The rebel camp at Gorey Hill on the 8th of June was a place of carnival. The sun had risen and now hung heavily in the late afternoon sky pouring a bright, permeating heat over the countryside. The town of Gorey was alive with activity as throngs of people laughed and lounged, confident that they were masters of their domain.

Tom Banville, however, was in a venomous mood.

The now familiar failings of the insurgent leadership had resurfaced since the victory at Tubberneering, and he was sick to his teeth with it. In the two days since Edward Roche’s departure, the bickering and arguing amongst the men he had left behind had become a festering canker of rancour and ill-feeling.

Roche had ridden off late on the 6th to procure a much-needed supply of gunpowder from Wexford Town and to discover the reasons behind the disturbing silence that had emanated from the south of the county since the 4th. Nothing had been heard from either Matthew Keogh in the town itself or from Bagenal Harvey who, by this time, must surely have been at the walls of Waterford.

He had ridden off leaving two of his closest friends in nominal command of the massive army sprawled in and around Gorey Town. Anthony Perry and Fr Philip Roche were to lead in his absence, a prospect greeted with blustering outrage by Fr Michael Murphy and with grim resignation by Fr John, a man who seemed to be growing steadily more marginalised. It was as if the country curate was a source of vague embarrassment to the United Irishmen around him, like he was an uninvited guest.

Of course, Miles Byrne was indignant at Fr John’s treatment. The young captain had become a staunch supporter of the priest from Boolavogue ever since Enniscorthy and was appalled at the supporting role he was being forced to play.

And the toing and froing, the twisting and endless arguments about strategy, had begun all over again.

It was assumed that a march on Arklow was inevitable and so the entire army had set out on the 7th to ensure that General Loftus had indeed abandoned the county and was not lurking somewhere behind them. They had reached Carnew without incident and were told that the good general had retired all the way to Tullow in County Carlow. The entire north of the county was theirs. The men celebrated by burning every loyalist home they could find.

It was at this point that the first cracks began to web darkly through the insurgent command.

Fr John Murphy and Fr Michael Murphy had almost come to blows. The latter demanding an immediate advance on Arklow whilst Fr John and the majority of the men from Wicklow argued that a war of stealth waged from the safety of the Wicklow Mountains would keep both north Wexford and the road to Dublin free of Crown forces. The French, Fr John was adamant, must be given time to land. The rebels must remain in the field long enough to give the French a chance to come to their aid. Risking everything in set-piece battles was foolishness. Fr Michael stopped just short of accusing him of cowardice.

And yet, reflected Tom, something had altered in the bearing of Fr John Murphy. For a man renowned for his peaceable nature, a man determinedly opposed an armed Rising mere days before he himself sparked the conflict that had consumed his county, the violence being done must surely have been terrible to behold. He was a priest, first and foremost; he tended to his flock. The fact of his responsibility, his complicity, in the slaughter of hundreds of innocents squirmed like rats in his brain. Tom thought the man was at breaking point, labouring beneath a yoke of guilt.

The executions had not helped matters.

Just after Carnew, two prisoners were brought before Anthony Perry. He greeted them both like old friends, throwing his arms around them in a fierce embrace. One was Rogan and the other was Wheatley, the men who had boiled Perry’s flesh from his scalp, the men who had driven him to the brink of madness.

It took Perry some time to kill Wheatley. Rogan less so; Wheatley’s screams echoing in his ears had dulled the edge of Perry’s cruelty somewhat. Yet the relish with which he had dispatched them had disturbed all who witnessed it. No matter the scars, no matter Perry’s constant suffering, the joy he took in slaughtering them was terrible to watch.

After this, Fr John silent and pale, the United Irish officers had decided that Arklow must be taken and after that Dublin would surely fall. Tom remembered that Fr Michael had smiled at this and had flung a gloating look towards Fr John.

Now, a day later, Tom sat in the shade of the tremendous beech tree that spread over Gorey’s market diamond and flicked pebbles into the dust of the thoroughfare. His mind was mired in black contemplation, his thoughts wandering south to where his brother was doing God knew what. The silence from the Southern Division had grown in his imagination, from being a source of vague unease to a full front of malignancy.

He should never have left his brother behind. He should never have allowed himself to be taken in by Dan’s words. He was not needed here. He was an appendix of the greater organism, and the Northern Division would unravel with or without him, it was only a matter of time. He flung another pebble with a force that sent it skittering off into the distance.

