Bury the Living (Revolutionary #1)

by Jodi McIsaac

  “Stomach cramps?”

  Pidge nodded. “It hurts.”

  “I know.”

  “I’m afraid. What if I can’t bear it?”

  “There’s no shame in going off the strike.”

  “Jo says the pain goes away after a couple of days.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. But that doesn’t mean it gets easy.”

  “You said you’ve seen people starve. Who?”

  Nora hesitated. Africa was too exotic of a destination for a poor Catholic girl from Belfast. She couldn’t say she’d worked there, in feeding clinics and refugee camps where daily grave-digging was a tragic necessity.

  “Children. Orphans and street children. A friend of my mother’s ran a home for them. I helped out when I could.”

  “How horrible.”

  “Aye, it was.”

  “What . . . what was it like? For the people who starved?”

  Nora shook her head, remembering going from bed to bed in the feeding center, checking to see who was still alive—and who had arrived too late. “It’s not pretty, so it’s not. Someone explained to me once how it works. Your body uses up all the energy it’s stored . . . and then it basically starts eating itself—getting energy from your muscles and tissues. Eventually, there’s not enough energy to keep the organs functioning, and your body shuts down. You get infections, or have a heart attack, or the brain just stops working.”

  Pidge grimaced. “That’s an awful way to put it.”

  “Aye, but it’s the truth. Don’t you think—”

  “Don’t. Don’t say I should reconsider. I only wanted to know what’s ahead, is all. So I can be ready for it.”

  “All right.” Nora stood up. “I’m going to see if there’s any news.”

  “News about what?”

  “About anything.”

  Nora quietly ate her breakfast with Jo and Lena so as not to torture Pidge with the smells. “Has any news been brought in today?” she asked.

  Jo was bent over a crochet hook, biting her lip. “The war rages on.”

  “Anything specific? Any . . . deaths?”

  Jo looked up. “Last night at the window we got word of an ambush, if that’s what you mean.”

  “Our side or theirs?”

  “Ours, o’course. On the Ballystodden Road. Didn’t lose a single man. Two of theirs were killed, though.”

  “Do you know who they were?”

  “The men who were killed? No. Why?”

  “Doesn’t matter. I just heard someone had been killed, that’s all.”

  “I heard they’re going to move us,” Lena said.

  Nora frowned. “Where?”

  “North Dublin Union, most like.” Lena wrinkled her nose. “I don’t fancy being there; it’s more of a workhouse than a prison. But I suppose we’ll adapt.”

  “When?”

  She shrugged. “It’s just something I heard. They need to make room for the men in here.”

  Jo scowled. “They can’t arrest all of us, but they sure are trying.”

  Nora went to the lavatory and took a hot bath—a prison luxury she hadn’t been expecting—then returned to the altar on the second-floor landing. Two Kerry girls were there, their lips moving silently as their hands moved around the rosary. She remembered the children’s rhyme she’d sung as a small child.

  Ring around the rosary

  Pocket full of posies

  Ashes, ashes, we all fall down.

  One of her colleagues had tried to teach it to the children in Haiti, but he stopped after Nora told him it was a song about the plague. Tragedy as seen through the eyes of children.

  “Miss O’Reilly.”

  Roger O’Reilly strode toward her. There was no translucence to his form, no blurred edges. He was as solid and alive as when she’d first seen him.

  “Good God, Roger!” she whispered. Without thinking, she ran to him and flung her arms around his neck in relief and joy and astonishment. “You’re alive!”

  He disentangled himself from her embrace, blushing furiously. He stepped back but then said softly, “Thanks to you . . . I think.”

  She didn’t care who he thanked. She grinned back at him, then punched him on the arm. “You’re welcome.” A laugh bubbled up from her throat. “It worked!”

  “What worked?”

  “I’m just so relieved that you’re still alive,” she said, bouncing up and down on her toes. It could be changed—everything could be changed.

  He moved in closer to her. “Nora, you knew that ambush was coming, didn’t you? I was supposed to be there, on the Ballystodden Road. But I begged off sick. Are you . . . are you wanting to switch sides? Is that why you told me?”

