Hurrah! hurrah! it’s north by west we go;
Hurrah! hurrah! the chance we wanted so;
Let ‘em hear the chorus from Umballa to MosCOW,
As we go marchin’ to the Kremling.
‘Mother of all the saints in bliss and all the devils in cinders,
where’s my fine new sock widout the heel?’ howled Horse Egan, ransacking
everybody’s valise but his own. He was engaged in making up deficiencies
of kit preparatory to a campaign, and in that work he steals best who
steals last. ‘Ah, Mulcahy, you’re in good time,’ he shouted. ‘We’ve got
the route, and we’re off on Thursday for a pic-nic wid the Lancers next
door.’
An ambulance orderly appeared with a huge basket full of lint rolls,
provided by the forethought of the Queen for such as might need
them later on. Horse Egan unrolled his bandage, and flicked it under
Mulcahy’s nose, chanting--
‘Sheepskin an’ bees’ wax, thunder, pitch, and plaster,
The more you try to pull it off, the more it sticks the faster.
As I was goin’ to New Orleans--
‘You know the rest of it, my Irish American-Jew boy. By gad, ye have to
fight for the Queen in the inside av a fortnight, my darlin’.’
A roar of laughter interrupted. Mulcahy looked vacantly down the room.
Bid a boy defy his father when the pantomime-cab is at the door; or
a girl develop a will of her own when her mother is putting the last
touches to the first ball-dress; but do not ask an Irish regiment to
embark upon mutiny on the eve of a campaign; when it has fraternised
with the native regiment that accompanies it, and driven its officers
into retirement with ten thousand clamorous questions, and the prisoners
dance for joy, and the sick men stand in the open, calling down all
known diseases on the head of the doctor, who has certified that they
are “medically unfit for active service.” At even the Mavericks might
have been mistaken for mutineers by one so unversed in their natures
as Mulcahy. At dawn a girls’ school might have learned deportment from
them. They knew that their colonel’s hand had closed, and that he who
broke that iron discipline would not go to the front: nothing in the
world will persuade one of our soldiers when he is ordered to the north
on the smallest of affairs that he is not immediately going gloriously
to slay Cossacks and cook his kettles in the palace of the Czar. A few
of the younger men mourned for Mulcahy’s beer, because the campaign was
to be conducted on strict temperance principles, but as Dan and Horse
Egan said sternly, ‘We’ve got the beer-man with us. He shall drink now
on his own hook.’
Mulcahy had not taken into account the possibility of being sent on
active service. He had made up his mind that he would not go under any
circumstances, but fortune was against him.
‘Sick--you?’ said the doctor, who had served an unholy apprenticeship
to his trade in Tralee poorhouses. ‘You’re only home-sick, and what you
call varicose veins come from over-eating. A little gentle exercise will
cure that.’ And later, ‘Mulcahy, my man, everybody is allowed to apply
for a sick-certificate ONCE. If he tries it twice we call him by an ugly
name. Go back to your duty, and let’s hear no more of your diseases.’
I am ashamed to say that Horse Egan enjoyed the study of Mulcahy’s
soul in those days, and Dan took an equal interest. Together they would
communicate to their corporal all the dark lore of death which is the
portion of those who have seen men die. Egan had the larger experience,
but Dan the finer imagination. Mulcahy shivered when the former spoke of
the knife as an intimate acquaintance, or the latter dwelt with loving
particularity on the fate of those who, wounded and helpless, had been
overlooked by the ambulances, and had fallen into the hands of the
Afghan women-folk.
Mulcahy knew that the mutiny, for the present at least, was dead; knew,
too, that a change had come over Dan’s usually respectful attitude
towards him, and Horse Egan’s laughter and frequent allusions to
abortive conspiracies emphasised all that the conspirator had guessed.
The horrible fascination of the death-stories, however, made him seek
the men’s society. He learnt much more than he had bargained for; and in
this manner: It was on the last night before the regiment entrained to
the front. The barracks were stripped of everything movable, and the
men were too excited to sleep. The bare walls gave out a heavy hospital
smell of chloride of lime.
‘And what,’ said Mulcahy in an awe-stricken whisper, after some
conversation on the eternal subject, ‘are you going to do to me, Dan?’
This might have been the language of an able conspirator conciliating a
weak spirit.
