shattered into tiny pieces and fell, in graceful, starry slow motion, to the ground below. The mob cheered and
whooped, now kicking doorways and launching lumps of paving-stones through the doors and windows on both sides of the street.
The noise became intolerable.
‘What are they saying?’ Cecilia was clutching at her sister’s arm, her eyes wide with terror.
‘Sssh!’ Mary warned her, keeping her eye on the street, trying to comfort Cecilia as best she could, patting her hand distractedly at the same time.
‘Long live the Queen!’
Mary could see the shadowed faces of the mob uplifted into the greenish pools of gaslight. They were all shouting, all of them, each vying with the other for the worst insult, the most savage
bite of triumph.
‘We’ll win, so we will! A British parliament for a British people!’
Their caps were pushed back from their foreheads: no need for subterfuge here. They don’t care, Mary realized; they don’t care who sees them, who recognizes them. They can do their
worst and there’s no one to stop them.
‘We’ll teach yis, fenian bastards! Ye’ll not win!’
The shouts grew louder, the men working up their own anger, faces chiselled by drink and hatred. And yet the crowd never missed the beat of its own march. It made steady, menacing progress, like
some sort of terrifying heartbeat, until the entire street was filled.
‘Taigs out – we’ll have no fuckin’ Pope here!’
Still the houses sat tight. Not one broke ranks: no door, no window showed any sign of life.
Suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the noise of the mob ceased. As though at some secret signal, the marching stopped. The men stood still and silent, their sticks now by their sides,
smacking from time to time off an impatient trouser-leg. All that could be heard was the shuffling of feet, the chink of nails on stone.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but we’re for it,’ whispered Mary.
The silence was immense.
Suddenly, Cecilia nudged her sister.
‘Look yonder,’ she said, nodding her head to the right.
Some of the street lights had been broken in the fray, but those close to Peter’s Hill were still lit. In the misty, greeny-yellowish light cast by a cluster of three or four lamps at the
corner, Mary could make out a large group of RIC men.
‘Them bastards is just standin’ there!’ Cecilia hissed, crouching down again.
‘Aye – not a baton drawn between them.’
Cecilia craned her neck again, moving the hem of the curtain very gently. She began to count silently.
‘There’s at least forty of them – what are they doin’?’
‘Nothin’,’ replied Mary, grimly. ‘And I’ll wager that’s what they’ve been doin’ all night – nothin’.’
The noisy shuffling of feet had begun again outside. Mary felt a strange sense of relief. Anything was better than the terrifying silence of the last few moments. A great roar came from the back
of the crowd of bodies.
‘Come on out, ye fenian bastards, and take what’s comin’ to ye! Take it like the men ye’re not!’
Still the houses sat tight and silent. A moment’s uncertainty hovered about the men’s heads. Mary kept her head below the level of the window sill and prayed. Suddenly, they were off
on the march again, as abruptly as they’d arrived. This time, they surged back in the direction from which they’d come, back towards the groups of policemen standing on both sides of
Peter’s Hill.
Mary and Cecilia watched as, with what seemed like breathtaking defiance, the men swung their sticks and clubs again, crashing into those windows they had missed in the excitement of their
earlier rhythmic march down the cobbled street.
Their taunts continued; Mary and Cecilia could catch the same old insults, repeated over and over, accompanied by the crashing of paving-stones on doors and windows. The breaking of street
lights went on and on, pools of darkness spilling out over the rough pavement as though released from the
whooped, now kicking doorways and launching lumps of paving-stones through the doors and windows on both sides of the street.
The noise became intolerable.
‘What are they saying?’ Cecilia was clutching at her sister’s arm, her eyes wide with terror.
‘Sssh!’ Mary warned her, keeping her eye on the street, trying to comfort Cecilia as best she could, patting her hand distractedly at the same time.
‘Long live the Queen!’
Mary could see the shadowed faces of the mob uplifted into the greenish pools of gaslight. They were all shouting, all of them, each vying with the other for the worst insult, the most savage
bite of triumph.
‘We’ll win, so we will! A British parliament for a British people!’
Their caps were pushed back from their foreheads: no need for subterfuge here. They don’t care, Mary realized; they don’t care who sees them, who recognizes them. They can do their
worst and there’s no one to stop them.
‘We’ll teach yis, fenian bastards! Ye’ll not win!’
The shouts grew louder, the men working up their own anger, faces chiselled by drink and hatred. And yet the crowd never missed the beat of its own march. It made steady, menacing progress, like
some sort of terrifying heartbeat, until the entire street was filled.
‘Taigs out – we’ll have no fuckin’ Pope here!’
Still the houses sat tight. Not one broke ranks: no door, no window showed any sign of life.
Suddenly, as abruptly as it had begun, the noise of the mob ceased. As though at some secret signal, the marching stopped. The men stood still and silent, their sticks now by their sides,
smacking from time to time off an impatient trouser-leg. All that could be heard was the shuffling of feet, the chink of nails on stone.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, but we’re for it,’ whispered Mary.
The silence was immense.
Suddenly, Cecilia nudged her sister.
‘Look yonder,’ she said, nodding her head to the right.
Some of the street lights had been broken in the fray, but those close to Peter’s Hill were still lit. In the misty, greeny-yellowish light cast by a cluster of three or four lamps at the
corner, Mary could make out a large group of RIC men.
‘Them bastards is just standin’ there!’ Cecilia hissed, crouching down again.
‘Aye – not a baton drawn between them.’
Cecilia craned her neck again, moving the hem of the curtain very gently. She began to count silently.
‘There’s at least forty of them – what are they doin’?’
‘Nothin’,’ replied Mary, grimly. ‘And I’ll wager that’s what they’ve been doin’ all night – nothin’.’
The noisy shuffling of feet had begun again outside. Mary felt a strange sense of relief. Anything was better than the terrifying silence of the last few moments. A great roar came from the back
of the crowd of bodies.
‘Come on out, ye fenian bastards, and take what’s comin’ to ye! Take it like the men ye’re not!’
Still the houses sat tight and silent. A moment’s uncertainty hovered about the men’s heads. Mary kept her head below the level of the window sill and prayed. Suddenly, they were off
on the march again, as abruptly as they’d arrived. This time, they surged back in the direction from which they’d come, back towards the groups of policemen standing on both sides of
Peter’s Hill.
Mary and Cecilia watched as, with what seemed like breathtaking defiance, the men swung their sticks and clubs again, crashing into those windows they had missed in the excitement of their
earlier rhythmic march down the cobbled street.
Their taunts continued; Mary and Cecilia could catch the same old insults, repeated over and over, accompanied by the crashing of paving-stones on doors and windows. The breaking of street
lights went on and on, pools of darkness spilling out over the rough pavement as though released from the
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