  She stopped bouncing, suddenly serious. “I am most certainly not wanting to switch sides, Roger O’Reilly. That’s something you should be considering, not me.” Then she smiled again. “Because we are going to win this war.”

  She scampered back to Jo and Lena’s cell, where she found Pidge sitting on Lena’s bed.

  “Nora!” Jo called. “Come on in, Lena’s going to tell us our futures.”

  Lena was shuffling a deck of cards, grinning broadly. “Don’t be nervous; I foresee happy futures for us all. I’ll tell you how many babies you’ll have.”

  Nora snorted, then sat on the edge of Lena’s bed beside Pidge. “How are you feeling?”

  “Better,” Pidge said. “The cramps are gone. For now.”

  Nora rubbed her back. “Listen, I need to tell you something. Don’t get upset.”

  Lena stopped shuffling. The three women looked at her expectantly.

  “I’m going to sign the form.”

  “What?” Jo stood so fast her chair toppled over behind her. Lena’s mouth hung open, her hands frozen around her deck of cards. Pidge’s lower lip trembled and her nose wrinkled, as though Nora had just passed her the chamber pot.

  “It’s not what you think. I have a plan,” Nora said quickly. She laid her hand on Pidge’s arm, but Pidge jerked it away.

  “What are you talking about?” Pidge demanded.

  “I can’t tell you why, but I need to get out of here.”

  “We all need to get out of here,” Jo retorted. “You think we don’t have families waiting for us, mothers worried that we’ll be the first to die in here, sweethearts to see, a cause to fight for? But you don’t see us signing the form, do ye?”

  “It’s treason, Nora. Treason against the Republic,” Lena said.

  “It’s not,” Nora said quietly. “I’m going to help the Republic. Save it, if I can.”

  “How?” Jo asked.

  “I can’t say. I’m sorry.”

  “So you’re going to leave me? And Kate and Mary? You’re going to go back to your old life while we’re starving ourselves for the cause?” Pidge kept her gaze fixed on the cell floor as she spoke.

  Nora swallowed a stone that had lodged in her throat. “I don’t want to leave you, Pidge. But I have to. I have to do this.”

  “Does this have anything to do with Thomas?”

  “Who’s Thomas?” Lena asked.

  “No,” Nora retorted. “It has nothing to do with him. I don’t even know where he is—or if he’s still alive.”

  “Then what? What could be so important that you would betray your sisters?”

  “I’m not—”

  “You know what? I don’t care.” Pidge got to her feet, hands on her hips. “You want to leave? Fine. Maybe the OC is right; maybe you’re a spy, after all. Did you tell those Staters to come to my house? Did you lead them to the training camp, too? Are all those lads in prison now because of you?”

  “You’re talking rubbish!” Nora shot back. “You have no idea what I’ve done—what I’ve lost—all for the sake of a free Ireland.” She stopped herself, clenching her teeth together. Then she reached out a hand. “Pidge, you have to just trust me on this.”

  Pidge slapped away her hand. “I can’t believe I let you into my home. Into my family. Get out
. Just get out!”

  Nora pressed her lips together. “Fine. But you’ll see that I’m right in the end.” She stalked out of the cell, ignoring the stares of the other prisoners as she hurried down the corridor. She went straight to the wardress’s office.

  “I want to sign the form.”

  Miss Higgins looked up from her desk. “Is that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “I have to admit I’m surprised, Miss O’Reilly. But I’m always pleased when one of my girls makes the decision to support our government.”

  “So, can I sign it now?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Why the hell not?”

  Miss Higgins cleared her throat. “Language, please. Because it must be witnessed by the prison governor. Mr. O’Keefe won’t be here until tomorrow, to oversee the transfer. You’ll have to wait until then.”

  “What transfer?”

  “Kilmainham has become too crowded. The women are being moved to North Dublin Union. The State needs Kilmainham for more male prisoners.”

  “Even the hunger strikers? Surely they’re too weak to be moved.”