From behind him the sound of pounding footsteps brought him to his feet. Tom stepped around the furrowed bole of the tree and watched a young boy of no more than twelve come lolloping down the rutted earth of the market diamond. His bare feet kicked up little clouds of dust as he pounded along. The boy’s face bore the fierce determination of one to whom a great mission had been entrusted, and his little forehead was creased in concentration. So intent was the boy on the object of his mad dash that he nearly collided with Tom.

The boy looked up at him with wide eyes and panted, ‘Do you know where Fr John is, sir?’

Tom frowned in curiosity, ‘He was saying mass an hour ago. I would presume he’s retired to his rooms. Why are you looking for him?’

The boy considered this for a moment before answering with brazen confidence, ‘I’m only to talk to Fr Murphy.’

Tom regarded the boy levelly and asked, ‘Do you know me, lad?’

The boy nodded slowly, ‘You’re Captain Banville, sir.’

Tom grinned, ‘That I am. Now, I was thinking of heading down to Fr Murphy myself, so you might as well tell me and save yourself the journey.’

The boy considered this for a moment before relenting. He pointed back the way he had come, toward the mass of bodies on the crest of Gorey Hill, and said, ‘There’s a messenger come from the south. Mr Perry wants Fr Murphy straight away.’

At the boy’s words Tom’s heart bucked with excitement and dread. Fighting to keep his voice calm, he said to the lad before him, ‘Thank you, son. I shall go and fetch Fr John immediately.’

The boy grinned at him impishly, ‘Mr Perry said I’d get a ha’penny for my troubles.’

Tom fished the small copper coin from out of his pocket and distractedly tossed it to the boy, who spun and barrelled away, his ha’penny held high like a trophy.

A messenger from the south, thought Tom as he turned and hurried down into town. Surely he must have news from New Ross. Surely Munster must have risen. Surely Dan must be alive.

Fr John Murphy had taken up residence in a rather finely appointed townhouse on Gorey’s main street. He had been heard to remark that it was poor recompense for the loss of his own modest home and chapel. Outside the house a man Tom recognised as James Gallagher kept careful guard.

Gallagher saluted as Tom approached, ‘Captain.’

Tom returned the salute and asked, ‘Is the good padre within?’

Gallagher smiled, ‘He is, sir. I believe he is upstairs.’

Tom thanked the man and passed through the door, already open to allow a cooling draught to help lift the stifling heat of the house.

Immediately inside the door, a wooden stairway climbed the right-hand wall. Tom mounted them carefully, the well-worn heels of his riding boots making small clunks on the varnished wood. The stairway opened out at its head to a long corridor lined on one side by the doors of four bedrooms. The nearest door was slightly ajar and a narrow band of light, slim as a finger, glowed out from the room.

Through this gap, narrow though it was, a voice could be heard as though engaged in quiet conversation.

Tom approached slowly, his footsteps silent and delicate. Words came to his ears, soft and fluttering but weighted with an urgency and raw emotion that startled him. In the privacy of his room, Fr Murphy was praying.

‘Forgive me, Father. I have wronged you and brought havoc down upon all I held dear in my life. Please, God, grant me the strength to see this out.’

Then, in a manner completely unlike the usual dull drone of a man intoning his prayers, Fr Murphy began to recite the Act of Contrition, investing every word and syllable with a fervour that took Tom’s breath away. Standing outside the little bedroom, Tom felt embarrassed. To listen as a man bore his soul in such a fashion was an intimate thing and one which he was sure he should not divulge, even to Fr Murphy himself. Tom was in no doubt that the curate from Boolavogue would not be at all happy having his privacy so shattered.

Tom waited a moment before coughing politely and rapping his knuckles on the panelled bedroom door.

There came the quiet, moth wing sounds of a man composing himself and then Fr Murphy’s voice came with all the old bravado that Tom had come to expect, ‘Come in. Come in. What’s the matter that you must disturb a man at prayer?’

Tom entered the room and began to salute reflexively before the priest snapped at him, ‘Enough of that, Banville. Come now, what’s the news?’

Tom regarded Fr Murphy for a long moment. The man was pale and unshaven, his eyes nestled in a cushion of dark wrinkles. He stood with one elbow resting jauntily on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, yet his bearing had all the weary slackness of a man who had not slept in an age.

‘Father,’ said Tom at length, ‘a message has come from the south. Mr Perry desires your presence.’

