Chapter Thirty-Two #2
The tall, lanky boy whose shotgun wounds she’d treated stood near the back door. His light jacket was buttoned up to his neck,
his cap was in his hand, his arm was in a sling that looked like it had been fashioned from somebody’s shirt and a rifle was
slung over his uninjured shoulder. He was, in general, dirty and disheveled and exhausted looking.
Mrs. Frampton and Cyril crouched at his feet.
As she came around the table, Rynn saw why.
Another boy, sturdily built with bright red hair, lay stretched out on his back on the floor.
Alfie Clary.
“Oh, thank God!” Dizzy with relief, Rynn dropped to her knees beside him. Owen, Moira, Tim—all of them would be overjoyed.
She did a quick visual examination even as her fingers went to the pulse below his ear. It was rapid, but not terrifyingly
so. His skin was hot to the touch: fever. He was clearly unconscious. A bloody gash above his left temple that extended into
his hair accounted for the dried blood that smeared his face and caked his hair, she thought. As she unbuttoned his coat,
the shoulder area of which was dark with blood, she looked up at the other boy. He was sitting now, in one of the kitchen
chairs that had been pulled out for him by Cyril, while Mrs. Frampton handed him a glass of milk, which he drank thirstily.
His rifle lay at his feet.
“Is there food?” he asked.
Mrs. Frampton nodded and turned to the icebox.
“What happened?” Rynn asked him. Alfie was missing his shirt, Rynn found as she got his coat open.
Caked with blood, the shirt had been clumsily wrapped around his left shoulder and upper chest to act as a crude bandage.
Its knotted sleeves held it in place. “Where have you been? Where are the others?”
“We were up near Carraig’s Rock practicing our drills like we do when a lorry full of Tans came by and spotted us. They jumped
out and started shooting. Alfie and I ran one way. Mr. Mulligan, Ian and Robbie ran the other. They caught those three and
took them away.” Finishing the milk, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve and looked worriedly at Alfie. “Alfie fell into a gulley
when he got shot, and I went down after him and we hid there while they looked for us. He’s not going to die, is he?”
“No.” Rynn was—almost—certain. Alfie had taken a bullet to the left thigh, too, she discovered. The wound was bound by a ripped-up,
blood-caked pair of drawers. As Alfie was still wearing his, they had to be someone else’s. She spared a quick glance for
the other boy, who clearly was in far better shape than Alfie.
“You must be Jack,” she said, and he nodded. “How badly are you hurt this time?”
The slightly caustic note to her voice as she said that last was because, clearly, for him to have gotten shot in two separate
incidents he had to have been doing more than “practicing his drills.” The illegal rifle was more incriminating evidence.
He looked abashed. “Took a bullet to the arm, is all. It hurts like—it hurts, but it’s not so bad. Not like him. I had to
carry him on my back every time we moved. He’s a heavy one, too.”
“I’d say that makes you a hero, then,” Cyril said.
“Nah. He’s my friend. I couldn’t leave him.”
Mrs. Frampton set a plate of cold meat in front of him. Picking up a piece, he bit into it hungrily.
Any more questions could wait for later. Rynn looked at Cyril. “We need to get them down to the cellar so I can treat them
properly. And we should telephone Major Maguire at the Great Northern Hotel—”
“I knew that was his car I saw,” Jack interrupted excitedly. “That’s a ripping machine! It’s why I decided to try to bring us in out of hiding tonight. If Alfie’s uncle’s here, he’ll fix everything so we’re all right.”
Jack’s faith in Owen was touching. The funny thing was, Rynn shared it.
“I don’t know about telephoning Major Maguire,” Cyril said uneasily. “I don’t think we want the operator hearing what we have
to say.”
Of the few telephones in Bundoran, Ballyshannon Court and the Great Northern Hotel each had one. Unfortunately, Cyril was
right: the operator could listen in.
“We’ll leave it for now. Let’s get them to the cellar.”
It was an effort—carrying Alfie down the stairs was no easy task—but they managed it. Rynn had Mrs. Frampton help her get
his coat off before Alfie was deposited on a cot and piled with blankets to help warm him up. Meanwhile, Cyril was dispatched
to pull the medicines and supplies needed to treat both boys from the shelves. Anna was so excited to see Alfie and Jack safe
that she was practically jumping up and down. Rynn sent her upstairs for hot water while she administered a painkiller and
set up an IV to get fluids into Alfie. The other patients perked up, talking among themselves as they watched the goings-on
with interest.
While she waited for Anna to return, Rynn checked Jack’s wound. As he’d said, he’d taken a bullet to the arm, the outer fleshy
part of his upper arm just below his shoulder. The bullet had passed through, and the wound itself was not serious, unless
infection should set in. The shoulder and arm were swollen and sore and would need to be disinfected, which she did before
bandaging him up again. When Anna returned with the hot water, Rynn set her to gently sponging the dried blood from Alfie’s
wounds
“We need to let Major Maguire know Alfie’s been found and he’s here,” Rynn said to Cyril.
“Do you think you could drive over to the Great Northern Hotel and tell him in person, or, if he isn’t there, leave a message for him, saying nothing about Alfie in case the message should fall into the wrong hands, but just asking him to come see me? The three of us can manage here.”
Cyril nodded. “The major will be that glad to get the news.”
“Likely there’ll be roadblocks everywhere.” Mrs. Frampton had worry in her eyes as she looked at Cyril. “They’re still hunting
Francis Gerard, don’t you know.”
“I’ll be careful. Besides, a man can go into town if he wants to, can’t he? It’ll just be me in the car, nothing to cause
concern at all.”
With that, he left, and Mrs. Frampton went upstairs to find fresh clothes for the new arrivals as Rynn disinfected Alfie’s
wounds. Mrs. Frampton returned with nightshirts for both and started helping Jack into one while Rynn set about suturing Alfie’s
head wound. As she worked, Rynn considered the difficulty involved in removing the bullets from his shoulder and thigh. The
thigh would be—
The sound of heavy footsteps running across the kitchen floor and then the cellar door being flung open interrupted her thoughts
and had her looking up sharply in that direction. Moving faster than she would have ever thought he could, Cyril came galumphing
down the stairs.
“The Tans are coming! Two lorries full of ’em, rolling up the drive!” he gasped. “They’ll be on us in a trice.”