It didn’t occur to Sean McGuire, when he and Rafferty first crossed paths that the man would become a friend, much less an intricate part of his life. Rafferty, a large, affable, beefy-faced Irishman, tended bar in a small pub located on the main thoroughfare of the submarine base, HMS Dolphin. Rafferty’s smile, quick wit, and a capacity for empathy that a parish priest might covet, had over years prompted sailors to share whatever burdens they may have borne on any given day. A known and trusted civil servant, he’d over the years almost become part of the crew. He listened, commiserated, and sometimes advised. He had developed what everyone needed from time to time, a safe ear to bend.
McGuire had enlisted in the navy looking and hoping for a life with far more promise than the one he’d been born into. He didn’t believe in the adversarial outlook foisted on him by those who’d reared him. Nor did he believe that because he’d been born of an Irish womb, he would have to accept the second-class status he felt surrounded by. Worn-out tales of oppression and rebellion lost their sway to his own sense of oppression and rebellion. There was more to life, he figured, than seemingly endless, back-breaking hours of menial labor offset by a few pints in the pub while on the way home.
And home to what? An unheated row house, a wife, and a swarm of snot-nosed kids who had somehow or other wormed their way into his life for no other reason than “this is the way it is”? I may have been denied any hope of an education, he thought at the time, but God didn’t deny me a working brain. Perhaps if I use it, I can be on my way to far better than what we have here.
He’d been born into a bitter-filled existence, and the navy presented what seemed like a way out. It had worked; I can smile at that stuff, he thought, remembering Uncle Wolfe’s advice when told of Sean’s decision to join.
“The bloody Royal Navy, is it?” he’d said. “Well then, remember this. Whenever ye sit and drink with an Englishman, look under the table for the cloven hoof.”
Words said in jest, perhaps, but always with a dig at the past. It doesn’t have to be like that, the young man thought, and it certainly isn’t like that now.
McGuire’s navy proved to be all he’d imagined. He respected the discipline it demanded; only he and his God knew how little of that he’d previously experienced. It instilled a sense of purpose within him, presenting both goals and opportunities, and the knowledge to achieve them. He now had direction and from his perspective the only direction for him was up. Sean viewed submarine school and the submarine service as an ideal environment. Boats, the submariner’s jargon for submarines, were, in his view, a totally separate branch of the navy. They were special in an exclusive way, and if he focused and excelled in whatever requirements they demanded, the exclusiveness might offer him a better chance for advancement.
A week after finishing school Sean joined HMS Ares, one of the submarines attached to the squadron at Dolphin. He’d been aboard for three work-filled months—work which didn’t include time spent acquainting himself with the vessel. Used for training, the boat had a schedule with short stays in port that left little time for leisure.
This particularly pleasant, warm and sunny Wednesday afternoon, the opportunity for some time off presented itself and Sean chose to take it. While dressing to go ashore, the thought crossed his mind that it would be nice to stop by the pub on his way to the main gate. Why not, he thought. A nice cool pint or two may be just the thing to start the day off.
Sean wasn’t a complete stranger to the pub; he’d spent time there with a few classmates during the months he’d attended school and discovered it was a place he enjoyed. Contrary to tradition, the pub had remained nameless since its inception. It relied on location and décor to lure sailors as they set out toward home or their favorite places ashore. Snuggled among a stand of trees in a bend of the otherwise unremarkable roadside, the thatched-roof building, with its grey stone exterior partially covered in ivy and surrounded by a neatly trimmed, thick green hedge, projected a warm welcome.
Entering through the sturdy oak doorway, Sean met with the gentle musky odor emanating from fresh wooden casks of English ale stacked behind the bar. Looking about him he again felt the exclusiveness of the submarine navy. Hanging from the room’s rafters, flags and pennants from navies around the world gave evidence of the many submarines that had visited. Every shelf, nook, or cranny in the room held something: brass gauges, sculptures, and any memorabilia left behind by someone wishing to leave his mark while passing. What interested Sean most were the crests, plaques, and photographs on the walls, of submarines whether in service, decommissioned, or sunk, and of the men who’d served in them. Reading about their exploits always instilled a feeling of being a part, however small, of something worthwhile.
This afternoon, unlike previous evenings, the pub was quiet. Other than two sailors at the far side of the room engaged in a game of darts and the bartender, who was busy washing glasses behind the bar, the room was empty.
