He nodded. “The last few days have been pretty worrying.”
“You people aren’t going into the Central?”
“We’re banking on the chance we aren’t suspected. If we go into the Central it won’t do us any good when we come out.”
“I see that.”
I think 47 was rattled that evening in spite of his matter-of-fact words. At this time a man had to cope not only with his own fear, but with the national fear that was suffocating everybody, so that each man had to bear more than his own share. There was a touch of bitterness, a touch of philosophy, and more than a touch of pathos in 47’s voice as we walked along the gloomy street.
“We chaps last just as long as we are undiscovered. Discovery may take place to-day, to-morrow. A man may make a slip; but if he makes a slip he probably knows what he has done. But somebody else may have made the slip. He may leave his Sinn Fein friends in smiles; he may go back to cold faces. This state of things plays the devil with the nerves.
“A soldier, after the battle, lies down among his companions, safe, secure, knowing no harm can come; but an agent is never safe, never secure. This minute, next minute the ground may have opened under his feet, his secret may be out, and he standing alone against a nation. The curtain may hold an assassin, the street corner may conceal the bullet. While he eats the foe may be drawing near; while he sleeps they may be coming. Shall he take this road? Shall he take that?
“After some time in the service he becomes like a beast of the field. Danger comes on the breeze, in the rustle of the grass, in the shadows of the trees. While he eats he listens. While he sleeps he plans.”
I interrupted him. “I’ve got to get home now. Tell your wife we’ll be along to see her to-night.”
“She’d like it,” he admitted.