At Swim, Two Boys - Jamie O'Neill [188]
“Hmm,” said the lieutenant in blue.
“Well, it doesn’t look as if our man will show,” said the captain. He sat down, angling his chair on its two back legs
“Hmm,” said the lieutenant again. “What is this Georgius Rex anyway?”
“Load of codgers. Make tea mostly for the troops.”
“What’s a Sinn Feiner want joining that for?”
“Rifle,” said the captain. “We let them march with Martinis once a month.”
“Oh,” said the lieutenant blandly. “Dublins, wasn’t he?”
“Quartermaster-Sergeant, it says. Turned tail in the Boer War.”
“What sort of a rotter leaves his regiment in a wartime?”
“Yes, I thought we’d have some fun with that.”
“I was chatting with one of these Dublins. Do you know, he actually considered there was a history attached to the Irish regiments.”
“Mercenaries, weren’t they, out in India. John Company.”
“Chap actually believed they had some claim to honor.”
“Interesting.”
“I thought it damnable strange. I say, here’s a poser. Which is better for officer training: polo or hunting?”
“That is a poser. Polo or hunting. Very good indeed. I’ll have to think that one out.”
The lieutenant looked at his finger nails. “It is a bore.”
The captain, whose scarlet was just that shade too noisy for the lieutenant’s liking, clapped the four legs of his chair on the floor. “You can come to enjoy it after a while. Keeping a tab on the buggers.”
“They’re all pro-German. We should shoot the leaders, pack the rest off to France. In my opinion, there is too much kid-gloving in this country.”
“Oh, it won’t come to shooting people. And if it does, we can leave that safely to the Irish. You surely know the one thing they hate more than us English.”
“Well, it ain’t porter and it ain’t German gold.”
“It’s an Irishman with the pluck to stand up to us.”
The captain laughed and the lieutenant eyed him with distaste. He did not rate the man’s tailor at all.
Doyler woke with a start. His rifle had slipped from his hands. He looked about him. For a moment he couldn’t work out where he was. The stars gleamed above. Liberty Hall of course, on the roof, on guard detail. He picked up his rifle. He pulled the bolt back and fingered the chamber. But of course there was no cartridge inside. He blessed himself, despising the urge. It was the night of Good Friday.
The week had run with rumor. The British were to raid all centers. The British were to seize all arms. Any name on the nationalist side was to be taken and imprisoned. The Archbishop himself was to be imprisoned. The guard at Liberty Hall was doubled, then trebled, round the clock. It was known the Volunteers had maneuvers planned for Easter Sunday. Their leaders were every day and night at the Hall, the lights in Connolly’s office burnt late. It was joked they were promoting each other to generals and admirals. Then Doyler received his orders. Special mobilization—all ranks with equipment and two days’ rations—Liberty Hall, Sunday at three. So it was settled. Easter Sunday it was. He went to his officers and asked for extra duties. They gave him guard detail at the Hall, thankful enough for his offer. He was not sure could he trust himself without keeping busy.
He smelt a cigarette smoke from over the roof. If he listened, he could hear the other lads chatting. Those things you talked about on guard detail, Mr. Mack sort of things. What’s this is the Latin for candle. Name the states of America. They hadn’t ought to be chatting at all. He sat down with his rifle on his lap.
Muster at three at Liberty Hall. There was an unreal quality to the words. Muster, liberty. Two days’ rations—were they mad? Where was he supposed to find two days’ rations? Easter Sunday—on this day she rose again, Ireland. It was too far-stretched. Far too stretched to be frightened about it.
But there it was: he was frightened. And it had come as such a revelation, he had wanted to stop people he knew in the street. You’ll never guess—I’m not brave at all. Now he hugged his rifle while away behind a Protestant bell struck midnight. Easter Saturday already. The cold metal of his gun warmed where he touched.