The Young Wan Read Online Free Page A

closing up the accounting rooms for the day when she heard what she thought might be gunfire. The sound of it seemed to be coming from the far side of the river Liffey. The north side.
     
     
     
    The one-legged man was spitting at the Tans as they dragged him from the small terraced house. The officer in charge of these bedraggled British militiamen was drunk. He screamed at the soldiers: “Hit the old beggar a few thumps, that’ll quieten the Fenian bastard.” They did, across the mouth, and with such force that the old man’s top and bottom lips burst simultaneously. For a moment the man lay quiet on the cobbles.
     
    “Toss him in the truck,” barked the officer. Two of the soldiers bent and turned the body of the old man over.
     
    “He’s dead, sir,” one of them pronounced.
     
    “Like fuck I am,” the dead man screeched and covered the soldier with now scarlet spit.
     
    “You fucking rebel bastard,” screamed the Tan. He began to beat the old man with the butt of his rifle. Two more soldiers now tried to drag the old man toward the rear of the truck; all the while the first one kept beating on him. In the back of the truck some other soldiers were laughing and jeering at the beater.
     
    “Hey, Corporal Oliver, having trouble with the prisoner? Lucky he ain’t got two legs, he’d be downright dangerous,” one called, and the others gave a bawdy laugh.
     
    “Piss off, you wankers,” Oliver called back, and now beat harder on the old man.
     
    The boy seemed to come from out of nowhere. One moment the soldiers had a clear way to the back of the truck, the next there was a young black-haired tan-skinned boy standing in front of them. The boy, Bosco Reddin, although just fourteen years old, was big enough to look eighteen. Bosco held a claw hammer in his right hand and a short, pointed saddler’s knife in his left. Before the first soldier had a chance to make out the hammer in the boy’s hand, it as buried in the man’s forehead. The soldier collapsed straight down. The second soldier dropped the old man and opened his mouth to scream while scrambling with his rifle. Too late. The swing of the hammer came in an arc and caught him in the temple. His left eye burst and he began to topple over. Before the second soldier had hit the ground, Corporal Oliver had the wooden butt of a saddler’s knife sticking from his throat and blood pouring from his mouth. The boy bent over the old man.
     
    “Daddy? I’m here, Daddy, can you hear me?” He sobbed. The old man opened his eyes. He touched the boy on the cheek.
     
    “Run, Bosco. Run, son,” were the old man’s only words.
     
    All of this happened in seconds. Soldiers were now pouring from the back of the truck. Rifles were cocked, and they jostled each other to get the space to extend their Brownings into a firing position. Young Bosco Reddin rolled under the truck. The soldiers now fell over themselves trying to get to the other side. But Bosco rolled just halfway, then came out the side he had entered and ran. It took a couple of seconds before the soldiers realized that Bosco was no longer under the truck.
     
    “There he is!” called one, pointing down the street.
     
    Bosco was running hard down the street toward the red brick wall that made his street a dead end. The wall was just six feet high, and Bosco had been vaulting it since he turned twelve years of age, two years ago. The wall was thirty yards from Bosco when the first volley of shots ricocheted well to his left side and behind him. Bosco knew they would adjust their aim to the right, so instinctively he darted to his left. He was correct. The next volley spat pieces of stone up on his right, but now the shots were abreast and ahead of him. Just ten yards to go. Bang, the next salvo came, and one bullet passed so close to Bosco’s ear that he heard it actually crack as it broke the air. The soldiers were shooting at will, and the officer was screaming at them. Bullets were