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Ch. 22: The Mutiny of the Mavericks

Sec. 7. { Cause } { in forces } Regular forces,
(I) { Consipiring } { belonging } Reserve forces,
{ with other } a mutiny { to Her } Auxiliary forces.
{ persons to } sedition { Majesty's } Navy.
{ cause }

When three obscure gentlemen in San Francisco argued on insufficient
premises they condemned a fellow-creature to a most unpleasant death in
a far country, which had nothing whatever to do with the United States.
They foregathered at the top of a tenement-house in Tehama Street, an
unsavoury quarter of the city, and, there calling for certain drinks,
they conspired because they were conspirators by trade, officially known
as the Third Three of the I.A.A.--an institution for the propagation of
pure light, not to be confounded with any others, though it is
affiliated to many. The Second Three live in Montreal, and work among
the poor there; the First Three have their home in New York, not far
from Castle Garden, and write regularly once a week to a small house
near one of the big hotels at Boulogne. What happens after that, a
particular section of Scotland Yard knows too well, and laughs at. A
conspirator detests ridicule. More men have been stabbed with Lucrezia
Borgia daggers and dropped into the Thames for laughing at Head Centres
and Triangles than for betraying secrets; for this is human nature.

The Third Three conspired over whisky cocktails and a clean sheet of
notepaper against the British Empire and all that lay therein. This work
is very like what men without discernment call politics before a general
election. You pick out and discuss, in the company of congenial friends,
all the weak points in your opponents' organisation, and unconsciously
dwell upon and exaggerate all their mishaps, till it seems to you a
miracle that the hated party holds together for an hour.

'Our principle is not so much active demonstration--that we leave to
others--as passive embarrassment, to weaken and unnerve,' said the first
man. 'Wherever an organisation is crippled, wherever a confusion is
thrown into any branch of any department, we gain a step for those who
take on the work; we are but the forerunners.' He was a German
enthusiast, and editor of a newspaper, from whose leading articles he
quoted frequently.

'That cursed Empire makes so many blunders of her own that unless we
doubled the year's average I guess it wouldn't strike her anything
special had occurred,' said the second man. 'Are you prepared to say
that all our resources are equal to blowing off the muzzle of a hundred-
ton gun or spiking a ten-thousand-ton ship on a plain rock in clear
daylight? They can beat us at our own game. 'Better join hands with the
practical branches; we're in funds now. Try a direct scare in a crowded
street. They value their greasy hides.' He was the drag upon the wheel,
and an Americanised Irishman of the second generation, despising his own
race and hating the other. He had learned caution.

The third man drank his cocktail and spoke no word. He was the
strategist, but unfortunately his knowledge of life was limited. He
picked a letter from his breast-pocket and threw it across the table.
That epistle to the heathen contained some very concise directions from
the First Three in New York. It said--

'The boom in black iron has already affected the eastern markets, where
our agents have been forcing down the English-held stock among the
smaller buyers who watch the turn of shares. Any immediate operations,
such as western bears, would increase their willingness to unload. This,
however, cannot be expected till they see clearly that foreign iron-
masters are witting to co-operate. Mulcahy should be dispatched to feel
the pulse of the market, and act accordingly. Mavericks are at present
the best for our purpose.--P.D.Q.'

As a message referring to an iron crisis in Pennsylvania, it was
interesting, if not lucid. As a new departure in organised attack on an
outlying English dependency, it was more than interesting.

The second man read it through and murmured--

'Already? Surely they are in too great a hurry. All that Dhulip Singh
could do in India he has done, down to the distribution of his
photographs among the peasantry. Ho! Ho! The Paris firm arranged that,
and he has no substantial money backing from the Other Power. Even our
agents in India know he hasn't. What is the use of our organisation
wasting men on work that is already done? Of course the Irish regiments
in India are half mutinous as they stand.'

This shows how near a lie may come to the truth. An Irish regiment, for
just so long as it stands still, is generally a hard handful to control,
being reckless and rough. When, however, it is moved in the direction of
musketry-firing, it becomes strangely and unpatriotically content with
its lot. It has even been heard to cheer the Queen with enthusiasm on
these occasions.

But the notion of tampering with the army was, from the point of view of
Tehama Street, an altogether sound one. There is no shadow of stability
in the policy of an English Government, and the most sacred oaths of
England would, even if engrossed on vellum, find very few buyers among
colonies and dependencies that have suffered from vain beliefs. But
there remains to England always her army. That cannot change except in
the matter of uniform and equipment. The officers may write to the
papers demanding the heads of the Horse Guards in default of cleaner
redress for grievances; the men may break loose across a country town
and seriously startle the publicans; but neither officers nor men have
it in their composition to mutiny after the continental manner. The
English people, when they trouble to think about the army at all, are,
and with justice, absolutely assured that it is absolutely trustworthy.
Imagine for a moment their emotions on realising that such and such a
regiment was in open revolt from causes directly due to England's
management of Ireland. They would probably send the regiment to the
polls forthwith and examine their own consciences as to their duty to
Erin; but they would never be easy any more. And it was this vague,
unhappy mistrust that the I. A. A. were labouring to produce.

