The Soldier's Song (16 page)

He bundled Brennan out of the window, dangling him as low as he could by the arms before he let go. He landed in a heap on the cobbles, the leg giving out, a muffled scream. Uncaring, Joe dropped his rifle down on top of him and scrambled out, feeling the cold air flying past his face and then the thump and pain in his shins when he landed.

Behind him, he heard the crash of a door being kicked in, shouts, the crack of a shot. He picked up his rifle and Brennan by the scruff of his coat and dragged him down the alley. No plan, no thought in his mind but to get away. Then there were shouts behind him, the clatter of boots running on the cobbles, and he darted into cover, flinging his weight against the next door he saw and crashing into the narrow space behind. A gloomy corridor, stairs leading down. He gently closed the door and sat back against it, clutching the hot rifle to his chest and listening, hardly daring to breathe as the boots ran past.

That was hours ago. After his heart stopped thumping against his ribs, he’d helped Brennan down the stairs into the basement and looked at his leg. A bullet had passed clean through his thigh, but there was a lot of blood, his trousers soaked in it. Nothing to do but tie a hankie around it and wait.

‘Do you think they’ll have patrols out?’ Brennan asked, and he gave Joe such a start that he wondered if he’d been dozing.

‘What? No, no. Not after dark. Too dangerous. They’ll pull them back to the castle for the night.’

Christ, you’re an awful liar!
He let all his breath out and tried to wash out some of the tiredness with it. He was weary, but they’d have to move. If they could get across the Liffey they might be able to get into the GPO garrison, or the Four Courts. That’s if they were still there. If they’d been hit half as hard . . .

He put that thought from his mind. All the hours he’d been down in the cellar, he’d been thinking about Connolly – wondering if he were still alive. They’d had no news, nothing to tell them if the other garrisons were still standing. What little hope he’d held onto after his escape had been dashed by the slow, insistent thump that he’d heard first in the afternoon; the steady pounding of an artillery piece. That was the end, he knew – because once they started, they wouldn’t stop until it was all over.

He put on his cap and picked up his rifle. No point in moping – all he could do was try. He got Brennan under the arms and helped him to his feet. Fumbling in the dark, he managed to sling the rifle across his back and pull Brennan’s arm across his shoulders. Then the step and hop up the stairs to the door. He eased it open an inch and felt the blessed cool air on his face. Brennan was breathing hard, but quiet, determined.

‘All clear,’ he whispered, and they shuffled out into the alley. He could hear the crackle of gunfire, and now and then the heavier boom of artillery. There was an orange glow in the sky to the north, but he headed away from it for now. They had to keep off the main streets, stay in the alleys as long as they could. A turn and they were headed towards the river, past blank walls and privies, with the great grey mass of Christchurch looming above them. They were heading down now, they’d be on the quays, and then—

‘Halt,’ a voice barked out behind them.

‘Ah, shite!’ He heard Brennan hiss. They broke into a desperate, awkward run, hobbling along like a pair of cripples, until a shot rang out and Joe felt an almighty kick in his back.

The shattering boom of the field gun burst out of the darkness and echoed around the four walls of Front Square. Lillian jumped at the noise and pulled her cardigan closer around her throat. They’d been firing all day, but she still couldn’t get used to it. She’d gone over to watch earlier on and found it strangely mundane. It was just a machine, worked by men stripped to their shirts, laughing and joking with each other as they passed the brass shells into the breech and then covered their ears to fire. Every time they pulled the lanyard the percussion from the muzzle flattened the daffodils. Then the breech was opened and the empty cartridge slid out, smoking, as the next was passed along. But it was no ordinary machine. Those shells it blasted out were flying over houses and shops, falling in the streets, blowing out windows and doors. She shuddered to think what happened when one met with flesh and bone.

The ringing of bootnails brought her back to the present. The sentry at the gate straightened, and she saw Stephen silhouetted against the watch fires in the square, coming towards her under the arch of the front gate. He seemed to tower over her in the darkness, his teeth flashing as he smiled. She felt her heart beginning to race.

