Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  They hovered on the edge of the field. Nora was torn. She wanted to warn Pidge’s family, but she didn’t want to leave Thomas behind. “We should wait until dark,” she said.

  Pidge glanced at Nora’s bleeding scalp. “That’ll be hours from now. We need to get your head looked after.”

  “They’ll search the surrounding farms; no one will take us in.”

  Pidge’s jaw stiffened. “You don’t know these people like I do. I say we risk it.”

  “Your family is safe right now. But Thomas might be hurt; he might need us.”

  “Nora, Thomas is either dead or captured or on the run like we are. We’ve no weapons, and you’re covered in blood. We’ve got to get you some help.”

  Nora turned back into the woods. “No. I shouldn’t have left . . . I need to help . . .” Her head swam, and the woods spun around her. Another flash of pain spiked through her head as it hit a tree root. Then nothing.

  She awoke with a sharp jostle, her whole body aching. The gray sky moved above her, and her stomach turned. She closed her eyes again.

  “Nora!” Pidge’s voice whispered in her ear. “Wake up!”

  Nora opened her eyes again. Pidge was leaning over her. She struggled to get her bearings. Her head was lying on something soft and warm—Pidge’s lap. The sky seemed to be gliding by above her. “Where—?”

  “Shh,” Pidge whispered again. “We’re in a Free State lorry.”

  “How did they—?”

  “It’s my fault. You passed out. I tried to drag you across the field, but they followed. I’m so sorry.” Pidge’s eyes were red rimmed and tight with worry.

  Nora stared at the moving clouds. “And . . . ?” She didn’t want to say Thomas’s name out loud.

  “I don’t know.”

  Nora struggled to sit up. Her head felt as though it had been lit on fire. Something was wrapped around it. She reached up to touch it, but Pidge grabbed her hand. “Don’t. It’s soaked through with blood. They wouldn’t give me any bandages.” It was then that Nora noticed great strips had been ripped from Pidge’s skirt. She also realized they were not alone in the back of the lorry. A soldier sat facing them, his rifle splayed across his lap. Another, his shoulder neatly bandaged, leaned against the side of the carriage, eyes closed. A long, still figure lay in the center of the lorry bed, covered with a blanket.

  “Pidge?” Nora moaned. “Who is under there?”

  “That’s Commandant Kirwin, ye hoore,” the bandaged soldier answered, rousing. “Thanks to you, a good man died today.”

  “A good man wouldn’t have attacked two unarmed women,” Nora muttered. “Where’s the man who shot you?” The soldier with the rifle looked at her with deadened eyes.

  “Shut up. You’re not supposed to talk.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.” He glowered at her for a moment longer, then trained his glare on the passing countryside.

  “Where are you taking us?”

  “Hell.”

  “Nora, shh.” Pidge wrapped an arm around her and pulled her closer. “They’re taking us to prison, no doubt. Or the barracks. But for God’s sake, don’t give them cause to hit you again.”

  Nora sank back against Pidge’s shoulder. “Did he cut it all off?” she murmured.

  “Most of it, I’m afraid. He was none too gentle, as I’m sure you felt. Cut you in several places. There was so much blood. I couldn’t stop him, I—” Pidge stopped, her words choked off by silent tears.

  “It’s grand, Pidge,” Nora said, closing her eyes again. “We’ll figure it out. What about your family?”

  “I don’t know. I’m just glad they weren’t at home.”

  They embraced each other in the jolting lorry. Nora could tell from the sounds that they were leaving the countryside, but she didn’t want to open her eyes. Had Mr. and Mrs. Gillies and Stephen been rounded up, or would they return to a house splattered with blood? Would they know Pidge had just been arrested, not killed?

  And Thomas . . . If the soldiers had followed Pidge, that meant only one thing. He was dead. Or captured. Her gut ached.

  The lorry lurched to a halt, and the soldier prodded her with the butt of his rifle.

  “Up you get. Come on, now.”

  “She needs to see a doctor,” Pidge said as she helped Nora to her feet.

  “She can see one in prison,” he retorted, shoving them roughly out of the back of the lorry.