With every stool at the bar vacant, McGuire chose a seat where he’d be easily seen by the barkeeper, close to but not quite behind the pump handles. Looking up from his task Rafferty smiled, and then straightening his body, reached for a towel and dried his hands. His eyes fixed on Sean, Rafferty paused as if trying to recognize his customer before approaching.
He waited until he stood directly in front of Sean before speaking. “What is it you’ll be having to drink then, lad?”
The brogue was unmistakable to McGuire’s ears … as if he’d been magically transported home. “I’ll be havin’ a Guinness, if you don’t mind,” he replied.
While waiting for Rafferty to pour his glass, McGuire thought, There’s no mistaking where this fellow’s from.
“I don’t see you in here very often,” Rafferty said, placing the pint of Guinness in front of him. Looking at Sean’s cap and noting the “HM Submarines” label on it, Rafferty said, “I see you’ve finished school. What boat did they give you?”
“Ares,” Sean replied. “She’s old, but busy, and that’s good. It gives me a chance to learn.”
“Training vessel, isn’t it? I hear the boys talking whenever they come in.”
“That’s right, and that’s why we’re busy,” Sean said. “Lots of people coming through the school these days, so we’re under way a lot. But as you well know, it also keeps us close to home.”
Rafferty did know; while tending bar at the base pub for a number of years and keeping his ear tuned to the customers’ side of the bar, he knew a lot more about the comings and goings of submarines than most of his clientele.
“I’m Rafferty,” he said, putting his hand out in greeting. “Mick Rafferty is what I go by, and with friends it’s just plain Mick.”
“My name’s McGuire, Mr. Rafferty, Sean McGuire, and I’m pleased to be meeting you,” he said, grasping Rafferty’s hand.
Smiling broadly, his eyes twinkling, Rafferty tightened his grip as if reluctant to break off the greeting. “I think we’ll probably become friends, Sean, so call me Mick. Besides, we’re in a pub and the ‘Mr.’ doesn’t seem to work.”
Sean was pleased at Rafferty’s friendliness toward him. We’re both Irish, he thought, so it’s natural he’d want to accept me. But then again, as busy as this place is today, he doesn’t have much choice if he feels like talking.
Moving about behind the bar, Rafferty continued to make himself look busy. Eventually, when Sean’s beer neared the end of its lifetime, the barkeep again wiped his hands with a towel and stood facing him.
“Ready for another?” he asked. “It’s on me this time and I’d advise a yes answer because it won’t happen very often.”
Nodding, Sean couldn’t hold back a smile. “One time is good enough for me,” he said. “At least it is today.”
After setting Sean’s second pint in front of him, Rafferty put both hands on the smooth wooden bar and looked into Sean’s eyes. “Seeing as how you’re an Irishman and a member of the queen’s bloody Royal Navy, I suppose you’re a damned Prod bastard, are you not?”
Taken aback by the question, Sean’s neck and face flushed pale pink as his temper shot up a notch.
“You’d be supposing wrong, Mr. Rafferty,” he replied. “Very, very wrong. I’ve a number of reasons for being here and among them is trying to get away from that sort of shit. Also, you’ll be better off knowing that one pint of Guinness won’t be enough to have me tell you my other reasons, either.”
Seeing and hearing Sean’s reaction caused Rafferty to throw his head back and break into a hearty laugh. “Hold on, hold on, lad. There’s no need to get riled. I was just probing the lay of the land. If you’ll dampen that fiery temper for a moment and think, it may happen that you’ll remember we both have the same employer. And in time, you may even realize we also have some of the same reasons, like hopes for better things.”
Rafferty’s laughter and a few moments were enough to rein in Sean’s reaction.
There’s a time and place for this kind of talk, he mused, but this isn’t the time and it’s certainly not the place. Most of the men I’m with stay away from this stuff, and I don’t need it stirred up by one of my own. Besides, maybe he’s telling me the truth and isn’t trying to stir it up.
After gulping down the last of his second pint, McGuire, true to his word, left the pub to make his way to town. A short boat ride ferried him across the harbor to Portsmouth, also a navy town but much larger and with more to do. The warm sunshine dissuaded him from going to a movie and prompted him to spend the afternoon quietly strolling through a park and visiting a few pubs along the seaside. He used his time away from colleagues and other distractions to think about the coming week. The boat would be going to sea on another training voyage.
Most of the training voyages were short and almost always to the same destination, the River Foyle and Londonderry, Northern Ireland. To Sean, it was a city with two names and those depended on where you came from. The British named and called it Londonderry, but to the Irish it was known simply as Derry.