‘Good evening, Miss Bryce. Sorry I kept you waiting. Captain Lawford had some messages he wanted me to carry up to the castle.’

A nod to the guard standing by the oak doors and the wicket gate was opened. Stephen looked out and his face was bathed in an orange glow.

‘I think it will be best if we go by the backstreets,’ he said, in a matter of fact way. ‘No point in making targets of ourselves. Now, before we go I want you to promise me that if anything . . . unfortunate happens to me, then you’ll turn around and come straight back here.’

‘Certainly not.’

A bemused expression came over his face. ‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said: certainly not. You’re asking me to run away without helping you. Would you run away if I was shot?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘Well, then. Let’s say no more about it.’ She gestured out of the door, ‘After you, Mr Ryan. That is to say, Lieutenant.’

‘Stephen will do, Miss B—’

‘Lillian.’

‘All right, then.’

He stepped out through the gate and she stepped out after him, feeling strangely exposed after being so long enclosed. They hadn’t gone far before she noticed he had his revolver out of its holster. This was a different Stephen Ryan to the one she remembered. The nervous boy who had walked her home from the ball had grown up. He was still shy, still terribly quiet, but now he wore his reserve like armour. The hesitation was gone. He moved with a predatory grace, neither crouching nor running, but walking with light easy steps that carried him across the darkened street like a shadow.

She followed him across, her heart thumping. For the first few yards she was hunched in anxious expectation of the shots that must surely ring out. But there was no sound except the crunch of broken glass as she stepped up onto the kerb. She kept her eyes on the dark of his back, only darting them to one side as they passed the tram stopped in the middle of the street, oddly silent, as if it had been frozen in place. She wondered if this could possibly be real, but then an eddy in the breeze carried down the stink of burning wood and paper, and she knew it was.

He stopped suddenly at the end of Dame Lane and she cannoned into him.

‘Sorry,’ she whispered.

He didn’t answer, but took her hand and led her along the dark laneway. The thrill of it was electric. She remembered the breathless feeling she’d had when Billy said his name that morning. It took an effort not to be too eager to take the food up to him. And then the elation when she climbed through the trapdoor and he was there! But that wasn’t like her. She was as giddy as a little girl. Was this love? This ground-sliding feeling, this overpowering happiness? If it was, then she wanted it, she would not turn it away, and yet she held herself back.

Why? They stopped on the corner of George’s Street and the dull orange glow from City Hall cast his face in deep contrast. His eyes were empty black sockets, his cheeks dark hollows, but still she felt the urge. One touch, one movement – to reach up and kiss his cheek. That one act would say all the things she couldn’t put in words. She would no longer have to hold herself back, no longer need to pretend. But what if he rejected her? She couldn’t bear that look; puzzlement – maybe even amusement. Far better to keep her dream alive than see it destroyed.

He saved her by darting across the street, still holding her hand, and they plunged into the shadow of the castle wall. Stopped again, waiting, peering into the darkness. She was breathless now, and he squeezed her hand. What was that? She squeezed back, trying to feel some of the life in him. Why was he so inscrutable? One look was all she wanted, just one chink.

‘Who goes there?’ The voice was harsh, nervous and edgy, cutting out of the darkness just ahead of them. He stepped back against the wall, pressing her into the shadows with his arm.

‘Lieutenant Ryan, Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’

She peered past him. A shadow detached itself from the wall and stepped out into the laneway. She saw the dull dome of a helmet and the long shape of a rifle barrel glinting.

‘Show yourself, then.’

Another squeeze of her hand and they stepped out into the open, Stephen holding his revolver up by the barrel. An electric torch came on, its yellow light dazzling them.

‘I’ve come over from Trinity College. I have messages for the officer commanding,’ Stephen said, shielding his eyes. ‘This is Miss Bryce. Her sister’s a nurse at the hospital inside.’

‘Good to see you, sir. Come on . . .’ The voice was much more welcoming now, and they walked towards the light, finding a gate that was barricaded with sandbags and planking and had a machine gun set up at its centre. They walked through and found the broad yard crammed with carts, gun carriages and motor lorries.