  “They could always eat something,” Miss Higgins said, closing the book on her desk with a thud. “I’ll send for you tomorrow when the governor arrives.”

  Nora returned to her cell and closed the door. She had to stay focused on the job at hand. Find Lynch. Warn him about the gunfight that would lead to his death. Protect him. That was her job.

  She didn’t know where or how she would find him. But first she had to get out.

  She stayed in her cell the rest of the day, thinking, planning—and avoiding the other prisoners. But she couldn’t stand the idea of Pidge thinking she was a traitor. Maybe she could earn her trust by telling her only part of the truth.

  “Hey, I’ve been waiting for you. We need to talk,” Nora began when Pidge finally returned to their cell.

  “There’s nothing to talk about.” Pidge picked up her box of belongings and put it under her arm.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Hospital wing. Lyons says it’s time.”

  “But . . . you’re not that weak, yet . . . are you?”

  “What do you care? You’re leaving anyway.” Pidge shoved the heavy door shut behind her, letting the sound reverberate through Nora’s body.

  The next morning she lay awake in bed, waiting for Miss Higgins to bellow for roll call. A faint scrape at her door made her sit up. Then a click. She crossed the room and pulled on the door handle. It was locked.

  “Hey!” she said, banging her palm against the door. “Hey!”

  Through the tiny grate she could hear other cries of protest down the corridor. Then a man’s voice boomed out.

  “Listen up, ladies! You are being moved today to another facility. When your door is unlocked, you may proceed in an orderly fashion to the entrance, where our men will escort you to the transport vehicles. If all goes smoothly, no one will be shot.”

  His speech was met with boos and jeers through cell doors. After half an hour had passed, the commotion in the hall told Nora they were being released. The lock in her door turned. Miss Higgins stood on the other side.

  “Do you still wish to—”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you may go down to my office and wait for me there.”

  Nora fell in step with the other prisoners. When would they move the hunger strikers? Had they done so already?

  Two dozen women were gathered at the top of the stairs. OC Humphreys stood on an overturned chamber pot. “The governor has rejected our demand that the hunger strikers be released,” she said. “And so now we must resist. Until they are given their freedom, not one of us will leave willingly.” Her eyes fell on Nora. “Except for Miss O’Reilly, who has consented to sign the form.”

  Dozens of shocked, angry eyes turned on her. Guards stood within easy earshot; she couldn’t well explain that she had a job to do for the Republic.

  “She’s sweet on one of the guards!” someone called out. Nora pinpointed the voice in the crowd—one of the Kerry girls who’d seen her hugging Roger. “I saw them necking!”

  A low murmur swelled around her.

  “On your way, Miss O’Reilly,” Mrs. Humphreys said. “One less Stater in our midst.”

  Nora walked mechanically through the crowd of women toward the staircase. Behind her, Mrs. Humphreys continued. “As you know, we have three hunger strikers in our care. Miss MacSwiney and Mrs. O’Callaghan in particular are in a very bad state. No matter what happens, no matter what they do to you, do not cry out. Their nerves will surely not stand it. Now, everyone link arms. They’ll have to remove us by force. We will not desert our sisters.”

  Nora’s every step echoed on the metal stairs. Save Liam Lynch. Save Liam Lynch. She repeated this mantra over and over, driving herself forward. A dozen soldiers stood to attention in the entrance, waiting for orders, their eyes fixed on the defiant women above them.

  Miss Higgins was waiting in her office. Beside her stood a man with a large mustache and salt-and-pepper sideburns. A Webley hung from a holster around his broad waist.

  “Ah, Miss O’Reilly,” Miss Higgins said. “Deputy governor, this is the woman I was telling you about.”

  “Ready to turn your back on these devils, are you?” he grunted.

  “Just give me the form.”

  Miss Higgins slid a piece of paper across the desk and handed her a pen.

  I promise that I will not use arms against the Parliament elected by the Irish people, or the Government for the time being responsible to that Parliament, and that I will not support in any way any such action. Nor will I interfere with the property or the person of others.

