But I never quite fell asleep, and though it was late when I lay down, what remained of the night was ages long.
It was a very restless place. People came in and out, cheery people, people in evening dress who had dined well, people in uniform who seemed to have nothing to do and no desire for bed. Now one Auxiliary arose out of his bath like Lazarus come out of his tomb; now a second sprang up like a jack-in-the-box and the first sank back again. All the while the strenuous Auxiliary continued to write, and to this day I believe he was at work upon his reminiscences. Finally, an Auxiliary, who had arisen from his bath and not gone back again, started an argument with the strenuous Auxiliary about who burned Cork. He was serious and anxious to get at the truth. They produced paper and worked at the answer with a will.
The Auxiliary from the bath proved there were only a small number of his fraternity in Cork at the time, and that most of them, including himself, were in hospital having pieces of bomb taken out of them. He said there were over four thousand soldiers in Cork, and God knew how many Shinners, and it was either the military or the I.R.A.; but the Auxiliaries were blameless. This argument lasted a very long time, and caused books to be tossed about, and feet to be shuffled, and other things to happen unconducive to sleep, and it must have worn out the Auxiliary from the bath, for at the end of it he sank into his bath again like a corpse sinking into a grave. The strenuous Auxiliary returned to his writing.
The Auxiliaries who lived in the baths were thin Auxiliaries; there was a stout Auxiliary dozing on a chair on the farther side of the fire. He was middle-aged, and had something of the look of a father of a family; but there was never a moment when he was not picturesque, with his rifle at his hand and his Balmoral bonnet on his head.
Whatever might be one’s feelings towards these men, there was no denying they were a fine type—active, young, for the most part in splendid physical condition, and most romantically dressed. I kept on dozing and coming to again, coming to and dozing, for I would suddenly be aware of everything—of the room full of miscellaneous and dreary things, of the sandbagged window with the Lewis gun in position, of the men nodding on their arms, of the two young prisoners rolled up in one blanket, of O’Grady dreaming of Mrs. Slaney’s basement, and of the kindly fire next door to me leaping up the chimney—and then all would pass away again.
About breakfast time everybody awakened. I sat up blinking with my tongue sticking to the roof of my mouth, O’Grady felt himself all over and put on his boots, the youthful prisoners came to, and the Auxiliaries emerged from their baths and stayed out.
Breakfast came in—ham and eggs in a pile, and pyramids of bread. These encouraging things began to disappear down the throats of the Auxiliaries; but half-way through the feast somebody heartened us a little by announcing we would get something later on. And in time we found ourselves sitting down to ham and immense wedges of bread and butter. While we ate somebody cleaned the Lewis gun, pointing the muzzle at the pit of my stomach. The last wedge of ham was eaten, and that was the end of whatever good time O’Grady and I had at the Castle.
We were still looking at our empty plates when an escort turned up, and O’Grady and I began a new journey, down winding passages where the plaster was peeling off walls and roof. We seemed to be going on and on into the bowels of the Castle; but at last came round a sudden corner into a small chamber given over to a military guard.
The soldiers looked at us resentfully, as if they thought us a disturbing influence; but the sergeant of the guard came forward, shuffled some dreary papers, produced a bad pen, which he straightened upon the wooden table, found some worse ink, and proceeded to give a receipt for us. After that transaction I gathered we no longer belonged to the police; but our new possessors seemed to distrust their possessions until we had proved beyond a doubt that we were our fathers’ sons. This I found a more difficult thing to do than it sounds, and it took several sheets of official paper. These papers were slapped on top of a pile of others, and we were told to go through an ancient wooden door, past a sentry with fixed bayonet. Through the door we went into the most dismal place I have seen in my life.
Verily we had fallen from the frying-pan into the fire.