Chapter 2
Military Necessity
"Where the pools are bright and deep,
Where the gray trout lies asleep,
Up the river and o'er the lea,
That's the way for Billy and me."
(James Hogg. "The Boy's Song")
Tallanstown, County Louth, Ireland
November 1906
The coolness of autumn had settled in; showers tempered the heat of a long, warm summer. As the year drew to a close, the farmers felt smug with another abundant harvest; the kind one remembers in later years:
"Ah, yes, oh-six was a grand harvest, that year we had just enough rain and just enough sun, and sure by the end of October, the barns were full."
Life in the small Irish village went on as it had done as far back as anyone could remember. Even during the famine years, the Plunkett family had treated the tenants well. Few now had any memories of those terrible times, though Louth in the relatively drier Northeast of Ireland suffered less than the wetter West and South coasts.
The cackling of crows in the bare trees overhead went unnoticed by two young lads walking along the path towards the old stone bridge, survivor of countless winters and wars, joining the two halves of Tallanstown across the river Glyde. The boys were deep in conversation as they kicked a stone between them, scattering the dead leaves covering the path, scuffing their boots, inviting a scolding from their parents at some later stage.
Vincent McCann and Billy McCardle were both 12 years old, and as they reached the bridge they met with their other classmate, Mick Nugent. The three were all the same age and in the same class at the national school. Not quite past the age of playing, at the same time they were on the cusp of manhood, and shared many common interests, the foremost two being girls and fishing, or fishing and girls, one couldn't be sure which was the correct order.
The river Glyde, in full flow now from the autumn showers up in the hills, rushed past the police station where Vincent's father was sergeant. On each side, old elms and willows drooped down to kiss the waters gurgling past. Near the barracks stood Saint Peter's Catholic Church and the national school. Across the road were the estate workers' cottages with more recent additions on the opposite side of the river, most occupied by the laborers and tradesmen employed by Louth Hall.
Vincent lived in the house adjoining the barracks with his widowed father and siblings; Joe, aged 15, was the oldest at home, Jim having left for the Christian Brothers training college in Dublin. Edith, at 11, was already fulfilling the duties of housekeeper in addition to her studies, helped by Mina, who was 7. Leo was 10 and Wilfred 8. At times, because of the shortage of rooms in the small house some of the lads often stayed with their grandmother, Anne Jayne, in the nearby village of Mansfieldstown.
Leaning over the parapet of the bridge, oblivious to the damp moss, the mesmerizing waters of the river captured the boys' full attention. They chatted idly, mostly about girls. Vincent's eyes glazed a bit as he thought of Mary Coghlan, who at the vastly superior age of 14, looked down her nose at him. But that wasn't deterring his ardor. Being generally a reserved person though, he wasn't getting very far and had yet failed miserably to make his feelings known. The other two were doing no better, so eventually the conversation drifted to fishing for trout, a subject on which they had considerably more expertise, and their plans for Saturday. They were thinking of going to that sweet spot they knew on the river, where, outside the village they could enjoy being away from adult scrutiny. The bend in the river made a still pool where the fish sometimes gathered, and they had in fact managed to land a small trout a week ago.
"And frisking in the stream below
The troutlets make the circles flow,
And the hungry crane doth watch them grow
As a smoker does his rings."
(Francis Ledwidge. "Behind the Closed Eye")
While making their plans, they were all talking at the same time until Vincent was startled by a shout from his father to come and help get the tea ready. He reluctantly said goodbye to his pals and ran home. The other two lads went off to the row of houses they lived in on the other side of the river. The evening was closing in and one of Vincent's jobs was to light the oil lamps and trim them-by now the house was nearly in darkness. He enjoyed this task and took pride in getting the blue lamp flame trimmed, just so, that there was the brightest light with no smoke. The smell of fresh baked soda bread filling the small house and mixing with the sweet oily odor of the paraffin lamps would remain a memory with him for years to come, and comfort him during times of almost unbearable stress which lay ahead in his future.
