BACKS TO THE WALL
The boys applied for three days’ leave and got――one. But they were no
worse off than more deserving members of that oil-scented crew. “Back
by daylight tomorrow,” grumbled Higgins, adjusting his neckerchief with
extreme nicety and flicking an invisible speck from his blue shirt.
“That means they’re going to chop our stay short. Well, a day’s better
than nothing, but, just the same, a fellow never sleeps enough the
first night ashore to get any rest. I’m going to beat it to a hotel and
hire a husky guy to rock the bed all night! What do you say to a run up
to Cork, fellows?”
“‘Paddy from Ireland, Paddy from Cork,
With a hole in his breeches as big as New York,’”
chanted Tommy Truso. “I’m wid yez, byes! Erin go bragh! Come on till we
get the first train that do be goin’.”
They set forth, five of them; Steve, Joe, Truso, Higgins and Sam Hearn,
all very carefully attired in their best shirts and trousers and caps.
And they sang on their way ashore and sang as they made for the station
and, later, still sang as they sat in the railway carriage and rolled
leisurely north to Queenstown Junction and then past Glounthaune and
Little Island and Dunkettle and Tivoli. Of course they travelled first
class. “When in Ireland remember you’re an American,” said Higgins.
“True for you, me bye,” agreed Truso. “And be the same token, shpind
yer money.” And to set a good example, Truso sought out the guard on
arrival and tipped him a perfectly good United States half-dollar,
much to his surprise and evident approval. Higgins censured Truso for
spending American money when he had English.
“Why didn’t you slip him a couple of shillings, Tommy? He’d have been
just as pleased, and you’d have saved your real money.”
“Why, isn’t English money as good as ours?” asked Joe.
“They say so,” replied Higgins doubtfully, “but I’m not sure about it.
Anyway, it hasn’t any eagle on it!”
They climbed into a ramshackle outside car, although Steve and Joe
would have much preferred to walk, and said so. But Truso reprimanded
them sternly. “We’d all rather walk,” he said, “but it isn’t done.
The United States Navy, my boy, must uphold the traditions. Let the
‘Limies’ walk, and the Frenchies, but if you come from the little old
U.S.A. you’ve got to ride. Cast off, driver! And look out for mines!”
Steve and Joe were, naturally, all eyes, for this was their first visit
to Ireland. Hearn had warned them that they’d find Cork uninteresting.
“If you’ve ever been in Newark, New Jersey,” said Hearn, “you don’t
need to see Cork.” But they didn’t find it uninteresting, for there
were many strange features to attract them. Nevertheless, Steve
announced that he didn’t believe he would care to live there. There
were many sailors and soldiers on the streets: in fact, it would have
been difficult to have looked in any direction at any moment from
any part of St. Patrick Street and not have seen a uniform. There
were British Army officers, khaki clad and flourishing their swagger
sticks, British Naval officers, far less “cocky,” it seemed, but
equally important looking, privates and Jackies galore, the latter
both British and American. And now and then a French sailor, decidedly
more picturesque, was sighted. At brief intervals they passed other
carriages bearing other parties of men from the American fleet,
and then the proper procedure was to cheer at the top of the voice.
Doubtless there had been a time when the presence of United States
sailors in Cork had awakened interest and, possibly, alarm, but now
their wildest and most vociferous cheers caused no apparent surprise or
comment.
St. Patrick Street was, the boys decided, “pretty nifty,” but aside
from that one thoroughfare there was little to impress them. The
smaller streets, more like alleys than streets, were likely to be
dirty, and the houses for the most part were depressingly ugly.
“Dublin’s the real town,” said Hearn. “This place is punk.”
There wasn’t much to see, but they saw it in the course of a two-hour
ride. It was the driver, a wisp of a man with two pale blue eyes and
a wheedling way with him, that suggested a visit to the one historic
church that is left in the old city, and so they climbed the hill,
pitying the decrepit horse all the while, through slums that, to quote
Tommy Truso, had the New York Ghetto backed off the map. St. Anne
Shandon wasn’t much to look at, after all, although they found the tall
tower, topped with its fish weathervane of some interest, and the fact
that Father Prout had found inspiration in the chimes to write “The
Bells of Shandon” did not, in Higgins’ opinion, pay for the trip. Back
in the heart of the city, they paid off their jarvey, grandly declining
to haggle with him over a charge of just thrice the legal fare, and
sought dinner.
What impressed the boys most, perhaps, was that, aside from the
presence of the soldiers from the garrison and the sailors from the
port, one would never have guessed that just across the Channel men
were fighting and dying by the thousand. Cork showed no effects of the
war. Food was ridiculously cheap, viewed by American standards, and
evidently plentiful. There were, of course, plenty of flags flying,
but it was apparent that war was the last thought in the minds of the
rather colourless inhabitants of that town.
