After what Dunwood had told him, he knew he had to get her out of Ireland. And out of British jurisdiction. How was he going to manage that? And if he could, what would that mean for their future?
At the third crossroads, Mary Lane ran left, Mary Street to the right. The latter’s junction with Sackville Street was wreathed in flames, like someone’s idea of an entrance to hell. Maeve McCarron’s house was only fifty yards away, just beyond a silent church.
There was a faint, flickering light around the edge of the drawn curtains in the downstairs window—a candle, McColl assumed. Perhaps Caitlin was writing her report of the day.
He knocked softly on the door, which opened almost immediately. The figure in silhouette was male.
“Is Caitlin here?” McColl asked.
“Sure she is,” the man said after only the slightest hesitation. “Come in,” he added, stepping aside.
As the door closed behind him, McColl felt the barrel of a gun ram sharply into his back.
“Keep walking,” the man said, “through that door.”
There were three more men in the back parlor, all of them younger than McColl. At first they seemed surprised to see him, and then they looked really pleased, like children with an unexpected gift.
One face was vaguely familiar, and it took McColl only a few seconds to realize why—the man bore a close resemblance to the two Breslin brothers he’d met, one the would-be bomber who’d been executed the previous year, the other the boy who’d fallen from the Royal’s fire escape.
And there was more. On the parlor mantelpiece, another one of Colm’s comrades stared out of a framed photograph. The last time McColl had seen that face, it was on a Guildford hospital slab.
Searched and relieved of his Webley, he was pushed toward the corner farthest from the door and ordered into a seat between table and wall. He knew only too well what he’d walked himself into—he only hoped that he hadn’t walked Caitlin into it, too.
The oldest of the four gave him a good long stare, then told the youngest to hold McColl at rifle point while he and the others talked in the room beyond. Though he strained to hear what they were saying, McColl could only make out the occasional word.
A minute or so later, the oldest man came back alone. He was about thirty, McColl guessed, thin and bespectacled. His once-smart suit jacket was stained and torn at the cuff, and there was a weariness in the way he moved that suggested several sleepless nights. He took a seat on the opposite wall and lit a half-smoked cigarette that he’d pulled from his breast pocket. Staring at McColl through the smoke, he murmured, “‘Come into my parlor,’ said the spider to the fly.”
“And who are you?” McColl asked.
“My name is Finian Mulryan, but that needn’t concern you. What does is that I speak for the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic, whose jurisdiction you are now within.”
McColl almost laughed. “Your republic won’t last the week,” he said.
Mulryan smiled. “Then we’d best be getting on with things.”
“What do you have in mind?”
“Justice, Mr. McColl, that’s what we have in mind. You’re a spy, and spies are shot. You spied on us in America, you spied on us in Dublin. And here you are again. As they say in Boston, three strikes and you’re out.”
“And that’s your idea of justice?” McColl asked coldly. He could feel a rising sense of panic but was determined not to show it.
“No, Mr. McColl, it’s my idea of an indictment. You think that here, now, with your masters laying waste to our city, we have time for a trial? Or that if we did, you’d deserve one? A thousand years of servitude, a million left to die in the Famine. The verdict is already in.”
“I haven’t been here for a thousand years,” McColl said quietly. “And I wasn’t here for the Famine.”
“Maybe not. But you signed up to serve the same government. You gave it your seal of approval.”
“I serve my country.”
Mulryan smiled at that. “Have you not heard the old saying? ‘One’s man flag is another man’s shroud.’’’ He stretched out his arms and yawned. “But you have at least a few hours to live. You’re not a Catholic, I presume.”
“No.”
“Then you won’t be needing a priest.” He closed his eyes for a moment, resting the hand that held the Webley on his thigh, then slowly got to his feet. “Keep your wits about you, Tom,” he warned the young man holding the rifle. Unnecessarily, McColl thought. Neither eyes nor rifle had shown the faintest sign of wavering through his and Mulryan’s exchange of pleasantries.
Why the delay? McColl wondered after Mulryan had wandered out. The bombardment of nearby Sackville Street seemed to be growing less intense—maybe the gunners’ arms were tired, or maybe shells were running short. A few were still being fired, and the yellow light writhing on the rooftops outside suggested they were mostly incendiaries.
Was this how he was going to spend his last hours on earth—guessing what shells were being fired? What else could he do? The young man’s attention showed no sign of faltering, and McColl doubted he’d even be out of his seat before the bullet took him. After his successful escape from the Royal, it seemed unlikely they’d prove so careless again.
There was certainly no chance of an official rescue. He’d not arranged to see Dunwood again, and Cumming didn’t even know he’d crossed the Irish Sea. He’d put himself out on a very long limb, which someone would soon be coming to saw off. Loving Caitlin, he’d had no choice.
The minutes ticked slowly by. He told himself there was so much to think of, so much joy to remember, but every time he tried, his mind slid into blankness. Even Caitlin’s face, which was always so easy to summon and hold, kept slipping out of his mental grip.
