The first chapter

The evening shadows drew themselves about Finneran's Pub as a mantle drawn across a face, changing the familiar to the darkness of doubt. The buildings on this street were old, lacking in elegance what they made up for in mystery. These were the famous Old Streets of Belfast, the cobblestones had seen the passing of centuries, the brick walls whispered the secrets of generations and even the streetlamps glowed with their guarded knowledge of plot, purpose and espionage that pervaded this area.

Finneran's itself was a quiet building, standing back a pace from the sidewalk left it cowering in an alley all its own. As the old wood door was pushed open, leaving flakes of blue paint on the hand of the entrant, it revealed a scene of tempo driven madness. The calls for beer and whiskey echoed and re-echoed across the small room, filled beyond capacity by the most singular collection of patrons that the pub had seen in ages.

At first glance it was a swarm of Irishmen descended upon the small tavern for the purpose of celebrating the New Year, yet when one looked closer at the waitresses burdens the variety of the company stood out plainly. The pints slid down the bar to the old men who passed every evening with each other in this place, with no one left to turn to other than comrades in cups and tales of days gone by. Ales were borne across the doorway to the collection of English here for the New Years day match. Whiskey by the bottle flowed to the middle of the room and the waiting glasses of the younger Irishmen who loudly toasted the New Year, and less loudly the future of Erin's Isle, and muttered a curse at their English Governor. The collection of students across the back of the room was identified by bottles of Vodka for the Russians, Wine for the French, Schnapps, Grappa and Gin.

The friendly feeling in the room was weighted with tension as the time drained away, and the discrepancies between the English and Irish grew greater. The mutterings gained in volume, and became less veiled in meaning. Taunts began to fly back and forth between the crowds, with the travelers in the back of the room sitting quietly, hoping not to be noticed. The television showed a view of downtown London, where the crowds had gathered to count out the old year. The sight of a Union Jack flying in the square inspired one of the more passionate young Britons, who leapt to his feet and began singing 'God Save the Queen' at the top of his lungs. All of his comrades held their glasses aloft and chanted with him. When they had finished their final notes there was a thick silence in the room. Dozens of Irish eyes were locked on them, a quiet fire fanned by the passion of hate grew quickly until the blazing green could no longer be faced.

An old man at the end of the bar pushed off of his barstool and stood there teetering on the brink of balance. First quietly, in an unsteady voice, began the song. The old man looked firmly at the English as he began to swell with fervor, belting out the 'Rocky Road to Dublin'. A glass crashed against the bar near him, but he did not even pause for thought. Shouts rose from the front of the pub, and still the old man sang on. With a strangled cry the young one who began singing for the English sprang over a chair and backhanded the old man across the mouth, "You dogs'll have to learn that your howling is not wanted!"

In the silence that followed the group from the front stood and gathered around their mate. Up until this point their numbers had gone unnoticed, as had the relatively large size of most of them. With them all standing there in a group, however, it became quite apparent just how many and how large they were. The silence continued, as no solitary soul was willing to venture against so many strong men. The passionate one wiped his mouth with the same hand that had laid the old man low, he grinned evilly and muttered, "That's how you deal with dogs."

Even as he turned a voice raised itself and lilted across the tension to all ears, "Hunt the hare and turn him down the road and all the way to Dublin."

The young one whirled around to face the brave voice. It was an American. The American rose from his table and threaded his way towards the throng of angry Englishmen, all the while whistling and chuckling about a street fight in Edinburgh.

The Tommy cracked his neck and knuckles. Another grin passed across his face as he thought about how his fist would feel passing through this one's jaw. The American was right in front of him. There was an explosion from the Tommy's shoulder, and the American spun and fell onto a waiting table. With a laugh he raised a chair and brought it down across the American boy's back.

The American pushed himself to his feet and faced his attacker. The young one chuckled to him, "You should have stayed down." With a jerk he grabbed the American's lapels and drove his forehead towards his face. It never made it there. It was painfully slowly that he realized the American's hands had come up and pushed his own hands away. It was even more slowly that he saw the hands clench and sweep towards his face. This eternity occupied the half second it took the American to turn the situation and send the young Englander flying backwards into his comrades arms.

There was no hesitation on anyone's part. The American dove forward and buried another fist into the left eye of his foe. With a cry the Belfast boys finally moved and struck straight and true into the crowd of English. In less time than it takes to tell the English had been driven through the doors and windows of the pub.

Out in the street the fight continued to rage with the Tommys getting the worst of it. This attracted the attention of a pair of para-military enforcers down the block. They came swiftly running and began to lay about with their night sticks, driving the fighters apart. The trial was conducted on the spot, and there was never a chance for the defenders of Erin's honor. With a unanimous finger point the Englih identified the American who started the whole thing

The enforcers pulled him from the ranks of the irish, and with one blow from a club dropped him to his knees. The blows continued to rain down until the American fell prostrate on the cobblestones, blood flowing freely from several cuts. The enforcers ordered everyone back inside the pub, saying that they would take care of the offending individual. No mention was made of retribution for the Tommy who started the whole thing.

A stirring on the pavement behind them caused both enforcers to turn. The American had raised himself up to his knees again. With a grin that showed little but blood he began, "Come out you black and tans, come out and fight me like a man." The nearest enforcer stepped back and put all of his effort into swinging his club and the American's head. Before it could make contact though it was halted by the hand of the intended victim. The American twisted round and smiled into the enforcer's face, "Tell your wife how you won medals down in Flanders."

The second enforcer savagely cut at the head, but the head was no longer there. The American lunged forward into the knees of the first enforcer, a tearing pop echoed through the street at both knees gave way under the attack. The follow up too was ineffective as the American kicked like a mule, connecting solidly with one foot to create the pleasant sound of ribs breaking. A whirl and strike later the second enforcer crumpled to the pavement with a broken jaw.

The American, for so he was, though none yet knew it, turned to the crowd of dumbfounded Englishmen, "Tell your mothers, 'The Wild Geese have returned.'"