A Thousand Lives (Short Stories)

Shame ye are not Irish

Richard Stuart had never hated the Irish like most of his kinsmen. He had joined the army because it was a way to get out of the gutter and into a better life. Wild adventures of serving the crown in a foreign land and claiming enemy riches was what he had fancied. Yet here he was, patrolling the streets of the neighbouring country and claiming insults and disdain. At least he got paid good enough to enter the pub now and then. It was on a rainy morning when he saw one of the Irish people roam the street. Nothing unusual one might think if it wouldn't have been for the English soldier that followed at high speed. Seeing his persecutor, the man running headlessly, crashed into Richard losing a package of food he must have stolen.

"Hold him!" The red fellow cried, out of breath. Whilst Richard looked at the poor wretch to his feet. Frantically the haggard stranger tried to pick himself up. But all hope of escape had left the man's eyes upon meeting Richard's gaze. In the meantime, the other soldier had caught up with them, demanding that the thief should be hanged. Richard took the Irishman's arm and dragged him closer to his side. Handing his comrade the stolen food he only said, "you should get back to your post. I'll handle it."

Being a trusted member of the army, the thief was left in Richard's care. Still cursing and muttering the other soldier turned to go, "damned Paddies."

Being aware of the resentment with which the man next to him was regarding his captor. Richard took his own ration.

"Take it, the crown feeds me soon enough." Smiling despite the ill will against him, the Englishman put the goods into the stranger's hand.

"A strange behaviour for a Sassenach." The man only uttered grumpily though his countenance had changed slightly.

"I know what hunger is. Watch out for my comrade in the future."

"'Tis a shame ye are not Irish." Richard was unsure yet he could have sworn to hear a low 'God bless ye' from the man who quickly hurried away.

Patrolling the streets in the evening Richard was joined by another soldier by the name of George. George was like most of the British in Ireland. Indifferent to the struggle and arrogant towards the inhabitants.

"Move away Paddy," he snarled when a farmer was slowly walking home from the pub.

"No need to push. He's tired," Richard tried to calm his irrational friend.

"You are growing far too fond of the Paddies. Be careful or people will accuse you of treason."

"I'm not trying to insult the crown. But doesn't the Lord say all men are alike and that we shall love our neighbour as we love ourselves? Is it right to oppress these folks? That's what I wonder about." George only scoffed at the philosophical question.

"We are soldiers, mate. We march, we shoot, we follow orders. No need to think if the crown thinks for you."

In the middle of the next day, Richard was once again standing tall on his post. He was revelling in the clear sky and fresh air, when a ruckus drew his attention. An angry mob of Irish people was closing in. Several British soldiers were already about to push them back with force if necessary. Feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor men and women, Richard attempted to ignore the riot and stay at his post. His benevolent God however didn't share the sentiment. For Richard's commanding officer ordered him to suppress the 'Paddies'. Reluctantly the soldier advanced a pit opening up in his stomach. The people had gotten their hands on some weapons and assaulted their tyrants. And the soldiers having not a shred of mercy fired into the mass. Glee glinted in some of Richard's fellows' eyes, but most just stared pitilessly ahead. Reloading and shooting, blind to the injustice. It was the moment Richard decided to rather die than be part of such cruelty. Charging forward he wanted to take the Irish's side. In the skirmish he got caught in the crossfire and received a bullet from behind and a sword from the front. Yielding to the pain he toppled to the ground facing the blue sky. The blood invisible on England's red, soaked the uniform. Richard listened to the song of musket and death as his limbs grew numb and his sight dimmed. And his thoughts went back to the Irish thief. His words echoing in the dying man's mind over and over. ''Tis a shame ye are not Irish.'

Pádraig was passing by the square where the riot had been the last day, when the body of a soldier demanded his attention. The bloody red uniform of the man lying in the mud, shone like a beacon of Irish oppression. And then he wondered. Every other soldier had been carried away and buried by now. Why not this fellow? Stepping closer, Pádraig's heart skipped a beat as the face of the benevolent guard, which had given him his own food, stared into nothingness. Seeing holes in the cloth on the back as well as thrusts in the front, he assumed the soldier must have had a conflict of conscience. Perhaps he had taken the side of the Irish resulting in his violent death and denied burial by the crown. Having pity on the deceased Pádraig waved one of his kinsmen to him.

"We ought to bury him," he said to the other man. Staring at the dead for a moment Pádraig's friend only frowned.

"Why should we bury on o' them?" Spitting at the corpse the man turned and went away.

"By the God above, I will not abandon a fellow man. May he be friend or fiend, he deserves mercy."

Waiting for the evening, Pádraig took a spade and buried the man whose name he had never learned. And therefore, as a final act to repay the debt on the wood marking the lonely grave on the glen he wrote. 'Tis a shame ye are not Irish.