At Swim, Two Boys Part 62

"Who are we kidding?" said MacMurrough.

The breath huffed out of Doyler. Visibly he sagged. "I don't know, but if he's anyway hurt at all."

"Come on," MacMurrough said. He took Doyler by the arm. "We're coming to Blackrock. There'll be news there. There'll be something."

The Shelbourne was the stately cream and orange building that towered upon the left. What it did was to dominate their flank. The British had snuck in in the night and garrisoned it. Their own trenches now were useless for trenches: they were dug too shallow. The machine-gunners and snipers in the hotel bedrooms had them pinned down, but they might not return the fire. Elevation was the word used to describe this situation, a problem of it. Elevation. The boy at the park gates was dead still.

Most the men had scattered from the trenches. They had taken cover in the bushes round about. But it was the wrong time of year really, for the trees weren't half in leaf yet, and the shrubberies too were thin and bare. The women had left, hitching their skirts and trotting with the wounded. Whistles blew here and there. Guns could be heard over the house-tops, and pot-shots now and then nearer to hand. But mostly in the Green there was a kind of a hush. The ducks settled again on the ponds, huffily quacking. You could hear the voices of the soldiers down Merrion Row. Then a movement somewhere, and the mad clatter would start over, entire Shelbourne, from each its windows, blazing at the one square foot.

There had been talk of bombs. A bicycle would fly past the hotel, lob bombs through the windows. They'd rush it then. "I can cycle," Jim said, but it was a talent in no very short supply, and no one paid him much attention, save the comedian who asked, "Who's the firecracker, Bill?"

"Never bleddy mind this one," Bill replied. "This one's from the Southside." Bill was a sergeant. He had a grey mustache and a face hara.s.sed and father-like. He had taken it into his head to keep Jim in hand. Jim mightn't look at the Shelbourne without a dig in his legs and the sergeant bawling him down out of that.

In the hushes between the firing, Jim found his mind strangely wandered. He wrote a letter to Gordie. Well, here we are, he told him, in the trenches in Stephen's Green. He discussed with the inner man the breakfast he'd most enjoy. He tried to describe a triangle that would demonstrate this problem of elevation. Enormously steep hypotenuses he proposed, yet still he could not satisfactorily prove the difficulty. It had ought to be the same trouble firing down as firing up. Yet the incessant rattling gave the lie to that. It wasn't the worst, he believed. There'd be no more of trig if trig had fell the first casualty of war.

Not literally the first, of course, for the boy was still dead at the park gates.

The sergeant wanted to know was he all right there. Southside, he called him. "You keeping out of trouble there, Southside?"

"I'm keeping fine," Jim answered him. He heard himself sounding unnaturally loud. "I'm fine sure," he repeated more composedly.

It was this sergeant last evening who took Jim's rifle from him. It was dark when Jim got to the Green and the streets about were all but deserted. There were barricades across the junctions, carts and motor-cars, but they were loosely thrown, obstacles more than barriers. They too seemed deserted. He approached the park gates to find them locked. People moved against the shadows inside, figures only. It took a while to catch anyone's attention. Even then they were dubious of him, though he told them about Doyler, that he was ill under doctor's orders, that he'd be in tomorrow for definite; in the meantime Jim was here to stand in his place. The sergeant was called, this man Bill, and he took one look at Jim, demanded his rifle and told Jim go home out of that, they had sufficient of bleddy chisselurs already.

It had been on the cards all along that appearance might disfavor Jim-folk had a disposition to finding him young-looking and inadequate. It was against this eventuality he had borrowed Doyler's uniform in the first place. To no avail. He had to keep following them round the outside of the park, calling through the railings his knowledge of semaph.o.r.e and bandaging and to strip a rifle. It was an astonishingly trying time. The worse for he could see other lads his own age, sure some of them positively infants.

One of these lads asked him was he hungry, and he brought a custard pie. "Sure why don't you hop the railings anyway?" he suggested.

"Can I do that?" asked Jim.

"You there," came a bark behind. A short fellow pointing at him, clipping along the street. "What do you mean, leaving your post?"

Jim said, "I don't know, sir."

"This barricade is to be manned at all times. And where's your rifle?"

"It's inside in the park, sir."

The man told off the lad to fetch it. "Don't you know that's a military offense," he said to Jim, "to leave your equipment behind you?"

He spoke with a thorough conviction, such that Jim could nearly feel shamefaced for his dereliction. He said, "It won't happen again, sir."

"Be sure of that. Are you hungry?"

"I'm not, sir."

"Stay there now till you're relieved."

The lad came back with a rifle and a bandoleer of cartridges. That was the Commandant, he told him. He gave Jim another custard pie. They shook hands through the railings.

