was to open fire on him.”
“We couldn’t hit him, you know, Mick,” says she, “on account of his
flag of thruce, for that’s agen the thirty-nine articles of war.”
“I know that,” says Mike; “but in spite of all the rules and
regulations, if you only said the words in time I’d have let fly the
biggest cannon-ball on the premises at the dirty rapscallion.”
“It’s a pity you waited for ordhers,” says she.
“I wouldn’t,” says Mike, “only I knew how hard you wor on any one
in your employ breakin’ the thirty-nine articles, an’ firin’ wudout
ordhers is even worse than disregardin’ a flag of thruce, accordin’
to Cocker.”
“Well, now,” says the Countess, “I’ll give you my ordhers fair an’
square.”
“I’m all attintion,” says Mike, touchin’ his cap.
“Crummle—oh, the dirty ruffian!” says she. “I can scarcely mention
his name wudout gettin’ a taste in my mouth.”
“I don’t wondher at that,” says Mike; “but have heart, my lady. We’ll
give him a dose that he won’t recover from in a hurry. There’s no
time to lose, however, ma’am,” says he, “so the sooner you give your
commands, the sooner I’ll be able to make preparations accordin’ly.”
“You’re a dutiful man, Mike,” says the Lady Catherine. “Crummle’s
sure to bring his throops up undher the walls this very day, an’ my
ordhers are first and foremost to keep firin’ at him until the guns
are red-hot.”
“That won’t be long, I fear,” says Mike, intherruptin’ her, “for most
of ’em is as thin as the plates of a cargo steamer.”
“You can only do your best,” says she; “an’ while they’re coolin’
you have free permission from me to pour boilin’ wather, and melted
butther, an’ red-hot nails, an’ hot stirabout, an’ any mortial thing
you can think of, down atop of the sogers, for I’ll not thrate the
scoundhrels any longer accordin’ to the thirty-nine articles.”
“I’ll prepare to carry out your ordhers to the best of my judgment,”
says Mike. “An’ now, ma’am,” says he, “I’m afeard you’ll be catchin’
cowld on the battlements, an’, maynin’ no offence, you’re dhressed
light for such a dhraughty spot as this.”
“You’re right, Mike,” says she, shruggin’ her showldhers; “but
sure it went out of my head complately that I hadn’t the ordinary
complement of clothes on me. I hopes you’ll excuse me.”
“Don’t mintion it, ma’am,” says he. “To tell you the truth” (for Mike
was fond of a joke), says he, puttin’ his hand on a barrow-load of
ammunition, “I thought you mistook this for a ball-room.”
“’Tis a dhroll man you are,” says she, laughin’ back at the head
gunner; an’ wud that she thripped down the stairs like a grasshopper
to her dhressin’-room.
Then Mike Morrissey set to work. He got the guns charged wud powdher
to the muzzles, an’ he lit a big fire on the top of the battlements,
an’ planted a great three-legged iron pot atop of the fire. An’
afther that he ordhered the cook to come up from the kitchen an’ look
afther the boilin’ of the ingraydients to heave down on the inemy.
When the cook an’ himself had everything in full swing, Mike says to
her, quite innocent-like,—
“Bridget, _alanna_! will you go down to the misth’ess an’ ax her for
the kays of the cellar?”
“You know well, Mike,” says the cook, “that to ax Lady Catherine that
same would be as much as my place ’ud be worth!”
“Bad luck to it!” says Mike. “I think ye’re all in laygue wud her
to keep me from my rights, an’ if a dhrop in raison isn’t wan of my
rights, I dunno what is. Go on now, Bridget,” says he, puttin’ his
hand tindherly on her showldher. “Sure if you only thried you cud
coax herself out of the kays, or maybe get a howld of ’em unbeknownst
to her?”
“’Deed an’ I won’t thry for to do anything of the sort, Mike
Morrissey,” says Bridget, tossin’ her head; “an’ ’tis surprised at
you I am to ax me to do the like.”
“An’ what in the name of mischief am I to do for a pint now an’ again
while the inemy is undher the walls?”
“There’s lashin’s of soda-wather and lemonade in the lardher,” says
the cook.
