‘Already? Surely they are in too great a hurry. All that Dhulip
Singh could do in India he has done, down to the distribution of his
photographs among the peasantry. Ho! Ho! The Paris firm arranged that,
and he has no substantial money backing from the Other Power. Even our
agents in India know he hasn’t. What is the use of our organisation
wasting men on work that is already done? Of course the Irish regiments
in India are half mutinous as they stand.’
This shows how near a lie may come to the truth. An Irish regiment, for
just so long as it stands still, is generally a hard handful to control,
being reckless and rough. When, however, it is moved in the direction of
musketry-firing, it becomes strangely and unpatriotically content with
its lot. It has even been heard to cheer the Queen with enthusiasm on
these occasions.
But the notion of tampering with the army was, from the point of view of
Tehama Street, an altogether sound one. There is no shadow of stability
in the policy of an English Government, and the most sacred oaths of
England would, even if engrossed on vellum, find very few buyers among
colonies and dependencies that have suffered from vain beliefs. But
there remains to England always her army. That cannot change except
in the matter of uniform and equipment. The officers may write to the
papers demanding the heads of the Horse Guards in default of cleaner
redress for grievances; the men may break loose across a country town
and seriously startle the publicans; but neither officers nor men have
it in their composition to mutiny after the continental manner. The
English people, when they trouble to think about the army at all, are,
and with justice, absolutely assured that it is absolutely trustworthy.
Imagine for a moment their emotions on realising that such and such
a regiment was in open revolt from causes directly due to England’s
management of Ireland. They would probably send the regiment to the
polls forthwith and examine their own consciences as to their duty to
Erin; but they would never be easy any more. And it was this vague,
unhappy mistrust that the I. A. A. were labouring to produce.
‘Sheer waste of breath,’ said the second man after a pause in the
council, ‘I don’t see the use of tampering with their fool-army, but
it has been tried before and we must try it again. It looks well in the
reports. If we send one man from here you may bet your life that other
men are going too. Order up Mulcahy.’
They ordered him up--a slim, slight, dark-haired young man, devoured
with that blind rancorous hatred of England that only reaches its full
growth across the Atlantic. He had sucked it from his mother’s breast in
the little cabin at the back of the northern avenues of New York; he had
been taught his rights and his wrongs, in German and Irish, on the canal
fronts of Chicago; and San Francisco held men who told him strange and
awful things of the great blind power over the seas. Once, when business
took him across the Atlantic, he had served in an English regiment, and
being insubordinate had suffered extremely. He drew all his ideas of
England that were not bred by the cheaper patriotic prints from one
iron-fisted colonel and an unbending adjutant. He would go to the mines
if need be to teach his gospel. And he went as his instructions advised
p.d.q.--which means ‘with speed’--to introduce embarrassment into an
Irish regiment, ‘already half-mutinous, quartered among Sikh peasantry,
all wearing miniatures of His Highness Dhulip Singh, Maharaja of the
Punjab, next their hearts, and all eagerly expecting his arrival.’ Other
information equally valuable was given him by his masters. He was to be
cautious, but never to grudge expense in winning the hearts of the men
in the regiment. His mother in New York would supply funds, and he
was to write to her once a month. Life is pleasant for a man who has a
mother in New York to send him two hundred pounds a year over and above
his regimental pay.
In process of time, thanks to his intimate knowledge of drill and
musketry exercise, the excellent Mulcahy, wearing the corporal’s stripe,
went out in a troopship and joined Her Majesty’s Royal Loyal Musketeers,
commonly known as the ‘Mavericks,’ because they were masterless and
unbranded cattle-sons of small farmers in County Clare, shoeless
vagabonds of Kerry, herders of Bally-vegan, much wanted ‘moonlighters’
from the bare rainy headlands of the south coast, officered by O’Mores,
Bradys, Hills, Kilreas, and the like. Never to outward seeming was there
more promising material to work on. The First Three had chosen their
regiment well. It feared nothing that moved or talked save the colonel
and the regimental Roman Catholic chaplain, the fat Father Dennis, who
held the keys of heaven and hell, and blared like an angry bull when
he desired to be convincing. Him also it loved because on occasions of
stress he was used to tuck up his cassock and charge with the rest into
the merriest of the fray, where he always found, good man, that the
saints sent him a revolver when there was a fallen private to be
protected, or--but this came as an afterthought--his own gray head to be
guarded.