  A black iron gate loomed in front of them. Through the gate Nora saw five stone dragons, curled above a heavily barred iron door. Kilmainham Gaol. Had it only been a few days ago that she’d been here as an innocent tourist? The outside of the prison was unchanged, and yet the arched doorway with its five twisted dragons held a new, terrifying meaning. There would be no friendly tour guide inside, no brightly colored displays, no memorials to those who had suffered. There would be only suffering.

  “Move along!” the soldier barked.

  Nora cranked her head around toward the lorry, on the off chance Thomas was in the cab with the driver. But there was only a Free State soldier, one hand on the wheel, leering at her. Pidge grabbed her hand. “I reckoned I’d end up here someday,” she said. “We’ll be in good company, Nora. The true daughters of Ireland.” She lifted her chin and held Nora’s hand firmly. They walked into Kilmainham Gaol under the cold stare of the five dragons.

  Chapter Fifteen

  They were met in the entryway by a short, gray-haired woman in a high-necked black dress. She looked as though she was in mourning, which did nothing to comfort Nora’s nerves. Armed Free State guards stood inside the doors. The woman took one glance at Nora’s head and rounded on the two soldiers who had escorted them inside. “Who did this?”

  They quailed under the matron’s stare. “Commandant Kirwin, Miss Higgins.”

  “And where is Commandant Kirwin? I would like to have a word with him about his treatment of our women.”

  “He’s dead. Shot during the fight.”

  “Are you telling me one of these women shot him?”

  He shook his head. “An Irregular.”

  She pursed her lips. “So you say. I’ll take them from here, lads. Off you go.”

  She turned sharply and marched into an office off the main hall. “I’m Miss Higgins, one of the wardresses. Your names?” she asked, taking out a leather-bound register.

  “Hannah Gillies.”

  “Nora O’Reilly.”

  “Sign here.” She handed them the register. Nora stared at it blankly for a moment—it was the same book she’d seen eighty years in the future. She took the proffered pen and wrote her name on the line. Some of the names had been written in fine penmanship, complete with delicate swirls and lines. Others were untidy scrawls.

  “What are we being charged with? When can we see a solicitor?” she asked.

  “You’re being charged with sedition under the Emergency Powers Act. Which means you don’t get to see a solicitor.”

  Nora turned to Pidge. “Is that legal?”

  “The Free State does whatever they want,” she answered, locking eyes with the wardress. “Just like the British.”

  Miss Higgins ignored this. “And you’ll need to see a doctor, I suppose. First Lieutenant Lyons will have a look at you.”

  “Brighid Lyons? My mother was in prison with her after the Rising,” Pidge exclaimed. “Are you telling me she’s working with the Free State now?”

  “We all want what’s best for Ireland,” Miss Higgins said, while Nora digested this surprising bit of news about Mrs. Gillies. “I suggest you keep that in mind. Against the wall, now. I have to search you.”

  “We’ve already been groped by your men,” Nora said.

  “Rules are rules. Unless you want me to have you strip-searched.”

  Nora pressed her lips together and turned against the wall. Miss Higgins patted them down, but it was more perfunctory than thorough. “Right,” she said when she had finished. “Com
e with me. You’ll be in the West Wing.”

  They followed her through a dingy corridor. Gone were the electric lights of the twenty-first century. Gas lamps dimly lit the stone hallway. The temperature dropped the farther along the passage they went. On an archway above them had been painted the words, “Sin no more lest worse shall come to thee.” She hadn’t seen that on the tour.

  Soon there were no more lamps, only a faint light emanating from skylights far above them. The smell of human waste wafted down the corridor toward them. Nora wrinkled her nose and breathed through her mouth. Cell doors of solid wood lined both sides of the dark hallway. There were no windows in the doors, only small spy holes covered with metal disks. Finally, Miss Higgins stopped.

  “In you go, Miss O’Reilly,” she said, twisting a heavy key in the lock and opening a cell door. Nora peered inside. A single window, far above her head, let in a teasing glow of light from the outside. There was no glass in the window, only three thick bars. The floor of the narrow cell was stone. A thin mattress lay in the corner, topped by a small gray pillow and two folded blankets. Also on the bed were an enamel mug and plate, along with a knife, fork, and spoon. If Nora stretched out her arms, she’d almost be able to touch the cell walls.