“Is there?” says Mike in a jeerin’ voice; “an’ do you think I’d
desthroy my inside wud soda-wather an’ lemonade to plaze the whims
of a parcel of conthrairey women? Stop!” says he, an idaya sthrikin’
him. “How many bottles of this hogwash are below?”
“Twelve dozen of aich,” says the cook.
“Bring the lot up here,” says Mike.
“Man alive!” says she, “sure you’re not goin’ to swally the contints
of twenty-four dozen bottles! Is it a gas-retort you thinks you are?”
“Ax me no questhions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” says the head
gunner. “But do my biddin’, Bridget, for I’m first in command now,
afther herself, of coorse; an’ committin’ mutiny is a sayrious
offence agen the articles of war.”
“Are we undher martial law now?” axes the cook.
“We are,” says Mike; “an’ though ’twould give me a great turn to do
the like, maybe ’tis dhrive me to suspend you by the habeas corpus
you would; so you’d best look alive about that twenty-four dozen,
Bridget, my darlin’.”
Begor, the poor cook ran down the stairs before the last words were
well out of Mike’s mouth, an’ Mike walked up an’ down the battlements
as grand as if he wor a lance-corporal of militia. There was a
smile on the corners of his mouth, too, an’ says he to himself,
“That’ll kill two birds wud the wan stone. Twenty-four dozen makes
two hundhred an’ eighty-eight by the multiplication table, or I’m no
scholard; an’ I’m able to break the cup at Aunt Sally two times out
of three at the long range. Now, standin’ up here, ’twill go hard
if I can’t do as well as that at the inemy, for ’tis nearly right
undher me they’ll be. That’ll be nigh on to two hundhred skulls I
ought to crack wud the bottles. An’ the best of the joke,” laughs
Mike, “will be that ’twill exhaust all the teetotal dhrink in the
castle, an’ nothing will be left but the rale Simon Pure that’s
locked up in the cellar, so Lady Catherine will have to fork out the
kays when the fun wud Crummle is over.”
It wasn’t long until all the faymale sarvints in the place—an’ ’twas
a great sighth of ’em there was, too—were mountin’ the stairs to the
battlements wud the soda-wather an’ lemonade. Mike showed the girls
where to pile the bottles, an’ then he dismissed ’em, cook an’ all;
“for,” says he, “it won’t do to have me disthracted wud petticoats
when the heat of the work is on me, an’ besides,” says he, winkin’
at the girls, “though I know ye’d like to keep me company here, and
though I’d sooner be gazin’ at yer purty figures than at the grandest
cannon-piece ever forged, still we have our duty to perform to our
employer, an’ there ’ud be a hundhred times more danger from the
inemy if they caught a glimpse of ye up here, for ’tis death on the
women Crummle an’ his sogers are, an’ they’d go through fire an’
soda-wather,” says he, “to massacray ye.”
As soon as he got rid of the women, who wor all in love wud Mike for
his bein’ such an iligant spayker, the head-gunner thought he’d pay
wan last visit round the castle walls, an’ see that everything was
snug an’ tidy.
He found all the study, thrained men ready at their guns, an’ a whole
pile of ’em that had no guns to ’tend wor exercisin’ themselves in
various ways. Some of ’em wor hard at it wud the gloves, an’ more of
’em wor sparrin’ in airnest wud their shut fists; some of ’em wor
fencin’ wud swoords; an’ more wor busy wud the bay’net dhrill.
But wan thing the head-gunner saw on his rounds didn’t plaize
him at all, at all. He found a handful of lazy chaps playin’
hide-an’-go-seek wud some of the flighty girls out of the churnin’
department.
Whin they heard Mike Morrissey’s thread along the corridors, they
forewent the game, an’ purtended to be havin’ a sham battle wud the
inemy. Of coorse Mike twigged what the play-boys wor ralely doin’, so
afther ordherin’ the women to the lower raygions, he gathered all the
men, good an’ bad, together, an’ says he,—
“’Tis fine warriors ye are intirely. I’ll have a leather medal
sthruck for the whole ridg’ment of sham-fighters. An’ now,” says
he, “as ye’ve proved yerselves so fond of warfare that ye must be
sham-battlin’ before even Crummle’s van gets over the brow of
yondher hill, I’ll see ye gets the merit due to ye for bravery and
industhry. Now,” says Mike, “let every warrior that took part in the
raycent sham-battle wud the faymales stand out in the middle of the
flure here an’ howld up his hand.”
