The fire climbed high into the night. The family and their staff were in London, they had been certain of that. It was to be an example, not a slaughter, Tom had made sure of that. "What of five dead bourgeois, now?" They argued, "-and what of the thirty dead working men and women, downstairs, trying to pay the bills and feed their families?" He rebuttaled Tom wasn't on this run to fight or die, he was, as always, the driver; there to outrun the Black and Tans, the brutal British army men who dare refer to themselves as 'constables' of Ireland, once they caught word of the firing.
Tom waited in the car on a rocky, winding boreen that ran behind the house. As he listened to his friends and compatriots hoot and holler, watching the building go up in flames, he planned their way out. He knew the back roads and scenic routes of County Sligo, as is it was his second home, having spent years driving for the Countess Markievicz and her family. They were expected at a safehouse about half an hour away in Sligo city. As long as they left about five minutes before the Black and Tans arrived, they would make it unscathed. Tom breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the rustling of his friends running through the foliage that hid Tom and the car from the estate, but the hooting and laughing had suddenly stopped. Jim Ryan, a man Tom had known since they were children growing up in Bray together, climbed into the front of the car with Fiona McClafferty, their personal armory.
"Fucking drive, Tommy!" Bridie Healy cried from the back seat, she is technically their nurse, but she fights as hard as the others.
"They're right behind us, Tommy." Jim gasped, still out of breathe, "I don't know how they found us so quick, but you're gonna have to lose them."
Tom could hear the Black and Tans shouting as the car sped off down the boreen into the night. Jack Bray stood on the step of the car, hanging out the back door with a pistol in his hands should any of the Tans get too close for comfort.
"Their following, Tom," he shouted into the car, "whole car full of them!"
"We'll never make it to the city." Stephen Riordan cursed, he was the eldest of the group, he had watched the Fenian uprising as a child and he had more fire in his heart then the rest of them combined. The Tans were coming up his tail and their car was much newer and faster than the one he had been given. His only advantage was the playing field, on boreens this small, this late at night he could lose them without a problem, but to get to the city he needed to take the main roads big enough so the Tans' car could pull alongside and gun them down like they were nothing.
Tom thought of Sybil, sleeping peacefully alone in their bed, of their child rolling and kicking in her belly. What would happen to them if he was killed? What would the Black and Tans do to her, to their child. They'll never get to them. He swore, as he made a sharp turn down a darker, smaller boreen, changing their course from south, towards the city, to west, deeper into Sligo.
"What the hell are you doing, Tommy!" Jim shouted at the jolting turn of the car.
"Riordan's right." Tom shouted over the roar of the motor, "we can't make it to the city, the roads will only get bigger, we'll be dead men. I know someone not far from here who'll hide us, at least for awhile."
They drove deep into the night, the lights of the Tan's car like fireflies fading in and out of sight behind them. The salty sweet air of the atlantic filled their lungs as they whipped past tiny villages, with huge farms and ancient churches, the land they fought for. Tom drove with his foot pressed down hard on the accelerator for nearly half an hour, the lights of the Black and Tan's car vanished behind them, but he was sure they hadn't given up. Through a line of ancient oaks they saw a grand house, half the size of the one they had just fired, and nothing compared Downton, it was grand and austere nonetheless. The house looks as if it was carved from a single block of granite and the light from within pours through the frosted glass windows, illuminating the grounds outside. Tom pulls up and around to the servant's entrance and parks the car in the middle of a line of much shinier, newer cars.
"Where are we, Tommy? What do you think you're doing?" Jim asked from the cab as Tom jumped down from the car.
"Lissadell House, they'll take care of us I swear." He grins at his friend's uncertainty, "Do you not trust me, Jimmy?"
"Why should I?" Jim laughed as he got out of the car.
The firers rush behind Tom to the servants hall as the lights of the black and tan's car became visible on the horizon, slammed the solid oak door of the hall behind them. Tom ran ahead of the others to the dining hall, where the servants of the house sat down to dinner only a few moments before. The table was headed by the butler, Mr. Kilgallon, a stern man who had almost prepared Tom for the force that was Mr. Carson. Mr. Kilgallon stood bolt upright as Tom entered the room followed by his compatriots, presumably, was to be interrupted by a baron or countess, not a former chauffeur.
