In response, many believe, to the fervent
prayers of Father Dennis, the enemy not only elected to fight in
the open, but made a beautiful fight, as many weeping Irish
mothers knew later. They gathered behind walls or flickered across
the open in shouting masses, and were pot-valiant in artillery. It
was expedient to hold a large reserve and wait for the
psychological moment that was being prepared by the shrieking
shrapnel. Therefore the Mavericks lay down in open order on the
brow of a hill to watch the play till their call should come.
Father Dennis, whose duty was in the rear, to smooth the trouble
of the wounded, had naturally managed to make his way to the
foremost of his boys, and lay like a black porpoise, at length on
the grass. To him crawled Mulcahy, ashen-gray, demanding
absolution.
"'Wait till you're shot," said Father Dennis sweetly. "There's a
time for everything."
Dan Grady chuckled as he blew for the fiftieth time into the
breech of his speckless rifle. Mulcahy groaned and buried his head
in his arms till a stray shot spoke like a snipe immediately above
his head, and a general heave and tremour rippled the line. Other
shots followed and a few took effect, as a shriek or a grunt
attested.
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