Every wan of the _omadhauns_ that was larkin’ wud the girls rushed
from all sides into the middle of the flure at Mike’s words, an’ ’tis
a lazy lot of bla’guards they wor, too, but of coorse they worn’t
beyond takin’ a reward, whether they desarved it or no.
“My brave an’ thrusted warriors,” says Mike, “let every mother’s son
of ye march sthraight up to the top of the battlements at the word
of command, an’ ye’ll larn there what rale warfare manes, an’ what a
dirthy thrick it was to be playin’ children’s games whin ye thought
my back was turned. Now, warriors,” says he, “go where glory waits
ye. Quick march, up to the top, where ye’ll have full opportunity of
playin’ hide-an’-go-seek wud the inemy’s shot an’ shell.”
Begor, ’twas a sighth to see the long faces of the lazy brigade whin
they larned what their reward was to be; an’ every man, from the
slathers that worked on the roof in time of peace to the shoe-blacks
on the flure of the kitchen, felt that he had a supayrior general in
the head-gunner, an’ that there was no use in thrying to desayve him
or mislade him.
Whin Lady Catherine heard how Mike Morrissey had sarved the play-boys
by sindin’ them to the most exposed an’ dangerous part of the
buildin’, she was in great glee.
“Ah!” says she, to the parlour-maid who brought her the news, “sure
I always towld ye there was the makin’s of a Bonyparte in Mike. I’d
back him agen all the Emperors of the Rooshias if he’d only become a
teetotaller; but ’tis my private belief,” says she, “that he’d dhrink
a brewery dhry if he came across wan on the road to the campaign, an’
of coorse there ’ud be no hope for a general that ’ud dhrink as hard
as that.”
“I suppose not, your ladyship,” says the parlour-maid; “but Mike, I
think, isn’t as fond of the hard stuff as yerself makes him out to
be.”
“You don’t know him as well as I do, my girl,” says the Countess.
“I gives him only very bare wages, an’ it isn’t out of stinginess I
don’t rise his salary, but I know by his eye that the want of the
money is the only thing keeps him from makin’ a baste of himself
daily. Much as he’s attached to the family, I’d lay a wager he’d sell
the pass on us all if he wor ralely bent on a spree, and couldn’t get
a dhrink except by threachery.”
“I’m surprised to hear you spake like that of him,” says the
parlour-maid, who had a sthrong regard for the head-gunner; “an’
sure, ma’am, if that’s the case,” says the girl, “wouldn’t it be
betther to take temptation out of his road, an’ give him the run of
the cellar when he’s inclined that way?”
“I’d die rather than give in to dhrink,” says the Countess. “All my
ancesthors died in the horrors, an’ I’ve detarmined I’ll be the first
of the family that ever made a stand-up fight agen the daymon of
dhrink.”
Just as the Countess got the words out of her, in walks Mike
Morrissey.
“I came to inform you,” says he, bowin’ to her ladyship, “that the
inemy has hove in sighth. Their van was just sthrugglin’ over the
brow of the hill beyant whin I rushed down to give you the first
news.”
“Did you notice, Mike,” axes the Countess, “if it was a hired van?”
“Well, I partly guess that it isn’t,” says Mike; “for it have ‘Oliver
Crummle’ chalked in big letthers on the side of it. I seen ’em
through the telescope.”
“Then he manes business,” says the Countess; “because if it wor only
just a detachment of his throops he was sendin’ here, he’d hire a van
by the hour, but sendin’ his own private van proves that the flower
of his army is follyin’ up behind.”
“Begor, your ladyship shows great knowledge intirely of the art of
war. Do you think, ma’am, that Crummle himself is in the van?” axes
Mike.
“I doubts it,” says the Countess. “Kings as a rule rides in the van
when they’re goin’ to the battle-field, but Crummle bein’ so hard
agen kings isn’t likely to do as royalty does. However,” says she,
“it won’t be any harm to send a few shots into the body of the van as
soon as it comes wudin range. If ’twill do us no good, ’twill do us
no harm.”
