That remark actually got a genuine chuckle out of Kelly. “If that were the case, they’d be turnin’ up in lorries and takin’ half the bloody camp away, y’ great idiot!” The word came out sounding like ‘ee-jit’ — one of the few words Kelly spoke in English that showed more than the usually faint Northern Irish accent he had picked up from his mother’s side of the family. “There’d be bigger fish than me here for those fuckers to fry…”
Hours later, as he sat bound hand and foot in the rear of one of those same sedans, squeezed in tightly between two revolver-armed Special Branch officers, Eoin Kelly would curse those ‘famous last words’ he’d spoken to Glynn. None of the detectives would speak to him at all other than out of necessity, let alone explain where he was being taken or why. Although he was being taken alive, that was as much as could be said judging by the thorough beating he’d received from the guards at the Glasshouse before he’d been handed over: they obviously cared little for what condition he’d be in when he finally arrived at his mystery destination.
His sides and legs ached painfully where he’d been hit by their batons, and blood oozed faintly from a cut over his right eye — a cut he’d apparently collected, according to the guards at least, while ‘falling down’… several times. Crofton, in the front passenger seat of the car, hardly gave him a second look, and he was fine with that. He couldn’t expect the man to make any great effort to look into his welfare: that’d raise too much suspicion as to the man’s motives. Broy’s Harriers weren’t known for their interest in the welfare of their prisoners.
It was evening by the time they drove through the gates of Dublin Castle, and Kelly was no more aware of what was going on than he’d been as they’d left The Curragh. It was a cool, misty evening, and the dampness in the air added to the generally unpleasant atmosphere as the structure’s dark walls towered above them.
To Kelly’s surprise, an RAF officer and four British soldiers armed with Thompson submachine guns stood alongside a 15cwt truck in the middle of that courtyard, and the sight caused his stomach to churn suddenly with fear of the unknown. Although he had no idea as to what was specifically going on as he was dragged from the car, it was obvious from their stares they were waiting for him, and the involvement of the British wasn’t a good sign at all. Kelly had been involved in the 1916 Easter Uprising and numerous other events throughout his younger years that he was sure they’d be most interested in… the presence of those soldiers and the officer could be in regard to any number of incidents, and he was certain their presence wasn’t by chance.
Crofton and another of the Special Branch men engaged in a short conversation with the RAF officer, all reaching an agreement of some sort as Kelly gave the man a long, hard once over from a distance of just a dozen metres or so. He was about the same age as Kelly and of greater than average height, and although the IRA volunteer wasn’t sure of the man’s exact rank, he could tell it was quite high. The uniform itself seemed quite new, and the number of colour ribbons on the man’s chest (the ‘fruit salad’, as the military called it) seemed to be smaller than one might expect from a man who held such high rank. The officer caught his gaze and matched it with an expression that was emotionless and unfathomable… something that left Kelly feeling more than a little uneasy.
The expressions on the faces of the two corporals that moved toward him however were easily identifiable, and he instinctively braced himself as they drew near. The first of the two drove the butt of his Thompson into Kelly’s stomach, not actually hurting as much as it might’ve, but driving the wind from him all the same.
“Come on, you Fenian bastard!” One of them growled as they grabbed him roughly and started to drag him toward the truck, still bound hand and foot,.
“Corporal…!” The shout stopped all of them in their tracks, and attracted the attention of every man in the courtyard. The officer was beside them in an instant, and the expression on his face was suddenly a long way from fathomless — anger was now clearly at the forefront. “What the hell d’you think you’re doing, striking that man?”
The question left both soldiers, who’d instantly snapped to attention, completely stymied. The man was Irish, after all, and a member of the Republican Army as well — in their minds, they could see no possible reason why they wouldn’t strike him. The reaction also left Kelly uncharacteristically speechless — having officers of the British Empire take his side against their own was something he’d certainly never before experienced, even if the man was, upon hearing him speak for the first time, quite obviously Australian rather than English.
“B-but sir… he’s Irish…” while seemingly all that needed to be said in the mind of the corporal who’d struck the blow, that tentative answer was possibly the worst possible thing he could’ve said.
“And that alone makes it all right, does it, corporal?” Max Thorne snarled, deliberately emphasising the man’s lower rank. Thorne had grown up in a society predominantly based on the presumption that human beings weren’t categorised purely along lines of race, religion, sex or political leaning (in high theory at least, if not always in practice). Added to that was the fact he’d grown up and served in the military in an Australia of the late 20th Century: an island continent isolated and far removed from most of the dangers of terrorism, racial and religious schisms, social unrests and general levels of violence that were considered far more commonplace in much of the rest of the world.
That the man was Irish in itself meant nothing at all to him, and he’d grown up far enough away from the ‘Irish Problem’ of his own time to be able to put aside his own personal beliefs somewhat and recognise that whether Kelly was a ‘terrorist’ or a ‘freedom fighter’ depended as much on perspective as fact. Either way, Thorne had a pathological disgust of those who took advantage of others unable to defend themselves.
“Because he’s Irish, corporal… is that right?” The NCO sensibly held his tongue this time. “And what does that say about your opinion of me, then? I’m just a ‘bloody colonial’ after all!” There was acid in his tone now as he leaned right in close to the man’s face, the volume of his voice quite loud. “I’m not going to bother you with the moral arguments, corporal — I doubt you’d have the slightest chance of understanding them — but let me make myself crystal clear: if this man makes any legitimate attempt to escape, or to attack you in any way, you’re well within your rights to use whatever force necessary to restrain him or protect yourself. Other than that, you will keep your hands off him! Is that understood?” The soldiers could only nod in affirmation — Thorne had indeed made himself crystal clear. “Excellent…!” The word was laced with heavy sarcasm. “Now get Mister Kelly into the back of that truck and get us down to the docks now — we’ve a boat to catch that won’t wait much longer!”
The pair had no problem at all in moving an absolutely speechless Eoin Kelly into the back of the waiting truck in record time.
The boat waiting for them was HMS Arabis, a Royal Navy Flower-class corvette, and the group were heading out of the harbour and turning north-east into Dublin Bay and the Irish Sea within minutes of stepping aboard at the Dublin docks. As cold as it’d been in The Curragh or in Dublin — in spite of it nominally being summer — it was freezing out there upon open water as the choppy, black surface stretched out unbroken around them under the darkening sky of late evening.