When first assigned to the Ares, Sean wondered if he was victim of a perverse joke played on him by some anonymous clerk who’d been sentenced to a life of boredom for an undisclosed minor infraction of naval discipline. The political unrest regarding Britain’s presence in Ireland’s northern counties was again resurfacing, and Sean had assumed his background—being the son of Irish-Catholic immigrants—would preclude such an assignment. It’s either a joke, he thought, or some misguided ass thinks going back to Ireland might be what I’d like to do—go back, as he’d later hear, to protect people and promote peace.
The sight of barbed wire lining the perimeter of the pier where the vessel docked in Derry bothered him. More bothersome was discovering the vessel was occasionally required to provide a small contingent of men to alleviate the army’s burden of armed security patrols in the waterfront area. No matter the reason we give for being here, he thought, it would seem the people aren’t keen about it.
Mixed feelings regarding the vessel’s presence in Northern Ireland aside, Sean continued to enjoy his time as part of the Ares’s crew. The camaraderie he experienced, the expectations regarding his job, and the friendships he was developing far outweighed his concerns regarding the role they played in Derry.
The boat was never there long enough to get into or be the cause of any trouble, he thought. Besides, some of his friends felt the same way he did and they were English, not even part Irish.
The route rarely varied, and the weather, it seemed, hardly ever mattered: sunshine, wind, or rain. Calm seas, heavy seas, or anything in between, the vessel sailed. From England to Ireland, and a week or so later they threw the lines and sailed for home. Training students kept everyone busy: diving, surfacing, starting and stopping the engines, along with constant emergency drills, some real, most not.
Each time the submarine returned to England, Sean now made his way to the pub. Rafferty’s cheerfulness and understanding manner were magnetic; the submariner spent hours engaged in conversation with him. Not only did Sean enjoy the change of pace, Rafferty’s ear was a great listening post.
One day, Rafferty did his “hands on the bar” routine.
He smiled briefly, looked into Sean’s eyes, and said, “I consider myself lucky holding this job, Sean, even though it does mean being employed by the British government. But I can leave it behind if I choose. Of course it’s much different for you, seeing as how you belong to Her Majesty’s Royal Navy.” He gave a brief smile and then threw his hands up, ostentatiously in a gesture of frustration. “What happened, what possessed you, lad? Were you not taught history? Have you forgotten the terrible suffering the English placed on the Irish people, that we’ve had to endure?”
Sean looked at him but this time held his tongue. Hardly, he thought, recalling the seemingly endless compelling stories he’d heard as a child and the bitterness the elders clung to regarding England’s role in Irish history.
“You need to spend time among your own people, Sean. Why don’t you come over to the house for a bit, lad? We can have supper and perhaps a few pints to lighten the load, as it were.”
“Well, thank you, Mick” he replied. “I think that would be nice.”
Rafferty’s home became a safe harbor. Sean liked the men he served with, but it hadn’t taken very long aboard the Ares to see that the vessel wasn’t designed with his or anyone else’s personal comfort in mind. He needed to get away from the submarine’s crowded confines occasionally and Rafferty’s invitation was both timely and welcome.
However, the invisible strings Rafferty would soon attach to his generosity had yet to begin weaving their cloak of deception.
Sean always walked when going to Rafferty’s, mostly because it wasn’t so far as to be uncomfortable and he enjoyed the surroundings along the way. The narrow cobblestoned streets were old and peaceful, mostly lined with brick or stone row houses. Occasionally, on warm days he’d pass a small shop or pub with its owner standing in an open doorway, always ready to acknowledge a cheerful passing greeting.
While walking, Sean sometimes found himself thinking about his childhood … of the ways of his people and the prejudices some of them held.
“The English are not to be trusted, Sean,” Uncle Wolfe had said. “Many times they’ll pretend to like you and when they do, it takes a while for you to discover you’ve been stabbed.”
They haven’t been anything like that, Sean decided. At least not the people I know. Damn, it’s good to be free of that bloody hatred!
*
Weeks after Sean’s first visit, Rafferty mentioned he had invited a few other friends for dinner, friends he’d like Sean to meet as he was sure he’d like them. Pleased at the prospect of meeting people from outside the navy crowd, he arrived at Rafferty’s and looked forward to a pleasant evening of conversation that, once the initial greetings were over, wouldn’t center on submarines or navy life in general.
