Lee looked more closely at the map, then ran his finger along a line of track. “You didn’t mention this line,” he said. “This track doesn’t connect with Dublin.”
“Indeed not, that’s the local line connecting Limerick with Cork. The same as this one in the north between Derry, Coleraine and Belfast.”
Meagher smiled, his eyes half-closed, seeing not the map but the country he had been cruelly exiled from.
Would the dream of freedom, dreamt by the Irish for centuries — would it finally be coming true?
Brigadier Somerville trotted his horse down the center of the road. The beast was lathered with sweat even though he had walked him most of the way, with only an occasional trot where the surface was flat and firm. It was the damnable and eternal heat. He passed a company of Sepoy troops digging an irrigation ditch beside the road. Men more suited to this climate than we would ever be. There was a group of officers up ahead grouped around a trestle table. They turned as he approached and he recognized their commanding officer.
“Everything going to plan, Wolseley?” he asked as he dismounted. He returned the officer’s salute.
“Doing very well since you left, General.”
Colonel Garnet Wolseley, Royal Engineers, was in command of the building of the road. He pointed to the raw earth of the cutting and at the smooth surface of the road below. “Been grading up to a mile a day since we got some men back from the defenses. Took longer than expected to revet the guns. The defenses are as good now as they ever will be. Then, of course, it takes far fewer troops to man them than it did to build them. With the road in good shape we can quickly move troops to defend points under attack.”
“Heartening news indeed.”
“I sincerely hope that I am not presumptuous in asking how the bigger plan is proceeding? With my nose buried in the mud here I know little of the world outside.”
“Then be cheered that everything proceeds just as planned. The transports are being assembled now in ports right around the coast of the British Isles. Even as the last troops depart from India. The Intrepid, sister ship of Valiant, is off the ways and being outfitted for battle. When all is ready we strike…”
He stopped and cocked his head at the distant rumble of gunfire. “An attack?” he asked. Wolseley shook his head.
“I doubt if it is a major one. From the sound of it, it is one of their probing efforts. They are seeing how well we are defending a particular section of the line.”
Bugles were sounding and a regiment of Gurkhas was assembled. They trotted briskly off towards the sound of the guns. Somerville spurred his horse in their wake. The firing grew steadily louder until the thunder of the guns was joined by the sound of shells screaming above their heads. He drew up by a company of red-coated soldiers standing at ease. One of them was ordered to hold his horse as he dismounted. The captain in command saluted him.
“Just cannon so far, sir. We are returning their fire. It’s not the first time that this has happened. But if they do commit troops we are right here in support. Their general is a stubborn man. He tries to wear us down with his constant battering. Then, if he feels that there is a possible opportunity, he probes forward with his troops.”
“You have a bulldog of an opponent out there. The American papers are full of it. Ulysses S. Grant, the man who never fails.”
“Well he is going to fail here if this is the best he can come up with.”
“I sincerely hope that you are correct, Captain. I think that I would like to see for myself how the attacks are faring.”
The captain led the way up the steep path towards the summit of the defenses. Cannon roared close by on both sides.
“Best not to go too far,” the captain said. “Their sharpshooters are most deadly. But you can see clearly from the embrasure.”
A gun fired from a pit nearby. Sweating gunners, naked to the waist, heaved it back so they could reload.
“Hold your fire,” Somerville ordered as he stepped past the gun to peer through the opening in the wall of logs through which they were firing. There was little enough to see down the glacis. Just a band of matted, dead vegetation — and then the jungle. A cannon fired from concealment, though the cloud of smoke betrayed its position. The ball hit the angled soil outer wall and screamed away overhead.
Somerville smiled. Everything was going exactly to plan.
BEHIND ENEMY LINES
Before the beginning of the Civil War, Allister Paisley had been close to starvation far too often. He had stepped off the immigrant ship from England in 1855, less than ten years earlier, feeling an immense relief when he first trod on American soil. Not that he really liked his new home — in fact he rather detested it. Certainly he would never have voluntarily crossed the ocean to settle in this crude and grubby land. It was the bailiffs who were just a few steps behind him that had prompted his unplanned emigration from Britain’s shore. Something of the very same kind had happened some years earlier in Scotland, which he had left hurriedly for much the same reasons he had fled England. What the offenses were remained known only to himself, the authorities, and the police. He had no friends to confide in — nor did he want any. He was a bitter and lonely man, a petty swindler and thief, who could not succeed for any length of time even in those unlovely arts.
His first bit of luck in America came when they were disembarking from the ship. He had climbed up from steerage into the cold light of day and, for the first time, had found himself almost separated from his equally penurious and foul-smelling fellow passengers. In the confusion on deck he had managed to mingle with the better-dressed passengers, even getting close enough to one of them to lift his pocket watch. The cry of thief sounded behind him — but by then he was safely ashore. By instinct he found his way to the slums of lower Manhattan, and to the pawnshop there. The uncle had cheated him in the exchange, yet he still had enough of the grubby banknotes and strange-looking coins to drink himself to extinction: at this time drinking being his single pleasure and vice.