‘You’ll have to go to the upper yard to find the colonel, sir,’ the sentry told them and, looking at Lillian, he added, ‘The hospital’s up there as well, though I hear they’ve moved the patients down into the cellars, what with the shooting and all.’

The upper yard was full of light. Two enormous watch fires blazed on the cobbles and the colonnade was dotted with storm lanterns, but over it all the cupola of City Hall was still glowing like a torch, now and then dumping great gobs of thick smoke into the yard. Lillian followed Stephen as he threaded his way between the fires and knots of soldiers, feeling dwarfed by all this and wishing that he was still holding her hand.

‘There are nurses over there.’ She pointed to some blue-clad women moving along the colonnade, bending over the line of bodies lying on the ground. Wounded, she thought, and her heart faltered. So many of them.

One of the nurses stood up and moved a few paces before bending down again. Lillian couldn’t make out her face, but she thought she recognized her sister – the way she moved, the curve of her back.

‘I think that’s Sheila,’ she exclaimed, surprised at the sudden rush of emotion. She’d been telling herself all along that Sheila would be fine . . . but was it really her? Now the figure was crouched down it was hard to tell. She wanted to be sure, but part of her was afraid to go over, and another part didn’t want to leave Stephen.

‘Why don’t you go over and see,’ he suggested. ‘I’ll come and find you after I’ve given’ He broke off at the sound of a commotion at the main gate. The inner gate was being opened on squealing hinges.

‘Patrol coming in!’ the sergeant shouted, and a squad of men came hurrying through the gap. Two of them were dragging a man between them, and two more were carrying another on a door.

‘Joe! Joe!’ The upright man was shouting pitifully, twisting around to try and see the man on the door. ‘Joe! For God’s sake, help him, will you. He’s not moving.’

‘Shut yer trap, mate!’ The sergeant jerked his head down the yard. ‘Take them over to the barracks.’

‘He needs a doctor,’ the wounded man shouted hysterically. ‘He needs help. Joe, Joe!’

Stephen was running already, his heart beating harshly against his chest. The closer he got, the more certain he was. He felt his throat closing with fear.

‘Put him down,’ he shouted to the men carrying the door. They looked surprised, but obeyed him, setting down their load almost gently. He pulled the body towards him and saw his brother’s face; pale, bloodless, eyes closed. ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Joe!’ he whispered, feeling for a pulse. It was there, but only barely. His skin was cold and clammy to the touch. ‘What have you done now, you stupid bastard?’

‘They shot him!’ the other man accused, weeping now. ‘The bastards shot him in the back!’

‘Who is it?’ Lillian asked, and he felt her hand on his shoulder as she bent down beside him. ‘Stephen, what’s the matter? Do you know him?’

The soldiers who had been carrying the door had already started edging away, sensing trouble, but Stephen didn’t even look at them as he nodded. His face was almost as pale as the man on the makeshift stretcher.

‘He’s my brother.’

VII

The fat Welshman on the train had bad feet.

‘Fallen arches, see,’ he explained, holding one up. ‘Keeps me out of the army.’

Stephen wanted to say it was just as bloody well, but he bit his tongue. It wouldn’t do to be facetious while he was in uniform. This last fact had not escaped his fellow passenger’s notice when he got on at Wrexham.

‘You’re a soldier, are you?’ he observed with a knowing wink. ‘What regiment are you with then?’

‘The Royal Dublin Fusiliers.’

‘The Dublin Fusiliers, eh? Are you from Ireland, then?’

‘Yes, I am.’

He had said this defiantly, in the hope of forestalling the conversation. The train was almost empty, and he’d been enjoying the solitude until this gregarious Welshman had come bumping into the compartment, with his threadbare carpetbag and brown-paper parcels. These last three months in England he’d found that the very fact that he was Irish – or even the sound of his accent – tended to dry up all talk in his vicinity. But no such luck in this case.