A Good Man (49 page)

Dazzling shafts of sunlight slice through the canopy, flash lightning on contorted faces, lick fire from bayonet blades. Bodies blunder over deadfalls, collide with tree trunks. Guttural oaths, animal grunts, the crackle of frantic flight, acrid smoke stinging his nostrils, flooding his eyes with water. The final kick of the revolver in his hand followed by the click of a hammer striking empty chambers as he sights a fleeing back down the barrel of the pistol.

As suddenly as it began, it is over. The 2nd has taken the wood. Owners and occupiers of stillness, a silence broken only by the scraping pant of breathless men, the sound of someone biting back sobs. The momentum of the charge has carried them into a clearing. Militiamen cling to branches or prop themselves against trees, sit slumped, heads between their knees, shoulders heaving. He fingers a scratch on his forehead. Sharp, nagging pain is pure rapture; it proves he is alive.

His legs feel cottony and feeble; he sinks to the ground just as Ensign Hardisty’s detachment slowly edges through the brush, their bayonets moving like tentative, inquisitive antennae. “Well done, sir. Well done, indeed,” he hears Hardisty say, a voice reaching him from a far-off room.

He croaks when he answers, tongue fumbling in his mouth. “They ran,” he says. “I don’t know why. They just broke and ran.” He hauls himself off the ground. “I saw one of our men go down as we charged. Back there,” he explains vaguely. “Send someone to check on him.” He doesn’t trust his legs; the ground under him is shifting sand. “Casualties?” he calls to the 2nd. “Dead? Wounded?”

A corporal, rendered speechless by shock, holds up a hand shattered by a Fenian minié ball. Dripping blood braids the sleeve of his tunic. He orders a tourniquet applied, delegates a man to lead him back to the rear.

A cluster of men gathered at the edge of the clearing, staring down at something at their feet, attracts his notice. “What is it? What have you got there?” he calls to them.

“A Fenian, sir. Dead.” The answer sounds oddly apologetic.

He crosses to where they are. An Irishman lies sprawled on his back near a single birch marooned in the clearing. The dye he used to colour his surplus U.S. Army tunic green has not been a success. He looks to be covered in splotchy green uld. Already bluebottles are raising a buzz around him.

He stoops to examine the body. A youngster, scarcely more than sixteen or seventeen. His flesh is fading to a spectral white; a few wispy strands of penny-coloured hair are scribbled below his earlobes, a boy’s vain try at sideburns. A ball has smashed his right cheekbone; his broken skull lies on a smear of brains and coagulating blood. The damage to the cheek gives a mocking squint to his eye, as if he is looking askance at those who have robbed him of life. A sheaf of yellow paper protrudes from his tunic pocket.

Reaching down, pulling it free, he directs his attention to the paper to avoid the scornful, accusing face. It is a Fenian proclamation addressed to the population of Canada West under authority of T.W. Sweeny who bears the majestic, grandiloquent title of Major-General Commanding the Armies of Ireland. Here and there phrases wriggle into his consciousness.
We are here neither as murderers, nor robbers, for plunder and spoliation. We are an army of liberation … We appeal in the name of seven centuries of British iniquity and Irish misery and suffering, in the name of murdered sires, our desolate homes, our desecrated altars, our million of famine graves …

He hears a familiar voice behind him. “Veni,
vidi, vici
, so said Caesar. So says Captain Case.” Pudge and his platoon have finally appeared. Lieutenant Wilson strolls over to the corpse, fumbles a pocketknife out of his trouser pocket; as he does the men crowd round, curious to see what he is up to. Now Pudge is kneeling beside the body, using his knife on it. He straightens up, displays a button, passes it tantalizingly before their eyes. It is brass, lovingly polished. The initials
IRA
are stamped on it, wreathed with a garland.

“Here, gentlemen,” says Pudge, “is a watch fob for a hero. I present it to our Captain. Every time he fingers his watch chain, he will be warmed by the memory of his triumph.” Pudge holds it out to him. It is spurned with a shake of the head. Lieutenant Wilson shrugs. “No? You are too modest. There will be nothing to show the grandchildren when they climb up on your lap on a winter evening, nothing to give credence to your war stories. Ah well, then I will keep it.” He glances down at the corpse. “And you, you Irish bastard,” he says, “this is for the hole your friends put in my shako.” And Pudge kicks the corpse so hard he shifts it.

