Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  The doctor bit her lip. “Whatever side you’re on, you can’t deny it’s a tragic outcome. The first thing we do after we finally get the British out is to start killing each other. Makes me wonder if we really deserve independence. Just look at you . . . I’m ashamed of the men who did this.”

  Nora gingerly touched her head. What would have happened to her if Thomas had not shot Commandant Kirwin? And where was he now? Did they even bury the Republican men they executed? Did he have any family who would claim his body? Or was there a chance he was still alive? “Do you have a mirror?”

  Lyons rummaged around in a drawer and pulled out a small handheld mirror, which she passed to Nora. Nora took a deep breath, then looked.

  “Jesus Christ,” she said softly. One of her eyes was turning purple around the outer edge. Her left cheek was scored with red lines spotted with splinters from the wooden barrel she’d been shoved against. Her bottom lip had been split by Kirwin’s backhand. A trickle of blood had dried on her chin. But the most shocking sight was the matted, ragged tufts of red hair between the deep red gashes made by Kirwin’s knife.

  “It’ll grow back, and you’ll never know the difference,” Lyons said. “Here, let me clean the wounds. I’ll shave the rest to even it out; then we’ll bandage it up. I’ve a scarf you can wear over the bandages. It’s quite pretty.”

  “No.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Clean the wounds, please. But I don’t want to cover it up.” What she wanted was to show the Irish people how she’d been brutalized by Free State soldiers. Her heart raced at the possibility. It had worked in 1916, after all. The British had executed the leaders of the failed Easter Rising. That had been the last straw—the one merciless act that had finally turned the beaten-down, dispassionate Irish people into a revolutionary force to be reckoned with. Surely the beating and molestation of a woman in this otherwise genteel age would help turn the Irish people against the Free State. Just because she was behind bars didn’t mean she was helpless. She could still have a role to play in this war.

  “No one will believe you,” Lyons said softly, as though reading Nora’s thoughts.

  “You think they’ll believe I hacked off my own hair?” Nora winced as the doctor ran a razor over her scalp, trying to avoid the knife wounds.

  “Listen to me, Nora. I know you’re in here because you’re a revolutionary. I know what that means, how it feels, believe me. But we finally have our freedom. Don’t you want to be around to taste it? Don’t go causing trouble for yourself.”

  “I’ve been causing trouble for myself since I was fifteen years old. I’m not about to stop now.” She returned her gaze to the flames and tried to ignore the pain. It could work. But she had to be bold; she had to act now. What she needed was a camera. She was certain their letters in and out would be read by a censor, but there had to be a way she could contact a sympathetic newspaper and get the story out. Small, seemingly inconsequential actions had changed the course of history before, she mused. Maybe this would be one of them.

  Nora stood the moment the doctor finished.

  “You must let me cover those wounds. They’ll become infected otherwise,” Lyons urged.

  “Fine.” Nora sat down again, tapping her hands against her legs while the doctor wound a clean white bandage around her scalp. Then she wrapped a pale blue scarf over the bandages and tied it at the nape of Nora’s neck. “Thank you,” Nora said. “Miss Higgins said we’re free to move around the prison? So I can go to the other wing, then?”

  “You can. But mind yourself, Nora.”

  Nora caught the eye of the silent bedridden woman as she left the room. The woman said nothing but nodded at Nora in a way that bolstered her determination. The fire she’d felt after visiting Bernadette, the Brigidine Sister, was rekindled in her chest. The arrest was a setback, but she could still change the future. She banged on Pidge’s cell door. “Pidge! Are you in there?” There was no answer. She headed down another hallway, which was strangely empty, trying to remember the way to the newer wing from the tour she’d taken with Liz. As she walked, she untied the knot of the scarf and wrapped it around her neck, then unwound the bandage before it had a chance to fuse to her injuries. She folded it neatly and tucked it inside a pocket. She’d put it back on after everyone had seen what the Free State had done to her.

  Finally, she encountered a guard, who barked, “You there! Get outside with the others.”