“I will, ma’am,” says Mike. “An’ now,” says he, “I must go to my
perch on the battlements, an’ I won’t bother you again until the
siege is over. You’d betther make the shutthers fast,” says he,
“before the row begins. I lined ’em with sheet iron yesterday, an’ if
you stretches a confedherate blanket across ’em you’ll be as safe an’
as comfortable here as if the battle was forty mile off.”
An’ wud that Mike wint out of the Lady Catherine’s apartments and got
up to the top of the battlements again, three steps at a time.
“Is the stirabout on the boil?” says he to the boys that wor standin’
round the pot.
“’Tis at a white heat, sir,” says they.
“Well, keep it to that,” says he, “and when the time comes, I’ll tell
ye how to manœuvre wud it.”
There was only wan gun fixed on the top of the battlements, an’ of
coorse Mike tuk charge of this himself. There wasn’t much more than a
few rounds of powdher an’ shot for aich of the cannons; but Mike knew
how to nurse what little ammunition he had, an’ indeed he depinded
more on the situation of the castle, an’ on the dodges he had in his
mind, than on perishable articles like lead an’ gunpowther.
“Of coorse I know,” says he to himself, “we must cut a dash wud the
cannons in the start, or Crummle might get it into his head ’twas
a purty aisy job to knock the daylights out of us, but my private
belief is that the turnin’ point of the sthruggle will be whin
I’m pourin’ the hot stirabout on the sogers an’ peltin’ ’em wud
the bottles. Naaturally they’ll think we’re keepin’ the ord’nery
ingraydients of warfare in reserve, an’ are only havin’ a play wud
’em in the start. An’ now,” says he, “to send the first box of a shot
into ould Crummle’s van!”
So wud that he shut wan eye an’ gauged the lie of the gun wud the
other, an’ thin he struck a match and laid it on the touchhole. As
soon as the smoke cleared away, he puts his spyglass on top of the
copin’ of the battlements an’ takes a look at the van, an’ sure
enough ’twas a good offer he made at it, for there was a big roundy
hole right in the centre of the van, that you cud see the daylight
at the other side through.
“If Oliver is there,” says Mike, wud a grin, “I’d lay a wager his
insurance policy is purty near due.”
By this time there was a great sighth of sogers on horseback and on
fut, marchin’ down the hill which faced the aist side of the Castle
at full speed. They wor all in the rear of the van a good bit, an’
Crummle himself on a black charger was headin’ ’em.
“Halt awhile,” says he at the top of his voice, when he saw Mike
Morrissey’s shot go clane through the van. “This is the divil’s own
start intirely, boys,” says he, “to have the van complately disabled
at the first shot from the Castle! Maybe it sthrikes ye now how
much better I am than any of these bosthoons of kings ye’ve been
strugglin’ undher for ages. If I stuck to their custom of ridin’ in
the van, look at the fix ye’d all be in! for of coorse I’d be knocked
into minced meat by this, an’ ye’d have to rethrate in disordher
wudout gettin’ even a chance of wipin’ the inemy off the face of the
earth. Now, before a panic saizes ye at the disasther to the van,
let all of ye that are on fut take a good mouthful of fresh air into
yer lungs, an’ as soon as I gives ye the word make wan rush down the
hill an’ surround the castle on all sides. I’ll keep the horse-sogers
around me here for a body-guard. There’s no use in wastin’ powdher
and shot on the walls, but thry yer livin’ best to scramble up the
sides, an’ I’ll give a hundhred pound to whoever brings me the head
of that insultin’ virago of a woman that owns the place, an’ fifty
pound for the head of the gunner that desthroyed my new van. Now
boys, I’ll say no more. Ye’re thrained men, an’ ye all knows yer
work, an’ so I’ll merely conclude by actin’ accordin’ to the ordinary
rules an’ regulations of war, an’ readin’ the Riot Act, an’ of coorse
ye know that manes ye’re to give no quarther.”