Fr Murphy breathed deeply, puffing out his barrel chest and squaring the loose set of his shoulders. Suddenly bluff and bullish once more, he replied, ‘Then lead on, Mr Banville.’

Only the slight roughness that burred his voice betrayed the depth of his exhaustion.

On Gorey Hill a ring of the United leaders had formed about a lone horseman. Tom and Fr Murphy squeezed through the outer ring of captains and were greeted with handshakes from Anthony Perry and a dour-faced Miles Byrne.

‘That appears to be everyone,’ said Perry in his northern twang. ‘On with you, so.’

The horseman, a young man with a long scab slashing across his right jaw, cleared his throat and read in a clear voice from a piece of paper held aloft in his left hand.

Here the messenger stopped reading and gazed about him as the ring of rebel officers erupted in a cacophony of fury.

‘Why in God’s name should we protect people who have treated us like vermin?’ cried one, and then other voices were added to the chorus.

‘They flogged my brother to death!’

‘They burned my farm to the ground!’

Anthony Perry reached up and snatched the paper from the astonished messenger’s hand and a silence fell over the gathering as he shook it in one fist.

‘What does Harvey mean by this?’ he asked. ‘Does he seek to hamstring us in our efforts?’

Before the horseman could answer, Tom stepped forward, his anxiety spurring him into action, and asked, ‘What of New Ross?’

At Tom’s words the man seemed to sag in his saddle and a sickening expression washed over his features.

Shaking his head slowly as if he could not believe his own words, the man answered, ‘That scrap of paper is Mr Harvey’s last command. He has resigned as commander-in-chief.’

At this a huge rippling sigh seemed to pass through the rebel leaders. Tom, however, was silent, every word the man spoke driving into him like a nail, crucifying him where he stood.

‘New Ross is still in government hands. The Southern Division was thrown back with great loss. The Kilkenny men abandoned us.’

Into a deepening well of blank silence the man continued, ‘There were massacres. The soldiers burnt a house in Mary Street where our wounded were being cared for. They all died. All of them.’

The outrage that this ignited in the men was quickly smothered by the man’s next words.

‘But that’s not the worst of it. Some men fleeing the battle came across a Mr King’s farm at Scullabogue. We were holding over a hundred loyalist men, women and children there. These men, they shot thirty people on the lawn and then locked everyone else into the barn.’

Beside him, Tom could hear Fr Murphy mutter, ‘Oh, God no.’

The rider glanced about him for a moment, swallowed hard and said, ‘They burned it down around their ears. Women and children, sirs, all dead in the ashes.’

Perry lifted one hand to a jaw hanging limp with shock. Licking suddenlyparched lips, he asked, ‘What did Harvey do?’

The messenger nodded to the paper now rumpled and torn in Perry’s bloodless hand, ‘He issued that order and then resigned in dismay. He is most distressed, for I fear his constitution is not at all suited to circumstances such as these.’

Miles Byrne spat onto the ground in disgust, ‘No one’s constitution is suited to circumstances such as these. Who commands now? What of the Southern Division?’

The messenger nodded, ‘General Roche has assumed command and he requests that Fr Philip Roche ride south with me and take specific charge of what’s left of the Southern Division. The English are in total command of the countryside around New Ross and all efforts are to be directed towards stopping their advance on Wexford Town.’

A multitude of eyes then swept to Fr Philip Roche, whose tall frame towered over the men around him. Fr Roche’s eyebrows rose in surprise but he nodded his head in reluctant acceptance.

Tom had felt a pressure swelling inside him, squeezing his lungs so that it seemed he must burst. As the gaze of the officers was directed on Fr Roche his own had remained locked upon the young rider before him. Stepping forward he seized the horse’s bridle and glared fiercely at the startled man above him.

‘What of Daniel Banville?’ he asked. ‘He is a captain. Does he live?’

The young messenger blanched at Tom’s savage aspect but eventually stuttered, ‘I am not familiar with the name, sir. A great many of the captains lost their lives at New Ross. They were cut down at the heads of their corps. I cannot say if your brother was amongst them or not.’

Tom nodded once, curtly, and his eyes fell to where his hand had clawed about the tack of the man’s horse.

‘I apologise,’ he said.

He turned and moved through the circling officers.

Miles Byrne watched Tom with narrowed eyes before slipping after him. He left the officers, like battered scarecrows, gathered around the pale horseman and hurried in Tom’s wake. Once clear of the hill and making his way down into Gorey proper, Byrne caught up with Tom and placed a hand upon his shoulder.

