On the evening of the same day, Mulcahy, an unconsidered corporal
- yet great in conspiracy - returned to cantonments, and heard
sounds of strife and howlings from afar off. The mutiny had broken
out and the barracks of the Mavericks were one white-washed
pandemonium. A private tearing through the barrack-square, gasped
in his ear, "Service! Active service. It's a burnin' shame." Oh
joy, the Mavericks had risen on the eve of battle! They would not
- noble and loyal sons of Ireland - serve the Queen longer. The
news would flash through the country-side and over to England, and
he - Mulcahy - the trusted of the Third Three, had brought about
the crash. The private stood in the middle of the square and
cursed colonel, regiment, officers, and doctor, particularly the
doctor, by his gods. An orderly of the native cavalry regiment
clattered through the mob of soldiers. He was half lifted, half
dragged from his horse, beaten on the back with mighty hand-claps
till his eyes watered, and called all manner of endearing names.
Yes, the Mavericks had fraternized with the native troops. Who
then was the agent among the latter that had blindly wrought with
Mulcahy so well?
An officer slunk, almost ran, from the mess to a barrack.
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