'Sheer waste of breath,' said the second man after a pause in the
council, 'I don't see the use of tampering with their fool-army, but it
has been tried before and we must try it again. It looks well in the
reports. If we send one man from here you may bet your life that other
men are going too. Order up Mulcahy.'

They ordered him up--a slim, slight, dark-haired young man, devoured
with that blind rancorous hatred of England that only reaches its full
growth across the Atlantic. He had sucked it from his mother's breast in
the little cabin at the back of the northern avenues of New York; he had
been taught his rights and his wrongs, in German and Irish, on the canal
fronts of Chicago; and San Francisco held men who told him strange and
awful things of the great blind power over the seas. Once, when business
took him across the Atlantic, he had served in an English regiment, and
being insubordinate had suffered extremely. He drew all his ideas of
England that were not bred by the cheaper patriotic prints from one
iron-fisted colonel and an unbending adjutant. He would go to the mines
if need be to teach his gospel. And he went as his instructions advised
p.d.q.--which means 'with speed'--to introduce embarrassment into an
Irish regiment, 'already half-mutinous, quartered among Sikh peasantry,
all wearing miniatures of His Highness Dhulip Singh, Maharaja of the
Punjab, next their hearts, and all eagerly expecting his arrival.' Other
information equally valuable was given him by his masters. He was to be
cautious, but never to grudge expense in winning the hearts of the men
in the regiment. His mother in New York would supply funds, and he was
to write to her once a month. Life is pleasant for a man who has a
mother in New York to send him two hundred pounds a year over and above
his regimental pay.

In process of time, thanks to his intimate knowledge of drill and
musketry exercise, the excellent Mulcahy, wearing the corporal's stripe,
went out in a troopship and joined Her Majesty's Royal Loyal Musketeers,
commonly known as the 'Mavericks,' because they were masterless and
unbranded cattle-sons of small farmers in County Clare, shoeless
vagabonds of Kerry, herders of Bally-vegan, much wanted 'moonlighters'
from the bare rainy headlands of the south coast, officered by O'Mores,
Bradys, Hills, Kilreas, and the like. Never to outward seeming was there
more promising material to work on. The First Three had chosen their
regiment well. It feared nothing that moved or talked save the colonel
and the regimental Roman Catholic chaplain, the fat Father Dennis, who
held the keys of heaven and hell, and blared like an angry bull when he
desired to be convincing. Him also it loved because on occasions of
stress he was used to tuck up his cassock and charge with the rest into
the merriest of the fray, where he always found, good man, that the
saints sent him a revolver when there was a fallen private to be
protected, or--but this came as an afterthought--his own gray head to be

Cautiously as he had been instructed, tenderly and with much beer,
Mulcahy opened his projects to such as he deemed fittest to listen. And
these were, one and all, of that quaint, crooked, sweet, profoundly
irresponsible and profoundly lovable race that fight like fiends, argue
like children, reason like women, obey like men, and jest like their own
goblins of the rath through rebellion, loyalty, want, woe, or war. The
underground work of a conspiracy is always dull and very much the same
the world over. At the end of six months--the seed always falling on
good ground--Mulcahy spoke almost explicitly, hinting darkly in the
approved fashion at dread powers behind him, and advising nothing more
nor less than mutiny. Were they not dogs, evilly treated? had they not
all their own and their national revenges to satisfy? Who in these days
would do aught to nine hundred men in rebellion? Who, again, could stay
them if they broke for the sea, licking up on their way other regiments
only too anxious to join? And afterwards... here followed windy promises
of gold and preferment, office, and honour, ever dear to a certain type
of Irishman.

As he finished his speech, in the dusk of a twilight, to his chosen
associates, there was a sound of a rapidly unslung belt behind him. The
arm of one Dan Grady flew out in the gloom and arrested something. Then
said Dan---

'Mulcahy, you're a great man, an' you do credit to whoever sent you.
Walk about a bit while we think of it.' Mulcahy departed elate. He knew
his words would sink deep.