  “What about Pidge? Won’t she be with me?” Nora asked.

  “No.” She handed Nora a long white candle in a metal holder, along with a single match. “You’ll get one of these every other day. Make it last. The nights are cold.”

  Nora looked at the candle in her hand, then back at the wardress. “You’re not serious? All we get for heat is a candle?”

  Miss Higgins spoke briskly. “Heat and light. There used to be glass in the windows, but your predecessor removed it, complaining of the smell. So you’ve her to blame, not me. Now listen up, as I’ll only tell you this once. Exercise in the yard is from ten to twelve and three to five daily. Roll call at eight, breakfast at eight thirty, lunch at one, tea at five, supper at eight. The lavatory is down the hall. No visitors are permitted, but you may send and receive one single-page letter each week. Until I finish processing you, you’ll be locked in your cell, but as a general rule the cells are left open. During daytime hours you are permitted to spend time in the East Wing. It’s generally warmer there. As political prisoners, you have a fair amount of freedom here. Cause trouble and you will lose that freedom. Understood?”

  Nora gave a stiff nod, then stepped into the cell. Miss Higgins closed the door and locked it. Nora listened at the door as Pidge was shuffled into the cell across the hall. She sank down onto the thin mattress, clutching her candle. With nothing between her and the cold Irish spring, the small, cramped space was already freezing.

  I’m not the first to go to prison for Ireland. Several of her friends had suffered long months, even years, in the Maze, Northern Ireland’s most notorious prison. A rush of solidarity warmed her a little. She set her candle aside and unfolded the blankets, wrapping one around her shoulders and the other around her legs.

  Just survive. Get through today. Tomorrow will sort itself out. She reached inside one of the pockets on her dress and pulled out Eamon’s rosary. She clutched the smooth, hard beads as if to squeeze some comfort out of them.

  A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. A key turned, and a tall, blond woman entered the room. She was not much older than Nora, if at all. “Nora O’Reilly?” she asked.

  “Aye.”

  “I’m First Lieutenant Brighid Lyons, the doctor. Miss Higgins sent me. If you’ll come with me to the hospital ward, I’ll have a look at your head.”

  Nora tucked her precious candle under her pillow, then followed Lieutenant Lyons out into the hall. The woman led her into a large room—large, at least, compared to the cells—in which there were four beds and a fireplace, which was gloriously lit. A heavy iron kettle hung over the fire from a large hook in the brick wall. Two of the beds were occupied.

  “Are we getting a new roommate?” one of the women asked, struggling to sit up. Her face was gaunt, and it seemed as if the effort of propping herself up was almost too much to bear. The other woman opened her eyes and watched Nora but said nothing.

  “Thankfully, no,” Lieutenant Lyons said. “I’ve enough on my hands with the two of you trying to starve yourselves to death.”

  “What happened to you?” the first woman asked Nora.

  Nora glanced at the doctor, then addressed the woman. “My friend and I were attacked by Free State soldiers.”

  The woman shook her head. “See, Brighid? This is the kind of government you’re supporting. This is why we strike.”

  “I thought you were striking for your freedom,” Lieutenant Lyons remarked wryly.

  “That, too.” The woman eased herself down on her pillow and closed her eyes. “Have courage, newcomer. No surrender.”

  Lieutenant Lyons directed Nora toward a bed near the fire. “Are they on hunger strike?” Nora asked.

  “Yes. Been almost three weeks now.”

  Hunger strike. That phrase brought back a powerful memory of a small coffin, flanked by masked PIRA Volunteers, being carried through the streets of Belfast to Milltown Cemetery. Bobby Sands had starved himself to death in protest of his political imprisonment in the Maze, the first of ten such deaths. Nora, Eamon, and their mother had joined the hundred thousand mourners lining the streets that day. Nora, only six at the time, hadn’t understood why a man would choose to die and leave his family—especially when hers hadn’t been given the choice.

  “How long will you let it go on?” she asked the lieutenant.

