Freedom, when men fear freedom's use
But love its useful name,
Has cause and cause enough for fear
And cause for shame.
- Archibald MacLeish
November 13, 1880 - Early Morning
The trawler Shannon passed slowly up the foggy Irish Sea. Ahead and behind, miles distant, other trawlers prowled, searching for elusive prey. A sudden shout erupted from the stern. Shannon halted, laid out a sea anchor, and began to wind up the cable trailing behind. A few minutes later, the prize emerged, slimy and slick, from the deep ocean floor. The telegraph cable from Holyhead to Howth was dragged aboard. With abandon, the sailors began to chop away at the gutta percha cover with axes, mud and water spraying about them. Finally, with a hearty cheer, the cable split and slid off the sides of the trawler, back into the depths.
The engines started up, and Shannon began to prowl for the next target.
November 13, 1880 - Mid-Morning
The fog had lifted from Dublin Castle, and it looked to be a sparkling November day. The Castle, still draped in signs of mourning, caught the sun for a moment like something out of a fairy tale.
Deep inside, away from the sun and the freshening breeze, Lieutenant Robert McCullough of the Royal Irish Constabulary and Captain Barclay Drummond of the Black Watch sat with their papers and maps. Lord Churchill's order that Drummond and McCullough coordinate the RIC and army response to the IRA had never been rescinded, and the men had been stuck in the Castle ever since.
Drummond groaned. "We missed Guy Fawkes Day, Bob. The whole regiment drank and burned bonfires 'til morning, and we were stuck here. I hear the sun's out today, and we're in our cave. Ah, what did we do to deserve this?"
McCullough sipped some tea. "We lost Doyle, Barclay. How the hell does the most wanted man in the Empire slip away? We've got good sightings of him in Cornwall and Wales, and now this new one out of London."
Drummond got up to pour himself a cup. "Well, if he's in London, that's trouble. For him and us. If he starts killing people over there. . . ." Drummond trailed off.
McCullough went to lie down on the sofa. Another one of his black headaches was coming on. "All right, Barclay, let's review. We have information from an IRA member that Doyle's in England for something big. We have sightings of him in Wales, Cornwall and London. We have indications that the IRA is gearing up for something big, gathering forces and weapons. What's Doyle up to?" The headache was getting stronger. "What am I missing, damn it?"
The door opened. A young clerk dropped off a series of early morning dispatches. Drummond started flipping through them. "Hmmm. Another Doyle sighting in London, unreliable eyewitness. Scotland Yard: 'No indication Doyle has left Ireland.' Stupid shits. Update on the Wales report. Young miner says that Doyle collected a substantial amount of blasting powder and something called 'dynamite.' IRA ambush of an army patrol outside of Dublin. Damn, that's close by."
McCullough listened to the litany without really hearing it. Doyle's in London. IRA's ready for something big. Doyle's in London. He collected explosives in Wales.
Drummond went on. "Another McDonnell letter published. 'As you sow, you shall reap. We remember Cork.' The usual clap-trap."
McCullough massaged his temples. Doyle's in London. Cork's in ruins. We missed Guy Fawkes Day. Reaping what you sow. Doyle has explosives in London. Fireworks for Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes. He sat bolt upright. "Barclay. We missed Guy Fawkes Day. Oh my God, we missed Guy Fawkes."
Drummond looked over at McCullough in concern. "Bob? What's wrong?"
McCullough leapt up, frantically searched for a blank piece of paper and a pen. "Damn it, Barclay, we missed it, it's obvious and we missed it." Papers went flying about him.
"What, Bob? What did we miss? Spell it out, man!" McCullough ignored him, found some paper, and scribbled furiously.
When he finished, he bolted for the door. "Come on, Barclay!" He started to run down the hallway, Drummond on his heels.
"Bob! Hold on, Bob! What's going on!" McCullough thrust the paper into his hands.
A telegram: FLASH FLASH FLASH SCOTLAND YARD DOYLE TO BOMB PARLIAMENT DURING STATE OPENING CONFIDENCE HIGH RIC MCCULLOUGH
Drummond stopped. "Bob. This is crazy."
McCullough wheeled around. "No, Barclay, it's the only thing that makes sense. Doyle's in London now. He has a lot of explosives. Today is the State Opening. Everyone will be there, Barclay. Everyone." He grabbed the paper and kept running.
