I couldn’t stop myself from crying out in dismay when I saw that a child’s body lay on the bier a group of Mechanics carried. I hadn’t thought that any of the children had been mortally wounded, but I might have missed an internal injury. I fumbled for a handkerchief and clutched it against my mouth as I fought back tears.

The procession stopped directly in front of the general. He’d gone a horrible pasty color, with beads of sweat on his forehead that were visible even from where I stood within the crowd on the sidewalk.

A ragged, dirty woman with a shawl over her head emerged from the funeral party and approached the general. “How dare you?” she sobbed at the general in a heavy Irish brogue. “He was merely a child on a picnic, and your men fired upon him! Do you think we’re no better than animals?”

The woman’s voice was familiar. I stared at her for a long moment, then was glad I had my handkerchief over my mouth because I couldn’t stop from gasping in shock as recognition struck me. It was Lizzie! I turned to look at the body on the bier and realized that it was Mick, doing an admirable job of playing dead. Several of the older boys from the tenements surrounded the bier, barely fighting back smiles as they hung their heads in mock grief.

My relief quickly turned to anger. While British troops had indeed fired on children, this was a lie. Had that been their plan all along, to stir up an incident that they could then magnify to gain even more sympathy? Had they expected me to fall for the act and report on it?

The general took off his hat and held it against his heart. “Madam,” he said, inclining his head toward her, “you have my sincere condolences. I will investigate this incident thoroughly, and the men who broke discipline to fire upon children will be punished.”

“They ought to be!” she snapped. “And what were ye doin’ bringin’ soldiers to the park on a Sunday?”

Angry murmurs spread throughout the crowd. The general stammered for a moment, then addressed Lizzie. “Madam, please accept this token of our remorse for your loss. It should provide a good funeral for your boy and something for yourself.” His aide bent in his saddle to hand Lizzie several banknotes.

“But it won’t bring my boy back!” she wailed. Colin—also dressed in slumlike rags—stepped out of the funeral party to put his arm around her and lead her back to the group.

The general said something to one of his men, who then shouted at the assembled troops, “About-face!” The soldiers snapped about briskly.