"Mr. Branson, what in God's name are you doing here?" The dour man could even make his light Sligo brogue sound foreboding.
"Is Her Grace at home?" He asked ignoring the butler's line of questioning.
"Yes, of course, she's in the parlour," he said, "-what on Earth…"
But it was too late, Tom had turned to run up the stairs, leaving the servants and firers behind him. The servant's stairs were decorated, painted in deep jewel tones and hung with less loved and less expensive paintings, it exited into the great hall between the parlour and the formal dining room. Taking a sharp right turn Tom barged into the parlour where the Gore-Booth family sat, talking and drinking champagne from delicate crystal flutes.
"Your Grace," Tom addressed his old employer, the Countess Markievicz, a grand, powerful woman whose very gaze demanded respect, "Please, you need to help us."
"What's happened, Tom?" She spoke softly as she stood to comfort her friend and former chauffeur, her trained English accent tinged with the lilt of her native Sligo. Before Tom had the breath to explain, Mr. Kilgallon appeared at the door red-faced and out of breath.
"Milord," He addressed Josslyn, the brother of the Countess and the lord of the manor, "A captain of the Royal Constabulary wishes to speak with you."
"Show the Captain into the library, Kilgallon." The Countess spoke over her brother's reply and turned to the chauffeur, "What do I need to know, Tom?"
"We were firing a house for Mr. Coll," he explained, calling Eamon de Valera, leader of the rebellion, by his accepted codename, "The Tan's found out before we could get far enough away."
"And you were driving." He nodded as she thought aloud, "Go downstairs and ask Mr. Chisholm to loan you one of his chauffeur's uniforms, get the others liveries, we should have enough spares. Then wait downstairs, I'll have you called up if I need you."
"Constance, dear" The Countess' elderly mother Lady Georgina sighed, "Why must you always bring these things into our home."
"You know, Mother, I never can tell if you mean the people or the trouble." She bit out, putting a smile on Maeve, her young daughter's, face, "Josslyn, darling, go speak to the Captain, call for me when he starts asking questions."
"I assume you have an idea?" Josslyn kept his accent as cut-glass and English as he's been trained.
"Of course I do." She smiled deviously, as her brother left. Waving over the attending footman, "Have whiskey brought to the library, Michael, this is no occasion for champagne."
"Mamma," Maeve twirled her champagne flute in her hand, darting her gaze between the gleaming crystal and her mother's dark eyes, "You won't be taken away, again?"
"Not this time, love," she said obstinately, finishing off her glass, "I won't be going back for a long while yet."
There was a quick rap at the door and the footman, Michael, re-entered the parlour.
"Your Grace, your brother is ready for you in the library."
"Thank you, Michael." She stood up smoothing her dress, as she walked to the door she stooped to kiss her daughter's forehead, "wish me luck, love."
"Of course, Mamma," she whispered, scared for her mother's life and livelihood once again.
Constance walked through the great hall, striding purposefully, like a woman on a mission. Tom Branson held a soft spot in her heart, he had been hired by the family a decade ago when he was only eighteen. He had listened to her ideas and politics and taken them to heart. He was her first real student, she gave him books and projects and concepts that sprouted into, not only actions, but true, fast-held beliefs. Tom was like a son to her and she would fight for him. As she stepped into the library she changed her gait, becoming softer, more delicate and genteel.
"My sister, the Countess Markievicz." Josslyn stood and introduced Constance to the Black and Tan Captain, who dare to sit in their library.
"A pleasure," Constance smiled demurely, dropping all the Irish from her voice, "Captain…"
"Ramsey, Emmett Ramsey." The captain grinned, his accent reeked of the south of England.
"Now Constance," Josslyn Gore-Booth entreated, swirling the whiskey in his glass, "apparently there's been a spot of trouble up at Classiebawn Castle. Some dreadful IRA men burnt it to the ground."
"Oh, how awful." She lied, taking a tumbler of whiskey from the footman, "was anyone hurt?"
"Thankfully not, Your Grace, the family is away."
"Whatever can we do to help, Captain?" She pried.
