spokes of an engine wheel.
Left empty-handed of Catholic blood due to Larkin's alarm, they aimed to make him pay. Vessey Bain spat in his face and kicked at his shins maniacally, sweating and half choked with rage. With the others screaming for him to be done in, that strange glimmer of self-preservation prevailed. "Killing's too good for him," Vessey grunted. "Let's put him into dry dock for good. Let Joey Hooker have a go!"
Hooker had once been a half-decent middleweight boxer until his mind got knocked soggy. Sir Frederick took him in as a charity case. Without too many independent thoughts of his own, Vessey Bain had talked him into becoming a Knight of Christ for the benefit of the man's punch.
He laughed silly-like at the man tied up before him. Pop, pop, pop, went Hooker's jab into Conor's face, pop, pop, pop. A right into the stomach, vooooom!
Joey Hooker snorted through his broken nose from the exertion of each punch.
AS THE CHEERS SWELLED UP AROUND HIM HE WAS IN THE RING AGAIN DEFENDING THE MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP OF ULSTER. HIS OWN EYE WAS GASHED AND AS HE STAGGERED HE COWERED AGAINST THE ROPES, THEN CAME OFF SWINGING, PLODDING, THROWING . . . "PUNCH, JOEY, PUNCH!" HIS MANAGER SCREAMED AND THE CROWD TORE THE PLACE APART IN DELIRIUM AS HE RALLIED. "PUNCH! PUNCH! KILL HIM, JOEY, KILL HIM . . . YOU'VE GOT HIM, JOEY . . . PUNCH . . . punch . . . punch . . ."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Calhoun Hanly propped Conor against the wall as Duffy O'Hurley fished through his pockets and found his key. As the door opened Conor attempted to make it alone. He stumbled into the vestibule but crumpled at the foot of the stairs.
The two brawnies lifted him to his feet, gathered his arms about their necks and dragged him up the steps. He doubled up screaming as a violent pain ripped through his body. They labored, one step after the other, making the landing at last. As Duffy turned to unlock the door of the
flat, Conor slipped to his knees, then gripped the railing, pulled himself up, lurched inside the room and stood wavering, fell again and crawled to the bed grabbing at the sheets to pull himself up, but rolled over on his back, sending the coverings down on him.
Calhoun struck a match, found the gas mantle and the light rose softly. They rushed to help him.
Shelley stepped into the open, went to him and saw it Both eyes were bloated to slits and violent colors and his mouth was too split to speak. She did not scream but clung to him as life itself, fighting off her own tears and nausea.
"Get him up on the bed and help me get him undressed." At last she turned her eyes away as Hanly pulled off his shirt and trousers. His body had been beaten yellow and purple from thighs to shoulders.
She hid her face in her hands as Duffy put his arm about her shoulder to steady her.
"How bad?"
"He's pretty busted up. Stitches inside his mouth, half his ribs are cracked and a couple small fractures in his cheek. His face and head got little stitches all over. The doctor took a picture of his head. Thank God there's no damage there."
"Why didn't you keep him in the hospital?"
"The mob's still prowling around. He came around long enough to demand to leave. I called someone for him in Dublin. There are some armed lads on the way . . . don't ask no more."
"I'll take care of him."
"Aye, come here, lass."
Duffy unrolled a packet of drugs which included a vial of morphine and syringe. He went over the doctor's instructions, then the three of them got him arranged in the bed and shot in a dose of the drug.
"Thanks," Shelley said.
"Thanks for nothing. I might be dead if it wasn't for him. Keep on the watch, will you?"
"We'll be all right," she said.
She bolted the door behind them, went quickly to the place he had fixed beneath the sink, found his pistol, then took up vigil at his bedside with the gun in her lap.