The friends, John Rainey, Michael Rich, and Bridgette Toomey were, by all accounts, as Sean had imagined them. Rainey, a tall native of Belfast, had for quite a while worked as a machinist for the shipyard. He was friendly in an unsophisticated streetwise manner and seemed to Sean, slightly rough around the edges regarding his conversational skills—but always straightforward and to the point with whatever he had to say.
Michael Rich was an entirely different man. Educated and soft-spoken, he presented himself to the world as would an imagined professor of literature. With a ready smile, he exuded an air of friendly trust and whenever he spoke, Sean felt he was about to learn something new about the world and especially the Irish race. That Rich was shorter than everyone in the room other than Bridgette seemed to go unnoticed, except by Sean. Rich was obviously well built in an athletic way, and one glance at him left little doubt he was more than capable of handling himself in any situation.
Bridgette Toomey was, in Sean’s eyes, from an entirely different world than the one in which he existed. Classically Irish, her well-groomed, shoulder-length, flowing red hair would set her apart in whatever room she entered. Petite and with a bubbly manner, she captured both his interest and his heart instantly. She was the most beautiful creature he had ever encountered.
She has to be taken already, he thought, but I hope to find out anyway.
Mick’s done a fine job of bringing people together, Sean thought as he watched his friend set drinks in front of the guests now seated in the parlor. He’s been right all along; I needed to spend time among our own, and I’m comfortable here.
Conversation was easy, talk centered on the present and the circumstance that each was experiencing. Occasionally it shifted to lighthearted stories of their earlier years, their childhoods and incidents that, when related, brought laughter because of their familiarity. Sean discovered that Bridgette was not taken and, as she put it, might even be open to exploring the possibilities of meeting someone who could be of interest to her in a meaningful way. He was delighted.
The flat’s small dining room was just large enough to accommodate everyone. With Mick seated close to the kitchen door and able to move between rooms without creating a disturbance, the meal went smoothly.
After dinner, Bridgette told a joke and when the laughter died down, Rafferty looked squarely at Sean and said, “Oh, by the way, Sean, there is something we would like to speak with you about.”
“I hope you’re not going to ask me for money,” Sean replied, still looking at Bridgette and smiling at her joke.
“Our problem isn’t about money, McGuire. There is, however, a small matter regarding some business we have in Derry. I think perhaps you may be able to help us.”
The abrupt change in Rafferty’s tone of voice startled Sean and when he looked across the table, beyond the mugs of tea and plates of leftover food, he saw a stranger. The good-natured barkeep, his friend whose role seemed solely to listen and help ease troubled minds, had vanished. In his place sat a different Rafferty, a hard, determined man whose voice commanded respect; it was a voice capable of instilling fear in the heart of anyone unwilling to listen. Willing or not, Sean McGuire chose to listen. But the fear came on anyway.
The room went silent, and Sean realized that every eye was on him. Time seemed to stop until suddenly, Rainey spoke.
“We want you to find a way to get us past the wire in Derry. We’ll fix it so there’s no way to connect you, McGuire, but we need you to get us through the gate.”
“Why? What business would you have there?”
“Our business is none of your concern. What is your concern is that we get through the gate the night we need to. You might also want to see to it that you’re not aboard that night.”
Time and talk eventually revealed that Rafferty’s guests, active members of a radical terrorist group, had chosen his vessel as a target. Sean started to protest, but before he could get anything out, Bridgette Toomey spoke.
“If you don’t cooperate with some measure of patriotic enthusiasm, Mr. Irish Fellow, the Royal Navy may be spending some of its time discovering what Sean McGuire’s been up to while hanging about in the company of the IRA.” Flashing a disarming smile, she added, “There’s plenty more they’ll be finding out as well.”
*
Those no-good bastards, Sean said to himself as he walked back to the boat that night. I’ve done everything I know of to stay clear of this stuff and now they’re reeling me in. Damn, what in hell am I going to do?
A thick, gray, disorienting fog had rolled in, and as he made his way along the narrow streets, he could hear the muted sound of his heels striking the paving stones. A faint fishy smell of the nearby ocean hung heavily in the damp air, and rather than his usual comforting feeling of knowing what his life was about, he felt as lost and lonely as he could ever imagine.
