“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 pulled 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.”

“Well done, lad. Now let’s go find this uncle Paddy of yours. You’re sure now that he will recognize you?”

“No doubt of that — he’ll recognize my arse as well. He used to paddle me when my da’ wasn’t there to do the job. Moved in with us when Auntie Maire died. Him working regular and all, that kept the food on the table.”

It was a moonless night, but they could see the dark path of the bureen clearly enough by starlight. It was close to an hour before they could make out the roofs of Dualla, sharp against the stars.

“You’ll be able to find the cottage?” Condon asked.

“With me eyes closed. I was born there, never went anyplace else until we took the ship.”

“Good. Look, I’m going to wait here until you find your uncle, and you know that everything is all right. I’ll stay in this copse by the road. Come and get me if he is alone. And remember — my name is Kelly. Do you have that straight?”

“Yes, sir,” Gallagher muttered. He had only been asked this question a dozen times. “I’ll see the uncle first.”

He trudged on through the village, finding his way without thinking about it, wondering at what kind of a reception he would get. As he passed the dark doorway of the village store a voice spoke from the shelter.

“Now who would that be, out and about this time of night?”

The cover was opened on a bull’s-eye lantern and he stood transfixed in the beam. In the sudden glare he could make out the distinctive cap of a Royal Irish Constable. He felt his heart surge in his chest, thought he was going to die.

“Speak up, boyo,” the man said, not unkindly. Jimmy fought to speak, managed to squeeze out the words.

“My uncle, here, Patrick Gallagher…”

“So you’re Paddy’s nephew. I could well believe that since you’re the spit of him. Been away working?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well get on with you then. He’ll be wanting to see you.”

Jimmy tried not to stumble when he turned away. Forced himself to walk, not run, from this frightening presence. There was his home, further down the street, a light showing from a chink by the window. Was the door locked? Never to his knowledge. He lifted the latch and opened the door.

“Whoosh,” the man sitting in the chair by the fire said. He had been dozing, only awoke when the door creaked open. “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, uncle. Jimmy.”

Gallagher was awake now — his jaw dropped wide. “May the saints preserve us — is it indeed you, little Jimmy? By God it is, grown and filled out. But you’re in America across the ocean…”

“ ’Tis a long story, uncle Paddy, and I’ll tell you all about it in a moment. But I have a friend with me, could I bring him in?”

“Of course, lad.”

“I met a constable on the way here, he stopped me.”

“That would be old Bert. Rattles the door handles a bit this time of night.”

“Do you think he is still out there?”

“No, he’ll be tucked in by now.” Paddy frowned. “Not in trouble with the law, are you?”

“No, not at all. Let me go get Capt… Mr. Kelly. He’ll explain everything far better than I can.”

He went out, almost whistling. He was home, safe. Everything was going to be all right.

The village retired early because light cost money — and there was very little of that about. Jimmy met no one as he walked between the dark and silent cottages. He found the copse easily enough. “Captain” he whispered when Condon appeared at his shoulder.

“Try to forget my rank, Jimmy, that’s a good lad. You must forget that we’re in the army when we are here in Ireland. If you can’t call me Patrick — well then ‘sir’ will have to do. Did you find your uncle?”

“I did. I told him I was going to get you, nothing else.”

“You did fine.”

Jimmy’s uncle had brewed a pot of tea and was pouring it into thick mugs when they returned. They shook hands and Paddy cocked his head, curious.

“So you’re a friend of Jimmy’s, are you then, Mr. Kelly?”

“I am happy to say that I am.”

“Sure and you’re a good deal older than him.”

“I am. But that can be easily explained. I first came to know him through an organization we both belong to, a patriotic group that raises money in the cause of Ireland.”

“Which she can certainly use a bit of that,” Paddy said emphatically. “ ’Tis a land of poverty and hunger.”

“It is. And we know whose responsibility that is.”

Paddy looked up, his face grim. “Then it’s not the hunger you use the money for — it’s for the politics. And I tell you now, I’m not one for politics.”

“We are all for politics,” Condon said grimly, “when it means freedom for Ireland.”

“I did not invite you to my house, Mr. Kelly,” Paddy said in a cold voice. “And I can ask you to leave.”

“You can — and I will. But hear me out first. I am a member of the Fenian Circle. Our aim is a free Ireland. In order to one day accomplish that goal we must know everything we can about the enemy. Where their troops are stationed, how many there are, their battlefield readiness. We also need to know all about her railroads because troops travel by train. We are not searching for fighters, not yet, but we do need good Irishmen who can supply the information that we need so badly. Would you be one of them?”