Chapter 11

He began work in a corner of the yard with a cross-cut saw. The bidding rose merrily to a point slightly higher than the cost of a similar saw new in a shop. At 23/6 Mr. Robinson knocked it down to a purchaser who seemed well satisfied. A number of small articles, scythes, barrows, spades, were sold rapidly, Mr. Robinson moving round the yard from outhouse to outhouse, surrounded by an eager crowd which pressed on him. His progress was not unlike that of a queen bee at swarming time. He made--as she makes--short flights, and always at the end of them found himself in the centre of a cluster of followers.

At about half-past twelve Mr. Robinson reached his most important lot. He lit a fresh cigarette--his eighth--before putting up for sale a rick of hay.

“About four tons,” said Mr. Robinson, “new meadow hay, well saved, saved with not a drop of rain. Gentlemen, I needn’t tell you that this is a rare, under existing conditions, a unique opportunity. Hay--you know this better than I do--is at present unobtainable in the ordinary market. Now, don’t disappoint me, gentlemen. Let me have a reasonable offer. Thirty pounds. Did I hear some one say fifteen pounds? Less than four pounds a ton! Now, gentlemen, really----”

But the crowd in front of Mr. Robinson knew just as well as he did that four pounds a ton is not a reasonable offer. The bids succeeded each other rapidly. The original fifteen pounds changed to twenty pounds, then to twenty-five, rose a little more slowly to thirty pounds. At thirty-two pounds the bidding hesitated. Mr. Robinson, dropping his cigarette from his mouth, urged his clients on with gusts of eloquence. There was a short spurt. The bids rose by five shillings at a time and finally stopped dead at thirty-four pounds. The hay was sold at a little over eight pounds a ton. Public interest, roused to boiling point by the sale of a whole rick of hay, cooled down a little when Mr. Robinson went on to the next lot on his list.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “I am now offering the hay stored in the loft above the stable. A small lot, gentlemen, but prime hay. I offer no guarantee as to the quantity in the loft; but I should guess it at anything between ten and fifteen hundred-weight.”

Several of the more important farmers drew out of the crowd which surrounded Mr. Robinson. It was not worth while bidding for so small a quantity of hay. Other members of the crowd, feeling that a breathing space had been granted them, took packets of sandwiches from their pockets and sat down in one of the outhouses to refresh themselves. Mr. Robinson viewed the diminishing group of bidders with some disappointment. He was gratified to see that the new police officer from Curraghfin, a gentleman who had not so far made a single bid, crossed the yard and took a place on the steps leading to the loft. Colonel Eden, too, appeared interested in the new lot of hay. If the inspector of police and Colonel Eden began to bid against each other the hay might realize a good price.

“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Robinson, “shall we make a start with three pounds?”

He glanced at Colonel Eden, then at the police officer. Neither gentleman made any sign of wishing to bid. It was James McNiece who made the first offer.

“Two pounds,” he said.

There was a pause.

“Two pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “two pounds. Going at two pounds. You’re not going to let this hay,--more than half a ton of it--go at two pounds.”

He looked appealingly at Colonel Eden and at the police officer. They were entirely unresponsive.

“And at two pounds, going----” said Mr. Robinson.

“Two-ten,” said Dan Gallaher, in a quiet voice.

“Two-fifteen,” said James McNiece.

Dan Gallaher, still apparently bored by the proceedings, raised the price another five shillings. James McNiece went half a crown further. Dan Gallaher, becoming slightly interested, made a jump to three pounds ten. McNiece, with an air of finality, bid four pounds. The contest began to attract attention. When the price rose to five pounds interest became lively, and those who had drawn out of the group round Mr. Robinson began to dribble back. It seemed likely that the contest was one of those, not uncommon at Irish auctions, into which personal feelings enter largely and the actual value of the article sold is little considered. There was a certain piquancy about a struggle of this kind between a prominent Orangeman like James McNiece, and Dan Gallaher, whom everyone knew to be the leader of the Sinn Fein party.

Interest developed into actual excitement when the price rose to ten pounds. A half ton of hay never is and never has been worth ten pounds. But ten pounds was by no means the final bid.

“Mr. McNiece,” said Mr. Robinson, “the bid is against you.”

