Chapter Seventy Two

Pro Patria Mori

The rain had stopped long ere since.

Damp sulphurous trails of steam and smoke eddied their way into the cabin as yet another west bound train stormed up the gradient past the hut, making the timber walls shake, dislodging yet more dirt and dust down upon him from the corrugated iron roof.

For Tom, the infrequent passage of the trains served only to mark the passing of the hours; heighten his sense of isolation. Indeed, but for the trains, Tom would have thought that time itself had stopped. Only, of course, he knew that that was not possible. At first, through the chinks in the wooden walls of the hut, Tom had been able to see daylight, then that it was growing dark and from time to time, he heard footsteps pass by somewhere outside the cabin, but his cries for help had gone unheard, and if heard, then gone unheeded.

Night fell.

The footsteps ceased.

The trains stopped.

Of course, Tom had no way of knowing precisely how long he had been in the cabin, at least several hours he thought; had lost all sense of feeling in both his hands and feet. He had nothing to do but wait.

And think.

He knew that by now that his darling Sybil would now be utterly distraught, frantic with worry, and what was so infuriating was that all of this was his own stupid fault. If only he hadn't been such a bloody trusting fool, been so naïve, been so utterly reckless.

Evidently, whoever it was those that had abducted him were waiting for had still not arrived. To his left, the clock on the wall, its glass cracked, its dial stained, showed the same time it had when his eyes had first registered its presence, the hands stuck stubbornly at eleven o'clock. It was not the eleventh month, not even the eleventh day, but according to the clock it was the eleventh hour, the very same time when, after four years of killing and slaughter, the sound of the guns had finally died away; perhaps, thought Tom, not the best of things to recall given his present predicament.

After all, he'd always known that, should he have the singular misfortune to fall into the hands of the Irish Republican Army, given some of his pieces critical of the organisation and its forerunner the Irish Volunteers which he had written when he was still at Downton, and which had been published in various journals and periodicals over here in Ireland in the years following the Rising, that he could expect little in the way of leniency or generosity of spirit from those he had seen fit to criticise for their willingness to resort to violence to achieve their intended aim of a free and independent Ireland.

And if those earlier articles had not sealed Tom's fate, then surely, much of what he had written since he took up his post here in Dublin with the Independent would have done so.

In the last few weeks, he had seen for himself the bloody aftermath of several IRA executions of alleged informers, of those who, like himself, had been considered too outspoken in their condemnation of the organisation's sometimes brutal methods, had also seen what had happened to the young boy out at the farm on the Howth road, knew what, on that particular occasion, had so nearly happened to Sybil and himself. If anything further was needed to convince him of the sickening futility of violence, that singular instance had served to do so. No cause could justify the brutal death of that young boy; it served no purpose whatsoever, but was there, wondered Tom, in this brave new world, even now a price for innocence.

Tom was discovering, however, that considering death as a possibility was somewhat different to facing up to it as a reality. The damndest thing was that he felt coolly detached, even if his life was now measured probably in minutes, possibly seconds, and those minutes, those seconds, were filled to the exclusion of all else with deeply loving thoughts of Sybil and how she would fare without him.

Now he had but to close his eyes, only to have her beautiful face form before him; could feel the touch of her lips against his own, smell the scent of her hair, the taste of her skin. A dark haired Madonna he'd once called her, only to have her chide him for blasphemy. Odd that; neither he nor Sybil had much time for organised religion, but they both had a faith of sorts, which was why, at least in part, he had felt it necessary to make his confession at St. Audoen's; was glad now that he had done so.

At some point, despite the pain from the ropes tying him tightly to the chair, cutting into his flesh, he must have dozed.

And then, completely without warning, the cold grey fingers of a misty dawn began to poke their way insistently through the chinks in the wall. Behind him in the greying darkness, Tom heard the sound of heavy footsteps yet again. But this time, they grew louder, a door creaked, and but a moment later several men came into the cabin, stood round him in a half circle.

Several minutes passed.

Twisting uneasily on his chair, Tom gazed up at his captors, knew himself to be a dead man. But if that was so, why didn't they just shoot him now and have done with it?

His eyes misting with tears, Tom raised his head in open and vociferous defiance.

"If you're going to shoot me then have done with it!" he snapped, his words sounding far braver than he actually felt. The handful of men in the cabin loomed large about him, jeered at Tom, and jostled him on the chair, but for all that he thought their mood to be one of expectation.

"For sure and happy to oblige yous!" said one casually. The man moved forward, pulling something from out of his pocket. Only at the last did Tom see it for what it was and now, had he but known it, much as Kelly had experienced several hours earlier and but a short distance away, Tom found the cold muzzle of a pistol pushed hard against his left temple. Tom winced; made one last futile attempt to jerk his head away.

Almost lazily, disinterestedly, the man pulled the trigger.