‘You’ll see,’ said Dan grimly, turning over in his cot, ‘or I rather
shud say you’ll not see.’
This was hardly the language of a weak spirit. Mulcahy shook under the
bed-clothes.
‘Be easy with him,’ put in Egan from the next cot. ‘He has got his
chanst o’ goin’ clean. Listen, Mulcahy; all we want is for the good sake
of the regiment that you take your death standing up, as a man shud.
There be heaps an’ heaps of enemy--plenshus heaps. Go there an’ do all
you can and die decent. You’ll die with a good name THERE. ‘Tis not a
hard thing considerin’.’
Again Mulcahy shivered.
‘An’ how could a man wish to die better than fightin’?’ added Dan
consolingly.
‘And if I won’t?’ said the corporal in a dry whisper.
‘There’ll be a dale of smoke,’ returned Dan, sitting up and ticking off
the situation on his fingers, ‘sure to be, an’ the noise of the firin’
‘ll be tremenjus, an’ we’ll be running about up and down, the regiment
will. But WE, Horse and I--we’ll stay by you, Mulcahy, and never let you
go. Maybe there’ll be an accident.’
‘It’s playing it low on me. Let me go. For pity’s sake let me go. I
never did you harm, and--and I stood you as much beer as I could. Oh,
don’t be hard on me, Dan! You are--you were in it too. You won’t kill me
up there, will you?’
‘I’m not thinkin’ of the treason; though you shud be glad any honest
boys drank with you. It’s for the regiment. We can’t have the shame o’
you bringin’ shame on us. You went to the doctor quiet as a sick cat
to get and stay behind an’ live with the women at the depot--you that
wanted us to run to the sea in wolf-packs like the rebels none of your
black blood dared to be! But WE knew about your goin’ to the doctor, for
he told in mess, and it’s all over the regiment. Bein’, as we are, your
best friends, we didn’t allow any one to molest you YET. We will see to
you ourselves. Fight which you will--us or the enemy--you’ll never lie
in that cot again, and there’s more glory and maybe less kicks from
fightin’ the enemy. That’s fair speakin’.’
‘And he told us by word of mouth to go and join with the niggers--you’ve
forgotten that, Dan,’ said Horse Egan, to justify sentence.
‘What’s the use of plaguin’ the man? One shot pays for all. Sleep ye
sound, Mulcahy. But you onderstand, do ye not?’
Mulcahy for some weeks understood very little of anything at all save
that ever at his elbow, in camp, or at parade, stood two big men with
soft voices adjuring him to commit hari-kari lest a worse thing should
happen--to die for the honour of the regiment in decency among the
nearest knives. But Mulcahy dreaded death. He remembered certain things
that priests had said in his infancy, and his mother--not the one at New
York--starting from her sleep with shrieks to pray for a husband’s soul
in torment. It is well to be of a cultured intelligence, but in time
of trouble the weak human mind returns to the creed it sucked in at the
breast, and if that creed be not a pretty one trouble follows. Also,
the death he would have to face would be physically painful. Most
conspirators have large imaginations. Mulcahy could see himself, as he
lay on the earth in the night, dying by various causes. They were all
horrible; the mother in New York was very far away, and the Regiment,
the engine that, once you fall in its grip, moves you forward whether
you will or won’t, was daily coming closer to the enemy!
They were brought to the field of Marzun-Katai, and with the Black
Boneens to aid, they fought a fight that has never been set down in the
newspapers. In response, many believe, to the fervent prayers of Father
Dennis, the enemy not only elected to fight in the open, but made a
beautiful fight, as many weeping Irish mothers knew later. They gathered
behind walls or flickered across the open in shouting masses, and were
pot-valiant in artillery. It was expedient to hold a large reserve
and wait for the psychological moment that was being prepared by the
shrieking shrapnel. Therefore the Mavericks lay down in open order on
the brow of a hill to watch the play till their call should come.
Father Dennis, whose duty was in the rear, to smooth the trouble of the
wounded, had naturally managed to make his way to the foremost of his
boys and lay like a black porpoise, at length on the grass. To him
crawled Mulcahy, ashen-gray, demanding absolution.
‘Wait till you’re shot,’ said Father Dennis sweetly. ‘There’s a time for
everything.’