Again a benevolent providence had smiled upon him. Before he was too drunk to render himself unconscious, he became aware that the man seated near him in the bar had stepped out of the back door to relieve himself. Paisley had dim memories that the stranger had pushed something under the bench when he had sat down. He shuffled sideways on the seat and felt down under it. Yes, a case of some kind. At that moment no one appeared to be looking in his direction. He seized the case by the handle, rose and slipped out the front door without being detected. When he had turned enough corners, and put some distance between himself and the drinking establishment, he paused on a rubbish-strewn bit of wasteland and opened the case.
Fortune had indeed smiled upon him. This was the sample case of a traveler in patent medicines. The principal medicine was Fletcher’s Castoria, a universal cure for childhood diseases and other ailments. The proud motto displayed on every label read “Children cry for it.” As well they might, since it was principally alcohol laced with a heady amount of opium. Paisley became an instant addict — but he did have the sense not to drink all of it, since this sample case was to be the key to a new life.
Travel was easy and cheap in this raw land, and opportunity ever knocking. The guise of a medicine traveler was a perfect cover for his petty crimes. He stole from his fellow travelers in cheap rooming houses, made easier by the American practice of sleeping four or five to a bed. He always rose before daylight and took anything that might be of value with him. That, along with shoplifting and some burglary, kept him alive — until the advent of war provided the perfect opportunity for the employment of his particular skills.
It was a matter of money and had nothing to do with slavery or Southern rights. It was just a matter of chance that he had been in Richmond, Virginia, when he read about the shelling of Fort Sumpter. If he had been in New York City he would have worked for the Federal government. As it was he went searching for the nearest military establishment. In the hectic environment of the op
ening days of the war, it took some time to find anyone who would listen to him. But he was persistent and in the end he found the ready ear of a military officer, a man who recognized the unique opportunity that this stranger with the thick accent represented.
Therefore Allister Paisley became almost the first spy employed by the South.
It had been a good war for him, as he shuttled back and forth between the warring sides. His Scotch accent and his medical flasks ensured that he was never suspected of his true employment. He brought his samples to the attention of the sutlers who accompanied every regiment and encampment. He soon discovered that the soldiers of the North shared his love of alcoholic beverages. Since they had little or no money, they were forced back on their own devices and brewed and fermented a number of noxious beverages. After he had discovered this fact yeast, raisins and other dried fruit were an essential part of his baggage. Money rarely changed hands; drink always did. Aching head, shaking limbs and painful regurgitation was the price he paid for his information. The names and numbers of regiments, guns and marching orders, all things military were patiently recorded and transcribed. The thin slips of paper traveled safely in a corked vial that was concealed inside a larger dark bottle of Fletcher’s Castoria. His dark secret was never discovered.
Also in the vial was a pass signed by General Robert E. Lee himself. When Paisley was back safely behind the Southern lines, this assured him rapid transportation to his employers in Richmond. After receiving his payment he drank more potable alcoholic beverages, until poverty, or military necessity, sent him forth once again.
When the newspapers printed the reports of the Trent affair and the ultimatum from Britain, he saw the opportunity to widen the scope of his activities. He knew the English very well, and also knew how to prize money from their grasp. Making his way to Washington City he easily found the residence of Lord Lyons, the British representative in the American capital. At an appropriate moment, when he knew that his lordship was at home, he managed to talk his way into his presence. Lyons appreciated the fact that if war did come, then a spy like MacDougal would be most useful to have. That was the name the Scotsman had given him, on the chance that police warrants were still extant.
War, happily for Paisley, did come, and he effortlessly changed sides and masters. It was in this new service that he found himself on the waterfront in Philadelphia, renewing an old acquaintance.
Horst Kretschmann, like his Scottish employer, felt no love for his adopted land. He was the proprietor of a very seedy drinking establishment, close to the Philadelphia Navy Yard. Here he brewed his own beer, which was very strong as well as being quite revolting. Since it was very cheap his customers did not complain. But they did talk to each other as they grew quickly drunk on his repulsive brew. Horst paid close attention to what they said, each night transcribing what he had learned in his scuffed, leather-bound diary. His notes entered in tiny, spidery writing in his native Bavarian dialect. Now, with the Civil War at an end, he had assumed he would never meet his paymaster again. Therefore he was quite pleased to see the Schotte appear one morning when he was swabbing out the drinking house floor.
“I didn’t expect to see you here, what with the war over.”
Paisley did not answer until the door was closed and bolted behind them.
“We’re still at war, aren’t we?”
“Are we?” He brought out a bottle of Schnaps and put it on the table; neither of them would drink the repugnant beer. “Didn’t we send the British away with their tails between their legs?”
“I guess so — but they’re a tenacious breed. And pay well for news.”
“That is very good to hear. Prosit.”
Horst smacked his lips and refilled their glasses.
Paisley drained his and belched loudly: the German nodded approval.
“Any talk among the sailors?” Paisley asked.
“Not much. Not many ship movements since the end of the war. But they complain, sailors always complain. It’s about the coal dust now, aboard the Dictator. Got her bunkers full and still more bags in the companionways.” Paisley was interested.