Cautiously as he had been instructed, tenderly and with much beer,
Mulcahy opened his projects to such as he deemed fittest to listen.
And these were, one and all, of that quaint, crooked, sweet, profoundly
irresponsible and profoundly lovable race that fight like fiends, argue
like children, reason like women, obey like men, and jest like their own
goblins of the rath through rebellion, loyalty, want, woe, or war. The
underground work of a conspiracy is always dull and very much the same
the world over. At the end of six months--the seed always falling on
good ground--Mulcahy spoke almost explicitly, hinting darkly in the
approved fashion at dread powers behind him, and advising nothing more
nor less than mutiny. Were they not dogs, evilly treated? had they not
all their own and their national revenges to satisfy? Who in these days
would do aught to nine hundred men in rebellion? Who, again, could stay
them if they broke for the sea, licking up on their way other regiments
only too anxious to join? And afterwards... here followed windy promises
of gold and preferment, office, and honour, ever dear to a certain type
of Irishman.
As he finished his speech, in the dusk of a twilight, to his chosen
associates, there was a sound of a rapidly unslung belt behind him. The
arm of one Dan Grady flew out in the gloom and arrested something. Then
said Dan---
‘Mulcahy, you’re a great man, an’ you do credit to whoever sent you.
Walk about a bit while we think of it.’ Mulcahy departed elate. He knew
his words would sink deep.
‘Why the triple-dashed asterisks did ye not let me belt him?’ grunted a
voice.
‘Because I’m not a fat-headed fool. Boys, ‘tis what he’s been driving at
these six months--our superior corpril with his education and his copies
of the Irish papers and his everlasting beer. He’s been sent for the
purpose and that’s where the money comes from. Can ye not see? That
man’s a gold-mine, which Horse Egan here would have destroyed with a
belt-buckle. It would be throwing away the gifts of Providence not to
fall in with his little plans. Of coorse we’ll mut’ny till all’s dry.
Shoot the colonel on the parade-ground, massacree the company officers,
ransack the arsenal, and then--Boys, did he tell you what next? He told
me the other night when he was beginning to talk wild. Then we’re to
join with the niggers, and look for help from Dhulip Singh and the
Russians!’
‘And spoil the best campaign that ever was this side of Hell! Danny, I’d
have lost the beer to ha’ given him the belting he requires.’
‘Oh, let him go this awhile, man! He’s got no--no constructiveness, but
that’s the egg-meat of his plan, and you must understand that I’m
in with it, an’ so are you. We’ll want oceans of beer to convince
us--firmaments full. We’ll give him talk for his money, and one by one
all the boys ‘ll come in and he’ll have a nest of nine hundred mutineers
to squat in an’ give drink to.’
‘What makes me killing-mad is his wanting us to do what the niggers
did thirty years gone. That an’ his pig’s cheek in saying that other
regiments would come along,’ said a Kerry man.
‘That’s not so bad as hintin’ we should loose off on the colonel.’
‘Colonel be sugared! I’d as soon as not put a shot through his helmet
to see him jump and clutch his old horse’s head. But Mulcahy talks o’
shootin’ our comp’ny orf’cers accidental.’
‘He said that, did he?’ said Horse Egan.
