With the Main Guard - Part II

"Faith, me son, ye said ut, thin. I kep' the little man betune my knees as
long as I cud, but he was pokin' roun' wid his bay'nit, blindin' an'
stiffin' feroshus. The devil of a man is Orth'ris in a ruction--aren't
ye?" said Mulvaney.

"Don't make game!" said the Cockney. "I knowed I wasn't no good then, but
I gev 'em compot from the lef' flank when we opened out. No!" he said,
bringing down his hand with a thump on the bedstead, "a bay'nit ain't no
good to a little man--might as well 'ave a bloomin' fishin'-rod! I 'ate a
clawin', maulin' mess, but gimme a breech that's wore out a bit, an'
hamminition one year in store, to let the powder kiss the bullet, an' put
me somewheres where I ain't trod on by 'ulkin swine like you, an' s'elp me
Gawd, I could bowl you over five times outer seven at height 'undred.
Would yer try, you lumberin' Hirishman."

"No, ye wasp, I've seen ye do ut. I say there's nothin' better than the
bay'nit, wid a long reach, a double twist av ye can, an' a slow recover."

"Dom the bay'nit," said Learoyd, who had been listening intently, "Look
a-here!" He picked up a rifle an inch below the foresight with an
underhand action, and used it exactly as a man would use a dagger.

"Sitha," said he, softly, "thot's better than owt, for a mon can bash t'
faace wi' thot, an', if he divn't, he can breeak t' forearm o' t' gaard,
'Tis not i' t' books, though. Gie me t' butt"

"Each does ut his own way, like makin' love," said Mulvaney, quietly; "the
butt or the bay'nit or the bullet accordin' to the natur' av the man.
Well, as I was sayin', we shtuck there breathin' in each other's faces and
swearin' powerful; Orth'ris cursin' the mother that bore him bekaze he was
not three inches taller.

"Prisintly he sez:--'Duck, ye lump, an' I can get at a man over your
shouldher!'

"'You'll blow me head off,' I sez, throwin' my arm clear; 'go through
under my arm-pit, ye bloodthirsty little scutt,' sez I, 'but don't shtick
me or I'll wring your ears round.'

"Fwhat was ut ye gave the Paythan man for-ninst me, him that cut at me
whin I cudn't move hand or foot? Hot or cowld was ut?"

"Cold," said Ortheris, "up an' under the rib-jint. 'E come down flat. Best
for you 'e did."

"Thrue, my son! This jam thing that I'm talkin' about lasted for five
minutes good, an' thin we got our arms clear an' wint in. I misremimber
exactly fwhat I did, but I didn't want Dinah to be a widdy at the Depot.
Thin, after some promishkuous hackin' we shtuck again, an' the Tyrone
behin' was callin' us dogs an' cowards an' all manner av names; we barrin'
their way.

"'Fwhat ails the Tyrone?' thinks I; 'they've the makin's av a most
convanient fight here.'

"A man behind me sez beseechful an' in a whisper:--'Let me get at thim!
For the Love av Mary give me room beside ye, ye tall man!"

"'An' who are you that's so anxious to be kilt?' sez I, widout turnin' my
head, for the long knives was dancin' in front like the sun on Donegal Bay
whin ut's rough.

"'We've seen our dead,' he sez, squeezin' into me; 'our dead that was men
two days gone! An' me that was his cousin by blood could not bring Tim
Coulan off! Let me get on,' he sez, 'let me get to thim or I'll run ye
through the back!'

"'My troth,' thinks I, 'if the Tyrone have seen their dead, God help the
Paythans this day!' An' thin I knew why the Oirish was ragin' behind us as
they was.

"I gave room to the man, an' he ran forward wid the Haymaker's Lift on his
bay'nit an' swung a Paythan clear off his feet by the belly-band av the
brute, an' the iron bruk at the lockin'-ring.

"'Tim Coulan 'll slape easy to-night,' sez he, wid a grin; an' the next
minut his head was in two halves and he wint down grinnin' by sections.

"The Tyrone was pushin' an' pushin' in, an' our men was swearin' at thim,
an' Crook was workin' away in front av us all, his sword-arm swingin' like
a pump-handle an' his revolver spittin' like a cat. But the strange thing
av ut was the quiet that lay upon. 'Twas like a fight in a drame--except
for thim that was dead.

"Whin I gave room to the Oirishman I was expinded an' forlorn in my
inside. 'Tis a way I have, savin' your presince, sorr, in action. 'Let me
out, bhoys,' sez I, backin' in among thim. 'I'm goin' to be onwell!' Faith
they gave me room at the wurrud, though they would not ha' given room for
all Hell wid the chill off. When I got clear, I was, savin' your presince,
sorr, outragis sick bekaze I had dhrunk heavy that day.

