roof. Pierce hardly dared believe his luck. By the time he turned to face the dynamiter again the gunman was gasping through the blood that gurgled in his throat and spilled down across his threadbare coat where the pitchfork’s tines jutted through his body.
Pierce snatched the fuse from the bundled dynamite. Flynn let the weight of the dead man fall forward.
Neither man spoke. And then Flynn said, as if excusing his actions: ‘Bastard was gonna hurt my horses.’
*
By first light the surviving Fenians were being led away, arms raised, grim acceptance of the fate that would surely await them etched on their faces. It had been the most daring raid they had mounted. The acrid smell of smouldering timber lingered across the parade ground, the stench heightened by the damp air, clear now of rain. Fusiliers, still half- dressed after being roused from their beds to fight the intruders, began clearing away debris.
Soldiers laid out the bodies of those intruders who died in the attack. Neat rows overseen by RSM Thornton.
Radcliffe shivered in the chill dawn. Belmont turned one of the dead men over with the toe of his boot, and threw the remains of the cheroot he was smoking on to the cobbles. As the prisoners were taken he glanced across to where Radcliffe, Pierce and Baxter stood.
‘More defendants for you, Radcliffe,’ he called. ‘Though I’ll wager you won’t save these from the rope.’ He turned away.
Baxter was as grime-laden as any other man. He had fought on the ground, commanding disparate groups of his fusiliers. ‘If Belmont’s squadron hadn’t been in station we might have had a rougher time of it,’ he said. ‘We had been warned. God’s grace.’
‘An informer?’
‘Luckily, yes.’
‘You always need luck in a fight, Alex, you know that. How many dead?’
‘Roll call’s at oh-six-hundred. Men are on stand-to until then. So far we have three dead. A dozen or so wounded. Nothing more serious than that.’
‘And the gunmen?’ Pierce asked, taking his attention from where Marsh and Taylor met with Belmont at the far end of the square.
‘As far as we can tell nigh on thirty of them launched their attack on the barracks while another ten besieged the Royal Irish Constabulary to ensure no help was given to us. It was co-ordinated and long in the planning by the sound of it. We killed seventeen, and there are those nine walking wounded,’ he said, nodding towards the ragtag survivors. ‘I dare say a couple of them must have escaped.’
‘Were the Fenians after the armoury or the brigade officers?’ Radcliffe said.
‘The officers’ mess is stronger than a fortress.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, Alex. They could have struck a massive blow a few days before you sail.’
‘The informer warned us it was the armoury. We weren’t sure exactly when the attack would come so I had squads at strategic points. Other than that, we just had to carry on as normal. Didn’t think they’d take the gates off its hinges though.’
He touched Radcliffe’s shoulder. ‘I’d best see to things.’ Colonel Baxter pushed the hair from his face, buttoned his tunic and moved off to where his officers were reorganizing their men.
Radcliffe and Pierce walked across the parade ground as the fires were damped down and the garrison was brought back under control. Pierce carried his frock coat across his arm, his shirt blood-splattered and dirty.
‘Damned if these Irish don’t know how to throw a party,’ he said tiredly.
Radcliffe studied his friend for a moment. He was uninjured except for the cut and bruising on his face.
‘Damned if I can stay up this late any more,’ Radcliffe answered.
*
Pat Malone pushed his way up the brothel’s stairs. No one tried to stop him, not with the snarl on his face and the knife gripped in his grubby bloodstained fist. Kathleen O’Riordan saw him coming and slammed closed the door, but it yielded to his boot. She screamed as he snatched her hair and laid
Pierce snatched the fuse from the bundled dynamite. Flynn let the weight of the dead man fall forward.
Neither man spoke. And then Flynn said, as if excusing his actions: ‘Bastard was gonna hurt my horses.’
*
By first light the surviving Fenians were being led away, arms raised, grim acceptance of the fate that would surely await them etched on their faces. It had been the most daring raid they had mounted. The acrid smell of smouldering timber lingered across the parade ground, the stench heightened by the damp air, clear now of rain. Fusiliers, still half- dressed after being roused from their beds to fight the intruders, began clearing away debris.
Soldiers laid out the bodies of those intruders who died in the attack. Neat rows overseen by RSM Thornton.
Radcliffe shivered in the chill dawn. Belmont turned one of the dead men over with the toe of his boot, and threw the remains of the cheroot he was smoking on to the cobbles. As the prisoners were taken he glanced across to where Radcliffe, Pierce and Baxter stood.
‘More defendants for you, Radcliffe,’ he called. ‘Though I’ll wager you won’t save these from the rope.’ He turned away.
Baxter was as grime-laden as any other man. He had fought on the ground, commanding disparate groups of his fusiliers. ‘If Belmont’s squadron hadn’t been in station we might have had a rougher time of it,’ he said. ‘We had been warned. God’s grace.’
‘An informer?’
‘Luckily, yes.’
‘You always need luck in a fight, Alex, you know that. How many dead?’
‘Roll call’s at oh-six-hundred. Men are on stand-to until then. So far we have three dead. A dozen or so wounded. Nothing more serious than that.’
‘And the gunmen?’ Pierce asked, taking his attention from where Marsh and Taylor met with Belmont at the far end of the square.
‘As far as we can tell nigh on thirty of them launched their attack on the barracks while another ten besieged the Royal Irish Constabulary to ensure no help was given to us. It was co-ordinated and long in the planning by the sound of it. We killed seventeen, and there are those nine walking wounded,’ he said, nodding towards the ragtag survivors. ‘I dare say a couple of them must have escaped.’
‘Were the Fenians after the armoury or the brigade officers?’ Radcliffe said.
‘The officers’ mess is stronger than a fortress.’
‘You can’t be sure, though, Alex. They could have struck a massive blow a few days before you sail.’
‘The informer warned us it was the armoury. We weren’t sure exactly when the attack would come so I had squads at strategic points. Other than that, we just had to carry on as normal. Didn’t think they’d take the gates off its hinges though.’
He touched Radcliffe’s shoulder. ‘I’d best see to things.’ Colonel Baxter pushed the hair from his face, buttoned his tunic and moved off to where his officers were reorganizing their men.
Radcliffe and Pierce walked across the parade ground as the fires were damped down and the garrison was brought back under control. Pierce carried his frock coat across his arm, his shirt blood-splattered and dirty.
‘Damned if these Irish don’t know how to throw a party,’ he said tiredly.
Radcliffe studied his friend for a moment. He was uninjured except for the cut and bruising on his face.
‘Damned if I can stay up this late any more,’ Radcliffe answered.
*
Pat Malone pushed his way up the brothel’s stairs. No one tried to stop him, not with the snarl on his face and the knife gripped in his grubby bloodstained fist. Kathleen O’Riordan saw him coming and slammed closed the door, but it yielded to his boot. She screamed as he snatched her hair and laid
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