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So I will write them here. I will write them myself, and I will not forget them. I do not wish to forget them. Let others speak of disturbances and returns and examples made. I will keep the names.

John Esmonde, 14 June.

Henry Munro, 18 June.

Matthew Keogh, 25 June.

Philip Roche, 25 June.

Bagenal Harvey, 28 June.

John Henry Colclough, 28 June.

Cornelius Grogan, 28 June.

Father John Murphy, 2 July.

Henry Sheares, 14 July.

John Sheares, 14 July.

Henry Joy McCracken, 17 July.

William Michael Byrne, 25 July.

And there are others besides, no doubt, whose names travel less swiftly than those of gentlemen, barristers, or priests, though they were no less brave, and are no less dead.

—Endure, and prevail.

R.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ROBERT

Wednesday, 1 August 1798

Keiss, Scotland

The Sinclair Family Home, Mòinteach na Fitheach

The Night of Lughnasadh

We’re only meant to be checking the borders.

It’s Lugh’s feast day, and we’ve been pulled away from warmth, drink, and comfort food for an errand that shouldn’t require three armed men. We’ve each had enough drink to feel it, not enough to be foxed, but enough that the damp evening air sits warm against my face and Alex is quieter than usual.

One of our elderly tenant farmers lost an animal or two. Slipped through a gate, vanished into the trees, and James decided it was better to look for tracks before night completely swallowed whatever evidence there was of the direction it went.

Alex keeps quiet about that until we reach the narrow pass where the ground turns soft and dark with water.

He glances sideways at James. “Why exactly did you ask us to come along?”

James doesn’t slow. “Because it’s nearly twilight, and I’ve no intention of trompin’ through the woods alone.”

Alex snorts. “One stray animal, and you’ve turned it into an expedition.”

I add, because it is worth pointing out, “Aye. This seems like a one-person job, James.”