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  The Battle of the Boyne, Part Two

  The Donovan homestead could be classified as of medium size. The only downside being that the fields were pretty scattered—most of the land encircled the house and farmyard but a few fields were down a narrow laneway, roughly a half mile from the house.

  It was at this farthest away point that young Matt found himself, walking amongst the cattle. It was a beautiful summer’s day, with only the sheen of a light breeze that felt warm against his face. This was a chore he was given by his father, to go over every day during the summer holidays and count the sixteen Hereford bullocks, to walk them about, to establish if any one was lame or, generally speaking, not looking right. Young and all as Matt was—having just celebrated his twelfth birthday— his father knew he had a keen eye around livestock.

  Satisfied that all was well he sat down on a clump of grass, just watching the animals grazing. He was fond of those harmless creatures. Jimmy his black and brown mongrel-type collie dog—his ever faithful companion— with tongue lolling, panting from the heat of the sun, also stretched himself out on the grass. Everything on God’s earth felt so peaceful. It was great to be alive, Matt thought—apart from what was going on at home. Curious, the cattle moved ever closer, gingerly craning their necks, sniffing both dog and boy.

  Feeling under threat, Jimmy suddenly leapt up, snapping, causing the cattle to jump backwards in disarray. Keeping a wary eye the dog sat back down. The cattle began to regroup. Perhaps they felt this was a type of game now—a bit of excitement, a form of diversion. Getting to his feet, glancing at his new watch, Matt decided he’d head back.

  If there was one thing Matt possessed it was an extremely vivid imagination. The one and only subject he liked at school was history. In his mind’s eye he re-fought all those famous battles of old. He visualized himself always in the thick of the action, always the hero to the very end, firing his pistol or flailing with his sword, saving his comrades from imminent and violent death. The greatest treat in the world for Matt was to be taken to the pictures—especially if the picture happened to be a western. Randolph Scott, that cool, fearless cowboy was his favourite film star by a mile. Matt was everything and everywhere: he was at Davy Crockett’s side at the Alamo; he was Wyatt Earp’s friend, walking up the street together to the OK Corral; he was the Red Baron, sweeping down through the clouds—running now, arms spread out, weaving from side to side, going ack-ack-ack! Jimmy bounced along by his side.

  He now entered the secluded overgrown lane, on his final trek towards home. He was now General Custer at the Little Big Horn. With his left hand to his mouth, in Hollywood style, he whooped like a Redskin, holding aloft an imaginary tomahawk. He halted suddenly in his tracks as he became aware of his near neighbour, standing back in the old broken gateway, smiling in his direction.

  Hal Morley was the man’s name. He was another landowner, living close by. He too was accompanied by his dog, Billy, a dog very similar to Matt’s Jimmy. In fact, both dogs could have been from the same litter, the resemblance being so profound. If so, there was no brotherly love apparent, as both dogs growled their displeasure at this sudden, unexpected confrontation.

  Hal Morley, in his mid-fifties, seemed hewn from the rough terrain in which he lived. His face was lined, creased and weathered from the harsh outdoors, where out of necessity he spent most of his days. He hadn’t shaved for several days, his clothes were threadbare and shiny from constant wear, he had strong boots on and a cap perched jauntily on his head.

  Initially taken aback, Matt involuntarily experienced a sudden surge of trepidation. His mother’s warning flashed into his mind: don’t ever be in a lonely place with a strange man—or with any man. Do you hear me? Do you hear me? she’d loudly repeated. She had tears in her eyes as she shook his shoulders. Run away as fast as your two legs will carry you, adding, as she turned away, what kind of a cruel world is this at all?

  This was definitely a lonely spot, Matt surmised, glancing about, as bramble, ash, blackthorn and ivy yawned inwards from both sides like withered arms reaching out to embrace him. A small stream, now reduced to a trickle, eddied down one side of the laneway. But he couldn’t run away now—this was Mister Morley after all, his neighbour. What would the man think if he turned on his heels now and bolted?

  “Well hallo young Donovan, and how are you this fine day?” he greeted Matt.

  “I’m fine, Mister Morley.”

  “I was just going to grab my rifle and circle the wagons, as I was sure the injuns were on the warpath again,” he smiled.

