They stare at me, he thought. They wonder, do they, just what can this little man tell them? Well, just wait, dear souls, just wait.
". . . shall most happily yield the pulpit today for the Apprentice Boys message to Brother Oliver Cromwell Maclvor, who has traveled to us from Belfast for this momentous occasion," the Anglican Bishop said anciently, and retreated from his pulpit.
Oliver Cromwell Maclvor stood. The smallness and boyishness of him set up a murmur. He moved forward slowly, deliberately, toward his destiny. Frederick Murdoch Weed gave a quick thumb-up and tapped Roger on the shoulder and winked.
Maclvor's frock and breeches were of severe cut in century-old styling, that of a frugal Scottish preacher inundated with Reformation zeal and piety. He scanned his audience with lassitude, manipulating them with theatrical gesturing. When absolute attention had been drawn to himself, he thunderclapped.
"Satanism reigns!" His voice boomed and rolled in waves over the congregation, startling them. "History shows us a recurring cycle of satanism and revival … satanism and revival. Since the great Reformation there has been a continuing struggle against evil, and when we have been pushed to the brink angels have come forth to save us, to cleanse us, to restore purity to our land."
Doubts dispelled. With rolling R's of Reformation, the thud of Gawd, a rhythm poured out of him clipped with deliberate intonations in an accent that was entirely the invention and innovation of O. C. Maclvor. With consuming power in his telling he wove a fascinating folklore, pitting Reformation goodness against Catholic evil in that game of kings and queens in the struggle for the English throne. Roger thought it all a bit pedantic but was equally puzzled by the grip Maclvor held on his audience.
"When the devils in the Vatican tried to plunge us into darkness, Oliver Cromwell spewed forth a great fountain of holiness and washed this sin-ridden land."
Maclvor stepped away from the pulpit, walking from one side of the altar to the other, swinging around to face the row of notables, wringing his hands and bowing his head in personal humility, invoking wrath, softening to let the congregation into his confidence as friends and peers, then scorning them. He had them guessing. . .. Will he strike hard or soft? Will he praise or will he condemn? It all seemed in his power, an unusual power, a sucking power, a chewing-up power, a soothing power.
"Where Rome has the power, there is a foul stench in the air and depravity in the streets. For Rome is a cesspool The Papacy means eternal night, the destroyer of democracy and freedom!"
His voice came down from the peaks, dropping to a softness that forced everyone to strain. Through these half whispered passages Oliver Cromwell Maclvor gave out bits of confidence that he had a special relationship with the Lord and that through him was the best, if not the only way, to be redeemed. All of the fine vocal coaching and theatrical training and all of his touring on a southern evangelical circuit in America was coming to brilliant fruition.
"Now, friends," he soothed, "in the quiet of my meditation I have prayed for guidance and there have been times that I have received unmistakable communication. I know one thing, friends. I know why you're here. Do you know why you're here? Do you think it's an accident?"
He stopped, pointing to mid-Cathedral. "Do you know?" And then he pointed to Roger Hubble. "Do you know?" Both Roger and the Bishop reddened. Maclvor's fist thumped the pulpit now that he had singled out a powerful man among them. "God has come to me in the night and in revelation has told me that you are his chosen people! And God has told me to command you to save His most noble creation, the Reformation! Arise, you warriors of God, arise."
Tears came to Oliver Cromwell Maclvor's eyes. "How well He picked His battle site. The siege of Derry of sixteen and eighty-nine was not an idle moment in history. God brought inside Derry's walls simple, honest, hardworking, devout Protestant, Reformation folk and He said . 'here is my cause." God caused those thirteen sainted Apprentice Boys to shut the gate in the face of the papist army! And . . . within these sacred blood-stained walls sons . . . died in the arms of mothers. Mothers . . . in the arms of their husbands and the old in the arms of the young. The young, angelic of soul and pure of heart, lifted their eyes to God and their parting words were in praise of God. Thousands of our cherished ancestors perished under that cruel and inhumane papish revilement. Despite the treachery of the apostate Lundy, who bargained with the enemy, they refused to be broken. Despite the starvation, despite the cruelty of wind and rain, they . knew . . . they had to stand and fight Gawd's battle. And Gawd looked down and said, "Yea . . . you are mine and I am yours." And you know what Gawd did then, don't you? Gawd broke the boom over the River Foyle, ending the blockade, and delivered His people!"
