GUESTS OF THE NATION

At dusk the big Englishman Belcher would shift
his long legs out of the ashes and ask, ‘Well,
chums, What about it?’ and Noble or me would say,
‘As you please, chum’ (for we had picked up some
of their curious expressions), and the little
Englishman ’Awkins would light the lamp and
produce the cards. Sometimes Jeremiah Donovan
would come up of an evening and supervise the
play, and grow excited over ’Awkins’s cards
(which he always played badly), and shout at him
as if he was one of our own, ‘Ach, you divil you,
why didn’t you play the tray?’ But, ordinarily,
Jeremiah was a sober and contented poor devil
like the big Englishman Belcher, and was looked
up to at all only because he was a fair hand at
documents, though slow enough at these, I vow. He
wore a small cloth hat and big gaiters over his
long pants, and seldom did I perceive his hands
outside the pockets of that pants. He reddened
when you talked to him, tilting from toe to heel
and back and looking down all the while at his
big farmer’s feet. His uncommon broad accent was
a great source of jest to me, I being from the
town as you may recognise.

I couldn’t at the time see the point of me and
Noble being with Belcher and ’Awkins at all, for
it was and is my fixed belief you could have
planted that pair in any untended spot from this
to Claregalway and they’d have stayed put and
flourished like a native weed. I never seen in my
short experience two men that took to the country
as they did.

They were handed on to us by the Second Battalion
to keep when the search for them became too hot,
and Noble and myself, being young, took charge
with a natural feeling of responsibility. But
little ’Awkins made us look right fools when he
displayed he knew the countryside as well as we
did and something more. ‘You’re the bloke they
calls Bonaparte?’ he said to me. ‘Well,
Bonaparte, Mary Brigid Ho’Connell was arskin
abaout you and said ’ow you’d a pair of socks
belonging to ’er young brother.’ For it seemed,
as they explained it, that the Second used to
have little evenings of their own, and some of
the girls of the neighbourhood would turn in,
and, seeing they were such decent fellows, our
lads couldn’t well ignore the two Englishmen, but
invited them in and were hail-fellow-well—met
with them. ’Awkins told me he learned to dance
‘The Walls of Limerick’ and ‘The Siege of Ennis’
and ‘The Waves of Tory’ in a night or two, though
naturally he could not return the compliment,
because our lads at that time did not dance
foreign dances on principle.

So whatever privileges and favours Belcher and
’Awkins had with the Second they duly took with
us, and after the first evening we gave up all
pretence of keeping a close eye on their
behaviour. Not that they could have got far, for
they had a notable accent and wore khaki tunics
and overcoats with civilian pants and boots. But
it’s my belief they never had an idea of escaping
and were quite contented with their lot.

Now, it was a treat to see how Belcher got off
with the old woman of the house we were staying
in. She was a great warrant to scold, and
crotchety even with us, but before ever she had a
chance of giving our guests, as I may call them,
a lick of her tongue, Belcher had made her his
friend for life. She was breaking sticks at the
time, and Belcher, who hadn’t been in the house
for more than ten minutes, jumped up out of his
seat and went across to her.

‘Allow me, madam,’ he says, smiling his queer
little smile; ‘please allow me,’ and takes the
hatchet from her hand. She was struck too
parlatic to speak, and ever after Belcher would
be at her heels carrying a bucket, or basket, or
load of turf, as the case might be. As Noble
wittily remarked, he got into looking before she
lept, and hot water or any little thing she
wanted Belcher would have it ready before
her. For such a huge man (and though I am five
foot ten myself I had to look up to him) he had
an uncommon shortness—or should I say lack—of
speech. It took us some time to get used to him
walking in and out like a ghost, without a
syllable out of him. Especially because ’Awkins
talked enough for a platoon, it was strange to
hear big Belcher with his toes in the ashes come
out with a solitary ‘Excuse me, chum,’ or ‘That’s
right, chum.’ His one and only abiding passion
was cards, and I will say for him he was a good
card-player. He could have fleeced me and Noble
many a time; only if we lost to him, ’Awkins lost
to us, and ’Awkins played with the money Belcher
gave him.

