When Hyacinth got back to Dublin about the middle of February, the
streets were gay with amateur warriors. The fever for volunteering,
which laid hold on the middle classes after the series of regrettable
incidents of the winter, raged violently among the Irish Loyalists.
Nowhere were the recruiting officers more fervently besieged than in
Dublin. Youthful squireens who boasted of being admirable snipe shots,
and possessed a knowledge of all that pertained to horses, struggled
with prim youths out of banks for the privilege of serving as troopers.
The sons of plump graziers in the West made up parties with footmen
out of their landlords’ mansions, and arrived in Dublin hopeful of
enlistment. Light-hearted undergraduates of Trinity, drapers’ assistants
of dubious character, and the crowd of nondescripts whose time is spent
in preparing for examinations which they fail to pass, leaped at the
opportunity of winning glory and perhaps wealth in South Africa. Those
who were fortunate enough to be selected were sent to the Curragh to
be broken in to their new profession. They were clothed, to their own
intense delight, in that peculiar shade of yellow which is supposed to
be a help to the soldier in his efforts not to be shot. Their legs were
screwed into putties and breeches incredibly tight round the knees,
which expanded rapidly higher up, and hung round their hips in
voluminous folds. Their jackets were covered with a multiplicity of
quaint little pockets, sewed on in unexpected places, and each provided
with a flap which buttoned over it. The name of the artist who designed
this costume has perished, nor does there remain any written record
of the use which these tightly-secured pocket-covers were supposed to
serve. Augusta Goold suggested that perhaps they were meant to prevent
the troopers’ money from falling out in the event of any commanding
officer ordering his men to receive the enemy standing on their heads.
‘In the light of the intelligence displayed by the English Generals up
to the present,’ she said, ‘the War Office is quite right to be prepared
for such a thing happening.’
It seemed possible to procure almost any amount of leave from the
Curragh, and the yeomen delighted to spend it in promenading the
fashionable streets of the metropolis. The tea-shops reaped a rich
harvest from the regal way in which they treated their female relatives
and friends. Indeed, their presence must have seriously disorganized the
occupations by which young women earn their living. It was difficult to
imagine that the sick in the hospitals could have been properly looked
after, or the letters of solicitors typewritten, so great was the number
of damsels who attached themselves to these attractive heroes. The
philosophic observer found another curious subject for speculation in
the fact that this parade of military splendour took place in a city
whose population sympathized intensely with the Boer cause, and was
accustomed to receive the news of a British defeat with delight. The
Dublin artisan viewed the yeomen much as the French in Paris must have
looked upon the allied troops who entered their city after Waterloo.
The very name by which they were called had an anti-national sound, and
suggested the performance of other amateur horse-soldiers in Wexford a
century earlier.
The little band whose writings filled the pages of the _Croppy_ were
more than anyone else enraged at the flaunting of Imperialism in their
streets. They had rejoiced quite openly after Christmas, and called
attention every week in prose and poetry to the moribund condition of
the British Empire, even boasting as if they themselves had borne a part
in its humiliation. They were still in a position to assert that the
Boers were victorious, and that the volunteers were likely to do no more
than exhaust the prison accommodation at Pretoria. They could and did
compose biting jests, but their very bitterness witnessed to a deep
disappointment. It was not possible to deny that the despised English
garrison in Ireland was displaying a wholly unlooked-for spirit. No one
could have expected that West Britons and ‘Seonini’ would have wanted to
fight. Very likely, when the time came, they would run away; but in
the meanwhile here they were, swaggering through the streets of Dublin,
outward and visible signs of a force in the country hostile to the hopes
of the _Croppy_, a force that some day Republican Ireland would have to
reckon with.
Augusta Goold herself was more tolerant and more philosophic than her
friends. She looked at the yeomen with a certain admiration. Their
exuberant youthfulness, their strutting, and their obvious belief in
themselves, made a strong appeal to her imagination.
