“McGuire,”
a voice called out above the normal din as the deck gang shed their
rain gear in the overcrowded crew’s quarters. “I need
to speak with you for a moment.”
It was the vessel’s Master at Arms. The Ares was now alongside
the pier and the ship had begun the transition from sea to port watches.
“McCauley’s down for the count—some sort of bug—and
I have to take him off the roster for tonight’s patrol. Sean,
I need you to take his place. I know it’s a miserable night,
but I’ll try to make it up to you the next time in.”
Just another night, Sean thought, why the hell not. Normally he hated
patrolling the narrow streets near the docks, but it came with the
territory. It had something to do with easing the army’s burden,
he’d heard. With this weather there’ll be no one hanging
about anyway, and at worst I’ll have something to occupy my
mind.
“I’m all right with it, Chief,” Sean said. “I’m
always up for a walk in the Irish rain.”
The light rain fell steadily as the patrol assembled. As usual there
weren’t many of them, nine to be exact: eight sailors and Dusty
Miller, the Duty Chief Petty Officer in charge.
“You’ll walk point, Sean,” the Chief said. “Leading
Seaman Hughes will watch the rooftops. Stay alert. But it’s
a soft night so we’ll probably not come across any problems.”
The streets of the area they patrolled were not only narrow but also
quiet and dark; the falling rain made them seem darker still. The
patrol moved silently, each man carrying his own thoughts as they
followed the planned circuitous route.
Turning a corner, Sean saw before him the long section of street the
men called “the near point.” It was the place where they
felt they were almost home. In the distance a streetlamp shone, marking
where he would turn to approach the route’s final leg. Halfway
to the corner, adding to the loneliness of the rain-soaked street,
the soft glow of a table lamp made its way past a curtained window
to light the sidewalk below.
Routine, he thought. Why on earth are we out here anyway? Anybody
who’d be up to anything certainly wouldn’t want to be
running around in the rain to do it.
Sean McGuire didn’t hear the crack, when this small part of
Northern Ireland’s troubles left the gun barrel. The bullet’s
impact knocked him to the street where he lay face down, watching
a rivulet of rainwater glisten in the streetlight while it ran between
the cobblestones. He heard shouts and the sound of boots hitting the
roadway as his comrades scattered, hiding themselves in the musty
doorways.
“Man down,” someone shouted, “man down!”
Nothing made sense.