‘Where are you going, Tom?’ he asked.

Tom shambled to halt like a ship foundering in rough seas and blinked at him as if he were a stranger. Shaking his head like a man rousing from sleep, he found he could not say anything.

‘Come sit down,’ said Byrne.

He guided Tom to the splintered edge of the boardwalk and forced the stupefied captain to sit.

‘Dan is lost, Miles,’ his voice fell from his lips like something wounded.

Byrne knelt before him and gripped his shoulders and said, ‘Tom, there is no guarantee that Dan is amongst the fallen at New Ross. A man of such valour and activity as your brother would surely have been noted had they managed to bring him low. Take heart, Dan. Edward Roche will instil a new eagerness for battle in our southern comrades. A better man in a time of crisis one could not hope to find.’

A red flash of anger sparked in Tom’s eyes and he growled at Byrne, ‘I have been duped by Dan and your good self on this matter before and I tell you again, I care not a whit for Roche or your “Liberty” or for your damnable green flag. The only thing I cared for has been robbed from me. Our home is destroyed. My parents are in exile. How am I to tell them that I allowed Dan to die alone in some pigswill street in New Ross? How am I to tell them I cannot even point to a grave over which they may grieve?

‘No, Miles, you and Dan were both mistaken. The United Irishmen does not need captains like you and I. It needs leaders, real leaders, men who would not have sent my brother to his death.’

Byrne looked at him with troubled eyes, ‘What are you to do?’

Still sitting, a great seething welter of anguish churning inside him, Tom felt the first tears for his lost brother trickle from his eyes. He raised a hand and dashed them away ashamedly. Byrne looked away.

‘Do?’ sniffed Tom. ‘What can I do?’

The Northern Division of the United Irish Army marched through Gorey on the 9th of June with an air of confident joy scarcely dulled from the day before. Perry had ordered the advance on Arklow the previous evening and Bagenal Harvey’s last command had ensured that all fighting men had reported promptly to their corps. In spite of New Ross, in spite of the massacres at Mary Street and the disgusting brutality of Scullabogue, in spite of the fact that the country had largely abandoned the Wexford Rising to its own fate – in spite of all this, the army was in high spirits. Were they not victorious? Were they not the masters of the entire north of the county and much of southwest Wicklow as well? Had they not met the English in open battle and sent them flying before their pikes? The setback at New Ross was, to most minds, merely that, a set-back; a thing easily remedied. Edward Roche would work his magic on the administration of Wexford Town and thousands of fine fellows would soon punish the garrison at New Ross for their temerity at seeking to thwart the will of the people. Meanwhile, Arklow would have fallen and the road to Dublin would be wide open.

The men marched as though to a victory celebration rather than a battle for their very existence. Only among the leaders was a terrible grimness apparent, an urgency and will to action that had not communicated itself to their men. The precarious position of the Rising weighed upon them. If they failed to take Arklow then they would be pinned within their own county, trapped like birds in lime.

Perry trotted his mount up and down the line of march, haranguing and lambasting, goading men to move more quickly. The men nodded and smiled and roared in greeting at his approach, then simply ignored him.

They passed out of Gorey and into the quilt of barley and grass that was the countryside beyond, the army stretching for two miles along the dusty road to Arklow. More than once, battalions crowded hard on each other’s heels, forcing the entire column to come to a ragged halt while the captains and colonels strove to untangle the mess. Curses and harsh words rattled back and forth in the sweltering air.

The march to Arklow should have taken three hours; the awful realisation began to dawn on some of the leaders that it could take twice that.

At the head of the Castletown Corps, beneath Jim Kehoe’s limp green banner, Tom Banville walked in numbness. He marched when the column marched. He stopped when it stopped. Yet nothing touched him.

During one idiotic halt he gazed in abstraction as Fr Murphy railed bitterly at Perry and Esmond Kyan, ‘You are going to be defeated, it is too late in the day!’

Tom knew that Fr Murphy’s words should have trilled some shudder of unease in him, yet it failed to penetrate, failed to get inside his bones and allow him to contemplate what was to come. For Tom, the march was never-ending now, an eternal moment in which he was trapped, past and future swallowed by loss. Each footstep pounded a word through his head, over and over.

Dan. Is. Dead.