A heavy rap on the front door caused Mulryan to rise and leave the room. Waiting to find out who had arrived, McColl felt a sudden shaft of fear. Was this his executioner? Was this the moment?
A strange squeaking sound heralded the approach of a wheelchair, and there he was, staring at McColl, eyes brimming with hatred. He shook his head, as if in dismissal. “So what are we waiting for?” he asked.
“The American girl,” Mulryan told him. He looked at his watch. “We’ll give her till one.”
Caitlin was awakened by a hand roughly shaking her shoulder, and it took her a few moments to remember where she was, in a makeshift dorm at Jacob’s Factory. Had the British assault begun? “What is it?” she asked the man standing over her.
“We’ve captured the English spy McColl,” the young man said.
The shock was intense, coursing through her body like so many rivers of ice. She swung her legs off the mattress and struggled to her feet, thankful the darkness was blurring her face.
“Mulryan says if you want to see justice done, to come with me.”
“Where?” she asked, reaching for her shoes. “Where is he?”
“Mary Street. Maeve McCarron’s house.”
“What?”
“He was coming to arrest you. Our man at the Castle gave us the tip, and we were waiting for him.”
“Is Maeve there?”
“No. Look, Mulryan told me to warn you that it may be a dangerous outing, and you don’t have to come. The British army are everywhere now.”
“You got here,” she said, pulling on her coat.
“I did.”
“Then let’s go.”
Most of the factory’s defenders seemed asleep at their posts, and it seemed that the British were, too. The area around the factory felt generally quiet, as if everyone were taking a well-earned rest before resuming the battle next day.
“What’s your name?” she asked her escort as they hurried down Bishop Street.
“Liam Coleman,” he told her.
He led the way west, passing St. Patrick’s Cathedral and not turning n
orth until they reached Francis Street. There were troops on Bridge Street, but none on St. Augustine, and Usher’s Quay was empty. He held them there for several minutes, watching the Whitworth Bridge, and finally decided it was safe to cross. Lights were burning in the Four Courts, which Liam confirmed were still in rebel hands. “We’re all right now,” he told her. “All these streets are ours.”
And for the moment they were. They walked past the silent fish-and-vegetable market and turned right down Mary Lane. Maeve’s house was only a minute away, and Caitlin had no idea what to do. Mulryan and his friends were going to kill McColl, and she didn’t see how she could stop them.
Liam rapped on the familiar door, and the Breslin brother that she’d seen in the Royal’s backyard came to let them in. It was worse than she’d thought—even if she pleaded for mercy, it didn’t seem likely that he would agree, not with one brother dead and another in a wheelchair. And the latter was there in the parlor, mouth self-righteously pursed, eyes crying out for revenge.
“Well, here he is,” Mulryan said, gesturing toward the love of her life. The condemned man, she thought, but he looked more anxious than frightened. Was it possible that he doubted her?
McColl met her gaze. He saw hardness in her eyes, but was that fear behind them? He couldn’t tell, which was good. If he couldn’t, then neither could they, and perhaps she would find a way out.
“I was told I would see justice done,” Caitlin said. “I assumed that meant a trial.”
“He’s already been sentenced,” Mulryan told her. “Is there anything you’d like to say before we carry it out?”
She looked at the faces around her. Could she plead with them? Plead what? That Colm wouldn’t have wanted it this way? He would. Twelve months ago a part of her would have, too. What was the point of telling these men that the world was a lot more complicated than they thought it was? That killing was always the easy answer? She’d known men like this her whole life. They’d wink at each other and put it all down to her being a woman.
Every one of them was looking at her, and suddenly she knew what she had to do. She shook her head. “No, I’ve nothing to say.” She was right, McColl thought as they ushered him into the yard. These men had their hearts set on his death, and no plea from her would change that. Some sign that she loved him was all that he asked.
The only light spilled out from the parlor, and it reminded him of the one in Glasgow. He almost expected to see his father.
It was small for a firing squad, but not for a single bullet.
“Against the wall,” Mulryan said. He was still holding McColl’s Webley.
McColl backed himself up against the brick. Looking at Caitlin, he saw only coldness in her eyes. Behind her, Tom and Liam were trying and failing to get the wheelchair through the door. “I can see well enough from here,” the crippled Breslin said eventually.
His brother, Liam, and Tom were lined up to one side, Liam with his rifle in front of him, stock resting in the dirt. The other rifles had been left inside.
“I want to pull the trigger,” Caitlin told Mulryan.
He turned and gave her a searching look.
“He killed my brother.”
Mulryan handed her the gun and took a step back, as if offering her the stage.
She moved a couple of steps toward McColl, saw the hope and the doubt in his eyes, and spun on her heel to point the Webley straight at Mulryan. “I can’t let you do this,” she said.
The rebels looked stunned.
“Liam, let the rifle drop,” she added, shifting her aim toward him. Much to her relief, he did as he was told.
“I’ll get it,” McColl said. He crouched down and reached for the end of the barrel, careful not to block her line of fire.
