Don't give up hope just yet. It's the last thing to go. When you have lost hope, you have lost everything. And when you think all is lost, when all is dire and bleak, there is always hope. - Pitticus Lore
January 17, 1921
The Collins Home
Aislinn paced the living room. On her third trip, she rounded on Michael, who was standing in the hallway, watching her with bleak, tired eyes.
"Where is he, Michael?" she demanded. "It's been four days, and no word at all! He wouldn't do this! He's not irresponsible, and he'd never leave Kathleen wondering like this! Maybe he's hurt! Do you think he ran into some of those people who hate Uncle Michael? What if he's…" She stopped, chest heaving, eyes huge and frightened.
"No, no, Aislinn, he's not." Michael shook his head vehemently. "There's been no word, and I've been checking. The Volunteers have heard nothing. The British haven't taken him in—Tom's been to the barracks. They'd be only too happy to tell say so if they had him."
Michael took Aislinn's hands and held them tightly, continuing to list the places they'd looked, the people they'd talked to in their search for Deaglan. No one had seen him in four days. He had simply vanished. Michael would never share his deepest fears with Aislinn, but this was Ireland, and they were at war. People disappeared without a trace these days, and Michael was beginning to believe the worst. He had a very bad feeling that Deaglan was dead, one of the many victims of this horror.
As if reading his thoughts, Aislinn pulled her hands out of his and fisted them at her sides. Her eyes flashed and her voice shook.
"You think he's dead, don't you? You think one of your damn soldiers killed my brother! He never did anything to anyone—all he ever wanted was to live in peace, but you wouldn't let him!" She heard the venom in her words, but grief had her in its grip, and it needed someone to blame.
"I hate your IRA, and the Black and Tans, and everyone else in this horrible city who thinks being brave means carrying a gun and shooting before they think! All those people at the football match, going about their day, having fun. Those people at O'Connell Bridge, just on their way to work, maybe going home to see their children, and the next minute they're just gone!" Michael tried to take her hand, but she slapped him away.
If my brother is dead, it's your fault, Michael Branson! Yours, and your violence-loving friends! I hate all of you!" She sank to the floor then, as if only her grief and anger had been holding her up, and covered her face with her hands, sobbing out her worry and her fear. Michael stood helpless, twisting his cap in his hand.
"I'll find him, Aislinn. I promise. No matter what's happened, I'll find him and I'll bring him home to you. Don't give up hope yet. No matter what, there's always hope. I'll bring him home."
Aislinn said nothing, and after a few moments Michael turned and left the Collins home.
January 20, 1921
Mater Misericordiae Hospital
Sybil completed her rounds automatically. Sometimes, she thought, it seemed as if her life was an endless parade of worry and tragedy. The Mater was the center of the storm, the place where people came to heal…or to die. The fighting was incessant now as the war dragged on, and so many of its victims were young—too young to know what they'd gotten themselves into. Boys, full of passion and patriotism, fired up by their elders and excited to have a gun placed in their hands.
And sometimes the people coming into the Mater were innocents, people who had left their homes in the morning with dreams and expectations, only to be brought in torn and bleeding, the victims of somebody's else's passion and anger and fear. The latest, seven ordinary citizens crossing the O'Connell bridge last week, going about their own business—until the British had opened up and shot them. The Mater being the closest hospital to the bridge, they had all been brought here. And despite all their efforts, two of them had died. It never seemed to end.
Sybil wandered into the staff lunchroom later in the day, looking for a moment's peace from her whirling thoughts. She pushed her hair back under her cap, put her feet up on the chair next to her, and closed her eyes. A mistake. All she could see in her mind's eye was Kathleen's distraught face, the dark circles under eyes dull with despair. This family had been through so much, she thought; why couldn't they ever seem to get a full week of peace?
What had happened to Deaglan? Sybil knew that Michael Collins and their own Michael had been to every hospital—and every morgue— in Dublin, with no results. Tom had used all his contacts at the paper, hoping for a clue, but nothing. He'd simply disappeared. She thought of that horrible army person who had attacked Maire last year, and shuddered. People did disappear, more often than one would like to think, and some were never found. If Deaglan had run into some of those thugs who hated his uncle, and if things had gone very wrong, surely they'd have left his body unburied as a message. She knew that was what Tom thought had happened, and he'd seen much more than she had in his line of work. But no body had been found. Yet.
Two nurses wandered into the lunchroom and fixed themselves cups of tea. They smiled at Sybil and settled in to finish the conversation started in the hallway.
"I don't know how much longer I can do this, Mary," said the younger of the two. So many people with god-awful injuries from this war!"
"We do what we must," chided the older nurse. "You weren't here for the Easter Rising. They just kept bringing them through, so many dead and the injured just flooding in. That was like living in Hell, I'll tell you! But we do what we must. That's what nursing is, Irene."
