Doyle came out of the hotel bringing the illuminated address. Dr.
O’Grady took it from him and carried it over to Lord Alfred.
“Just take this,” he said.
Lord Alfred looked at the address doubtfully. It was very large, and
seemed an awkward thing to carry about.
“What is it?” he said.
“It’s an illuminated address. We intended to present it to the
Lord-Lieutenant, but of course we can’t when he isn’t here. You’re to
take it, and hand it over to him next time you see him.”
He pushed the address into Lord Alfred’s arms as he spoke.
Many men would have made some resistance, would have put their hands
into their pockets, perhaps, and so forced Dr. O’Grady either to hold
the frame himself or drop it on the ground. But Lord Alfred Blakeney
had been aide-de-camp to the Lord-Lieutenant for several years. He knew
something of the spirit which must animate all viceroys. It is their
business to commend themselves, their office and the party which
appoints them to the people over whom they reign. In private a
Lord-Lieutenant with a sense of humour—no good Lord-Lieutenant ought
to have a sense of humour—may mock at the things he has to do, but in
public, however absurd the position in which he finds himself, he
must remain gravely suave. His aides-de-camp must never under any
circumstances do anything which could possibly cause offence to any
part of the community. Dr. O’Grady was certainly a very important and
influential part of the community of Ballymoy. Lord Alfred allowed the
illuminated address to be pushed into his arms. He attempted no more
than a mild protest.
“Can’t I lay it down somewhere?” he said. “It’s so huge.”
“Better not. If you do it’s sure to be forgotten, and then we’ll have to
forward it by post, which will involve us in a lot of extra expense.”
“But it’s so absurd to be lugging a great picture frame about in my arms
all day, and I can’t carry it any other way. It’s too big.”
Dr. O’Grady, having made over the address to Lord Alfred, was not
inclined to listen to any complaints about its size. He took off his hat
and stepped forward towards the statue.
“Ladies and gentlemen——” he said.
The few people who could see Dr. O’Grady stopped talking in order to
hear what he was going to say.
“Ladies and gentlemen——” he said again.
This time, the nearer people having stopped talking, his voice carried
further than it did at his first attempt. Very many more people turned
round and began to listen.
“Ladies and gentlemen——” he said.
This third beginning secured him a large audience. Nearly half the
people in the square were listening to him. He felt justified in going
on with his speech.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, “we are now going to proceed with the
unveiling of the statue of General John Regan. Mary Ellen, whom most of
you know——”
He paused and the crowd cheered. A crowd nearly always cheers anyone
who is mentioned by name in a speech, unless it is quite plain that the
speaker means to be abusive.
“Mary Ellen,” said Dr. O’Grady, “who is the nearest living relative of
the great General, will perform the ceremony. Now, Mary Ellen,” he went
on, in a lower tone, “pull the string. Father McCormack, give her the
string. She doesn’t seem able to find it.”
Father McCormack handed the end of the string to Mary Ellen. She chucked
at it in a timid, doubtful way. Nothing happened.
“Pull harder,” said Dr. O’Grady.
Sergeant Colgan, who was a benevolent man, and therefore anxious that
the ceremony should be a success, stepped to Mary Ellen’s side and laid
his hand on hers. He pulled hard. The sheet fluttered to the ground. The
crowd cheered delightedly.
“There now,” said Dr. O’Grady to Lord Alfred Blakeney, “I told you there
really was a statue under that sheet. Next time I say something to you I
hope you’ll believe it.”
He held up his hand, and young Kerrigan, who was watching for the
signal, began to play at once. The tune he chose was an attractive
one which had achieved some popularity in a Dublin pantomime the year
before. Mrs. Gregg glanced dubiously at Dr. O’Grady, and then walked
towards the statue with the bouquet in her hand. When she had gone five
or six yards she stopped and looked round to see what had happened to
Major Kent. He was hanging back, but the piteous appeal in her eyes
moved him. He scowled ferociously at the doctor, and then with clenched
teeth and closely pressed lips joined Mrs. Gregg. Everybody cheered.
