Bold Sons of Erin

by Ralph Peters (as Owen Parry)

  Jimmy rolled his eyes about, gathering up the moonlight. “And why shouldn’t they follow him, then? He’s brave enough, and I said not a word against himself and his valor. As ye used to say in India, whenever the lads would try to whip them a nigger for stealing or moving too slow, we all must make allowances. No, ye’d never get an Irishman to follow a sober general.”

  “But you did. You followed sober generals. And sober colonels. And sergeants.”

  “Now, an’t that the silliest thing I’ve ever heard tell? Of course, they were sober, the most o’ them. And I followed them true enough. But they weren’t Irishmen, either. Who would follow a sober Irish general?”

  “You know, the Duke of Wellington was—”

  “And that reminds me, don’t it now, that I had a great, worrisome question for ye. Something that I’ve been wishing and hoping to have your thoughts upon, Abel. What do ye think of this bucko Charles Darwin?”

  I did not see why my mention of the Duke of Wellington should have put Jimmy in mind of Mr. Darwin, but he always had jumped about himself, whether leaping parapets in battle, or springing away from a soldier’s chores in camp. He come to me originally from poor Sergeant Bates of the sappers, who died later on, delirious, on the march to Delhi Ridge. Bates had warned me that Jimmy Molloy was the laziest man alive, but when I gave my new fusilier a proper sergeant’s greeting, Jimmy had only replied, “Jaysus, now, I didn’t join the army to work, did I? If it’s fighting ye want, I’m your man, Sergeant Jones, but they tried to put me to honest work in the sappers, and I mought have stayed home in Dublin if that was me purpose.” And he had proved the bravest of the brave, a description I once heard used—doubtless inaccurately—of a French fellow.

  “Jimmy, Mr. Darwin has unsettling theories, which could only disturb your—”

  “Dr. Tyrone believes him, don’t he? Black Protestant though he is?”

  The wagon delivered a sudden and bone-shaking jolt.

  “Dr. Tyrone believes in a number of peculiar matters that need not—”

  “But don’t Darwin say how we all come descending from monkeys?”

  “Yes, but you must not—”

  “Well, it don’t seem fair to Jimmy Molloy, blaming them poor apes for the sins o’ humanity. Do ye not remember that lovely little monkey ye had, the one I used to—”

  “You fed him sweets,” I said. “Which were not good for the little fellow’s digestion.”

  Jimmy laughed. “But he liked a sweet. And he slept atop your own cot, not on mine, so I didn’t see how the poor sod’s digestion concerned me.”

  “Jimmy, Charles Darwin is an atheist. His propositions contradict the Bible.”

  “Oh, and do they now? Ye know, that’s the very business that’s troubling me. For I don’t for the life o’ me see the contradiction. I look at it this way: Don’t ye remember how long the days seemed when we went marching through the wilds o’ the Punjab? And how we’d sweat ourselves sick, though the calendar tried to tell the world it was winter? Or how long the nights would seem when a battle was all begun, but not yet finished, and the poor, wounded fellows was lying betwixt the lines and gasping their last breaths out o’ themselves? So, maybe a day wasn’t always exactly a day, do ye see what I’m after? Maybe those seven days God used to make us from mud pats and such were longer days than ours? Maybe one o’ his days was a million years? For it does seem to Jimmy Molloy, and I don’t mind telling ye, that making the heavens and earth in but seven of our days would be asking for a ramshackle job round the edges.”

  “Now, Jimmy,” I began, “strange it is, but I will admit to pondering similar thoughts myself, in regard to the matter of time and the power of the Lord to alter it. But such thoughts are a snare to the unwary, and the divine wisdom is beyond our comprehension. We must accept that the Bible says—”

  “Oh, we know what it says, though the priests would as soon we did not, for they love to have secrets in Latin and all sorts of punishments threatened and intimidated upon a person for all o’ his innocent troubles. But maybe the whole thing was only made up to begin with? By God Himself, I mean. If the Bible is the Word of God, as they’re always insisting it is, He must have had the devil’s own time deducting out ways to explain all His doings to us. Like a general trying to explain his great plans to a private, to the dullest kiltie in the Highlanders. So maybe He spoke in parables, like Jaysus Himself had to do with those blockhead disciples, who never quite seemed to get what He was about, with their doubts and denials? Like father, like son, ye know. Maybe God was explaining things in a way the likes of us could get through our heads? Maybe he kept things simple in all His explainings, the way ye used to do with the Irish recruits who weren’t as clever or quick or as handsome as I was? Maybe He just explained it all as best he could at the time and He’s up there shaking His head that we took it so serious?”

