Collected Stories (58 page)

“We'll see whose property this is when it's all over,” says the man, and he began shooting up at the windows of the hotel.

“Hey, mister,” says the woman, “is that the English you're shooting at?”

“Who else do you think 'twould be?” says he.

“Ah, I was only saying when you came in that I'd never mind if 'twas against the English. I suppose 'twill be in the history books, mister, like Robert Emmet?”

“Robert Emmet!” I said. “I'd like to know where you and the likes of you would be only for the English.”

“Well, do you know,” she says, as innocent as you please, “'tis a funny thing about me, but I never cared much for the English soldiers. Of course, mind you, you'd meet nice fellows everywhere, but you'd never know where you were with the English. They haven't the same nature as our own somehow.”

Then someone blew a whistle in the park, and your man dropped his rifle and looked out to see how he was going to get back.

“You're going to get your nose shot off if you go out in that, mister,” says the woman. “If you'll take my advice, you'll wait till 'tis dark.”

“I'm after getting into a tight corner all right,” says he.

“Oh, you'll never cross that street alive, mister,” she says as if she was delighted with it. “The best thing you could do now would be to wait till after dark and come round to my little place for a cup of tea. You'd be safe there anyway.”

“Och, to hell with it,” says he. “I have only to take a chance,” and he crept down the steps and made for the railings. They spotted him, because they all began to blaze together. The woman got on her hands and knees to look after him.

“Aha, he's away!” says she, clapping her hands like a child. “Good man you are, me bold fellow.… I wouldn't wish for a pound that anything would happen that young man,” says she to me.

“The shooting on both sides is remarkably wide,” says I. “That fellow should have more sense.”

“Ah, we won't know till we're dead who have the sense and who haven't,” says she. “Some people might get a proper suck-in. God, wouldn't I laugh.”

“Some people are going to get a suck-in long before that,” says I. “The impudence of that fellow, talking about the tramway company. He thinks they're going to hand it over to him. Whoever is in, he's not going to see much of it.”

“Ah, what matter?” she said. “'Tis only youth. Youth is lovely, I always think. And 'tis awful to think of young fellows being kilt, whoever they are. Like in France. God, 'twould go to your heart. And what is it all for? Ireland! Holy Moses, what did Ireland ever do for us? Bread and dripping and a kick in the ass is all we ever got out of it. You're right about the English, though. You'd meet some very genuine English chaps. Very sincere, in their own way.”

“Oh, they have their good points,” says I. “I never saw much to criticize in them, only they're given too much liberty.”

“Ah, what harm did a bit of liberty ever do anyone, though?” says she.

“Now, it does do harm,” says I. “Too much liberty is bad. People ought to mind themselves. Look at me! I'm on this job the best part of my life, and I have more opportunities than most, but thanks be to God, I can say I never took twopenceworth belonging to my employers nor never had anything to do with a woman outside my own door.”

“And a hell of a lot of thanks you'll get for it in the heel of the hunt,” says she. “Five bob a week pension and the old woman stealing it out of your pocket while you're asleep. Don't I know all about it? Oh, God, I wish I was back in me own little room. I'd give all the countries that ever was this minute for a cup of tea with sugar in it. I'd never mind the rations only for the bit of sugar. Hi, mister, would you ever see me home to the doss? I wouldn't be afraid if I had you with me.”

“But I have to mind this tram,” says I.

“You have what?” says she, cocking her head. “Who do you think is going to run away with it?”

“Now, you'd be surprised,” says I.

“Surprised?” says she. “I'd be enchanted.”

“Well,” I said, “the way I look at it, I'm paid to look after it, and this is my place till I'm relieved.”

“But how the hell could you be relieved with this merry-go-round?”

“That is a matter for my employers to decide,” says I.

“God,” says she, “I may be bad but you're looney,” and then she looked at me and she giggled. She started giggling, and she went on giggling, just as if she couldn't stop. That is what I say about them women. There is a sort of childishness in them all, just as if they couldn't be serious about anything. That is what has them the way they are.

