Autobiographies I by Sean O'Casey

Author:Sean O'Casey [Sean O’Casey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780571283064
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2011-11-15T00:00:00+00:00

—He sat there on that very stool, the warder was saying, sayin’ nothin’, only murmurin’ here as he did on his way to the gallows, poor oul’ Ireland, poor oul’ Ireland. Brady, the best an’ bravest of the Invincibles, never losin’ an ounce o’ weight the whole time, waitin’ for the day, for the hour, for the last minute to come, for ever murmurin’, Poor oul’ Ireland, poor oul’ Ireland. Underneath the flags outside, in one big grave lie the five of them, goin’ to the grave without a word of who did it or how it was all done.

—A sinisther commination on any poor man’s life, said Uncle Tom sadly.

—’Tis an’ all, replied the warder, just as sadly; but fair in the square of a respectable life we’ve got to do, if we want to come to a faithful an’ diminishin’ end.

—Anywhere here, said Uncle Tom, suddenly, in a loud whisper to his friend, where we could thrance the youngster, an’ go for a dhrink?

The warder hurried them down a corridor, at the end of which was a door. He opened this, and they all went into a room where there was a fire, with a bareheaded warder sitting beside it, smoking, his feet inside the fender. In the centre was a dirty-looking table and some hard chairs; a frying-pan, saucepan, kettle, and teapot stood on the hobs. On a rack along the wall hung some warders’ caps, two carbines, and some batons were hanging from hooks in the rack.

The warder, seated by the fire, turned and looked, then turned away again, and went on smoking.

—We’re leafin’ the kidger here for a few seconds, said Tom’s friend; he’ll just sit quiet an’ be in nobody’s way.

—He’s welcome, said the warder seated by the fire, and went on smoking.

Tom’s friend settled a chair by the fire for Johnny, and when he was seated, hurried away with Uncle Tom. The bareheaded warder sat still, never once glancing at the boy, but went on smoking, smoking, and gazing into the fire.

Johnny sat tight in his chair, wishing that his uncle would come to bring him home. He’d force himself to forget seeing the condemned cell, and think, only think of going home again, home, going home again, homeward bound —

Homeward once more, homeward once more,

The good ship is speeding for old Erin’s shore;

The exile’s returning, no longer to roam,

But to end his career in his own native home.

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