Drummond shook his head and started after him. They reached the telegraph office in the Castle and burst in. The operator held up a hand to silence them. He was tapping away. DOT DOT. DASH DASH. DOT DOT.
McCullough couldn't wait. "Not now, damn you! This must be sent!"
The operator turned to them. "Then you'd better find a pigeon, sir. I can't find a line. All the cables are down. No one's answering my query signal."
The pounding in McCullough's head overwhelmed him and he slumped to the floor. Drummond stood there, stock still as if at parade. "By God, Bob, you're right," he croaked.
November 13, 1880 - Early Afternoon
Queen Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India, sat down in the House of Lords. The Black Rod brought his staff of office down once, resoundingly, on the floor.
Down below, in the cellars, Sean Doyle went back to the dead man. "That's the Black Rod, my son, that it is. Time for me to go."
***
Benjamin Disraeli shivered inwardly at the stare the Queen gave him. Not a good sign, no. She'll surely speak on Ireland. He looked around the House of Lord, at the Royal family, at his Cabinet, at the military officers, and saw not a single friendly face. A vote of no confidence for certain. Oh, to hell with all of you. He thought, for a moment, of a quiet retirement and his memiors, and sat back, ready for whatever came next.
***
Doyle turned, as if to leave, then paused, and looked back. "I almost forgot, my friend." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box of safety matches. Chuckling slightly over the name, he struck one. The flame guttered into life. He leaned down and lit the long, slow fuse. Then he walked over and tucked the matches into the pocket of the dead man.
"A little gift from me to you, my lad. Something to take with you."
As he walked out, he softly sang to himself.
Doyle was wearing the uniform of the Yeoman of the Guard, and was not challenged on his way out of Westminister. He turned right on Bridge Street and started to walk over Westminister Bridge. About a third of the way across, he stopped to look back. The bells of London started chiming the hour, and a silly old nursery rhyme started to echo in his head.
"Oranges and Lemons" say the bells of St. Clements.
The Black Rod proceeded over to the House of Commons.
"You owe me five farthings" say the bells of St. Martins.
He knocked on the door of the Chamber.
"When will you pay me" say the bells of Old Bailey.
It was opened briefly, and then slammed in his face, as tradition demanded.
"When I grow rich" say the bells of Shoreditch.
He pounded on it once with his staff of office.
"When will that be" say the bells of Stepney.
He pounded on it a second time
"That I don't know" says the great Bell of Bow.
He pounded on it a final time.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed.
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
The Houses of Parliament vanished in a sudden puff of white smoke. For an instant, fury filled Doyle. It fizzled, damn it all! Then he saw Big Ben slowly rise out of the smoke like a Congreve rocket. It seemed to hover half out of the cloud for an instant, and then toppled downward into the smoke. A vast roar echoed across London, windows shattering for miles around.
Doyle looked at the expanding cloud of dust and smoke, now tinged with flame, and shouted at London: "A penny for the old guy!"
Huge chunks of masonry started to plunge down into the Thames. The entire city froze for a moment, watching the cloud expand. Doyle started running, skipping almost, back down the bridge toward where Westminister Palace had stood.
The cloud of stone dust was already beginning to settle, but it was being replaced by smoke from the fires. Portcullis House, across Bridge Street, was demolished, and though Doyle couldn't see it Westminister Abbey had partially collapsed. He started to thread his way through the rubble. I must be lost, too much smoke. Where's the damn palace? Then it hit him. The rubble was the Palace. He had done it.
Doyle set out an incoherent roar of joy. He then heard someone moaning nearby. He walked a few paces, searching. There was a young man in a red robe - A Lord, by God, he thought in amazement - lying with his legs crushed. The man looked up at Doyle in pain and relief. "Oh god, sir, you must help me. Help me from here!" Doyle smiled at the man and lifted, with effort, the huge stone that was lying across his legs. "Thank you, sir, thank you," the Lord whispered. Doyle held the stone over the young Lord's head. "No need for thanks, my good man," he said with a cruel smile. "Save it for the devil." He dropped the rock.
We fought a war in freedom's name
And won it in our own.
We fought to free a world and raised
A wall of stone.
Your countrymen who could have built
The hill fires of the free
To set the dry world all ablaze
With liberty.
Your countrymen who could have hurled
Their freedom like a brand
Have cupped it to a candle spark
In a frightened hand.
- Archibald MacLeish
But love its useful name,
Has cause and cause enough for fear
And cause for shame.
