A Ballad of Love and Glory(9)

He looked with disappointment at his muddy hands, knowing there was much more they were capable of besides shaping earthen walls.



* * *



When evening came, Riley called on Captain Merrill at his tent and, after saluting his commanding officer, said, “Permission to relieve Private Sullivan from the buck-and-gag, sir.”

Captain Merrill looked at him intently from behind his desk. Riley held himself at attention, his face a blank. Any flicker of resentment, anger, or defiance would surely earn him his own buck-and-gag, or worse.

“You’re a good soldier, Private Riley. Never given me any trouble at all. Perhaps you can convince your countrymen to do the same?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Very well. Go and show Private Sullivan how to be an exemplary soldier such as yourself. Dismissed.”

“Sir!” Riley saluted his commander and left his quarters to rush to the drill field.



* * *



In the waning light, Riley could see the lad’s face severely sunburned and his lips cracked and bloodied. It wasn’t Sullivan’s first time getting bucked and gagged, but Riley prayed it would be his last. Had he finally realized the folly of trying to be a hero? He removed the gag and gave him water from his canteen.

“Here, take a little sup,” Riley said. “Easy, now.”

Sullivan coughed from gulping it down too fast. He hadn’t had a drink for ten hours. Just like the Yanks, the sun showed no mercy. Riley put water on his handkerchief and wiped Sullivan’s face to offer him a little relief.

“Go raibh maith agat,” Sullivan said, then he broke into tears.

“No need to thank me, little fella. ’Tis over now,” Riley said as he removed the ropes from Sullivan’s hands and feet. He tried getting him to stand up. Sullivan dried his tears with his sleeve and allowed Riley to lift him. Riley was careful to go slow, but still Sullivan cried out in pain as he took a step forward.

“I can’t,” he said, leaning all his weight on Riley. “Can’t feel my legs!”

“One step at a time, lad. I won’t let you fall. Promise.”

They hobbled toward the mess tent, Riley practically carrying his tentmate.

“And Jimmy?”

Riley remembered Maloney’s screams, the smell of burning flesh. “He’s in the hospital tent now. Perhaps we’ll see him in the morrow. Don’t fret about him. He’s a tough bugger. But for the love of God, will ya stop gettin’ yourself into a pickle, Franky Sullivan? Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. ’Tis all you can do.”

“You sound like my da,” Sullivan said.

“Your ould fella is a wise man—”

“Wise?” Sullivan said, stopping to catch his breath. “Nay. I was reared by a coward, I was. Never stood up for his family. Just let those dirty English maggots take everythin’ from us.”

“Nothin’ he could’ve said or done would’ve changed things. He was tryin’ to protect his family. Just like I’m wantin’ to do.”

“Is that why you took the Queen’s shilling? Why you became a traitor to your own people?”

Riley remembered the day he’d enlisted at a military garrison in Galway. He was about to turn eighteen, but he lied, saying he was nineteen. His son had just been born, and the only way to feed him and keep a roof over his head was to serve in the Royal Army and don the hated redcoat, even if it meant being looked upon as a traitor by his own countrymen. While Ireland lay prostrate at the feet of its English conquerors, the only two options Riley had were to tend the fields of an absentee landlord or become a soldier in the British ranks. He was serving the bastards either way, but at least in the military, he’d earn his bread while learning skills he could use when another Irish rising finally came. He traded his scythe for a musket and made his choice.

“Everythin’ I’ve done is for my family. Perhaps one day when you have your own babby you’ll understand.”

“I understand now, John, a chara. I know why you did it, why my da desired me to be quiet and do nothin’. But sometimes that isn’t the answer.”



* * *



After mess of half-cooked biscuits and boiled ham, which they ate with little relish, Riley and his comrades sat outside the tents smoking pipes and sharing stories of the old country. They lit a fire with the mesquite wood they gathered from the thickets. Some of the men roasted rattlesnakes and jackrabbits they killed earlier that day and passed around the flasks of whiskey they’d purchased from the peddlers. Riley, as usual, sat away from the group, burnishing the pewter metal buttons of his fatigue jacket until the American eagle stamped on each button shone brightly under the warm glow of the fire. He kept to himself, observing. Listening. Most of the men, like Sullivan, were landless Catholic peasants who’d suffered all manner of ill treatment from the English, and knowing that Riley had been a redcoat, they treated him like an outsider, not one of their own. Save for Sullivan and Maloney, Riley didn’t have friends. And that night, with Maloney in the hospital tent, he had only one.

Sullivan sat near the fire. His comrades were freely passing him the liquor, thinking it would help, but Riley winced every time the lad took a drink. If they got Sullivan drunk, he would have a tough time rousing him again. And what manner of punishment was the little fellow in for if he couldn’t perform his drills? Riley thought of Maloney, of the smell of burning flesh, and just as Thomas Quinn was about to hand Sullivan another flask of whiskey, Riley, unable to stop himself, said, “Enough, lad. You’ll go too far in the drink.”