The next day’s fighting was the fiercest yet.
Stephen had exhorted his men to engage at close quarters. ‘The bullet is foolish: the bayonet alone is wise.’
And so the Louisianians had foolhardily braved fusillade and cannonade alike in an attempt to rout the Yankees with steel. From his vantage point in the woods, Patrick observed the carnage exacted on his comrades.
At dusk the fighting stopped. From sheer exhaustion, Patrick thought. The exhaustion that sets on the soul from physical slaughter.
‘Men were not made for this,’ Orator O’Toole had concluded the previous night, as they chipped their teeth on biscuits and blackened them with coffee that ‘you could trot a mouse on’.
‘This is a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight,’ the Orator opined. ‘All about cotton and commerce – neither of which will fatten our pockets. What do poor ignorant men like us want with killing poor ignorant men like them?’
‘The Orator is right … that’s what!’ Mother of Sorrows joined in.
‘Half o’ the time I’m for shootin’ them poor misguided Yankees an’ half the time I’m sorry for them … I’m for them shootin’ me! They’re not Yankees neither, any more than we’re Johnny Rebs. They’re Micks and Paddies just like us – reddenin’ the dust of Virginny. An’ tomorrow again we’ll be killin’ our own … an’ our own killin’ us! Is it any wonder that our Mother in Heaven is a Mother o’ Sorrows?’
Now, after today’s savage encounter, Mother of Sorrows had not returned. Patrick and the Orator searched for him with lanterns but returned unsuccessfully. Before first light they went again, the pale moon declining, the morning star, Lucifer, rising.
They found him supported by a tree, his stomach shot through by a cannonball, worms already feasting in the open cavity. He stood there, as always, talking.
‘Oh, lads, what took ye so long? The pain was shockin’ at first but the Mother o’ Sorrows looked down on me an’ sent the worms,’ he said, a ghoulish grin on his face. ‘An’ the little feckers eat the pain … God forgive me for cursin’ – an’ I goin’ directly to meet Him! Look at them! Will ye look at them … havin’ the time o’ their lives, jigglin’ an’ wrigglin’ … an’ gorgin’ themselves on Mick Liddy’s vittles!’
‘Mick!’ Patrick said, ‘we’ll carry you back.’
But Mother of Sorrows put his hand out in front of him. ‘No point in that, lads – sure it’s only on account o’ the ball I got that’s holdin’ me up, stuck to the back o’ this tree, an’ the lice only ’atin’ the arse o’ me. Everythin’ in this damn country ’atin’ a person. If it’s not them allygators down in the swamps, it’s the lice an’ the greybacks … an’ these slimy little bastards swimmin’ round me stomach. But Mick Liddy, the Pride o’ the Liberties, will have the last say on them yet. Oh, Mother o’ Sorrows forgive me!’ he said, casting his eyes to heaven.
Then, from his stomach he scooped out a handful of maggots. He shook them violently in his fist, goading them.
‘Go on, ye little bastards – if ye’re any good, go on an’ ate me! Or Mick Liddy’ll bite the bollix off o’ ye.’
And with that he stuffed the maggots into his mouth and viciously started to chew on them. Swallowing them back down into the place from where they had just come.
‘Holy St Jesus … !’ Orator O’Toole exclaimed ‘Did you …?’
Then another handful followed the first … and another until the chewing stopped and the mad delight faded from Mick Liddy’s eyes.
Patrick, his stomach churning, had already sought refuge behind the tree to which the man had been impaled by the cannonball.
‘Oh, Sweet Divine Jesus …’ the Orator began, for once stymied for words. He blessed himself frantically.
‘God help us all with this terrible war!’