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*

Once the last boat returned the ladies to Killelea, Liam visited the Backside where a solitary figure continued his march back and forth across the strand. Liam stretched out across a rock, and tucked his hands behind his head. He watched. Waves cracked protective rocks and spray shot skyward. A living man might have been drenched at best as spray fell to earth with explosive force. At worst, a living man might be washed out to sea. Back and forth, back and forth, water falling on himself constantly, and yet the man remained dry.

Something about this situation reminded Liam of a ditty. “..She was a fish monger, and sure it ‘twas no wonder, for so were her father an mother before…”

The guard paused momentarily half way across the strand.

“A music lover, are ya?” Liam asked.

“You, Sir,” the guard said, “Have a voice second only to a diseased bull frog.”

“And I’m assuming that because you’re the last of your kind, that you, you bloody Limey, are guarding a lost cause.”

The man turned on Liam and squinted. He owned a long, thin face, and intelligent blue eyes behind spectacles with cracked lenses. Small strawberry curls peeked out from beneath his dented helmet. The specter wore it at a jaunty angle, the strap crossing the edge of his chin. Liam wore one of those for a very long stint while serving in the British military. The memory made his chin itch. The British specter pursed his lips and swallowed. “I am aware of the outcome of your little rebellion. Should I congratulate you?”

“Do you think that would make m’boyos know I’m here?”

The Brit paused, resettling his composure. “If your companions were to become aware of your existence, do you think the ruffians who tossed me bodily to the wind might collect my remains and return them to my family?”

“Is that why ‘tis that you’re guarding the Backside all this time? Do you think you might be flagging one down?”

“Hump.” The guard returned to his route and began his march again. A half of a circuit later, he paused, changed his weapon with the twisted bayonet to the other shoulder and turned about. He paused at the same place he had before, turning again in Liam’s direction. “I am as miserable as you are, Sir. I march because it helps.”

“Would it be helping me if I march then?”

“My life has been dedicated to the King’s service. This is what I know. What is it, Sir, that you know?”

Liam studied the stars that emerged from between gray clouds. “M’life, Sir, has paused for war, both for England and for Erin. Although I had planned to set aside my weapon and kick about the football. I should be downing a jug of poteen right now, planting m’flax, shearing m’ sheep, and avoiding m’wife.”

“And if I were to believe all that had been said about the Irish, you should have fourteen or fifteen children, and never draw a sober breath.”

Liam crossed his arms before him. “No more than necessary. Sobriety that is. And don’t be mentioning wee one’s about Bridey. She’s still punishing me for getting blown up during her hunger strike. Not an easy recipe for breeding children.”

“Ah,” the Brit responded. “And you are the infamous Liam O'Brennigan.”

“You’ve heard of me?”

“I’ve had the pleasure of posting a guard on Mrs. O'Brennigan. I understand why you would try to avoid her at times.”

“Aye. She has a tongue sharper than m’sheep shears.” Liam nodded at the guard. “And you are?”

“Major Regional Smote Talbot. It has been my unfortunate honor to serve with this band of miscreants and blackguards who manned this outpost. The Crown formerly sent men like them off to penal colonies in Australia and South Africa.”

“Reginald, is it?” Liam studied the man. “You can be standing in the spray over there, Reginald, or you can come here and sit where it’s dry.”

The image faded beneath the fall out of a huge wave, and materialized moments later on the rock next to Liam. “It’s Reggie,” the man explained.

Liam took a mighty look at the image beside him. “And it seems to me we’ve been around before,” Liam commented.

“You do look familiar.”

“You wouldn’t by any chance know what happened to the likes of Michael Collins, Cathal Braga, oh, let’s see, Arthur Griffith or any of the others, would you?”

“The last thing I heard of your Michael Collins,” Reggie commented, “Was that he and Arthur Griffith had negotiated a settlement with the Crown for the disposition of Ireland.”

“Michael Collins is a saint,” Liam commented. He smiled, his chest expanding with pride. He shook his head after a moment. “He’s also a soldier. Eamonn De Valera is the head of the Sinn Fein. Negotiations belong to the politicians. Not the soldiers.”

“De Valera was head of the Sinn Fein. Apparently he wasn’t happy with the outcome. Stepped aside when Collins and Griffith agreed that the Northern six counties would remain with the British if they so voted, and that the rest of Ireland would become a free country.”

A great bubble of air that had been Liam’s pride exploded. “Oh, nay. Not Ulster. Michael Collins, the saint that he is, would never trade away Ulster. De Valera, the weasel that he is, maybe. Never Michael Collins….” Liam held his right hand straight out. “Michael Collins, mind you, shook that hand. A saint, he is. A hero, he is. He‘d never do such a thing as that.”

Link to Football? - 2