Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  The worst part of the treaty, according to Pidge, was the division of the country’s thirty-two counties. The southern twenty-six counties were now part of the Free State, while the northern six remained part of the United Kingdom. And thus the conflict that would define Nora’s life was born.

  “Just look at your own poor family, Nora,” Pidge said. “That’s all at Michael Collins’s door—him and that Protestant bastard Craig, the so-called prime minister of Northern Ireland. Why settle for a mere free state when a full republic was within our grasp? And to think that Collins was one of the top men in the IRA. He, of all people, should have been willing to take the fight all the way, to finish it, once and for all. Now that job is up to the few of us who are left. Of course, he did a great deal for Ireland, and I was sorry when he was killed, but he chose the wrong side in the end.”

  “Aye,” Nora said. “It was a shame, so it was. We could have won if he had stayed true to the Republican cause.”

  Pidge stopped sweeping and gave her a strange look. Nora dropped her eyes. Eejit. You need to act like you don’t know how this all ends.

  “We will win, Nora. Don’t you believe that?”

  “I want that, I do. But sometimes it feels as though the cards are stacked against us. Don’t you find?”

  Pidge took up her broom again, and Nora relaxed. “That’s nothing new—they’ve always been stacked against us. We brought the British to their knees, and if Cosgrave and his crew insist on getting into bed with the British, then we’ll bring them to their knees as well.”

  “D’you mind if I ask how old you are?” Nora asked.

  Pidge drew herself up straight. “I’m twenty-two. Why do you ask?”

  “No reason,” Nora said quickly. “You just seem very . . .”

  “Opinionated?” Pidge said with a smile. “That’s what Da always calls me.”

  “I was going to say ‘mature.’ You’re far more mature than I was at your age, so you are.”

  “I’ll thank you to tell that to my parents.” Pidge blushed. “They’re grand, really. They just worry about me.”

  Nora felt a rush of affection toward the younger woman. “Something tells me you can take care of yourself just fine.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Nora and Pidge rose early the next morning. The horizon was a haze of mauve through the soft rain. After a slice of bread and a quick cup of tea, Pidge gathered several heavy loaves of soda bread her mother had made the day before and wrapped them in tea towels, along with a half dozen blocks of butter. She brought out two bicycles from the back shed and filled their baskets with the loaves and butter, covering the food with several sheets of newspaper to shield it from the rain.

  “Got your photograph?” she asked Nora.

  “Aye. Where exactly are we going?”

  “West,” Pidge said simply. “If we get stopped, we’ll say we’re going to my sick aunt’s in Portarlington.”

  “You’ve done this before, so you have.”

  “Oh, plenty of times. The Tan War kept us all busy. I’ve only been to this particular camp once before, though.”

  Nora hadn’t been on a bicycle since she was a child, so she wobbled along unsteadily behind Pidge. Judging from the way she wove around potholes and stayed clear of the ruts, the younger girl was obviously a seasoned rider. After they’d been riding for almost an hour, Nora could no longer hold back a groan.

  “All right?” Pidge called back.

  “Grand. It’s just that my arse is killing me. I’m not used to a bike, so I’m not.”

  Pidge stopped, and Nora gratefully slid off the seat for a moment’s rest. “How’d you get around up in Belfast then? Did you have a car?” Pidge’s eyes were round.

  “Not my own, no,” Nora admitted. “I, um, walked a lot.” She had no idea what year public transportation started in Ireland.

  “We’re almost there. Come, let’s walk for a bit. We should run into a scout soon.”

  “Are your brother and father involved in the fighting?” Nora asked, thinking of her own family.

  “They are, though Ma tries to keep them out of it. I think she invents urgent things to do around the farm to keep them close. We’ve a horse with a broken leg that Da and Stephen are tending to now. Wouldn’t surprise me if she broke that horse’s leg herself.” Her lips quirked in a sardonic smile.

  “But they’re not with this column—the one we’re headed to now?”

  “No, this group is from further north. But the Staters have taken over their area, so they’ve had to train elsewhere. I don’t know many of these lads.”