‘Look at that young man,’ she said to Hyacinth, pointing out a volunteer
who passed them in the street. ‘I happen to know who he is. In fact, I
knew his people very well indeed at one time, and spent a fortnight with
them once when that young man was a toddler, and sometimes sat on my
knee--at least, he may have sat on my knee. There were a good many
children, and at this distance of time I can’t be certain which of them
it was that used to worry me most during the hour before dinner. The
father is a landlord in the North, and comes of a fine old family. He’s
a strong Protestant, and English, of course, in all his sympathies.
Well, a hundred years or so ago that boy’s great-grandfather was
swaggering about these same streets in a uniform, just as his descendant
is doing now. He helped to drag a cannon into the Phoenix Park one day
with a large placard tied over its muzzle--“Our rights or----” Who do
you think he was threatening? Just the same England that this boy is so
keen to fight for to-day!’
‘Ah,’ said Hyacinth, ‘you are thinking of the volunteer movement of
1780.’
‘Afterwards,’ she went on, ‘he was one of the incorruptibles. You’ll
see his name on Jonah Barrington’s red list. He stood out to the
last against the Union, wouldn’t be bribed, and fought two duels with
Castlereagh’s bravoes. The curious thing is that the present man is
quite proud of that ancestor in a queer, inconsistent sort of way. Says
the only mark of distinction his family can boast of is that they didn’t
get a Union peerage. Strange, isn’t it?’
‘It is strange,’ said Hyacinth. ‘The Irish gentry of 1782 were men to be
proud of; yet look at their descendants to-day.’
‘It is very sad. Do you know, I sometimes think that Ireland will never
get her freedom till those men take it for her. Almost every struggle
that Ireland ever made was captained by her aristocracy. Think of the
Geraldines and the O’Neills. Think of Sarsfield and the Wild Geese.
Think of the men who wrenched a measure of independence from England in
1782. Think of Lord Edward and Smith O’Brien. No, we may talk and write
and agitate, but we’ll _do_ nothing till we get the old families with
us.’
Hyacinth laughed. It seemed to him that Miss Goold was deliberately
talking nonsense, rejoicing in a paradox.
‘We are likely to wait, if we wait for them. Look at those.’ He waved
his hand towards a group of yeomen who were chatting at the street
corner. ‘They are going to stamp out a nation in South Africa. Is it
likely that they will create one here?’
‘It is not likely’--she sighed as she spoke--‘yet stranger things than
that have happened. Have you ever considered what the present English
policy in Ireland really is? Do you understand that they are trying to
keep us quiet by bribing the priests? They think that the Protestants
are powerless, or that they will be loyal no matter what happens. But
think: These Protestants have been accustomed for generations to regard
themselves as a superior race. They conceive themselves to have a
natural right to govern. Now they are being snubbed and insulted. There
isn’t an English official from their Lord Lieutenant down but thinks he
is quite safe in ignoring the Protestants, and is only anxious to
make himself agreeable to the priests. That’s the beginning. Very soon
they’ll be bullied as well as snubbed. They will stand a good deal of
it, because, like most strong people, they are very stupid and slow at
understanding; but do you suppose they will always stand it?’
‘They’re English, and not Irish,’ said Hyacinth. ‘I suppose they like
what their own people do.’
‘It’s a lie. They are not English, though they say it themselves. In the
end they will find out that they are Irish. Some day a last insult, a
particularly barefaced robbery, or an intolerable oppression, will awake
them. Then they’ll turn on the people that betrayed them. They will
discover that Ireland--their Ireland--isn’t meant to be a cabbage-garden
for Manchester, nor yet a _crêche_ for sucking priests. Ah! it will be
good to be alive when they find themselves. We shall be within reach of
the freedom of Ireland then.’
Hyacinth was amazed at her vehement admiration for the class she was
accustomed to anathematize. He turned her words over and over in his
mind. They recalled, as so many different things seemed to do, his
father’s vision of an Armageddon. Amid the confusion of Irish politics
this thought of a Protestant and aristocratic revolt was strangely
attractive; only it seemed to be wholly impossible. He bewildered
himself in the effort to arrange the pieces of the game into some
reasonable order. What was to be thought of a priesthood who, contrary
to all the traditions of their Church, had nursed a revolution against
the rights of property? or of a people, amazingly quick of apprehension,
idealistic of temperament, who time after time submitted themselves
blindfold to the tyranny of a single leader, worshipped a man, and asked
no questions about his policy? How was he to place an aristocracy who
refused to lead, and persisted in whining about their wrongs to the
inattentive shopkeepers of English towns, gentlemen not wanting in
honour and spirit courting a contemptuous bourgeoisie with ridiculous
flatteries? In what reasonable scheme of things was it possible to
place Protestants, blatant in their boasts about liberty, who hugged
subjection to a power which deliberately fostered the growth of
an ecclesiastical tyranny? Where amid this crazy dance of
self-contradictory fanatics and fools was a sane man to find a place on
which to stand? How, above all, was Ireland, a nation, to evolve itself?
