BOSTON, UNITED STATES, JUNE 1865
The tall man entered without knocking and stood inside the door. “Call me Walsh.” He kept his hands deep in the pockets of his greatcoat. “Patrick Walsh.”
“Good evening Mr Walsh,” the bearded man at the head of the table said. “My name is General Thomas Sweeny. Close the door as you leave – this is a private meeting.”
“I know it is.” When Walsh spoke, the scar above his left eye visibly pulsated. “You are holding a meeting of the Brotherhood of Fenians.”
“The purpose of the meeting is not a secret.” Sweeny lifted a finger, and two men closed in on Walsh.
“Call off your dogs,” Walsh said. “I wish to join the Brotherhood.”
“Why?” Sweeny lifted his hand, stopping the progress of his men. They halted at once, one with his hand inside his jacket.
“I"ll sh