"Well an' far out av harm was a Sargint av the Tyrone sittin' on the
little orf'cer bhoy who had stopped Crook from rowlin' the rocks. Oh, he
was a beautiful bhoy, an' the long black curses was slidin' out av his
innocint mouth like mornin'-jew from a rose!

"'Fwhat have you got there?' sez I to the Sargint.

"'Wan av Her Majesty's bantams wid his spurs up,' sez he. 'He's goin' to
Coort-martial me.'

"'Let me go!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy. 'Let me go and command my men!'
manin' thereby the Black Tyrone which was beyond any command--ay, even av
they had made the Divil a Field orf'cer.

"'His father howlds my mother's cow-feed in Clonmel,' sez the man that was
sittin' on him. 'Will I go back to _his_ mother an' tell her that I've let
him throw himself away? Lie still, ye little pinch av dynamite, an'
Coort-martial me aftherward.'

"'Good,' sez I; ''tis the likes av him makes the likes av the
Commandher-in-Chief, but we must presarve thim. Fwhat d'you want to do,
sorr?' sez I, very politeful.

"'Kill the beggars--kill the beggars!' he shqueaks; his big blue eyes
brimmin' wid tears.

"'An' how'll ye do that?' sez I. 'You've shquibbed off your revolver like
a child wid a cracker; you can make no play wid that fine large sword av
yours; an' your hand's shakin' like an asp on a leaf. Lie still an' grow,'
sez I.

"'Get back to your comp'ny,' sez he; 'you're insolint!'

"'All in good time,' sez I, 'but I'll have a dhrink first.'

"Just thin Crook comes up, blue an' white all over where he wasn't red.

"'Wather!' sez he; 'I'm dead wid drouth! Oh, but it's a gran' day!'

"He dhrank half a skinful, and the rest he tilts into his chest, an' it
fair hissed on the hairy hide av him. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy
undher the Sargint.

"'Fwhat's yonder?' sez he.

"'Mutiny, sorr,' sez the Sargint, an' the orf'cer bhoy begins pleadin'
pitiful to Crook to be let go: but divil a bit wud Crook budge.

"'Kape him there,' he sez, ''tis no child's work this day. By the same
token,' sez he, 'I'll confishcate that iligant nickel-plated
scent-sprinkler av yours, for my own has been vomitin' dishgraceful!'

"The fork av his hand was black wid the backspit av the machine. So he tuk
the orf'cer bhoy's revolver. Ye may look, sorr, but, by my faith, _there's
a dale more done in the field than iver gets into Field Ordhers!_

"'Come on, Mulvaney,' sez Crook; 'is this a Coort-martial?' The two av us
wint back together into the mess an' the Paythans were still standin' up.
They was not _too_ impart'nint though, for the Tyrone was callin' wan to
another to remimber Tim Coulan.

"Crook stopped outside av the strife an' looked anxious, his eyes rowlin'
roun'.

"'Fwhat is ut, sorr?' sez I; 'can I get ye anything?'

"'Where's a bugler?' sez he.

"I wint into the crowd--our men was dhrawin' breath behin' the Tyrone who
was fightin' like sowls in tormint--an' prisintly I came acrost little
Frehan, our bugler bhoy, pokin' roun' among the best wid a rifle an'
bay'nit.

"'Is amusin' yoursilf fwhat you're paid for, ye limb?' sez I, catchin' him
by the scruff. 'Come out av that an' attind to your duty.' I sez; but the
bhoy was not pleased.

"'I've got wan,' sez he, grinnin', 'big as you, Mulvaney, an' fair half as
ugly. Let me go get another.'

"I was dishpleased at the personability av that remark, so I tucks him
under my arm an' carries him to Crook who was watchin' how the fight wint.
Crook cuffs him till the bhoy cries, an' thin sez nothin' for a whoile.

"The Paythans began to flicker onaisy, an' our men roared. 'Opin ordher!
Double!' sez Crook. 'Blow, child, blow for the honor av the British
Arrmy!'

"That bhoy blew like a typhoon, an' the Tyrone an' we opined out as the
Paythans broke, an' I saw that fwhat had gone before wud be kissin' an'
huggin' to fwhat was to come. We'd dhruv thim into a broad part av the gut
whin they gave, an' thin we opined out an' fair danced down the valley,
dhrivin' thim before us. Oh, 'twas lovely, an' stiddy, too! There was the
Sargints on the flanks av what was left av us, kapin' touch, an' the fire
was runnin' from flank to flank, an' the Paythans was dhroppin'. We opined
out wid the widenin' av the valley, an' whin the valley narrowed we closed
again like the shticks on a lady's fan, an' at the far ind av the gut
where they thried to stand, we fair blew them off their feet, for we had
expinded very little ammunition by reason av the knife work."