His first impulse is to strike him, knock him flat, but he checks himself, simulates an icy reserve. “The dead will not be subjected to any indignity by a soldier of the 2nd. Their personal possessions will not be touched. Do I make myself clear?”

The men shuffle back from the corpse. Pudge, however, makes a great show of tucking the plundered button away in the pocket of his tunic.

“Ensign Hardisty, assemble the men outside the wood. Sergeant Jimson and Lieutenant Wilson, remain here with me.”

The 2nd beat a hangdog retreat from the thicket. Burly Sergeant Jimson clasps his huge hands behind his back and sucks a moustache tip, looking puzzled.

“Lieutenant Wilson, I want an explanation for your failure to press the attack as ordered.”

Pudge gives his captain a tiny, patronizing smile. “Spying a conveyance in the distance that appeared to be an artillery carriage, I moved my men to intercept it before it could be trained on Hardisty at the wall. Alas, it proved to be a farmer’s wagon. He had stripped his home of articles of value, fearing Irish marauders would pillage his property. I had mistaken a roll of carpet extending from the back of the buckboard for a cannon barrel. You can well imagine my chagrin at such a mistake.”

“And that is all you have to say for yourself? The best you can offer?”

“I think it sufficient. I would not expect you to question a brother officer’s statement.” He indicates Jimson by a nod of the head. “Especially in the presence of one of the rank and file. It is hardly good form.”

“And you, you put all our lives in danger, for the sake of your precious skin.”

“Frankly, my men seemed pleased with the initiative I showed in intercepting that farmer’s wagon. Of course, I did not canvass them on their feelings, but I think it fair to say I read in their faces a proper gratitude towards me. It is not me but you who plays fast and loose with lives.” He shrugs. “You are too much a striver after glory, Wesley. You must have a regard for the welfare of those under you.”

He has to wait several moments to be sure of his voice; his throat is choked with rage. “Sergeant Jimson, bind Lieutenant Wilson to this tree,” he says, indicating the birch near the dead Irish boy.

Pudge gives a snort of laughter. Jimson’s eyes shift uneasily.

He repeats the order. “Tie him to that tree and be quick about it, Sergeant.”

“Tie him with what, sir?”

“Use his revolver lanyard. And make sure it’s tight.”

When Jimson makes the first move towards him, Pudge cries out, “I’m warning you! If you put a hand to me, you’ll regret it!”

Befuddled, Jimson throws a questioning glance. “Captain Case?”

“I have given you an order, Sergeant. If Lieutenant Wilson resists, use whatever force is required to subdue him.”

Pudge offers no resistance. He allows Jimson to gently manoeuvre him to the tree, turn his back to it, and bind him. The task completed, Sergeant Jimson steps away. Pudge’s chin hangs on his breastbone; his eyes are fastened on the ground. “You have made your point, Wesley. I have been humiliated,” he says so quietly he can scarcely be heard. He lifts his eyes. “I concede. Whatever lesson this was supposed to teach me, I have learned it. Now cut me loose.”

“No, Lieutenant, that cannot be done. Your concern for your own safety places us all in great jeopardy. You cannot be trusted. The men need to be protected from your influence. I am holding you in quarantine.”

Pudge strugght=in his bonds. “Let me loose, damn you!”

“If I free you, you’ll scamper for the rear – desertion in the face of the enemy. A thing difficult to explain away. Now your father’s cuffs don’t leak sawdust like mine, he is a very fine gentleman. I merely wish to save that
very fine gentleman
from disgrace.”

Once again, Pudge lunges forward, this time so hard that the tree shakes.

“Sergeant, please go and inform Ensign Hardisty that Lieutenant Wilson’s strange behaviour is attributable to heatstroke,” he says. “Tell him that as soon as I have made the Lieutenant comfortable in a spot of shade, I’ll join the men and we will proceed. Give this explanation loudly so the men can hear it.”

“Very good, sir.” Sergeant Jimson’s face betrays neither approval nor disapproval. He goes off smartly.

“I beg you – don’t leave me alone here,” says Pudge. For the first time, his plea sounds genuine.

“You have company.” He points to the dead Fenian. “Tell him your troubles.” Reaching into Pudge’s tunic pocket, he fishes out the button, moves to the corpse, and lays it on the dead boy’s chest.

