“Yerra, they have the country destroyed,” he admitted. “And nine out of every ten don’t know annything about politics or annything else at all, only they get talked over, and towld that they’re patriots if they’ll get howld of a gun and do a little drilling at night—an’ where’s the country boy that wouldn’t give his ears for a gun! An’ the English Gov’mint, that could stop it all with the stroke of a pen, hasn’t the pluck to bring in conscription in Ireland.”
“You’re right there, Cally,” said some one.
“I know well I’m right. But the thousands and tens of thousands of Irish boys that went to the war and fought till they died—they’ll be forgotten, and the Sinn Fein scum’ll be remembered. If the Gov’mint had the pluck of a mouse they’d be all right. I tell you, boys, ’twill be the Gov’mint’s own fault if we see the haythin Turks parading the fair fields of Ireland, with their long tails held up by the Sinn Feiners!” Callaghan relapsed into gloomy contemplation of this awful possibility, and refused to be drawn further. Even when Jim, desiring to be tactful, mentioned a famous Irish V.C. who had, single-handed, slain eight Germans, he declined to show any enthusiasm.
“Ah, what V.C.!” he said sourly. “Sure, his owld father wouldn’t make a fuss of him. ‘Why didn’t he do more?’ says he. ‘I often laid out twenty men myself with a stick, and I coming from Macroom Fair. It is a bad trial of Mick that he could kill only eight, and he having a rifle and bayonet!’ he says. Cock him up with a V.C.!” After which Jim ceased to be consoling and began to exercise his worst leg—knowing well that the sight of his torments would speedily melt Denny’s heart and make him forget the sorrows of Ireland.
The guards did not trouble them much; they kept a strict watch, which was not difficult, as all the prisoners were partially disabled; and then considered their duty discharged by bringing twice a day the invariable meal of soup and bread. No one liked to speculate on what had gone to the making of the soup; it was a pale, greasy liquid, with strange lumps in it, and tasted as dish-water may be supposed to taste. Jim learned to eat the sour bread by soaking it in the soup. He had no inclination to eat, but he forced himself to swallow the disgusting meals, so that he might keep up his strength, just as he worked his stiff limbs and rubbed them most of the day. For there was but one idea in Jim Linton’s mind—escape.
Gradually he became able to sit up, and then to move a little, hobbling painfully on a stick which had been part of a broken pew, and endeavouring to take part in looking after the helpless prisoners, and in keeping the church clean, since the guards laughed at the idea of helping at either. Jim had seen something of the treatment given to wounded German soldiers in England, and he writhed to think of them, tended as though they were our own sick, while British prisoners lay and starved in filthy holes. But the little cure rebuked him.
“But what would you, my son? They are canaille—without breeding, without decency, without hearts. Are we to put ourselves on that level?”
“I suppose not—but it’s a big difference, Father,” Jim muttered.
“The bigger the difference, the more honour on our side,” said the little priest. “And things pass. Long after you and I and all these poor lads are forgotten it will be remembered that we came out of this war with our heads up. But they——!” Suddenly fierce scorn filled his quiet eyes. “They will be the outcasts of the world!”
Wherefore Jim worked on, and tried to take comfort by the cure’s philosophy; although there were many times when he found it hard to digest. It was all very well to be cheerful about the verdict of the future, but difficult to forget the insistent present, with the heel of the Hun on his neck. It was sometimes easier to be philosophic by dreaming of days when the positions should be reversed.