Caitlin was holding the gun so tightly that her hand was beginning to shake. How should they leave? The wheelchair was blocking the doorway into the house, and its occupant looked ready to grab any enemy who came within reach, gun or no gun. And she knew she couldn’t just shoot him.
It had to be the back way out. With any luck the men wouldn’t know the passage led round to the street in front.
“We can go that way,” she told McColl, nodding toward the gate.
“After you,” he offered, covering his captors with Liam’s rifle.
“You’ve betrayed your country for a kiss and a cuddle,” was Mulryan’s parting shot.
She shook her head. “I’m an American,” she said, as much to herself as him, and walked out into the passage.
McColl was right behind her, closing the gate and throwing the rifle over the wall beyond. He felt much more at home with the Webley when it came to deterring the likely pursuit.
“This leads back onto Mary Street,” Caitlin was saying as she hurried along, “so we may not be free of them yet.”
But when she stuck her head out, there was no one in sight. She handed McColl the gun and leaned her head forward to rest it on his shoulder. “I don’t know how I did that,” she said.
“I’m very pleased you did.”
A shout from behind them turned both their heads. Outside Maeve’s house a figure was silhouetted against the distant flames. He was raising a rifle.
McColl let off a shot, causing him to duck back inside. “Run,” he told Caitlin. “Take the first turn right.”
“What about—”
“I’ll be right after you.”
She ran, hoping to hear him behind her, but all she heard was the crack of the Webley. She was almost at the crossroads when he fired for the third time; reaching it, she turned to see McColl sprinting toward her, the Sackville Street inferno rising above and behind him like some monster dragon erupting out of the earth. He was twenty yards short when the rebel reappeared, only ten when the bullet sang past them both and pinged off something metal farther down Mary Lane.
Reaching the crossroads he grabbed her hand and hustled her up the street running north. Both were breathing heavily by the time they reached the next crossroads, but the road behind them was empty. Two more turns and McColl felt confident that they’d put enough distance between themselves and his would-be executioners. The Breslins would want to hunt him through this and a thousand other nights, but Mulryan was obviously in charge, and he didn’t have the same motivation. Shooting a spy who fell into his lap was one thing, but the needs of the rebellion would trump any private vendetta. With Dublin burning, he would surely have bigger fish to fry.
There were things McColl needed to tell her. Spotting a deeply shadowed doorway, he tugged her toward it. “Let’s stop a moment.”
And then they were in each other’s arms, pulling each other close, letting the fear drain away.
After a while he loosened his grip and looked her in the eyes. “Thank you,” he said.
“You’re welcome.”
“I know what it cost you.”
She shook her head. “I’ll want more than a kiss and cuddle.”
Away in the distance, a machine gun rattled, then fell silent again.
“How do we get out of here?” she asked.
He smiled. “As it happens, I have a car waiting. On the other side of the army lines, unfortunately. But if I can talk our way through them, we can just drive off.”
“To where? I can’t leave Dublin until this is over. I’ve got a story to write. I owe it to . . . to so many people here. Those men back there—they’re not typical. The men and women who joined this Rising—they’re the best of Ireland.”
“I believe you. But you have to leave with me.”
“Why?” she asked, pulling away. “They told me you came to arrest me.”
“I came to warn you. A man at the Castle, a man I know and trust, he showed me a photograph of you arriving at the Citizen Army HQ at St. Stephen’s Green. And he told me they have proof that you came with a message from James Connolly. Is th
at true?”
“I did take a message. It was the only way I could get into that HQ and interview the rebels.”
“Well, they’ll arrest you the moment it’s over.”
“They?”
“Of course ‘they.’ Given that you just rescued me, you may find this hard to believe, but I came here to rescue you.”
“We do make it hard for each other.”
“And then there’s always the rebels. They may be the best men in Ireland, but how will they feel about you when Mulryan tells his story?”
She sighed. “So what can I do?”
“Well, you could stay put and try to brazen it out, but I wouldn’t recommend it. London wants to make an example, so I think you’d be looking at prison. Your only real hope is a quick escape, and your best bet of that is the US embassy in London. They won’t want to hand you over to us, and given how much we’d like America to join the war, we probably won’t kick up much of a fuss if they insist on sending you home.”
“Home,” she said, as if testing out the idea.
“You remember—New York City.”
“Yes. You know, I’ve been wanting to go home.”
“First we need to get you out of Dublin.”
“Do you know the way?”
“Oh, yes. I lived here for a month in 1914, remember. My lodgings were only a few streets from here. This one would take us to Broadstone station, but if we turn right halfway up, we’ll be on the road to Drumcondra, which is where I left the automobile.”
After checking to make sure the street was empty, they started walking north. It was almost two o’clock, and the battles had all died down, leaving only a smoke-filled sky fed by tongues of flame. On Dominick Street the soldiers guarding the church crossroads were gathered round a fire of their own, which someone had lit in a dustbin. If their boisterous laughter was anything to go by, they were in a good mood, and McColl decided to risk a direct approach, simply walking across the street as if he hadn’t a care in the world.
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