Dan Grady chuckled as he blew for the fiftieth time into the breech of
his speckless rifle. Mulcahy groaned and buried his head in his arms
till a stray shot spoke like a snipe immediately above his head, and a
general heave and tremour rippled the line. Other shots followed and a
few took effect, as a shriek or a grunt attested. The officers, who had
been lying down with the men, rose and began to walk steadily up and
down the front of their companies.
This manoeuvre, executed, not for publication, but as a guarantee of
good faith, to soothe men, demands nerve. You must not hurry, you must
not look nervous, though you know that you are a mark for every rifle
within extreme range, and above all if you are smitten you must make as
little noise as possible and roll inwards through the files. It is at
this hour, when the breeze brings the first salt whiff of the powder
to noses rather cold at the tip, and the eye can quietly take in the
appearance of each red casualty, that the strain on the nerves is
strongest. Scotch regiments can endure for half a day and abate no
whit of their zeal at the end; English regiments sometimes sulk under
punishment, while the Irish, like the French, are apt to run forward
by ones and twos, which is just as bad as running back. The truly wise
commandant of highly strung troops allows them, in seasons of waiting,
to hear the sound of their own voices uplifted in song. There is a
legend of an English regiment that lay by its arms under fire chaunting
‘Sam Hall,’ to the horror of its newly appointed and pious colonel. The
Black Boneens, who were suffering more than the Mavericks, on a hill
half a mile away, began presently to explain to all who cared to
listen--
We’ll sound the jubilee, from the centre to the sea, And Ireland shall
be free, says the Shan-van Vogh.
‘Sing, boys,’ said Father Dennis softly. ‘It looks as if we cared for
their Afghan peas.’
Dan Grady raised himself to his knees and opened his mouth in a song
imparted to him, as to most of his comrades, in the strictest confidence
by Mulcahy---the Mulcahy then lying limp and fainting on the grass, the
chill fear of death upon him.
Company after company caught up the words which, the I. A. A. say, are
to herald the general rising of Erin, and to breathe which, except to
those duly appointed to hear, is death. Wherefore they are printed in
this place.
The Saxon in Heaven’s just balance is weighed,
His doom like Belshazzar’s in death has been cast,
And the hand of the venger shall never be stayed
Till his race, faith, and speech are a dream of the past.
They were heart-filling lines and they ran with a swirl; the I. A. A.
are better served by their pens than their petards. Dan clapped Mulcahy
merrily on the back, asking him to sing up. The officers lay down again.
There was no need to walk any more. Their men were soothing themselves
thunderously, thus--
St. Mary in Heaven has written the vow
That the land shall not rest till the heretic blood,
From the babe at the breast to the hand at the plough,
Has rolled to the ocean like Shannon in flood!
‘I’ll speak to you after all’s over,’ said Father Dennis authoritatively
in Dan’s ear. ‘What’s the use of confessing to me when you do this
foolishness? Dan, you’ve been playing with fire! I’ll lay you more
penance in a week than--’
‘Come along to Purgatory with us, Father dear. The Boneens are on the
move; they’ll let us go now!’
The regiment rose to the blast of the bugle as one man; but one man
there was who rose more swiftly than all the others, for half an inch of
bayonet was in the fleshy part of his leg.
‘You’ve got to do it,’ said Dan grimly. ‘Do it decent, anyhow;’ and
the roar of the rush drowned his words, for the rear companies thrust
forward the first, still singing as they swung down the slope---
From the child at the breast to the hand at the plough Shall roll to the
ocean like Shannon in flood!
They should have sung it in the face of England, not of the Afghans,
whom, it impressed as much as did the wild Irish yell.
‘They came down singing,’ said the unofficial report of the enemy, borne
from village to village the next day. ‘They continued to sing, and it
was written that our men could not abide when they came. It is believed
that there was magic in the aforesaid song.’
Dan and Horse Egan kept themselves in the neighbourhood of Mulcahy.
Twice the man would have bolted back in the confusion. Twice he was
heaved, kicked, and shouldered back again into the unpaintable inferno
of a hotly contested charge.