“Guineas,” said McNiece.

“Eleven,” said Dan Gallaher.

“Guineas,” said McNiece.

The duet went on, McNiece capping Gallaher’s pounds with a monotonous repetition of the word guineas until the price rose to twenty pounds. At that point McNiece faltered for a moment. The auctioneer, watching keenly, saw him turn half round and look at Colonel Eden. The Colonel nodded slightly, so slightly that no one except Mr. Robinson and McNiece himself saw the gesture.

“At twenty pounds,” said Mr. Robinson, “going, and at twenty pounds----”

“Thirty,” said McNiece.

The crowd of watchers gasped audibly. This was something outside of all experience. A man might willingly pay a few shillings, even a pound, too much for the sake of getting the better of an opponent; but to give thirty pounds for half a ton of hay--not even the natural enmity of an Orangeman for a Sinn Feiner would account for such recklessness.

“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.

It was his turn to say guineas now, and he repeated the word without faltering until the price rose to fifty pounds. Mr. Robinson took off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. Never in all his experience of auctions had he heard bidding like this. He lit a fresh cigarette, holding the match in fingers which trembled visibly.

“You will understand, gentlemen, that I am only selling the hay, not the barn or the stable.”

“Guineas,” said Dan Gallaher.

It was the last bid. As he made it Colonel Eden turned and walked out of the group round the auctioneer. James McNiece took his pipe from his pocket and filled it slowly.

“The hay is yours, Mr. Gallaher,” said the auctioneer.

Dan Gallaher, having secured the hay, left the yard. He found his horse, which he had tethered to a tree, and mounted. He rode slowly down the rough lane which led from the farm. At the gate leading to the high road the police sergeant stopped him.

“If you wouldn’t mind waiting a minute, Mr. Gallaher,” said the sergeant, “the D.I. would like to speak to you.”

“What about?” said Gallaher.

The sergeant winked ponderously.

“It might be,” he said, “about the hay you’re just after buying.”

“If he wants it,” said Gallaher, “he can have it, and I’ll deliver it to him at his own home at half the price I paid for it.”

The District Inspector, smiling and tapping his gaiters with a riding switch, explained in a few words that he did not want the hay and did not intend to pay for it.

“I’m taking over the contents of that loft,” he said, “in the name of the Government under the provisions of D.O.R.A.”

“I don’t know,” said Gallaher, “that you’ve any right to be taking over what I’ve bought in that kind of way, and what’s more you’ll not be able to do it without you show me a proper order in writing, signed by a magistrate.”

“If I were you,” said the D.I., “I wouldn’t insist on any kind of legal trial about that hay. At present there’s no evidence against you, Mr. Gallaher, except that you paid a perfectly absurd price for some hay that you didn’t want, and I’m not inclined to press the matter now. I’ve got what I wanted; but if you insist on dragging the matter into Court----”

“I do not,” said Gallaher.

At ten o’clock that evening Dan Gallaher and James McNiece sat together in the private room behind the bar of Sam Twining’s public-house. The house was neutral ground used by Orangemen and Nationalists alike, a convenient arrangement, indeed a necessary arrangement, for there was no other public-house nearer than Curraghfin.

“Dan,” said James McNiece, “I’m an Orangeman and a Protestant and a loyalist, and what I’ve always said about Home Rule and always will say is this:--We’ll not have it and to Hell with the rebels. But I’m telling you now I’d rather you had them, papist and rebel and all as you are, than see them swept off that way by the police. And what’s more, I’m not the only one says that. The Colonel was talking to me after he heard what happened, and what he said was this--‘The Government of this country,’ said he, meaning the police, ‘is a disgrace to civilization.’”

“Give me your hand, James McNiece,” said Gallaher. “Let me shake your hand to show there’s no ill feeling about the way I bid against you at the sale to-day.”

McNiece laid down the glass of whisky which he was raising to his lips and stretched out his hand. Gallaher grasped it and held it.

“Tell me this now, James McNiece,” he said, “for it’s what I was never sure of--How many was there behind that hay?”

McNiece looked round him carefully and made sure that no third person could hear him. Neglecting no precaution he sank his voice to a whisper.

