May 1867
Fenian Brotherhood Headquarters
10 West Fourth Street
New York City
“I don’t care how many of them you have to kill,” Colonel Patrick O’Hagan said. “I don’t care what you have to do. I want that damned country destroyed.”
The man receiving the orders stood ramrod straight. The high collar on his long grey coat obscured much of his face. The only distinguishing feature the colonel could see was his eyes, piercing out of the shadows. He stayed a step behind the ray of late-afternoon sunlight shining from the only open window and let the colonel talk.
“Take your time. Plan your moves carefully. But when you do strike, strike swiftly. Strike ruthlessly.”
The colonel’s long, flowing moustache was perfectly coiffed, his skin smooth and delicate. He spoke with authority, but the man in the shadows was not impressed. He knew about Patrick O’Hagan. O’Hagan worked closely with General John O’Neill, the “commander-in-chief” of an Irish military force that vowed to free Ireland from Britain’s control. He even had a new sign on his desk: the Irish Republican Army—the IRA. But they were better known as the Fenian Brotherhood, or simply the Fenians. Romantically named after the Fianna, ancient Celtic warriors, the Fenians had recently targeted North America as a battleground, a way to attack Britain from its frontier—from its back door.
“I am talking about nothing less than a reign of terror,” he said. “Soften up the enemy. Prepare the ground for our attack.”
“How long have you been in America?” Colonel O’Hagan asked, filling the empty air.
“Long enough.”
Patrick O’Hagan was an American citizen. He had no plans to return to his homeland, but he would always be an Irish rebel. He wiped a bead of sweat from his brow and stamped his fist on the table. “We are at war with England; we must do our part.”
The man in the shadows just nodded.
“You will be the first soldier behind enemy lines, the advance guard. You can become a great hero.”
He had stopped paying attention. He was considering O’Hagan’s accent. He was from the northern counties. Maybe Armagh. Probably Monaghan.
The colonel was starting to feel unnerved under the spell of this man’s cold stare.
“How ruthless?” he asked O’Hagan, barely moving his lips.
“You will be working as a spy and soldier in enemy territory. You’ll have to do whatever it takes to survive.” O’Hagan rubbed his sleeve against his forehead, paused and said solemnly, “And your job includes eliminating key targets.”
“Money?”
“It’s in this pouch.”
For the first time since the meeting began, he took his eyes off Colonel O’Hagan as he reached for the pouch and slowly counted the stack of bills. When he had finished, he allowed a slow, sinister smile. “You have the right man.” His voice was a murky undertone.
The right man. O’Hagan felt sure of it. This person in front of him emanated icy, heartless efficiency.
A year ago, General John O’Neill had led a raid across the border into British territory at Ridgeway, near Buffalo. O’Hagan was at his side. They had proven how easy it was to cross the barely defended frontier. But O’Neill lost his nerve and retreated when the American reinforcements he expected didn’t arrive. It became clear to O’Hagan that O’Neill should have done the groundwork first. If he had created confusion in the British territory ahead of time, a better-organized invasion would have succeeded. The Fenians needed something—or someone—to throw British North America off balance. A few perfect murders would do the trick. That would create chaos. Chaos would bring panic. The world would see that this fledging country couldn’t cope. And they could move in. But the normally squabbling politicians in the north were actually starting to work together. In a month, some British colonies planned to unite to become Canada. “Confederation,” they called it. A new British country. The very thought of it made him fume.
He—and this mysterious man—must see to its early end.
Colonel O’Hagan knew little of the person in front of him. He had been instructed in a coded dispatch from the Fenian commander in Dublin to be in his office alone at 4 p.m. on May 29. The man arrived at precisely four o’clock, wearing an old grey coat. He kept it on despite the heat. In fact, he did not even remove his black hat when he entered. He just walked in, dropped the appropriate letters of introduction on O’Hagan’s desk, muttered the password and moved back, out of the light.
The colonel held up a piece of paper. “Here are some names and addresses of people who might help you.”
The man put it in his pocket without glancing at it.
“You know your targets?”
He didn’t react. The question was idiotic and insulting.
“While you are in Canada,” O’Hagan continued, “I will work with O’Neill to amass an army. He doesn’t know about your mission. No one does except for me and our contact in Ireland. If you want to get in touch with me or need help—”
“I won’t,” he cut him off, “need help. I know how to find you. You won’t need to find me.” He adjusted his coat. It was as if a statue moved. “Is that all?”
“Umm … yes,” O’Hagan answered, stumbling to his feet. “Except to say, I meant what I said about this being a holy war. Good luck to you, my man, and God bless you.”
“Neither luck nor God has anything to do with this,” he muttered disdainfully, and turned to leave.
O’Hagan felt a refreshing breath of evening air as the man stepped out of the shadows, opened the door and silently left.