  “It’s not my decision, thankfully. The minister of defense, decides when—or if—they’ll be released. I send daily updates on their health, but I can’t make the decision to release them.”

  Nora shivered and leaned closer to the fire.

  “It’s cold in here, to be sure,” Lieutenant Lyons said as she took a roll of clean bandages from a low cabinet against the wall. “I was in this wing briefly during the Tan War, before I got moved over to the East Wing.”

  “I heard you were here before,” Nora said. “Must be difficult, holding your former comrades captive.”

  The doctor was silent for a moment. Then she said, “It is. We don’t talk about it much. We all have our reasons for choosing the side we did. At least here I can make sure they are well cared for.”

  “By freezing them to death, you mean?”

  “The candle casts more heat than you would think. And during the day, you’re free to do as you please.”

  “Except leave.”

  “Except leave. Now let’s have a look at your head.” Lyons lifted a section of what had once been Pidge’s skirt. It pulled hard, and Nora winced. “It’s dried on to the wound,” Lyons said. “I’ll need to soak it.” She lifted the kettle with a pair of heavy oven mitts and poured hot water into a ceramic basin on top of the cabinet. After soaking a strip of cloth in the water, she set it on Nora’s head. The heat made the knife wounds sting, but the warmth almost made it worthwhile. The doctor slowly soaked each section of makeshift bandage and then peeled it from Nora’s ruined scalp.

  “So what are your reasons?” Nora asked.

  “Pardon?”

  “Why are you supporting the treaty? If you were in here for fighting against the British, why join them now?”

  “I suppose it’s like Michael Collins said: the treaty gives us the freedom to get freedom. And Lloyd George made it clear during the negotiations that it was either the treaty or ‘an immediate return to war.’ I used to go with one of the lads in the IRA. He told me they couldn’t win another war with the British. They had no ammunition, no weapons left. And Britain’s not recovering from the Great War anymore, like they were then. They’d be free to crush us—and crush us they would. So I’d rather take the treaty and work toward full freedom than lose a war and stay under England’s thumb. Where would that leave us? At least now we’ve our own government. And we’ll have the Republic someday, I truly believe it.”


  Nora kept her eyes down. Mick had always said the Free Staters were naught but traitors, giving in to British demands without putting up an honest fight. Even if the only alternative had been war, it was better than kowtowing to the might of the British Empire . . . wasn’t it? It had seemed so black and white when her only friends were hard-line revolutionaries. How would Eamon have responded to Lieutenant Lyons’s argument?

  “And you? Why do you still fight?” Lyons asked. “Surely you must know it’s a lost cause. If you defeat the new Free State, which you have to admit is unlikely given the number of Irregulars who’ve been captured, you’ll have the Brits to deal with next. I don’t understand it. Is it just stubbornness that drives you on?”

  It’s the knowledge of what happens next, Nora thought. She could tell that the doctor believed what she was saying, that she truly thought there was no choice between annihilation and dominion status within the British Empire. But she hadn’t lived through the Troubles.

  “I’m from Belfast, so I am. And I’m afraid of what will happen when—if—the country is divided. Permanently. The Unionists, the Prods, they hate us so much. I know that if we let the partition happen, the fighting won’t end. It’ll go on for years, ruining lives and families . . . like mine. I’ve a chance to stop it, so I must.”

  “You sound like it’s written in stone.”

  “Not if I can help it.”

  “We’ve all lost people we love. And I don’t doubt that things will be difficult for those in the six counties.” There was a hint of steel in the lieutenant’s voice. “But think of how many more will die if we take on England again. We barely survived the last war. I fear we won’t survive another one.”

  Nora clenched her jaw, remembering the sight of Eamon’s broken body on that hospital bed. “I’d rather die than get in bed with the British. No surrender.”

  Lyons was wrong. There were other options—there had to be. The British had to be as tired of war as the Irish. If they could overturn the treaty, if they could win the war here on Irish soil, the British would not be so keen to renew hostilities. They, too, had suffered greatly during the Tan War. And Nora knew better than anyone that the Irish were perfectly capable of bringing the war to England.