That lad was dead now. In a way, he was still dead, lying by the park gates. But another boy had fallen since and the Commandant himself dashed out to fetch him. He heaved him home to cheers from the men, and the bullets spurting about him, one through his hat even. It was the bravest thing, a conspicuous bravery, and Jim had stood out, loading and bolting and shooting, fast as his fingers would fumble, to give a covering fire. Till the sergeant again had him ditched in the trench. That time Jim had turned. "I'm not here to be cowering," he said.

"Ye'll bleddy obey yer elders. D'ye know at all the pains we had getting of them bullets? Firing them off at the bleddy masonry, snip of ye."

At last word came of action. Action at last, for it was mad holed up in these s...o...b.. trenches. It was not a retreat. It was a withdrawal. They were to make a tactical withdrawal to the far corner of the Green where a hump in the ground would better give cover. They would gather their forces there. Jim nodded his head listening to this, encouraging agreement among the men. "And then we'll charge," he said, still nodding.

"Ye can stow that, Southside."

"Who's the ball?"

"This one's with me."

"Lord have mercy on our souls."

"Stow that and all."

Over and over the sergeant told Jim what he was to do. He wasn't to move till the word was gave. Then he'd crawl out behind the sergeant. He was to follow the sergeant exactly what he did. He'd keep his head down in the daisies. They'd get out of this safe, Jim would see.

Still that boy by the park gates. There were other bodies about, but his looked so very much apart. It seemed nearly wicked to be carrying on without him. Jim wondered what had he done to be lying there alone, for he had seemed a friendly chap. A goner, somebody had called him. Jim swallowed, finding a difficulty in the action. He brought his hand to feel about his throat. He had a scarf round his neck that he woke up in the night to find the sergeant had wrapped there. His shoulder was hurting a bit now.

Last night, when they had relieved him from the barricade at last, he had joined a group of men in the dark in the park. He'd thought they might be talking tactics or making bombs, and he was a little disappointed to find it was only the Rosary they were at. But he took out his beads and knelt beside. This sergeant shook his head at him, but presently he gave Jim the calling of a gaudious mystery. After, when they took their places in the trenches, he bade Jim stay near. Commandant Mallin made a tour of the posts and he told them the news, how the country was up. Cork was taken, Limerick was taken, the West was awake and marching for Dublin, the boys of Wexford were on the march once more. They had only to hold out till help came. And Jim had thought while he lay in his trench and the moon only risen and clouding over, had thought of Doyler and MacEmm in the big house together. Boy, they was in for some waking up.

Now all of a sudden a woman appeared on the sward before him. She took her aim-it was hard to say, a giant pistol or a miniature rifle-calmly stood there and took her aim. She fired. A machine gun was silenced, actually silenced. She returned, waving her arms, directing the withdrawal. She saw Jim gulping. "Can't have the rotters have all the running," she said.

Oh boy, my gracious, good grief-they better come soon, Doyler and MacEmm. There wouldn't be nothing left them to do.

Blackrock, and the world awake. Knots of workmen gathered about the tram-stops, unwilling to walk but uncertain of holiday. The church doors were open, chapel as they still insisted in Ireland, and the hour drew its chain of pilgrims. Every pa.s.senger was pumped for his news, and that smidgen added to the general murmur. The soldiers, the rebels, the men of the north, the mountainy men, all of them up, marching all, the Prussians indeed on the Naas road.

It was disconcerting to be told such startling truths and never a hint of the teller's opinion. They had as well been gabbling of Poland or Salonika, such little consequence these rumors bore. The news itself was the marvel and the faces told the marvel of telling it.

Doyler went among the men, asking was anyone on strike, was any man of them here present called out on strike. He insisted on this point, and some of the men did look sheepish a touch, as though they believed they had ought to be on strike. But rumor soon had the better of that. Dundalk was known to be agitating. Galway was worse. Belfast for gospel was brung to a standstill. And did MacMurrough know three bishops had been shot dead in their miters?

Who was it was out, Doyler asked, was it the Volunteers were out in Dublin? Sinn Feiners, he was told. The Sinn Feiners hadn't any arms, Doyler told them, did they mean the Volunteers? What the heck did it matter their name, weren't they out anyway? Then a young chap said, My brother's a Volunteer and he's not out. So's mine and me cousin, said another.

"Well, who is it out?" said Doyler. He was becoming angry, and MacMurrough too was sensible of a rising animus, a want to separate from all by-standers and fire his Webley at their hats. See how I shoot? Make rumor of me. "Have yous a bicycle even to lend a man?"

"We'll go on," said MacMurrough.

"G.o.d d.a.m.n yous for Irishmen," Doyler cursed and spat.