So Crummle takes a roll of paper out of his pocket an’ he read out
the Riot Act, an’ the moment he came to the last word, the standin’
army sets up a shout an’ rushes down the hill headlong.
Mike Morrissey was watchin’ all the manœuvres of Crummle through his
spyglass.
“It’s just playin’ into my hands they are,” says he, “an’ I’ll change
my original tactics to suit their convaynience. I suppose he’s afther
tellin’ ’em not to throw away their ammunition by firin’ it at Don
Isle Castle, an’ that their only chance is to board us in the regular
ould pirate style. ’Tis aisier said than done though,” says Mike, wud
a chuckle, “an’ I’ll give ’em some saysonin’ in their soup when they
starts at thryin’ to scramble up the walls.”
“Did ye get the fire-buckets ready, boys?” says he, turnin’ to the
contingent round the big iron pot.
“We did, sir,” says they.
“An’ are ye prepared now to pass the buckets along an’ to keep up the
steam until I counthermands ye?”
“We are, sir,” says they.
“Very well,” says Mike. “They’re purty nearly at the walls now, so
look alive with the buckets. You know how I insthructed ye to conduct
yerselfs, an’ if ye wants to rethreive yer lost honour, ye’ll carry
out my ordhers to the letther.”
“We will, sir,” says they.
“Ready!” says Mike; an’ at the word the first bucket of hot stirabout
was filled.
“Presint!” says Mike; an’ aich man passed the bucket along to a
neighbour until it rayched the farthermost corner of the battlements
of the castle.
Mike went on, “Ready—Presintin’” until every warrior in the castle
had a bucketful of red-hot stirabout, an’ by that time the sogers
below wor startin’ to scramble up the walls.
“Fire!” says Mike, wud a shout like the screech of a railway thrain;
an’ from all sides an’ quarthers of the castle a hailstorm of hot
stirabout was discharged atop of the red-coats below.
Such screamin’ an’ bawlin’ you never heard in your life before as
came from the army at the fut of the castle! Down they dhropped
from the foundations like youngsthers caught robbin’ an orchard, an’
there they lay rowlin’ an’ writhin’ an’ yellin’ in the thrench at the
bottom of the castle.
“Now,” says Mike, “that’s breakfast! an’ while we’re gettin’ lunch
ready for the second rank that’ll attack us, let wan of ye run along
the battlements an’ give ordhers to have all the guns discharged
simultaneous, an’ while the smoke is thick we’ll prepare the second
coorse of stirabout.”
So the guns in the castle wor fired, an’ the racket they made nearly
drove Crummle out of his mind.
“’Tis rotten wud ammunition they are!” says he to his head-general.
“Why, you might as well be at a smokin’-concert as standin’ here
dhrawin’ in the fumes of their cannonadin’. I have a head on me like
an accordion from the noise an’ the smoke.”
“Begor,” says the head-general, “it reminds me of a fog in the
Channel, for I can’t see as far as the horse’s head.”
“I think we’ll have to dismount the horse-sogers,” says Crummle, “an’
let them have a fling at the walls, for if the second rank of fut
sogers is desthroyed wud that new spaycies of war matayrial they’re
heavin’ over the battlements; there’ll be no knowin’ what’ll become
of us at all. Maybe ’tis a civil war ’ud break out agen me.”
As soon as the smoke cleared away the second rank of the standin’
army wor rallied by their officers, an’ they made a start to get up
the walls, but Mike was just in time for ’em, an’ he gev ’em the
second coorse of stirabout as hot as the first.
There wor only wan more rank of fut sogers left afther this, for
every man jack of the first an’ second rank was that scalded an’
burned that he couldn’t lift a hand, let alone scale a wall or pull
a thrigger; an’ Crummle was in the mischief’s own state of mind,
fearin’ that the last reserve of his standin’ army ’ud kick agen
makin’ a thry at the walls.
So he says to his head-general, “We’d best go down to the butt of the
castle ourselves wud the mounted dhragoons to give the third rank
courage to start on the attack.”
He was about to sing out the ordhers when again came a full discharge
of cannon from the castle, wud more smoke an’ fire even than before.