  They walked in silence for several minutes, pushing their bicycles beside them. The land around them was rugged, patches of green interspersed with dark gray rock. The rain continued to drizzle softly, and Nora shivered despite the warmth of her borrowed wool coat. Pidge led them off the road and onto a small, nearly indecipherable trail. They hauled their bikes over boulders and the occasional fallen log and leapt across a narrow stream that frothed and bubbled under their feet. The farther they went, the harder it was to believe they’d find anyone out there. They seemed so far removed from civilization, as though they had entered an ancient world where giants and gods walked freely.

  Nora’s thoughts found their way back to Thomas. Once she found him, once they were face to face in the waking world, he’d have to answer her questions. Would he look the same in real life? Her stomach twinged at the prospect of their first real-life encounter. How would he react to seeing her? Perhaps they’d lock eyes . . . then he would rush to her, maybe grab her hands or throw his arms around her neck. “You’ve come at last,” he’d moan. “How can I thank you?”

  She rolled her eyes and gave her head a shake. This wasn’t some trashy bodice-ripper novel. This was war. She had to keep her head on straight.

  “Houl on,” a voice barked at them. Nora’s fingers clenched on the handlebars of her bike. Her eyes scanned the brush and boulders around them but saw nothing.

  “It’s me, Jimmy—or have you forgotten me already, you lout?” Pidge called out. A young man in a dirty beige shirt and brown cap stepped out from behind a crop of boulders. Pidge raised an eyebrow at the hurling stick clutched in his hand. “Now just what are you intending to do with that?”

  Jimmy swung it around. “Just doin’ my job, Pidge. How are ye?”

  “Grand, thank ye,” she said, smiling coquettishly. “You going to let us through? Or do we have to fight our way in?”

  “Who’s this?” he asked with a jut of his chin.

  “This is Nora. She’s Cumann na mBan up in Belfast. She’s going to help me feed the lads.”

  “How d’you know she’s not an informer?”

  Nora scowled, but she let Pidge do the talking. She was well aware of how the IRA dealt with informers.

  “Because she saved your man Frankie Halpin’s life, for one. And she lost almost everything to the Unionists in the North. She’s one of us, Jimmy. She’s even staying with my family.”

  He peered at Nora from under the brim of his cap. So young. They’re all so young.

  “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Nora O’Reilly.”

  “And what do—”

  Pidge cut him off. “Leave it alone, Jimmy. She’s with me. That should be good enough. When have you ever doubted me, hey?” She ripped a chunk of bread from a loaf in her basket and tossed it to him. “You look half-starved,” she said, her voice softer.

  He inhaled the scent of the bread and sighed happily. “Would be, too, if it weren’t for you lot.”

  “How about a fag, then? As trade for the bread?”

  “You drive a hard bargain, Pidge. I’m down to my last pack. But I’d give it all up for your cooking.” He pulled a slightly flattened box out of his chest pocket and offered it to them.

  Pidge took out a cigarette and then passed the pack to Nora. “Don’t you smoke?” she asked when Nora hesitated.

  “I did,” Nora said. Her brother h
ad made her swear to never start, but she’d failed him in that way as well. She’d forced herself to quit a couple of years ago. “I suppose one can’t hurt.” She drew out the long white cylinder and rolled it gently between her fingers before lighting it with Jimmy’s proffered match.

  “Mother hates it,” Pidge said. “But all the girls do it. There’s no harm in it, surely.”

  Nora didn’t answer—she was too busy savoring the tingling sensation in her lungs, as though she were drawing a full breath for the first time in years. “Mmm. I’ve missed it. They say it’ll kill you, though.”

  Pidge and Jimmy looked at her as though she were crazy. “Who says that?” Pidge asked.

  “Doctors, mostly.”

  Jimmy laughed. “That’s mad. Eddie Needham’s brother is a doctor, and he smokes more than I do—and that’s a lot. Here. Take one for the road.”

  Pidge and Nora each took one more. Pidge tucked hers down the front of her dress. Nora slipped hers into the pocket of her borrowed coat.