After four hours of marching, the rebel army arrived at Coolgreaney, the last village before Arklow Town. The men were exhausted, and flung themselves down on any patch of open ground they could find. One enterprising group entered an abandoned pub and began raiding its stores for porter and whiskey. All about, men lounged with shirts unbuttoned, their heads tilted back as though all this were a simple Sunday stroll. Pikes were steepled together in skeletal bundles, forgotten as their owners laughed and talked and swilled mouthfuls of pilfered beer.

‘Mr Banville?’ came Jim Kehoe’s insistent voice.

Tom had no idea how long the man had been calling his name but his words carried the firm edge of someone annoyed at being ignored. ‘Yes, Jim?’ he answered.

‘May we fall out, sir?’

Tom shrugged dispassionately. Behind him, grumbling darkly, his corps fanned out and sat themselves down on the grass and earth.

It was then that something finally pierced his bubble of introspection. Halfway down the rutted tract of dirt that formed Coolgreaney’s only street, Fr John Murphy and the thirty men who had remained with him since that fateful night at The Harrow, stood and faced Perry and Fr Michael Murphy. The entire scene had an air of confrontation about it that stirred something within Tom. Fr Michael stood with arms crossed while Perry was half-turned and gesturing for Fr John to come with him inside the ransacked public house. Fr John, however, remained rooted to the spot and his men crowded around him, protective and anxious.

Tom walked slowly towards the peculiar gathering, skirting Fr John’s men as surreptitiously as he could.

‘I will have no part in it,’ Fr John was saying. ‘I made my feelings clear last night and against my better judgement my men and I have followed where you have led. My conscience though will not allow me to throw their lives away for no good reason.’

‘For God’s sake man, keep your voice down,’ hissed Perry. ‘If you insist on arguing in the street then let you at least have some consideration for the morale of those men you abandon.’

Fr John scowled at this, rasping witheringly, ‘How dare you! Where were you the night of The Harrow? Tell me that!’

Perry blanched at these words and Fr Michael blessed himself theatrically, snapping, ‘God forgive you, Father!’

Fr John continued, ‘I abandon no man but I shall not watch while you sacrifice hundreds of lives to bloodlust. We should be making for the mountains, not flinging ourselves on barricades. Arklow will be another New Ross, mark my words.’

Perry’s expression filled with a thunder-cloud darkness and he exclaimed, ‘You are an insufferable, stubborn man, Father! But if you insist on following this course of action then you are most welcome to join us on the road to Dublin after our victory.’

For his part, Fr John smiled grimly, stating, ‘And you are welcome to join me at Castletown, if you survive battering your brains out against the barricades of Arklow.’

With that, he and his men turned and made off through the scattered clumps of lounging rebels, heading south for Castletown. Troubled stares followed them as they went and cries of ‘Where do you go, Father?’ were ignored by Fr John and his column. Sitting astride his mare like a Roman general, he stared at the road ahead, his features impassive, his carriage proud.

Hesitating for only a moment, Tom Banville ran to where his Castletown Corps were spread out like a pride of lions basking in the heat. For the first time since the news came from the south, his limbs were invested with something like their old energy. The strange fog that had clouded his thoughts was lifted and the tortuous path forward that he had envisaged was now laid out before him with childish simplicity.

He skidded to a halt before his men, who regarded him with a sort of amused curiosity, and blurted, ‘Lads, I won’t ask you to go to Arklow if you do not want.’

The men before him began to mutter and exchange uneasy glances. At length, Jim Kehoe asked, ‘Why wouldn’t we want to go?’

Tom felt his temper rise but forced himself to remain calm, ‘Because if you lose at Arklow, you will be trapped. New Ross is garrisoned, as is Newtownbarry. Should Arklow hold against us we are surrounded. Arklow is not our fight. I will not order you to go where I will not.’

At this another man, a man whom Dan had told him was named Forde or Foyle or something along those lines, said, ‘You are not going, Mr Banville?’

Tom shook his head, ‘I am not. This is not my cause. I have lost my brother in one futile battle. I am reluctant to sacrifice either myself or my men in similar fashion. The course on which we are set is doomed.’

‘Mr Banville,’ the reproach in Jim Kehoe’s voice was like an anvil, ‘Dan, God be good to him, will be spinning in his grave to hear you say such things. We are United Irishmen, every one of us. We cannot leave off now when success is so close.’

Tom nodded slowly, his heart heavy, ‘So you are all resolved to continue with Perry’s assault on Arklow?’

Every one of the Casteltown Corps, now all sitting up, their eyes as intent as hunting hounds’, nodded mutely.

