“It was late,” Barker complained.
“I am sorry, sir.”
“It is not an exact science, you see, gentlemen,” the Guv explained. “The more complicated the bomb, the more things can go wrong. Complications can also lead to better results. Mr. Penrith has been playing with the old cakes of dynamite and has added a little something of his own to liven them up. So far, we have used fuses and a timer. I have here a commercial detonator. I would like to demonstrate how easy it is to use. Miss O’Casey, would you like to come forward and do the honors?”
“I?” the girl asked, looking reluctant.
“It is easy to use. Come, miss. Just put both hands on this rod of wood here. Now push down.”
Gingerly, Maire O’Casey pushed down the plunger. The old lighthouse gave a convulsive leap in a massive explosion, rising it at least ten feet off the ground. The bottom half shivered into bits, but the top flew headfirst into the sea. The concussion blew past me and knocked everyone flat except the two of us, who had been prepared. Barker made some final comment loudly, but I had momentarily lost my hearing.
O’Casey recovered first, a look of awe and joy on his face. Dunleavy was next, blinking, his mind calculating what this might mean for Irish freedom. McKeller was still on the ground, but he was holding his sides and laughing. The Bannon brothers had been knocked all in a heap. Only Yeats did not look happy. He fumbled with his pince-nez, glowered at us, and rose.
Maire had received a small cut on her forehead from the debris, and he rushed forward to dab it with a handkerchief. From my position between O’Casey and McKeller, I couldn’t see how she was. I was still stunned that Barker had used the girl for the demonstration. I didn’t approve of her detonating the bomb, and would have voiced my objection to my employer had her brother not been shaking me hard by the shoulders and thumping me on the back.
“By the saints, that was absolutely bloody incredible! I thought you were going to launch that old lighthouse, like a Roman candle, right over London! With explosives like this, our mission can’t fail!”
Fergus McKeller was still laughing so hard that tears were running down his ruddy cheeks. He finally sat up, his feet spread out like a boy at play in the dirt, then bawled over his shoulder.
“Colin! Padraig! Get up, ye buskers! Go find your fiddle and your whistle, and let’s have us a ceilidh!”
Slowly, the group came to life again. Maire stood and checked her hair, then began to set out the food. Yeats brought more provisions from the cart, complaining that the horses were panic-stricken. Fergus McKeller hammered a spigot into the barrel of stout, while Colin and Padraig Bannon began to warm up their instruments. Before I knew it, I was in the middle of my first ceilidh. We Welsh are a more sedate group of Celts than our Irish brethren, thanks to the evangelizing work of John and Charles Wesley. I was wondering if a wild Irish revel might be too much for a born Methodist and his Baptist employer.
There was a sudden pop behind me, which I must admit made me jump. Dunleavy had opened a bottle of champagne, which he poured into three pint glasses already half full of Guinness. He handed one each to Barker and me.
“I understand that this drink was created upon the death of Albert, the Prince Consort,” he explained. “It was decreed that day in Dublin Town that even champagne should be in mourning black. They call it a black velvet, and if either of you can still stand up after three of them, you’re a better man than I.”
We raised our drinks and gave the official toast, slainte, but I was thinking I’d give a month’s salary for a nice glass of milk, and I think Barker would have, too. Stout was fine, but I couldn’t see myself making a steady diet of the brew.
I went into the cottage to help Miss O’Casey with the food. It was amazing how much she and her crew had thrown together in a short couple of hours, with not much more than a few old pots and an open fire. The feast consisted of colcannon, sprouts, tinned beef, peas, soda bread, a small ham, and rashers of bacon.
“It was a shame for the lighthouse to come down,” Yeats commented from the inglenook. “I know it wasn’t of any use to people anymore, but I liked the old building.”
“As did I,” I admitted. “We had to turn out some stoats and other small animals that were living there. I would have preferred another site, but Mr. van Rhyn insisted.”
“So, Mr. Explosives Expert,” Maire said, “are you going to stand here and bother my helpers, or are you willing to do some actual work? Start slicing that bread there, if you have a mind to, unless destroying is all you’re good for.”
Yeats grinned, and I began to slice. An hour or two before, we’d been making fun of Willie’s absurd walk, and now I was the victim of her sharp tongue. I can’t say I especially cared for it.
We began taking the feast out to the hungry men, who had already started drinking on empty stomachs. I barely had time to set down the pot of peas, when there was such a flashing of spoons about it, I thought I’d better get my own in quickly or I wouldn’t get any at all. I asked McKeller why peas were such a favorite among the men in Ireland.
“It’s simple economics, Penrith,” he explained. “The less money you waste on food, the more you can spend on drink. A plate o’ peas should be enough of a meal for any Irishman.”
Having loaded plates for Barker and myself, I went back into the cottage, for I’d seen the kettle brewing on the fire. I took a tankard of tea and a plate to my employer, who had wandered to the bonfire the men had started and sat down on a rock.
“Thank you, lad,” he murmured under his breath.
“It went off without a hitch,” I whispered.
“Aye. I’m inclined to hope that Dunleavy shall open that purse of his a little wider now that we’ve shown him we know what we’re about.”
“That’s cause to celebrate,” I said.
“You really are starting to sound like an Irishman, lad.” He sniffed. “I, for one, have no wish to partake in drunken revelry for its own sake. I believe I shall retire early. You may give them my excuses.” His moral dignity intact, Barker took his plate and tankard and went into the cottage.
It was growing dark by now and the Bannon twins were in full swing, while McKeller danced a jig with all the elaborate concentration that comes from having had too much to drink. Eamon O’Casey was leaning against a rock, laughing at his friend’s antics and clapping in time to the music.
“Maire!” McKeller roared. “Come have a dance!”
The girl demurred, but it was only a matter of convincing her. They all started calling her name, chanting it together, until she finally relented, allowing Yeats to escort her to the dance floor-a sandy clearing.
“I won’t dance on sand!” She demanded, “I shall need a door, at least.”
It suddenly became the most necessary thing in the world that they find her a good door. They finally took one in the main cottage off its hinges, despite Barker’s protests, and set it on the ground.
Maire O’Casey stepped onto it as regal as a queen and stood for a moment, looking tall and cool. Her arms were at her sides, and she lifted her hem a few inches, displaying a pair of dainty shoes and trim ankles. She stood stock-still a moment, as Colin’s fiddle and Padraig’s pennywhistle tune began to build, and I realized I was holding my breath. There were no ribald comments from the men, no half-drunken singing. All eyes were on Maire.
She began, her feet moving lightly, clicking on the wood, hands at her sides, a look of concentration on her face. Her feet moved so quickly my eyes couldn’t keep up, her heels providing a drumbeat for the rest of the music. The cool evening wind combed through her curling hair, which had fallen from its bun, and the fire played across it until it, too, seemed to be made of fire, a head of flames burning in the summer darkness. Her face was still frozen, however, her features chiseled in ice.