"I guess so," said the other nurse, her voice glum. "And I know what we do is important. I'm just tired, is all. How's your mystery man?"
Mary shook her head. "Not good. Not a war casualty, that one. Has pneumonia, and he wasn't brought in until he was pretty far gone. Been unconscious since he got here. I don't think he's going to make it, poor lad."
She clucked her tongue and moved to get up. "Well, no rest for the weary…back to the wards!" Their conversation died away as they moved into the hallway, leaving Sybil alone with her own dark thoughts. She had tried not to listen in on the conversation, but she'd heard bits of it and knew how Irene felt; sometimes the job took everything and more out of her…but she'd worked too hard to be where she was, and at the end of the day she got to go home to Tom and Abby. Despite her fear and exhaustion, a smile worked its way onto her face.
January 22, 1921
The Branson Flat
"So, everything is going…well?" Tom asked Edith, his voice tentative. Sybil was working an extra shift, and the two were spending Saturday at home with Miss Abigeál Branson.
Edith rolled her eyes. "D'you mean, am I going to cut and run again in the middle of the night?" Her voice was dry. "No, Tom. I'm here to stay. I'm rather tired of being a fool and a coward. Thought I'd try some courage for a change. Here, give me my niece. You're squashing her."
"I am not!" Tom said, affronted. "I'll have you know that since the colic stopped, Abby has decided that she's going to keep me. She thinks her father is rather a good lad-she's told me so any number of times." But he handed the baby over to Edith, happy to share the wealth…and besides, his nose was warning him that her nappy needed to be changed, sooner rather than later.
Edith lifted the little bottom up to her nose and sniffed, narrowing her eyes at Tom. "Oh, and aren't you the clever one!" she said.
"I am, rather," he said smugly.
"I wasn't talking to you!" was the tart reply. "Was I, darling?" she cooed to the baby, as they went off to freshen up.
"Edith," Tom said, when she returned. "Have you decided what you want to do here…in Ireland, that is? I mean, I know you were upset when you couldn't get into a teacher's college…"
"Oh, that!" Edith waved her hand. "That was never a viable option, and I don't think I'm cut out to spend my life with children." She wrinkled her nose delicately. "Babies are okay…especially this one," she paused to nuzzle Abby's nose. The baby giggled.
"…but older children?" She shuddered. "Not sure what I was thinking. Just desperate for something to do with myself, I guess." She shrugged. "It'll sort itself out. Maybe I can work in the shop…hold the can of nails for Patrick, or sweep up the wood shavings." She looked up and laughed at her brother-in-law's expression.
"Well, I've been thinking…" Tom said, his voice neutral. "Have you ever considered…writing?"
"Writing?" Edith looked confused. "You mean, books?"
"Not exactly," he said. "I was thinking a little smaller scale, to start. Sybil has read me some of your letters. Not the private parts!" he put his hand up, seeing her shocked expression. "But some of the descriptive stuff, the parts about Downton, the stories about the staff…you know."
Edith relaxed. "And…?"
"And you're good," he resumed. "Really good! You make words come alive, Edith! And I was wondering…"
Edith wrinkled her brow. "What, Tom? For heaven's sake, how do you ever get your own words down on paper, if you have so much trouble spitting them out?"
"Well, that's just it. I wondered if you'd like to try your hand at writing for a newspaper?"
"You want me to be a reporter?" She was stunned. "Crawl around in the shadows and watch the Black and Tans? Are you insane?"
"Maybe." He grinned at her. "But I wasn't thinking of your being a reporter, although that's an image I'll not soon get out of my head! I was thinking, what if you were to write a kind of journal for my paper? Let people know what it's like over here…from the point of view of an English aristocrat who has chosen to live in Ireland?"
Edith was staring at him, her eyes wide. "That's ridiculous! An Irish newspaper would never hire an Englishwoman to write for them! I love you, but you are insane!" But her eyes were fixed on his, and a look of intense interest had transformed her face.
"Well, that's just it," Tom said, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back into the couch cushions as if they were discussing what to have for dinner. "I've asked them, and they are interested. We don't just report on the Black and Tans, you know."
"They want me to write for them?" Edith's eyes were saucers. "They would pay me? With money?"
"Now don't get carried away, sister dear. They'd probably pay you in paper clips, to start. Until they decide if you're worth more." He held her look, and then burst out laughing. "Yes, of course in money! You'd be paid for each article they accepted. It wouldn't be much, mind, but…are you interested?"
"Oh, Tom!" She jumped up and crossed the room to thrust Abby into his arms. "I have to go!"
"What?" Tom said, confused. "Where?"
"To see Patrick!" she said. "I have to tell him I have a job!"
January 23, 1921
O'Connell Bridge, Dublin
She hadn't meant it, Michael thought as he walked down Marlborough Street toward the River Liffey. She was just worried about her brother, and taking it out on the nearest person. But a small voice kept repeating in his head, but she's right. It is your fault, you and every damn soldier in this city.
