When Gallagher left the inquiry room, Mulholland went silently to a
form and sat down. The three men stood nervously in front of the table
watching him. They watched him intently, in silence, as if each
movement he made was fraught with grave consequences to themselves.
He took three matches from a box and placed them beside him on the
form. He handled them slowly and deliberately, with a serious
contemplative expression on his face, like an old fisherman baiting
his hooks under the admiring glances of a party of tourists. Then he
took out a clasp knife and opened it. He cut a piece off one match. He
put the knife back into his pocket.
Then, suddenly, he cleared his throat with a noise that sounded
enormous in the silence. The three men started. They looked at one
another fearfully, as if each had been caught by the others in the
commission of an indecency.
Mulholland rose calmly and approached them, holding the three matches
on his open palm. Without speaking he pointed to them. Two long and
one short. They all examined them. Right. Each nodded his head
solemnly. Not a word. Mulholland nodded and marched away to the far
end of the room. They did not follow him now with their eyes. They
stared painfully at the floor.
The tallest of them was a docker called Peter Hackett. He was a
fair-haired young giant, slim and lean faced, with sleepy blue eyes
and a gentle mouth. His great bony hands were thickly covered with
long white hairs. He stood with his arms folded on his chest, one leg
thrust forward, his eyes wide open and strained, his forehead
wrinkled. He was only twenty-two. This was the first time he had been
chosen for an affair of this sort. It was particularly strange and
odious to him, because he was a good-natured soul, loved by all on the
quays where he worked. He had no conception of politics or of any
problem other than hurling, football, horse racing and pitch and toss,
which he played all Sunday afternoon on the Canal bank with his
cronies. He often lost his whole week’s wages playing pitch and toss.
On these occasions, when he went home to his young wife penniless, he
would first of all dance around the kitchen in a fit of rage and
perhaps break a thing or two, threatening to blow Kitty’s brains out
if she said a word. Then his anger would suddenly evaporate, to be
followed by a fit of sobbing. During this fit he sat by the fire with
his head in his hands, moaning and begging Kitty to forgive him. His
wife always felt exalted when these outbursts occurred, because the
excitement of the quarrel and Peter’s kisses, which lasted far into
the night afterwards, were a welcome break in the dreary monotony of
everyday life as a docker’s wife, scouring, cooking, washing, with two
children to look after on a docker’s wages.
Peter had no imagination. He lacked the refined conscience and sense
of injustice that attracts most gentle natures like his towards a
revolutionary movement. He was not the stuff of which the other sort
of revolutionary is made either. He belonged to the Organization
simply because the rest of “the boys” belonged to it, and out of
fanatical hero-worship for Commandant Dan Gallagher.
Dart Flynn, on the other hand, was designed by nature as a
revolutionary, a man to stalk ahead of the bulk of humanity, grimly
destroying obstacles, disturbing the sluggish existence of the herd,
terrifying the contented ones into activity, born with a curse upon
his brow, anathema to the mass of beings who always seek tranquillity
and peace at any price. He was dour, dark visaged, built like the base
of an oak tree, almost square. His body and face were fleshy and
jealous of movement. His eyes were small. They moved horizontally. He
was clean shaven, with a pink and white complexion, in spite of the
fact that he was thirty-five and lived a hard life as a carter. In
company, he hardly ever expressed an opinion on politics, religion, or
on any other of the fundamental things that are discussed with avidity
by revolutionaries who carry their lives in their hands. But in the
secrecy of his own soul he thought deeply on these matters. In his
little bare room in a lodging-house in Capel Street, he had several
works on philosophy and economics. He had also worked out an amazing
system of philosophy, based on the premise that each human being
shares his soul with several different animals. The man who could
discover and have constant intercourse with these animals would be
supremely happy and immortal.
Flynn had no moral sense. He hated all human beings who were not
Communists. He loved all children and animals. He gave most of his
wages to the hungry little ruffians in the street. He had no relatives
or dependents. He was an old member of the Organization, highly
respected for his courage, his fidelity and his taciturn habits.
The third man, Laurence Curley, was of a totally different type from
both his companions. He was also the most nervous and timorous. He was
twenty-eight, pale faced, red haired, with a tall, thin frame,
slightly consumptive-looking, on account of his hollow chest and
stooping shoulders. His father had been a doctor in a country
dispensary district. He had received a good education, but he early
grew dissatisfied with life and refused to study for the Bar as his
father wished. Instead he took a job in Dublin as a clerk, in order
that he might plunge into the revolutionary movement.
The theory of Revolutionary Communism interested him far more than
working for a revolution. He gradually became a crank, hated by
everybody. He was always finding fault and reading or discussing dull
works on Socialism. His views were always the most extreme and
blood-thirsty. He used to whisper excitedly, whenever he met a
stranger who did not know him yet, or when the least industrial
disturbance occurred:
“The red flag will be hoisted any minute. Wait till you see. Then
blood will spill. Wait till you see. Justice and liberty are bourgeois
watchwords. The proletarian watchwords are revenge and bread. The
proletariat knows how to deal out their deserts to the oppressors.”
He had always this sort of patter.
Now, however, the three of them, so different in essential
characteristics, had reached a common level of emotion. The silence of
the night, the phantom-filled cellars, the illegality and danger of
the contemplated act, the torturing uncertainty of the choice, filled
them with such delirious emotions that they were beside themselves.
They were not afraid. They were beyond fear, on to a distant level of
emotion, where the common impulses, that agitate the hearts of men,
are unknown.
Then Mulholland approached with the matches arranged in his hand, so
that their red heads alone were visible.
“Who’ll draw first?” he said carelessly, standing in front of the
group.
After a moment’s pause Flynn came forward hurriedly. He stretched out
a fleshy hand, fumbled awkwardly with the matches and then pulled one.
They all strained eagerly to look. It was a long match. Everybody
sighed.
“Next,” said Mulholland.
Curley and Hackett looked at one another excitedly. Then each spoke.
“You go first.”
“No, you go first.”
“Go ahead. I don’t mind drawing the last.”
“What’s the difference? You’re nearest. Draw.”
“Why should I? It’s your turn. You draw.”
“Come on,” snarled Mulholland, “one of you draw. We have no time.”
They both made a movement towards the matches. Then each stopped to
let the other advance. Their hands and legs were jerky. They stared at
one another with hatred.
“Come on,” hissed Mulholland again. “Didn’t ye hear the Commandant’s
orders, that we were to get outa the place as soon as possible? Are ye
afraid or what?”
“Oh no,” cried both men together in an off-hand tone.
They both rushed at the matches. They tussled for them.
“Keep back now. It’s my turn.”
“Keep back, you. You weren’t so quick before. Let me draw.”
“No, I won’t. I was here first.”
“For goodness’ sake,” cried Mulholland, “ye pair o’ babies. Will I
have to pull me gat on ye?”
The two of them stood still, looking at Mulholland dazedly.
“It’s against the rules,” continued Mulholland with a great sense of
importance, “but I’m goin’ to call ye in the order o’ yer rank. You
draw first, Comrade Curley.”
Curley’s thin fingers shot out instantly. He drew the match. It was a
long one. He gasped. Then he burst into a thin laugh.
“Comrade Hackett.”
Hackett stumbled forward. He reached for the short match that
Mulholland held out to him with a strange smile.
“It’s your shot, comrade,” whispered Mulholland.
Hackett grasped the match and crushed it into fragments immediately.
He threw the little bundle away in terror. He rubbed his palms slowly.
Then he struck his right coat pocket suddenly with his hand. He
laughed.
“Good Lord!” he blubbered, “I thought I’d lost me penknife.”