"Hi used thirty rounds goin' down that valley," said Ortheris, "an' it was
gentleman's work. Might 'a' done it in a white 'andkerchief an' pink silk
stockin's, that part. Hi was on in that piece."

"You could ha' heard the Tyrone yellin' a mile away," said Mulvaney, "an'
'twas all their Sargints cud do to get thim off. They was mad--mad--mad!
Crook sits down in the quiet that fell whin we had gone down the valley,
an' covers his face wid his hands. Prisintly we all came back again
accordin' to our natures and disposishins, for they, mark you, show
through the hide av a man in that hour.

"'Bhoys! bhoys!' sez Crook to himself. 'I misdoubt we could ha' engaged at
long range an' saved betther men than me.' He looked at our dead an' said
no more.

"'Captain dear,' sez a man av the Tyrone, comin' up wid his mouth bigger
than iver his mother kissed ut, spittin' blood like a whale; 'Captain
dear,' sez he, 'if wan or two in the shtalls have been discommoded, the
gallery have enjoyed the performinces av a Roshus.'

"Thin I knew that man for the Dublin dockrat he was--wan av the bhoys that
made the lessee av Silver's Theatre grey before his time wid tearin' out
the bowils av the benches an' t'rowin' thim into the pit. So I passed the
wurrud that I knew when I was in the Tyrone an' we lay in Dublin. 'I don't
know who 'twas,' I whispers, 'an' I don't care, but anyways I'll knock the
face av you, Tim Kelly.'

"'Eyah!' sez the man, 'was you there too? We'll call ut Silver's Theatre.'
Half the Tyrone, knowin' the ould place, tuk ut up: so we called ut
Silver's Theatre.

"The little orf'cer bhoy av the Tyrone was thremblin' an' cryin', He had
no heart for the Coort-martials that he talked so big upon. 'Ye'll do well
later,' sez Crook, very quiet, 'for not bein' allowed to kill yourself for
amusemint.'

"'I'm a dishgraced man!' sez the little orf'cer bhoy.

"Put me undher arrest, sorr, if you will, but by my sowl, I'd do ut again
sooner than face your mother wid you dead,' sez the Sargint that had sat
on his head, standin' to attention an' salutin'. But the young wan only
cried as tho' his little heart was breakin'.

"Thin another man av the Tyrone came up, wid the fog av fightin' on him."

"The what, Mulvaney?"

"Fog av fightin'. You know, sorr, that, like makin' love, ut takes each
man diff'rint. Now I can't help bein' powerful sick whin I'm in action.
Orth'ris, here, niver stops swearin' from ind to ind, an' the only time
that Learoyd opins his mouth to sing is whin he is messin' wid other
people's heads; for he's a dhirty fighter is Jock. Recruities sometime
cry, an' sometime they don't know fwhat they do, an' sometime they are all
for cuttin' throats an' such like dirtiness; but some men get
heavy-dead-dhrunk on the fightin'. This man was. He was staggerin', an'
his eyes were half shut, an' we cud hear him dhraw breath twinty yards
away. He sees the little orf'cer bhoy, an' comes up, talkin' thick an'
drowsy to himsilf. 'Blood the young whelp!' he sez; 'blood the young
whelp;' an' wid that he threw up his arms, shpun roun', an' dropped at our
feet, dead as a Paythan, an' there was niver sign or scratch on him. They
said 'twas his heart was rotten, but oh, 'twas a quare thing to see!

"Thin we wint to bury our dead, for we wud not lave thim to the Paythans,
an' in movin' among the haythen we nearly lost that little orf'cer bhoy.
He was for givin' wan divil wather and layin' him aisy against a rock. 'Be
careful, sorr,' sez I; 'a wounded Paythan's worse than a live wan.' My
troth, before the words was out of my mouth, the man on the ground fires
at the orf'cer bhoy lanin' over him, an' I saw the helmit fly. I dropped
the butt on the face av the man an' tuk his pistol. The little orf'cer
bhoy turned very white, for the hair av half his head was singed away.

"'I tould you so, sorr!' sez I; an', afther that, whin he wanted to help a
Paythan I stud wid the muzzle contagious to the ear. They dare not do
anythin' but curse. The Tyrone was growlin' like dogs over a bone that had
been taken away too soon, for they had seen their dead an' they wanted to
kill ivry sowl on the ground. Crook tould thim that he'd blow the hide off
any man that misconducted himself; but, seeing that ut was the first time
the Tyrone had iver seen their dead, I do not wondher they were on the
sharp. 'Tis a shameful sight! Whin I first saw ut I wud niver ha' given
quarter to any man north of the Khaibar--no, nor woman either, for the
women used to come out afther dhark--Auggrh!

"Well, evenshually we buried our dead an' tuk away our wounded, an' come
over the brow av the hills to see the Scotchies an' the Gurkys taking tay
with the Paythans in bucketsfuls. We were a gang av dissolute ruffians,
for the blood had caked the dust, an' the sweat had cut the cake, an' our
bay'nits was hangin' like butchers' steels betune ur legs, an' most av us
were marked one way or another.

