Read Online No Country: A Novel by Kalyan Ray - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kalyan Ray
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me, “Don’t you see?”
I did not wish to hear a word of what he was saying.
“Don’t you see,” continued Alexander Blackburn, moving in closer, an arm’s width away from me, “that O’Connell is nothing but a rich landlord comfortable in County Kerry?” He spoke faster, as he picked up his theme. “Remember what your James Lalor said about O’Connell: Not a pane of glass in the parish, not a window of any kind in half the cottages, the peasants on his estate among the most wretched.” His words were burning lead.
Fergus Murphy was trying to pull Alexander Blackburn away from me on this deserted embankment. I wanted to put both hands over my ears, and shut my eyes to him, but he shook off Fergus and took one more step towards me. What came over me, I will never know. I pulled out the knife behind my waist and cut a sharp arc with it before his visage. I wanted him to see that and flee. I wanted the triumph of his fear and the sound of his running steps to resurrect whatever it was I needed reviving—aye, my pride—if I have to give it a name.
But he had not seen me clutch my knife. He did not see me draw my arm back. He did not see me fling out my strong right arm in an arc. No, it did not stab him, but he had taken that heedless step, and my knife had snipped away a piece of his neckcloth. He stumbled, saying something incoherent. Fergus caught him. I had put my knife away.
“Blackburn,” said Fergus, supporting him in his stumble, “steady yourself. Enough said. This is useless talk. Go you home now.”
Alexander Blackburn stood quietly, looking at me with wonder. He raised his hand and lifted his finger, the other hand uncertainly fumbling with his neckcloth, which only I could see was torn. His finger was pointing at me.
“Don’t you see . . .” he murmured, and crumpled on the pavement. Fergus looked at him puzzled, looked at me, and then saw the blood gathering around Alexander Blackburn’s head, snaking down to the gutter. Dark pool , I thought. Fergus knelt by him and tearing off his neckcloth, parted his collar. There it was. On the left side of his neck was the merest gash, and with every beat a gurgle of blood was pouring out. His hands and legs quivered. His eyes had gone still, though open. By the time Fergus stood up, the man lay dead.
• • •
“L ET ME GO, let me run.” I struggled.
“Nay, nay, there is no time to argue, boy.” Fergus Murphy had me in an iron grip. The way he said it made me stand still. “If ye run, and there is found this young rich one, a Protestant boy dead in his fine coat, the Peelers will all be looking for us. You too were seen at the tavern closest here. Listen you, for I’ll say this once. Do you heed your da when he tells you?”
“My da is long dead.”
“Hush and listen. I am old enough to be your da. Hold his feet, I’ll hold his shoulders. Pull him into the shadow of that doorway. Get into his trousers and coat.” We raced across the street with our burden. As we lurked, a carriage drove past without stopping.
“It will never work!” I said in sudden panic, “if they catch me in his clothes, it’ll be the worse for me.”
“This one wild chance—or the gallows for ye,” Fergus said harshly. “Otherwise your best hope is Botany Bay for life. Ye’ll never see anyone ye loved, ever again.”
I felt my fingers trembling and clenched them into fists, my throat too dry for speech at the moment. I could feel a trickle of sweat sear my eye. Fergus smacked me sudden and hard, his hard ploughman’s palm stinging me awake to my plight. My fists were up, instantly, before I knew it.
“Is your ma alive?”
I could not speak yet. I nodded.
“A brother ye love?” he rasped. I nodded again, thinking of Brendan. “There’s not a moment to lose,” hissed Fergus. My head was clearing now.
“His neckcloth is soaked in gore, but the shirt’s clean.” Fergus was peeling it off while he directed me. “Put on his shoes.
I did not wish to hear a word of what he was saying.
“Don’t you see,” continued Alexander Blackburn, moving in closer, an arm’s width away from me, “that O’Connell is nothing but a rich landlord comfortable in County Kerry?” He spoke faster, as he picked up his theme. “Remember what your James Lalor said about O’Connell: Not a pane of glass in the parish, not a window of any kind in half the cottages, the peasants on his estate among the most wretched.” His words were burning lead.
Fergus Murphy was trying to pull Alexander Blackburn away from me on this deserted embankment. I wanted to put both hands over my ears, and shut my eyes to him, but he shook off Fergus and took one more step towards me. What came over me, I will never know. I pulled out the knife behind my waist and cut a sharp arc with it before his visage. I wanted him to see that and flee. I wanted the triumph of his fear and the sound of his running steps to resurrect whatever it was I needed reviving—aye, my pride—if I have to give it a name.
But he had not seen me clutch my knife. He did not see me draw my arm back. He did not see me fling out my strong right arm in an arc. No, it did not stab him, but he had taken that heedless step, and my knife had snipped away a piece of his neckcloth. He stumbled, saying something incoherent. Fergus caught him. I had put my knife away.
“Blackburn,” said Fergus, supporting him in his stumble, “steady yourself. Enough said. This is useless talk. Go you home now.”
Alexander Blackburn stood quietly, looking at me with wonder. He raised his hand and lifted his finger, the other hand uncertainly fumbling with his neckcloth, which only I could see was torn. His finger was pointing at me.
“Don’t you see . . .” he murmured, and crumpled on the pavement. Fergus looked at him puzzled, looked at me, and then saw the blood gathering around Alexander Blackburn’s head, snaking down to the gutter. Dark pool , I thought. Fergus knelt by him and tearing off his neckcloth, parted his collar. There it was. On the left side of his neck was the merest gash, and with every beat a gurgle of blood was pouring out. His hands and legs quivered. His eyes had gone still, though open. By the time Fergus stood up, the man lay dead.
• • •
“L ET ME GO, let me run.” I struggled.
“Nay, nay, there is no time to argue, boy.” Fergus Murphy had me in an iron grip. The way he said it made me stand still. “If ye run, and there is found this young rich one, a Protestant boy dead in his fine coat, the Peelers will all be looking for us. You too were seen at the tavern closest here. Listen you, for I’ll say this once. Do you heed your da when he tells you?”
“My da is long dead.”
“Hush and listen. I am old enough to be your da. Hold his feet, I’ll hold his shoulders. Pull him into the shadow of that doorway. Get into his trousers and coat.” We raced across the street with our burden. As we lurked, a carriage drove past without stopping.
“It will never work!” I said in sudden panic, “if they catch me in his clothes, it’ll be the worse for me.”
“This one wild chance—or the gallows for ye,” Fergus said harshly. “Otherwise your best hope is Botany Bay for life. Ye’ll never see anyone ye loved, ever again.”
I felt my fingers trembling and clenched them into fists, my throat too dry for speech at the moment. I could feel a trickle of sweat sear my eye. Fergus smacked me sudden and hard, his hard ploughman’s palm stinging me awake to my plight. My fists were up, instantly, before I knew it.
“Is your ma alive?”
I could not speak yet. I nodded.
“A brother ye love?” he rasped. I nodded again, thinking of Brendan. “There’s not a moment to lose,” hissed Fergus. My head was clearing now.
“His neckcloth is soaked in gore, but the shirt’s clean.” Fergus was peeling it off while he directed me. “Put on his shoes.
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