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The Man That Died At Alma
by
“But it’s little I know how many I killed, for I was killed meself that day. A Roosian sabre claved the shoulder and neck of me, an’ down I wint, and over me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an’ I stopped thinkin’. Aw, so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away out av the fight! The shriekin’ and roarin’ kept dwindlin’ and dwindlin’, and I dropped all into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. An’ I thought that slip av a lad from the Liffey soide was houlding me hand, and sayin’ ‘Mother! Mother!’ and we both wint ashlape; an’ the b’ys of the rigimint when Alma was over, they said to each other, the b’ys they said: ‘Kilquhanity’s dead.’ An’ the trinches was dug, an’ all we foine dead b’ys was laid in long rows loike candles in the trinches. An’ I was laid in among thim, and Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick shtandin’ there an’ looking at me an’ sayin’: ‘Poor b’y–poor b’y!’
“But when they threw another man on tap of me, I waked up out o’ that beautiful shlape, and give him a kick. ‘Yer not polite,’ says I to mesilf. Shure, I couldn’t shpake–there was no strength in me. An’ they threw another man on, an’ I kicked again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees it, an’ shouts out. ‘Kilquhan ity’s leg is kickin’!’ says he. An’ they pulled aff the two poor divils that had been thrown o’ tap o’ me, and the Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an’ he says ‘Yer not killed, Kilquhanity?’ says he.
“Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham shtandin’ by whips out a flask.
“‘Put that betune his teeth,’ says he. Whin I got it there, trust me fur not lettin’ it go. An’ the Sergeant-Major says to me: ‘I have hopes of you, Kilquhanity, when you do be drinkin’ loike that.’
“‘A foine healthy corpse I am; an’ a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am,’ says I.”
A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the best story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well.
Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it seemed), Kilquhanity never went to Confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The Cure spoke to Kilquhanity’s wife about it, and she said she could do nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at minor faults till the Cure dismissed her with some good advice upon wives rehearsing their husband’s faults, even to the parish priest.
Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Cure to listen to her, but she was more successful elsewhere. One day she came to get Kilquhanity’s pension, which was sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avocat. After she had handed over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, she replied to M. Garon’s inquiry concerning her husband in these words: “Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is–enough to break the heart of anny woman. And the timper of him–Misther Garon, the timper of him’s that awful, awful! No conshideration, and that ugly-hearted, got whin a soldier b’y! The things he does–my, my, the things he does!” She threw up her hands with an air of distraction.
“Well, and what does he do, Madame?” asked the Avocat simply.
“An’ what he says, too–the awful of it! Ah, the bad sour heart in him! What’s he lyin’ in his bed for now–an’ the New Year comin’ on, whin we ought to be praisin’ God an’ enjoyin’ each other’s company in this blessed wurruld? What’s he lying betune the quilts now fur, but by token of the bad heart in him! It’s a wicked could he has, an’ how did he come by it? I’ll tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday it was a week, so black mad wid somethin’ I’d said to him and somethin’ that shlipped from me hand at his head, that he turns his back on me, throws opin the dure, shteps out into the shnow, and shtandin’ there alone, he curses the wide wurruld–oh, dear Misther Garon, he cursed the wide wurruld, shtandin’ there in the snow! God forgive the black heart of him, shtandin’ out there cursin’ the wide wurruld!”