Tom sighed, ‘So be it. Should you carry the day at Arklow then I do not think I shall join you at Dublin. Take Arklow and the country is yours. If you are defeated then you shall find me with Fr Murphy at Castletown or at the camp on Gorey Hill. Today you follow Miles Byrne as though he were Moses himself. He is the best we have left. I wish you well, lads.’

Saying nothing, the men he had led against Walpole at Tubberneering, the men who spilled blood for him and who adored his brother, watched as Tom Banville walked away from them. For his part, Tom felt a vast sadness enfold him. They were Dan’s men, he knew that deep down. They followed him because he was Dan’s brother. He had never taken the United Oath, he had never invested himself in the illusion of liberty with the same conviction as Dan or Miles. He had never truly belonged. Without Dan he was a stray dog, battered and homeless.

He found himself hoping fervently that the men of Castletown might somehow survive the coming battle, that their bravery might be rewarded with glory rather than grape shot. He hoped Perry and Fr Michael were right. He hoped that by tomorrow morning both he and Fr John would be confirmed as the cowardly fools that some must certainly think them. He hoped all this and yet he knew the desperation of their situation. He knew they were alone in their struggle. And he knew that the Crown would be waiting for them at Arklow.

His dearest wish as he left Coolgreaney behind was that he might have time to find Dan’s body before a red-coated soldier tightened the noose about his own neck.

At Castletown the sounds of the battle in Arklow were like the muffled thundering of waves against distant cliffs. For an hour the unabated din echoed across the countryside. For an hour Tom and Fr Murphy stood facing northwards in Castletown’s deserted street. Only the clash of steel on steel was inaudible, that and the wet tearing of flesh, the sobbing screams of the dying.

At eight o’clock the brittle, autumn-leaf crackle of musketry died to a graveyard silence. An unbroken hush draped itself across the land. Over field and hedgerow, ditch and gorse, not even the singing of birds fractured the calm.

Then the first of the survivors came. Ragged and wounded, a tattered scarecrow of dirt and gore, he shambled down the road leading in from the north. His face was a devil’s mask of black powder burns and his shirt was slit along one red-sodden sleeve where a cavalry sabre had slashed him. He carried no weapon, only the weight of defeat and the horrors of what he had witnessed.

Tom and Fr Murphy approached the man who stumbled towards them in a daze.

Seizing Fr Murphy by the lapels, the ragged refugee babbled, ‘They’re killing the wounded. Their cannon cut us down like wheat. Fr Michael is killed. My God, Father, what are we to do?’

Fr Murphy exchanged a glance with Tom before calmly asking the man, ‘How did Fr Michael die? What happened?’

The man shook his head as though befuddled and answered, ‘He was blown from his horse and fell close to a burning cabin.’

His face when grey as he continued, ‘The Ancient Britons, they stopped and used his fat to grease their boots.’

Fr John’s face became hard, as though chiselled from unyielding rock. ‘Go on,’ he said.

The man breathed deeply, his senses slowly returning now that he was safely away from Arklow, ‘We flung ourselves against their barricades and they were breaking, by God they were breaking. You could see them running across the bridge and up the Dublin Road. Byrne and his Monaseed boys were masters of the right flank but we were being tumbled in twenties by grape shot and muskets. And then we started to retreat and they set their cavalry on us. There was butchery in the fields. Forgive us Father but we had to leave the wounded behind. We left them to be shot like dogs.’

The man was close to tears now but Fr Murphy pressed on, ‘Who gave the order to retreat?’

The man shook his head, tears streaking through the black that caked his face, ‘I don’t know, Father. Everyone and no one.’

Fr Murphy stepped away from the man and turned to Tom, saying, ‘This day spells our doom, Mr Banville.’

Tom felt a cold vice grip his heart at these words and he asked, ‘What should we do, Father?’

Fr Murphy looked at him levelly, ‘We do what we can, Mr Banville.’

Tom let out a long, shuddering breath. He lifted his eyes to a sky slowly filling with the amber wash of the falling sun and thought of the collapse of his world. He thought of the fields around Arklow, strewn with the dead and dying. He thought of the alleys and laneways of New Ross, stinking charnel houses in the heat. He thought of the barbed ring that was suddenly thrown around his county, cutting them off and sealing them in. But most of all he thought of his dead brother, rolled into a pit, unnamed and unremembered. He thought of all this, closed his eyes and strangled the racking sobs that threatened to shudder from him.