’Awkins lost to us because he talked too much,
and I think now we lost to Belcher for the same
reason. ’Awkins and Noble would spit at one
another about religion into the early hours of
the morning; the little Englishman as you could
see worrying the soul out of young Noble (whose
brother was a priest) with a string of questions
that would puzzle a cardinal. And to make it
worse, even in treating of these holy subjects,
’Awkins had a deplorable tongue; I never in all
my career struck across a man who could mix such
a variety of cursing and bad language into the
simplest topic. Oh, a terrible man was little
’Awkins, and a fright to argue! He never did a
stroke of work, and when he had no one else to
talk to he fixed his claws into the old woman.

I am glad to say that in her he met his match for
one day when he tried to get her to complain
profanely of the drought she gave him a great
comedown by blaming the drought upon Jupiter
Pluvius (a deity neither ’Awkins nor I had ever
even heard of, though Noble said among the pagans
he was held to have something to do with
rain). And another day the same ’Awkins was
swearing at the capitalists for starting the
German war, when the old dame laid down her iron
puckered up her little crab’s mouth and said:
Mr. Awkins, you can say what you please about the
war, thinking to deceive me because I’m an
ignorant old woman, but I know well what started
the war. It was that Italian count that stole the
heathen divinity out of the temple in Japan, for
believe me, Mr. ’Awkins, nothing but sorrow and
want follows them that disturbs the hidden
powers!’ Oh, a queer old dame as you remark!


  II 

So one evening we had our tea together, and
Awkins lit the lamp and we all sat in to
cards. Jeremiah Donovan came in too, and sat down
and watched us for a while. Though he was a shy
man and didn’t speak much, it was easy to see he
had no great love for the two Englishmen, and I
was surprised it hadn’t struck me so clearly
before. Well, like that in the story, a terrible
dispute blew up late in the evening between
’Awkins and Noble, about capitalists and priests
and love for your own country.

‘The capitalists,’ says ’Awkins, with an angry
gulp, ‘the capitalists pays the priests to tell
you all abaout the next world, so’s you waon’t
notice what they do in this!’

‘Nonsense, man,’ says Noble, losing his temper,
‘before ever a capitalist was thought of people
believed in the next world.’

’Awkins stood up as if he was preaching a
sermon. ‘Oh, they did, did they?’ he says with a
sneer. ‘They believed all the things you believe,
that’s what you mean? And you believe that God
created Hadam and Hadam created Shem and Shem
created Jehoshophat? You believe all the silly
hold fairy-tale abaout Heve and Heden and the
happle? Well, listen to me, chum. If you’re
entitled to ’old to a silly belief like that, I’m
entitled to ’old to my own silly belief—which is,
that the fust thing your God created was a
bleedin’ capitalist with mirality and Rolls Royce
complete. Am I right, chum?’ he says then to
Belcher.

‘You’re right, chum,’ says Belcher, with his
queer smile, and gets up from the table to
stretch his long legs into the fire and stroke
his moustache. So, seeing that Jeremiah Donovan
was going, and there was no knowing when the
conversation about religion would be over, I took
my hat and went out with him. We strolled down
towards the village together, and then he
suddenly stopped, and blushing and mumbling, and
shifting, as his way was, from toe to heel, he
said I ought to be behind keeping guard on the
prisoners. And I, having it put to me so
suddenly, asked him what the hell he wanted a
guard on the prisoners at all for, and said that
so far as Noble and me were concerned we had
talked it over and would rather be out with a
column. ‘What use is that pair to us?’ I asked
him.  He looked at me foraspell and said, ‘I
thought you knew we were keeping them as
hostages.’ ‘Hostages———?’ says I, not quite
understanding. ‘The enemy,’ he says in his heavy
way, ‘have prisoners belong’ to us, and now they
talk of shooting them. If they shoot our
prisoners we’ll shoot theirs, and serve them
right.’ ‘Shoot them?’ said I, the possibility
just beginning to dawn on me. ‘Shoot them,
exactly,’ said he. ‘Now,’ said I, ‘wasn’t it very
unforeseen of you not to tell me and Noble that?
‘How so?’ he asks. "Seeing that we were acting as
guards upon them, ofcourse.’ ‘And hadn’t you
reason enough to guess that much?’ ‘We had not,
Jeremiah Donovan, we had not. How were we to know
when the men were on our hands so long?’ ‘And
What difference does it make? The enemy have our
prisoners as long or longer, haven’t they?’ ‘It
makes a great difference,’ said I. ‘How so?’ said
he sharply; but I couldn’t tell him the
difference it made, for I was struck too silly to
speak. ‘And when may we expect to be released
from this anyway?’ said I. ‘You may expect it
to—night,’ says he. ‘Or to-morrow or the next day
atlatest. Soif it’s hanging round here that
worries you, you’ll be free soon enough.’

