All Our Yesterdays

by Robert B. Parker

  To protect themselves from bombs, the British took hostages from the jail. A prisoner rode in each truck with his hands tied to a steel bar above him. In one truck a sign that said, BOMB NOW, was hung around a prisoner’s neck.

  Down the corridor from Conn a prisoner named Kenneally sang loud songs of Irish heroism. Someone next to Conn would chime in with alternate verses. The guards screamed at him, “Shut your fucking hole.”

  When the singing continued, the guards charged down the corridor to Kenneally’s cell. When they got there it was silent. But behind them in another cell the song picked up. And a voice from still another cell called, “I’m here, Mary Ann, I’m here.”

  He was given some books, but he didn’t read them. A newspaper was slipped under his door one day but he let it lie, and when the guards saw it they took it away.

  Each morning they washed in groups of four from rusty enamel basins. The men around Conn talked with each other as they splashed water on themselves in the numbing cold. The guards’ warning to stop talking was continuous and useless. Only Conn was silent.

  Sometimes it would rain and Conn would hear it pelting against the vast walls. It seemed a sound of unimaginable distance, an outside sound in an inside world. The sound of rain would make some of the prisoners weep.

  The men scrubbed the flagged floors of their cells, dipping dirty rags in cold water until their hands and wrists were blue.

  Most of the prisoners around Conn had killed someone or were thought to have killed someone. The wing was called Murderer’s Wing and the guards were cautious. Just before lights-out an orderly came around and tumbled a slop bucket into Conn’s cell. He wouldn’t be allowed out until morning.

  There was neither time nor distance in the jail. Sometimes the walls seemed to shrink in on Conn, and sometimes they expanded airily, as if there were no limit and one could walk forever. He didn’t know how long he’d been there.

  A British officer came to his cell, with a narrow-faced Cockney guard. The officer was round faced and pop eyed with high color.

  “You’ve one chance, Sheridan,” he said. “You’ll tell us the names of the others, or you’ll hang.”

  Conn was sitting against the wall with his knees up and his forearms resting on them. He paid no heed.

  “Stand at attention for the officer,” the guard said.

  Conn didn’t move. The guard kicked him. Slowly Conn turned his head and stared at the guard.

  “You want to die, boy?” the officer said. “Is that it?”

  Conn felt a small jag of excitement trill along the ganglia. It was the first thing he’d felt since the blue door closed. He felt himself smile suddenly. He looked up at the officer.

  “Captain, dear,” he said, “I don’t give a shit.”

  The guard started to kick him again, and the officer put out his hand. He stood staring down at Conn for a moment and then shook his head.

  “Fucking Irish,” he said as if to himself, and jerked his head at the guard. The big iron cell door groaned shut behind them and the bolt clanked home.

  Conn stayed where he was. His ribs hurt where the guard had kicked him, but he ignored it. He was fascinated instead with the flicker of feeling he’d experienced. It was as if the first hint of regeneration had stirred under the snow. What was it? The prospect of dying? Did he seek it so avidly that its promise brought him hope? He stood and walked to the door and turned and walked back to the wall. It was only a few steps. He leaned on the wall with his palms flat against it and his cheek pressing the chill stone. He felt the roughness of the granite. No, it wasn’t death that thrilled him. It was that it didn’t matter. He didn’t care if he died or didn’t die. Nothing mattered and the thrill he felt was the thrill of freedom. No constraints. No restrictions. If God is dead all things are possible. He rolled along the wall until his back was against it and he said aloud.

  “Fuck it.”

  And his voice sounded so alien and odd in the cell that he said it again louder and laughed and the laugh echoed even more oddly under the oppression of stone and iron.

  “And fuck the English.”

  He drummed the flat of both hands in manic counterpoint against the wall.

  “And fuck the rebellion.”

  A guard appeared at the peephole for a moment.

  “And fuck you too, Hadley.”

  The guard’s eye disappeared from the peephole and Conn leaned against the wall and flexed his back and bounced against it. And laughed to himself.