“A long journey then. Any idea where?”
“None of them seemed to know. But there are three coaling ships now loading at the docks. The Schwarzen who load, they drink in here.”
“Do they know anything?”
“Yes — but it is hard to understand them. Still one did mention South America.”
Paisley nodded as he took a roll of greasy dollar bills from his pocket. With this, and the troop movements he had already recorded, he had enough for a report. Just in time since the Primevère sailed in two days for Belgium. It would take him that long to transcribe the clumsy substitution code using the Bible.
For Patrick Joseph Condon this was a homecoming he had not expected. He had fled Dublin in 1848, with the Royal Irish Constabulary and the soldiers right behind him. The uprising planned by the Young Islanders had failed. O’Brian, as well as Meagher and McManus, had been seized and sentenced to transportation for life to Tasmania. But Condon had been warned in time, had fled through a back window with nothing but the clothes on his back. A good deal had happened to him since then. Now he was a captain in the United States Army and on a very different mission indeed.
Dublin had not changed. Walking into the city from Kingstown was a travel back through time. Through the hovels of Irishtown and past Trinity College. He had studied there, but had left to join the uprising. He looked through the railings as they passed along Nassau Street; it was just as he remembered. They crossed Ha’penny Bridge, paying the toll, then walked down the quays along the Liffy. Memories.
But this was all very new for James Gallagher, who was walking beside him. Brought up in a small village in Galway, he had memories only of hunger, and the cold winds of winter blowing in from the Atlantic. He had been fifteen years old when they had emigrated to America, with tickets sent by his brother in Boston. Now, just turned twenty, he was a private in the American army and not quite sure exactly what he was doing back here in Ireland. All he knew was that every man in the Irish Brigade had been asked to write down where he came from in Ireland. There had been a score of them from Galway and, for some reason unknown to him, he had been selected. Although there were many who were brighter than him, bolder even, and eager to see Ireland again, who might have been selected. But he was the only one who had an uncle who worked as an engine driver. He was unhappy about this selection, and frightened, trying not to shiver whenever they passed a man in uniform.
“Are we getting close, sir? Jayzus but it’s a divil of a way…”
“Very close now, Jimmy. That’s Arran Quay right up ahead there. The shop should be easy to find.”
No sign was visible on the grubby premises, but the worn clothing hanging outside was identification enough. Their smart clothing would draw no attention in Dublin. But once out of the city heads would turn, notice would be taken — which was the last thing that they wanted. They bent under the rack of pendant garments and entered the darkness of the shop. When they emerged, some minutes later, dressed in worn, gray clothing they were one with the other impoverished citizens of the land. Condon carried a battered cardboard valise, tied together with string. Gallagher had all of his belongings in a stained potato sack.
They continued on to Kingsbridge Station where Condon bought them Third Class tickets to Galway. Although they drew no particular notice, they were both very relieved when the steam engine sounded its whistle and the train pulled out slowly, clicking across the points, going west.
Condon read a pennydreadful that he had picked up in the train station in Holyhead: Gallagher looked out of the window at the green Irish countryside drifting by and wished very much that he was back in the army. He knew that he had complained and skived along with the rest of the soldiers. He swore that he would not complain ever again, if he got safely back from this terrifying ordeal.
The lamps were just being lit when they pu
lled into Galway Station. They followed the other passengers down from the train, pleased at the anonymity of the dusk.
“Are you sure now that you can’t find your way to the village?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. We never came into the city, but the once when we was leaving.”
“All right then, you’ll just have to ask someone the way,” Condon said as they went out into the street. A bakery ahead of them was just closing, the baker himself putting up the blinds. “Try that man there before, he goes inside.”
“I’m not sure, Captain — sir. Maybe you might…”
“Nonsense, Gallagher, you’ll do fine. He’ll hear my Dublin accent and get curious. Maybe he will even remember us. You’re the local lad with a fine Galway brogue. Just act yourself.”
Thank goodness for the darkness — no one could see him shiver. “Excuse me, sir,” he said as the baker started back inside. The man turned about with a weary grunt.
“I’m looking for… my cousin here. I mean not here, but Dualla.”
The baker grunted again and looked at the lad with a very stern eye, then turned away.
“Please, sir!” He sounded desperate — only because he was. The man went inside the shop and pulled the door after him. In desperation Gallagher seized the edge of the door.
“Let go of that you bla’gard or I’ll land you one on the ear that will send you clear to Kerry.” Gallagher let go and the man relented slightly. “Straight on, turn under the bridge, maybe two miles.” The door slammed shut and the key rattled in the lock. He hurried back to the captain, feeling the sweat run down his face.
“Down this way, sir, under the bridge.”
“Well done, lad. Now let’s go find this uncle Paddy of yours. You’re sure now that he will recognize you?”
“No doubt of that — he’ll recognize my arse as well. He used to paddle me when my da’ wasn’t there to do the job. Moved in with us when Auntie Maire died. Him working regular and all, that kept the food on the table.”
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