Excerpt
“Anyway, Michael, Danny would be a good man for you. He’s a hill farmer to his toe nails. It’s in his blood. Like yourself. The family worked that land up there for generations.”
“Sounds like the very man I’m looking for,” said Michael.
“You’d be bringing another Fenian rebel into the village,” Jim cautioned. “He’ll turn your place into a Republican arsenal. And watch out if John Hackett discovers it.”
“Aw no, Jim,” said Peter. “Young Danny has no truck with that kind of thing. He’s no rebel, believe me. He knew what his father was up to, but what could he do? The fact that Hackett left him alone tells you he’s all right. I know him well. I’ve been pulling or filling the teeth of three generations of Boylans. I’ll get word to him to come and see you, Michael.”
“Sounds good, Peter.”
“I hope you don’t live to regret it, Michael,” said Jim Patterson.
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He strode resolutely eastwards along the main road in the direction of Carraghlin. He stopped on the bridge over the Shannagh River, lit a cigarette, leaned his elbows on the granite slabs that capped the wall, and stared down into the turbulent water. His mind had taken a tight hold on Flynn Casey and wouldn’t let go.
Now Flynn Casey was coming back from his latest visit to Dublin.
Bastard, Jim thought. We Protestants are not going to live in an Ireland ruled by the Roman Catholic Church. Never.
Jim Patterson was brought up in fear of Home Rule for Ireland, afraid, like most Protestants, that success for Home Rule would establish a Roman Catholic domination over the whole country. Members of the Orange Order in particular, which included every man in the Patterson family, remained deeply distrustful of Popery and of Home Rule as an alliance that threatened both their Order and the militant Puritanism of their ancestors.
Jim turned and looked across the road at the Big House of the Hamilton family, dark and brooding in the shadow of the trees on the other side of the river.
You should be standing with us, Clifford Hamilton, not against us, he thought spitefully. You Fenian-loving, heathen-loving bastard. You’re no better than Flynn Casey. Don’t you know the IRA are burning down big houses like yours. Just wait, Clifford Hamilton. And you, Flynn Casey. You’re both going to get yours.
