Our Casualty, and Other Stories / 1918

by George A. Birmingham

“It does matter. And you’ll see later on it’s most important. Well, O’Farrelly was frightfully polite to the officer, and asked him what he wanted. The officer said that he had come to demand the unconditional surrender of the whole of the rebel army. O’Farrelly, still quite politely, said he’d rather die than surrender, and everybody present cheered. The officer said that the town was entirely surrounded and that there was a gun on top of one of the hills which would shell the place into little bits in an hour if it started firing. O’Farrelly said he didn’t believe all that and accused the officer of putting up a bluff. The officer stuck to it that what he said was true. That brought the negotiations to a dead-lock.”

“Why the devil didn’t they shell the place and have done with it, instead of talking?”

“That’s what would happen out here,” said Power. “But as I keep telling you our war was run on humane lines. After the officer and O’Farrelly had argued for half an hour my dad dropped in on them. He’s a popular man in the place and I think everyone was glad to see him. He sized up the position at once and suggested the only possible way out. O’Farrelly, with a proper safe conduct, of course, was to be allowed to go and see whether the town was really surrounded, and especially whether there was a gun on top of the hill, as the officer said. That, I think you’ll agree with me, Waterhouse, was a sensible suggestion and fair to both sides. But they both boggled at it. The officer said he’d no power to enter into negotiation of any kind with rebels, and that all he could do was take yes or no to his proposal of unconditional surrender. O’Farrelly seemed to think that he’d be shot, no matter what safe conducts he had. It took the poor old dad nearly an hour to talk sense into the two of them; but in the end he managed it O’Farrelly agreed to go if the safe conduct was signed by my dad as well as the officer, and the officer agreed to take him on condition that my dad went too to explain the situation to his colonel. I went with them just to see what would happen.”

“I suppose they made O’Farrelly prisoner?” said Waterhouse.

“You are judging everybody by the standards of this infernal war,” said Power. “That English colonel was a soldier and a gentleman. He stood us drinks and let O’Farrelly look at the gun. It was there all right and Ballymahon was entirely surrounded. We got back about five o’clock, with an ultimatum written out on a sheet of paper. Unless O’Farrelly and his whole army had marched out and laid down their arms by 8 p.m. the town would be shelled without further warning. You’d have thought that would have knocked the heart out of O’Farrelly, considering that he hadn’t a dog’s chance of breaking through. But it didn’t. He became cheerfuller than I’d seen him before, and said that the opportunity he’d always longed for had come at last. His men, when he told them about the ultimatum, took the same view. They said they’d never surrender, not even if the town was shelled into dust and them buried in the ruins. That naturally didn’t suit my dad—or for that matter, me. The soldiers were sure to begin by shelling the rebel H.Q. and that meant that they’d hit our house. I told you, didn’t I, that it was next door to the court house? My poor dad did his best. He talked to O’Farrelly and the rest of them till the sweat ran off him. But it wasn’t the least bit of good. They simply wouldn’t listen to reason. It was seven o’clock before dad gave the job up and left the court house. He was going home to make his will, but on the way he met Father Conway, the priest. He was a youngish man and a tremendous patriot, supposed to be hand-in-glove with the rebels. Dad explained to him that he had less than an hour to live and advised him to go home and bury any valuables he possessed before the shelling began. It took Father Conway about ten minutes to grasp the situation. I chipped in and explained the bracket system on which artillery works. I told him that they wouldn’t begin by aiming at the court house, but would drop their first shell on his house and their next on ours, so as to get the range right. As soon as he believed that—and I had to swear it was true before he did—he took the matter up warmly and said he’d talk to O’Farrelly himself. I didn’t think he’d do much good, but I went into the court house with him, just to see what he’d say. I must say for him he wasted no time. It was a quarter past seven when he began, so there wasn’t much time to waste.”

“‘Boys,’ he said, ‘will you tell me straight and plain what is it you want?’ O’Farrelly began a long speech about an Irish republic and things of that kind. I sat with my watch in my hand opposite Father Conway and every now and then I pointed to the hands, so as to remind him that time was going on. At twenty-five past seven he stopped O’Farrelly and said they couldn’t have an Irish republic just then—though they might later—on account of that gun. Then he asked them again to say exactly what they wanted, republics being considered a wash-out. You’d have been surprised if you heard the answer he got. Every man in the place stood up and shouted that he asked nothing better than to die for Ireland. They meant it, too. I thought it was all up and Father Conway was done. But he wasn’t.”

“‘Who’s preventing you?’ he said. ‘Just form fours in the square outside and you’ll all be dead in less than half an hour. But if you stay here a lot of other people who don’t want to die for Ireland or anything else will be killed too; along with having their homes knocked down on them.’

“Well, they saw the sense of that. O’Farrelly formed his men up outside and made a speech to them. He said if any man funked it he could stay where he was and only those who really wanted to die need go on. It was a quarter to eight when he finished talking and I was in terror of my life that there’d be some delay getting rid of the men who fell out. But there wasn’t a single defaulter. Every blessed one of those men—and most of them were only boys—did a right turn and marched out of the town in column of fours. I can tell you, Waterhouse, I didn’t like watching them go. Father Conway and my dad were standing on the steps of the court house, blubbering like children.”

“I suppose they weren’t all killed?” said Waterhouse.

“None of them were killed,” said Power. “There wasn’t a shot fired. You see, when the English officer saw them march out of the town he naturally thought they’d come to surrender, and didn’t fire on them.”