  Matt smiled back sheepishly. He liked Hal Morley. There was something about Hal Morley that fascinated him. Was it the way he focused his complete attention on your every word, even when speaking to someone young like himself? Other adults might appear disinterested and indifferent. Even his own mother often dismissed him with, shut up will you, and don’t be talking nonsense. Hal Morley was different though. Definitely different. Thinking of his mother again, a slight pang of fear re-surfaced. But what was he to be fearful of? Nothing. He noticed Jimmy’s and Billy’s guttural growls growing louder.

  “Them two dogs would love to tear into each other.” Hal commented.

  “They look alike, don’t they?” Matt opinionated.

  Hal took a lead out of his pocket and clasped it on Billy’s collar. “I’ll tie this fella to the gate for a minute. Oh they look alike all right. They have the same markings. There’s a family connection there no doubt. Look at them—they’d like to be tearing strips off each other.”

  Matt was aware that when Hal started off on a topic he’d keep on and on. He didn’t mind though, because he liked the sound of Hal’s voice. It had a soothing, mesmerizing effect on him, for some reason.

  “But then dogs can be vicious creatures,” Hal continued. “They’re killers you see—they’re bred to kill, it’s in their nature.”

  “Hardly all dogs, Mister Morley?”

  “Don’t call me Mister. Nobody calls me Mister. Call me Hal—that’s what everybody calls me.”

  “All right Mister Mor—I mean Hal.”

  “Dogs belong to the same family as wolves, you see. The wolves of the Yellowstone National Park, or the wild hunting dogs of the African savannah. A dog’s loyalty is what sets him apart. That’s why he’s called man’s best friend. Aye, loyalty, you can’t beat it.”

  “That’s what I mean. I love dogs,” Matt asserted.

  “Did you ever hear of the black hound that was seen in this parish years ago?”

  “No, never heard anything about that.”

  People, in general, knew that Hal was renowned as an inveterate raconteur of mind boggling tales. What with all his ghost stories and such like. Still, people enjoyed listening to his lofty flights of the imagination. Maybe it was the way he put those stories across—with the conviction and certainty he engendered.

  “You were too young, too young,” he continued. “Some terrible, horrible things happened, back around the time of the Civil War. Atrocious, unspeakable crimes. Some unfortunate people were dragged screaming out of their houses in the middle of the night and shot dead without pity. Shot dead without mercy, in cold blood. All sides were responsible. It was as if people had turned their backs on God—turned their backs on everything that was good and decent. When that happens evil takes over, takes control.” He stared Matt straight in the face, speaking in a loud whisper: “Evil walked the earth back then. And when one of those evil men died, or was killed, the black hound was seen—always on the road near the churchyard.”

  Matt’s eyes opened wide and he bit his lower lip. “The black hound!” he whispered, in awe.


  “A nightmarish sight, with froth on its mouth and fangs that long,” holding out two fingers. “And two eyes like burning coals. It wasn’t a hound at all you see—it was the devil from hell.”

  “The devil!” Matt gasped.

  “Oh yes, Satan himself, coming from the hobs of hell to claim one of his own.”

  “He’s not seen now, is he?”

  “No, no. When things settled down and prayers started to be said that was the end of him. Prayer can be all powerful, and that’s a fact.”

  But you don’t go to the chapel,” Matt blurted out, suddenly realizing he might have said the wrong thing.

  “Maybe not too often. I talk to the Man above direct. There’s not a day goes by but we have our little chat. I sometimes tell Him where He might be going wrong. Would you credit that?”

  “I would,” Matt agreed, a little regretful now, not sure how to respond, feeling sorry he said anything. Through his father Matt was well aware that Hal’s house was a place where people gathered at night—a rambling house. Stories were exchanged, tea was served, small money games of cards were played. Sometimes poitín was brought along. To change the subject he said, “Did anyone see a ghost lately… Hal?”

  “Now that you ask I had a strange experience myself only last week there. Do you want to hear it?”

  “Yes.”

  Hal reached over and ran his fingers through Matt’s curly hair. Matt didn’t like this. He drew back. For God’s sake don’t let any man touch you, his mother had pleaded.