  “Go on, now,” Jimmy said. “Rose and Lizzie are here already. Oh, and Lynch is supposed to be coming by today, so look sharp.”

  “Who’s Lynch?” Nora asked as they led their bikes down a steep hill.

  Pidge looked astounded. “Who’s Lynch? Only Liam Lynch, chief of staff of the IRA. Surely you’ve heard of him.”

  “Oh, him, yes, o’course,” Nora said quickly. “I’m just surprised he’d show up here. I thought it had to be someone else.”

  “Oh, he’s a common enough sight. It’s not like he’ll be walking down the streets of Dublin, mind, not with every Free Stater in the country wanting to put a bullet in him. But he comes to see how the training’s going, boost morale, that sort of thing.”

  “Have you met him?”

  “Can’t say that I have. I’ve seen him, o’course. Father’s met him. Says he’s a decent man. The right sort of man to lead this fight. He’ll never give up, not until the treaty is torn apart and we have what we deserve.”

  Liam Lynch. The man was a hero to so many of her friends and comrades in Belfast. He was revered as the man who’d won the Tan War—and then fought tooth and nail against his former colleagues after they signed the treaty with Britain. And now Nora would be seeing him in the flesh. She shivered and pulled her coat closer with one hand.

  “This area’s under Republican control, then?” she asked.

  “It is. Can’t say that about too many areas, now. But we’ll win them back.”

  No, you won’t, Nora thought. But she held her tongue. She wished she’d paid more attention to Eamon, or asked more questions, or read more books. It was hard to keep it all straight—the stories of backroom whispers, the deals and counterdeals made between the IRA, the Free State, the British, and the Unionists in the North. But she did know it would end badly for her side.

  They reached the bottom of the hill and followed the trail for a few more minutes. The desolation was palpable. Then Nora saw a long, single-story thatched cottage, and behind it several outbuildings of gray stone. She saw movement in one of the windows of the cottage.

  “The Free Staters know nothing about this place?” Nora asked Pidge, who shook her head.

  “The IRA lads found it abandoned only a couple of months ago. Been using it ever since. Some of the officers sleep here. The others kip in the barn.” They leaned their bikes against the house and went inside, carrying the bread and butter from their baskets.

  The cottage was dark, the only light coming in through the windows. In the kitchen was a long wooden table covered with papers and stubby pencils. An unlit lantern sat in the middle. Maps were pinned up on the walls.

  Two women were already in the kitchen. They smiled brightly at Pidge and then looked at Nora in confusion.

  “Rose, Lizzie, this is Nora,” Pidge said, handing them her armload of bread. “She’s from Cumann na mBan Belfast and is staying with us for a wee bit.” She nodded to one of the women, who had a round face and plump figure, with deep dimples in each cheek. Her dark curls shone even in the poor light. Nora found her age nearly impossible to guess—she could have been seventeen or thirty-five. “This is Rose, my second cousin,” Pidge explained. The other woman was older, her gray hair tied up neatly under a straw hat. She glared at Nora through narrowed eyes.

  “Which division?” she asked.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “My sister is Cumann na mBan Belfast. Which division are you in?”

  Ballix. Did Cumann na mBan follow the same organization structure as the IRA? Was there even more than one division in Belfast, or was this a trick to see if she was a spy?

  “First Division,” she said, meeting Lizzie’s eyes steadily. “Falls Road.”

  Lizzie held her gaze, then huffed and motioned toward the table. “Coogan won’t let us use the table, says we can’t mess with his papers. Since Rose and I have started cooking, why don’t you two get to the laundry? There’s a tub and washboard in the back. We’ve already drawn water, and the kettle’s hot.” A metal crane held two large iron pots over the fire in the hearth. A basket of potatoes sat on the floor beside bricks of turf.

  Pidge put her hands on her hips and huffed. “That’s mad, expecting us to make food for a dozen hungry Volunteers with no surface to work on! He can move his damn papers himself if he likes, but we’re using that table.”

