Strange how it is that men never act crueller than when they're fighting for the sake of an idea. - Marcel Theroux

November 11 , 1919

Offices of the Irish Bulletin, Dublin

Tom Branson paced the waiting room at the new Irish Bulletin, which was difficult because the room was about the size of his old bedroom at Mam's. It was more like walking in circles, but he couldn't sit still. He was about to make a decision that would determine his professional future, and maybe his personal life as well, and he was sick with worry about its ramifications.

Tom hadn't slept well for days. Ever since he had decided to leave The Evening Herald for the fledgling publication that was just beginning its life as the voice of the Dáil Éireann and the republican cause, he had been second guessing himself. He was doing well at the Herald. He was somewhat of a hero, in fact, since he had broken the story back in June of a band of Ulster Unionists secretly planning to kidnap an English aristocrat and his daughter.

For Tom the story had been intensely personal. The aristocrat had been his father-in-law, Lord Grantham, and the daughter was Sybil, the love of his life. Tom and his brothers had foiled the kidnap attempt and the story had made him an icon at the paper. He had received a promotion and his future was secure.

But Tom's dissatisfaction with the Herald had been growing for some time. The editor seemed content to be another voice of the British in Ireland, glossing over the growing violence and taking the safe road rather than risking the wrath of the government. Tom had begged to be allowed to cover republican issues, had wanted to interview members of Sinn Féin and publish their politics, but had been refused. It was too dangerous, he had been told. And yet, when the Dáil had been outlawed, the paper had made it their front page headline. It was the last straw.

Michael had told him about a new publication just starting up that was going to report on the Irish side of events rather than pandering to the British. The aim was to get the word out to foreign journalists and newspapers about what was really going on in Ireland, the first time a newspaper had existed for that purpose. It was located in a small set of offices and guarded by the Irish Republican Army. The pay would be much less than Tom was making at the Herald, and the danger much greater. And Tom Branson was not alone any longer. It was not his decision alone.

He had talked it over with Sybil as they lay in their big bed. The bed was where most things of importance took place in the Branson household, so it was logical that such a dangerous career move be discussed there. Sybil had listened as she always did, until he finished, and then she had turned to face her husband and asked the Big Question.

"This is important to you, isn't it, darling? You feel that you need to do something more for the cause?"

"Yes, I think I do," he sighed. "But it affects both of us, and our children when we have them. There will be much less money, at least for awhile, and the paper may not succeed in the end. There could be physical danger as well; the British government will not be happy with a publication telling the truth about their bullying of the Irish people. There could be reprisals. But I think I need to be a part of it."

Sybil was quiet for a moment, and then she said, "Do it, Tom. We'll make it work."

He looked at this beautiful woman who had been raised in the lap of luxury and pampered all her life and had given it all up to be with him. He marveled anew at her courage and resilience. He had just told her that they were probably going to be even poorer than they were now, and she hadn't hesitated for a second. He was glad now that at least he had agreed to the luxury flat that Sybil's granny had forced on them. Without such a gift, taking this job would not have been possible.

Her certainty and her faith in him made him realize how much he had wanted…needed…to do this. He was reaching in the dark, and he knew he needed her courage if he were to let go of the known and familiar. Her courage and love would see them through.

"Why are you so perfect?" he murmured into her hair. "How did I ever deserve you?"

"You waited, Tom. When I was unsure what to do about us, you waited. You never gave up, and I will never give up on you. Your heart belongs to me and to Ireland, and we will both be there for you, forever. Don't ever doubt it, darling."

The decision having been made, the activity in the bed had turned to more amorous pursuits, as it always did. Sybil wondered if Tom's new status as a revolutionary reporter would make their lovemaking even more adventurous, and then his lips reached a certain place, and she stopped thinking altogether.

November 11, 1919

Johnson Mooney and O'Brien Bakery

"Kathleen! What is wrong with you, girl? That's the second order you've mixed up today!" Bernadette scolded her sister. She sighed. She had a pretty good idea what was wrong with Katie; it was hard not to miss the daily visits by the handsome young lad with the black hair and blue eyes, after which Kathleen was for all intents and purposes useless for the rest of the morning.

Kathleen jumped and flushed. "Sorry, Bern. I'm just tired."

Bernadette snorted, but said nothing. After all, she'd been that age once. And the young man seemed the right sort. He was polite, and after all, it wasn't his fault if he was all moony eyes over Kathleen; she was a bit biased, but what red-blooded male wouldn't be? Her baby sister didn't even know how lovely she was. Still, this situation would bear watching, and it wouldn't hurt to find out a little bit about him.

Kathleen tried her best to get her mind back on pastry, but it was an impossible task. She knew her sister suspected that there was something up between Deaglan and her. She giggled; he was the only young man—the only man at all, really, who made a daily foray to the bake shop. What Bern didn't know, though, and she'd better not find out!…was that Kathleen was ready to take the next step in this relationship. To actually talk to him, outside of work!

For relationship it was, even if it was nothing but looks and smiles at the moment. Ever since Deaglan had told her in a shy voice, as she was wrapping his scones with the speed of a sloth, that she was pretty and he would like to go out walking with her some time if she liked, Kathleen had found herself floating. If she liked! And here she'd thought he'd had a girlfriend who was the lucky recipient of all those cakes!

It was frustrating, she thought…this new feeling. She couldn't tell Bern about Deaglan, because her sister would grill her with questions about his background, his parents, his job. And she couldn't find out about all those things, because there were always customers waiting and Bernadette's sharp eyes missed nothing. But he must have a good family, she thought; he was so polite. He must have a job, too. Otherwise, how could he afford all the pastries he bought every day? And he always came first thing in the morning, right after Mooney's opened.