  “You’re young Mattie, aren’t you?”

  “Matt.”

  “Ah yes, that’s right. I get a bit confused sometimes. A fine cut of a lad. The dead spit of your father.”

  “What happened?” Matt reminded him.

  “What happened? Oh yeh—myself and Dan McEvoy were cycling all the way back from New Ross, well after midnight. We were after visiting a very sick friend of ours.” He took off his cap and bowed his head. “We’ll hardly ever see that poor man alive again. God be good to him.” He put the cap back on. “Anyway, do you know the forge road?”

  “Yes.”

  “We were cycling along that level stretch of road, chatting. It was a bright moonlight night. And do you know what happened next?”

  “What?”

  “A hare suddenly appeared.”

  “A hare?”

  “Jogging along between the two bikes and we only about four feet apart. There he was. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Neither of us could. The hair stood up on the nape of my neck, I’ll tell you that much for nothing. McEvoy and myself were kind of paralysed. We pedalled faster but it kept pace with us for about half a mile and then”— he held out his hands—“it just vanished. Into thin air! We got off the bikes and fell in against the ditch. That happened as sure as I’m standing here on this ground. You can ask Dan McEvoy if you don’t believe me.”

  “I do.”

  “It wasn’t a real hare, of course. Oh no, not at all. It was some manifestation from the other side. Hares are mysterious creatures, you can bet your life on that.”

  “I suppose.”

  “You can be certain sure of it. Tell me this,” he suddenly inquired, “how are things at home?”

  “Fine,” Matt replied, ill at ease now, wondering what he meant by that.

  “How’s your wee brother?”

  “Andy?”

  “Yes, Andy. Is he… is he… you know?”

  “He’s all right.”

  “That’s good, that’s good. I’m glad to hear that now. God, you never can tell what you’ll come up against. It’s a strange old world, no two ways about it. But then, it’s not the world but the people.”

  Matt appeared a bit perplexed. He decided to change the topic again. “Your dog’s name is Billy.”

  “That’s right, Billy. Billy the Kid—the fastest gun in the west.”

  “Mine is called Jimmy. That’s short for James. I call him King James, sometimes. Your dog is Billy, short for William. William of Orange, or King Billy, as he’s called. And that’s the River Boyne,” pointing to the trickle of a stream.

  “The River Boyne,” Hal repeated, taking off his cap and scratching his head.

  “Your dog is King Billy and mine is King James. Will we fight the Battle of the Boyne all over again, with the two dogs there?”

  “Let the two of them at it? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “Yes.”

  “How did you get that idea in your head? The Battle of the Boyne!” He smiled. “Be God you have a fertile imagination, I’ll say that for you. Them two won’t need much coaxing. So my fella is King Billy? I never though of elevating him to that lofty, exalted station.”

  “They’d hardly injure each other, would they?”

  “They’re evenly matched. They have good coats of fur for protection. So the Jacobites and the Williamites march again?”

  Hal untied Billy, and both held their salivating dogs, facing each other. Matt hissed sssh through his teeth, and at this command the two half-bred collies, in blind rage, tore into action. A ferocious battle ensued, with the two protagonists tumbling all over the place—in and out of the ‘Boyne’ a few times, rolling over and over, with dust from the dry clay billowing like smoke. Matt looked on in trepidation. First one got on top, then the other. After about five minutes it became apparent that King Billy was going to carry the day. He was spread-eagled on top of King James, holding him down by the throat.

  “Quick, we’ll stop ’em! Matt urgently interceded.

  “They’re all right, don’t worry.” Hal grabbed King Billy by the back of the neck and, with some difficulty, after first having to tap him on the nose a few times got him to release his grip. Matt pulled King James away.

  “Looks like King Billy won again,” Matt sadly acknowledged.

  “It was a good scrap though. There’s good stuff in them two.”

  The two dogs were panting heavily, still bristling, mad eager for another go. No serious injuries of any sort had been inflicted. Surprisingly, King Billy was the one with a slight trace of blood on his lower lip. The two were held apart. Hal looked down at Matt’s forlorn face.

