Forever England

By Katrina Nowak

As the lamps go out...

Naive but determined, Captain Edward Eldridge refuses to ride out the war from the safety of headquarters and demands a post on the Belgian front line. Shocked by the futility of trench warfare, Edward regrets his fervent support for a war he no longer understands. Amid the brutal fighting, news

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scribble & Spark Bookworks
• Release date: Jan 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781732038165

Book preview

Chapter One

October 25, 1914: Dublin, Ireland

The barkeep hunched over the long wooden bar top, polishing the immaculate surface in small, precise circular motions. In his left hand, he clutched a dull metal container of polishing oil. In his right, he gripped his cleaning rag, laced between his fourth and fifth fingers like worn leather reins. Just as he had for the past twenty-three years, he dabbed oil from the container onto the stained rag and worked the oil into the wood in tight circular patterns. The smell of the oil filled the dim pub air. Rustic. Like an old cottage in the Irish countryside.

Perhaps it was this smell that called the Irish Volunteers into his pub by the baker’s dozen. From middle-aged men down to boys who were barely teens, they flocked to the polished wooden bar top, ordering up pint after pint and telling tales of the old Irish cottages where they grew up. It seemed they couldn’t stop themselves from coming by for any reminder of the homes and the lives they couldn’t afford to return to. That old earthen smell, the beer, the whiskey—all served up in quantities that might ease the ache of homesickness.

The ritual of polishing was unnecessary—the aged oak plank shone like a mirror. Still, he continued to swirl his rag across the smooth bar top because every square inch of Father Joseph’s Pub belonged to him. He had bought and paid for it over twenty-three long years and endured the exorbitant fees designed to force foreclosure. He had poured sweat and sacrifice into every square inch of the pub and had slept in the spotless kitchen nook instead of renting a room elsewhere. It was one of the few pubs in the city owned outright and in full by a Catholic.

In twenty-three years, not a single payment had been late. In the safe installed below the bar, Joe McNeill kept not deposits but receipts. Every receipt lay in a tall, neat pile, each year held together with a metal clip. Twenty-three clips. Twenty-three years under the thumb of an unscrupulous lender. These scraps of paper were as dear to him as the pub itself, and for good reason. He knew that one day, when his existence became too inconvenient for authorities, he would need every one of them to prove his legal ownership. And so, he held the key to the safe on a string, worn around his neck every day for twenty-three years.

The pocket watch that hung from the tap showed ten in the morning. Opening time. Thomas Walsh, a stocky, balding Volunteer was the only other person in the establishment. He sat where he always did, at the first table from the door, where the morning sunlight shone through the window and onto his prominent forehead. Back straight and dress impeccable, Tom sat with his eyes trained on the door. His enormous forearms were visible under his neatly rolled shirt sleeves, and his stout arms fell like tree limbs across his lap.

Tom had spent so many hours in the pub he had become the de facto permanent security detail. Yet he sipped neither draft nor whiskey, just cold Irish tea. No sugar, no milk. Plain. He was the only pub employee whom Joe had never officially hired. He just came and sat each day, drinking tea from pint glasses, until the old barkeep took pity on him and paid him a small wage to sit and watch.

His duties? To keep the occasional customer in order, and should a wayward British officer poke his unfortunate head in—cross his arms and stand to his full six feet, and give a silent nod to recommend they continue on their way.

As Joe’s pocket watch settled in on ten o’clock, the barkeep called across the pub to Tom, What’s the count, ol’ man?

Fifteen, sir. Fifteen seconds.

The barkeep lifted the watch chain from the tap handle and held the gold watch up to the light, watching the hand tick. With five seconds to go, he counted aloud. Five, four, three, two—. The beam of sun shining on the forehead of Tom Walsh became obscured as the door swung open. A cool autumn breeze floated into the warm pub. From the bright sunshine of the open doorway, a dark-haired customer marched through the entryway. Dressed in a thin day suit topped with a wool cap, the man had a swagger that made even his cheap clothes look refined.

One, said Tom, raising his glass of cold tea to the customer. Good mornin’ to you.

You know, Mick, Joe called from behind the immaculate bar countertop, for someone on the brink of being a wanted man, I’d vary me schedule.

Nonsense! cried Michael Kildare as he sauntered through the open door. Those arseholes wouldn’t dare touch me in here. We’ve got Tom!

Maybe not, said the barkeep, but they sure as hell might love to get their hands on you as you stand on the curb outside. Maybe come by at quarter past tomorrow.

Michael cracked a wide smile that showed the gap where his missing incisor should have been, but the barkeep couldn’t return a cheerful face. The past twenty-three years had been enough to harden him against any humor on this topic. They need not have a damned thing on you to haul your arse off to the clink for a fortnight. You’ll come back to us missin’ more than just a tooth!