  She frowned, then realized the others must be out in the exercise yard. Her stomach ached, but she had no idea when the next meal would be served. She went through the doorway the guard had indicated, hovering a little before stepping into the courtyard. The sky was overcast but dry. The courtyard was surrounded on all sides by high stone walls that soared up thirty feet above her. She’d been here before, on the tour, on the way to the smaller courtyard she’d seen in her dream.

  Women stood in groups, chatting, some smoking. Most wore dresses. Some even had on hats and gloves, as though they were en route to a cocktail party and not languishing in jail. A few of the women wore trousers. A game of some sort was taking place on one side of the courtyard—the women were throwing a small white ball to each other, trying to hit it with what looked like a broken chair leg.

  Nora stepped forward. Several of the prisoners closest to the door turned to look at her and gasped.

  “Christ have mercy!” an older woman exclaimed, rushing forward. “Who did this to you, child?”

  They gathered around her, exclaiming at her wounds and pressing her with questions. “Nora!” Pidge called out, shouldering her way to Nora’s side. “See, I told you what they did to her.”

  There were shocked gasps and clucked tongues. Nora—with Pidge’s constant interruptions—told the story of their arrest. She hesitated when she reached the part about Thomas.

  “Then a man, one of ours, came out of nowhere and shot the bastard. We tried to run, but they caught up with us.”

  “Who was he?” one of the women asked.

  Nora glanced at Pidge. “I don’t know. I didn’t recognize him.” If there was even the slightest chance that Thomas was alive, she didn’t want to be the one to lay the charge of murder at his door.

  “How’d they find you?” another asked. “How did they know about the guns?”

  Pidge looked down at her feet. “It’s my fault. We ran into a Free State soldier on the way home. The guns were hidden in the goods we picked up at the market. I talked him out of searching us, but he must have been suspicious.” She scowled. “And here I thought he was one of the good ones.”

  “Have a fag, both of you. It’s the least we can give you,” one petite brunette said, handing them each a cigarette.

  “Unless Betty’s smuggled in more whiskey!” another said with a giggle.

  “You drank it all!” The indignant response came from another woman who could only be Betty.

  “Keep it down,” the brunette warned with a nod toward the guards at the doors.

  “Do any of you have a camera?” Nora said quietly. “I thought if we could get a photograph to the papers. Build some sympathy.”

  The women looked at each other, but no one said anything. Those who had been playing the game on the other side of the courtyard filtered over, curious about the newcomers. Nora was about to launch into a repeated description of what had happened when two of the guards walked over and broke up their huddle. “Time’s up, ladies. Back inside.”

  “We’ll talk more later,” the petite brunette said, squeezing Nora’s hand before filing in with the rest of them.

  “You’re a quick thinker, Nora,” Pidge said as they headed inside together. “I’d have been more worried about the state of my hair if it were me. But you’re right: we need to make sure the country knows how the Free State treats its women. They can lock us up, but they can’t shut us up.”

  “Yes, but how do we manage it?” Nora muttered.

  “We’ll talk to the OC. She’s the one
of us who’s in charge here, and she’ll have some ideas.”

  “The OC?”

  “Officer Commanding. Woman called Mrs. Humphreys. The others call her OC God; she’s very religious. I’ve been asking around while you were with the doctor, trying to get the lay of the land.”

  Nora turned her head sharply. “Mrs. Humphreys? Annie Humphreys?” That name had come to her unbidden while standing in a cell on her tour of Kilmainham. Could it be this OC woman?

  Pidge shrugged. “No idea. Why, do you know her?”

  “No . . . I’ve just heard the name, that’s all.”

  “I guess we’ll find out. But what about this doctor? Did she not bandage you?”

  “I took it off. Better that they see me this way.”

  “Until it gets infected and your head falls off.”

  “Aye, mother. I’ll wrap it up again after we’ve seen this OC.”

  “It’s almost time for tea,” the petite brunette said, turning back to look at them. “Go and grab your mugs, and meet me in cell 243 in the East Wing. I’ll fetch Mrs. Humphreys to join us. She’ll get an eyeful at the sight of you—and an earful, from the sounds of it.”

  “Thank you . . .”

  “Jo O’Mullane.”

