the revolver and Conn stared at the dark mouth of it, and along the bluish barrel. His vision blurred again. There was sweat in his eyes, and maybe blood, and around his eyes the flesh was beginning to puff. One eye was nearly closed.
“One,” the major said.
Conn began to sing. The sound of the song seemed to come from no place. He could hear the words he was singing but they seemed unconnected to him.
I know my love by his way of walking
.
“Two.” The major cocked the hammer back with his thumb.
I know my love by his way of talking
.
Conn took in as much air as he could, as if storing it for a long voyage. He pressed his back against the wall. He thought of John Cooper for a moment.
“Three.”
The major fired. Conn saw the muzzle flash, heard the sound, and felt nothing. It was a blank. The smell of it was strong in the room.
I know my love by his eyes of blue
.
“Well,” the major said. “You’ll hang anyway.”
He turned away from Conn, put the revolver back in the desk drawer, and left the room. The big captainlingered for a moment while Conn’s soldier and another guard came in. He nodded at Conn with some sort of approval.
“I’ve seen people behave worse,” the captain said. Then he jerked his head at the guards and left the room as well. The soldiers took Conn back to his cell.
Conn
T he Old Gunner came into Conn’s cell.
“Where’d you get that sweet face?” he said.
“From the noble hearts in the Intelligence room.”
“Keep cold water on it,” the Old Gunner said. “It’ll heal, but you’ll not look as pretty again.”
“Pretty enough,” Conn mumbled. His lip was still swollen tight and it was hard to speak.
“We’re going to get you out,” the Old Gunner said. “There’s a gate at the far end of the yard, locked with an iron crossbar, secured with a big padlock. Are you game?”
“Sure.”
“There’ll be a package come in tonight,” the Old Gunner said. “Bolt cutters. Maybe a gun.”
Conn splashed cold water on his face from the dirty basin. The water that fell back was pink.
“Grand,” he said.
“We’re not going to let them hang the only man they’ve arrested for Bloody Sunday,” the Old Gunner said. He took the enamel basin and went for more water.
At teatime Conn’s soldier came into Conn’s cell and closed the door. He unbuttoned his tunic and took out a package, and gave it to Conn. It was heavy and Conn knew it was the bolt cutters.
“Here’s something else you’ll like,” the soldier said.
He took a revolver from his pocket. It was a Smith& Wesson .38, blue steel, with walnut grip and a three-inch barrel. It was loaded. Conn put the revolver in his belt under his shirt. The bolt cutters had two detachable three-foot handles, for leverage. He wrapped them in a shirt and tumbled two other shirts over it in a corner.
“Your sister brought it,” the soldier said.
Conn had no sister. It must have been one of the Cumann na mBan girls.
“She’s a good girl,” Conn said.
The soldier pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I don’t hold with boxing a man around when he’s got no chance.”
“Don’t care much for it myself,” Conn mumbled.
“Don’t like to see a man hanged either,” the soldier said.
“Specially me.”
The soldier nodded.
“You ought to try boracic acid on that face,” he said.
“I’ll go right to the chemist,” Conn said with difficulty, “and buy some.”
The soldier nodded at the package hidden under the pile of shirts.
“Maybe soon,” he said.
During the day, at exercise time, Conn hung the bolt cutters over his shoulder under his shirt when he went to the yard. He padded the cutters with torn strips of underclothing so that they wouldn’t rattle. He carried the .38 in his pocket. Cells were often searched when they were empty and the safest place to hide his tools was on himself. In the yard Conn and the Old Gunner scouted the gate,
“One,” the major said.
Conn began to sing. The sound of the song seemed to come from no place. He could hear the words he was singing but they seemed unconnected to him.
I know my love by his way of walking
.
“Two.” The major cocked the hammer back with his thumb.
I know my love by his way of talking
.
Conn took in as much air as he could, as if storing it for a long voyage. He pressed his back against the wall. He thought of John Cooper for a moment.
“Three.”
The major fired. Conn saw the muzzle flash, heard the sound, and felt nothing. It was a blank. The smell of it was strong in the room.
I know my love by his eyes of blue
.
“Well,” the major said. “You’ll hang anyway.”
He turned away from Conn, put the revolver back in the desk drawer, and left the room. The big captainlingered for a moment while Conn’s soldier and another guard came in. He nodded at Conn with some sort of approval.
“I’ve seen people behave worse,” the captain said. Then he jerked his head at the guards and left the room as well. The soldiers took Conn back to his cell.
Conn
T he Old Gunner came into Conn’s cell.
“Where’d you get that sweet face?” he said.
“From the noble hearts in the Intelligence room.”
“Keep cold water on it,” the Old Gunner said. “It’ll heal, but you’ll not look as pretty again.”
“Pretty enough,” Conn mumbled. His lip was still swollen tight and it was hard to speak.
“We’re going to get you out,” the Old Gunner said. “There’s a gate at the far end of the yard, locked with an iron crossbar, secured with a big padlock. Are you game?”
“Sure.”
“There’ll be a package come in tonight,” the Old Gunner said. “Bolt cutters. Maybe a gun.”
Conn splashed cold water on his face from the dirty basin. The water that fell back was pink.
“Grand,” he said.
“We’re not going to let them hang the only man they’ve arrested for Bloody Sunday,” the Old Gunner said. He took the enamel basin and went for more water.
At teatime Conn’s soldier came into Conn’s cell and closed the door. He unbuttoned his tunic and took out a package, and gave it to Conn. It was heavy and Conn knew it was the bolt cutters.
“Here’s something else you’ll like,” the soldier said.
He took a revolver from his pocket. It was a Smith& Wesson .38, blue steel, with walnut grip and a three-inch barrel. It was loaded. Conn put the revolver in his belt under his shirt. The bolt cutters had two detachable three-foot handles, for leverage. He wrapped them in a shirt and tumbled two other shirts over it in a corner.
“Your sister brought it,” the soldier said.
Conn had no sister. It must have been one of the Cumann na mBan girls.
“She’s a good girl,” Conn said.
The soldier pushed his cap back on his head and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
“I don’t hold with boxing a man around when he’s got no chance.”
“Don’t care much for it myself,” Conn mumbled.
“Don’t like to see a man hanged either,” the soldier said.
“Specially me.”
The soldier nodded.
“You ought to try boracic acid on that face,” he said.
“I’ll go right to the chemist,” Conn said with difficulty, “and buy some.”
The soldier nodded at the package hidden under the pile of shirts.
“Maybe soon,” he said.
During the day, at exercise time, Conn hung the bolt cutters over his shoulder under his shirt when he went to the yard. He padded the cutters with torn strips of underclothing so that they wouldn’t rattle. He carried the .38 in his pocket. Cells were often searched when they were empty and the safest place to hide his tools was on himself. In the yard Conn and the Old Gunner scouted the gate,
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