So the night came on, and the stars came out, and the shooting only got louder. We were sitting there in the tram, saying nothing, when all at once I looked out and saw the red light over the houses.

“That's a fire,” says I.

“If it is, 'tis a mighty big fire,” says she.

And then we saw another one to the left of it, and another and another till the whole sky seemed to be lit up, and the smoke pouring away out to sea as if it was the whole sky was moving.

“That's the whole city on fire,” says I.

“And 'tis getting mighty close to us,” says she. “God send they don't burn this place as well. 'Tis bad enough to be starved and frozen without being roasted alive as well.”

I was too mesmerized to speak. I knew what 'twas worth. Millions of pounds' worth of property burning, and no one to pour a drop of water on it. That is what revolutions are like. People talk about poverty, and then it all goes up in smoke—enough to keep thousands comfortable.

Then, all at once, the shooting got nearer, and when I looked out I saw a man coming up the road. The first impression I got of him was that he was badly wounded, for he was staggering from one side of the road to the other with his hands in the air. “I surrender, I surrender,” he was shouting, and the more he shouted, the harder they fired. He staggered out into the middle of the road again, stood there for a minute, and then went down like a sack of meal.

“Oh, the poor misfortunate man!” says the woman, putting her hands to her face. “Did you ever see such barbarity? Killing him like that in cold blood?”

But he wasn't killed yet, for he began to bawl all over again, and when he got tired of holding up his hands, he stuck his feet in the air instead.

“Cruel, bloody, barbarous brutes!” says the woman. “They ought to be ashamed of themselves. He told them he surrendered, and they won't let him.” And without another word, away with her off down the street to him, bawling: “Here, mister, come on in here and you'll be safe.”

A wonder we weren't all killed with her. He got up and started running towards the tram with his hands still in the air. When she grabbed him and pushed him up on the platform, he still had them there. I seen then by his appearance that he wasn't wounded but drunk. He was a thin-looking scrawny man with a cloth cap.

“I surrender,” he bawls. “
Kamerad
.”

“Hi, mister,” says the woman, “would you for the love of the suffering God stop surrendering and lie down.”

“But they won't let me lie down,” says he. “That's all I want is to lie down, but every time I do they makes a cockshot of me. What in hell is it?”

“Oh, this is the Rising, mister,” she says.

“The what?” says he.

“The Rising,” says she. “Like they said in the papers there would be.”

“Who's rising?” says he, grabbing his head. “What paper said that? I want to know is this the D.T.'s I have or isn't it?”

“Oh, 'tisn't the D.T.'s at all, mister,” she says, delighted to be able to spread the good news. “This is all real, what you see. 'Tis the Irish rising. Our own boys, don't you know? Like in Robert Emmet's time. The Irish are on that side and the English are on this. 'Twas the English was firing at you, the low scuts!”

“Bugger them!” he says. “They're after giving me a splitting head. There's no justice in this bloody world.” Then he sat on the inside step of the tram and put his head between his knees. “Like an engine,” he says. “Have you e'er a drop of water?”

“Ah, where would we get it, man?” says the woman, brightening up when she seen him take the half pint of whiskey out of his hip pocket. 'Tis a mystery to me still it wasn't broken. “Is that whiskey you have, mister?”

“No water?” says he, and then he began to shudder all over and put his hand over his face. “Where am I?” says he.

“Where should you be?” says she.

“How the hell do I know and the trams not running?” says he. “Tell me, am I alive or dead?”

“Well, you're alive for the time being,” says the woman. “How long we're all going to be that way is another matter entirely.”

“Well, are you alive, ma'am?” says he. “You'll excuse me being personal?”

“Oh, no offense, mister,” says she. “I'm still in the queue.”

“And do you see what I see?” says he.

“What's that, mister?”

“All them fires.”

“Oh,” says she, “don't let a little thing like that worry you, mister. That's not Hell, if that's what you're afraid of. That's only the city burning.”