And Michael knew that it was over between them. Whether or not he found Deaglan's body and brought him home to her, things would never be the same between them. She would never forgive him for being who and what he was. Still, he had promised, and he would keep looking…as long as it took.
He reached Eden Quay and turned right, toward the O'Connell Bridge. It was the main route into the center of Dublin, and it was where the British Army had opened up on a group of citizens at the checkpoint ten days ago. Ten days ago had been the last time anyone had seen Deaglan. Was it just a coincidence? Michael had no reason to believe that Deaglan had been anywhere near the bridge, and he knew that he hadn't been one of the shooting victims, because they'd all been taken to the Mater and Sybil had told him who they were. But he was grasping at straws now. Maybe someone had seen something.
After an hour of questioning passers-by on the bridge, he gave up. Most of the people he talked to had not been near the bridge ten days ago; those who had were probably avoiding the place now. He hadn't really expected much. But he didn't want to go home and look at Kathleen's hopeful face, watch it crumble at his lack of news. He didn't want to think about Aislinn.
As Michael walked along the Quay, hands stuffed in his pockets, he noticed an old man sitting on a dock nearly under the bridge. He looked about a hundred years old, and as Michael neared the dock he pulled a fishing line out of the river and studied it, shoulders slumping as he saw nothing hanging on the hook. On impulse, Michael walked onto the dock.
"Any luck today, sir?" he asked politely. The old man jerked, looking alarmed. Then he relaxed as he saw the young man's friendly smile.
"Today nor any day. Water's tidal here. Not much to catch this close to the sea, but it's what I got." He gave a fatalistic shrug.
"Are you out here fishing every day?" Michael asked.
"Ever' day the weather lets me," the old man said. "Ain't caught but one thing in a month…and that wasn't no fish."
Michael looked puzzled, and the old man howled with laughter, showing a mouth that was missing a good number of teeth.
"Bout a week ago, I caught a big one!" he said. "Caught a man!"
"A man?" Confusion was growing. It was becoming clear that the old man was not possessed of all his faculties.
"Aye. He fell offn' the bridge," he pointed to the rail high above them, "and landed right in the water, out there! Went under like a rock, he did."
Something was happening to Michael's stomach. "What happened to him?" he asked, holding his breath.
"Oh, he drowned. Went and got my grandson…we live right over there," he indicated an old ramshackle building on the river's edge. "We went out in his boat, and there he was, floatin' just under the water. Tide was half out, so's the water wasn't deep. My grandson dragged him into the boat and we brought him to shore."
Michael felt sick. Whoa! he told himself. There's no reason to think…still…another coincidence. Too many coincidences.
"Wh—was he…? he couldn't finish.
"Oh. Like I said, he was drowned. In the water for fifteen 'r more minutes, you're gonna drown. But my grandson wouldn't give up. He turned him over and kept poundin' him on the back, and wouldn't you know it…after a while he coughed and half the river came out of him, and he started breathin'! My grandson said it was b'cause the water was so cold that he didn't die like he shoulda. Not right then, anyway."
Michael was trying to remain calm. "What do you mean? Where is he now?"
The old man looked frightened. "It wasn't our fault. We tried to help him. We took him up to the house, and put him to bed, but he wouldn't wake up! And after 'bout three days, he started burnin' up with fever and breathin' real rough…sounded like he was gonna die after all."
"So where is he now?" Michael asked him, dread coiling in the pit of his stomach.
"It wasn't our fault!" the old man insisted. "We tried to wake him up, and we did, once, and the one time he said somethin' in a raspy voice, like sandpaper, y' know? Only the one thing. He said Ca-lee, or some such, and then he passed out again and didn't say nothin' more. He was out of his head. It wasn't our fault!"
Michael stooped so that his face was inches from that of the old man. Quietly, his voice trembling, he asked, "Could he have been saying Kathleen?"
The old man cocked his head, thinking, and then nodded. "Coulda been. Yeah, coulda been that."
"And what happened to him?" he managed.
"Oh. Well, when we saw he was lookin' to die, my grandson packed him up and took him direct to the Mater. That was 'bout a week ago…most like he's dead. We done our best…it wasn't our fault!" he yelled after Michael.
But Michael was gone, running up O'Connell Street toward Mater Misericordiae Hospital, his heart in his throat.
A/N: Crossing the River Liffey in the very center of Dublin, O'Connell Bridge is more a destination than a bridge. Named for Daniel O'Connell, "The Liberator" who campaigned for Catholic emancipation in the early nineteenth century, the history of the bridge is that of the city itself - rebels hung from gallows here in 1798, O'Connell's voice boomed out from here, the leaders of 1916 passed this way, shots rang out across it in the War of Independence and the Civil War and the final address of the 1932 Eucharistic Congress was given from the bridge.
Pronunciation Guide:
Aislinn - ash + ling
Deaglan - deck + lan