‘Somethin’ like that, anyways. Can’t ye fancy ould Barber Brady wid a
bullet in his lungs, coughin’ like a sick monkey, an’ sayin’, “Bhoys,
I do not mind your gettin’ dhrunk, but you must hould your liquor like
men. The man that shot me is dhrunk. I’ll suspend investigations for six
hours, while I get this bullet cut out, an’ then--“’
‘An’ then,’ continued Horse Egan, for the peppery Major’s peculiarities
of speech and manner were as well known as his tanned face; “‘an’ then,
ye dissolute, half-baked, putty-faced scum o’ Connemara, if I find a
man so much as lookin’ confused, begad, I’ll coort-martial the whole
company. A man that can’t get over his liquor in six hours is not fit to
belong to the Mavericks!”’
A shout of laughter bore witness to the truth of the sketch.
‘It’s pretty to think of,’ said the Kerry man slowly. ‘Mulcahy would
have us do all the devilmint, and get clear himself, someways. He wudn’t
be takin’ all this fool’s throuble in shpoilin’ the reputation of the
regiment--’
‘Reputation of your grandmother’s pig!’ said Dan.
‘Well, an’ HE had a good reputation tu; so it’s all right. Mulcahy
must see his way to clear out behind him, or he’d not ha’ come so far,
talkin’ powers of darkness.’
‘Did you hear anything of a regimental court-martial among the Black
Boneens, these days? Half a company of ‘em took one of the new draft
an’ hanged him by his arms with a tent-rope from a third story verandah.
They gave no reason for so doin’, but he was half dead. I’m thinking
that the Boneens are short-sighted. It was a friend of Mulcahy’s, or
a man in the same trade. They’d a deal better ha’ taken his beer,’
returned Dan reflectively.
‘Better still ha’ handed him up to the Colonel,’ said Horse Egan,
‘onless--but sure the news wud be all over the counthry an’ give the
reg’ment a bad name.’
‘An’ there’d be no reward for that man--he but went about talkin’,’ said
the Kerry man artlessly.
‘You speak by your breed,’ said Dan with a laugh. ‘There was never a
Kerry man yet that wudn’t sell his brother for a pipe o’ tobacco an’ a
pat on the back from a p’liceman.’
‘Praise God I’m not a bloomin’ Orangeman,’ was the answer.
‘No, nor never will be,’ said Dan. ‘They breed MEN in Ulster. Would you
like to thry the taste of one?’
The Kerry man looked and longed, but forbore. The odds of battle were
too great.
‘Then you’ll not even give Mulcahy a--a strike for his money,’ said the
voice of Horse Egan, who regarded what he called ‘trouble’ of any kind
as the pinnacle of felicity.
Dan answered not at all, but crept on tip-toe, with large strides, to
the mess-room, the men following. The room was empty. In a corner, cased
like the King of Dahomey’s state umbrella, stood the regimental Colours.
Dan lifted them tenderly and unrolled in the light of the candles the
record of the Mavericks--tattered, worn, and hacked. The white satin
was darkened everywhere with big brown stains, the gold threads on the
crowned harp were frayed and discoloured, and the Red Bull, the totem
of the Mavericks, was coffee-hued. The stiff, embroidered folds, whose
price is human life, rustled down slowly. The Mavericks keep their
colours long and guard them very sacredly.
‘Vittoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, Waterloo, Moodkee, Ferozshah, an’
Sobraon--that was fought close next door here, against the very beggars
he wants us to join. Inkermann, The Alma, Sebastopol! What are those
little businesses compared to the campaigns of General Mulcahy? The
Mut’ny, think o’ that; the Mut’ny an’ some dirty little matters in
Afghanistan; an’ for that an’ these an’ those’--Dan pointed to the names
of glorious battles--‘that Yankee man with the partin’ in his hair comes
an’ says as easy as “have a drink.”... Holy Moses, there’s the captain!’
But it was the mess-sergeant who came in just as the men clattered out,
and found the colours uncased.