For the first time in that venerable old house of the Lord there was applause and people leaping to their feet,
". . . and later, friends," Maclvor said, riding the waves of excitement he had created, "at the Boyne, where the apostate James and his papist mob cringed awaiting battle, our beloved King William, wounded in his right hand, took up his sword in his left hand and on an alabaster steed plunged without fear into their ranks. James, shivering and cowering, turned and fled, and his mob fled behind him, ending Roman rule forever!"
"Hallelujah!"
"God save King Billy!"
"Remember Derry's walls!"
"Jesus! I see . . . Jesus!"
Unabated screaming broke out until he held up his hands, screeching them to a halt. He then cut loose over their backsliding ways and their abandonment of their ancient charge. He orchestrated a beratement that turned their hallelujahs to whimperings and cringing. Now was the moment that he, Maclvor, would lead them back onto the path of righteousness. The Hubbles, father and son, were totally abashed at the man's control over them all. Maclvor swelled for the climax of his great aria.
"We are the inheritors of the magnificent victories at Boyne and Derry. Our freedom, our clean, decent, Protestant ways, our privileged position, our Parliament have all been sanctified by the holy waters of the Boyne! God praise our savior, William of Orange, who bestowed upon us liberty . . . justice . . . holiness . . . Glory, Glory, Glory!"
"Jesus, save me!"
"Father, I'm coming back!”
"Hallelujah!"
"God save Brother Maclvor!"
As the screaming caromed off the Cathedral's beams and kept swelling. O. C. Maclvor walked up and down the center aisle dispensing blessings, touching hands, shouting banalities, then returned to the pulpit and held his hands wide to encompass all his newly won children.
"Let us pray," he said to the relief of the Bishop. The flock slowly came weak-kneed to their feet in turmoils of fear and adoration, the righteous juices of the men boiled and the paper flowers on the women's hats trembled as they bowed their heads.
"Won't you visit us, Lord. Now, You promised me You would. We're Your people and we're sorely troubled. The dark cloud of popery has descended again on our beloved Ulster. At this very moment as we sing to thee, to our democracy, our freedom, to our kindly and humble Christian ways and to our beloved Queen, agents of the Pope plot our demise even here in our sacred city of Londonderry. Oh, Lord, bless Your Christian soldiers and give them strength to gird for immortal battle against the satanic evils of the anti-God papists. . .. Amen and amen."
*
Conor and I had heard every word. There was an opening inside the belfry that led just above the choir loft and we had snuck in and curled up in balls under the rail, occasionally peeking over. We slipped back into the belfry and made down the steps with our legs wide apart so as to keep the stairs from creaking. Softly, softly, softly, round and round the tower. At last we reached the bottom. I lifted the latch. The door had been locked! Mary help me! Conor tried it and it was just as locked. There was a second door but we were certain it led right into the Cathedral behind the altar.
"We'd better stay put until the church is cleared out," I whispered.
"It won't do," Conor answered. "Suppose they lock
that one as well? We're apt to die in the belfry."
"Oh, Jesus, I'm scared."
"That will do no good," Conor said. "If you're to keep your head as well as your hair, you'd better start using it"
"Mine eyes have seen the glory,
Of the coming of the Lord,
He is trampling out the vintage,
Where the grapes of wrath are stored"
"Surely you can sing to the glory of our Gawd with greater fortitude," that awful preacher shouted. "Sing up there in the balcony so He can hear you! Sing so He will come to Ulster to save us! Sing, brothers, sing, sisters, sing!"
"Conor," I said, "I'd rather wait and take a chance of finding a way out later."