After an excellent dinner they took another car, an “inside car” this
time, the difference between inside and outside cars being merely that
in the first, one sits over the wheel with his feet hanging down in
the centre and in the other he reverses the process. The drive was a
pleasant one, and this time their jarvey was no more than a boy and
had a loose tongue and a ready wit. Hearn and Higgins had visited the
ancient ruins before, but they were new to the others and they fell in
love with “The Groves of Blarney” at first sight. They went all over
the castle and, you may be sure, didn’t fail to kiss the Blarney stone,
each in turn hanging over the old battlement while the others held
firmly to his feet. They went back to the city in a “moisture,” as the
jarvey called it, although they would have called it a drizzle, and a
fairly hard one, and spent the hour before supper in making a tour of
the shops. Steve and Joe were for returning to Queenstown for supper,
but the others wanted that meal in Cork, and the majority ruled. Also,
said Truso, there was a fine movie theatre there, only, he added,
“they call it a cinema or something.” So they had supper at a second
and smaller hotel and did very well, although the food was neither so
well cooked nor so well served as at the first hostelry. But they were
hungry and not over-critical.
After supper they asked their way to the theatre and set forth.
Perhaps they didn’t follow directions, but in any case they were soon
cruising along a dimly lighted street that looked most unpromising. The
inhabitants appeared to be all on the sidewalks or in the gutters, and
they were an unsavoury lot, the boys thought. It was Hearn who first
passed the word that trouble was brewing.
“Get onto the bunch of thugs trailing us,” he said in a low voice. “Me
for the bright lights again, fellows. Some of these Sinn Feiners have
it in for us Americans good and hard.”
Steve looked back with interest. If those were Sinn Feiners, he
thought, they were rather disappointing. There was nothing in the least
romantic about the ten or a dozen men who were following them. Save
that they were dressed differently――and not nearly so well――they looked
very like a group of street-corner loafers at home. Nevertheless, there
was something threatening in their appearance, or, perhaps, in the
way in which they followed with slouching steps and eyes fixed on the
sailors.
“What have they got against us?” asked Steve in surprise.
“They’re agin’ England,” explained Truso, “and pro-German to a man,
and now that we’ve joined in with England they don’t love us. Take the
first turn, Sam, and let’s get out of this place.”
“Sinn Feiners or no Sinn Feiners,” growled Higgins, “if they get funny
with me I’ll knock their blocks off.”
“Yes, you’d have a fine time doing it,” jeered Hearn. “There are
nearly a dozen of ’em. Come on around here.”
But the street they entered was less reassuring than they had hoped,
a winding, narrow, poorly lighted, cobbled passage, with darkened
warehouses on either side.
Hearn, leading the way with Joe, stopped. “This won’t do, my hearties.
Let’s turn back and go out the way we came. If those guys make any
cracks, get in the first punch. Come on now.”
They swung around and faced the muttering group that had followed
them. The unexpected manœuvre caused confusion in their ranks and some
backed against the house wall and a few stepped into the street. With a
swagger, Hearn led the way past and the others followed. Steve glancing
around carelessly began to wish himself safely back on the _Warren_,
for the faces that met his in the dim light were frankly, savagely
antagonistic. He breathed freer as he put a dozen paces between him
and the Sinn Feiners. Tommy Truso was whistling, but for the rest the
encounter was made in silence. Here and there, up and down the street,
vague figures lounged before the shabby houses, but this end of the
thoroughfare was darker and more empty than the other. The five had
gone a dozen yards before a sound came from the enemy. Then:
“_Up the Huns!_” cried a hoarse voice, and a stone went past their
heads and struck against a house beyond them. Joe started to run, but
Hearn’s voice rang out sharply.
“Come back here! Stand up to ’em! The Navy doesn’t run, kid!”
Joe, whose flight had been sheerly impulsive, stopped and stepped back
to the others. Another stone flew toward them and the queer cry was
repeated from a dozen throats.
“Spread out,” said Hearn softly. “Watch for those stones. Now, then,
walk backwards. It’s ‘retreat in good order’ for us, I guess.”
“Retreat nothing!” growled Jack Higgins. “Let’s bust up the Micks!
Come on, Sam! Where’s your pep? Rush ’em!” And Higgins suited action
to word. The assailants had stopped some twenty yards away and were
gathering missiles from the littered street. But when Higgins started
toward them they closed their ranks again, and Truso and Steve, who
sprang first after their comrade, had a vision of a dark line of
swearing, taunting, growling men as they raced to Higgins’ support.
