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of Lord Bantry’s land, thirty miles south of the wreck they’d heard about across the bay near the town of Glengarriff.
    The man groaned, tossed one way then back the other, muttering something she couldn’t make out. She put down her sewing and went to his side. He was a big one, this stranger her Ian had brought home. A giant of a man with fair blond hair that was etched with gray. He had frightful marks upon his pale body. It was almost as if he had received the mark of Cain, the reddish purple feathered lines on his arms and chest were like trails of angry lightning breaking up the sky.
    “Tara . . . “
    He had uttered that one word many times in the past hours. Not once had he opened his eyes. As he was found so far from the wreck they could scarce believe he was one of the seamen, yet he was a stranger to these parts. A giant such as he would not travel long in the land unnoticed. It was possible his body drifted south with the currents, or he may not have any connection with the wreck further north. They wouldn’t know until he himself could tell them his sad tale.
    Doc Riley had looked in on him for the price of her best laying hen. He cautioned them to keep the man’s presence a secret until they could learn his identity. He might be a messenger from Lord Fitzgerald in Dublin with news of the planned uprising this spring.
    The wind howled outside, rattling the door and window with eerie fingers. Annie pulled the woolen shawl tighter about her.
    “Tara--no--don’t touch the transmitter --”   The man sat bolt upright, his blue eyes laced with terror as he struggled with the covers in his delirium.
    “There, ye be safe, stranger. Lie back and let Annie give you some warm broth.”
    “Tara, where is she?” The raspy voice pleaded.
    “That I Cannae’ say. My man fished you out of the sea. Thought you was dead, he did, so still did ye lie. Then, when he laid you in the boat, ye turned about and sat up. Took five years off his life, I’ll be bound. Thought it was the Day of the Lord with the dead rising up from their graves.” 
    The stranger merely gazed at her with dazed pale blue eyes. Ah, so blue, they made the sky pale in their brilliance. The soft lines about his face told her that he had seen much in his journey through life.
    “I’m Annie O’Ryan, man. You’ve been in our cottage for three days, in the sleep of death. We’ve no news of a lass found in the wreckage, if that be your Tara. Are you a survivor of the Mercy ?”
    A blank look was his response.
    “The ship that crashed on the Garnish Point, man. We found you by the grace of the Almighty, you and none others.”
    “It was the storm, the lightning struck . . .” The stranger faltered, having run out of breath.
    “Aye, they say lightning struck the mast and the high waves from the gale forced the vessel upon the rocks. All hands went down. Bantry Bay is famous for her treacherous seas. Back in ‘96, the whole French fleet was forced to turn back when a gale swept most of their ships out to sea, and nary a soldier set foot on land.”
    The stranger sat up slowly, leaning on one arm for support. “ French fleet?” He muttered with confusion, rubbing his beard. He looked about the room, blinked, rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hands and looked about him again.
    “Aye, the French. Lord White, was just Squire White in those days, but he rallied his men and sent a warning to the English in Cork. Might know, his family came here from England fifty years ago. Why, perish the thought of an Irishman turning in his lot with our conquerors.”
    The man waved his hand at her, frowning as he dismissed her words. “I served in Iraq in the First Gulf War. Since then, Iraq and Afghanistan have been the main theaters of action. The French ? What the hell are you babbling about, woman.”
    “Ach, ‘tis a sad tale. Wolfe-Tone, he convinced the French to aid us, and the invasion was set for December of ‘96. As I said, a gale