The Major, in spite of being a landlord, was very popular in the
neighbourhood. The cheers made him still more uncomfortable. He frowned
with embarrassment and anger. Mrs. Gregg laid her hand on his arm. Still
frowning, he led her forward, very much as if he were taking her in to
dinner. Mrs. Gregg was frightened and nervous. She had only the vaguest
idea of what she was expected to do. When she reached the base of the
statue she curtseyed deeply. The people cheered frantically. Major Kent
dropped her arm and hurried away. He was a gentleman of an old-fashioned
kind, and, partly perhaps because he had never married, was very
chivalrous towards women. But Mrs. Gregg’s curtsey and the cheers which
followed it were too much for him. His position had become intolerable.
Mrs. Gregg, suddenly deserted by her escort, dropped the bouquet and
fled. Sergeant Colgan picked it up and laid it solemnly at the foot of
the statue. Young Kerrigan, stimulated by the cheers, worked the band up
to a fortissimo performance of his tune.
Dr. O’Grady held his hat in his hand. He signalled frantically to Father
McCormack. He took off his hat, whispering to Major Kent as he did so.
The Major, who was utterly bewildered, and not at all sure what was
happening, took off his hat. Several other bystanders, supposing that it
must be right to stand bare-headed before a newly unveiled statue, took
off theirs: Lord Alfred Blakeney looked round him doubtfully. Most of
the people near him had their hats in their hands. He took off his.
The unusually loud noise made by the band reached Thady Gallagher in the
bar of the hotel. He stopped abruptly in the middle of a speech which he
was making to Mr. Billing. After a moment’s hesitation he rushed to the
door of the hotel. The sight of the people, standing bare-headed and
silent while the band played, convinced him that Dr. O’Grady was in the
act of perpetrating a treacherous trick upon the sincerely patriotic but
unsuspecting inhabitants of Ballymoy. Standing at the door of the hotel
he shouted and waved his arms. Mr. Billing stood behind him looking on
with an expression of serious interest. Nobody could hear what Gallagher
said. But Father McCormack and Doyle, fearing that he would succeed in
making himself audible, hurried towards him. Doyle seized him by the
arm, Gallagher shook him off angrily.
“It shall never be said,” he shouted, “that I stood silent while
an insult was heaped upon Ballymoy and the cause of Nationalism in
Ireland.”
“Whisht, now whisht,” said Father McCormack. “Sure there’s nothing to be
angry about.”
“There is what would make any man angry, any man that has the welfare of
Ireland at heart. That tune——”
“It isn’t that tune at all,” said Father McCormack. “It’s another one
altogether.”
“It’s not another,” said Gallagher, “but it’s the one I mean. Didn’t
Constable Moriarty say it was?”
“Oughtn’t you to listen to his reverence,” said Doyle, “more than
to Moriarty? But if you won’t do that, can’t you hear the tune for
yourself?”
“I can hear it; and what’s more I can see the Major with his hat off and
the young fellow that’s down from Dublin Castle with his hat off, and
the doctor——”
“It’s my belief, Thady,” said Doyle, “that you’re three parts drunk. It
would be better for you to go back into the hotel.”
He caught Gallagher by the arm as he spoke and held him fast Young
Kerrigan reached the end of his tune with a triumphant flourish. Dr.
O’Grady put on his hat again. One by one the various bystanders followed
his example. Lord Alfred Blakeney looked round him, puzzled.
“Surely that wasn’t the National Anthem?” he said.
“I thought,” said Dr. O’Grady, “that you didn’t know one tune from
another.”
“I don’t; but, hang it all, a man can’t be aide-decamp to His Excellency
without getting to know the sound of the National Anthem. What tune was
it and why did we all take off our hats?”
“You tell the Lord-Lieutenant when you get back,” said Dr. O’Grady,
“that we all, including Major Kent, who’s a strong Unionist, stood
bare-headed while the band played. He’ll be able to guess what tune it
was, and he’ll be pleased.”
“But it wasn’t the——”
“A speech will now be made,” said Dr. O’Grady, addressing the crowd,
“by Lord Alfred Blakeney as representative of the Lord-Lieutenant of
Ireland.”
“But I’m not,” said Lord Alfred clutching at Dr. O’Grady. “His
Excellency will be furious if he hears——”
“Go on,” said Dr. O’Grady pushing him towards the statue. “Stand on the
pedestal.”