  “Mr. Darwin contradicts more than the Book of Genesis, Jimmy.”

  “But didn’t God create Charles Darwin, too? Didn’t ye say near those very same words yourself on some similar matter? Abel, I’m scratching me head and me other parts besides, but I don’t see why it must be a choice between them. Maybe this Darwin’s just figuring out what God really wanted to say back when men were too stupid to understand His meaning? Why, me own grandfather couldn’t sign his own name, so ye can only imagine how foolish and backward the people must have been in those Bible days, all those hundreds of years ago.” Jimmy sighed. “Don’t ye begin to feel sorry for God, when ye think of it? Having to explain how He made the world to some poor, drooling gramps or an English baronet? Why, when I start thinking upon the Good Lord’s disappointments with the pack of us, it’s almost enough to turn me back to the Church . . .”

  I never did have very much luck explaining religious matters to Jimmy Molloy.

  THERE WAS NO JAUNTY PIANO playing within those tavern walls. Twas late, of course, but that was not the matter of it. Standing in the street with Jimmy beside me, I sensed a foulness of mood I could not explain. But real it was. As real as the Colt in my belt and the cane in my hand.

  Jimmy sniffed the air. He was an old soldier, too.

  “If we was back in India,” he muttered, “I’d be thinking the natives were less than happy this evening.”

  “Well, let us go in and find out,” I said. I fear my tone showed more resignation than fortitude. My body wanted still more rest than my afternoon nap had given it. And a good stabbing tells on a fellow. I worried that I lacked the spunk I needed.

  There was hardly half the crowd I had found when last I paid a visit to Ryan’s Hotel. And less than half the welcome, cold as the first had been. The miners looked up from their pipes and cards as if they had spotted the hangman from Dublin Castle.

  But the men I wanted were there. Donnelly sat in his corner by the stove, below the dusty green banner that hung on the wall. Kehoe was with him. And only Kehoe this evening.

  I made my way between the tables, with Jimmy on my heels.

  Mr. Donnelly met my eyes, but did not pretend to greet me.

  “Good evening to you, Mr. Donnelly,” I said, “And to you Mr. Kehoe. This is my friend, Mr. James Molloy, of Washington.”

  Mr. Donnelly looked up into Jimmy’s face. “Why Mr. Molloy, when ye first stepped inside, I took ye for an informer. But here at close quarters I see that you’re only a fool.”

  The taunt was meant both to provoke and test, but Jimmy only answered with a smile. Perhaps his months as a publican had taught him that jibes are better off ignored.

  “And a pleasure it is to make your acquaintances, gentlemen,” Jimmy said.

  I saw there was no point in false politeness. “Mr. Donnelly . . . may we sit down? I have serious matters to discuss with you.” I glanced at Kehoe, who remained impassive. “Very serious matters.”

  “Ye may sit, if sit ye must. But not that one. I’ll have no Irish traitors at this table.”

  I turned to Jimmy, who appeared not the least bit troubled. He alw
ays was unflappable in a fray, a man who could load his musket steadily while swords flashed round his head.

  “I’ll stand by the bar and wait for ye,” he told me, “for a man of business must pay attention to the ways of the competition. Though I can tell you already the place needs a wash.”

  And off he went, with the hard, late drinkers grumbling in his wake.

  I sat me down. Before I could begin, Mr. Donnelly had something of his own to say.

  “Major Jones, if I found myself in your circumstances this night, I’d take my companion and ease out on the quiet. For the men ye see about ye are unhappy. And worse than unhappy. Far worse. For they know ye as a man with a fondness for corpses. And this very morning, before the dawn, the body of a little girl was stolen from out of her coffin, before her family could plug her in the ground. Dead of the croup she was, not six years old. The good people of our village have morbid suspicions.”

  “You know that I had nothing to do with such a thing.”