  “Nora O’Reilly. This is Pidge Gillies.”

  “I’ve heard about you, Pidge. Grand family you’ve got. Are they well?”

  “I don’t know,” Pidge said, her forehead creasing. “They weren’t at home when I was taken. I’ve been worried sick about them.”

  “They’ll find you. Word travels fast. And you can write to them. Post goes out tomorrow.”

  Nora and Pidge walked down the long corridor toward their cells. Other women joined them, grabbing their own enamel mugs.

  “Welcome to the West Wing,” one of them said. “It’s as miserable as it seems.”

  “I heard the girls in the East Wing are going to protest until we get proper beds,” said another. “I’m Julia O’Neill. Here’s my sister Frances.”

  “Hullo,” Frances said. “Don’t hold your breath for the beds. No one will risk the fuss of a protest while Mary and Kate are still on hunger strike.”

  Nora collected her cup and followed the others. They emerged into the bright open horseshoe of the East Wing. Light filtered through the glass ceiling high above them. Three levels of cells surrounded them. The prisoners moved freely—some on the narrow landings that curved outside the cell doors, some down on the main floor. Several women arranged themselves onto the benches that sat in rows to Nora’s left. It looked like some sort of class was about to be held. She and Pidge climbed the narrow metal staircase and looked for cell 243. Then they heard a voice beckoning them from the other side of the horseshoe-shaped landing.

  “Pidge! Nora! Over here!” Jo was leaning over the railing and waving to them. They passed several cells, none of which were as austere and gloomy as their own. Above Jo’s cell door was carved the words “The Invincibles.”

  “What’s that?” Pidge asked, pointing.

  “It’s our cell name,” Jo said proudly. “Me and my friend Lena share it. Come in, then. The tea will be around shortly.”

  “Where’s Lena?”

  “Irish lessons.” Jo laughed. “Downstairs. May Kelly runs them. God knows I’d love to speak our mother tongue, but I’ve no memory for it. I do like the history lessons, though. They didn’t teach us any proper Irish history in the British schools, that’s for sure. And there’s French and German and dancing and whatever else you might want to learn. We’re a regular university in here.”

  Nora smiled. Her mother had insisted she learn Irish from a young age, but she hadn’t spoken it in years. Perhaps she could practice with Lena.

  Jo’s cell was positively luxurious compared with those in the West Wing. There was a small wooden table and two chairs in addition to the two beds. A tricolor flag embroidered with the initials “CnamB” had been pinned to one wall. On the other wall, “Up the Republic!” had been written in large letters in pencil. A small box sat on the table. Beside it was an autograph book that resembled the ones Nora had seen on display on her first visit to Kilmainham.

  “Here comes the tea. Get your cups ready,” Jo said. Nora peered out the door. A thin, haggard woman wearing a dirty smock was going from cell to cell, holding a bucket.

  “Is she a fellow prisoner?”

  “One of us, you mean? No, she’ll be a regular convict. They send them up from Mountjoy to do the cooking, cleaning, serving, and all that. Must be hard for them to see us enjoying our smokes and food packages, especially since we don’t have to do any of the dirty work. But we’ve committed no crimes, either.”

  The woman arrived at their cell door. “Hullo, Marge,” Jo said to her, then dipped her cup into the bucket.

  “The tea is served in a bucket?” Pidge said indignantly.

  “No fine china here,” Jo said cheerfully. “But it tastes decent. Go ahead.”

  Nora and Pidge dipped their cups into the liquid. Though Nora made a point of smiling kindly at Marge, the other woman merely scowled back before hobbling to the next cell.

  “What do you think she did?” Nora asked, sipping her tea. Milk and sugar had been added to the bucket. Jo was right: it was quite palatable, despite the lukewarm temperature.

  “Who knows? Stealing, most likely. How’s your head?”

  “Sore, but I’ll live.”

  “Here comes the OC now.” To Nora’s surprise, Jo stood and saluted as a short, plump woman with salt-and-pepper hair entered the cell. Jo prodded them with her foot, so Nora and Pidge also stood and saluted.