Tom Walsh, bright eyes again trained on the door, piped up, Dennis McClure came back without a kidney. Had a guard assigned to kick ‘im in the side about a thousand times a day. He took a slow sip of cold tea, as though it were piping hot. Lucky for ol’ Denny, the guard was so lazy he only kicked him on the one side. Otherwise … Glasnevin Cemetery. Tom placed his tea back on the wooden tabletop and straightened his posture.

Joe picked up a clean pint glass and began washing it, drying it, as if his hands knew nothing else but to remain busy. Michael Kildare was an interesting acquaintance. Useful, a good man to know and to be close with. He had more information stored in his little mind and the file of cards that he kept hidden in his father’s grocery store than all the rest of rebel Dublin.

Still, as good as Mick Kildare was for the Irish Volunteers, his arrogance and his temper were liabilities that were hard to swallow. Joe watched Michael from the corner of his eye as the boyish man pulled out a barstool and settled in below the faded painting of the white dove that watched over the bar from on high.

Michael placed his elbows on the shining bar top, then wiped his brow and tossed his worn wool cap on the bar. As the cap hit the wood, it slid across the surface, slick from so much polishing, and came to a rest in front of the barkeep. Joe stood by the taps, silent, and still running his drying cloth over the pint glass.

In his twenty-three years behind the bar, he had seen so many men like Michael Kildare. Arrogant, indestructible, popular among their less-confident peers, and always compensating for closed minds with clenched fists. And while most might find these types of men impossible to reason with, the old barkeep was not most people. Over two decades of serving customers with this undesirable combination of traits had taught him a few tricks.

First, he knew that these boorish men were best dealt with as if they were children. Like a parent coaxing a spoiled child to behave with a coveted toy, Joe had something that these boys desperately desired, and he was one of the few establishments in the city who would serve them. He had only to lift an eyebrow to Michael and glance at the wayward cap that now spread its filth across his immaculate bar. A look he had perfected over his twenty-three years.

Apologies, Mr. Joe, Michael said, reaching for his cap. In a swift motion, he grasped it with a giant hand and placed it on one of the hat-hooks below the bar top.

Without asking, Joe lifted the tap handle and drew Michael an imperial pint of Guinness. He tipped the glass, then swirled it to create the perfect amount of foam atop the glass. As the pour settled, he reached below the bar and pulled out a glass jar with blackcurrant liqueur. He poured just a touch into the foam, stirred it with a spoon, then slid the glass to Michael. Not a drop spilled.

Just the way you like it, I do believe, he said, again not making eye contact. He poured the same concoction for himself, then turned to Michael. Are you alone?

Not supposed to be. Me damned cousin can’t seem to— Michael paused at the sound of a door shutting in the kitchen’s rear. Tom exploded from his chair and bounded, in the heavy booming steps of a giant, off through the kitchen. Joe ran his hands over his scalp and through the memory of thick curly hair, then reached up and grabbed another clean pint glass and began washing it. Tom could take care of any disturbance. And if he couldn’t, there wasn’t any security detail that could. Because of this, nothing rattled Joe. As long as Tom breathed, the pub was as safe as it could be, for an establishment that served the rebellious class of Irish.

Tom emerged a moment later, dragging a young man even taller than himself through the kitchen by his collar. Do you know this arsehole?

Michael appeared to stifle a laugh to avoid spitting out his Guinness. Still, a slight drop drizzled from his mustache onto the polished bar. He wiped it up with his immaculate sleeve. That’d be me idiot cousin.

Joe looked at the man, the summer tan yet to fade from his rugged face, his cap missing from atop his unkempt blond head, and allowed himself to smile. At least he has the sense to come in the back way when he’s coming for business. I like unpredictable.

Tom dropped the collar and Colin Kildare stood up straight to a height that towered over the hefty bouncer. Won’t make that mistake again, Colin said, running his hands around the back of his neck.

Nonsense, Joe said, and could feel himself still smiling. I said I like unpredictable.

Do you like ‘late’? ’Cause I told him to be here at ten. Michael glared at his cousin, who Joe guessed couldn’t yet be twenty years old.

Punctuality is predictable, Joe said. What does your cousin drink?

Guinness, said Michael. With blackcurrant.

Joe cocked an eye toward Colin, who shook a head of blond hair out of his eyes. He felt an instant pang of jealousy over Colin’s youthful head of hair, the summer sun’s touch still visible in haphazard white-blond streaks.

Whiskey. Straight.

The pub fell silent. Michael silently fumed at his younger cousin, and Colin soaked in Michael’s irritation with the pleasure that comes only from vexing an annoying relative. The only sounds in the pub were the cork being pried from a glass bottle of Jameson and Tom Walsh rotating the splintered wooden sign in the front window from Open to Closed.

Joe slid a copper mug of whiskey over to Colin and watched him take it all in one swig, then drop it on the table and send it back across the bar. I remember you now, said Joe. He poured another shot slowly, hoping the pause might encourage Colin to talk.