“Begor,” says Crummle, nearly chokin’, “’tis well we’re out of rayche
of that discharge, or they’d be a power of widows an’ orphans at
home this day. I wondhers how it is,” says he, “that they were able
to knock a hole in the van an’ not be able to rayche us wud the
cannon-balls now. There’s some dodge in this, believe me.”
You see the thruth of it was there was only wan gun in the castle
that could carry a shot any distance at all, and that was Mike’s own
private cannon: the rest of the pieces were so much wore out that
they worn’t a _thranneen_, so far as dischargin’ shot an’ shell was
concarned.
None of the family of Don Isle ever thought any invadher ’ud be rash
enough to thry an’ take the castle from ’em, an’ they didn’t think
it worth while to ordher a new stock of cannons. Of coorse Crummle
didn’t know this, an’ he thought ’twas only some dodge to dhraw him
on to desthruction. However, his blood was up, an’ as soon as he got
the smoke from Mike’s guns out of his throat, he ordhers the horse
sojers to throt down to their comrades.
Mike Morrissey by this time was busy gettin’ ready the third an’
last coorse of stirabout, an’ thin he knew he’d have to start at the
soda-wather.
Well, down rode the mounted dhragoons wud Crummle at their head, an’
’twas as much as Mike could do to keep his hands off his private
cannon an’ have a thry for to kill Crummle. “However,” says he to
himself, “it wouldn’t do to miss him, an’ my hand is a thrifle
unstudy now, an’ as I have only the wan shot left, I’ll resthrain
meself until I gets him standin’ right undher me, an’ thin, maybe, I
won’t make a cockshot of him! Now, boys,” says he, “the third rank is
rallyin’ for a charge. Is the stuff on the boil?”
“It is, sir,” says the men.
“Thin, Mike wint through the manœuvres wance more, an’ for the third
time the inemy was dhriven off the walls shriekin’ and bawlin’ worse
even than the first two lots. Crummle had now got up close to the
walls, an he dhrew up his mounted army not knowin’ what the dickens’
father to do wud ’em.”
“Even if they wor thrained circus horses,” says he, “there’d be no
use in makin’ an offer to scale the walls wud ’em. I never was so
much at my wits’ ends before. The only plan I can hit on,” he says
to the general that had first warned him agen thryin’ to take Don
Isle Castle, “is to stand here until we starves ’em out. We can’t be
hungry for a spell ourselves,” says he, “for wan of the fut officers
tells me this new war matayrial is good wholesome stirabout, an’ the
ground is lined wud it all round the castle nearly as thick as guano
on the Chinchy Islands. It must be,” says he, “that they’re run out
of ammunition, or of coorse they’d be firin’ at us, so we’ll just
keep a civil distance off an’ thry what hunger’ll do.”
Mike Morrissey was spyin’ down at Crummle all this time from behind a
stack of chimneys, an’ though he couldn’t hear what Oliver was sayin’
to his head-general, he partly guessed that the plan they’d thry ’ud
be to starve the castle out.
“If I had only a few good cannons,” says he, “an’ plenty of powdher
an’ shot, I could sweep the whole army clane off the face of
creation. I expect they guesses what’s the matther wud us, an’ that’s
what’s makes ’em so darin’ as to ride up the last of the throops
close to the walls. Well,” says Mike wud a grin, “we’ll thry what a
little teetotal dhrink’ll do for ’em.”
An’ wud that he grips the neck of a soda-wather bottle in his fist,
an’ twistin’ himself round an’ round as if he was “throwin’ the
hammer,” he let fly the first shot at a heavy dhragoon officer.
Down dhropped the dhragoon out of his saddle wudout as much as a
scream, for ’twas cracked his skull clane an’ clear Mike did.
“Holy wars!” says Crummle, who was now ridin’ about a thrifle in the
rear of his throops. “Is it goin’ to shell us they are?”
An’ before he had time to collect his mind to give any ordhers down
came the bottles wan afther the other like hailstones, an’ the
mounted men began dhroppin’ right, left, an’ centhre.
Over a hundhred men had been killed while you’d be lookin’ about you,
for Mike kept firin’ away like a steam-ingine; an’ then an officer
rode up to Crummle an’ handed him wan of the bottles.