“The what burning?” says he.

“The city burning,” says she. “That's it, there.”

“There's more than the bloody city burning,” says he. “Haven't you e'er a drop of water at all?”

“Ah, we can spare it,” she says. “I think it must be the Almighty God sent you, mister. I declare to you, with all the goings-on, I hadn't a mouthful to eat the whole day, not as much as a cup of tea.”

So she took a swig of the bottle and passed it to me. It is stuff I would never much care for, the whiskey, but having nothing to eat, I was feeling in the want of something.

“Who's that fellow in there?” says he, noticing me for the first time.

“That's only the watchman,” says she.

“Is he Irish or English?” says the drunk.

“Ah, what the hell would he be only Irish?”

“Because if he's English, he's getting none of my whiskey,” says the drunk, beginning to throw his arms about. “I'd cut the throat of any bloody Englishman.”

Oh, pure, unadulterated patriotism! Leave it to a boozer.

“Now, don't be attracting attention, like a good man,” she says. “We all have our principles but we don't want to be overheard. We're in trouble enough, God knows.”

“I'm not afraid of anyone,” says he, staggering to his feet. “I'm not afraid to tell the truth. A bloody Englishman that would shoot a misfortunate man and he on the ground, I despise him. I despise the English.”

Then there was a couple of bangs, and he threw up his hands and down with him like a scarecrow in a high wind.

“I declare to me God,” says the woman with an ugly glance at the hotel, “them fellows in there are wound up. Are you hit, mister?” says she, giving him a shake. “Oh, begod, I'm afraid his number's up.”

“Open his collar and give us a look at him,” says I. By this time I was sick of the pair of them.

“God help us, and not a priest nor doctor to be had,” says she. “Could you say the prayers for the dying?”

“How would I know the prayers for the dying?” says I.

“Say an act of contrition so,” says she.

Well, I began, but I was so upset that I started the Creed instead.

“That's not the act of contrition,” says she.

“Say it yourself as you're so smart,” says I, and she began, but before she was finished, the drunk shook his fist in the air and said: “I'll cut the living lights out of any Englishman,” and then he began to snore.

“Some people have the gift,” says she.

Gift was no word for it. We sat there the whole night, shivering and not able to get more than a snooze, and that fellow never stirred, only for the roar of the snoring. He never woke at all until it was coming on to dawn, and then he put his head in his hands again and began complaining of the headache.

“Bad whiskey is the ruination of the world,” says he.

“Everyone's trouble is their own,” says the woman.

And at that moment a lot of cadets came out of the hotel and over to the tram.

“Will you look at them?” says the woman. “Didn't I tell you they were wound up?”

“You'll have to get out of this now,” says the officer, swinging his gun.

“And where are we going to go?” says she.

“The city is all yours,” says he.

“And so is the Bank of Ireland,” says she. “If I was only in my own little room this minute, you could have the rest of the city—with my compliments. Where are you off to?” she asked the drunk.

“I'll have to get the Phibsboro tram,” says he.

“You could order two while you're about it,” she says. “The best thing the pair of ye can do is come along to my little place and wait till this jigmareel is over.”

“I have to stop here,” says I.

“You can't,” says the officer.

“But I must stop till I'm relieved, man,” says I, getting angry with him.

“You're relieved,” he says. “I'm relieving you.”

And, of course, I had to do what he said. All the same, before I went, I gave him a piece of my mind.

“There's no need for this sort of thing at all,” I says. “There's nothing to be gained by destroying valuable property. If people would only do what they were told and mind their own business, there would be no need for any of this blackguarding.”

The woman wanted me to come into her room for a cup of tea, but I wouldn't. I was too disgusted. Away with me across the bridge, and the fellows that were guarding it never halted me or anything, and I never stopped till I got home to my own place. Then I went to bed, and I didn't get up for a week, till the whole thing was over. They had prisoners going in by droves, and I never as much as looked out at them. I was never so disgusted with anything in my life.