You were in here with your cousin last summer. Broken heart. And a mangled arm, Joe thought, stealing a glance at Colin’s left arm. Joe remembered the night well. The lad was just a boy, but his eyes had appeared sunken in their sockets with the worry of a man twice his age as he ordered whiskey in volumes that suggested that uncanny Irish ability to down hard alcohol all day without appearing drunk. But the memory of Colin was more than empty whiskey glasses and bloodshot eyes. It was that youthful toss of the hair, that muscular form that made his shoulders appear rounded even under a tattered linen shirt, and that heartache pasted so vividly across his face as a brutal reminder of the pain inflicted by a first love.

The boy seemed as though he sprung directly from one of the many stories told by ancient storytellers all around the island. Ah yes, Joe said to himself, remembering another detail of the boy. The last time I saw this likes of him was also the last time I saw ol’ Ailbe O’Cleirigh.

Ailbe. The storyteller. He and Colin had been seated next to each other at the bar, bellies pointed forward but eyes flashing sideways, as Ailbe coaxed Colin from his misery with a favorite tale. But the old storyteller had disappeared mid-tale in the mysterious way that only such a man could do.

Joe knew the old man still passed through Dublin city because sometimes, on nights when the moonlight took the place of the doused gas lanterns, he would see the shadow of his tall black cap and the swoosh of his long, tattered black coat in the night wind, which came in cold off the Liffey. He’d nod to him in the darkness, a silent acknowledgement of his work and his ceaseless devotion to Ireland.

Broken heart is right! Michael’s unwelcome voice chimed into Joe’s thoughts and stopped any chance at Colin growing more conversational. Still mopin’ around even now over that girl, he continued, and cast an observant glance Colin’s way as if to judge how the snide comment had affected him.

Joe figured Michael must calibrate all his jibes to Colin’s physical reaction, and throttle forward if he hadn’t annoyed him enough, but quickly back if Colin cocked back one of his fists. From the looks of him, Joe guessed that Colin would win most scuffles with Michael. From the looks of Michael’s crooked nose—and missing tooth—someone had landed a few right hooks on target over the years. Michael’s reputation as a scoundrel was well-deserved, but besides making him difficult to hang out with, it made him uniquely qualified for his role in the Volunteer organization. Everyone was drawn to him. Everyone wanted his attention. Everyone envied his confidence. And no one was willing to do the things he was willing to do or to risk what he was willing to risk.

Joe ignored Michael’s comments. You drank your whiskey just as fast back then, he commented. A little young for that, aren’t you?

Dublin will do that to you, said Colin, accepting his second serving of whiskey. He swirled the glass gently with two fingers before downing the entire serving in one swift drink.

That it will, boy, replied Joe, taking to his polishing rag again. That it will. Joe spun the rag in small circles across his bar top, long enough to create the awkward pause that so often lent itself to conversation. Michael sipped his Guinness and blackcurrant. Colin spun his empty mug slowly between two fingers. Tom resumed his post at the table nearest the locked front door. Joe polished. Circle after circle.

Michael proved to be the least patient. So, what’d you want me here for anyway, Mr. Joe?

Circles. Smaller and smaller circles, the rag held tightly between his thumb and forefinger, with the tail laced between the fourth and fifth fingers. His reflection appeared in the glimmering bar top and he stared back at the image of a middle-aged man, proud, but with depleting strength, with two young and energetic men ready to hang off every word he hadn’t yet pronounced. Was this what twenty-three years earned him? The respect of some rascally and unrefined Irish Volunteers, and the detestation of the authorities, who were ready to pounce at any opportunity to shut him down or make him disappear? He watched his reflection smile back at him and reveled for a moment longer in his own success.

The first phase has begun. Joe lifted an eye to judge the reaction of the men sitting behind his bar. Michael offered a thoughtful look but didn’t take the bait. But Colin responded with all the naivety Joe might have expected from a boy who had grown up in the country and, if he’d had his druthers, would be a farmer and not a rebel. If this is phase one, what in God’s name have we been doin’ all these weeks?

Joe popped the cork off the Jameson and poured Colin a third serving. His pocket watch read half past ten. At this rate, the young man might pass out by noon. He picked up the bottle of Jameson and held it up to the light. A perfect deep amber color. Finally, he turned to answer Colin’s question. You’ve been laying the groundwork for what is to come, my boy. Testing the networks, adding oil to the gears. He took a sip of his own Guinness and blackcurrant. Michael’s glass was already halfway to needing a refill. He tested his theory about Colin. Wanted to see what he could pull from him. What do you think of the war, boys?

I couldn’t care less about the war or the damned Jerries, said Colin. Don’t much care if they win or lose. Just that Irish boys come home.

Michael ran his fingers across his jet-black mustache. If the Jerries are winning, it means the British whores are getting pummeled, which I like. But those same British whores will use our Irish boys to catch artillery shells. Irish boys who should be here, getting ready for the real war. Their war.

Aye, said Joe. "That’s the war I’m talkin’ about ." Joe said. He spoke the words slowly and squeezed the moisture from his cleaning rag to keep his fingers from fidgeting. He watched the cousins’ responses intently.