The village of Tallanstown was small, by any comparison, and a handy station for their father, Patrick, who had plenty to cope with besides his job and was nearing retirement. He was saving to buy a small farm back in Cavan where he was born, but bringing up a pack of hungry kids kept the little money he put aside to a bunch of dreams in a jar.
Their cozy milieu was about as remote as a village could be in Ireland, surrounded by woods and farmland, the trees now shedding their leaves to make a soft brown carpet over the roads and along the riverbank. The nearby Louth Hall estate employed most of the tenants in the cottages on each side of the bridge. This, and nearby Mansfieldstown where their grandma lived, were the only places Vincent knew, apart from a rare visit to the big towns of Belfast or Dundalk. Down the road just around the bend were the gate lodges to the manor, where Lord and Lady Louth lived-the 14th Baron and Baroness Louth.
Often on a winter's evening, the family sat around the kitchen table in the warm glow of the oil lamps, having finished their tea, just talking. Sometimes their father would tell them ghost stories or tales about the goings on in the country around them; as a diligent policeman, there was little that went on without his knowledge. One evening, he talked about the "Big House", as they called Louth Hall. Patrick slowly lit his pipe as he recalled the story of the Louth family.
The family name was Plunkett, going way back in the depths of Irish history to the Norman invasion. He told them how a Norman knight, Sir Hugh de Plunkett, came over to Ireland in the time of King Henry II and purchased large tracts of land in Counties Louth and Meath. The Plunketts came to Tallanstown in the late 1400s and built a tower house there, which was later extended into the present rambling property. One of Sir Hugh's descendants, Oliver Plunkett, was created Baron of Louth by Henry VIII in 1541. Though they remained loyal to the Crown, they also developed connections with the old Gaelic culture, and they remained Catholic despite pressure from the Crown to transfer their allegiance to the Church of England.
In 1670, a relative of the Plunketts, Oliver, who had joined the priesthood, was appointed Archbishop of Armagh, and during a period where the penal laws were relaxed somewhat, he returned from exile in Rome to take up his duties. He founded a seminary in Drogheda, which was later demolished as anti-Catholic sentiment returned. During this time in Ireland, he secretly stayed with the Plunketts at Louth Hall. Eventually he was tried for Treason by the English and sentenced to death. In 1681 he was hung, drawn and quartered-a most gruesome execution as one could imagine, which Patrick described in detail, laughing at their squeals of horror. In the 1700s the Plunketts became Protestant but returned to the Catholic faith in the 19th century and remained staunch Catholics ever since. Every Sunday the family would take their place in their special pew in the church.
They were a world apart from the people in the village. They spoke differently, were better educated, and above all else, privileged. Their son Otway was only two years older than Vincent, but they may as well have come from different planets. Yet they were as one with the community and their kindness respected. Once a year on a summer Sunday, all the village trooped up to the garden party which was held on the Manor grounds where they ate and drank-occasionally too much-played games and sang as the stout loosened up their inhibitions. The abundant food was laid out under a marquee on long tables with white linen cloths-different from the wax cloth table cover in most of the villager's houses.
Life in that small village had a sweetness and tranquility, which the children took for granted, but experiencing it in their most impressionable years, it shaped their lives forever.
It was only four years since their mother, Wilhelmina-or Minny, as she was known-had died after a long illness and the family was still trying to cope with the tragedy. The doctor's diagnosis was tuberculosis, which was rampant throughout the country and seemed to have no real cure. A leaden heaviness lay over the household for a long time. Each grieved in their own different way. Even now, Vincent missed her terribly-he was only eight when she passed away, an age where he badly needed a mother. When his friends talked about their mothers, he felt the tears well up, an ache in his heart and had to turn away. He'd developed a way of coping by withdrawing into himself, incommunicado as it were, which other people found irritating, but it was his method of grief...