  He raised one eyebrow, then the other. “It does not signify, does it, what I may know or I don’t? The truth of things is often the least of the matter. It’s what folk believe is in the pot that makes the porridge taste.”

  “Mr. Donnelly, I know where Daniel Boland is.”

  “And do ye, now?”

  “He’s enrolled with the 69th New York, in the Irish Brigade. Under General Meagher.”

  “More fool him, if it’s true. And Meagher’s a fool for fighting for a Union that would rather squander Irish lives than niggers.”

  “We both know why he was sent to Meagher for shelter.”

  “Ye know what ye know, and I know what I know. They may be different things.”

  “I have in my pocket a warrant for the arrest of Mary Boland. For the murder of Kathleen Boland. I believe the woman killed General Stone, as well, though I will admit there is more to that than I have yet put together.”

  “And what do ye plan do to with your grand piece o’ paper?”

  “I want your help.”

  He chuckled. “Now, isn’t that a high ambition on your part, Major Jones?”

  “I want your help in bringing Mary Boland to justice. You know she’s mad. She won’t hang. She will be put where she can do no more harm. I want your help in finding her and bringing her in without injury to herself.”

  “Ah, I see you’re a man who has a great faith in miracles. Are ye certain you’re not a member of our Church?”

  “Look you. I know Daniel Boland is innocent. I know he made a false confession to save his wife. Because he loved her so dearly, no matter the terrible things she had done. I want to help him.”

  “Then you can leave him alone.”

  “I can’t. He must recant his confession. He has to justify himself in the eyes of the law.”

  “And testify against his own wife?”

  “Then you admit that she killed Kathleen Boland. And—”

  “I admit nothing. We’re only having a pleasant conversation. Did ye notice how the weather has turned toward winter, Major Jones?”

  “He would not need to testify against her. The law allows—”

  “Whose law? Whose law, Major Jones? Your law, not mine.”

  “Help me, for the love of God. The woman might kill more innocent people.” I held up my bandaged paw, as a frustrated child might have done. “She tried to stab me last night.” I looked at Kehoe, who remained silent and grim-faced. Then I turned again to Mr. Donnelly. “But you know that, of course.”

  “Oh, I noticed the rags on your mitt. As for killing innocent people, would ye count yourself among them? Among the innocent, I mean?”

  “If you would help me, it would be better for all,” I said, almost in despair. With their help, all things might have been done more easily, without hard repercussions and further misunderstandings and accusations. But if they would not assist me, I was prepared to climb those hills with only Jimmy beside me, to comb through the countless ravines and over the crests until I found Mary Boland and put an end to her killing. I would not turn from my duty. If need be, I would fight to see it done.

  Donnelly shot an odd little glance toward Kehoe. Black Jack got up at once and strode across the room to Jimmy Molloy.

  “Your mother was a whore for every English drunkard in the Counties,” Kehoe said for all the room to hear. “When she could find an English drunkard who would have her.”

  Jimmy, who had not been served any liquor, put on his famous fool-the-sergeant grin. “Oh, yer honor,” he said, in an Irish accent pressed to an extreme, “me mother was niver a hoor in her life, for she never took less than a pound for the least of her doings. Nor was she County born, but Dublin bred. And we all know who the drunkards are in Dublin. Wicklow men, the lot of them.”

  “You’re a filthy, low traitor. Damned to Hell.”

  “Now, Mr. Kehoe, if it’s a fight you’re after wanting,” Jimmy said calmly, “can’t ye say it outright, like a man?”

  I began to rise, to intervene and spirit Jimmy away, but old Donnelly caught my wrist. When I looked at him, his face managed to tell me, “Wait,” without another word spoken.

  Jimmy smiled as wide as the Irish Sea. The truth is that he never minded a fight and was the champion pugilist of our regiment, renowned from Peshawar to Pindi. And beyond. He laid down Hawkins the Hammer, the pride of the gunners, in less than sixty seconds in Lahore. Kehoe had the advantage of height and bulk, but he would need a great deal of skill and luck to best Jimmy Molloy.

  The two of them peeled off their coats and waistcoats, while a rush of men and the aproned barkeep pulled back tables and chairs to form a ring. Even the ladies of the house—two sisters alike in their plainness—filed out to rescue the crockery and see a bit of sport.