I cannot explain it even now, how sad I felt, but
I went back to the cottage, a miserable man. When
I arrived the discussion was still on, ’Awkins
holding forth to all and sundry that there was no
next world at all and Noble answering in his best
canonical style that there was. But I saw ’Awkins
was after having the best of it. ‘Do you know
what, chum?’ he was saying, with his saucy smile,
‘I think you’re jest as big a bleedin’
hunbeliever as I am. You say you believe in the
next world and you know jest as much abaout the
next world as I do, which is sweet
damn-all. What’s ’Eaven? You dunno. Where’s
’Eaven? You dunno. Who’s in ’Eaven? You
dunno. You know sweet damn-all! I arsk you again,
do they wear wings?’ .

‘Very well then,’ says Noble, ‘they do; is that
enough for you? They do wear wings.’ ‘Where do
they get them then? Who makes them? ’Ave they a
fact’ry for wings? ’Ave they a sort of store
where you ’ands in your chit and tikes your
bleedin’ wings? Answer me that.’

‘Oh, you’re an impossible man to argue With,’
says Noble. ‘Now listen to me ’. And off the pair
of them went again.

It was long after midnight when we locked up the
Englishmen and went to bed ourselves. As I blew
out the candle I told Noble what Jeremiah Donovan
had told me. Noble took it very quietly. After we
had been in bed about an hour he asked me did I
think we ought to tell the Englishmen. I having
thought of the same thing myself (among many
others) said no, because it was more than likely
the English wouldn’t shoot our men, and anyhow it
wasn’t to be supposed the Brigade who were always
up and down with the second battalion and knew
the Englishmen well would be likely to want them
bumped ofl’. ‘I think so,’ says Noble. ‘It would
be sort of cruelty to put the wind up them now.’
‘It was very unforeseen of Jeremiah Donovan
anyhow,’ says I, and by Noble’s silence I
realised he took my meaning.

So I lay there half the night, and thought and
thought, and picturing myself and young Noble
trying to prevent the Brigade from shooting
’Awkins and Belcher sent a cold sweat out through
me. Because there were men on the Brigade you
daren’t let nor hinder without a gun in your
hand, and at any rate, in those days disunion
between brothers seemed to me an awful crime. I
knew better after.

It was next morning we found it so hard to face
Belcher and ’Awkins with a smile. We went about
the house all day scarcely saying a word. Belcher
didn’t mind us much; he was stretched into the
ashes as usual with his usual look of waiting in
quietness for something unforeseen to happen, but
little ’Awkins gave us a bad time with his
audacious gibing and questioning. He was
disgusted at Noble’s not answering him back. ‘Why
can’t you tike your beating like a man, chum?’ he
says. ‘You with your Hadam and Heve! I’m a
Communist—or an Anarchist. An Anarchist, that’s
what I am.’ And for hours after he went round the
house, mumbling when the fit took him ‘Hadam and
Heve!  Hadam and Heve!’


  III 

I don’t know clearly how we got over that day,
but get over it we did, and a great relief it was
when the tea-things were cleared away and Belcher
said in his peaceable manner, ‘Well, chums, what
about it?’ So we all sat round the table and
’Awkins produced the cards, and at that moment I
heard Jeremiah Donovan’s footsteps up the path,
and a dark presentiment crossed my mind. I rose
quietly from the table and laid my hand on him
before he reached the door. “What do you want?’ I
asked him. ‘I want those two soldier friends of
yours,’ he says reddening. ‘Is that the way it
is, Jeremiah Donovan?’ I ask. ‘That’s the
way. There were four of our lads went west this
morning, one of them a boy of sixteen.’ ‘That’s
bad, Jeremiah,’ says I.