  Out in the entryway, the soldiers’ boots thundered up the stairs.

  “Be glad you’re not still with them,” the governor muttered in her ear, his hand resting on the small of her back. She flinched away.

  “Right there, dear.” Mrs. Higgins pointed to the bottom of the letter.

  Nora stared at the hateful words. Save Liam Lynch. Save Eamon.

  She signed.

  “Excellent.” Deputy Governor O’Keefe rubbed his hands together, then took the paper from her and signed below her name. “One less mouth to feed. I’ll get one of the lads to show you out.”

  Nora shrugged off his proffered arm and marched back into the entryway. She slammed to a sudden halt at the sight before her. On the stairs, soldiers grappled with the women prisoners, who clung to the railings like children to a mother’s leg. It was the vision she’d experienced when she came to Kilmainham as a tourist. Some of the women moaned quietly, but they were all following the OC’s orders not to cry out.

  “Let go, you Irregular hoore!” one of the soldiers yelled in Julia O’Neill’s ear, his arms wrapped around her waist. He ripped her arms free of the railing and threw her down the remaining dozen stairs. Nora ran to her. “Stop it! What’s wrong with you?” she cried up at the soldiers. One was beating on the hands of one of the Kerry girls. Her face was contorted with pain, but she still didn’t cry out. Jo came to her rescue. The soldier kicked her in the head, and Jo crumbled onto the stairs, rolling down three of them before coming to rest on the landing.

  “No! Stop it!” Nora yelled. She rushed at one of the soldiers near the bottom who had ripped Lena’s dress half off and was pawing at her while she cried. Nora grabbed his arm and shoved him away. “Don’t you touch her,” she snarled.

  Rough hands grabbed both of her arms. She fought against them. Then a bored voice beside her said, “You’re no longer a prisoner here, Miss O’Reilly. It’s time for you to leave.” O’Keefe shoved the form into her hands; then two soldiers dragged her toward the main doors.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Wait until you see what we do to the hunger strikers,” one of the soldiers whispered before they shoved her onto the cobblestones and closed the door.

  Nora scrambled to her feet. “Hey!” She slammed her hand agains
t the door. She wrenched at the iron handle with both hands, but it was locked solid.

  “Do you need help?” A soldier stood behind her, bewildered.

  She shoved the form at him. He read it, then handed it back. “They’re beating those girls in there,” she snarled. “Are you just going to stand here and let that happen?”

  He looked taken aback. She stormed past him, weaving between the military vehicles waiting to take the prisoners to NDU. The sooner this was over, the better.

  She walked for several minutes before realizing she had no idea where she was headed. A large park was on her left. She wandered into it, her rage cooling.

  If she could find her way back to the IRA camp where she’d first seen Lynch, maybe she’d find him—or someone who knew where he was. She sank onto a bench and rubbed her temples. She was running out of time. Lynch would be dead in less than a week. If only she could remember where he’d been hiding before the skirmish broke out. Why hadn’t she paid more attention?

  A woman sat down next to her. She was finely dressed, in a long, elaborate gown of cream and burgundy, buttoned ivory gloves, and a brimmed hat dripping with lace and ribbons.

  “Trouble, child?” Her voice was deep and coated with honey.

  “I’m grand.” Nora stood. She’d accomplish nothing by chatting with a rich woman in a Dublin park.

  “Sit down, Nora.” It was not a request. Nora looked at the woman more closely. Did she know her? No, she would have remembered this face, the high cheekbones and deep, dark eyes that glittered from under long lashes. Her hair was black and glossy, arranged in tight curls under her hat, setting off the smoothness of her pale skin. Her wide mouth was spread in a taunting smile. Nora felt a jolt in her stomach but didn’t understand her reaction.

  She stayed where she was. “Who are you?”

  “You know who I am.”

  Nora narrowed her eyes. “I’m quite sure I don’t.”

  “You asked for my help.”

  “I—” She hesitated. There was something different about this woman. Something . . . ethereal. But no. Impossible.

  “As impossible as moving through time?” The woman’s smile broadened.

  “How did you—”