- Archibald MacLeish
November 13, 1880 - Early Morning
The trawler Shannon passed slowly up the foggy Irish Sea. Ahead and behind, miles distant, other trawlers prowled, searching for elusive prey. A sudden shout erupted from the stern. Shannon halted, laid out a sea anchor, and began to wind up the cable trailing behind. A few minutes later, the prize emerged, slimy and slick, from the deep ocean floor. The telegraph cable from Holyhead to Howth was dragged aboard. With abandon, the sailors began to chop away at the gutta percha cover with axes, mud and water spraying about them. Finally, with a hearty cheer, the cable split and slid off the sides of the trawler, back into the depths.
The engines started up, and Shannon began to prowl for the next target.
November 13, 1880 - Mid-Morning
The fog had lifted from Dublin Castle, and it looked to be a sparkling November day. The Castle, still draped in signs of mourning, caught the sun for a moment like something out of a fairy tale.
Deep inside, away from the sun and the freshening breeze, Lieutenant Robert McCullough of the Royal Irish Constabulary and Captain Barclay Drummond of the Black Watch sat with their papers and maps. Lord Churchill's order that Drummond and McCullough coordinate the RIC and army response to the IRA had never been rescinded, and the men had been stuck in the Castle ever since.
Drummond groaned. "We missed Guy Fawkes Day, Bob. The whole regiment drank and burned bonfires 'til morning, and we were stuck here. I hear the sun's out today, and we're in our cave. Ah, what did we do to deserve this?"
McCullough sipped some tea. "We lost Doyle, Barclay. How the hell does the most wanted man in the Empire slip away? We've got good sightings of him in Cornwall and Wales, and now this new one out of London."
Drummond got up to pour himself a cup. "Well, if he's in London, that's trouble. For him and us. If he starts killing people over there. . . ." Drummond trailed off.
McCullough went to lie down on the sofa. Another one of his black headaches was coming on. "All right, Barclay, let's review. We have information from an IRA member that Doyle's in England for something big. We have sightings of him in Wales, Cornwall and London. We have indications that the IRA is gearing up for something big, gathering forces and weapons. What's Doyle up to?" The headache was getting stronger. "What am I missing, damn it?"
The door opened. A young clerk dropped off a series of early morning dispatches. Drummond started flipping through them. "Hmmm. Another Doyle sighting in London, unreliable eyewitness. Scotland Yard: 'No indication Doyle has left Ireland.' Stupid shits. Update on the Wales report. Young miner says that Doyle collected a substantial amount of blasting powder and something called 'dynamite.' IRA ambush of an army patrol outside of Dublin. Damn, that's close by."
McCullough listened to the litany without really hearing it. Doyle's in London. IRA's ready for something big. Doyle's in London. He collected explosives in Wales.
Drummond went on. "Another McDonnell letter published. 'As you sow, you shall reap. We remember Cork.' The usual clap-trap."
McCullough massaged his temples. Doyle's in London. Cork's in ruins. We missed Guy Fawkes Day. Reaping what you sow. Doyle has explosives in London. Fireworks for Guy Fawkes Day. Guy Fawkes. He sat bolt upright. "Barclay. We missed Guy Fawkes Day. Oh my God, we missed Guy Fawkes."
Drummond looked over at McCullough in concern. "Bob? What's wrong?"
McCullough leapt up, frantically searched for a blank piece of paper and a pen. "Damn it, Barclay, we missed it, it's obvious and we missed it." Papers went flying about him.
"What, Bob? What did we miss? Spell it out, man!" McCullough ignored him, found some paper, and scribbled furiously.
When he finished, he bolted for the door. "Come on, Barclay!" He started to run down the hallway, Drummond on his heels.
"Bob! Hold on, Bob! What's going on!" McCullough thrust the paper into his hands.
A telegram: FLASH FLASH FLASH SCOTLAND YARD DOYLE TO BOMB PARLIAMENT DURING STATE OPENING CONFIDENCE HIGH RIC MCCULLOUGH
Drummond stopped. "Bob. This is crazy."
McCullough wheeled around. "No, Barclay, it's the only thing that makes sense. Doyle's in London now. He has a lot of explosives. Today is the State Opening. Everyone will be there, Barclay. Everyone." He grabbed the paper and kept running.