  “You talk to him, then,” Lizzie said. “He’ll not be listening to an old woman like me.”

  “I will,” Pidge said. “We’ll see how badly the lads want to eat tonight.” She stomped out of the cottage, leaving Nora alone with the two women.

  “Go on, then,” Lizzie said with a jut of her pointed chin toward the back of the house. “It’s not just the laundry that needs doing, either. There are beds to change and rooms to be swept out.”

  Nora relaxed her jaw and forced her lips into a smile. With the Provos, she’d been just as active as any of the men. She’d forgotten how much times had changed. “Laundry, sure,” she said. “But first, do either of you recognize this man?” She showed them her picture of Thomas. Rose only had to glance at it before turning beet red.

  “O’course, that’s Tom Heaney. What are you wanting with him, then?”

  Nora gaped at her. The fingers holding the photograph tingled. He was real. She scarcely believed it, even after everything that had happened.

  She found her voice. “My cousin asked me to find him.”

  Rose visibly relaxed, though her cheeks were still pink.

  “Well, he’s probably only a few yards away from you.”

  Nora’s throat constricted. “He’s . . . here?” She clutched the photo tighter.

  “Sure he is, isn’t he, Lizzie?”

  “As she says,” Lizzie said. Her back was to them, and she was up to her elbows in a deep mixing bowl balanced on a wooden chair. “He’s around here somewhere, with the rest of them.”

  Nora kept her eyes on the photo in her hands. The man stared back at her, unsmiling, unblinking. You’re real.

  “You all right, there, Nora?” Rose asked.

  “Ach, aye.” But she felt rooted to the spot, there in the tiny kitchen. The man she had traveled eight decades to find, the man who’d haunted her dreams for months, was here, only steps away. She could no longer wait.

  Without another word to Rose and Lizzie, she strode out of the cottage, her eyes fixed on the stone barn ahead. Maybe he was in there. Her heart beat at an unnatural pace, and her hands shook at her sides.

  The faded wooden door of the barn was ajar, and she pushed it open. She blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Two gun racks stood against a narrow wall, but only one of them was full. Several crates were stacked next to them. A man was leaning against them, smoking.

  “Oi! What are you doing in here?” he said when he noticed Nora.

  “I’m looking for Thomas Heaney,” she said.

  “What for?”

  “That’s between me and him.”

  “You must
be new. We’re to stay clear of you ladies while you’re here. Or should I say you should stay clear of us.”

  “It’s important.”

  He shrugged. “Suit yourself. He’s out training with the lads. Good luck finding him without getting shot.”

  She closed the door and walked around to the other side of the barn, determined to find the training site.

  There.

  He was still far off, but there was no mistaking his gray hair, which glinted in the sunlight that was fighting its way through the clouds. Another Volunteer walked behind him. They talked animatedly, Thomas’s hands dancing through the air as he spoke. A large dog ran beside them, tongue lolling. A wolfhound, Nora realized. She didn’t move, only stood and watched as he drew closer and closer. He was only the length of the barn away but didn’t seem to have noticed her. The dog, however, ran over to her, sniffing enthusiastically. Its shaggy brown head came up to her waist. She gave it a nervous pat.

  “Here, Bran,” Thomas called, and the dog returned to his side.

  “Thomas Heaney?” she asked, her voice wavering. Both he and his companion stopped. Thomas gave her a slight bow.

  “At your service.”

  She leaned forward, searching his face. It was unmistakably the man from her dreams. His voice held the same gentle sway. And his eyes . . . They were the same ocean blue that had begged her to find him.

  “I’ve come,” she said, drawing herself up and meeting his gaze with her own.

  “So I see, and we’re grateful for it,” he said, his eyes twinkling. “The lads’ laundry is in the brown sacks in the back of the barn. And God knows they’re in sore need of washing.”

  Nora stiffened. “Excuse me?” Was this his idea of a joke?

  “Well, you can’t expect us to train for a week without starting to smell a bit rare. Especially this one.” He jabbed an elbow in his friend’s ribs and laughed.