From that day dated the mutiny of the Mavericks, to the joy of Mulcahy
and the pride of his mother in New York--the good lady who sent the
money for the beer. Never, so far as words went, was such a mutiny. The
conspirators, led by Dan Grady and Horse Egan, poured in daily. They
were sound men, men to be trusted, and they all wanted blood; but first
they must have beer. They cursed the Queen, they mourned over Ireland,
they suggested hideous plunder of the Indian country side, and then,
alas--some of the younger men would go forth and wallow on the ground in
spasms of wicked laughter.
The genius of the Irish for conspiracies is remarkable. None the less
they would swear no oaths but those of their own making, which were rare
and curious, and they were always at pains to impress Mulcahy with the
risks they ran. Naturally the flood of beer wrought demoralisation. But
Mulcahy confused the causes of things, and when a very muzzy Maverick
smote a sergeant on the nose or called his commanding officer a
bald-headed old lard-bladder and even worse names, he fancied that
rebellion and not liquor was at the bottom of the outbreak. Other
gentlemen who have concerned themselves in larger conspiracies have made
the same error.
The hot season, in which they protested no man could rebel, came to an
end, and Mulcahy suggested a visible return for his teachings. As to the
actual upshot of the mutiny he cared nothing. It would be enough if the
English, infatuatedly trusting to the integrity of their army, should
be startled with news of an Irish regiment revolting from political
considerations. His persistent demands would have ended, at Dan’s
instigation, in a regimental belting which in all probability would
have killed him and cut off the supply of beer, had not he been sent on
special duty some fifty miles away from the cantonment to cool his heels
in a mud fort and dismount obsolete artillery. Then the colonel of
the Mavericks, reading his newspaper diligently, and scenting Frontier
trouble from afar, posted to the army headquarters and pled with the
Commander-in-chief for certain privileges, to be granted under certain
contingencies; which contingencies came about only a week later, when
the annual little war on the border developed itself and the colonel
returned to carry the good news to the Mavericks. He held the promise of
the Chief for active service, and the men must get ready.
On the evening of the same day, Mulcahy, an unconsidered corporal--yet
great in conspiracy--returned to cantonments, and heard sounds of strife
and howlings from afar off. The mutiny had broken out and the barracks
of the Mavericks were one white-washed pandemonium. A private tearing
through the barrack-square, gasped in his ear, ‘Service! Active service.
It’s a burnin’ shame.’ Oh joy, the Mavericks had risen on the eve of
battle! They would not--noble and loyal sons of Ireland--serve the
Queen longer. The news would flash through the country side and over to
England, and he--Mulcahy--the trusted of the Third Three, had brought
about the crash. The private stood in the middle of the square and
cursed colonel, regiment, officers, and doctor, particularly the doctor,
by his gods. An orderly of the native cavalry regiment clattered through
the mob of soldiers. He was half lifted, half dragged from his horse,
beaten on the back with mighty hand-claps till his eyes watered, and
called all manner of endearing names. Yes, the Mavericks had fraternised
with the native troops. Who then was the agent among the latter that had
blindly wrought with Mulcahy so well?
An officer slunk, almost ran, from the mess to a barrack. He was mobbed
by the infuriated soldiery, who closed round but did not kill him, for
he fought his way to shelter, flying for the life. Mulcahy could
have wept with pure joy and thankfulness. The very prisoners in the
guard-room were shaking the bars of their cells and howling like wild
beasts, and from every barrack poured the booming as of a big war-drum.
Mulcahy hastened to his own barrack. He could hardly hear himself
speak. Eighty men were pounding with fist and heel the tables and
trestles--eighty men, flushed with mutiny, stripped to their shirt
sleeves, their knapsacks half-packed for the march to the sea, made the
two-inch boards thunder again as they chanted to a tune that Mulcahy
knew well, the Sacred War Song of the Mavericks--
Listen in the north, my boys, there’s trouble on the wind;
Tramp o’ Cossack hooves in front, gray great-coats behind,
Trouble on the Frontier of a most amazin’ kind,
Trouble on the waters o’ the Oxus!