Colin swirled the whiskey. I’ve been waitin’ for my chance to mess with the Brits.

Michael raised his face to the faded painting above the bar, his eyes tracing the peeling paint. He dropped dark eyes to Joe, and as if on cue, asked, We’re a little low on men. How do we get our boys to stop runnin’ off to fight Jerries. Get them to stay home and fight?

It was a logical question from the wry mouth of a soldier. Michael Kildare, for all his faults, had risen to the level of Captain in the Irish Volunteers. And Joe knew that when Mick uttered the words, our boys, he was talking about his men. The ones he had recruited and trained, then powerlessly watched as they hurried down to Dublin Castle to enlist in the King’s army. In Michael’s mind, they were his boys. But Joe also knew that Michael knew damned well what was happening to his boys. He, like Joe, was testing an idea that had been growing in the depths of his mind since the war began.

The ones we’ve sent are already lost, Joe said. They won’t be comin’ back.

Michael sipped his Guinness. He gave no hint of the activity that must have swirled beneath the soldier’s stare, though his eyes flickered with a hint of fire. Colin, for his part, threw wide gray eyes toward the bartender, showcasing the disgust Michael so adeptly hid. What do you mean they aren’t comin’ back? Anger swept across his face, spreading from red ear to red ear.

Joe felt the corners of his lips twitch, but wouldn’t permit a smile to escape. He knew that if he had hit a chord with Colin, he could strike a chord with every Irishman and woman who expected their good-hearted Irish boys to survive. And casting a sideways glance at Michael, he knew that the elder cousin understood as well.

The numbers, boy, aren’t good.

Aye, said Michael, grasping his glass with both hands, and taking up the charge. Patrick says some units are a total loss. One hundred percent casualty—dead or injured. English or Irish, they are all going to be slaughtered.

Colin’s third copper mug was empty. The young man, ears still red with anger, slowly licked dry lips to savor every last taste of whiskey. Joe leaned forward, set his own elbows on his pristine bar top, and pushed even further. And wouldn’t our mothers and wives be horrified to learn that their sons and husbands were being sent off to be cut down?

They would, said Michael. So let’s be the first to tell them. Black eyes once again burned in the morning sun. Tell them the truth and not the ‘Fight for King and Country’ shite that Redmond paid Father McGinty to spew out each Sunday to a packed Pro Cathedral. No doubt the Brits will release their casualty lists slowly. Wait until they can hide the losses behind battlefield victories.

Joe felt that twitch again, but this time released his smile to show crooked yellowed teeth, and winked an eye at Michael. It pained him to have to give Michael credit. That billowing ego might just be the death of all of them one day. But there was a reason Michael was revered in rebel circles. He had a keen sense of logic, placing purpose over emotion. And he was a master of theater.

After flashing his smile briefly, he tucked his top lip over the yellowed teeth. He had confirmed what he had long assumed to be true. Wild Irish boys and passionate Irish mothers alike were a secret weapon, not yet fully unleashed against the English. But they existed in multitudes in the near and far reaches of the island. Waiting to be called to action.

Leaning forward, so as to draw the young men in, he spoke softly. "Which brings me to why I brought you boys by. Have you ever heard of the Quill and Ink?"

The Nationalist paper, said Michael, Of course we have. Read it every day.

"I know a man. Someone who can spread this information to like-minded folks. An editor with the Quill and Ink."

So we’ll list out the casualties in the Irish papers! Colin exclaimed. So they can all see for themselves!

And get every paper shut down? Brits read too, you know. Michael shook his head. Are you ever plannin’ to use your brain, or just let it sit there a couple feet above your arse?

Joe refilled Colin’s mug, though he wondered how many more shots it would take to loosen Colin up enough to take a good swing at his cousin. He seemed to have more restraint than most.

We can’t print those, boy. But we have more subtle weapons at hand.

Subtle? Colin raised an eyebrow, as much as anyone with three servings of whiskey by half ten in the morning could.

Of course, said Joe, and he winked. We can hide whatever we want in everyday news.

But everyday news is boring, said Colin.

Joe could practically feel his own eyes light up. Precisely. Think of the most boring sections of the daily news. And that’s where we want to strike.

I don’t know— Colin began.

His cousin cut him off. —that’s because the bastard never bothers to read the paper.

Colin clenched his mug as his ears shone bright red. I read them a bit, he said, through clenched teeth. He reached for his flask, apparently forgetting he was at a pub. He took a swig, and as his ears returned to a more natural color, said, If I were to think of the most boring part of the paper that every busybody in town reads, it would be the obituaries.

Joe held the deep breath he had just inhaled, and for a moment, the rag stopped its circular motion. Michael slowly picked up his glass of Guinness. It left an irritating ring on the spotless bar top, but Joe didn’t move to clean it. He watched the liquid set in.

