studying the bar-and-padlocksetup, locating the likely places where a night guard might be. They paid as much attention as possible to the patterns of night-guard behavior—when the guards slept, when they went to the jacks, how often they patrolled. There were two sets of night guards: a group of five in the cell next to Conn, and four more around the corner in the corridor next to the Old Gunner’s. They slept restlessly, their weapons beside them. But they rarely stirred from the cell they slept in after lights out.
Alone in his cell Conn rehearsed with the Smith & Wesson. He practiced quick draws from his belt under his shirt. He got his hand used to the grip. He sighted along the barrel, and felt the weight of the gun and six bullets. Everything still hurt when he moved. And he still couldn’t breathe through his nose. Conn had tea with the Old Gunner in his cell, and their soldier came in. He had his tunic unbuttoned, and his cap pushed back.
“Mick Collins said your name will go down in Irish history,” he said to Conn.
“’Specially if I’m hanged,” Conn said. “Causes love martyrs.”
“You’re a cynical bastard, Conn,” the Old Gunner said. “They won’t hang you. We’ll get you out of here.”
“If the bolt cutters work,” Conn said.
“They’ll go through that bar like it was butter,” the soldier said.
“And if they don’t we can fight,” the Old Gunner said. “You’ve got the revolver, Conn. We can disarm the guards, and rush the main gate, bayonets fixed.”
“Two of us?”
“Three,” the soldier said.
“What three?” Conn said. “We can’t trust the others. You never know who’s going to be a pigeon.”
“I’m your third, Ga blimey,” the soldier said.
The Old Gunner put out a hand and the soldier shook it. Nobody spoke for a moment.
“Good soldiers make bad jailers,” the soldier said. “Nobody’ll try that damned bloody hard to stop you.”
“And when we get out,” the Old Gunner said, “there’ll be lads from the Fourth Brigade to support us.”
“So when do we go?” Conn said, speaking thickly, his mouth still swollen from the beating.
“Soon as you’ve healed enough,” the Old Gunner said. “And we’ll let Lloyd George explain to Parliament why they couldn’t hold the one man they’d caught for Bloody Sunday.”
In a week, the swelling around his eyes had receded enough so that he could see normally. His lip was still puffed, but less so, and his speech was nearly normal. A week and three days after the bolt cutters came in, they were ready to try.
That afternoon Conn said to the soldier, “Lend me sixpence for the tram.”
“I can give you five shillings,” the soldier said.
“No, sixpence will do. I’m tired of this place.”
The soldier laughed and handed him the silver.
“If it only cost sixpence all of us would go,” he said.
The soldier would leave the Old Gunner’s door open—the padlock closed but not locked, so that it looked secure. The Old Gunner could reach through the peephole and unlock it. Conn’s door had no padlock, but the lock could be opened from the outside by pressing against the jamb with the handle of a spoon.
An hour after lights out, the Old Gunner walked in stocking feet past the soldiers sleeping near him and came to Conn’s cell. His boots were slung by the laces around his neck. He struggled silently to pop the bolt on Conn’s cell door. In the silence Conn could hear the soldiers in the nearby cell. One of them muttered in his sleep. Several of them snored. He was listening so intensely in the darkness that Conn could hear the sound of the running water that never fully shut itself off in the toilet down the hall.
The bolt clicked back. They edged the door open, slowly, so that it wouldn’t squeak. Conn too had his boots around his neck. He gave the cutters to the Old Gunner, and held the .38 in his hand. They moved silently down the corridor past the guardroom, up the iron stairs. The
Alone in his cell Conn rehearsed with the Smith & Wesson. He practiced quick draws from his belt under his shirt. He got his hand used to the grip. He sighted along the barrel, and felt the weight of the gun and six bullets. Everything still hurt when he moved. And he still couldn’t breathe through his nose. Conn had tea with the Old Gunner in his cell, and their soldier came in. He had his tunic unbuttoned, and his cap pushed back.
“Mick Collins said your name will go down in Irish history,” he said to Conn.
“’Specially if I’m hanged,” Conn said. “Causes love martyrs.”
“You’re a cynical bastard, Conn,” the Old Gunner said. “They won’t hang you. We’ll get you out of here.”
“If the bolt cutters work,” Conn said.
“They’ll go through that bar like it was butter,” the soldier said.
“And if they don’t we can fight,” the Old Gunner said. “You’ve got the revolver, Conn. We can disarm the guards, and rush the main gate, bayonets fixed.”
“Two of us?”
“Three,” the soldier said.
“What three?” Conn said. “We can’t trust the others. You never know who’s going to be a pigeon.”
“I’m your third, Ga blimey,” the soldier said.
The Old Gunner put out a hand and the soldier shook it. Nobody spoke for a moment.
“Good soldiers make bad jailers,” the soldier said. “Nobody’ll try that damned bloody hard to stop you.”
“And when we get out,” the Old Gunner said, “there’ll be lads from the Fourth Brigade to support us.”
“So when do we go?” Conn said, speaking thickly, his mouth still swollen from the beating.
“Soon as you’ve healed enough,” the Old Gunner said. “And we’ll let Lloyd George explain to Parliament why they couldn’t hold the one man they’d caught for Bloody Sunday.”
In a week, the swelling around his eyes had receded enough so that he could see normally. His lip was still puffed, but less so, and his speech was nearly normal. A week and three days after the bolt cutters came in, they were ready to try.
That afternoon Conn said to the soldier, “Lend me sixpence for the tram.”
“I can give you five shillings,” the soldier said.
“No, sixpence will do. I’m tired of this place.”
The soldier laughed and handed him the silver.
“If it only cost sixpence all of us would go,” he said.
The soldier would leave the Old Gunner’s door open—the padlock closed but not locked, so that it looked secure. The Old Gunner could reach through the peephole and unlock it. Conn’s door had no padlock, but the lock could be opened from the outside by pressing against the jamb with the handle of a spoon.
An hour after lights out, the Old Gunner walked in stocking feet past the soldiers sleeping near him and came to Conn’s cell. His boots were slung by the laces around his neck. He struggled silently to pop the bolt on Conn’s cell door. In the silence Conn could hear the soldiers in the nearby cell. One of them muttered in his sleep. Several of them snored. He was listening so intensely in the darkness that Conn could hear the sound of the running water that never fully shut itself off in the toilet down the hall.
The bolt clicked back. They edged the door open, slowly, so that it wouldn’t squeak. Conn too had his boots around his neck. He gave the cutters to the Old Gunner, and held the .38 in his hand. They moved silently down the corridor past the guardroom, up the iron stairs. The
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