. . Holy Moses, there's the captain!"
But it was the mess-sergeant who came in just as the men clattered
out, and found the colours uncased.
From that day dated the mutiny of the Mavericks, to the joy of
Mulcahy and the pride of his mother in New York - the good lady
who sent the money for the beer. Never, so far as words went, was
such a mutiny. The conspirators, led by Dan Grady and Horse Egan,
poured in daily. They were sound men, men to be trusted, and they
all wanted blood; but first they must have beer. They cursed the
Queen, they mourned over Ireland, they suggested hideous plunder
of the Indian country-side, and then, alas - some of the younger
men would go forth and wallow on the ground in spasms of wicked
laughter The genius of the Irish for conspiracies is remarkable.
None the less they would swear no oaths but those of their own
making, which were rare and curious, and they were always at pains
to impress Mulcahy with the risks they ran. Naturally the flood of
beer wrought demoralisation. But Mulcahy confused the causes of
things, and when a very muzzy Maverick smote a sergeant on the
nose or called his commanding officer a bald-headed old lard-
bladder and even worse names, he fancied that rebellion and not
liquor was at the bottom of the outbreak.
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