I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word. - Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.
June 10, 1920
Mountjoy Prison
Evan Langdon sat with his back to the wall, waiting. They would be coming for him; it was only a matter of time. He had not slept a full night since he'd been brought here, understanding that to sleep might leave him open to attack. He was a bit curious as to where it would come from, but too tired to care much anymore. He had spoken to no one, afraid to let them hear his English accent, but they all knew. He wasn't sure he could speak, after being silent for so long.
The prisoners, most of them Irish republicans, some IRA, had made no secret of their disgust, and there were no other Englishmen in Mountjoy prison. A British soldier accused of a crime would normally have been held in the barracks, but his case was so serious, the crime in their eyes so heinous, that they wanted him locked away out of their sight until they could decide what to do with him. No, not what…that was a given. He would be hanged, the penalty for murder of a police officer. The question was when.
Evan was a bit surprised that it was taking them so long; he had expected to be executed rather quickly once it had become apparent that no one was taking his protestations of innocence seriously. But it had been a month and a half, if his tally marks on the wall of the cell were correct, and still no one had come. He had stopped caring long ago. His thoughts now were only of Maire.
She had been going to say no; he knew that much. The look of pity in her eyes had shattered him, but he should have known. How could he have expected someone so passionately Irish to ever fall in love with him? He had mistaken gratitude and a growing friendship for the stirrings of love, that was all. He was a fool. He wasn't suicidal, but the crushing of his hope for a life with Maire was almost worse than the impending rope. He had thought that if he came to her with unarmed truth and unconditional love, he would win. He had been wrong.
He wondered if she thought him guilty…hoped she knew him better than that. It was true that there had been days, after her attack, that he had imagined himself hunting down the men who had hurt her and killing them all, had enjoyed thinking of ways to make their deaths as painful as possible…but it wasn't in him to kill out of revenge. He had killed, in battle, but he was not a murderer. Yes, he had told Maire's sister-in-law that he knew who the men were, had said he'd take care of it, but those words had been spoken out of anger and frustration.
He would have recognised Lieutenant Robert Martin instantly if he had seen him, and he had looked, but the man was a ghost, and as time had passed he had lost interest, all his attention focused on Maire. And all this time Martin had been dead. While Maire was fighting her way back from the depression he and his thugs had caused, Martin had been beyond caring, rotting in a shallow grave. The irony was almost amusing. And soon it wouldn't matter any more. Not for him.
The door to his cell grated and moved outward, and he sat up straight. Was this it? Finally? Now that the time was here, he found that he didn't want to die. But he would never let them see his fear; if he gave in they would win.
Three men in the uniform of the British army moved toward him in the semi-darkness. Evan stood, willing himself to meet them on their own level. He lifted his chin, waiting.
"Well, I never thought I'd be springin' a Brit," said one of the men…in an Irish accent. Evan tensed. Was the IRA going to be his executioner? A part of him had expected such a possibility; he had even wondered if the army hoped it would happen; it would solve the problem for them quite neatly. They would be rid of him and could blame it on Irish criminals.
"For sure," said another of the men. "But Mick said we had to save his sorry arse, and I gotta trust Mick."
Mick? Who the hell was Mick? Evan gaped at the speaker.
"Well, let's get on with it, then. I don't want to have to wear this damn uniform any longer than I have to," the third man grumbled.
"OK, boyo, this is how it's going to go down," said the first speaker. "The only way out of this hell hole is on a stretcher, so that's how you're going to go. Hope your head isn't as soft as most of your kind." Something swung out of the darkness, connecting with Evan's skull. Pain exploded behind his eyes and he dropped like a rock.
June 10 ,1920
Daniel's Workshop
"Okay, Patrick, what's this all about?" Tom still hadn't completely forgiven his brother for bamboozling him about Edith, right under his own roof, and he wasn't in the mood for games. But Patrick had insisted that he and Sybil come by the shop after work, and he couldn't see any way to refuse, so here they were.
"Just wanted to show you something, big brother," Patrick said, his smile wide and innocent. "Come on over this way." Across the room Edith sat on a spindle-legged deacon's bench, an inscrutable look on her face. She was pretending to read a magazine, but her eyes were fastened on Tom and Sybil over the top of its pages.
As they moved around the shop, Tom noted with surprise that Daniel's workshop was beginning to take on a new personality. Daniel was a builder, and a good one. He constructed substantial, solid homes that would stand the test of time, and Tom had always thought Patrick was just another of his work crew. The shop was supposed to be the place where they studied the plans, cut the boards for the walls, and carved the moulding, the lintels, and the wainscotting if a client could afford such luxuries.