Out on the road again, they discussed what could be made of it. "I'm telling no secrets," Doyler said, "if I tell you now it was due on Sunday. Something went wrong then, and they called it off. I thought for good. Turns out now they only delayed it a day. But if I didn't know, how many others in the same boat? Looks to me there was a split in the Volunteers and it's only the madcaps gone out. Whatever about that, it's gone off half-c.o.c.k."

Well, of course it has, MacMurrough thought to himself. It wouldn't be an Irish rebellion else. There had always been something whimsical, even Punch-like, about Ireland at war. One thought of Emmett, the handsome romantic, and his long-laid plans confused by a riot. Of the Young Irelanders whose Tyrtaean anthems and Philippic gush could rise no further, push coming to shove, than the Battle of Widow McCormack's Cabbage Patch. Of the Fenians, when the rebel force, numbering some hundreds, finding itself lost in the fog, surrendered to a dozen astonished constabulary; their captors then precluding any escape by the ingenious expedient of removing the men's braces. A nation so famously seditious in song, so conspicuously inefficient in deed: it was only the comic that redeemed her. "You don't really suppose Dublin can be in the hands of rebels?" he asked.

Doyler spat. "If they wasn't arrested by the peeler on point." MacMurrough nodded. Presently he added, "Maybe it's true, there's German aid."

"There's no German aid," MacMurrough told him. "An arms ship was seized off Kerry. Sir Roger Cas.e.m.e.nt is in prison in London."

"Cas.e.m.e.nt?"

"You've heard of him?"

"Everyone's heard of Cas.e.m.e.nt. You know that for sure now? They have him in London?"

"Yes."

He didn't say anything for a while. He shrugged. "Could be like they say, the country is up."

"Yes," MacMurrough agreed. Because really, the alternative was too awful. A few hundred madcaps in arms in Dublin, and the British Empire ranging to strike.

The hedges chirped their hungry news, crows barracked above them. The fat contented cows munched their post-emulgial cud. The fields pa.s.sed them by. Green they pa.s.sed, and lushly green they stretched to the hills, whence mildly came the mizzling rain. The turf-smoke rose in rakes from the cottages. The air had a flatulent reek of earth. MacMurrough felt his pace had quickened. He heard Doyler's breath coming harder by his side. This country was not up. A fool would tell you this country was up.

b.a.l.l.sbridge at last, the lip of the city; and here the rumors grew circ.u.mstantial. The OTC held Trinity for the Crown. The Castle had beat off a rebel attack. St. Stephen's Green was barricaded and the Tommies drawn up in Merrion Row. And now they heard it. Crack. Crack. And then a score of cracks that scrunched together. "Volleying," said Doyler. "That's the military."

It's happening, MacMurrough told himself. I walk towards it. And yet, it was not happening. The Royal Spring Show was on. Tweedy hats, prize bulls, hobbled madams waited by the entrance. G.o.d d.a.m.n this country, would it never make up its mind?

They turned towards Baggot Street. Way down from the ca.n.a.l, a lone figure cycled the middle of the road. "Peeler," said Doyler.

Yes, one of Dublin's famed giants in blue, a rain-caped spike topped copper. "I understood they were recalled to barracks."

"Maybe only inside of the ca.n.a.ls."

"How far is the Green now?"

"Beyond over the bridge."

"We need some momentum," MacMurrough said. "It grates on the nerves, this walking to war."

"It's the dead that walk," said Doyler.

Ghoulish thing to say. "Why the dead?"

"Something Jim told me. Dream he had of his brother."

His white-gloved hand waving, the policeman was calling to the people to remain in their homes. He might have been the barker for some fairground attraction. The people crowded the road behind to find out the advertised peril.

"Remind me now," said MacMurrough, "the police are the enemy?"

"Them lot's always the enemy. Wait now, you're not going to shoot him?"

"Of course I'm not going to shoot him."

MacMurrough flagged the constable down. He scooted to a halt on the pedal, his kindly face raised. "Now sir."

MacMurrough said, "My name is MacMurrough, of Ballygihen House and of High Kinsella, County Wexford. Do you understand?"

The constable nodded and brought his hand to salute. MacMurrough continued, "Now, this fellow here, he f.u.c.ked me last night. Isn't he the handsome rake? Yes, he f.u.c.ked me something divine, then after he fetched up my a.r.s.e, he turned me over and brought me off in his mouth. Glorious, constable, words cannot describe, you'd want to try it yourself. Or perhaps you have? In the meantime, you'll be so good as to lend me your bike for I find we're running late for the revolution."