"Maybe," Conor said, "but how will we find it in the dark?"
"Conor, I'm scared."
The decision was made for us when a curious caretaker who must have heard our voices opened the tower door and a big and awesome specimen he was, standing about eight feet tall and totally blocking our way.
"Run for it!" Conor cried, flinging open the other door. And there we were, sacrificial lambs on an Anglican altar.
"Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
Glory, glory, hallelujah!
His truth is marching on. . .."
The preacher man voice like to shook the place down. "Ah, I can hear you folks in the balcony and you're singing much better than the folks on the main floor. Are you folks on the main floor going to allow the folks in the balcony to out sing you?"
Just as he turned we banged right into him and before anyone could get their wits we scrambled down the altar and the women screamed like we was a couple of mice turned loose in his lordship's scullery. Conor took off down the center aisle and with me biting at his tail.
"Stop them!"
An old usher in an orange sash blocked our path. Conor Larkin lowered his head and butted him in the belly on the dead run and down he went croaking for air, and we hurdled his body and rattled desperately at the door and, when it gave, we stumbled over the vestibule and down the front steps.
"Act natural," Conor said.
We managed to do so for a few steps but out they poured after us, yelling like we had stolen their golden candlesticks. We fled like summer comets over the northern sky, zigzagging through the crowds of badly tore drunks still celebrating. Fortunately their reflexes were not of the same caliber as ours. We made Bishop's Gate with blinding speed, putting distance between ourselves and the mob from the Cathedral The run from here, thank God, would be downhill.
I tripped! I knew my face had gotten a bash off the pavement because my head was dinnlin' and I fell when I tried to get up and there was no wind in me to even call Conor's name. I tried to crawl and saw the terrible sight of Conor disappearing.
"You dirty little papist son of a bitch!"
I made myself into a shell as best I could. I thought my ribs were busted from the kicking I was getting. I must have fallen flat because I looked up and he was leaning over me swinging his fists and shaking me at the same time. Just when I thought I would never live to grow a beard, I caught a glimpse of Conor holding a big rock in his hand. He swung it and the beating stopped as the man fell unconscious beside me.
Conor dragged me to my feet. I saw the man. His face was half caved in like and he was groaning and spurting blood from his mouth and nose. Conor held me up as I tried to run, limping.
They were after us again screaming and rocks were clattering around our feet. Conor fell. He had been hit in the back. I pulled him up and we sort of hung onto each other, limping and them gaining. Oh, God, Daddy! God, Ma! Conor . . . we're going to die . . . Conor . . . And then a miracle happened! Suddenly the mob stopped and melted back and I saw stones and rocks coming at them. Oh, glory be, they were good Catholic rocks from the Bogside covering us! With no time to spare, we made it in.
The two of us sat gasping and crying at the community well, then dragged ourselves to the water for a repair and to conjure up a suitable story for our daddies. I didn't know what we could tell them. We were both very bloody and our clothes all torn. We discussed running away and sending them a letter, perhaps even emigrating to Boston. We must have sat for an hour until a priest came and took us by the hands and led us back to Kevin O'Garvey's.
We stood before Tomas almost as frightened as when we ran through the Cathedral.
"Some kids heard we had a tuppence each and a whole gang of them . . ."
"Aye, must have been ten or twelve."
"And big."
"Aye, real big ones."
”Well, they got after us, you see, with clubs."
"And knives."
"And I think one even had a gun."
"Are you sure that's what happened, lads?" Tomas said.
Conor lowered his head and shook it, and mumbled something.
"What did you say, Conor?" his father asked.
Conor repeated it but he still couldn't be understood.
“Would you say it again so's I can hear you?"
"We went into the Protestant Cathedral," he said, and both of us started bawling.
"All right," Tomas said, "find a pair of ash branches, return here and lower your pants."
We did as we were told and bent over bare-assed and waited. Tomas, looking doubly huge as he always did when he was mad, flexed the ash rod in his fist and hovered above us. I think, for once, even Conor was in prayer.