“But I can’t make a speech. I’m not prepared. I’ve nothing to say.”
He was pushed forward remorselessly. At the very base of the statue he
turned.
“I hope there are no reporters present,” he said in a tone of despair.
“There probably are lots,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Get up now and begin. The
people won’t stand here all day.”
Lord Alfred Blakeney, still clasping the illuminated address in his
arms, was hustled on to the lowest step of the pedestal. The people
cheered encouragingly.
“Oh damn this great picture,” said Lord Alfred. “Do hold it for me.”
“Never mind it,” said Dr. O’Grady. “It’s all right as it is. Make your
speech.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Lord Alfred, “I find myself standing here
to-day——”
“As representative of the Lord-Lieutenant,” said Dr. O’Grady, prompting
him.
“But I’m not. I tell you he’ll be angry. I can’t make this speech. I
really can’t.”
“You can if you like,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Go on.”
“I stand here to-day,” said Lord Alfred, “at the unveiling of this
beautiful statue——”
“Hear, hear,” said Doyle from the door of the hotel. “It’s a grand
statue surely.”
“Go on,” said Dr. O’Grady. “You’re doing capitally. Say something about
the grant from the Government for a new pier.”
“About what?” said Lord Alfred.
“About a grant for a new pier,” said Dr. O’Grady, speaking distinctly.
“But I’ve no authority. I can’t.”
“£500 will satisfy us,” said Dr. O’Grady. “It’s a mere trifle. After the
shabby way the Lord-Lieutenant has behaved to us—but go on, anyway.”
“I have much pleasure,” said Lord Alfred Blakeney, “in declaring this
statue—er—open—er—for public inspection.”
The crowd cheered loudly. Dr. O’Grady whispered to Lord Alfred that he
ought to say something about the value of the statue as a work of art.
But this time Lord Alfred’s will was stronger than the doctor’s. He
jumped off the pedestal and flatly declined to mount it again. He was
crimson in the face with mortification and embarrassment. Then, when
the cheering subsided a little, Mr. Billing’s voice was heard, clear
and incisive. He had pushed his way from the door of the hotel and was
standing near the statue.
“That’s a darned poor speech,” he said.
It is extraordinary how close the primitive barbarian is to the most
civilised man. No one could have been more carefully trained than Lord
Alfred Blakeney. No one possessed more of that suave self-control which
distinguishes a man of the governing classes from the members of the
mob. Yet Lord Alfred collapsed suddenly under the strain to which he had
been subjected. Mr. Billing’s taunt threw him back to an earlier, a very
early stage of development.
“Make a better one yourself, then,” he said, “whoever you are.”
“I’ll make one that’ll create a sensation, anyhow,” said Mr. Billing.
He stepped jauntily up the two steps of the pedestal.
“Mr. Lord-Lieutenant, Right Reverend Sir, Ladies and Gentlemen,” he
said.
Lord Alfred Blakeney clutched Dr. O’Grady by the arm.
“I’m not the Lord-Lieutenant,” he said desperately.
“I’m not even his representative. Do try to make him understand that.”
“It doesn’t in the least matter who you are,” said Dr. O’Grady. “Listen
to the speech.”
“When I first set eyes on this town a month ago I thought I had bumped
up against a most dead-alive, god-forsaken, one-horse settlement that
Europe could boast.”
The crowd, being as Gallagher always asserted intensely patriotic, was
not at all pleased at this beginning. Several people groaned loudly.
Mr. Billing listened to them with a bland smile. The people were still
further irritated and began to boo. Thady Gallagher broke suddenly from
Doyle’s control, and rushed forward waving his arms.
“Pull the Yank down out of that,” he shouted. “What right has he to be
standing there maligning the people of Ireland?”
Father McCormack and Doyle were after him at once and closed on him,
each of them grasping one of his swinging arms.
“Behave yourself, Thady,” said Father McCormack, “behave yourself
decent.”
“Isn’t it him that’s paying for the statue,” said Doyle, “and hasn’t he
a right to say what he likes?”
Mr. Billing seemed quite unimpressed by Gallagher’s fiery interruption.
He smiled benevolently again.
