Part 134 (1/2)
STEPHEN: Did I? When?
BLOOM: _(To the redcoats)_ We fought for you in South Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn't that history? Royal Dublin Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch.
THE NAVVY: _(Staggering past)_ O, yes! O G.o.d, yes! O, make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo!
_(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice of gutted spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko the terrible, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accoutrements, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his breast bright with medals, toes the line.
He gives the pilgrim warrior's sign of the knights templars.)_
MAJOR TWEEDY: _(Growls gruffly)_ Rorke's Drift! Up, guards, and at them!
Mahar shalal hashbaz.
PRIVATE CARR: I'll do him in.
PRIVATE COMPTON: _(Waves the crowd back)_ Fair play, here. Make a bleeding butcher's shop of the b.u.g.g.e.r.
_(Ma.s.sed bands blare_ Garryowen _and_ G.o.d save the King.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They're going to fight. For me!
c.u.n.tY KATE: The brave and the fair.
BIDDY THE CLAP: Methinks yon sable knight will joust it with the best.
c.u.n.tY KATE: _(Blus.h.i.+ng deeply)_ Nay, madam. The gules doublet and merry saint George for me!
STEPHEN:
The harlot's cry from street to street Shall weave Old Ireland's windingsheet.
PRIVATE CARR: _(Loosening his belt, shouts)_ I'll wring the neck of any f.u.c.king b.a.s.t.a.r.d says a word against my bleeding f.u.c.king king.
BLOOM: _(Shakes Cissy Caffrey's shoulders)_ Speak, you! Are you struck dumb? You are the link between nations and generations. Speak, woman, sacred lifegiver!
CISSY CAFFREY: _(Alarmed, seizes Private Carr's sleeve)_ Amn't I with you? Amn't I your girl? Cissy's your girl. _(She cries)_ Police!
STEPHEN: _(Ecstatically, to Cissy Caffrey)_
White thy fambles, red thy gan And thy quarrons dainty is.
VOICES: Police!
DISTANT VOICES: Dublin's burning! Dublin's burning! On fire, on fire!
_(Brimstone fires spring up. Dense clouds roll past. Heavy Gatling guns boom. Pandemonium. Troops deploy. Gallop of hoofs. Artillery. Hoa.r.s.e commands. Bells clang. Backers shout. Drunkards bawl. Wh.o.r.es screech.
Foghorns hoot. Cries of valour. Shrieks of dying. Pikes clash on cuira.s.ses. Thieves rob the slain. Birds of prey, winging from the sea, rising from marshlands, swooping from eyries, hover screaming, gannets, cormorants, vultures, goshawks, climbing woodc.o.c.ks, peregrines, merlins, blackgrouse, sea eagles, gulls, albatrosses, barnacle geese. The midnight sun is darkened. The earth trembles. The dead of Dublin from Prospect and Mount Jerome in white sheepskin overcoats and black goatfell cloaks arise and appear to many. A chasm opens with a noiseless yawn. Tom Rochford, winner, in athlete's singlet and breeches, arrives at the head of the national hurdle handicap and leaps into the void.
He is followed by a race of runners and leapers. In wild att.i.tudes they spring from the brink. Their bodies plunge. Factory la.s.ses with fancy clothes toss redhot Yorks.h.i.+re baraabombs. Society ladies lift their skirts above their heads to protect themselves. Laughing witches in red cutty sarks ride through the air on broomsticks. Quakerlyster plasters blisters. It rains dragons' teeth. Armed heroes spring up from furrows.
They exchange in amity the pa.s.s of knights of the red cross and fight duels with cavalry sabres: Wolfe Tone against Henry Grattan, Smith O'Brien against Daniel O'Connell, Michael Davitt against Isaac b.u.t.t, Justin M'Carthy against Parnell, Arthur Griffith against John Redmond, John O'Leary against Lear O'Johnny, Lord Edward Fitzgerald against Lord Gerald Fitzedward, The O'Donoghue of the Glens against The Glens of The O'Donoghue. On an eminence, the centre of the earth, rises the feldaltar of Saint Barbara. Black candles rise from its gospel and epistle horns.