"She was awake but the doctors appear to be concerned. She doesn't look well."
"She was shot, for Christ's sake. How do you want her to look?"
"There's no need for that tone, Lieutenant Boyle. Need I remind you, I am your superior officer?"
"What's going to happen to Subaltern O'Brien?" Uncle Dan broke in, trying to short-circuit my temper before I blew. "After she recovers?"
"Well, there's no question of her returning to MI-5, after her questionable conduct. I will leave it to District Inspector Carrick if charges should be laid against her."
"You didn't question her conduct when she got things done for you," I said, stepping up into his face. "But now you're ready to throw her to the wolves. What is it, an Irishwoman doesn't deserve your loyalty?"
"There are larger questions at hand, young man."
"Next time, get somebody else to do your dirty work. You aren't worth it," I said, brushing by him, fighting to keep my fists at my sides, a haymaker begging to be let loose.
"And you, Mr. Boyle, you're supposed to be in police custody!"
"Go to hell," Uncle Dan said, and followed me down the hall, patting me on the back.
We found Colonel Dawson first. He was awake, stretched out in a hospital bed, a cast enclosing his shoulder and arm. Bob Masters sat with him, his bandaged leg up on a chair.
"Well, if it isn't the walking wounded of Brownlow House!" Uncle Dan said. "How are you both?"
"Glad to be alive, thanks to you boys," Colonel Dawson said. "Bob here has been telling me the whole story. You put a stop to something that could have snowballed into a real problem. Nice work."
"Thanks for lending a hand. Sorry you were shot. Doesn't that hurt?"
"It will when the morphine wears off, you can count on that. Listen, you boys ever need anything from the Army Air Force, you look me up. Bull Dawson, at your service. OK?"
"We may need your assistance sooner than later," Carrick said from behind us. "I just ran into Major Cosgrove, and he's demanding that I arrest you, Daniel."
"What?" Dawson said.
"It's a long story, Colonel," I said. "This is my uncle, Dan Boyle. He's a police detective from Boston, and it will be a whole lot easier if you don't ask what he's doing here. But he needs to get out of the country, pronto. He's a little lacking in the paperwork department."
"I've been to Schweinfurt and back, Lieutenant. I don't give a damn about paperwork. You get a telephone in here and I'll have your uncle on the next C-47 flying home. And if he needs to hide out until it takes off, leave that to me."
"See, Daniel, this is how the Royal Black Knights look out for each other," Carrick said, a grin lighting up his usually dour face. I'd seen that look before, the strain and tension vanishing from a policeman's face after a case was successfully solved. Relief for a brief moment, perhaps long enough to get drunk or spend time with your family, depending on your inclination, until the next corpse turned up.
"Saints preserve us," Uncle Dan said.
I left them to plot Uncle Dan's escape and went in search of Slaine. I found her room and waited by the door as a doctor checked her with a stethoscope and felt her pulse. He wrote notes on her chart and left, brushing by me without a word. I pulled up a chair and sat by her bed, watching as her eyes focused and found me.
"Billy! What happened? Tell me, please." There was energy in her voice but she looked weak and withered against the white sheets. A thick dressing covered her chest, and tiny drops of sweat beaded her forehead. Her hair was damp and flattened against the pillow, the curls faded and limp. I tried not to show my surprise.
"I'll tell you everything, don't worry. You look pretty good for having been shot and left for dead."
"I guess not all Irishmen have a way with words but thank you. I feel horrible, though. Tell me, what's happened?"
"It's all over. Guns recovered, Taggart dead." I told her the whole story, starting from when she was shot and finishing up at the truck with Grady hugging the last BAR to his chest.
"It was last night that I was shot? I'm so confused." She tried to raise a hand to her head but let it drop halfway.
"This morning, actually."
"And you, you were shot too, weren't you?"
"Yeah, right through the arm. Hurts like hell, but I'm fine."
"Major Cosgrove came to see me," Slaine said. Her lips pressed together, and she blinked her eyes, determined not to shed a tear.
"He have anything useful to say?"
"That I should take all the time I need to recover, and that he'd find an easy posting for me when I was ready. Out of the way, I suppose."
"Maybe I can help. I do have friends in high places. When you're better, we can arrange a transfer."
"I don't know, Billy. All I know is Ireland. I wouldn't be much use elsewhere. But never mind that, I think it'll be a long time before I'm out of this bed, if only to judge by the look on your face."
"It's just a shock seeing you all bandaged up."
"You're very diplomatic," she said, forcing a weak smile.
"I may have to leave soon," I said. "We need to get Uncle Dan out one step ahead of Cosgrove, and once that's done I should report back to General Eisenhower."
"Yes, of course." There wasn't any way around it but I could see the sadness in Slaine's eyes. She'd be left alone, disgraced, without a job of any consequence, and maybe facing charges. I doubted that DI Carrick would open up that can of worms but it was a worry nonetheless. I tried to think of something else to talk about, other than Cosgrove or MI-5.
"Remember back in Jerusalem, you told me there was one Irish-American you thought highly of? Who is that?"
"Oh, I'm sorry, Billy. I can be rude sometimes, I know. I think the world of you, and what you accomplished here. You saved many lives."
I knew she was right because I'd come to learn the arithmetic of war. Some deaths now equaled fewer deaths later. It all made sense but when it was you pulling the trigger, you only focused on the deaths now, not the lives saved later.
"Thanks. But who is this other guy anyway? I think I'm jealous," I said, making a joke of it.
"My father read a lot of history, and he left quite a collection of books. He enjoyed reading about your American Civil War, and I picked up his interest when I was older. Did you know that the Irish fought on both sides?"
"Yes, the Fighting 69th, right?"
"On the Union side, yes, they were called the Irish Brigade. There were Confederate Irish regiments too. A boy named Michael Sullivan fought with the 24th Georgia, mostly Irish. At Fredericksburg, commanded by General Meagher, the 69th charged the heights against the 24th, both sides knowing they were fighting and killing fellow Irishmen. It didn't say in the history books but I can imagine that they wept as they fired and reloaded."
I looked at the floor, unable to meet her eyes, having done all those things myself. "What happened to Michael Sullivan?"
"The Irish Brigade retreated back across the Rappahannock River, leaving behind their regimental banner. It was the green flag of Ireland with the golden harp upon it. Michael Sullivan, who had killed his share of Irish brethren that day, came upon the flag. He wrapped it around his chest, hiding it under his shirt, and swam the Rappahannock to return it to the Union Irish. His own men, thinking he was deserting, fired on him, wounding him in the leg. When he was taken prisoner, he asked to be brought before General Meagher. Once there, he removed the regimental banner and presented it to the general. Meagher was so overcome he had Sullivan's wounds treated, and offered to release him anywhere within Union territory. Sullivan declined, asking only to be taken to the river, so he could swim back to his own lines, which he did. He was an Irishman to admire. Loyal to all, even when divided by war. And always faithful to his duty."
The story had drained her, I could see. She was pale, and her face bathed in sweat. I took a washcloth from the bed stand and gently ran it across her cheeks and forehead. I struggled to speak, the sadness of the slaughter fresh in my mind. Today's and yesterday's as well.