He turned with relief from these perplexities to the work that lay
before him. However a man might worry and befog himself over the
confused issues of politics, it was at all events a straightforward
and simple matter to fight, and Hyacinth was going to the front as the
eleventh Irish volunteer.
To do Miss Goold justice, she had been extremely unwilling to enrol him,
and had refused to take a penny of his money. Her conscience, such as
it was after years of patriotic endeavour, rebelled against committing a
young man whom she really liked to the companionship of the men she had
enlisted and the care of their commander, Captain Albert Quinn.
This gentleman, whom she daily expected in Dublin, belonged to County
Mayo. He represented himself as a member of an ancient but impoverished
family, boasted of his military experience, and professed to be
profoundly skilled in all matters relating to horses. Miss Goold’s
inquiries elicited the fact that he held an undefined position under
his brother, a respectable manufacturer of woollen goods. His military
experience had been gathered during the few months he held a commission
in the militia battalion of the Connaught Rangers, an honourable
position which he had resigned because his brother officers persistently
misunderstood his methods of winning money at cards. No one, however,
was found to deny that he really did possess a wonderful knowledge of
horses. The worst that Miss Goold’s correspondents could suggest with
regard to this third qualification was that he knew too much. None
of these drawbacks to the Captain--he had assumed the title when he
accepted the command of the volunteers--weighed with Miss Goold. Indeed,
she admitted to Mary O’Dwyer, in a moment of frankness, that if her men
weren’t more or less blackguards she couldn’t expect them to go out
to South Africa. She did not speak equally plainly to Hyacinth. She
recollected that he had displayed a very inconvenient kind of morality
when she first knew him, and she believed him quite capable of breaking
away from her influence altogether if he discovered the kind of men she
was willing to work with.
She did her best to persuade him to give up the idea of joining the
force, by pointing out to him that he was quite unfitted for the work
that would have to be done.
‘You know nothing about horses,’ she said. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever
been on the back of one.’
Hyacinth admitted that this was true. The inhabitants of Carrowkeel
rarely ride their shaggy ponies, and when they do it is sitting sideways
just above the creatures’ tails, with two creels for turf or seaweed in
the place where the saddle ought to be.
‘And I don’t suppose you know much about shooting?’
Hyacinth was depressed, for he had never pulled a trigger in his life.
In the West of Ireland a man is not allowed to possess a gun unless
a resident magistrate will certify to his loyalty and harmlessness.
Therefore, the inhabitants of villages like Carrowkeel are debarred from
shooting either snipe or seals, and the British Empire stands secure.
The difficulty about his horsemanship Hyacinth endeavoured to get over.
He arranged with a car-driver of his acquaintance to teach him to groom
and harness his horses. The man possessed two quadrupeds, which he
described as ‘the yellow pony’ and ‘the little mare.’ Hyacinth began
with the yellow pony, the oldest and staidest of the two. The little
mare, who had a temper of her own, gave him more trouble. She disliked
his way of putting the crupper under her tail, and one day, to her
owner’s great delight, ‘rose the divil on them’ when her new groom got
the shaft of the car stuck through her collar.
The want of experience in shooting was more difficult to get over.
Grealy owned an antiquated army rifle, which he lent to Hyacinth.
It was, of course, entirely different from the Mauser, and it was
impossible to get an opportunity for firing it off. However, there was
some comfort to be found in handling the thing, and taking long and
careful aim at a distant church spire through a window.
In the face of such enthusiasm, Miss Goold could not refuse her recruit.