Tom gazed around him, his interest sharpening. Now the shop looked more like a furniture store than a construction workroom. Beds, desks, and chairs filled the small space…all of them exquisite and finely crafted. This was not Daniel's work. He knew his brother had been experimenting with furniture-making, but to tell the truth he'd been too busy to pay much attention. Tom noted a complicated vine pattern carved into many of the pieces.
"Who made this furniture, Pat?"
"Um, well, that would be me." Patrick's voice was shy, and his head bent, but his eyes looked at his brother from beneath his lashes. "Daniel's pretty much given over this space; we're thinking of opening it up as a shop to get rid of some of this stuff." His voice was offhand, but Sybil sensed that their opinion on "this stuff" was very important to her brother-in-law.
"It's all so beautiful!" she breathed, and meant it. She wandered over to a shrouded form in the corner. "What's this?"
Patrick exchanged a look with Edith. He gave an elaborate shrug. "Oh, nothing. Just something I've been working on in my spare time. Go ahead…you can look."
Sybil pulled the sheet away from the object, and gasped. It was a baby's cot…the most beautiful cot she had ever seen. A beautiful shade of caramel, the wood had been sanded and planed to a warm patina that caught the glow of the electric light in the corner. On the side of the cot next to the wall, a scrolled piece of wood had been added to the rail. The distinctive vine pattern traced its graceful curving lines, and in the center of the panel had been carved an exquisite celtic B.
"Ahh", Sybil sighed. "B for baby. How lovely!" She reached for Tom's hand and entwined her fingers with his, thinking of the baby they had made, their own work of art.
"No," said Patrick. "B for Branson. I made the cot for you."
Tom and Sybil gaped. "For us?" Sybil whispered. "Patrick, really? It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen! Oh, my goodness!" She caressed the smooth wood. "He's going to be the happiest baby in Ireland!"
"And she'll be able to add her own bite marks, for character," laughed Tom, pulling his wife close. "Thank you so much, Pat!"
Patrick and Edith beamed at each other in relief. They were forgiven.
June 11, 1920
Mater Misericordiae Hospital
Sybil sat at the edge of the hospital bed, watching the man as he breathed, his chest moving up and down. His head and much of his face were wrapped in bandages, giving him the look of a mummy she'd once seen at the British Museum in London. How often had she found herself sitting at the bedside of men who had been injured in this damn war, she thought; how many men had she comforted, prayed over? James Donnelly, fifteen years old and already in the IRA. Sam O'Brien, shopping for his mother, in the wrong place at the wrong time. Danny Sullivan, father of four, shot in front of his children. And Tom. She shivered, remembering the fear and desperation of those hours that would shape the rest of her life.
But this man was different. He had not been injured fighting in the war. He wasn't IRA; he wasn't even Irish. Not that it mattered if he were. The Mater did not discriminate when the injured came to them. Sybil had treated RIC, British Army, even Black and Tans. To be a nurse meant you had to leave your personal feelings at the hospital door. There was no room for hatred or judgement; they were patients, blank slates. Except for this man.
This one was family, or as near as. And his sojourn at the Mater was not due to the war; not directly. He was here as part of an injustice that needed to be set right. Plans had been made and carried out to get him here, and as yet he knew nothing about any of it. He also wasn't going to like the next step in his journey, Sybil knew. Her heart ached for him.
The man's eyes fluttered and opened slowly. Cloudy hazel eyes, filled with confusion.
"Hullo, Evan," Sybil whispered. "No, don't talk! Just listen." He stared at her, uncomprehending, and she wondered if his head injury had been greater than Dr. Walsh had said. "You're at the Mater. Your head is covered with bandages, but it's not because you were hurt—well, you were hurt, but it was part of the plan…only they might have been a little too enthusiastic about it…oh, never mind."
"Nod if you understand what I'm saying." He nodded, and she went on in relief, bending low and pretending to check his bandages.
"The IRA brought you here. They dressed as British soldiers and carried you out right under the noses of the real British army!" She giggled, remembering the distaste the three IRA soldiers had shown for their task and for the hated uniforms they'd been forced to wear. "Those were the worst British accents I've ever heard, but at least they tried, and fortunately no one asked them too many questions." She stopped laughing, looking at Evan with sympathy.
"But the army knows you're here, of course, and they've been checking up on you throughout the day. They want to know when you'll be fit enough to be returned to Mountjoy. We've wrapped you up and told them that your head injury—Colin Byrne says he's sorry he had to hit you so hard, by the way—was quite serious and that you can't be moved before tomorrow. Supposedly you were the victim of an attack by IRA prisoners."
Sybil paused to see if Evan Langdon had absorbed any of her words. He blinked, opened his mouth.
"Maire?" It came out as a croak.
