“Says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, ‘Kilquhanity,’ says he, ‘there’s betther places than River Alma to live by,’ says he. ‘Faith, an’ by the Liffey I wish I was this moment’—Liffey’s in ould Ireland, Frenchies! 'But, Kilquhanity,’ says he, ‘faith, an’ it’s the Liffey we’ll never see again, an’ put that in yer pipe an’ smoke it!’ And thrue for him.
“But that night, aw that night! Ivery bone in me body was achin’, and shure me heart was achin’ too, for the poor b’ys that were fightin’ hard an’ gettin’ little for it. Bitther cowld it was, aw, bitther cowld, and the b’ys droppin’ down, droppin’, droppin’, droppin’, wid the Roosian bullets in thim!
“‘Kilquhanity,’ says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, ‘it’s this shtandin’ still, while we do be droppin’, droppin’, that girds the soul av yer.’ Aw, the sight it was, the sight it was! The b’ys of the rigimint shtandin’ shoulder to shoulder, an’ the faces av ‘m blue wid powder, an’ red wid blood, an’ the bits o’ b’ys droppin’ round me loike twigs of an’ ould tree in a shtorm. Just a cry an’ a bit av a gurgle tru the teeth, an’ divil the wan o’ thim would see the Liffey side anny more. “‘The Roosians are chargin’!’ shouts Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick. 'The Roosians are chargin’—here they come!’ Shtandin’ besoide me was a bit of a lump of a b’y, as foine a lad as ever shtood in the boots of me rigimint—aw! the look of his face was the look o’ the dead. ‘The Roosians are comin’—they’re chargin’!’ says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick, and the bit av a b’y, that had nothin’ to eat all day, throws down his gun and turns round to run. Eighteen years old he was, only eighteen—just a straight slip of a lad from Malahide. ‘Hould on! Teddie,’ says I, ‘hould on! How’ll yer face yer mother if yer turn yer back on the inimy of yer counthry?’ The b’y looks me in the eyes long enough to wink three times, picks up his gun, an’ shtood loike a rock, he did, till the Roosians charged us, roared on us, an’ I saw me slip of a b’y go down under the sabre of a damned Cossack. ‘Mother!’ I heard him say, ‘Mother!’ an’ that’s all I heard him say—and the mother waitin’ away aff there by the Liffey soide. Aw, wurra, wurra, the b’ys go down to battle and the mothers wait at home! Some of the b’ys come back, but the most of thim shtay where the battle laves ‘em. Wurra, wurra, many’s the b’y wint down that day by Alma River, an’ niver come back! “There I was shtandin’, when hell broke loose on the b’ys of me rigimint, and divil the wan o’ me knows if I killed a Roosian that day or not. But Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick—a bit of a liar was the Sergeant-Major—says he: ‘It was tin ye killed, Kilquhanity.’ He says that to me the noight that I left the rigimint for ever, and all the b’ys shtandin’ round and liftin’ lasses an’ saying, ‘Kilquhanity! Kilquhanity! Kilquhanity!’ as if it was sugar and honey in their mouths. Aw, the sound of it! 'Kilquhanity,’ says he, ‘it was tin ye killed;’ but aw, b’ys, the Sergeant-Major was an awful liar. If he could be doin’ annybody anny good by lyin’, shure he would be lyin’ all the time.
“But it’s little I know how many I killed, for I was killed meself that day. A Roosian sabre claved the shoulder and neck of me, an’ down I wint, and over me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an’ I stopped thinkin’. Aw, so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away out av the fight! The shriekin’ and roarin’ kept dwindlin’ and dwindlin’, and I dropped all into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. An’ I thought that slip av a lad from the Liffey soide was houlding me hand, and sayin’ ‘Mother! Mother!’ and we both wint ashlape; an’ the b’ys of the rigimint when Alma was over, they said to each other, the b’ys they said: ‘Kilquhanity’s dead.’ An’ the trinches was dug, an’ all we foine dead b’ys was laid in long rows loike candles in the trinches. An’ I was laid in among thim, and Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick shtandin’ there an’ looking at me an’ sayin’: 'Poor b’y—poor b’y!’
“But when they threw another man on tap of me, I waked up out o’ that beautiful shlape, and give him a kick. ‘Yer not polite,’ says I to mesilf. Shure, I couldn’t shpake—there was no strength in me. An’ they threw another man on, an’ I kicked again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees it, an’ shouts out. ‘Kilquhan ity’s leg is kickin’!’ says he. An’ they pulled aff the two poor divils that had been thrown o’ tap o’ me, and the Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an’ he says ‘Yer not killed, Kilquhanity?’ says he.
“Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham shtandin’ by whips out a flask.
“‘Put that betune his teeth,’ says he. Whin I got it there, trust me fur not lettin’ it go. An’ the Sergeant-Major says to me: ‘I have hopes of you, Kilquhanity, when you do be drinkin’ loike that.’
“‘A foine healthy corpse I am; an’ a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am,’ says I.”
A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the best story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well.
Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it seemed), Kilquhanity never went to Confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The Cure spoke to Kilquhanity’s wife about it, and she said she could do nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at minor faults till the Cure dismissed her with some good advice upon wives rehearsing their husband’s faults, even to the parish priest.