Chapter Thirty
Christmas came and went. Rynn spent it with Granny and Glenna at the cottage. Not that Owen’s warning had alarmed her into
doing so, precisely, because she’d always meant to spend Christmas with her nearest and dearest. But with Mrs. Frampton off
to visit her sister for the holidays and Cyril, when pressed, expressing a wish to go see his old mother in Drogheda, and
Anna and Lynette already slated to go to their families, it seemed like a good time to close up the house for a little while
just in case she was, like Dr. Lowry, on somebody’s watch list.
Owen returned, as he’d said he would, but only for a lightning visit. He checked on his sister, dropped in to see Rynn—“I’m
glad to know somebody listens to me” was his reaction to finding her at the cottage—and took her to dinner at the Great Northern
Hotel before leaving with Tim the next day. When she asked about his progress in London, he was pessimistic.
“Neither side is willing to make any concessions. Churchill seems to think Ireland should be made to bend the knee to the
Crown whatever the cost, and Mick doesn’t seem to realize that he’s throwing a few thousand fighters at most against the whole
might of the British Empire. I think he thinks we can just worry them to death.”
“You’re right, the man’s not courting you,” Granny said with a sly smile after he was gone.
“He comes to visit his sister. He feels responsible for her and her family.”
“It wasn’t his sister he took to dinner.”
“The man has to eat.”
Quelling look clashed with irritating twinkle, and there the matter was allowed to rest.
Over the next few weeks, it became obvious that much was changing in Bundoran and the surrounding area, and for Ireland as
a whole, and not for the better. The IRA had attempted to assassinate the lord lieutenant of Ireland, British Field Marshal
Viscount French, in Dublin, in late December, and by doing so had infuriated the British and the Unionists. The British soldiers
and the RIC, previously regarded by at least half the population with fear and loathing, were felt to be almost gentlemanly
in comparison with what came next. The Crown recruited mercenaries and sent them over, just as Owen had warned.
Unemployed rank-and-file ex-soldiers with no ties to or affection for Ireland or the Irish, they arrived in batches, only
a few at first and then in increasing numbers. Given a mandate by the Crown to stamp out the rebellion and annihilate any
who opposed them, they openly relished the assignment. They walked the streets as if they owned them—and everyone took note,
and did their best to stay out of their way. As more came, they rode around in armored lorries mounted with machine guns.
Festooned with hand grenades and brandishing their Enfield rifles, they boasted loudly of the horrible fate that awaited the
IRA and any who aided them.
Rude and rough, barging in where they chose, taking over as they pleased, they were regarded with dread everywhere they went.
Even the RIC and the regular British soldiers stayed out of their way.
Their uniforms were as crude as they were.
Thrown together from leftover RIC and army uniforms, they were missized and mismatched, with RIC tunics of a green so dark they looked black paired with khaki army trousers.
It was this unedifying combination that gave them their nickname: the Black and Tans.
“Think they’re cocks of the walk, don’t they?” Noreen Kelly, who taught with Glenna, eyed the trio of Tans, as they were known,
as they pushed through the doors of George’s Pub, a neighborhood gathering place off Main Street, and aggressively approached
the bar. She, along with Rynn and Glenna and three other young women, were crowded into a booth in the back of the dimly lit
establishment. It was early evening, dark out but not late, and, like the pub, the street outside the plate glass windows
was busy. They’d just attended a musical variety performance by the Bundoran Players, and had stopped by George’s for a quick
bite before heading home. Rynn was there at Glenna’s urging, a little uncomfortable even though she knew everybody at the
table and most in the pub. She was still conscious of being regarded with suspicion in some quarters, and her black dress,
which she’d refused to switch out for something less gloomy as Glenna had pleaded with her to do, stood out, she feared, among
the more festive dresses of the others.
“They’re thugs.” Glenna made a face, and then glanced quickly down at her drink as one of the Tans swept a glance over their
booth.
“Terry O’Sullivan,” the Tan who appeared to be the leader boomed, smacking a hand down on the top of the bar as he waved a piece of paper in
the face of the barmaid. Startled, Rynn realized what it was as she caught a glimpse of what was on it: a wanted poster. “Point
him out.”