'Why the triple-dashed asterisks did ye not let me belt him?' grunted a

'Because I'm not a fat-headed fool. Boys,'tis what he's been driving at
these six months--our superior corpril with his education and his copies
of the Irish papers and his everlasting beer. He's been sent for the
purpose and that's where the money comes from. Can ye not see? That
man's a gold-mine, which Horse Egan here would have destroyed with a
belt-buckle. It would be throwing away the gifts of Providence not to
fall in with his little plans. Of coorse we'll mut'ny till all's dry.
Shoot the colonel on the parade-ground, massacree the company officers,
ransack the arsenal, and then--Boys, did he tell you what next? He told
me the other night when he was beginning to talk wild. Then we're to
join with the niggers, and look for help from Dhulip Singh and the

'And spoil the best campaign that ever was this side of Hell! Danny, I'd
have lost the beer to ha' given him the belting he requires.'

'Oh, let him go this awhile, man! He's got no--no constructiveness, but
that's the egg-meat of his plan, and you must understand that I'm in
with it, an' so are you. We'll want oceans of beer to convince us--
firmaments full. We'll give him talk for his money, and one by one all
the boys 'll come in and he'll have a nest of nine hundred mutineers to
squat in an' give drink to.'

'What makes me killing-mad is his wanting us to do what the niggers did
thirty years gone. That an' his pig's cheek in saying that other
regiments would come along,' said a Kerry man.

'That's not so bad as hintin' we should loose off on the colonel.'

'Colonel be sugared! I'd as soon as not put a shot through his helmet to
see him jump and clutch his old horse's head. But Mulcahy talks o'
shootin' our comp'ny orf'cers accidental.'

'He said that, did he?' said Horse Egan.

'Somethin' like that, anyways. Can't ye fancy ould Barber Brady wid a
bullet in his lungs, coughin' like a sick monkey, an' sayin', "Bhoys, I
do not mind your gettin' dhrunk, but you must hould your liquor like
men. The man that shot me is dhrunk. I'll suspend investigations for six
hours, while I get this bullet cut out, an' then--"'

'An' then,' continued Horse Egan, for the peppery Major's peculiarities
of speech and manner were as well known as his tanned face; "'an' then,
ye dissolute, half-baked, putty-faced scum o' Connemara, if I find a man
so much as lookin' confused, begad, I'll coort-martial the whole
company. A man that can't get over his liquor in six hours is not fit to
belong to the Mavericks!"'

A shout of laughter bore witness to the truth of the sketch.

'It's pretty to think of,' said the Kerry man slowly. 'Mulcahy would
have us do all the devilmint, and get clear himself, someways. He wudn't
be takin' all this fool's throuble in shpoilin' the reputation of the

'Reputation of your grandmother's pig!' said Dan.

'Well, an' HE had a good reputation tu; so it's all right. Mulcahy must
see his way to clear out behind him, or he'd not ha' come so far,
talkin' powers of darkness.'

'Did you hear anything of a regimental court-martial among the Black
Boneens, these days? Half a company of 'em took one of the new draft an'
hanged him by his arms with a tent-rope from a third story verandah.
They gave no reason for so doin', but he was half dead. I'm thinking
that the Boneens are short-sighted. It was a friend of Mulcahy's, or a
man in the same trade. They'd a deal better ha' taken his beer,'
returned Dan reflectively.

'Better still ha' handed him up to the Colonel,' said Horse Egan,
'onless--but sure the news wud be all over the counthry an' give the
reg'ment a bad name.'

'An' there'd be no reward for that man--he but went about talkin',' said
the Kerry man artlessly.

'You speak by your breed,' said Dan with a laugh. 'There was never a
Kerry man yet that wudn't sell his brother for a pipe o' tobacco an' a
pat on the back from a p'liceman.'

'Praise God I'm not a bloomin' Orangeman,' was the answer.

'No, nor never will be,' said Dan. 'They breed MEN in Ulster. Would you
like to thry the taste of one?'

The Kerry man looked and longed, but forbore. The odds of battle were
too great.

'Then you'll not even give Mulcahy a--a strike for his money,' said the
voice of Horse Egan, who regarded what he called 'trouble' of any kind
as the pinnacle of felicity.

Dan answered not at all, but crept on tip-toe, with large strides, to
the mess-room, the men following. The room was empty. In a corner, cased
like the King of Dahomey's state umbrella, stood the regimental Colours.
Dan lifted them tenderly and unrolled in the light of the candles the
record of the Mavericks--tattered, worn, and hacked. The white satin was
darkened everywhere with big brown stains, the gold threads on the
crowned harp were frayed and discoloured, and the Red Bull, the totem of
the Mavericks, was coffee-hued. The stiff, embroidered folds, whose
price is human life, rustled down slowly. The Mavericks keep their
colours long and guard them very sacredly.