At that moment Noble came out, and we walked down
the path together talking in whispers. Feeney,
the local intelligence officer, was standing by
the gate. ‘What are you going to do about it?’ I
asked Jeremiah Donovan. ‘I want you and Noble to
bring them out: you can tell them they’re being
shifted again; that’ll be the quietest way.’
‘Leave me out of that,’ says Noble suddenly.
Jeremiah Donovan looked at him hard for a minute
or two. ‘All right so,’ he said peaceably. ‘You
and Feeney collect a few tools from the shed and
dig a hole by the far end of the bog. Bonaparte
and I’ll be after you in about twenty
minutes. But whatever else you do, don’t let
anyone see you with the tools. No one must know
but the four of ourselves.’

We saw Feeney and Noble go round to the houseen
where the tools were kept, and sidled in.
Everything if I can so express myself was
tottering before my eyes, and I left Jeremiah
Donovan to do the explaining as best he could,
while I took a seat and said nothing. He told
them they were to go back to the Second. ’Awkins
let a mouthful of curses out of him at that, and
it was plain that Belcher, though he said
nothing, was duly perturbed. The old woman was
for having them stay in spite of us, and she did
not shut her mouth until Jeremiah Donovan lost
his tempel and said some nasty things to her.
Within the house by this time it was pitch dark,
but no one thought of lighting the lamp, and in
the darkness the two Englishmen fetched their
khaki topcoats and said good-bye to the woman of
the house. ‘Just as a man mikes a ’ome of a
bleedin’ place,’ mumbles ’Awkins shaking her by
the hand, ‘some bastard at headquarters thinks
you’re too cushy and shunts you off?’ Belcher
shakes her hand very hearty. ‘A thousand thanks,
madam,’ he says, ‘a thousand thanks for
everything . . .’ as though he’d made it all up.

We go round to the back of the house and down
towards the fatal bog. Then Jeremiah Donovan
comes out with what is in his mind. ‘There were
four of our lads shot by your fellows this
morning so now you’re to be bumped off.’ ‘Cut
that stuff out,’ says ’Awkins flaring up. ‘It’s
bad enough to be mucked about such as we are
without you plying at soldiers.’ ‘It’s true,’
says Jeremiah Donovan, ‘I’m sorry, ’Awkins, but
’tis true,’ and comes out with the usual
rigmarole about doing our duty and obeying our
superiors. ‘Cut it out,‘ says ’Awkins irritably,
‘Cut it out!’

Then, when Donovan sees he is not being believed
he turns to me. ‘Ask Bonaparte here,’ he says. ‘I
don’t need to arsk Bonaparte. Me and Bonaparte
are chums.’ ‘Isn’t it true, Bonaparte?’ says
Jeremiah Donovan solemnly to me. ‘It is,’ I say
sadly, ‘it is.’ ’Awkins stops. ‘Now, for Christ’s
sike....’ ‘I mean it, chum,’ I say. ‘You daon’t
saound as if you mean it. You knaow well you
don’t mean it.’ ‘Well, if he don’t I do,’ says
Jeremiah Donovan. ‘Why the ’ell sh’d you want to
shoot me, Jeremiah Donovan?’ ‘Why the hell should
your people take out four prisoners and shoot
them in cold blood upon a barrack square?’ I
perceive Jeremiah Donovan is trying to encourage
himself with hot words.

Anyway, he took little ’Awkins by the arm and
dragged him on, but it was impossible to make him
understand that we were in earnest. From which
you will perceive how difficult it was for me, as
I kept feeling my Smith and Wesson and thinking
what I would do if they happened to put up a
fight or ran for it, and wishing in my heart they
would. I knew if only they ran I would never fire
on them. ‘Was Noble in this?’ ’Awkins wanted to
know, and we said yes. He laughed. But why should
Noble want to shoot him? Why should we want to
shoot him? What had he done to us? Weren’t we
chums (the word lingers painfully in my memory)?
Weren’t we? Didn’t we understand him and didn’t
he understand us? Did either of us imagine for an
instant that he’d shoot us for all the so-and-so
brigadiers in the so-and-so British Army? By this
time I began to perceive in the dusk the desolate
edges of the bog that was to be their last
earthly bed, and, so great a sadness overtook my
mind, I could not answer him. We walked along the
edge of it in the darkness, and every now and
then ’Awkins would call a halt and begin again,
just as if he was wound up, about us being chums,
and I was in despair that nothing but the cold
and open grave made ready for his presence would
convince him that we meant it all. But all the
same, if you can understand, I didn’t want him to
be bumped off.