  “Nuns fret not,” he said aloud. And laughed again, and rubbed his hands softly together. If you didn’t care, then it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered. And fear and need mattered no more than comfort and love. They could kill him but they couldn’t scare him. They could keep him but they couldn’t crush him. It didn’t matter. She didn’t matter. She couldn’t kill him. And perhaps, someday, he might kill her.

  “Fuck her,” he said aloud. And then smiled again, and said, “That too, maybe.”

  1921

  Conn

  Spring developed slowly outside Kilmainham jail. Inside, as if responding to it, prison discipline began to ease. The guards in Murderer’s Wing who had seen their prisoners filtered through the image of the skulking gunman, began to relax as they saw the men banter with each other, ragging and laughing. The prisoners laughed at the jail rules, much as their keepers did. And an enlisted man’s camaraderie began to develop, which realigned guards and prisoners against their mutual enemy, the officers. The guards left the cell doors unbolted when the officers weren’t around, and the prisoners moved freely about their cellblock.

  A short, thick soldier from a Welsh regiment leaned in Conn’s open doorway smoking.

  “So you plugged one of the bloody ferrets did you?” he said.

  Conn grinned at him.

  “Of course not.”

  “Did you shoot him outright or did you put a bomb through his window?”

  “You must be thinking of someone else,” Conn said. “But if I had done it, I’d have shot him, face to face.”

  “Face to face is the way,” the soldier said. “I don’t like the bloody bombing. Seems a coward’s way.”

  “You fight a war against a foreign invader,” Conn said. “You do what you have to do.”

  The soldier offered him a cigarette, Conn took it, and a light. They smoked in silence for a moment.

  “You think we’re invaders?”

  “Are you Irish?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Are you in Ireland?”

  The soldier nodded slowly.

  “In armed force?”

  The soldier grinned.

  “Foreign invaders,” he said.

  They smoked again in silence. A prisoner who called himself the Old Gunner went by on the way to the jacks.

  “Jail regulations do not permit fraternization with the prisoners,” the Old Gunner said in his best impression of an upper-class accent.

  “Bugger the jail regulations,” the soldier said.

  The Old Gunner continued down the hallway laughing.

  “Hard to see why you’re on the outside and I’m on the inside.”

  “I was in Belgium,” the soldier said, “slaughtering Huns. If I’d been born in Saxony I’d have been in Belgium slaughtering Tommies.”

  He shrugged.

  “Handy-dandy,” Conn said. “Which is the justice, which the thief?”

  “What the hell does that mean?” the soldier said.

  “Shakespeare.”

  “You a bloody schoolmaster?”

  “I read a lot,” Conn said.

  “So how’d they catch you?” the soldier said.

  “Somebody turned me in.”

  “A traitor?”

  “A woman.”

  “By God, that’s hard, isn’t it?”

  Conn nodded.

  “You fucking her?”

  Conn grinned.

  “Seemed like the right thing to do at the time,” he said.


  “Always does at the time, don’t it?”

  “Always,” Conn said.

  He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket.

  “I’m off duty in ten minutes, you may as well keep these.”

  Conn took the cigarettes, and slipped them inside his shirt.

  “They’re going to hang you,” the soldier said.

  “They’re going to try,” Conn said.

  The soldier nodded slowly and kept nodding as he thought about it.

  “Sure,” he said. “If they can.”

  Conn

  Conn’s soldier came for him one morning when, outside Kilmainham jail, April had begun to warm.

  “They want you in the major’s office.”

  Conn stood up.

  “You may be in for a knocking around,” the soldier said.

  “Doesn’t matter,” Conn said.

  “Would matter to me,” the soldier said.

  Conn shrugged.

  There were two men in the room. One the officer who had questioned him before. The other was a captain. Conn had never seen him. He was as big as Conn, with black leather gloves on his thick hands.

  “Your name is Conn Sheridan,” the major said.

  “Yes.”

  “Say sir.”