"Are you sorry!" Tomas demanded.
"Aye, I'm sorry," I said, "I've never been sorrier. . . ever. . . never. . . ever. . . never."
"And you, Conor Larkin?"
"Nae, Daddy. I'm only sorry their church is so filled with evil."
You could hear the man sigh across half the Bogside, then toss the stick aside and slump in the hay and hold his head and fight off tears with hysterical laughter. "You like to scared us out of our heads. Button up your silly pants and come here."
I don't think I ever felt anything as warm and good and gentle as sitting on Tomas Larkin's lap with his great arm about me. "Aye," he sighed again and again. "Aye, and now you know. That bunch up there is enough to drive a man back to the Roman Catholic faith, they are."
*
At the Cathedral, the Reverend Oliver Cromwell MacIvor lathered at the defilement of the church by the two little papist devils. Churning the congregation into a frenzy, he led them outside, his booming baritone penetrating the air with "Onward, Christian Soldiers." They fell in behind him and sang with him in their wrath. He marched to the diamond and conducted an open-air service with hell-fire oratory striking out like prongs from the pitchforks of avenging devils. The crowd turned to a mob and the cry went up for papist blood. They swarmed out of the diamond seeking a place to vent their rage, first buzzing in aimless circles, then seething in the direction of Bogside, swelling as they went, to a rampage.
CHAPTER TWELVE
My daddy rushed into O'Garvey’s stable, jabbering excitedly that the Protestants had gone berserk. Tomas and Fergus were to report to the Bogside Defense Committee which had been activated for Apprentice Boys Day. Conor and I were to go into the center of Bogside where it would be safer. Only then did we become aware of the growing excitement outside.
"I'm coming with my daddy," Conor said.
Fergus O'Neill was as gentle a soul as ever graced Inishowen. For the first time in my life I saw him turn on someone.
"You'll go to a safe place with Seamus!" he shouted. "We've had enough of your bloody nonsense for one day. Get moving!"
Conor didn't budge. The answer was written on his face, a message of bedrock stubbornness.
"And don't you go standing up for him, Tomas. I'm not going to let that boy get his head broken and have to explain it to Finola."
"Fergus, for God's sake. . ."
"Nae, nae, nae! I'll not be talked out of it!"
"You'll have to tie him up and cart him off," Tomas said. "I'll never give an order to any son of mine to break and run at a time
like this."
Seeing the two dug in against him, my daddy flung himself on a bale of hay and held his head in his hands. "Mairead pleaded with me not to take the kids to Derry. And I promised Finola on the holy cross I'd not let this kind of thing happen. Man, there's a crazy mob out there after lynching us."
"The mob will never go away, Fergus," Tomas said. "If Conor doesn't face it today it will be there tomorrow as well."
My daddy waved his hands around desperately and wrung them together. "To hell you say. Get it off of my neck, man. I took the responsibility and I've got to live with one of those women."
"I'm going with my daddy," Conor repeated.
"Oh, Jaysus," my daddy moaned.
I have never personally been noted for my bravery except for those times when Conor was with me. I didn't like the notion of having to defy my daddy or of facing that crazy gang of Prods, but there it was . . . a moment when a boy has to be like a man. How could I have continued living next door to Conor after I left him? You know what I mean, don't you? I closed my eyes, clenched my fists and blurted, "If you try to stick me in a safe place, I'll escape and find Conor. I can throw rocks as good as any kid in Ballyutogue. That's a fact. Ask Conor. Go on, ask him."
Kevin O'Garvey poked his head in, "You'd better be reporting to the Defense Committee. It's getting clear ugly out there . . . and get those boys back to safety."
It remained very quiet for a long time.
"Saints and martyrs," my daddy said bitterly. "All we produce in this country is saints and martyrs. God help us, Tomas, if we've done the wrong thing."
"I know," Tomas said.
"We'd better all go together," my daddy said, "our Defense Committee man is down on William Street." We left the stable as we lived our lives, beside each other.