She talked to him freely about her plans, and was eloquent about the
spirit and abilities of M. de Villeneuve, who was to take charge of her
soldiers after they joined him in Paris. On the subject of Captain Quinn
she was much more reticent, and she refused altogether to introduce
Hyacinth to his ten fellow troopers.
‘There’s not the least necessity,’ she said, ‘for you to meet them until
the time for starting comes. In fact, I may say it is safer for none of
you to know each other.’
Hyacinth experienced a thrill of agreeable excitement. He felt that he
was engaged in a real conspiracy.
‘For fear of informers?’ he asked.
‘Yes. One never can be quite sure of anyone. Of course, they can every
one of them give information against me. You can yourself, if you like.
But no one can betray anyone else, and as long as the men are safe, it
doesn’t matter what happens to me.’
It was one of Miss Goold’s weaknesses that she imagined herself to be an
object of hatred and dread to the Government, and nothing irritated her
more than a suspicion that she was not being taken seriously.
The first glimpse that Hyacinth got of the character of the men among
whom he was to serve came to him through Tim Halloran. Tim was still
sore from the scolding he had been given for his conduct at the
Rotunda meeting, and missed no opportunity of scoffing--not, of course,
publicly, but among his friends--at Miss Goold and her volunteers.
Hyacinth avoided him as much as possible, but one evening he walked up
against him on the narrow footway at the corner of George’s Street.
Halloran was delighted, and seized him by the arm.
‘You’re the very man I wanted to see,’ he said. ‘Have you heard about
Doherty?’
Hyacinth knew no one called Doherty. He said so, and tried to escape,
but Halloran held him fast.
‘Not know Doherty! How’s that? I thought you were in all dear Finola’s
secrets. Faith! I heard you were going out to fight for the Boers
yourself. I didn’t believe it, of course. You wouldn’t be such a
fool. But I thought you’d know that Doherty is one of the ten precious
recruits, or, rather, _was_ one of them.’ He laughed loudly. ‘He’ll
fight on the other side now, if he fights at all.’
‘What do you mean?’ asked Hyacinth uneasily.
He was not at all sure what view the authorities in Dublin Castle might
take of recruiting for the Boer service, and Miss Goold’s hints about
informers recurred to his mind alarmingly. Perhaps this Doherty was an
informer.
‘Well,’ said Halloran, ‘I was in one of the police-courts this morning
doing my work for the _Evening Star_. You know I report the police news
for that rag, don’t you? Well, I do. My column is called “The Doom of
the Disorderly.” Rather a good title that for a column of the kind!
There didn’t appear to be anything particular on, just a few ordinary
drunks, until this fellow Doherty was brought in. I thought I recognised
him, and when I heard his name I was certain of my man. He hadn’t done
anything very bad--assaulted a tram-conductor, or some such trifle--and
would have got off with a fine. However, a military man turned up and
claimed him as a deserter. His real name, it appears, is Johnston. He
deserted six weeks ago from the Dublin Fusiliers.’
‘How on earth did he impose on Miss Goold?’ asked Hyacinth.
Halloran looked at him curiously.
‘Oh, I shouldn’t say he exactly imposed upon Finola. She’s not precisely
a fool, you know, and she has pretty accurate information about most of
the people she deals with.’
‘But surely------’
Halloran shrugged his shoulders.
‘My dear fellow, I don’t want to shatter your ideal, but the beautiful
Finola wants to work a revolution, and you can’t do that sort of thing
without soiling your hands. However, whether he imposed on her or not,
there’s no doubt about it that he was a deserter. Why, it appeared that
the fool was tattooed all over the arms and chest, and the military
people had a list of the designs. They had a perfectly plain case, and,
indeed, Doherty made no defence.’
‘What will they do with him?’ said Hyacinth, still uneasy about the
possibility of Doherty’s volunteering information.
‘I don’t know,’ said Halloran. ‘I should think the best punishment would
be to send him out to Ladysmith. I dare say the Boers would pass him
in if the circumstances were explained to them. By the way, it would be
rather funny if he met the other nine out there on a kopje, wouldn’t it?
He might take them prisoners, or they might capture him. Either way the
situation would have its comic possibilities.’