“Twenty rifles,” he said, “of the latest pattern, the same as the soldiers use, and four hundred rounds of ball cartridge.”

“Gosh,” said Gallaher, “but we’d have done great work with them. Either your lads or mine, James McNiece, would have done great work with them. But, sure, what’s the use of talking? The police has them now.”

“Damn the police,” said James McNiece.

XIII ~~ OLD BIDDY AND THE REBELS

The other servants--there were four of them--spoke of her as “the ould cat” or in moments of extreme exasperation “that divil Biddy O’Halloran.” When they spoke to her they called her “Mrs. O’Halloran,” or even “Mrs. O’Halloran, ma’am.” Even Lady Devereux, though nominal mistress of the house, did not dare to call her “Biddy,” She would as soon have addressed an archbishop as “Dickie,” if, indeed, there is an arch-bishop whose Christian name is Richard. There is probably not a woman anywhere, however brave, who would venture to speak to Mrs. O’Halloran face to face and call her “Biddy.” But a man, especially if he be young and good-looking, is in a different case. Harry Devereux called her “Biddy.” He had earned the right to be familiar with his aunt’s cook.

As a schoolboy Harry spent most of his holidays at his aunt’s house in Dublin, and in those days Mrs. O’Halloran used to box his ears and occasionally spank him. When he grew to be a man and was called in due course to the Irish Bar, he was often at his aunt’s house and still visited Mrs. O’Halloran in her kitchen. She gave up smacking him but she still called him “Master Harry,” After the outbreak of war Harry Devereux became a Second Lieutenant in the Wessex Regiment. He displayed himself in his uniform to his aunt, who admired his appearance in her placid way. He also showed himself to Mrs. O’Halloran, who snubbed him sharply.

“So it’s fighting you’re for now, Master Harry,” she said. “Well, it’s what’ll suit you. It’s my opinion that you’re never out of mischief only when you’re in something worse. It is that way with you as long as I know you and that’s since you were born or pretty near. It’s the Germans, is it? Well, I’m sorry for them Germans if there’s many like you going to be soldiers.”

Harry took this as a compliment. It was his hope that the Germans would be sorry for themselves when he got out to France with his platoon of Wessex men.

After dinner, Molly, the parlourmaid, her day’s work ended, became sentimental. She said it was a terrible thing to think of all the fine men that would be killed, and maybe young Mr. Devereux among them. Mrs. O’Halloran checked her flow of feeling.

“Is it Master Harry be killed? Talk sense, can’t you? Sure you couldn’t kill the like of that one. Haven’t I seen him, not once but a dozen times, climbing out on the roof of the house and playing himself to and fro among the chimneys. If that wasn’t the death of him, and him not more than twelve years old at the time, is it likely the Germans would be able to kill him? The like of him is the same as fleas that you’d be squeezing with your finger and thumb or maybe drowning in a basin of water. You know well they’d be hopping over you after the same as before.”

Molly sniffed. It was not wise to argue with “Ould Biddy,” who had a talent for forcible speech.

Mrs. O’Halloran had the best right in the world to the free use of her tongue. She was a really good cook. She had satisfied Sir Joseph Devereux while he lived. She satisfied Lady Devereux afterwards. And Lady Devereux appreciated good cooking. Her husband dead, her three daughters safely married, she had leisure to enjoy eating and had money enough to pay for the best which the Dublin markets provided. Next to good food Lady Devereux valued peace and the absence of worry. Mrs. O’Halloran enjoyed strife and liked a strenuous life. She took all the annoyances of the household on herself, and when they proved too few for her, created unnecessary worry for herself by harassing the maids. Lady Devereux slept untroubled at night, rose late in the morning, found all things very much to her liking, and grew comfortably fat.

For eight months of the year, from October till the end of May, Lady Devereux lived in one of the fine Georgian houses which are the glory of the residential squares of Dublin. It was a corner house, rather larger than the others in the square, with more light and more air, because its position gave it a view up and down two streets as well as across the lawn which formed the centre of the square.