“I got bitten with the notion of speeding you up a bit,” he said,
“because I felt plumb sure that there wasn’t a live man in the place,
nothing but a crowd of doddering hop-toads.”
The hop-toad is a reptile unknown in Ireland, but its name sounds
disgusting. The crowd began to get very angry, and surged threateningly
towards the platform. Sergeant Colgan felt that a great opportunity had
arrived. He had all his life been looking for a chance of quelling a
riot. He had it at last.
“Keep back, now,” he said, “keep back out of that. Do you want me to
draw my baton to you?”
“Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Billing, “I was mistaken and I own up. There
is one live man in Ballymoy anyway. We haven’t got a medical gentleman
on our side of the Atlantic equal to Dr. Lucius O’Grady. He has run
this show in a way that has surprised me considerable. He has erected a
statue that will be an ornament to this town, and it’s a pleasure to me
to pay for it.”
“Hear, hear,” shouted Doyle.
The crowd, which had been booing a minute before, cheered heartily.
“He’s fetched down the representative of the Lord-Lieutenant of this
country to unveil the statue!”
“I’m not,” said Lord Alfred feebly. “I wish I could get you to
understand that I’m not his representative.”
His protest was lost in a fresh burst of cheers.
“He has provided a charming grand-niece,” said Mr. Billing, “a
grand-niece that any man, living or dead, might be proud of—-”
“Get out,” said Mary Ellen softly.
“For General John Regan,” said Mr. Billing amidst tumultuous cheers,
“and when I tell you that no such General ever existed in Bolivia or
anywhere else, you’ll be in a position to appreciate your doctor.”
Doyle dropped Gallagher’s arm and rushed forward. The crowd, too,
astonished by Mr. Billing’s last words, even to cheer, stood silent.
What Doyle said was plainly heard.
“Be damn, doctor, but you’re great, and I’d say that if it was the last
word ever I spoke. Ask him for the price of the new pier now and he’ll
give it to you.”
“Gentlemen,” said Mr. Billing, “if 2,000 dollars will build the pier
Mr. Doyle wants, I’ll give it with pleasure, and I reckon that the show
which Dr. O’Grady has run is cheap at the price.”
Sergeant Colgan stepped forward with slow dignity. He beckoned to
Constable Moriarty. His face wore an expression of steady determination.
“It would be better, doctor,” he said, “if you and the other gentlemen
present would move away. The demeanour of the crowd is threatening.”
The demeanour of the crowd was, in fact, hilarious; but Dr. O’Grady
understood that there are limits to the patience of the official
guardians of law and order. The police—the fact is exemplified in their
occasional dealings with the students of Trinity College—appreciate
a joke as well as any men, and up to a certain point are tolerant of
merriment. But it is possible to go too far, and there is a point at
which fooling becomes objectionable. Dr. O’Grady took Mr. Billing by the
arm.
“Come along,” he said, “and let us have a drink of some sort, and
something to eat. There’s no reason why we shouldn’t have something to
eat. Doyle has a magnificent luncheon spread out in his hotel. Run in
Doyle, and tell the cook to dish up the potatoes. Major, you bring Mrs.
Gregg along with you. I’m sure Mrs. Gregg wants something to eat. Lord
Alfred, I’m sorry we haven’t a lady for you to take in, but Father
McCormack will show you the way.”
“If this business gets into the papers,” said Lord Alfred, “the
Freeman’s Journal will make capital of it, and the Irish Times will say
the Government must resign at once. Can’t we square the reporters?”
“There aren’t any,” said Dr. O’Grady, “unless Gallagher’s been taking
notes. Come along.”
The party, Doyle at the head of it, passed into the hotel. Sergeant
Colgan turned and faced the crowd. His hand was on the baton at his
side. His face and attitude were majestic.
“Get along home now, every one of yous,” he said.
“Get along out of that!” said Constable Moriarty.
In twos and threes, in little groups of ten and twelve, silently
obedient, the crowd slunk away. The statue of General John Regan was
left looking down upon an empty market place. So the last word is spoken
in the pleasant drama of Irish life. The policeman speaks it. “Get
along home out of that, every one of you.” So the curtain drops on our
performances. In spite of our whirling words we bow to, in the end, the
voice of authority.
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg’s General John Regan, by George A. Birmingham