Colin, not recognizing the shift in the mood, lifted his head and appeared to be studying the painting of the dove above the bar. Perhaps remembering something. A slight smile flickered across his face.

Joe eyed Michael, who raised a dark eyebrow. Joe returned the gesture, but stood silent, forcing an outcome to the internal boxing match that he knew must be going on in Michael’s mind. A full thirty seconds passed before Michael sighed and said, I hadn’t thought of that.

Joe bit his lip to avoid revealing just how satisfying it was to watch Michael admit his younger cousin was indeed capable of using his brain. That idea has some merit, wouldn’t you say, Mick?

A pained look crossed Michael’s face just as a surprised one came across Colin’s. The little smile that still lingered from his study of the dove grew into an unmistakable grin.

Aye, said Michael, then quickly swallowed the rest of his Guinness. But what if no one dies the day we need to send a message?

Who said it has to be an actual person? said Colin. Makes it a lot easier if it’s not.

This time, an unfamiliar look crossed Michael’s face, a combination of surprise and fascination. Joe finally reached with his polishing rag for the condensation that seeped into his bar top. That, boy, is the most brilliant thing I have heard all day. We can hide most anything within an obituary. Casualty reports. Calls for recruitment.

Fundraising, Michael chimed in. Whatever we want.

Joe’s thoughts returned to the old storyteller. Men like him could take information like this and spread it across an entire island. The stories he would tell would fly like seeds in the breeze.

Colin picked up his fourth shot of whiskey, not seeming to notice that this one was a less generous pour. He swirled his dented copper mug. "Do the Americans read Quill and Ink?"

Joe cast curious eyes at Colin. There was more beneath his simple and humble country demeanor. Aye.

Colin ran his hands over the copper mug, tracing its age, its dents, as though he himself were molding it. ’Cause we’ve got a man in Boston who can spin stories like this into gold. Actual gold. The Irish in America aren’t so poor as we are. And the Brits can’t touch ’em.

Michael slowly ran his hand over his chin. Seamus. Haven’t heard from the lad in over a month. But he is in Boston. And he’s just as resourceful as his twin sister.

Aye, said Colin, his ears now a different, more endearing shade of red.

But I’d still put my money on Nora any day, Michael muttered into his pint.

For the first time, Joe noticed that Michael held a certain reverence for his insider, Nora, that he didn’t extend to his cousin. The one they all called the White Dove in their secret correspondence. So our little Dove has a twin, he thought, and he found himself more than a little intrigued. His mind flashed back to Ailbe and a favorite story the old man told, and he wondered if the old man knew about this twin.

You boys have a job to do, Joe said, taking up his polishing rag again. You feed me whatever information you can about the war effort. Anything that might help to turn people to our side. Raise some money. We want anything what you can glean from your uncle’s customers at the grocery store, particularly the ones who live in mansions and work in Dublin Castle. Whatever you learn from God knows what else you are doin’ around this city.

We’ll get ol’ Ronan on board as well, Michael said, for the first time referencing the jovial butler, who, with Nora, was hiding in plain sight at the home of Mr. Thomas Parsons, the notorious Ulster sympathizer. Ronan Dunham, on the surface, appeared so loyal that no one suspected he had a rebel past. But a quiet fire that still burned deep within his soul. Joe could practically feel his eyes light up at the mention of the old butler.

Ronan? ‘Twas his idea. Joe let these words fall on the cousins and watched as two mouths cracked broad smiles. One grin showed a missing tooth, the other curled into a youthful smirk. And your little dove—she’s the one who’ll turn your gossip into boring lines of text that only rebels will read. She’s got a knack for writin’ in code, wouldn’t you know? We’ll have to let them know about the death notices. A clever idea.

The smirk disappeared behind red cheeks. From whiskey or a racing heart, Joe couldn’t tell. Colin drew in a deep breath, and his shoulders hunched with tension. Do they both need to be in on it? he said, to no one in particular.

They make a good team, Joe said, glancing from Michael to Colin. The morning sun cast beams of light through the front windows, and scattered across Colin’s crop of hair, bringing out golden highlights. But the lad’s face shadowed, and he bit his lower lip. His thing left arm rose as he brought his hand across the stubble on his chin. Colin must have known as well as any of them that Ronan and Nora were one misstep away from being discovered. And being in the Parsons’s home—nothing good would come of it, if they survived at all.

Joe leaned in even further and dropped his voice to a whisper. Seems your little dove has been busy of late. Ethan Parsons’s evening meetings with his colleagues at the Castle are givin’ her a whole host of fresh information. But … there’s an easier way to get the information we need. Faster than waiting for Ethan to be careless in that little diary of his. And more reliable.

Michael leaned in, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. But Colin closed his gray eyes and drew in a deep breath. And at that moment, Joe saw another difference between the cousins. Michael loved Nora because she was smart and strong and resourceful, and probably because she didn’t love him. He wanted her in the center of the activity because she was so useful and was happy to use her however he could to get what he needed. But Colin—he loved Nora in a way that went far beyond her role in their little ring. They were childhood sweethearts, inseparable since they were wee ones wandering the hills of County Clare. And because of that, he must have wanted her as far away from any of their activity as possible.

