THE RED WINE OF THE COUNTRY
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"Did I iver tell ye," asked ex-Sergeant O'Reilly, filling his pipe from my tobacco-jar, "about the red wine?"
"I remember a story about sparkling Burgundy," I said.
"Och, that wouldn't be it at all. 'Twas another time altogither."
"Well," I said, "tell me about the red wine."
"'Twas this way." O'Reilly leant back in his chair, covered his maimed hand with a pocket-handkerchief—a curious way he had—and looked at me with that expression of openness and simplicity which demands confidence. "We was 'way back o' the line at the time, at a place where ye'd expect to get a taste o' rest; but what wid fancy attacks an' 'special coorses' (thim 's the divil an' all!) there wasn't enough rest for an honest man to get into mischief. Well, there was to be a grand inshpection by a tremenjus brass-hat, one o' thim soort all over ribbons that rides wid a shtiff back. 'Twas the mornin' before the great day whin the O.C. comes to me all of a flutter, an' says he, 'Sergint, ye've a chanct now to do me a good turn.'
"'I'll do it, Sorr,' says I, 'if it costs me my shtripes.'
"'The fact is,' says he, 'we've run out o' claret, an' there's no dacent shtuff to be had for twinty miles round; annyway, that's what I'm tould. Now the Gin'ral has a great fancy for red wine.'
"''Tis a sad business,' says I.
"'I've heard it whispered,' says the poor man, an' he wid the D.S.O. an' all, 'that where there's a good dhrop o' dhrink you're the man to find it. An',' says he, 'there's no discredit to ye in that, O'Reilly.'
"'Indeed no, Sorr,' says I; ''tis a gift.'
"'Well,' says he, 'would ye use that same gift of yours for the honour o' the Rig'mint?'"
O'Reilly felt in his pocket for a tobacco-stopper, attended carefully to his pipe and again fixed me with his candid gaze.
"'There's a bit of a place 'way back,' says I, 'where I've a fancy I might find somethin'.'
"Wid that he shtuck a bunch o' notes in me hand. 'Don't shpare the cost,' says he, 'but get it. 'Tis up to you, Sergint, to save a disp'rit situation.'"
"It was a terrible responsibility," I said.
"Ye may say that. Whin I was alone wid thim notes bulgin' in me tunic, I'd a notion I might let down the Rig'mint afther all, an' that would have bruk me heart. But off I wint to see Achille. 'Twas four miles to the village, an' I wint on my blessed feet, an' by the time I got to the place I was as nervous as a mouse in a thrap. Achille's shop wasn't a café or an estaminet or a buvette or anny o' thim places. He had a bit of a brass plate on his door wid 'Marchand de Vins' on it. I knew him by raison of a fancy that took me wan day for a dhrop o' brandy. So I wint in through Achille's door wid thim notes as hot in me pocket as Patsy Donelly's pipe.
"Achille hopped out o' the little room at the hack same's a bird out of a cage. 'Ah,' says he, 'that was good cognac, eh? You shall have more, me son.'
"'Achille,' says I, ''tis a shtrange thing, but there's niver a thought o' cognac in me mind at all. 'Tis red wine, the best, that I'm afther.'
"'Red wine!' says he. 'I haven't a litre o' red wine in the cellars.'
"'Holy Powers!' says I, 'an' you wid "Marchand de Vins" on yer door.' The shock of it took the breath out o' me entirely. So I sat up on the counter to think.
"''Tis a matther,' says I, 'that concerns the Rig'mint, a rig'mint that was niver bate yet.' An' I explained about the Gin'ral an' what the O.C. tould me. An' thin I tuk the notes from me pocket an' put thim on the counther undher his eyes.
"'Ach,' says he, ''tisn't money I want from ye, but to hilp a frind.' Then he folded his arms an' his forehead wint up into a puzzle o' wrinkles.
"'An' why wouldn't white wine do?' says he.
"'Is it offer white wine to a Gin'ral an' him wid a taste for red?' says I. 'It might rouse him terrible. Now, Achille,' says I, 'would there be no way of makin' the white red?'"
O'Reilly put a persuasiveness into the last words that revealed Achille to me as an honest merchant confronted with the most subtle of temptations.
"O'Reilly," I said, "was that fair?"
"Maybe not, but I'd the Gin'ral an' the honour o' the Rig'mint fixed in me mind. 'That's a good joke, very good,' says Achille; but thore was niver a smile on his face.
"'I 'd no intintion to make anny joke,' says I. 'Come, Achille, you're a knowin' man. Would there be no way at all?'
"Now it happened that he'd lift the door o' the little room open, an' I could see a bit o' a garden through the window. 'What's the shtuff growin' out there,' says I, 'wid the dark red leaves to it, or maybe ye'd call thim purple?'
"'That's beet,' says he with a kind of a groan.
"'Beet,' says I. 'An' isn't beet a red kind of a thing an' mighty full o' juice?'
"'It is that,' says he, wid the eyes of him almost out o' his head.
"'Then how would it be,' says I, 'to touch up the white wine wid some o' that same juice?'
"'The thought was in me mind, God help me,' says he, an' wid that he sat up on the counther forninst me, an' we shtared into the garden like two men in a play.
"'Would it make the wine cloudy?' says I.
"'I could filter it so's it'd come as clear as sunshine,' says he.
"'An' how would it be for taste?' says I.
"Achille put a hand on me arm an' I could feel him shakin' like a man wid the ague.
"'Heaven forgive me,' says he, 'but ye might say it was the wine o' the counthry, an' that taste was the mark of it.' 'Tis my belief he was near cryin', for he was an honest man, an' 'twas for me he was lowerin' himself to deceit."
"You were a nice pair," I said.
"'Twas a beautiful schame," O'Reilly went on. "I was niver concerned in a betther."
"Did it come off?" I asked.
"To a turn," said O'Reilly. "We was docthorin' that blissed wine for the best part o' the day, an' I tuk back a dozen bottles to camp. The O.C. was hangin' round, as anxious as a dog for his master.
"'Have ye the wine, O'Reilly?' says he.
"'I have, sorr,' says I; 'but I'd be glad if ye'd ask me no questions about it.'
"'Not for the world,' says he, givin' me a queer look, an' was off like a mountain hare."
"Did the General recover?" I asked.
"That wine made a new man of him. He praised the Rig'mint up to the heighths. We was the pink o' the Army, bedad! The throuble was he wanted to know where he'd get more o' that same wine.
"'There's no more to be had,' says I to the O.C., for I was done wid the job.
"'He says it has a powerful bouquet,' says the O.C.
"'That may be,' says I, 'but he'll niver taste the like of it agin. 'Twas an ould wine o' the counthry, an' there's niver been the match of it before or since.'
"'Couldn't it be managed annyhow?' says the O.C.
"'Not for all the Gin'rals in the British army,' says I. 'Twas for the love o' the Rig'mint I got that wine, an' I 'm done wid the job.'"
"Is that the end?" I asked.
"Barrin' this," said O'Reilly. And he produced from his pocket a silver cigarette case, inside which was engraved, "To Sergeant Dennis O'Reilly, who saved the situation, October 15th, 1917."
