It was this unanswered question, stirring in Sabinsport’s unsatisfied soul, that made her take so to heart her first war casualty. It came at the very start of the diversion by the English, the diversion on the Somme, which gave the first real hope of relieving Verdun.—Mikey, Katie’s son, now Lieut. Michael Flaherty, if you please, went over the top—and Mikey did not come back.
They left him in No Man’s Land, with a bullet through his brain—a clean, quick death, thank God—no writhing on live wires, no hours of hideous, hopeless pain in the mire, uncared for, no slow dying—just one quick stab when his blood was hot with the passion of war and his heart was at the highest.
The news came straight to Dick, as Mikey had carefully planned it should. Soon after he reached France he had written back, “If anything should happen to me, Mr. Dick, I’ve fixed it so they’d tell you first, and I know you’ll make it as easy as you can for my mother. Not that I’m worrying, but a fellow gets to looking out for things here.”
Mikey’s thoughtfulness was justified. As Dick held the message which came to him at daybreak and tried to frame words which would be gentle and merciful, he felt utterly helpless.
In the year that Mikey had been gone, Katie had become more and more proud of him. She was confident he would return as a “gineral.” And Katie had a right to be proud. Mikey had done wonders. His strength, his wit, his love of a fight, his proud conviction that he’d gone in for Mr. Dick, all had made him a wonderful soldier. He had been advanced, he was Lieutenant Flaherty by the spring of 1916, and Katie had a picture of him in her pocket, familiar, indeed, to most of Sabinsport because Ralph had printed it in the Argus. It had been copied in a city Sunday supplement, much to the joy of Katie and the pride of the Boys’ Club and the War Board. At the latter place, in fact, it had been given a place of honor on the wall opposite King Albert and Papa Joffre, and underneath in big letters, printed carefully by Captain Billy, were the words, “Lieut. Michael Flaherty, Sabinsport, U.S.A.”
And now he was dead. How, Dick asked himself, could he go to the woman whose only son had given his life in doing his work? How could he console poor Katie—he, the cause of her grief? An indirect and unwilling cause, to be sure, but would Mikey have found his way to France without him? he wondered now, as he sat miserably looking at the yellow sheet in his hand. Katie had long ago worked it out that it was the martial soul of the boy that had led him away. “He’d a gone without you, Mr. Dick. He’s a born soldier. He’d a gone wherever the war was in the world if he’d never seen you.” Would she still think so when he told her?
He gathered himself up finally and went about his morning toilet. Katie came at seven. His breakfast was always served at the stroke of eight. He had only begun his dressing when he heard the distant click of her door. He could hear her singing when, later, he gathered his resolution and went to the kitchen. She was at the stove frying his bacon—she turned a red and happy face to him.
“What’s the matter, Mr. Dick, comin’ in at this time of—” She stopped—her frying pan high over the stove. “Is it Mikey you’ve news of?” The dread anguish in the voice after the hearty cheer of a moment before hurt Dick like a knife.
“Katie,” he said, putting a gentle hand on her shoulder—“my poor Katie!” and the tears came.
“He’s hurt! He’s dead!”