Before the war Harry Devereux used to say that his aunt’s house was the best in Dublin for a dance. It pained him to see its possibilities wasted. After receiving his commission he looked at the world with the eye of a soldier and gave it as his opinion that the house occupied the finest strategic position in Dublin. There was not much chance of persuading plump old Lady Devereux to give a ball. There seemed even less chance of her home ever being used as a fortress. But fate plays strange tricks with us and our property, especially in Ireland. It happened that Lady Devereux’ house was occupied more or less by the soldiers of one army, and shot at with some vigour by the soldiers of another on Easter Monday, 1916. Oddly enough it was neither the rebels nor the soldiers who earned credit by their military operations, but old Biddy O’Halloran.

Mrs. O’Halloran always enjoyed Bank holidays greatly. She did not go out, visit picture houses or parade the streets in her best clothes. She found a deeper and more satisfying pleasure in telling the younger maids what she thought of them when they asked and obtained leave to go out for the afternoon, and in making scathing remarks about their frocks and hats as they passed through the kitchen to reach the area door. On that particular Easter Monday she was enjoying herself thoroughly. A kitchenmaid--she was new to the household or she would not have done it--had asked Lady Devereux’ permission to go out for the afternoon and evening. She got what she asked for. Everybody who asked Lady Devereux for anything got it as a matter of course. The kitchenmaid ought to have made her application through Mrs. O’Halloran. It is the rule in all services that remote authorities must be approached only through the applicant’s immediate superiors. Mrs. O’Halloran took her own way of impressing this on the kitchenmaid.

“I suppose now,” she said, “that you’ll be trapsing the streets of Dublin in the new pink blouse that you spent your last month’s wages on?”

That was exactly what the kitchenmaid meant to do. Mrs. O’Halloran looked the girl over critically.

“I don’t know,” she said, “that I ever seen a girl that would look worse in a pink blouse than yourself. The face that’s on you is the colour of a dish of mashed turnips, and the pink blouse will make it worse, if worse can be.”

The kitchenmaid was a girl of some spirit. She felt inclined to cry, but she pulled herself together and snorted instead.

“I suppose,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “that you’ll be looking out for a young man to keep you company?”

The kitchenmaid did, in fact, hope to walk about with a young man; but she denied this.

“I’ll be looking for no such thing,” she said.

“It’s well for you then,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “for I’m thinking you’d look a long while before you found one. It’s very little sense men has, the best of them, but I never met one yet that hadn’t more sense than to go after a girl like you. If you were any good for any mortal thing a man might be content to marry you in spite of your face; but the way you are, not fit to darn your own stockings, let alone sew for a man, or cook the way he could eat what you put before him, it would be a queer one that would walk the same side of the street with you, pink blouse or no pink blouse.”

The kitchenmaid, though a girl of spirit, was still young. She was washing potatoes in the scullery while Mrs. O’Halloran spoke to her. Two large tears dropped from her eyes into the sink. Mrs. O’Halloran smiled.

Then Molly, the parlourmaid, flung open the kitchen door and rushed to Mrs. O’Halloran. Her face was flushed with excitement and terror. Her eyes were staring. She was panting. Her nice frilly cap was over one ear. She held her apron crumpled into a ball and clutched tightly in her hand.

“It’s murdered we’ll be, killed and murdered and worse! There’s them in the house with guns and all sorts that’ll ruin and destroy everything that’s in it. The mistress is dead this minute and it’s me they’re after now. What’ll we do at all, at all?”

The kitchenmaid, stirred from her private grief by the news, left her potatoes and came to the kitchen. She and Molly clung to each other.

“It’s the Sinn Feiners,” she said, “and they’re out for blood.”

“Where’s the police?” said Molly. “What good is the police that they wouldn’t be here and us being murdered?”

“It’s blood they want,” said the kitchenmaid, “and it's blood they’ll have.”

“Molly,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “is there men in the house or is there not? Stop your bawling now, and tell me.”

“There is, there is,” said Molly, “with guns and cannons and knives. Glory be to God, but I never thought to die this way. What’ll we do at all, at all? Would it be any good hiding?”

Mrs. O’Halloran, with cool deliberation, shifted the position of two pots on the kitchen range. Then she wiped her hands on her apron.

“It’s your place to attend the door and not mine, Molly,” she said, “but if you’re afeard....”

