Dublin, Ireland - 1915

      A light rain misted the pavement as Sean strode east up Sackville Street. Rounding the corner at Parnell he halted at Number 75A. Thomas Clarke, tobacconist and stationer.
      Sean pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and swabbed at the moisture soaking into his heavy woolen jacket. He cast a look to his right and noted a tram scuttling along Dublin's divided thoroughfare. Multi-colored signs along the railing of its upper deck advertised the benefits of Fry's cocoa and Beckitt's Blue. Heavily loaded with passengers, the tram dipped and swayed along the cobbled street as it converged on Nelson's Pillar.
      He paused another moment to admire the sleek lines of a Silver Stream motor car stopped for foot traffic a few yards away. Its large spoke wheels bore the signs of much polish, and its lone passenger, a man of equal spit and polish, stared ahead with eyes fixed on the road. A toff, from the look of him.
      Sean snorted his disgust. Only the wealthy could afford a motor such as that. He'd seen one once in Cork. Its blue-green color had stood out as much as the liveried chauffeur behind the wheel. Sean had led the pack of boys up for a closer look until the owner, an Englishman, had shouted them away.
      Sean expelled a breath and switched his attention to the shop entrance and the meeting to which he had been summoned. He rapped sharply, slicked back his dripping hair, and waited. Something was up. His heart had leapt at the telegram and it fairly pounded now. Maybe they'd set a date for the Rising.
      A small, wiry man with a walrus moustache answered his knock. Tom Clarke, the Fenian leader himself.
      "MacSherry?"
      Sean inclined his head. He stepped through the doorway and followed the older man past shelves lined with jars of cut tobaccos, cigarettes, cheroots, and pipes.
      Clarke pushed open a door at the rear of the shop. Seated around a squat table was the Irish Republican Brotherhood's Supreme Council. A blue-white haze hovered above their heads, and Sean breathed in the pungent aroma of Turkish tobacco over the unmistakable--and to him unpleasant--sharp odor of smoldering coal.
      His gaze took in each face. Nearest the door he recognized Sean MacDermott--MacDiarmada as he chose to be called. Good looking, but frail, MacDiarmada was one of the hardest working men on the Council and a close friend of Clarke's. At the head of the table sat the group's leader Padraig Pearse. His brother Willie occupied the chair to his left. Lounging nearer the room's inadequate fireplace sat the tubercular Joseph Mary Plunkett, their military strategist. Each man nodded a greeting.
      MacDiarmada removed his cane from a chair. "Sit here," he said, pinning Sean with dark, intense eyes. "So, you're Galvan's man in Kilmalin. What's the news out of Wicklow these days?"
      Sean eased his body into the chair. His jaw tightened. This was no time for pleasantries, not when Ireland's future was at stake.
      He hid his impatience with a frown, according MacDiarmada only a brief smile. "Not much. The usual training. Trying to keep away from the Royal Irish Constabulary as much as possible." He clenched both hands. The green-uniformed policemen were nice-enough lads for the most part, doing a job. But the fact that they were there at all made his frustration mount. The police force was just another sign of England's hated presence.
      Careful, he cautioned himself. No time now to act the firebrand. Unlocking his fingers, he allowed a steadying breath before answering.
      "Not only the polis," Sean cautioned in a deliberately hushed tone, "but the Prods as well. Fellow by the name of Harris is after getting us picked up for whatever charge he can lay at our feet. I've taken the lads farther up Sugar Loaf for their artillery maneuvers so's not to attract attention."
      He continued his report to the assembled Council members, relieved at the approval in each man's face. He had spend the better part of his journey wondering if he would be accepted.
      "Any news from MacSwiney down in Cork?" Clarke asked abruptly.
      Sean thought of the oft-imprisoned man who had become head of the County Cork Volunteers earlier that year. "Terence is managin' to keep one foot ahead of the law."
      "And Galvan?" MacDiarmada questioned.
      Sean grinned. "He'd be here himself, but the foot is troublin' him still."
      MacDiarmada nodded his empathy, absently rubbing his own bad leg. Then he faced Sean, both hands resting on the head of his cane. "How many Volunteers can you guarantee?"
      He scanned each man's face again. A study in determination, no matter what the cost. Even though his lads numbered a handful, could he do less? His answer rang out. "Fifty from Kilmalin. Another twenty lads from the countryside."
      He filled in the Council members on what he knew and answered their questions. When he finished, he took a deep breath. A spirit of freedom moved in the room. He sensed it and pride surged through him. For the first time in years he allowed himself to bask in the camaraderie. Each man here wanted to hack away the manacles of English oppression as much as he. He knew freedom wasn't something you could touch. Yet tonight it seemed as palpable as the muscle in his arm. It rose in the air and swirled in his nostrils.
      He cast his gaze at Clarke, then at MacDiarmada and the others. Freedom burned in the gleam of each man's eye.
      "So, what's the plan from here?" he asked at last.
      "Casement's still in Germany, trying to set up an Irish brigade from among the prisoners," Pearse said in a hushed tone. "He's not meeting with much success, but we've assurance the arms will be available."
      "Twenty thousand Mausers and ammunition promised to Casement," Plunkett added, his high-pitched English accent setting him apart from the others. "The Germans guaranteed to deliver a week before."
      Sean whistled.
      "They're bringing a ship in off the Kerry coast," MacDiarmada added.
      Sean focused on the IRB chief. Though MacDiarmada moved about with a cane, he still managed to attend more meetings than anyone. According to Galvan, MacDiarmada had himself gone to Galway and Kerry to talk with the men.
      MacDiarmada pointed to Clarke. "Tom will see that every recruit has a rifle and ammunition within forty-eight hours of landing."
      Plunkett's eyes burned. "We've come this far-- there's no turning back now."
      Sean's gaze turned to the bespectacled Plunkett. "What are our chances?"
      Plunkett examined a large ring on his right index finger. He opened his mouth to speak, but a spasm shook him. He coughed into a linen handkerchief.
      Pearse broke in. "With everything working for us--everything--perhaps a twenty-five percent chance."
      Fear snaked up Sean's spine. "And, if things go amiss?" He swiveled toward Pearse. "What then?" His jaw tight, he waited in the hushed silence of the small room. He knew the answer even before he asked.
      Pearse rose from his seat. "Then, my friend, the only way to free Ireland will be by blood sacrifice."
      Sean stared hard at Pearse. He'd heard the schoolmaster's eulogy at O'Donovan Rossa's graveside. This was his first face-to-face encounter with the man the Supreme Council had decided would lead the new Irish Republic. Pearse embodied an otherworldly quality Sean found curiously at odds with the man's IRB stance. He was a playwright, a poet, and a schoolmaster. Still, no one could deny his courage.
      Sean fought down mounting apprehension. "Have you set a date?"
      Tom Clarke fingered the cheroot in his pocket. He made a show of examining the slim black roll. "We have," he said.
      He nipped off the end with his teeth, then stuffed it back in his pocket and fixed Sean with a penetrating gaze. "The Rising will take place at Easter."