The constable followed but imperfectly the thrust of this communication, for in the act of his saluting, MacMurrough had punched him in the stomach. Punched so hard the constable doubled, and MacMurrough, still holding forth, boxed his face, a left upper-cut to the jaw and a right just under his nose. It was troublesome with the helmet and cape, so dispensing with the ring, he booted the man in the groin and kneed him upwards on the chin. He held him by the cape while he reeled. "You want a go?"

"No," said Doyler, shaking his head.

He let go the policeman, who crumpled to the road.

"Why'd you do that?"

"Oh I don't know." MacMurrough picked up the bike. He was short of breath. The violence still trembled in his legs. "The boot was by way of apology, I suppose."

"Apology accepted."

People were gathering. An elderly woman had fainted. "I say," came a man's voice.

Doyler knelt down to the policeman and was undoing his collar. "You'll be all right, lay still." The constable reached a hand to grab his ankle, and Doyler told him, in a very grown-up and reasoned voice, "Be sensible, man. I won't mind shooting you at all and you must think of your wife and home." His ankle was let go.

"They're robbing that poor man," a lady said. "Common thuggery, I call it," p.r.o.nounced a gentleman.

MacMurrough said, "Well, we're in it now."

Doyler stood up. "Was that true about last night?" he wanted to know.

"Glorious, every minute. We'll do it again, I hope. Soon."

A smile slanted across his face, half-doyler. "You know, MacMurrough, I never disliked that side of it with you. It was always the 'tache I could never get beyond of."

MacMurrough laughed. "Cross-bar, or sit up behind?"

"Sit up behind'll do."

MacMurrough plunged on the pedal. He splashed through puddles. The bike wobbled till he found his momentum. Wind at last. Yahoo, he heard Doyler call behind. The gunfire grew louder and the volleys imperative, ever more imperious. He heard the garrulous natter of machine-guns. Here we go, our mad minute of glory, charging towards it. And it was true, the dead it was that walked. See them mutter and stare from the pavements. His aunt was right. It was far too absurd to die of a Tuesday.

A tingling in his a.r.s.e told him it was today Tuesday, and he laughed out loud. "We'll all be dead by tonight," he called to Doyler.

"Sure I know that," Doyler called back. "Yahoo!"

The sergeant whispered Jim the word, and Jim leapt from the trench. He careered it over the lawn, dodging and ducking behind tree trunks, weaving in and out, skipping the branches that had fallen, other debris he didn't know what it was, the lawn-rail. He heard the sergeant calling him back, but he was d.a.m.ned if he was cowering any longer nor crawling behind them pudding posteriors. The bullets came amazing close, ssshooting past. The noise quite shocked at times. But he reckoned he had the gauge of them now. They had no wish to hit him or hurt him, only to be the same place as he. It was fool's play really. All he needed was to keep one step ahead. The corner of his eye he saw the swerving skew of their impact, sure miles off aim the most of them. The land rose for the bridge over the pond. He resisted the lure of the parapet's shelter. The machine-guns tore up the water and the ducks again quackled and fled. Now his stamp on the wet sand path. Lawn-rail again and the slippery, whoops, slithery gra.s.s. He was there but for the mound to climb. There were trees up above and he saw flashes between of returning fire. He wanted to cheer. He was gallant and gay. It crossed his mind to stop now, kneel and take careful aim.

A shout. He looked round. The sergeant had followed him. He was down. Jim's feet carried on, teetering a bit, before he had command of them. He turned back. The sergeant was waving him away, cursing him. Jim shook his head, trying to think why the man had followed him at all. Couldn't he see it was dangerous? It was only his ankle, his bleddy ankle, twisted it. Jim took his arm but he couldn't shift his weight. It was all very awkward with his gun in one hand and the clutch of cartridges he kept in the other. The sergeant carried on cursing in his bleddy way, telling Jim he had hold the wrong arm, was he born defective. Jim thought quickly. He took the man's rifle and ran up the mound, flung both their guns into the keeping of hands there and ran back down the slope. The sergeant had hobbled to his feet. Jim saw them floatingly, a line of dancing raindrops, tracing their lenient curve towards him. The sergeant was a goner. There was only the one way to save him, and he threw himself on top, hurling the man to the ground. He lay covering his corporation with as much as his body and limbs would allow. The bullets veered as he had known they must, though it was astonishing how close they would come and still not hit you. He had felt their wind even. Can you walk at all? Bleddy lunatic.

At last they woke up on the mound. Fellows were coming out, reaching their hands down. "Will you hurry up," said Jim. It was vexing beyond belief. They hopped the sergeant one way or another round the bank of elm trees and down behind the hump in the ground. Jim lay with his head against the slope, breathing, luxuriating in breath. Suddenly, he was shivering cold.