Horst smacked his lips and refilled their glasses.
Paisley drained his and belched loudly: the German nodded approval.
“Any talk among the sailors?” Paisley asked.
“Not much. Not many ship movements since the end of the war. But they complain, sailors always complain. It’s about the coal dust now, aboard the Dictator. Got her bunkers full and still more bags in the companionways.” Paisley was interested.
“A long journey then. Any idea where?”
“None of them seemed to know. But there are three coaling ships now loading at the docks. The Schwarzen who load, they drink in here.”
“Do they know anything?”
“Yes — but it is hard to understand them. Still one did mention South America.”
Paisley nodded as he took a roll of greasy dollar bills from his pocket. With this, and the troop movements he had already recorded, he had enough for a report. Just in time since the Primevère sailed in two days for Belgium. It would take him that long to transcribe the clumsy substitution code using the Bible.
For Patrick Joseph Condon this was a homecoming he had not expected. He had fled Dublin in 1848, with the Royal Irish Constabulary and the soldiers right behind him. The uprising planned by the Young Islanders had failed. O’Brian, as well as Meagher and McManus, had been seized and sentenced to transportation for life to Tasmania. But Condon had been warned in time, had fled through a back window with nothing but the clothes on his back. A good deal had happened to him since then. Now he was a captain in the United States Army and on a very different mission indeed.
Dublin had not changed. Walking into the city from Kingstown was a travel back through time. Through the hovels of Irishtown and past Trinity College. He had studied there, but had left to join the uprising. He looked through the railings as they passed along Nassau Street; it was just as he remembered. They crossed Ha’penny Bridge, paying the toll, then walked down the quays along the Liffy. Memories.
But this was all very new for James Gallagher, who was walking beside him. Brought up in a small village in Galway, he had memories only of hunger, and the cold winds of winter blowing in from the Atlantic. He had been fifteen years old when they had emigrated to America, with tickets sent by his brother in Boston. Now, just turned twenty, he was a private in the American army and not quite sure exactly what he was doing back here in Ireland. All he knew was that every man in the Irish Brigade had been asked to write down where he came from in Ireland. There had been a score of them from Galway and, for some reason unknown to him, he had been selected. Although there were many who were brighter than him, bolder even, and eager to see Ireland again, who might have been selected. But he was the only one who had an uncle who worked as an engine driver. He was unhappy about this selection, and frightened, trying not to shiver whenever they passed a man in uniform.
“Are we getting close, sir? Jayzus but it’s a divil of a way…”
“Very close now, Jimmy. That’s Arran Quay right up ahead there. The shop should be easy to find.”
No sign was visible on the grubby premises, but the worn clothing hanging outside was identification enough. Their smart clothing would draw no attention in Dublin. But once out of the city heads would turn, notice would be taken — which was the last thing that they wanted. They bent under the rack of pendant garments and entered the darkness of the shop. When they emerged, some minutes later, dressed in worn, gray clothing they were one with the other impoverished citizens of the land. Condon carried a battered cardboard valise, tied together with string. Gallagher had all of his belongings in a stained potato sack.
They continued on to Kingsbridge Station where Condon bought them Third Class tickets to Galway. Although they drew no particular notice, they were both very relieved when the steam engine sounded its whistle and the train pulled out slowly, clicking across the points, going west.
Condon read a pennydreadful that he had picked up in the train station in Holyhead: Gallagher looked out of the window at the green Irish countryside drifting by and wished very much that he was back in the army. He knew that he had complained and skived along with the rest of the soldiers. He swore that he would not complain ever again, if he got safely back from this terrifying ordeal.
The lamps were just being lit when they pu
lled into Galway Station. They followed the other passengers down from the train, pleased at the anonymity of the dusk.
“Are you sure now that you can’t find your way to the village?”
“Maybe, I’m not sure. We never came into the city, but the once when we was leaving.”
“All right then, you’ll just have to ask someone the way,” Condon said as they went out into the street. A bakery ahead of them was just closing, the baker himself putting up the blinds. “Try that man there before, he goes inside.”
“I’m not sure, Captain — sir. Maybe you might…”
“Nonsense, Gallagher, you’ll do fine. He’ll hear my Dublin accent and get curious. Maybe he will even remember us. You’re the local lad with a fine Galway brogue. Just act yourself.”
Thank goodness for the darkness — no one could see him shiver. “Excuse me, sir,” he said as the baker started back inside. The man turned about with a weary grunt.
“I’m looking for… my cousin here. I mean not here, but Dualla.”
The baker grunted again and looked at the lad with a very stern eye, then turned away.
“Please, sir!” He sounded desperate — only because he was. The man went inside the shop and pulled the door after him. In desperation Gallagher seized the edge of the door.
“Let go of that you bla’gard or I’ll land you one on the ear that will send you clear to Kerry.” Gallagher let go and the man relented slightly. “Straight on, turn under the bridge, maybe two miles.” The door slammed shut and the key rattled in the lock. He hurried back to the captain, feeling the sweat run down his face.
“Down this way, sir, under the bridge.”