“I'm an Irishman! My name is Desmond O'Hara.”
Mr. Reardon was fully aware that here was a grand specimen of the kind of Irish he had been taught to despise—the Irish that take the king's shilling, the gentlemen Irish that lead the king's cockneys into battle. And yet, strange to say, no thought of that entered his head now. He stepped up to Captain O'Hara, looked round cautiously as if expecting to be overheard, winked knowingly and whispered, as he jerked a significant thumb toward the unhappy Mr. Henckel: “Sure 'tis the likes av us that can take the measure av the likes av thim.”
“It is,” replied Captain O'Hara, and reached for Terry Reardon's awful hand. “It is!”
Together they lifted Michael J. Murphy into a boson's chair, the jackies unslung a cargo derrick, Mr. Reardon went to the winch, and the skipper was hoisted overside into the Panther's boat and taken aboard the warship for medical attention. Just before Mr. Reardon hoisted him he drew the chief's ear down to his lips.
“About von Staden,” he whispered. “I thought I wanted to see him hung. Legally he's a pirate; but, Terence, he was raised wrong; you know, Terence—Deutschland ueber Alles. These Dutch devils thought it was all right to steal our ship—national necessity, you know. Let von Staden out of the mate's store-room and tell him the English have us—that his fleet is gone. Then turn your back on him, Terence.”
Mr. Reardon followed orders. “Captain Murphy ordhered me to let ye out,” he explained to the supercargo, “an' towld me to turrn me back on ye.”
“Please thank him for me,” von Staden replied gently. “I scarcely expected such kindness at his hands. You may turn your back now, Mr. Reardon.”
So Mr. Reardon turned his back, and, despite the rush of the British jackies to stop him, Herr August Carl von Staden reached the rail. “Deutschland ueber Alles!” he shouted defiantly—and jumped. He did not come up.
Captain the Hon. Desmond O'Hara removed his cap. “They die so infernally well,” he said presently, “one hates to fight them—individually. Yesterday the Nuernberg fell to us. We outranged her, and when she was out of action and sinking, with her men swimming and drowning all round her, the Panther was stripped of life preservers in two minutes. Some of my lads went overboard to help the Boche.”
Mr. Reardon remembered he had wrapped waste round the head of his monkey wrench and curtailed his indicated horse-power when tapping individuals; yet, when he fought them in bulk, with what savage joy had he struck down Mr. Uhl, a poor, inoffensive devil and the victim of a false ideal of national honor! Mr. Reardon was quite sure he despised Englishmen; yet the tears came to his eyes when the jackies carried poor little Riggins away from the searchlight, and he prayed for eternal rest for the soul of his late assistants, for he had learned in a night, as he fought with tooth and fist and monkey wrench, what those who fight with tongue and typewriter will never learn—that racial and religious animosities are just a pitiful human bugaboo—in bulk. Only that valiant minority that sheds its blood for the heartless majority can ever know this great truth—and the pity of it—that warriors never hate each other.