  Donnelly and I stepped up to the gaggle of spectators, for they blocked the view from the table. The roughest of men made space for Donnelly immediately and, grudgingly, for me. Beginning to shout and bark, the men called, “Give him a puck where he needs it, Jack,” or “Show him the door the hard way.”

  Kehoe and Jimmy took up their stances. Kehoe had a brawler’s crouch, wary and watching. He wanted to slug, to spend as much strength as he could on his opening blows, to put an end to things. Jimmy, rolling on his feet, was another sight to see. His dukes were up and his back arched rearward like a bow. You would not see a better fighting posture in London or even Merthyr. Jimmy was out for sport.

  Kehoe prowled, like a dog looking to bite. Though taller of person, his crouch made him the shorter for the moment. Jimmy turned smoothly to follow the other man’s circling. Jimmy looked regal, Kehoe looked rough and hard.

  Black Jack surprised himself by bumping a chair with his backside. A fighter who meant to hurt would have set upon him then, taking advantage of his instant of confusion. But Jimmy was wise. He knew that if he seemed to win through any unfair advantage, the room would turn against us, full of violence. Anyway, Jimmy was a curious sort. Ferocious in battle, he sought to kill, not wound. But as a pugilist he liked to box, almost to fence. In the ring, he fought to win, but not to hurt for his pleasure. Although he did a great deal of harm to any man whose face got in the way of those bullet-quick fists.

  “Go on, Jack . . . put an end to the sissy-boy’s prancing and dancing,” a burly, bearded man called.

  “Put some Mayo manners on him,” another fellow suggested.

  Suddenly, Kehoe believed he saw an opening. Because Jimmy let him think it.

  Black Jack led with his big left fist, meaning to finish the business with his right. But neither fist landed on Jimmy. One-two-three, Jimmy smashed Kehoe’s lips and cheekbone and nose.

  Shocked, Kehoe reeled. Not backward, but forward. With blood splashed off his lower lip into his beard. Jimmy could have finished him at once, for the man had only his strength and no proper skills. But Jimmy, God bless him, was cleverer than I had imagined. He knew he must not win the match too swiftly. Shaming Kehoe would do no good at all. It had to look like
a fight. For my sake, as much as Black Jack’s.

  It is a point worth remembering, see. Never humiliate a man, if you can gain what you need while sparing him shame.

  Jimmy let Kehoe land a pair of blows. Against his chest, not his face. He sneaked in close then, one-two-three, the way he always liked to land his set, costing his opponent a chestful of air.

  Raving the lot of them were after that, as if only Kehoe’s fists had found their mark.

  “Get him, Jack, get the prissed bastard . . . put his head back to his arse and see how it fits.”

  Kehoe swept in fiercely, determined to punch his way through Jimmy’s defenses. But Jimmy hit him so hard it snapped his jaw back. Kehoe staggered and dropped against two miners. A lesser man would have hit the floor and stayed on it. But Kehoe did not even pause to gather himself. He forgot about slugging or boxing and lunged for Jimmy as if he meant to wrestle him. Jimmy side-stepped. He could have broken the fellow’s jaw, as I had seen him do to a number of boxers—always to the colonel’s chagrin, for a broken jaw put a soldier in the sick ward—but Jimmy chose to deliver a single blow to Black Jack’s stomach.

  Kehoe bent like a clasp knife folding up, but somehow he grabbed Jimmy by the waist. A moment later, they were both on the floor, rolling over. The crowd surged in, but Donnelly warned them back. So they all contented themselves with encouraging curses, flailing their fists through the air to demonstrate what they would do were they in Kehoe’s place.

  Jimmy and Kehoe rolled cheek against cheek, until they were stopped by the bar. Kehoe, to his credit, did not bite or do other unclean things, but, for a brace of seconds, Jimmy looked to me to be in a bad way, pinned against the wood by the larger man’s weight. But Jimmy had not survived Seekh and Pushtoon and mutinous sepoy without resources. An instant later, he broke away clean, jumping back to his feet. Quick as a trickster at the autumn fair. Kehoe, too, climbed up on his pins, but his doings were much clumsier. And his breathing come heavier.

  Jimmy let him get up. Then he landed a blow that caught Black Jack so perfectly on the chin that the bigger man went down like a gun carriage tipped from a rampart.