The Devil's Due: An Irish Historical Thriller Read Free Page A

his rifle held ready. Three more plus a driver sat in a lorry. They were hanging another notice; more orders, no doubt, more new laws from London designed to put us back into our place. The aristocracy in London was looking to squash the latest insurrection as they had all the ones for centuries before, all the while trying to appease us ignorant peasants with promises of Home Rule someday. I hid in the alley waiting for them to finish, my heart thumping in my chest all the while.
    It was but a moment later that they were done. With a growl from its engine and a grinding of its gears, the lorry disappeared into the mist. I slipped out of the alley and made my way to the pole.
    One thousand pound reward , the notice said. I shivered as I stared at the picture, at the grainy black and white image.
    “Jesus!” I hissed.
    I jumped at the loud bang somewhere off in the darkness but, after a moment, realized it was nothing more than a backfire from the British lorry driving away. I turned back and stared up at the poster, stared up at my own face.
    Francis Kelleher. Wanted for murder in Ireland.
     

CHAPTER TWO
    We were to burn down Argyll Manor—a stately home that belonged to a rich Protestant landowner—before, it was rumored, the RIC moved in and converted it into a new barracks. Lieutenant Dan Buckley was in charge and Tom Sheehy, Sean Murphy, and I were ordered to assist. Under cover of darkness, Dan and Tom broke the lock on the door while Sean and I kept watch for the Peelers. This far out in the country, we didn’t expect them, but the dead before us had taught us to be careful. I heard the whistle—two long, low notes was the signal that Dan and Tom had been successful—and I took one more look down the lane before I stood nervously. Lugging the mine—fifteen pounds of gelignite and gun cotton packed in a wooden box—and the haversack with the other things we would need, I followed Sean. He wobbled side to side, an awkward step due to the two tins of paraffin he carried. I was no better, watching my own feet, not wanting to trip, careful with the package in my arms. I didn’t tell the boys, but the mine scared me, and the sooner I could lay it and get away, the happier I would be.
    We slipped inside and while Dan issued hushed orders and kept watch, Sean carried a tin of paraffin to the second floor. Tom was responsible for the first and began spreading the paraffin—kerosene—over the furniture, the walls, the drapes, and the doorways. Leaving the others to their tasks, I set the mine in the center of the parlor, checking the distance to the door. We planned to detonate the bomb from outside, protected, we hoped, by the heavy wooden door and the thick cut-stone walls. I only had forty yards of detonator wire in my haversack. I had wanted more, but supplies being what they were, that was all the quartermaster could spare. As I unwound the wire, working my way back to the door, I hoped I remembered everything I had been taught. Stepping outside, I knelt on the stoop and pulled the detonator from my haversack. Two nights earlier, we had pilfered the coil from a Model T Ford. This I had fashioned into a detonator, a box with a plunger, and a flashdamp battery, a device that the man from GHQ—General Headquarters in Dublin—assured me would work. I attached the wires, carefully twisting the nuts, mindful of the plunger the whole while.
    Without warning, there were shouts from inside and I flinched. Then came the gunshots, first one then two, then the roar of a volley. My heart thumping in my chest, I peered around the door and saw two British soldiers, their weapons blazing up the staircase where Sean had gone. Tom and Dan were lying on the floor, two more British soldiers standing over them. Dan was still; Tom was screaming in pain, clutching his stomach. Then I heard a shout from upstairs. With a sinking feeling, I realized Sean too had been shot. I reached for the haversack and began frantically searching for