Drummond shook his head and started after him. They reached the telegraph office in the Castle and burst in. The operator held up a hand to silence them. He was tapping away. DOT DOT. DASH DASH. DOT DOT.
McCullough couldn't wait. "Not now, damn you! This must be sent!"
The operator turned to them. "Then you'd better find a pigeon, sir. I can't find a line. All the cables are down. No one's answering my query signal."
The pounding in McCullough's head overwhelmed him and he slumped to the floor. Drummond stood there, stock still as if at parade. "By God, Bob, you're right," he croaked.
November 13, 1880 - Early Afternoon
Queen Victoria, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland, Queen, Defender of the Faith, Empress of India, sat down in the House of Lords. The Black Rod brought his staff of office down once, resoundingly, on the floor.
Down below, in the cellars, Sean Doyle went back to the dead man. "That's the Black Rod, my son, that it is. Time for me to go."
***
Benjamin Disraeli shivered inwardly at the stare the Queen gave him. Not a good sign, no. She'll surely speak on Ireland. He looked around the House of Lord, at the Royal family, at his Cabinet, at the military officers, and saw not a single friendly face. A vote of no confidence for certain. Oh, to hell with all of you. He thought, for a moment, of a quiet retirement and his memiors, and sat back, ready for whatever came next.
***
Doyle turned, as if to leave, then paused, and looked back. "I almost forgot, my friend." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small box of safety matches. Chuckling slightly over the name, he struck one. The flame guttered into life. He leaned down and lit the long, slow fuse. Then he walked over and tucked the matches into the pocket of the dead man.
"A little gift from me to you, my lad. Something to take with you."
As he walked out, he softly sang to himself.
Doyle was wearing the uniform of the Yeoman of the Guard, and was not challenged on his way out of Westminister. He turned right on Bridge Street and started to walk over Westminister Bridge. About a third of the way across, he stopped to look back. The bells of London started chiming the hour, and a silly old nursery rhyme started to echo in his head.
"Oranges and Lemons" say the bells of St. Clements.
The Black Rod proceeded over to the House of Commons.
"You owe me five farthings" say the bells of St. Martins.
He knocked on the door of the Chamber.
"When will you pay me" say the bells of Old Bailey.
It was opened briefly, and then slammed in his face, as tradition demanded.
"When I grow rich" say the bells of Shoreditch.
He pounded on it once with his staff of office.
"When will that be" say the bells of Stepney.
He pounded on it a second time
"That I don't know" says the great Bell of Bow.
He pounded on it a final time.
Here comes a candle to light you to bed.
Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.
The Houses of Parliament vanished in a sudden puff of white smoke. For an instant, fury filled Doyle. It fizzled, damn it all! Then he saw Big Ben slowly rise out of the smoke like a Congreve rocket. It seemed to hover half out of the cloud for an instant, and then toppled downward into the smoke. A vast roar echoed across London, windows shattering for miles around.
Doyle looked at the expanding cloud of dust and smoke, now tinged with flame, and shouted at London: "A penny for the old guy!"
Huge chunks of masonry started to plunge down into the Thames. The entire city froze for a moment, watching the cloud expand. Doyle started running, skipping almost, back down the bridge toward where Westminister Palace had stood.
The cloud of stone dust was already beginning to settle, but it was being replaced by smoke from the fires. Portcullis House, across Bridge Street, was demolished, and though Doyle couldn't see it Westminister Abbey had partially collapsed. He started to thread his way through the rubble. I must be lost, too much smoke. Where's the damn palace? Then it hit him. The rubble was the Palace. He had done it.
Doyle set out an incoherent roar of joy. He then heard someone moaning nearby. He walked a few paces, searching. There was a young man in a red robe - A Lord, by God, he thought in amazement - lying with his legs crushed. The man looked up at Doyle in pain and relief. "Oh god, sir, you must help me. Help me from here!" Doyle smiled at the man and lifted, with effort, the huge stone that was lying across his legs. "Thank you, sir, thank you," the Lord whispered. Doyle held the stone over the young Lord's head. "No need for thanks, my good man," he said with a cruel smile. "Save it for the devil." He dropped the rock.
We fought a war in freedom's name
And won it in our own.
We fought to free a world and raised
A wall of stone.
Your countrymen who could have built
The hill fires of the free
To set the dry world all ablaze
With liberty.
Your countrymen who could have hurled
Their freedom like a brand
Have cupped it to a candle spark
In a frightened hand.
- Archibald MacLeish
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