Boys, he whispered slowly, the records of the Irish recruitment and Irish dead are being held at Dublin Castle. He paused and wrung the cleaning cloth in his hands.

And? Michael prompted.

I’ve got a job for you boys. And it could be a dirty one.

Michael leaned further across the pristine bar top, his forearms leaving behind smudges on the shining wood and a lock of black hair falling across his eyes. A slight smirk appeared on his face, just enough to highlight the vacant place on his gum line.

I need you to get those names to Ronan.

Both men sat silently. Colin rubbed the bump on his left forearm, his mind engaged on more than just this new adventure. Michael’s black eyes stared right at Joe.

"Enlistment numbers. How many dead or injured, in as much gory detail as you can find. Get those records. I’ve got some obituaries to publish."

You? said Michael. I though you said you knew a man . . .

Joe winked an eye, then picked up his polishing rag and began swirling it over the top of his spotless bar.

Chapter Two

November 2, 1914: Dublin, Ireland

Dublin Castle stood silent in the distance, but Colin knew those ancient stones, with the emerald mosses that grew up the walls like a summer wildfire, had secrets to tell. From within those stone walls, England had exacted her cruel reign over the island for over a hundred years. The sole gas lantern that city officials deemed worthy to light under the wartime ban shone throughout the interior courtyard.

To Colin, that light signaled wealth and privilege across an otherwise dark and deprived city. A half-dozen steps ahead of him, already at the Christchurch Cathedral, Michael held up his right hand, signaling Colin to stop. Half-standing, half stooped, Colin’s boot landed with a thud as he stopped his forward motion across the rough cobblestones. Behind him, he heard Frank cough. When he rolled his gray eyes, he felt the faintest trace of the hangover from the night before.

Frank Riordan had a below-average mind that he made up for with a decent heart. No one doubted the man wasn’t well-intentioned. But with his heavy steps and loping stride and no concept of how to keep quiet, he was easy to pick out and difficult to work with when subtlety and instinct mattered. Of all the people Michael could have asked to assist with such an important operation, Frank struck Colin as a poor choice. The problem was, Joe McNeill needed the information now, and the rebel boys who hadn’t heeded Redmond’s call to arms had mostly fled the city.

The rebels were simply disappearing. With war in Europe raging, the remaining Volunteers had scrambled south to County Wicklow as if chased away by the blustery northern autumn winds. There they spent mornings at Mass, afternoons acquainting themselves with a thousand illegal German Mausers, and evenings cozying up with whatever whiskey the rural countryside could provide. Frank Riordan was the best that Dublin could do on short notice.

Mausers. The memory of smuggling in those rifles broke Colin’s concentration on Michael’s movements and softened his annoyance at Frank. In his mind, the chilly November darkness grew warm as that August night, and the breeze took on a faint smell of the Irish Sea. When he closed his eyes, the light of the one gas lamp became the moon as it lit the waves in the bay, and making Nora’s red hair shine and her green eyes glow.

He shook his head to wake himself from this favorite dream. It was dangerous to let his thoughts linger on her, a luxury he could not afford to indulge tonight. When he opened his eyes, the castle still loomed ahead. But now, as the gusts of wind softened, Colin could just barely hear the click of a metal heel against the cobblestone in the distant courtyard. The midnight changing of the guards.

Ronan Dunham had swiped a schedule a few days earlier. The paper clearly showed that a Corporal Smith would relieve a Corporal Patterson at midnight. Colin knew this because Michael had proudly read it aloud to him in the shop’s backroom by candlelight. On the heavy parchment—the likes of which no Dublin shop could afford to stock—and handwritten in careful, pristine strokes, the scheduler revealed that one Corporal Smith had drawn extra watches for the rest of the month as punishment for his tendency to fall asleep while on duty. As far as Colin was concerned, Corporal Smith’s sleepiness was a marvelous trait for a man on watch during a midnight raid.

The soles of Corporal Patterson’s boots continued to tap out their steady beat across the stones as he passed into view. He was tall, and the gas lantern transformed his burly build into a long, foreboding shadow that stepped slowly across the gray cobblestones.

Colin felt air rush from his lungs in relief when, on the next pass, a smaller, portlier shadow marched across the yard. Corporal Smith’s shadow was far less intimidating than Corporal Patterson’s.

The young rebels crouched along Castle Street, each separated by about thirty paces. The crisp night air kept would-be passersby huddled around the paraffin stoves inside their flats. The moon shone down only between the fast-moving clouds that kept the young rebels safe from the tattle-tale of their own shadows.

Michael sat still as an alley cat, waiting for the right moment to pounce on a careless city rat. Never have I known you to have an ounce of patience! Colin thought. He felt his calves cramp as he crouched. His toes were long since numb. By the time Colin counted Corporal Smith’s sixth methodical pass across the courtyard, Michael finally raised his right hand and patted his woolen cap. The signal.

