sweep. I’m not sure what would make a man doubt Michael Collins when he tells you not to go home, but the British had to be happy with the men they detained. Mick was back at it at dawn, bicycling all over town in his grey suit, right under the noses of the very men who wanted nothing more than to arrest him.
Comforted by the fact that my name was still clear, I made my own rounds to Dublin Castle. The newly appointed general governor of Ireland, Lord John French, is an old friend of my stepfather’s. Mick is thrilled by the connection. I met Lord French for tea in his office at his headquarters at the Castle as he listed all his ailments, which people tend to do when they have a doctor’s ear. I promised to check in on him once a month with new treatments for his gout. He promised to get me an invitation to the governor’s ball held in the fall. I tried not to grimace and was mostly successful.
He also claimed, in strident tones, that his first order of business in his new position was to make a proclamation banning Sinn Féin, the Irish Volunteers, the Gaelic League, and Cumann na mBan. I nodded, contemplating the pot that would soon be a cauldron.
Whenever I go to Dublin, I think of Anne. Sometimes I catch myself looking for her, as though she remained here after the rebellion, just waiting to be found. The list of the casualties of the Easter Rising was finally published in the Irish Times last year. Declan’s name was there. Anne’s was not. There were a handful of casualties still listed as unidentified. But at this point, they will never be identified.
T. S.
7
HOUND VOICE
Some day we shall get up before the dawn
And find our ancient hounds before the door,
And wide awake know that the hunt is on;
Stumbling upon the blood-dark track once more.
—W. B. Yeats
Thomas must have arrived home after I’d gone to bed, and he was gone most of the next day. I spent another day in my room, venturing as far as the bathroom and back again and listening to the boiler rumble in the basement—a modern extravagance most rural homes did not enjoy. I’d heard Maeve and another girl—Moira?—marveling about it in the hallway outside my room. It was Maeve’s second day in the big house, and she was obviously thrilled by the luxury. Thomas arrived home after dark and knocked softly on my door. When I called out, he stepped partially inside. His blue eyes were bloodshot and red-rimmed. He had a dark smudge on his forehead and his dress shirt was soiled, the button-down collar of his shirt missing.
“How are you feeling?” he asked, hovering at the door. He hadn’t gone a day without checking my bandages, and it had now been two, but he didn’t approach the bed.
“Better.”
“I’ll be back to change your bandages after I wash,” he said.
“No need. I’m fine. Tomorrow will be soon enough. How’s the baby?”
He looked at me blankly for a moment before his eyes cleared in comprehension. “Baby and mother are well. I was hardly needed.”
“Why do you look like you’ve been to war?” I asked gently.
He looked at his hands and the state of his rumpled shirt, and sagged wearily against the door frame. “There was trouble at the Carrigan farm. The . . . constabulary . . . were looking for weapons. When there was resistance, they set the barn and the house on fire and shot the mule. The oldest son, Martin, is dead. He killed one of the constables and wounded another before they brought him down.”
“Oh no,” I gasped. I knew the history, but it had never been real.
“When I got there, there was nothing left of the barn. The house fared a little better. It will need a new roof. We saved what we could. Mary Carrigan kept trying to pull their belongings out of the cottage while the thatch rained down on her. Her hands are burned, and her hair is half gone.”
“What can we do?”
“You can’t do anything,” he said, and smiled feebly to soften his rejection. “I’ll make sure Mary’s hands heal. The family will move in with Patrick’s kin until the roof is repaired. Then they’ll carry on.”
“Were there weapons?” I asked.
“They didn’t find any,” he answered, his eyes holding mine for a moment, considering, before he looked away. “But Martin has—had—a reputation for gun running.”