Behind him, he hears Pudge say, “How like you, Wesley, to fall prey to sentimentality, to ice the cake with sickly sweetness. Cheap flamboyance changes nothing. He’s still dead.” Case leaves him and walks out into the fierce white heat. The body of the militiaman who had fallen beside him during the charge is laid out on the ground, hands folded on his breast, a handkerchief covering his face. The sounds of battle swell and subside, sudden jolts of musketry followed by a desultory popping, then another furious discharge. Rolling on, waxing and waning.

The incident with the button has left the 2nd crestfallen; they seem to believe his criticism of Lieutenant Wilson pertains to them, too. “Keep your heads, and peg away at them, boys!” he cries, offering them a cheerful front. “Peg away at them and by nightfall we shall have those beggars back to the United States or in hell!”

They answer him with a throaty hurrah. And peg away is what they do for the next hour, sometimes stymied, sometimes sending the Irish into flight. They are lying prone on a pebbly ridge, shot sprinkling them with dirt and stone chips, when bugles sound the call to retire. Assuming it to be a mistake, he sends a runner post-haste to the commander of the 5th to verify the withdrawal. In minutes, the courier is back with news that the 5th is running low on ammunition for their Spencers. Colonel Booker has decided to relieve all front-line troops and send up the reserves to replace the Queen’s Own with the 13th Battalion, the York Rifles, and the Highland Company. He is confident fresh troops will deliver the blow that breaks the Irish back. The Queen’s Own is to retreat to Garrison Road and await Colonel Peacocke and his reinforcements, which are expected shortly. They will assist Peacocke in mopping-up operations, if such operations are required.

The rest of the companies of the Queen’s Own are heading back to the crossroads, ignorant of the reasons for the retreat. Rumours of a disaster are spreading. T the right, he hears cries of “Cavalry! Cavalry! Look out for cavalry! Irish cavalry on the way!” The infantryman’s terror of horsemen falling on them when they are on open ground sweeps through the ranks. They flee as fast as their legs can carry them. Meeting white-faced boys breaking for the rear, the reserves moving up to the front assume the worst has occurred and take to their heels too. In minutes, what was meant to be an orderly withdrawal turns into a panicked rout.

And the Irish, seeing them in flight, seize the initiative and follow in hot pursuit. A breaker of green uniforms plunges down the slope of Lime Ridge, curls around sugar bushes and thickets, cascades over stone walls and snake fences, as the Fenians come howling down on them, rifles snapping.

Looking about him, he sees that exhaustion, hunger, heat, and sleeplessness have sapped his company of their last reserves of will to fight. Only the success of the advance had kept up their spirits. There are several whose faces are purple-ashen, they no longer sweat – victims of heatstroke. A number of wounded are using their muskets for crutches. Another warning cry of “Cavalry! Fenian cavalry!” and the 2nd too goes pelting, limping, staggering down the hill for Garrison Road.

At the crossroads, the buglers peal the “Call to Prepare for Cavalry.” There is a confused scramble to form a tight square, to turn the milling crowd of troops into four walls of extended bayonets to repulse the expected cavalry charge. Colonel Booker is clinging to the back of his wild-eyed horse, which has caught the contagion of fear from its rider. The Colonel is pointing with his sword and screaming, “There! There! To the west! The west!”

Three horsemen canter into view, study the havoc on the crossroads, and lope off.

The ranks tensely stand shoulder to shoulder, breath held, waiting for the Irish Republican cavalry to whirl down on them. The officers who occupy the centre of the square move about, reassuring the men. “All will be well. Stand firm and they will turn. Cavalry cannot break a square.
Cavalry cannot break a square.”
Some shake uncontrollably; one boy faints, drops face first into the dust. Snatches of the Lord’s Prayer and the Rosary are stammered.

A cloud of dust rises above a ridge. Out of it appears not cavalry but a Fenian regiment of infantry. Booker has made a serious misjudgment in preparing for a cavalry attack. Before the order to form square can be countermanded, the inviting target dispersed, the Irish deliver a concentrated volley into the mob of tightly packed bodies. It is like shooting rats in a barrel.

Around him, the square collapses, smashes with a cacophony of shrieks and groans, reeling bodies. The mighty walls of Jericho crumble to dust and a fearful wind sends the dust flying down Garrison Road. Booker’s horse spins like a top, squealing, blood spurting from its haunch, the Colonel bellowing for the halt to be sounded. But when the bugler blows, it sounds like a wail of grief. For those dazed few still stuck to the road in shock, that plaintive, mournful sound tears loose their boots and they join the stampede.