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With The Main Guard
by
“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.