Don't have any proof of this.
"My da always told me I'd end up on a scaffold one day," Declan says.
Martin murmurs the old song: "'Whether on Scaffold high, or the battlefield we die--'" More than once he has considered God's sense of humor in this matter, his climbing a scaffold nearly every day of his life when so many Irish rebels before him climbed a scaffold of a different sort on the last day of theirs. This one is made of pipes and planks, clinging to a grand house on a mountainside above Olean, New York, not far from the Pennsylvania border. Borders have been a big part of his life too: imaginary one enslaving his homeland, and the one he crossed in the trunk of a car to begin a new life in the land of the free. Today he considers God's sense of direction as well, the convoluted paths by which he and Declan have traveled separately from the back streets of Belfast where they were Volunteers in the Army together to the woods above Olean nearly twenty years on. Now Declan has become a respected politician, a Sinn Fein Councilor. And Francie has become Martin Browne.