At the end, the panic excess of his fear drove him into madness beyond
all human courage. His eyes staring at nothing, his mouth open and
frothing, and breathing as one in a cold bath, he went forward demented,
while Dan toiled after him. The charge checked at a high mud wall. It
was Mulcahy who scrambled up tooth and nail and hurled down among the
bayonets the amazed Afghan who barred his way. It was Mulcahy, keeping
to the straight line of the rabid dog, who led a collection of ardent
souls at a newly unmasked battery and flung himself on the muzzle of a
gun as his companions danced among the gunners. It was Mulcahy who ran
wildly on from that battery into the open plain, where the enemy were
retiring in sullen groups. His hands were empty, he had lost helmet and
belt, and he was bleeding from a wound in the neck. Dan and Horse Egan,
panting and distressed, had thrown themselves down on the ground by the
captured guns, when they noticed Mulcahy’s charge.
‘Mad,’ said Horse Egan critically. ‘Mad with fear! He’s going straight
to his death, an’ shouting’s no use.’
‘Let him go. Watch now! If we fire we’ll hit him, maybe.’
The last of a hurrying crowd of Afghans turned at the noise of shod feet
behind him, and shifted his knife ready to hand. This, he saw, was no
time to take prisoners. Mulcahy tore on, sobbing; the straight-held
blade went home through the defenceless breast, and the body pitched
forward almost before a shot from Dan’s rifle brought down the slayer
and still further hurried the Afghan retreat. The two Irishmen went out
to bring in their dead.
‘He was given the point and that was an easy death,’ said Horse Egan,
viewing the corpse. ‘But would you ha’ shot him, Danny, if he had
lived?’
‘He didn’t live, so there’s no sayin’. But I doubt I wud have bekase
of the fun he gave us--let alone the beer. Hike up his legs, Horse, and
we’ll bring him in. Perhaps ‘tis better this way.’
They bore the poor limp body to the mass of the regiment, lolling
open-mouthed on their rifles; and there was a general snigger when one
of the younger subalterns said, ‘That was a good man!’
‘Phew,’ said Horse Egan, when a burial-party had taken over the burden.
‘I’m powerful dhry, and this reminds me there’ll be no more beer at
all.’
‘Fwhy not?’ said Dan, with a twinkle in his eye as he stretched himself
for rest. ‘Are we not conspirin’ all we can, an’ while we conspire are
we not entitled to free dhrinks? Sure his ould mother in New York would
not let her son’s comrades perish of drouth--if she can be reached at
the end of a letter.’
‘You’re a janius,’ said Horse Egan. ‘O’ coorse she will not. I wish
this crool war was over an’ we’d get back to canteen. Faith, the
Commander-in-Chief ought to be hanged in his own little sword-belt for
makin’ us work on wather.’
The Mavericks were generally of Horse Egan’s opinion. So they made
haste to get their work done as soon as possible, and their industry was
rewarded by unexpected peace. ‘We can fight the sons of Adam,’ said the
tribesmen, ‘but we cannot fight the sons of Eblis, and this regiment
never stays still in one place. Let us therefore come in.’ They came
in and ‘this regiment’ withdrew to conspire under the leadership of Dan
Grady.
Excellent as a subordinate Dan failed altogether as a
chief-in-command--possibly because he was too much swayed by the advice
of the only man in the regiment who could manufacture more than one kind
of handwriting. The same mail that bore to Mulcahy’s mother in New York
a letter from the colonel telling her how valiantly her son had fought
for the Queen, and how assuredly he would have been recommended for the
Victoria Cross had he survived, carried a communication signed, I grieve
to say, by that same colonel and all the officers of the regiment,
explaining their willingness to do ‘anything which is contrary to the
regulations and all kinds of revolutions’ if only a little money could
be forwarded to cover incidental expenses. Daniel Grady, Esquire, would
receive funds, vice Mulcahy, who ‘was unwell at this present time of
writing.’
Both letters were forwarded from New York to Tehama Street, San
Francisco, with marginal comments as brief as they were bitter.
The Third Three read and looked at each other. Then the Second
Conspirator-he who believed in ‘joining hands with the practical
branches’---began to laugh, and on recovering his gravity said,
‘Gentlemen, I consider this will be a lesson to us. We’re left again.
Those cursed Irish have let us down. I knew they would, but’-here he
laughed afresh-’I’d give considerable to know what was at the back of it
all.’
His curiosity would have been satisfied had he seen Dan Grady,
discredited regimental conspirator, trying to explain to his thirsty
comrades in India the non-arrival of funds from New York.