Colin peered over his left shoulder at Frank, who was just barely visible in the darkened street. He raised his right hand and repeated the same signal Michael had sent, and with his left, patted his waistband to feel the cold metal barrel of the flintlock against his skin. It gave him a feeling of warmth, of comfort. Just to know it was there.

Methodically, as he had practiced every day since August, he loosened the ramrod and, in a smooth and swift motion, loaded a shot down the old barrel. His palm passed over the delicate carving on the wooden grip. He knew its inscription by touch. MJC. Martin Joseph Cullen.

To Colin, the man was a symbol of the fight for freedom. A hero. To the law, he was a traitor. A murderer. The man Nora recalled, in the deepest, most distant crevices of her mind, just as Da. He was but a shadow, a whisper, a memory. But for all who knew Nora, for all who knew her twin brother Seamus, the man lived on in their passion, in their calling, and most ominously, in her curious eyes—eyes the deep, secretive blue-green of the Irish Sea at night.

Replacing the ramrod, he felt the pack in his breast pocket. The powder. Thirty paces ahead of him, Michael struggled to ready his flintlock, and Colin wondered, not for the first time, which of the pair was the gun that had failed Martin Cullen: the one that hadn’t fired when he pulled the trigger. The one that had caused the Clare Rising to fail just as it began.

When Michael rose, Colin straightened and moved forward. Behind him came Frank’s heavy footsteps over the cobblestones. Frank was the weakest part of this plan. He would never pass as a guard—even one as careless as Corporal Smith. Not with that stumbling awkwardness and heavy gait. At the thought of Frank standing a convincing watch, Colin had to stop his eyes mid-roll so as not to trigger more stabs of pain. Instead, he raised his flask and took a few long swigs as he made his way across the stone walkway.

With each step toward the castle, his heart beat faster. Soon he was sweating in the cool night air; hot breath raced from his lungs and formed a fog in front of his face. The remnants of whiskey on his tongue felt warm. He licked his chapped lips to savor every taste.

The clicking of Corporal Smith’s boots became louder until they beat a steady rhythm inside Colin’s ear. Click, click, click. Like a clock, Smith passed through the archway every fifty-three steps. Almost unconsciously, Colin counted. Slowing for one last drink of courage, he tipped back his flask, never losing count.

Michael must have been counting too, for when his cousin reached the mossy stone archway that led into the castle courtyard, he paused and crouched, and without so much as peering through the opening, he held up his two hands, and on his fingers, counted down the steps. Ten, nine, eight …

As fast as he could, Colin sped across the uneven cobblestones, keeping his feet light and cringing as Frank broke into a run behind him, his feet hitting each stone like wooden planks. He sounded like a team of horses pulling a wagon. Colin reached Michael just as his fingers counted down to zero and Smith once again appeared in the archway.

Colin had thought about this moment so many times over the past few hours, it was as though he had physically rehearsed his motions. He didn’t hesitate. As Michael signaled go, he hurdled over his cousin, finally allowing his leather soles to hit the ground with force. He burst through the ancient stone archway upon a startled Corporal Smith. As Smith raised his Lee Enfield with wobbly, frightened hands, Colin sprinted directly for the rifle, hooked his right arm beneath Smith’s pristine gloved hand, and pulled his fingers away from the trigger.

The whole time, he kept his eye on that Lee Enfield. That blasted state-of-the-art, fast-loading rifle. It was a coveted prize for any Volunteer who trained on fifty-year-old black powder German Mausers, a rifle known for being unreliable and inaccurate. What we could do with Enfields!

He saw the whites of Smith’s eyes flash with fear, and Colin knew at once he had already defeated his target. He had won the mental game that easily. Eyes never leaving the Enfield, he grabbed Smith’s collar and with his left fist, delivered a fast and precise uppercut to Smith’s jaw.

Smith’s neck snapped back from the brute force of Colin’s fist. Spit and bloodied teeth flew from the man’s mouth and his round body went limp. As the man collapsed unconscious, Colin held fast to the starched white uniform collar, and pushed the body of the Enfield into the corporal to prevent it from hitting the ground. Slowly and silently, he laid the man onto the cold, damp cobblestones of the interior courtyard.

Bet you wish you hadn’t slept through watch, you dumb fook, Colin said. Because tonight is goin’ to be a long shift. He felt a strange pleasure from beating this unassuming man senseless. It had been so easy, no more than a regular pub brawl.

Content that his target was far from consciousness, he paused and listened. The only sound was his own heavy breathing and the slow cadence of a softer, more graceful boot hitting the cobblestone as his older cousin strode over toward Smith’s motionless body.

Michael quickly unraveled the scene-—eyes darting from Smith, lying in an awkward sprawl on the stones, to the windows of the castle. All was quiet. All was dark. Breaking the silence, and in his typical, matter-o-fact way, he said, Very little blood. Well done. A little too loud for Colin’s comfort.