  “… sir.”

  “Where did you get the gun, that you killed John Cooper with?”

  “I didn’t kill John Cooper.”

  The captain hit him in the chest with his heavy right fist. Conn rocked back, steadied himself, and smiled.

  “… sir,” he said.

  The captain hit him a left hook on the cheek and Conn fell. He stayed down for a minute, his head hanging, trying to get it clear.

  “Get up,” the major said. “Who gave you the gun?”

  Conn got slowly to his feet. He didn’t speak.

  “Are you going to answer?”

  “No.”

  The captain hit him, and his nose began to bleed. Blood dropped to the floor.

  “So you are ready to suffer?”

  “Sure.”

  The captain began to batter him with lefts and rights. He must have been a boxer once. The punches were short, with the full drive of his legs and shoulders behind them. Conn rocked with the punches, trying to slip as many as he could.

  “Turn around,” the major said.

  Conn did so.

  “See those photographs? Some of those men refused to speak and they are dead.”

  “Fuck ’em,” Conn said, and looked at the big captain and grinned with the blood streaming down his face. “And fuck you too, bucko.”

  The captain knocked him against the wall.

  “Will you fight me?” he said to Conn.

  “Another time,” Conn said. “When it’s just you and me.”

  “You’re afraid.”

  Conn’s lips were badly puffed and one eye was swollen shut. He laughed.

  The major went to his desk and took a Webley .45 service revolver from the drawer. He brought it over to Conn, broke it open, and showed him the full cylinder.

  “You know what this is?” the major said.

  Conn didn’t speak. He saw the major through a kind of shimmering haze, as if at a distance through heat. He focused through the haze on the round brass center-fire backs of the bullets. His teeth felt loose and thick. The warm taste of his own blood filled his throat.

  “You don’t know, I’m not going to help you,” Conn said.

  “Stand against the wall, you swine,” the major said. He seemed nearly hysterical with anger. “I’m going to give you a count of three to name some names.”

  The major raised the revolver and Conn stared at the dark mouth of it, and along the bluish barrel. His vision blurred again. There was sweat in his eyes, and maybe blood, and around his eyes the flesh was beginning to puff. One eye was nearly closed.

  “One,” the major said.

  Conn began to sing. The sound of the song seemed to come from no place. He could hear the words he was singing but they seemed unconnected to him.

  I know my love by his way of walking.

  “Two.” The major cocked the hammer back with his thumb.

  I know my love by his way of talking.

  Conn took in as much air as he could, as if storing it for a long voyage. He pressed his back against the wall. He thought of John Cooper for a moment.

  “Three.”

  The major fired. Conn saw the muzzle flash, heard the sound, and felt nothing. It was a blank. The smell of it was strong in the room.

  I know my love by his eyes of blue.

  “Well,” the major said. “You’ll hang anyway.”

  He turned away from Conn, put the revolver back in the desk drawer, and left the room. The big captain lingered for a moment while Conn’s soldier and another guard came in. He nodded at Conn with some sort of approval.

  “I’ve seen people behave worse,” the captain said. Then he jerked his head at the guards and left the room as well. The soldiers took Conn back to his cell.

  Conn

  The Old Gunner came into Conn’s cell.

  “Where’d you get that sweet face?” he said.

  “From the noble hearts in the Intelligence room.”

  “Keep cold water on it,” the Old Gunner said. “It’ll heal, but you’ll not look as pretty again.”

  “Pretty enough,” Conn mumbled. His lip was still swollen tight and it was hard to speak.

  “We’re going to get you out,” the Old Gunner said. “There’s a gate at the far end of the yard, locked with an iron crossbar, secured with a big padlock. Are you game?”

  “Sure.”

  “There’ll be a package come in tonight,” the Old Gunner said. “Bolt cutters. Maybe a gun.”

  Conn splashed cold water on his face from the dirty basin. The water that fell back was pink.

  “Grand,” he said.