She looked scornfully at the two girls and left the kitchen.

In the hall a young man stood just inside the door on the mat. He wore a greenish-grey uniform and carried a rifle. Across his chest was a bandolier. He looked uncomfortable, like a man who finds himself unexpectedly in a public place when wearing a fancy dress. The door was wide open. On the steps outside were two other young men. They also wore uniforms and carried rifles.

“Now what may you be wanting?” said Mrs. O’Halloran.

The man on the mat--he was really little more than a boy--fumbled in one pocket after another.

His uniform, like that of the British soldier, had a good many pockets. Finally he drew out a sheet of paper.

“This is my authority,” he said, “from the Provisional Government of the Irish Republic.”

He handed the paper to Mrs. O’Halloran.

“If it’s a collection you’re making for the Irish Language Fund,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “her ladyship gave half a crown last week to one of yees, and she’ll give no more, so you can take yourselves off out of this as quick as you like.”

“We are not collectors,” said the young man, with dignity.

“Whether you are not, it’s what you look,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “dressed up in them clothes, with your toy guns and all. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves.”

The suggestion that his rifle was not a real weapon roused the spirit of the young man.

“In the name of the Irish Republic,” he said, “I take possession of this house for military purposes.”

“Musha, but that’s fine talk,” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Will nothing do you, only military purposes?”

“We shall do no harm to the inmates or the contents of the house,” said the young man.

“You will not, for you won’t be let.”

“But I demand free entrance to the upper storeys for myself and my men.”

He turned to the two boys on the steps outside the door.

“Enter,” he said, “and follow me.”

“Will you wipe your boots on the mat,” said Mrs. O’Halloran, “and not be carrying all the mud of the streets into the house with you. Do you think the girls that does be here has nothing to do only to be sweeping carpets and polishing floors after the likes of you?”

The army of the Irish Republic has had many crimes laid to its charge; but it has not been said that its soldiers were guilty of any needless discourtesy to the inhabitants of the houses of which they took possession. The three young men wiped their boots on Lady Devereux’ doormat with elaborate cafe. Mrs. O’Halloran watched them critically.

“Is it the police you’re out after with them guns?” she said. “It’s a pity, so it is, to see fine young fellows like you mixing yourselves up with that foolishness. Sure they’ll get you at the latter end, and you’ll be had up in Court.”

The leader of the little party of Sinn Feiners was not inclined to discuss the future prospects of the insurrection with Mrs. O’Halloran. He moved across the hall towards the staircase, followed by his two young men. They walked delicately, stepping carefully from one to another of the rugs which lay on the floor and avoiding the polished boards. They were courteous and considerate rebels.

“Will nothing but the front stairs suit you?” said Mrs. O’Halloran. “Cock you up, indeed, the likes of you, that never was in a lady’s house before. The back stairs is good enough for me, so I’m thinking it’s good enough for you. Come along with you now.”

She led them past the foot of the great staircase and through a swing door covered with green baize. That door, such was the fancy of the designer of Lady Devereux’ house, concealed another, a very solid door, made after the Georgian fashion, of thick mahogany. The baize-covered door had a spring on it so that it swung shut of itself. Mrs. O’Halloran held it open with one hand. With the other she turned the handle of the solid door beyond.

“Will you come along now,” she said to the three young men, “and take care you don’t be scratching the polish off the door with them guns you’re so proud of?”

They were foolish rebels, those three. They were young and, though Irish, this was the first time they had taken part in an insurrection. They had marched forth to garrison Lady Devereux’ house expecting much, hand-to-hand fighting perhaps in the hall, the tears and hysterics of terrified women, revolver shots from outraged loyalists. Anything of that sort, anything heroic they were prepared for. Old Biddy O’Halloran, with her humorous eyes and her ready tongue, took them aback. They walked through the mahogany door meekly enough.

They found themselves in a small cloak room. There was a wash-hand basin and a couple of towels in one corner. A pile of carriage rugs lay on a shelf. Some waterproof coats hung from pegs. There were three umbrellas in a stand. There was one small window which looked out on a back yard and was heavily barred. There was not the smallest sign of a staircase leading to the upper storey of the house or to anywhere else.