An armoured car passed, with its machine guns poking through the loop-holes, and people stared at it sullenly or fell back on the sidewalks as it went by. Many of them ran quickly into side streets when a lorry full of soldiers came at a rapid speed down the street. It was covered with a wired cage in which young soldiers wearing steel hats, like those boys with whom Bertram had crossed, sat with rifles on their knees, looking down on the crowd in Sackville Street with unfriendly eyes, smiling ironically when they saw them running.
Dublin in time of Peace, after the Great War! In that former life of Bertram’s—how many years ago?—it had been a gay, careless old city, if he remembered well. Young as he was, he had walked up that very street alone, or hand in hand with Susan, without any fear, or sense of peril.
Somewhere in the city was Susan now, weeping because the man she loved was to be hanged on Wednesday morning, which was next day. He must find her, and stand by her in this time of trouble. But first he must find Digby.
It was to find Digby that Bertram had come to Dublin. He had a last wild hope that Digby might help to get a reprieve for Dennis O’Brien. A word from him to his commanding officer, from that officer to the Judge Advocate in Dublin Castle, might have some result. The condemned man was Digby’s brother-in-law, Michael Pollard’s son-in-law. Surely, surely it might lead to mercy.
Digby was in barracks somewhere on the north side of the city. Bertram found the place by enquiring of a group of soldiers, halted with stacked rifles in a street off Fitzwilliam Square. They were suspicious at first, and would not answer his questions. The sergeant went so far as to tell him to “clear off, unless he wanted a hole through his head.” He became civil and informative when Bertram gave him his card, showing his old rank of major in the British Army.
“Sorry, sir! But we have to be careful. These damned Irish—”
The barracks where Digby was quartered were a good mile away, and difficult to find. No good asking the passers-by, and quite dangerous. They didn’t like people who paid friendly visits to British barracks. He had better be careful, walking alone. Not pleasant to be shot in the back of the head!
The sergeant drew a little map on the back of an envelope. He seemed to know Dublin blindfold.
“I’ve searched every street in that district. Two of my lads were killed in Donegal Street, not two weeks ago. Not a health resort in that quarter!”
With the map, Bertram found the barracks, and was glad to get there. As he walked up dirty narrow streets where “washing” was hanging out of the windows, sullen glances, and sometimes foul words, greeted him from people lounging in their doorways, or slouching by. A young girl spat as he passed, as though he were a living stench. Two youths with caps drawn over their eyes followed him a little way, scowling when he turned to glance at them, and searching him with suspicious eyes. They dropped back at a corner saloon. A frowsy woman sitting on a doorstep smoking a cutty pipe, while some bare-legged children played about the street, raised her voice and cursed him.