An image of his friend Kevin McCauley, the Scot, came to mind. They’d become friends the day Kevin grabbed and held him by the collar when a rogue wave tried to take him over the side while they worked on deck. When it was over they’d laughed, called it part of the job; but Kevin had saved his life. I can’t be a part of this, Sean thought, as other faces appeared in his mind’s eye. They’re not my enemy. I couldn’t live with myself. God help us, what have we been taught?
Within a few days, the stress accompanying his predicament began to exact a toll. The humiliation of Rafferty’s entrapment filled him with rage and fear: anger at himself for not standing up and simply walking away, and fear of the consequences the threatened exposure would bring. Consumed with thoughts of what they expected of him and his inability to see a way out, he became short-tempered and quick to argue with shipmates. Sleep became difficult.
Each time he was able to lie down he’d find himself pounding his fist into his pillow. “Goddamn that bastard Rafferty,” he’d murmur into the dark, “goddamn him to hell!”
Worse still, the submarine school’s endless supply of trainees kept the Ares almost constantly under way between England and the Northern Ireland port; the stress of continuous operations left no time for relaxation.
Each time they arrived back in England, he continued to meet with Rafferty. If I don’t, he thought, they’ll make good on their threat and leak my name.
As time passed, the feeling of entrapment began to ease. The crew had been back and forth to Derry many times, and he’d heard no more about the plans Rafferty’s people were working on.
*
“I’d like you to stop by for a visit, Sean,” Rafferty said one afternoon as he set the usual Irish dry stout on the bar in front of him. “We’re having a bit of a get-together this evening, and your friends have been asking about you. We’d like you to join us.”
McGuire felt the dreaded chill strike the pit of his stomach again. He looked at Rafferty and saw that his smile hadn’t diminished; any onlooker would see only the friendly, jocular, outgoing Irishman he portrayed.
“I’ll do my best,” he said. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
The stone faces of buildings crowded side by side along the streets leading to Rafferty’s home and made the brisk, cool breeze that swept between them seem colder. McGuire leaned into the wind, his head slightly tilted downward as he trudged toward his destination. Though uneventful, the walk seemed long. The smiles he’d had when recalling his childhood and the prejudices he’d come to view as laughable, were gone. The prejudices that his family members, especially his uncle, had tried to instill in him now hung heavy.
There’s no escaping them, he thought. Why do we do it to each other? We’re all just people, yet we have to take sides, make ourselves different when there is really no difference at all.
Sean slowed his pace slightly as he approached Rafferty’s door. The urge to turn around and simply walk away flashed through his mind. But he knew it was useless; they’d find a way. If he tried to turn them in, it would be impossible to convince anyone he’d never been involved. He’d seen their work while growing up. Records would turn up, putting him in places and situations he’d never heard of, and once they’d finished with that part of ruining his life, the rest of his family would be next.
Moments after he knocked, the door swung open.
“It’s so good to see you again, Mr. McGuire,” John Rainey said as Sean walked through the doorway. “The higher-ups have made a decision. Your being here this evening will give us a chance to share it with you.”
The smile on Rainey’s face belied the tone of his voice.
This bastard’s not wasting any time, Sean thought.
“Hold on a bit, Rainey,” Rafferty said. “Give the lad a chance to take his bloody coat off. There’s no rush here. We can have a pint and discuss business properly, if you don’t mind.”
Michael Rich and Bridgette Toomey looked over to Rafferty and nodded in agreement. There was little doubt among them as to who would be running the gathering.
“Hello, Sean,” Bridgette said. “It’s good to see you. I’m happy you could come.”
Her greeting sounded genuine. Michael Rich remained quiet. Sean found nothing to read in his face.
Before long, the meeting turned to the business at hand. Mick Rafferty took charge and relayed what they expected.
“You’ve a bit of time, Sean, but we want you to start arranging for us to get past the wire. You navy chaps are the ones manning the gate, aren’t you?”
“Yes,” Sean replied. “It’s who happens to have duty whenever we tie up that gets the gate. We rarely know who it’s going to be.”
“Armed?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve some idea as to how you fellows work, Sean. Can you arrange it so that you’ve got duty the night we need you?”
“Maybe,” Sean said. “It’s not a job too many people like.”
“Good. We’ll make it look like you put up a fight trying to stop us.”
“How much time have I got to arrange this?” Sean asked.
“It will be the trip after this one,” Rafferty replied. “Check everything out when you get there the next time, and you can let us know when you come back. We’ll arrange the rest and coordinate the times. It will be a simple thing if you do your part, and no one will be able to tie you to it.”