"I don't know," Sybil said. "I've been here all day. Do you think you can sit up?" She assisted Evan, who swayed but managed to sit on the edge of the bed. That idiot Colin Byrne didn't know his own strength, she thought in dismay. He wasn't supposed to hit him so hard. Evan looked green, and she was sure there was some puking in his near future. Definitely a concussion. He shouldn't be up, but there was no other choice.
"I-I can stand…I think." His voice seemed a bit stronger, and Sybil relaxed.
Evan looked up as another man came into the room. David? No, Daniel. He remembered him from the Bransons'. Maire's brother-in-law. Nice, quiet chap.
Daniel moved to the bed and sat beside Evan. "I'm you," he said cheerfully. "Now, get the hell out of here…and good luck!"
Sybil quickly unwound the bandages covering Evan's head and handed them to Daniel. "I'll be back soon, but see if you can wrap these yourself." Daniel nodded and lay down in the hospital bed, winking at Evan. For the first time, Evan noticed that Sybil was not wearing her nurse's uniform. He looked down and realized that he himself was dressed as a working class Irishman, like hundreds of others who lived and worked in Dublin.
Sybil handed him a flat cap. "Let's go!" she told him. Slowly, arm and arm, they walked out of the Mater, just another couple among many, a man and his pregnant wife.
"Where are we going?" Evan asked, after they had walked a few blocks. He seemed stronger and his color was better; maybe this was actually going to work.
"To the harbor," Sybil said. She turned and faced him, her expression serious. "You have to leave Ireland, and you can't go back to England. So you're going to America."
Evan gawked at her. "America? I don't know anyone in America!" His voice reflected sudden panic. "Where will I go? What will I do?" Sybil put a finger to her lips and did not answer him until they had come in view of the harbor with its vessels of all sizes and purposes. A huge passenger ship sat at the dock, rocking gently in the calm water.
Then Sybil turned and patted his arm. "You're going to my Granny Martha, in New York," she said. "She'll give you a place to stay until you decide what you want to do."
He pulled back. "But…" He would never see Maire again. Evan knew that this was his only chance now, and he understood what these people had done for him. But how could he—
"Evan?" said a soft Irish voice behind him. He turned, and she was there. Thank God, she had come to say goodbye. "Th-thank you for coming," Evan choked, unable to say more. He was grateful just to be able to see her one more time.
"I'm not here to see you off. I'm coming with you…if you still want me," said Maire, in a soft, trembling voice.
He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "What…?"
"I love you, Evan Langdon. I can't lose you. I want to spend my life with you. Wherever that might be."
"But-but what about your family?" He wasn't processing. Was this even possible?
"They know, and they understand," she told him. "Mam really likes you, you know. And she trusts Sybil's granny to keep us honest, until…until we're married." A little of the real Maire sparkled at him from under her lashes. "And she's pretty tough, so you'll have to behave!"
Sybil had moved off to allow them privacy for this moment, but now she came back to the couple, pushing them toward the wharf. "You have to go!" she said, her voice urgent. "Maire has your papers. Mr. Collins arranged for your travel documents. You are Mr. and Mrs. Sean Donohue, at least until you get to New York. Now go!"
Maire took Evan's hand. Still dazed, he allowed himself to be propelled toward the ship that waited to take them to their new life. As Sybil watched them go, tears in her eyes, a figure detached itself from the shadows near the terminal.
"Good job, darling," said Tom Branson, as he took his wife in his arms.
Early the next morning, an RIC medic appeared at the Mater, insisting upon seeing the prisoner and determining for himself if he was well enough to be returned to Mountjoy prison. Dr. Walsh walked with him to Evan Langdon's room. A figure lay in the bed, head wrapped in bandages, eyes closed.
"Wake him up!" the officer ordered. Dr. Walsh frowned, then shrugged and walked over to stand next to his patient.
"Sir?" he asked. "Do you feel well enough to speak with this constable?"
The man in the bed stirred and turned his head. "I guess so," said Daniel Ryan. "How can I help you, sir?"
The constable gawked at the stranger, then turned and glared at Dr. Walsh. Face turning red, he sputtered, tried to speak, and then turned on his heel to stomp out of the room, shouting orders as he went. Dr. Walsh looked at Daniel and shrugged. "A lot of stress in the police force these days," he said. "Now, let me have a look at those bandages. I think you're ready to go home. Better do it quickly, too…the RIC seem rather upset."
A/N: Michael Collins was credited with involvement in several prison escapes during the Irish War of Independence. He knew the inside of a prison well, having been incarcerated in Frongoch Prison during the Easter Rising of 1916. The foundations of Irish resistance were laid in the prisons, and many Irish leaders found the seeds of rebellion in a prison cell. There is no historical record of Michael Collins having organized an escape from Mountjoy Prison, but I'd like to think he might have done so.
Pronunciation Guide:
Maire - my + ra