  “My fella is a bit too big for yours. Look, he’s about an inch taller and his chest is broader. Have a good look at them now. It’s like boxing: you don’t put a middleweight into the ring with a heavyweight, sure you don’t?”

  “I suppose,” Matt balefully agreed.

  “There was nothing much in it now, to be fair to them.”

  “Not until near the end. I’d better head home. She’ll have the dinner ready.” In the countryside, the midday meal was the main meal of the day.

  “Listen,” Hal said, “tell your father now I was sorry to hear—” he tailed off.

  “Hear what?”

  “Nothing, nothing. Tell him I’ll call down one of those nights. We’ll go for a couple of drinks—if he’s up to it. It might take him out of himself—take his mind off things.”

  “I’ll tell him. So-long.”

  “Good-luck boy, good-luck.”

  “Come on,” Matt said, and he pulled Jimmy behind him, waiting until they were a safe distance down the lane before setting him loose. He’d lied when he said things were fine at home. He was worried before but he was even more anxious now. He tried to put things out of his mind—to live in the fantasy world he created. What was going on? Why didn’t they tell him things? Why was it always run out and play, we want to talk.? And what was the matter with young Andy? Why was he sniggering and crying and hiding himself away? Was he the cause of all this—the little runt? And worst of all, why was his father reaching for the shotgun and his mother screaming and tearing it from his grasp? And why was the sergeant of the guards calling? All this trouble. He hated trouble.

  Hal was now approaching his abode also. He smiled, saying out aloud to no-one but himself, “The Battle of the Boyne!” He took out and lit a cigarette. “How did he think of it? ‘Tis a strange world surely. Oh come
on home King Billy till I crown you.”

  A rabbit suddenly emerged. Straining every fibre of its being Jimmy took off in hot pursuit. The rabbit easily outpaced him, darting into its burrow at the foot of the fence. Jimmys’ momentum caused him to crash into the bushes and briars. He gave a yelp as the thorns stung his nose. He sat back on his haunches, ears cocked, looking left and right, as if half expecting the rabbit to re-emerge and commit harakiri.

  “What will she have for dinner?” Matt mused. “Today is Friday so it’ll probably be fish—maybe caulcannon and parsley sauce—or cream and new potatoes.” He gave Jimmy a playful kick on the behind. “King James, you’re bloody useless.” He picked up a piece of straight stick, held it aloft, then pointed straight ahead and shouted, “Charge!” Boy and dog ran towards the farmhouse.

  Homecoming

  Helen lives alone on a small farm, a few miles from Dungarvan. It is a picturesque area with truly magnificent scenery. Helen, however, is well aware that no matter how much you might admire and appreciate it, you can’t make a living out of scenery. And scenery, in abundance, is here in this beautiful area. The farm, in an elevated location, is mostly surrounded by woodland with colourful rhododendrons now vividly flowering out. A small trout stream flowing into a lake, borders the south side of the holding. To the east, the awesome , majestic Comeragh Mountains tower over the whole plateau of central Waterford. The coastline and Clonea Strand are prominent in the distance.

  Dungarvan, a busy, bustling town is expanding rapidly, as are similar sized towns all over the country. European Union money, in large quantities, has been pumped into the economy. The good times, however, are well and truly over. The Celtic Tiger is gone for ever— replaced, people say, by a toothless pussy cat. A recession has the country in its grip. Like old Charlie said some years back, ‘we’ll all have to tighten our belts.’ Helen doesn’t understand much about recessions and such matters. Whatever money had been generated through the boom period she didn’t appear to benefit much from it. Nor does she really care. Helen is an individual who never harboured any ambition about making money. Her farm is small—thirty four acres. Of this, she rents out twenty one acres to a wealthy neighbouring farmer who, to his credit, treats her fairly. Perhaps he has designs on buying the whole place some day. The stream alone would be very attractive to whatever future plans he might envisage. On the remaining thirteen acres Helen keeps her eleven cows and calves. Free range hens are happy and busy, scratching around the yard, haggard and small orchard. There is a large garden to the rear of the house, producing a myriad of vegetables. Helen loves this garden. In fact, it could be classified as her hobby. The household, for its sole occupant, is practically self-sufficient.