  “We’re not going to let them hang the only man they’ve arrested for Bloody Sunday,” the Old Gunner said. He took the enamel basin and went for more water.

  At teatime Conn’s soldier came into Conn’s cell and closed the door. He unbuttoned his tunic and took out a package, and gave it to Conn. It was heavy and Conn knew it was the bolt cutters.

  “Here’s something else you’ll like,” the soldier said.

  He took a revolver from his pocket. It was a Smith & Wesson .38, blue steel, with walnut grip and a three-inch barrel. It was loaded. Conn put the revolver in his belt under his shirt. The bolt cutters had two detachable three-foot handles, for leverage. He wrapped them in a shirt and tumbled two other shirts over it in a corner.

  “Your sister brought it,” the soldier said.

  Conn had no sister. It must have been one of the Cumann na mBan girls.

  “She’s a good girl,” Conn said.

  The soldier pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  “I don’t hold with boxing a man around when he’s got no chance.”

  “Don’t care much for it myself,” Conn mumbled.

  “Don’t like to see a man hanged either,” the soldier said.

  “Specially me.”

  The soldier nodded.

  “You ought to try boracic acid on that face,” he said.

  “I’ll go right to the chemist,” Conn said with difficulty, “and buy some.”

  The soldier nodded at the package hidden under the pile of shirts.

  “Maybe soon,” he said.

  During the day, at exercise time, Conn hung the bolt cutters over his shoulder under his shirt when he went to the yard. He padded the cutters with torn strips of underclothing so that they wouldn’t rattle. He carried the .38 in his pocket. Cells were often searched when they were empty and the safest place to hide his tools was on himself. In the yard Conn and the Old Gunner scouted the gate, studying the bar-and-padlock setup, locating the likely places where a night guard might be. They paid as much attention as possible to the patterns of night-guard
behavior—when the guards slept, when they went to the jacks, how often they patrolled. There were two sets of night guards: a group of five in the cell next to Conn, and four more around the corner in the corridor next to the Old Gunner’s. They slept restlessly, their weapons beside them. But they rarely stirred from the cell they slept in after lights out.

  Alone in his cell Conn rehearsed with the Smith & Wesson. He practiced quick draws from his belt under his shirt. He got his hand used to the grip. He sighted along the barrel, and felt the weight of the gun and six bullets. Everything still hurt when he moved. And he still couldn’t breathe through his nose. Conn had tea with the Old Gunner in his cell, and their soldier came in. He had his tunic unbuttoned, and his cap pushed back.

  “Mick Collins said your name will go down in Irish history,” he said to Conn.

  “’Specially if I’m hanged,” Conn said. “Causes love martyrs.”

  “You’re a cynical bastard, Conn,” the Old Gunner said. “They won’t hang you. We’ll get you out of here.”

  “If the bolt cutters work,” Conn said.

  “They’ll go through that bar like it was butter,” the soldier said.

  “And if they don’t we can fight,” the Old Gunner said. “You’ve got the revolver, Conn. We can disarm the guards, and rush the main gate, bayonets fixed.”

  “Two of us?”

  “Three,” the soldier said.

  “What three?” Conn said. “We can’t trust the others. You never know who’s going to be a pigeon.”

  “I’m your third, Ga blimey,” the soldier said.

  The Old Gunner put out a hand and the soldier shook it. Nobody spoke for a moment.

  “Good soldiers make bad jailers,” the soldier said. “Nobody’ll try that damned bloody hard to stop you.”

  “And when we get out,” the Old Gunner said, “there’ll be lads from the Fourth Brigade to support us.”

  “So when do we go?” Conn said, speaking thickly, his mouth still swollen from the beating.

  “Soon as you’ve healed enough,” the Old Gunner said. “And we’ll let Lloyd George explain to Parliament why they couldn’t hold the one man they’d caught for Bloody Sunday.”

  In a week, the swelling around his eyes had receded enough so that he could see normally. His lip was still puffed, but less so, and his speech was nearly normal. A week and three days after the bolt cutters came in, they were ready to try.