"A Staff Orf'cer man, clean as a new rifle, rides up an' sez: 'What damned
scarecrows are you?'

"'A comp'ny av Her Majesty's Black Tyrone an' wan av the Ould Rig'mint,'
sez Crook very quiet, givin' our visitors the flure as 'twas.

"'Oh!' sez the Staff Orf'cer; 'did you dislodge that Reserve?'

"'No!' sez Crook, an' the Tyrone laughed.

"'Thin fwhat the divil have ye done?'

"'Disthroyed ut,' sez Crook, an' he took us on, but not before Toomey that
was in the Tyrone sez aloud, his voice somewhere in his stummick: 'Fwhat
in the name av misfortune does this parrit widout a tail mane by shtoppin'
the road av his betthers?'

"The Staff Orf'cer wint blue, an' Toomey makes him pink by changin' to the
voice av a minowderin' woman an' sayin': 'Come an' kiss me, Major dear,
for me husband's at the wars an' I'm all alone at the Depot.'

"The Staff Orf'cer wint away, an' I cud see Crook's shoulthers shakin'.

"His Corp'ril checks Toomey. 'Lave me alone,' sez Toomey, widout a wink.
'I was his batman before he was married an' he knows fwhat I mane, av you
don't. There's nothin' like livin' in the hoight av society.' D'you
remimber that, Orth'ris!"

"Hi do. Toomey, 'e died in 'orspital, next week it was, 'cause I bought
'arf his kit; an' I remember after that"--

"GUARRD, TURN OUT!"

The Relief had come; it was four o'clock. "I'll catch a kyart for you,
sorr," said Mulvaney, diving hastily into his accoutrements. "Come up to
the top av the Fort an' we'll pershue our invistigations into M'Grath's
shtable." The relieved Guard strolled round the main bastion on its way to
the swimming-bath, and Learoyd grew almost talkative. Ortheris looked into
the Fort ditch and across the plain. "Ho! it's weary waitin' for Ma-ary!"
he hummed; "but I'd like to kill some more bloomin' Paythans before my
time's up. War! Bloody war! North, East, South, and West."

"Amen," said Learoyd, slowly.

"Fwhat's here?" said Mulvaney, checking at a blurr of white by the foot of
the old sentry-box. He stooped and touched it. "It's Norah--Norah
M'Taggart! Why, Nonie, darlin', fwhat are ye doin' out av your mother's
bed at this time?"

The two-year-old child of Sergeant M'Taggart must have wandered for a
breath of cool air to the very verge of the parapet of the Fort ditch, Her
tiny night-shift was gathered into a wisp round her neck and she moaned in
her sleep. "See there!" said Mulvaney; "poor lamb! Look at the heat-rash
on the innocint skin av her. 'Tis hard--crool hard even for us. Fwhat must
it be for these? Wake up, Nonie, your mother will be woild about you.
Begad, the child might ha' fallen into the ditch!"

He picked her up in the growing light, and set her on his shoulder, and
her fair curls touched the grizzled stubble of his temples. Ortheris and
Learoyd followed snapping their fingers, while Norah smiled at them a
sleepy smile. Then carolled Mulvaney, clear as a lark, dancing the baby on
his arm--

"If any young man should marry you,
Say nothin' about the joke;
That iver ye slep' in a sinthry-box,
Wrapped up in a soldier's cloak."

"Though, on my sowl, Nonie," he said, gravely, "there was not much cloak
about you. Niver mind, you won't dhress like this ten years to come. Kiss
your friends an' run along to your mother."

Nonie, set down close to the Married Quarters, nodded with the quiet
obedience of the soldier's child, but, ere she pattered off over the
flagged path, held up her lips to be kissed by the Three Musketeers.
Ortheris wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and swore
sentimentally; Learoyd turned pink; and the two walked away together. The
Yorkshireman lifted up his voice and gave in thunder the chorus of _The
Sentry-Box_, while Ortheris piped at his side.

"'Bin to a bloomin' sing-song, you two?" said the Artilleryman, who was
taking his cartridge down to the Morning Gun, "You're over merry for these
dashed days."

"I bid ye take care o' the brat," said he,
"For it comes of a noble race"

Learoyd bellowed. The voices died out in the swimming-bath.

"Oh, Terence!" I said, dropping into Mulvaney's speech, when we were
alone, "it's you that have the Tongue!"

He looked at me wearily; his eyes were sunk in his head, and his face was
drawn and white, "Eyah!" said he; "I've blandandhered thim through the
night somehow, but can thim that helps others help thimselves? Answer me
that, sorr!"

And over the bastions of Fort Amara broke the pitiless day.