Hearn and Joe followed instantly, then Hearn shouted a cheering “Ata
boy!” as he ran.
The odds were big, but there was nothing for either Steve or Joe but
to do their parts. The Irishman loves a fight, and these glowering,
growling men were Irish, and there was no sign of hesitation in the
way in which they broke forward toward the foe. But, and this is a
lamentable fact, those of them who had seized on stones or sticks
forgot to drop them.
“Watch out for rocks, fellows!” bellowed Truso.
Then the trouble began. Steve, trying to remember all the skill he had
ever known, engaged the first form that met him. A moment later the
street was a battle ground. Two to one was the odds, but there were
three at least of the American bluejackets who had long since learned
to fight with their fists, while Steve and Joe, although they had had
few encounters, at least knew something of the science of the game.
Blows fell and were blocked, feet tramped and slipped, grunts and cries
filled the air. At first it was a massed melee in which foe struck at
foe wherever discerned, but after a moment the battle separated into
units. Up the street came, at first a dribble and then a stream of
spectators. But they were not all spectators, either, for more than
one of the newcomers leaped into the fray and took sides with their
compatriots. Cries of “Kill the Americans!”, “Up the Huns!” broke out.
Steve, caught under the jaw by a powerful fist, stumbled and went back
on the pavement. Instantly a foe was on him, astride his chest, and
blows were being rained at his face. Steve struggled and kicked and
finally pulled his antagonist forward and managed to get an arm around
his neck. Then, with short-arm jabs, they fought for each other’s head.
Struggling forms stamped about them and once someone stepped on Steve’s
ankle and fell, sprawling to the ground. Then came a rallying cry from
Sam Hearn:
“_Warren_ this way!”
Steve somehow squirmed from beneath his adversary and rolled aside,
springing the next instant to his feet. Hearn and at least one other of
his crowd had backed against the house wall and were managing to hold
the enemy at arm’s length. Steve could see more than one club waving in
the air, while at the further side of the street, inside the fringe of
shouting spectators, new recruits to the Sinn Fein ranks were groping
along the gutter for missiles. Near at hand a swaying bunch of four
figures parted for an instant and Steve caught a glimpse of Truso
fighting fiercely against a trio of the foe. Steve darted forward and
swung his fist and the nearest of the three doubled up at the knees and
fell in a heap. At the same moment Truso, wrenching free from the grasp
of a big, round-faced lad, struck out straight and another fell.
[Illustration: Steve darted forward and swung his fist]
“Come on!” cried Steve. “Get to the wall, Truso!”
“Hello!” gasped the other. “All right. I’m with you!”
But it was no easy task, for three of the enemy engaged them, and they
were separated from Hearn and the others by more. The latter, however,
were giving their attention to the three against the wall, and at last,
bruised and breathless, they plunged through the enemy and lined up
with their comrades. Higgins was a madman. Steve had never seen anyone
fight as he fought there in that illy-lighted Cork street, his back to
the wall. His fists shot back and forth like machinery, and all the
time he kept up a steady flow of taunts:
“Come on, you scum! Where’s the next nose? Sinn Feiners are you? All
right, you dirty blackguards, take that! _Now_ cheer for Germany!”
At any other time Steve would have laughed, but just now he was
much too busy. If the enemy had numbered a dozen at the start, it now
numbered twice that many. Their antagonists were three deep in front of
them, and only the fact that they had their backs to the wall and so
need meet attack from only one quarter saved them from serious injury
that night. Hearn’s “Ata boy! Give it to ’em!” arose above the tumult.
Steve caught a swift glimpse of Joe, pale, bleeding at the nose,
fighting steadily beyond Hearn. Then Higgins, at Steve’s left, groaned
and slid gently down to the pavement, and Steve, with a maddened growl,
stepped astride him and planted bleeding knuckles in the soft face of
a squat Irishman. But the fight couldn’t go on much longer, and they
all realised it. The odds were ridiculous now. At intervals a stone
or block of wood struck the wall above them and fell with unpleasant
effect.
“Shall we――make a run――for it?” gasped Truso.
“We can’t,” answered Steve. “Higgins is laid out. I’m――standing
over――him. Aren’t there――any cops in――this town?”
A blow got past Steve’s guard and sent his head back against the wall
and he saw a million stars. He couldn’t fight any longer, he told
himself dazedly. But he did, although weakly. And then, when it seemed
that he would just have to drop on top of Higgins and go to sleep, a
cheer arose above the tumult and the onlookers were swept aside as a
half-dozen bluejackets raced on the scene.