  IV 

At last we saw the unsteady glint of a lantern in
the distance and made towards it. Noble was
carrying it, and Feeney stood somewhere in the
darkness behind, and somehow the picture of the
two of them so silent in the boglands was like
the pain of death in my heart. Belcher, on
recognising Noble, said "Allo, chum’ in his usual
peaceable way, but ’Awkins flew at the poor boy
immediately, and the dispute began all over
again, only that Noble hadn’t a word to say for
himself, and stood there with the swaying lantern
between his gaitered legs.

It was Jeremiah Donovan who did the answering.
’Awkins asked for the twentieth time (for it
seemed to haunt his mind) if anybody thought he’d
shoot Noble. ‘You would,’ says Jeremiah Donovan
shortly. ‘I wouldn’t, damn you!’ ‘You would if
you knew you’d be shot for not doing it.’ ‘I
wouldn’t, not if I was to be shot twenty times
over; he’s my chum. And Belcher wouldn’t—isn’t
that right, Belcher?’ ‘That’s right, chum,’ says
Belcher peaceably. ‘Damned if I would. Anyway,
who says Noble’d be shot if I wasn’t bumped off?
What d’you think I’d do if I was in Noble’s place
and we were out in the middle of a blasted bog?’
‘What would you do?’ ‘I’d go with him wherever he
was going. I’d share my last bob with him and
stick by ’im through thick and thin.’

‘We’ve had enough of this,’ says Jeremiah
Donovan, cocking his revolver. ‘Is there any
message you want to send before I fire?’ ‘No,
there isn’t, but ...’ ‘Do you want to say your
prayers?’ ’Awkins came out with a cold-blooded
remark that shocked even me and turned to Noble
again. ‘Listen to me, Noble,’ he said. ‘You and
me are chums. You won’t come over to my side, so
I’ll come over to your side. Is that fair? Just
you give me a rifle and I’ll go with you Wherever
you want.’

Nobody answered him.

’Do you understand?’ he said. ‘I’m through with
it all. I’m a deserter or anything else you like,
but from this on I’m one of you. Does that prove
to you that I mean what I say?’ Noble raised his
head, but as Donovan began to speak he lowered it
again without answering. ‘For the last time have
you any messages to send?’ says Donovan in a cold
and excited voice.

‘Ah, shut up, you, Donovan; you don’t understand
me, but these fellows do. They’re my chums; they
stand by me and I stand by them. We’re not the
capitalist tools you seem to think us.’

I alone of the crowd saw Donovan raise his Webley
to the back of ’Awkins’s neck, and as he did so I
shut my eyes and tried to say a prayer.  ’Awkins
had begun to say something else when Donovan let
fly, and, as I opened my eyes at the bang, I saw
him stagger at the knees and lie out flat at
Noble’s feet, slowly, and as quiet as a child,
with the lantern-light falling sadly upon his
lean legs and bright farmer’s boots. We all stood
very still for a while watching him settle out in
the last agony.

Then Belcher quietly takes out a handkerchief,
and begins to tie it about his own eyes (for in
our excitement we had forgotten to offer the same
to ’Awkins), and, seeing it is not big enough,
turns and asks for a loan of mine. I give it to
him and as he knots the two together he points
with his foot at ’Awkins. ‘’E’s not quite dead,’
he says, ‘better give ’im another.’ Sure enough
’Awkins’s left knee as we see it under the
lantern is rising again. I bend down and put my
gun to his ear; then, recollecting myself and the
company of Belcher, I stand up again with a few
hasty words. Belcher understands what is in my
mind. ‘Give ’im ’is first,’ he says. ‘I don’t
mind. Poor bastard, we dunno what’s ’appening to
’im now.’ As by this time I am beyond all feeling
I kneel down again and skilfully give ’Awkins the
last shot so as to put him for ever out of pain.

