Goliath

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The sound of sporadic gunfire echoing through the narrow streets of Dublin sounded to ten-year-old Patrick Murphy like the rolling thunder from a summer storm brewing somewhere in the distance. Cautiously peering around a corner, he saw that the street was deserted. With a smile on his dirt-smeared face, he realized that his luck was holding.

For days, Irishmen fought one another as soldiers from both the Irish Republican Army and the Provisional Government battled for control of Dublin. Patrick looked back over his shoulder and waved to his brother sitting behind the wheel of a borrowed white paneled truck, O’Doul’s Butcher Shop emblazoned on the sides in large blue lettering. A moment later, Liam, Patrick’s older brother, waved back and drove to the corner before stopping to let him climb back on board the truck.

Sitting beside his brother was a man they had only met this morning. He wore a long gray trench coat and a cap pulled down low on his head. The man had short red hair and a stern-looking face. His name was Mister Lewis, or so he said, and that was all they needed to know. On the floor of the truck sat a large battered wooden box, Mister Lewis’ leg resting on top. His constant fidgeting with a pistol in his hands made Patrick uneasy. He had seen weapons before as his older brother was a volunteer with the government militia, but their passenger seemed overly nervous, as if expecting something to happen.

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