The truth was, she knew nothing at all about Deaglan Collins. Nothing except that he was kind, and sweet, and had the most adorable dimple on one side of his mouth when he smiled. He reminded her a bit of her brother Tom, who until now had been the most handsome man in her life. Well, Michael was just as good-looking, and of course there was Patrick…but Pat was beautiful, rather than handsome, and not her type anyway. Her type had black hair, and brilliant blue eyes, and…

"Kathleen!"

November 11, 1919

Murphy's Pub

Maire was tired. Murphy's was overflowing again, lilting Irish accents mixing with raucous British voices in a discordancy of sound that set her nerves on edge. She wished Colum wasn't so accomodating, wished he was more like other bar owners in Dublin, who made no secret of their disdain for the riffraff that made up the British army. They didn't belong here, swaggering around as if they owned the streets of Dublin. They had killed his own nephew, for God's sake! She couldn't understand it at all.

The RIC was bad enough; Irish turncoats whose presence was barely tolerated by their own countrymen, but the English! They had begun to send more and more soldiers to "handle" the civilian population, which remained a favorite target. Much easier to terrorize than the IRA, helpless citizens found themselves harrassed, intimidated, and even killed—sometimes in retaliation for something the IRA had done, often for no discernable reason at all.

The handsome one was here again, still following her with his stupid cow eyes. But Maire had no time to worry about him tonight. There was a table in which she had a particular interest, had already overheard enough to know that she needed to give the table nearby an extra wipe down.

Evan Langdon was indeed watching the pretty barmaid, but his motives were not what she imagined. At least not this time. He had taken note of the unusual attention she was paying to the table of British officers in the corner, and was wondering why. By this time he thought he knew her feelings toward his comrades in arms, and in general he was sympathetic. So why were they getting star service now? Why was she lingering?

He knew that one of them, Lieutenant Martin, frequented this pub almost as much as he did. He also knew that Martin shared many of his fellow soldiers' feelings about the Irish—they were barely above vermin; all of them were revolutionary scum, and the sooner they were properly subjugated, the better. Robert Martin was a cruel man. In fact, he was the kind of soldier that gave all of them a black eye. Evan did not trust him or the men with him for a minute. So he watched.

Shortly before closing time, Maire put on her coat and left the pub, accompanied by a young cousin of Colum's who had been assigned to see her home safely each evening. As Evan watched, the table of soldiers also arose, and followed the two out the door. He began to have a very bad feeling. Throwing down some money to settle his tab, he made his way out behind the soldiers, staying as far behind and out of sight as possible.

Maire turned at her corner and told young Cabhan that he could go home; she was within sight of her door and would be fine. He hesitated; Colum had told him to walk her all the way to her door and see her inside. He was afraid to incur his uncle's wrath, but he was more afraid of Maire. She was kind, but he had seen her angry and didn't want to experience it himself. So he waved and turned back, crossing the street to avoid an oncoming group of British soldiers.

Maire continued up her street, thinking of what she had heard tonight. Michael would be quite interested. It might be nothing, but—

She felt a sudden whoosh of air, and was enveloped in darkness as a blanket came down over her head. She struggled, kicking and grasping, but there were too many, and they were too strong. Arms and legs pinned in the suffocating folds of the blanket, she was thrown over a broad shoulder and carried off into the night. It had taken less than a minute, and the street was empty.

When the blanket was pulled off, Maire found herself kneeling on the floor of a small room facing a group of six British soldiers, all seated in chairs ringed around her. The only light came from a single lantern placed to the side. She opened her mouth to scream, only to have one of them produce a cloth and gag her, while another bound her hands behind her back. Their eyes glinted in the light thrown out by a single lantern.

"You have been a bad little Fenian", said one, an officer by his uniform, in a mocking voice. Maire's eyes flashed fire and defiance. "You have been carrying messages to the IRA, messages describing certain things about our plans and movements. It has caused us a great deal of inconvenience." He leaned back and crossed one leg over the other, as if his words were mundane, of no importance.

"What you didn't know," he continued in a calm voice, "is that you were followed, and that we have tested our theory by planting false information." He smiled, a vicious, obscene twisting of thin lips. "The resulting activity of the IRA proved that our suspicions were correct, and so now, I'm afraid, you will have to be punished." He sighed, as if in sympathy for her plight, but Maire sensed there was no pity in this man. She felt the first frisson of fear work its way up her spine.

He glanced at his men, and nodded. One of them reached into a sack behind him and produced a straight razor, glinting sharp and deadly in the light of the lantern. Maire's eyes widened, and she began to struggle. Tears ran down her cheeks and soaked into the gag as she realized what they were going to do.

"Hold her." Lieutenant Robert Martin barked. Two soldiers grabbed her elbows and bent her over, so that her hair brushed the floor. The one with the straight razor approached and grabbed the mass of curls, wrapping it around his fist. He was not gentle, and pain battled with fear for supremacy in her mind.

It did not take long. All that could be heard in the next few moments was the harsh scraping of the razor's teeth and the muffled sobs of the young woman.


A/N: The Irish Bulletin began its existence in November 1919 and ran as a daily newspaper until December, 1921. It was funded by the Dáil Éireann as a means to get the Irish side of the story out to foreign correspondents. Among other reports, it contained lists of atrocities propogated by the British Army. The Bulletin continued to run several issues a week, despite repeated attempts by the British government to suppress it.

Pronunciation Guide:

Deaglan - deck + lan

Dáil - doyl

Maire - my + ra

Sinn Féin - shin + fane