"Well, Your Grace, we followed a car from the scene to your lovely home, we worry that a few of the firers may be hiding somewhere on the estate, perhaps even considering your family a second target. Your brother suggests that you may have more information on the matter?"
"Oh dear Captain Ramsey, my brother assumes I know more than him about most things," she laughed lightly at her own quip, "but, yes, I do believe there's been a misunderstanding. You see a car did just come in, but it was my chauffeur, he had been picking up new footmen in Sligo city. I could call him up to speak to you, if you wish."
"That would be quite helpful, Your Grace, just for peace of mind."
"Michael?" Constance called over to the footman, "Could you bring Mr. Branson up please, thank you dear."
The Captain sat in awkward silence waiting for the chauffeur, cradling the whiskey he had been given. He has heard stories of the Countess of Markievicz, she had fought in the Easter Rising a few years before, killing just as many, if not more, British men then the Irishmen who fought alongside her. Only her money and her sex had saved her from the firing squad. An act of British mercy, he thinks. Though, in the Countess' mind it had always been an act of British cowardice. Tom Branson knocks on the doorframe of the library, the room was a dark ruby red, edged with gold that glowed in the dim light from the fireplace.
"You called for me, Your Grace?" He was dressed in a chauffeur's uniform for the first time in over a year and it felt confining and rough on his skin. The trousers were too large and the cap so small that the only way to hide it's true ownership, is by holding it in his hands.
"Yes, Branson, I'm afraid there's been some trouble up in Cliffoney while you were out," she explained gently, gesturing for him to sit down in the arm chair beside her. "Captain Ramsey, here, would just like to make sure that you had nothing to do with it. I assured him you were in Sligo city, picking up the new footmen, but what is the word of a wealthy woman against that of male servant."
Tom tried his hardest to hide his smirk as the Captain stammered and blushed at the Countess' comments.
"Anything I can do to help, Your Grace." Captain Ramsey opened his notebook to take down the chauffeur's story. "as the Countess says, I was in Sligo city picking up four new footmen and two maids. They're for the Countess' sister, Lady Eva Gore-Booth, so I'm not sure if Her Grace, was aware of them."
"And your full name for the record?" The captain asked, not looking up from his notebook.
"Thomas Jude Branson," he cringed, he'd be put on a watchlist, he knew it.
"And your next of kin?"
"I don't see what this has to do with the investigation." Tom objected.
"Merely formality, Mr. Branson," the captain looked briefly up at Tom before he returned to his notes, "in case we can't get in contact with you."
"My wife lives in Dublin," he tried to give as little information as he can get away with.
"Why not here with you?"
"We've been trying to arrange for a cottage, but it's been taking some time."
"I'll need her name and address," he ordered coldly. They'd raid the flat, Tom was certain of it. They'd all heard the horror stories, whole families found dead and cold in back alleys and gutters, there was no justice for people killed by those meant to enforce it.
"Her name is Sybil, she lives at 51 Rutland Square." He gave an address across the street from the hospital where she worked, which should give them the run around for awhile.
"Will that be all, Captain?" The Countess asked, knowing that they were beginning to lose the advantage.
"I'd like contact details for the footmen and maids he brought, just for peace of mind."
Peace of mind, peace of mind, insurance more like, Tom thought to himself. But the firers were called for and one by one gave their name and next of kin. By the time dear Captain Ramsey left he held the lives of the spouses and children of the firers in his hands.
"Your Grace?" Tom pleaded.
"I thought you said they'd help, Tom!" Jim seethed, "Not send us to the fucking slaughter!"
"Who, exactly, do you think I am!" Constance exclaimed, she wouldn't be taken for some
English traitor, "Your families will be brought here until de Valera, Collins, and I can find a place to put you. Michael!" She called for the footmen, "Bring any man from downstairs, who can drive, up here. Any of you with family, kindly give me their addresses and they will be collected and brought here before morning."
The two footmen of the house, the genuine chauffeur, Josslyn's valet and the valet of the younger Gore-Booth brother, Mordaunt, were all brought to the library given the addresses of the families, chauffeur's uniforms and sent off into the night. While the firers wait with bated breath for the safe arrival of their loved ones.