Michael reached down toward the unconscious corporal, and with his index finger, wiped a trickle of blood from an already-swollen lip. It was as close to a compliment as Colin had ever received from his cousin, and he felt himself almost flush with pride. The two cousins made eye contact, dark, confident eyes staring up at soft gray ones, and the two men smiled. I knew your sheer size would come in handy, Michael said.

But the moment passed as Frank’s galloping steps entered the courtyard.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Michael whispered angrily, and this time it was he who rolled his eyes in dramatic fashion. Could you be any fookin’ louder?

Frank slowed as if he were a scolded child. He picked up his feet, showing marginal improvement. You’ll need to fix that step immediately if you are to be Corporal Smith, Michael said. Straighten up! You’ll be marchin’ across this courtyard in a matter of minutes and you better be the best damned guard I’ve ever seen.

Colin put one arm beneath each of Smith’s shoulders and dragged him further into the courtyard. Michael repositioned himself inside the archway, peering out to keep watch.

Colin and Frank quickly got to work removing Smith’s uniform coat and boots. Reaching for the wool coat, Colin felt his fingers fumble in the chilly night air. They were stiff and the tips numb, even as sweat rolled down his forehead.

Tis just like August! Frank said, almost cheerily. Colin and Frank, workin’ together as a team again, he continued. We make a good team, you know. Be it gun-runnin’ or breakin’ into—

—Shut up, you dumb arse! Colin said. You almost ruined the gun runnin’ with your damned mouth and if you don’t keep your trap shut and learn how to sneak around, you’re goin’ to mess this up too! Colin couldn’t help but wonder if he sounded like his cousin. Michael wasn’t one to imitate, but then again—his style worked. People feared him and they listened to what he said, even when he knew nothing about what he was doing.

I thought we was mates, said Frank, sounding hurt.

We are, said Colin. And mates make sure they don’t get the other killed. He heaved the warm, heavy wool coat off Corporal Smith and tossed it over to Frank. I bet these boys don’t freeze their arses off in the winter, he said begrudgingly. What do you want to bet these coats are made of Irish wool?

Frank took the heavy coat from Colin and put it on over his own. Fitting Corporal Smith’s stiffened peak cap over his own head, Frank turned to a side profile and said, How do I look?

Like a whore, Colin said, tossing him first one shined leather boot and then the other. Sellin’ out your own for a steady wage. He flinched at how harsh this sounded. But I know you ain’t one. Here, put these on while I stash the corporal.

Once again looping his arms under Smith’s shoulders, Colin dragged the pudgy corporal to a corner of the courtyard where no light from the gas lantern shone and propped him up against the cold, mossy stone wall. The corporal slouched against the wall in his untucked blouse, his stocking feet sticking out. Colin scratched his two-day-old beard. He wasn’t confident that Smith would be out for long.

As Frank wrestled with the leather boots, obviously not the right size, Colin pulled the stockings from the corporal, and stuffed one in his mouth. I’m doin’ this for your own good, Colin said to the unconscious Smith. ’Cause if you start making a racket, Frank’s goin’ to fookin’ shoot you between the eyes. With your own bloody Lee Enfield.

Ripping the seam from the bottom of the blouse, he took the long, thin strip of fabric, and wrapped it around the corporal’s mouth to hold the stocking in place and prevent the corporal from yelling when he awoke. With the other stocking, he tied Smith’s hands behind his back. Then, loosening Smith’s leather belt, he fastened it around the man’s lower legs. It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would give Frank a fair head start to shut him up or slow him down if the corporal got rowdy after he came to.

Satisfied that the corporal would not give Frank too much trouble, he ran over to Frank and handed him the Lee Enfield. Do your best, he said. His breath turned to vapor in the dark courtyard. We just need a quarter of an hour. If he gets obstinate, shoot the bastard in the face. And make sure you take the rifle with you when you run. It’s a magnificent weapon.

Frank’s face went pale in the light of the gas lamp, and he swallowed hard.

This ain’t a game, Frank, he said. Not tonight. And if anyone discovers that you aren’t Corporal Smith, fire a shot. He bit his lip, choosing his words carefully. I’ll let you decide for yourself if you want to point it at someone’s face or fire into the air. Just know that you’ll likely be dead or in jail shortly after, either way you choose. When we hear the shot, that’s our warning to get the hell out.

Michael, still crouched in the archway, shot him an impatient look. He had already apparently forgotten how effective Colin was at knocking soldiers to the ground. So much for getting on his good side, Colin thought, as he left Frank to figure out how to be a soldier on the night watch at Dublin Castle, and quickly slid down next to his cousin.

Are you ready for this? Michael asked.

Aye, said Colin, but he felt a lump rising in his throat. Corporal Smith had been the easy part. Now came the real work.

The old castle was almost as cold and dark as the November night. Even in the halls of the old stone structure, Colin still couldn’t