The voyage back to Ireland was rough for Sean. The submarine performed well, with training dives and drills going smoothly, but again the web he found himself in filled him with anger and confusion. He accepted that Rafferty’s people were never going to leave him alone. Even if by some miraculous turn of events this particular mission they’d concocted fell through, he knew too much. They had him, and no one would ever believe he wasn’t part of their twisted world. He was Irish, so it was expected.
Rain, welcomed by the sailors on deck, began falling shortly after the boat started its passage up the river toward Derry. They welcomed it, hoping its presence lessened the chance of the occasional sniper hidden within the lush foliage lining the riverbank.
After they tied the vessel alongside the pier, the deck crew dismissed to prepare for port watches.
“McGuire,” a voice called out above the normal din as the deck gang shed their rain gear in the overcrowded crew’s quarters. “I need to speak with you for a moment.”
It was the vessel’s Master at Arms. The Ares was now alongside the pier and the ship had begun the transition from sea to port watches.
“McCauley’s down for the count—some sort of bug—and I have to take him off the roster for tonight’s patrol. Sean, I need you to take his place. I know it’s a miserable night, but I’ll try to make it up to you the next time in.”
Just another night, Sean thought, why the hell not. Normally he hated patrolling the narrow streets near the docks, but it came with the territory. It had something to do with easing the army’s burden, he’d heard. With this weather there’ll be no one hanging about anyway, and at worst I’ll have something to occupy my mind.
“I’m all right with it, Chief,” Sean said. “I’m always up for a walk in the Irish rain.”
The light rain fell steadily as the patrol assembled. As usual there weren’t many of them, nine to be exact: eight sailors and Dusty Miller, the Duty Chief Petty Officer in charge.
“You’ll walk point, Sean,” the Chief said. “Leading Seaman Hughes will watch the rooftops. Stay alert. But it’s a soft night so we’ll probably not come across any problems.”
The streets of the area they patrolled were not only narrow but also quiet and dark; the falling rain made them seem darker still. The patrol moved silently, each man carrying his own thoughts as they followed the planned circuitous route.
Turning a corner, Sean saw before him the long section of street the men called “the near point.” It was the place where they felt they were almost home. In the distance a streetlamp shone, marking where he would turn to approach the route’s final leg. Halfway to the corner, adding to the loneliness of the rain-soaked street, the soft glow of a table lamp made its way past a curtained window to light the sidewalk below.
Routine, he thought. Why on earth are we out here anyway? Anybody who’d be up to anything certainly wouldn’t want to be running around in the rain to do it.
Sean McGuire didn’t hear the crack, when this small part of Northern Ireland’s troubles left the gun barrel. The bullet’s impact knocked him to the street where he lay face down, watching a rivulet of rainwater glisten in the streetlight while it ran between the cobblestones. He heard shouts and the sound of boots hitting the roadway as his comrades scattered, hiding themselves in the musty doorways.
“Man down,” someone shouted, “man down!”
Nothing made sense.
Slowly his mind began sorting through the confusion. I’ve been hit, he thought, sweet Jesus, I’ve been hit.
Then, thinking of cover, he was surprised to find he couldn’t move.
“Lie still, Sean,” someone shouted. “Don’t try to move, we’ll get you out of here.”
Lying in the street with his left cheek pressed against the smooth, wet stones, it seemed to Sean McGuire that “the troubles,” having managed to disrupt so many other lives, had suddenly and undoubtedly reached his. This isn’t the first time events haven’t gone as planned, he thought. Fuck you, Rafferty, goddamn you to hell. You lose.
The persistent drizzle began seeping through his clothes. The numbness he’d first felt was gone and he wasn’t sure which was worse: the dampness, the cold, or the pain creeping through his body.
Nothing’s working. I can’t move. I shouldn’t even be here. Oh Ma, he thought as the darkness crept over him, I just want to come home.

Back in England, Mick Rafferty continues to tend the bar. His face is as cheerful as ever and he still has a good ear. When asked if he’s heard the news about Sean McGuire, he slowly shakes his head from side to side.
“It’s a damn shame, isn’t it? One of these days we’ll manage to get our hands on those murdering rebel bastards.”

While having his afternoon pint down at Pat O’Conner’s pub, Sean’s uncle Wolfe talks to anyone who might listen. “We told him time and again about the things that can’t and won’t be changed,” he says. “He wouldn’t listen. Thought he was different. Well, that’s what comes when dealing with the English. You might as well deal with the devil.”