The barmaid, Siobhan O’Leery, a war widow several years older than Rynn, jumped like nearly everyone else in the pub at the
crashing sound of the slap, and went pale and wide-eyed as she found herself the object of the Tan’s attention. “Eh, he’s
not here.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” Siobhan squeaked, backing away from the bar.
The Tan turned, looking over the patrons, most of whom were frozen in place with their eyes either downcast or riveted on
what was happening. The other two Tans were already roaming the aisles, searching faces for their quarry.
“Terry O’Sullivan. One-thousand-pound reward to whoever turns him in. Prison for anyone who knows where he is and does not,”
the lead Tan bellowed, waving the wanted poster. “For anyone who harbors him, the firing squad.”
“Here, now, what’s all this?” George Marley, the pub’s owner, came rushing out of a back room, wiping his hands on his apron
as he came. Seeing the Tans, he stopped dead, regarding them with apprehension.
“You own this place?” The lead Tan moved toward George.
“I do.” Dropping his apron, George stood his ground.
“Terry O’Sullivan. Where is he?” The Tan shoved the poster in front of his nose.
“I already told them he’s not here,” Siobhan piped up, her voice shrill with fright.
“He’s not,” George agreed. “No more do I know where he is.”
“But he was here.” Quick as that, the Tan drew his pistol and struck George across the face with it. Crying out, clapping
both hands to his face, George doubled over. The Tan brought the pistol down with force on the back of his head, then when
he fell to the floor kicked him brutally.
“Next time he comes in and you don’t tell us, we burn the place down.” The Tan delivered a final kick to his victim. With
a baleful glance around the room, he headed toward the door. The others followed.
The third one shoved the butt of his rifle through the glass in the door as he left. The sound it made as it shattered sent
a last, collective shock through the pub.
Then the spell was broken. Everyone reacted, jumping to their feet, exclaiming, talking, rushing toward George, rushing to aid Siobhan, who had collapsed sobbing behind the bar.
Someone locked the pub’s broken door. Someone else started pointing people to a back exit.
No one wanted to venture out onto the street where the Tans could be seen through the window laughing as they sauntered away.
Shaken, Rynn knelt beside George, rendering what aid she could. He was unconscious but breathing. Blood poured from the cut
the pistol had made in his head. More blood streamed from his nose, which was obviously broken. Staunching the blood with
handkerchiefs and napkins and towels and every other absorbent thing passed to her by those gathered around, she managed to
stop the blood flow from his nose and applied a makeshift bandage to his head, tying it in place with a donated tie. She stayed
beside him as several men picked him up and rushed him out the back exit, where a car had been driven into the alley to take
him to Dr. Lowry. Pulled back by Glenna, knowing George would be in good hands with Dr. Lowry and not wanting to have herself
identified as a nurse by a Tan or anyone else who might be watching, Rynn stayed behind. Leaving a few minutes later, she
walked home with Glenna and the others. But their mood had changed from lighthearted enjoyment of their outing to anger and
fear. Moving quickly through the alley, the group split up at Sea Road. All were in a hurry to get home. All were on a mission
to avoid the Tans.
“The bastards,” Glenna said fiercely but not too loudly as she hurried along at Rynn’s side, as if still afraid she might be overheard.
It was full night—–later than they’d meant to stay out—with only a sliver of moon to light the way now that they were past the sidewalks and the streetlamps were behind them.
As they neared the cottage, the area became increasingly deserted.
Across the road, the stretch of dark fields with the dark, jagged edges of the Dartry Mountains rising up in the distance, though a familiar sight, seemed suddenly eerie and unsettling.
All at once, without any warning, Rynn felt as though she was no longer on the street with Glenna, but rather that she was
a long way away, observing the scene from a vantage point that wasn’t her own.
Her attention riveted on an animal the size of a small calf or large dog, blacker than the night, running away at speed across
the field.
Watching it, she felt an overwhelming sense of dread.
“We can’t abide this. And we won’t,” Glenna said. Her sister’s voice snapped her back to the present, and Rynn was left to
stare at the field, which was deserted, and wonder what had just happened and what she’d seen.
“Do you suppose Mr. Marley will be all right?” Glenna added, clearly unaware that anything was amiss. Unsettled by the experience,
Rynn chose to dismiss it and turned to her sister.
“I hope so,” she said.
“Justice needs to be done,” Glenna said fiercely, and Rynn agreed.