“He couldn’t possibly have thought that,” said Waterhouse, “unless they laid down their arms.”
“As a matter of fact,” said Power, “hardly any of them had any arms, except hockey sticks, and the Colonel thought they’d piled them up somewhere. He seems to have been a decent sort of fellow. He made O’Farrelly and a few more prisoners, and told the rest of them to be off home.”
“Ireland,” said Waterhouse, “must be a d____d queer country.”
“It’s the only country in Europe,” said Power, “which knows how to conduct war in a civilized way. Now if a situation of that sort turned up out here there’d be bloodshed.”
“I suppose O’Farrelly was hanged afterwards?” said Waterhouse.
“No, he wasn’t.”
“Shot, then? Though I should think hanging is the proper death for a rebel.”
“Nor shot,” said Power. “He is alive still and quite well. He’s going about the country making speeches. He was down in Ballymahon about a fortnight ago and called on my dad to thank him for all he’d done during the last rebellion. He inquired after me in the kindest way. The old dad was greatly touched, especially when a crowd of about a thousand men, all O’Farrelly’s original army with a few new recruits, gathered round the house and cheered, first for an Irish republic and then for dad. He made them a little speech and told them I’d got my company and was recommended for the M.C. When they heard that they cheered me like anything and then shouted ‘Up the Rebels!’ for about ten minutes.”
“I needn’t tell you,” said Waterhouse, “that I don’t believe a word of that story. If I did I’d say——”
He paused for a moment.