'Vittoria, Salamanca, Toulouse, Waterloo, Moodkee, Ferozshah, an'
Sobraon--that was fought close next door here, against the very beggars
he wants us to join. Inkermann, The Alma, Sebastopol! What are those
little businesses compared to the campaigns of General Mulcahy? The
Mut'ny, think o' that; the Mut'ny an' some dirty little matters in
Afghanistan; an' for that an' these an' those'--Dan pointed to the names
of glorious battles--'that Yankee man with the partin' in his hair comes
an' says as easy as "have a drink."... Holy Moses, there's the captain!'

But it was the mess-sergeant who came in just as the men clattered out,
and found the colours uncased.

From that day dated the mutiny of the Mavericks, to the joy of Mulcahy
and the pride of his mother in New York--the good lady who sent the
money for the beer. Never, so far as words went, was such a mutiny. The
conspirators, led by Dan Grady and Horse Egan, poured in daily. They
were sound men, men to be trusted, and they all wanted blood; but first
they must have beer. They cursed the Queen, they mourned over Ireland,
they suggested hideous plunder of the Indian country side, and then,
alas--some of the younger men would go forth and wallow on the ground in
spasms of wicked laughter.

The genius of the Irish for conspiracies is remarkable. None the less
they would swear no oaths but those of their own making, which were rare
and curious, and they were always at pains to impress Mulcahy with the
risks they ran. Naturally the flood of beer wrought demoralisation. But
Mulcahy confused the causes of things, and when a very muzzy Maverick
smote a sergeant on the nose or called his commanding officer a bald-
headed old lard-bladder and even worse names, he fancied that rebellion
and not liquor was at the bottom of the outbreak. Other gentlemen who
have concerned themselves in larger conspiracies have made the same

The hot season, in which they protested no man could rebel, came to an
end, and Mulcahy suggested a visible return for his teachings. As to the
actual upshot of the mutiny he cared nothing. It would be enough if the
English, infatuatedly trusting to the integrity of their army, should be
startled with news of an Irish regiment revolting from political
considerations. His persistent demands would have ended, at Dan's
instigation, in a regimental belting which in all probability would have
killed him and cut off the supply of beer, had not he been sent on
special duty some fifty miles away from the cantonment to cool his heels
in a mud fort and dismount obsolete artillery. Then the colonel of the
Mavericks, reading his newspaper diligently, and scenting Frontier
trouble from afar, posted to the army headquarters and pled with the
Commander-in-chief for certain privileges, to be granted under certain
contingencies; which contingencies came about only a week later, when
the annual little war on the border developed itself and the colonel
returned to carry the good news to the Mavericks. He held the promise of
the Chief for active service, and the men must get ready.

On the evening of the same day, Mulcahy, an unconsidered corporal--yet
great in conspiracy--returned to cantonments, and heard sounds of strife
and howlings from afar off. The mutiny had broken out and the barracks
of the Mavericks were one white-washed pandemonium. A private tearing
through the barrack-square, gasped in his ear, 'Service! Active service.
It's a burnin' shame.' Oh joy, the Mavericks had risen on the eve of
battle! They would not--noble and loyal sons of Ireland--serve the Queen
longer. The news would flash through the country side and over to
England, and he--Mulcahy--the trusted of the Third Three, had brought
about the crash. The private stood in the middle of the square and
cursed colonel, regiment, officers, and doctor, particularly the doctor,
by his gods. An orderly of the native cavalry regiment clattered through
the mob of soldiers. He was half lifted, half dragged from his horse,
beaten on the back with mighty hand-claps till his eyes watered, and
called all manner of endearing names. Yes, the Mavericks had fraternised
with the native troops. Who then was the agent among the latter that had
blindly wrought with Mulcahy so well?

An officer slunk, almost ran, from the mess to a barrack. He was mobbed
by the infuriated soldiery, who closed round but did not kill him, for
he fought his way to shelter, flying for the life. Mulcahy could have
wept with pure joy and thankfulness. The very prisoners in the guard-
room were shaking the bars of their cells and howling like wild beasts,
and from every barrack poured the booming as of a big war-drum.

Mulcahy hastened to his own barrack. He could hardly hear himself speak.
Eighty men were pounding with fist and heel the tables and trestles--
eighty men, flushed with mutiny, stripped to their shirt sleeves, their
knapsacks half-packed for the march to the sea, made the two-inch boards
thunder again as they chanted to a tune that Mulcahy knew well, the
Sacred War Song of the Mavericks--

Listen in the north, my boys, there's trouble on the wind;
Tramp o' Cossack hooves in front, gray great-coats behind,
Trouble on the Frontier of a most amazin' kind,
Trouble on the waters o' the Oxus!

Then, as a table broke under the furious accompaniment--

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

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

'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

'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

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

'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

'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

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.

Rudyard Kipling