  “May I present Mrs. Annie Humphreys, officer commanding of Cumann na mBan Kilmainham Gaol,” Jo said with aplomb. “These two are Nora O’Reilly and Pidge Gillies, our newest arrivals.”

  Mrs. Humphreys gave the girls a sharp look, then sat down at the table. Nora sat on the edge of Jo’s bed, beside Pidge. “Pleasure to meet you,” Nora said. “I understand you might be able to help us—”

  “Where do you come from, Miss O’Reilly?” Mrs. Humphreys interrupted.

  Nora hesitated. “Belfast.”

  “And you were a member of Cumann na mBan there?”

  “Aye.”

  “I’m always very interested in our new arrivals, so I’ve already made some inquiries. Lizzie Whelan tells me she met you for the first time earlier this week, at one of the training camps. Tells me you were making inquiries about some of the Volunteers.”

  “Is Lizzie here, too?” Pidge exclaimed.

  Mrs. Humphreys ignored her, her eyes trained on Nora.

  Nora stiffened, the implication clear. “Yes, I was helping Pidge—”

  “How exactly do you know Miss Gillies?”

  “She saved Frankie Halpin’s life, that’s how,” Pidge interjected.

  “I’m talking to Miss O’Reilly,” the OC said coldly.

  “It’s true,” Nora said. “I came across an ambush by the Free Staters. Frankie was the only survivor. I ran to the closest house for help. That’s how I met Pidge and her family.”

  “So I’ve heard. And what was a young woman doing on a country road with the National Army in the middle of the night?”

  Nora narrowed her eyes. “Why don’t you just come out and say you think I’m a spy?” She clutched her cup tightly.

  “It’s my job to know who’s in here—who’s listening to what we say,” Mrs. Humphreys said steadily. “Your story doesn’t quite line up.”

  “Can’t you see her face? Her head?” Pidge exclaimed. “Do you think the Free State would do that to one of their own?”

  “I have no idea what they’re capable of,” Mrs. Humphreys said. Jo watched the exchange with round eyes.

  “I came from Belfast to look for my uncle after my family was murdered,” Nora said through clenched teeth. “His home in Kildare was deserted. Some Staters harassed me, so I ran. I lost my way. I decided to wait in a wooded area until daylight, but then the massacre happened on the road n
ear me. I ran to get help.”

  “Are you telling the truth, Nora? That’s quite the story you’ve got,” Jo said, looking impressed.

  “O’course it’s the truth.”

  “Then why’ve none of our Belfast girls here heard of you or your family?” Mrs. Humphreys asked.

  Nora set her cup down on the table, keeping her hands steady. “I signed up recently.”

  “Hmm. Well, that may be. But you’ll have to forgive me for having my suspicions. You see, one of the guards here is called O’Reilly, and judging from his tongue, he is also from Ulster. Any relation to you?”

  Nora stared at her, suddenly remembering what Aunt Margaret had said—her great-uncle had worked as a prison guard in Dublin until he was killed during the Civil War. Could this be the same man?

  “I don’t—no, I don’t have any relatives in Dublin. And all my relatives are Republicans.”

  “But you and he are both from Ulster, are you not?”

  “Look, I don’t know who you’re talking about. O’Reilly’s a common enough name. But I’m not a spy, so I’m not. And I don’t take well to people questioning my loyalty after all I’ve done for the cause.”

  Mrs. Humphreys stood up. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “What does it matter?” Nora stood as well, towering over the squat woman. “The question is, what are we going to do about this?” She gestured to her head. “Are we going to use it to help turn the people in our favor? Or are we going to sit in our cells talking about where we’re from and who we know?”

  There was a heartbeat of silence; then Mrs. Humphreys said, “So that’s your plan?”

  “If we can get the story of our mistreatment out—better yet, a photograph—it may well spark an outcry. It might encourage others who have been mistreated by the Free State to speak out. Who knows what kind of ripple effect it could have?”

  Mrs. Humphreys pursed her lips. “There’s a wardress, Miss Wilson, who will likely take the story out for us. She’s helped by smuggling in food packages during the bans and bringing in the bulletins. Can you write down what happened?”