To a City Fair Rode I

The grey light before sunrise barely stained the fields as Eoin slipped out of the house. Ma wouldn't know; it was safest for her this way, Finn had said. He could see no more than a few yards in the fog,feet already soaked by the dew, but he knew his way. True to his word, Finn had taken the constable's horse and left her tied outside. Of course, Eoin doubted Finn was the man's real name. All of them chose a new one for this work, Finn after the warrior of legend and his own choice of Pádraig, after the saint. It made them harder to trace. Eoin unhitched and mounted  the horse. After this, there wss no going back. 

To Dublin, to the fair city, then. It'd take him till midday at a steady walk, the fastest this nag could manage for more than ten minutes anyway. Apprehension gnawed at the base of his stomach. He'd never done anything like this before, but he'd not go like Da, and the thousands like him, lost to Flanders graves, and Suvla's waves. No, he'd not fight with the English, not even if they tried to conscript him. The words of the fortune teller rang in his ears, too: she'd spoken of a meeting, not with an unknown man, which is where he now headed, but a woman who was a stranger, a woman adorned with steel.

Dublin was still shrouded in mist, eerily silent for midday, as he arrived. Just the sedate clop, clop of the horse's hooves. Were there some pops and cracks, just at the edge of hearing? Eoin knew his way around Dublin, he'd brought goods to market here before, and he knew his way to the destination Finn had told him. He ought to make his intentions clear, now he was in the city. He reached into his pocket, rummaged through twine and a few shillings and pence, pulled out a yellow armband and slipped it on. There it was, just like Finn had told him it would be, a barricade of benches, planks and carts across the road. He dismounted, raised both hands. 

“Finn sent me,” he shouted, making sure the armband was visible.

“Ah, he'll be yet another Finn, then,” came the chuckled reply. “Come through.”

###

The young rebel led him through the city streets, silent but for the bustle of volunteers. Some shop doors and windows were broken in, only a few civilians remained and peered suspiciously. Young men in uniforms mingled with volunteers like Eoin in civvies and armbands, flat caps low to their heads. Here and there, fresh bullet holes were gouged into buildings.

“There's been a fight, but a short one,” chirped the man, as if reading Eoin’s thoughts. From the look of him, he could well be; his perceptive eyes, behind round spectacles, seemed to pierce straight through Eoin’s skull as he held him in an inquisitive stare. “Redcoats didn't show much stomach for a fight. Here we are now, the armoury. What'll I call you?”

“Pádraig,” Eoin stumbled to remember his alias.

“Ah, another Paddy as well. You're in good company then. You can call me Dev. Here, take this.” Dev handed Eoin a rifle. A Mauser, from the Boche. Eoin froze. One of these could have been the one that shot his Da, out there in the trenches. All the memories came back; as a young boy, waving his Da off, proud in his new uniform. The letter, stamped with a crown, the emptiness and quiet of the house after. The pang of the loss stabbed him. He must have gone pale at the memory, because Dev stopped and looked at him.

“Ah, I know that look. Another soldier’s son, is it?” Eoin nodded mutely. “Aye, too many good men wasted by the English, in peace and in war. If you've a strong heart, son, you'll see why this must be done, for us, all of us, to be our own people, to control our own destiny. Better to die beneath an Irish sky, eh?”

The stranger's softly spoken words were oddly warming, yet had the same impact on Eoin as a battle roar. Why would Eoin not fight now, when the English would surely soon come and press-gang them all off to the trenches, to fight and die for something that had nothing to do with him? Well, Eoin wasn't his Da, that's for sure. He'd fight too, but not for the wages, but for something he believed in.

Shouts of men drew them back to the barricade. The crack of rifles rang out as they approached, drawing a string of curses from Dev.

“Easy there fellas, for Christ's sake! These bullets don't grow on trees, you know! What's going on?”

Eoin gingerly poked his head around to see horses retreating into the fog.

“A cavalry division charged us!” puffed a young lad, flush with victory. “We held firm though, saw them off! They ain't so tough after all, these British, not on Irish soil!”

“Don't be daft, lad,” Dev dismissed him gently. “They wouldn't set a cavalry charge on a barricade like this, must've been scouts, blind in the fog who came blundering upon us. No, we'd better be ready to repel a proper attack soon, now the scouts are away. Lads, get to shoring up these defences, and finding some bolt holes where a sharpshooter might pick a few Redcoats off. If it weren't for this blasted mist!”

The volunteers on the barricade scrambled into action: old men limping, with hands shaking; young boys, all terrified bravado; men like Eoin in their prime who would rather fight than be conscripted. A young, slim woman in a homburg hat trotted up, exchanged a few whispered words with Dev.

“Yes,” Dev replied to her out loud. “Take some of these newcomers, Paddy here for one, use them to strengthen your positions on the Liffey.”

###

Eoin and the others struggled to keep up with the woman, as she trotted through the streets, littered with the debris of fighting. The silent fog hung over the city still, oppressive and stifling.

“It may be a daft question”, he puffed as she marched ahead, “but are you the one with the steel bracelet, or necklace, or something?” She didn't turn or slow down to answer him.

“What? No, who even has a steel bracelet? Where'd you hear that kind of rubbish? This is the only steel I've got.” She patted her revolver, tucked into her belt.

“Never mind, just a thought,” mumbled Eoin. They trotted up towards a tall stone building on the bank of the Liffey. Windows up high were smashed. Eoin saw a shape move behind one, a swish of long black hair in the gloom.

“Who's up there?” he asked.

“That's our Sisters, in sniper positions.”

“Sisters?”

“Cumann na mBan. Don't you know anything? Right, you lot, I need you to barricade across the road, fortify the bridge approach for if the British come this way!”

Eoin and the other volunteers set to work. The cold humid air made his fingers numb. They stacked the barricade high, with a gentle song between them to keep up spirits. Any noise was welcome in the pressing silence.

“Sure is quiet, huh?” called one of the lads. “Don't hear no British soldiers, no pipe to hum, no battle drum!”

“They'll be here soon, I should think,” Eoin replied. “And we'll need to be ready!” He watched as two more women of Cumann na mBan passed by. Not obviously wearing steel, either of them. Eoin shook his head. He had to put the fortune out of his mind, concentrate on the present. And the endless silence, drumming into him!

The silence finally broke. A dreadful roar, followed by a thunder that shook the earth. An explosion high in the building above, a burst of flame, a rain of masonry. Eoin looked to the source, to the Liffey, where a shape sailed out through the foggy dew.

It was his mystery woman. Her, the Royal Navy patrol boat HMY Helga, and her twelve-pound guns.