Belcher who is fumbling a bit awkwardly with the
handkerchiefs comes out with a laugh when he
hears the shot. It is the first time I have heard
him laugh, and it sends a shiver down my spine,
coming as it does so inappropriately upon the
tragic death of his old friend. ‘Poor blighter,’
he says quietly, ‘and last night he was so
curious abaout it all. It’s very queer, chums, I
always think. Naow, ’e knows as much abaout it as
they’ll ever let ’im know, and last night ’e was
all in the dark.’

Donovan helps him to tie the handkerchiefs about
his eyes. ‘Thanks, chum,’ he says. Donovan asks
him if there are any messages he would like to
send. ‘Naow, chum,’ he says, ‘none for me. If any
of you likes to write to ’Awkins’s mother you’ll
find a letter from ’er in ’is pocket. But my
missus left me eight years ago. Went away with 7
another fellow and took the kid with her. I likes
the feelin’ of a ’ome (as you may ’ave noticed)
but I couldn’t start again after that.’

We stand around like fools now that he can no
longer see us. Donovan looks at Noble and Noble
shakes his head. Then Donovan raises his Webley
again and just at that moment Belcher laughs his
queer nervous laugh again. He must think we are
talking of him; anyway, Donovan lowers his
gun. "Scuse me, chums,’ says Belcher, ‘I feel I’m
talking the ’ell of a lot ... and so silly
... abaout me being so ’andy abaout a ’ouse. But
this thing come on me so sudden. You’ll forgive
me, I’m sure.’ ‘You don’t want to say a prayer?’
asks Jeremiah Donovan. ‘No, chum,’ he replies, ‘I
don’t think that’d ’elp. I’m ready if you want to
get it over.’ ‘You understand,’ says Jeremiah
Donovan, ‘it’s not so much our doing. It’s our
duty, so to speak.’ Belcher’s head is raised like
a real blind man’s, so that you can only see his
nose and chin in the lamplight. ‘I never could
make out what duty was myself,’ he said, “but I
think you’re all good lads, if that’s what you
mean. I’m not complaining.’ Noble, with a look of
desperation, signals to Donovan, and in a flash
Donovan raises his gun and fires. The big man
goes over like a sack of meal, and this time
there is no need of a second shot.

I don’t remember much about the burying, but that
it was worse than all the rest, because we had to
carry the warm corpses a few yards before we sunk
them in the windy bog. It was all mad lonely,
with only a bit of lantern between ourselves and
the pitch-blackness, and birds hooting and
screeching all round disturbed by the guns. Noble
had to search ’Awkins first to get the letter
from his mother. Then having smoothed all signs
of the grave away, Noble and I collected our
tools, said good—bye to the others, and went back
along the desolate edge of the treacherous bog
without a word. We put the tools in the houseen
and went into the house. The kitchen was
pitch-black and cold, just as we left it, and the
old woman was sitting over the hearth telling her
beads. We walked past her into the room, and Noble
struck a match to light the lamp. Just then she
rose quietly and came to the doorway, being not
at all so bold or crabbed as usual.

‘What did ye do with them?’ she says in a sort of
whisper, and Noble took such a mortal start the
match quenched in his trembling hand. "What’s
that?’ he asks without turning round. ‘I heard
ye,’ she said. ‘What did you hear?’ asks Noble,
but sure he wouldn’t deceive a child the way he
said it. ‘I heard ye. Do you think I wasn’t
listening to ye putting the things back in the
houseen?’ Noble struck another match and this
time the lamp lit for him. ‘Was that what ye did
with them?’ she said, and Noble said
nothing—after all what could he say?

So then, by God, she fell on her two knees by the
door, and began telling her beads, and after a
minute or two Noble went on his knees by the
fireplace, so I pushed my way out past her, and
stood at the door, watching the stars and
listening to the damned shrieking of the
birds. It is so strange what you feel at such
moments, and not to be written afterwards. Noble
says he felt he seen everything ten times as big,
perceiving nothing around him but the little
patch of black bog with the two Englishmen
stiffening into it; but with me it was the other
way, as though the patch of bog where the two
Englishmen were was a thousand miles away from
me, and even Noble mumbling just behind me and
the old woman and the birds and the bloody stars
were all far away, and I was somehow very small
and very lonely. And anything that ever happened
me after I never felt the same about again.