encampment, become gentle. We were soft-spoken; we were quiet; we were sad. And as we set to work to repair the little log huts that stood in various stages of decay from the encampment of the year before, it seemed to many of us that there was never a time but when we were what we were now, such homeless, lonely, lost men as the world had not seen before. The heart had left us; we did not fight; we did not beat our women; we did not sing â and one time when big Angus MacGrath strode forth to play on his pipes, the music that came forth in spite of himself was such cursed and lonely music that he laid his pipes away and vowed never to play upon them again, so long as he lived.
For that reason, we did not clip Tommy Mahoney when he beat his crying rhythms. The lad is not for this world, we said. He is making a requiem for himself, and who will deny him that privilege?
He was undersized, the way most of us in the Line were, coming as we had from foreign soil, or out of bondage and poverty. When Massachusetts or Connecticut had first marched alongside us, they made many a joke of it, shouting things like, Ho for the dirty little runts! Ho for the little men! Are you going to war now, little men? But the Yankees sang another song when the grape opened up, hissing like a great kettle boiled over, and when the muskets balls whistled from the British volleys. Then they ran away but we stood and died, even as we stood and died on every field, New York, White Plains, Trenton, Monmouth, Stony Point â how many there were, and we in our line stood with our Irish and Scotch and Germans and Poles and French and Portuguese, our black men and our Jews and our Romans â we stood and they stopped calling us little men!
Yet Tommy Mahoney was smaller than most. His arms and legs were like sticks; he had a pinched face, pocked and tired and sad, but for all that a little boyâs face. He had sandy hair, close-cropped, that stood straight up from his head, and he had a dainty alto voice that was the sweetest thing men ever heard. How he loved to sing once! But he sang no more now. We urged him and urged him, thinking that music would be like medicine, but only when Christmas time approached did he lift up his head and sing, On the first day of Christmas, my truelove sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree. On the second day of Christmas, my truelove sent to me, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. â¦
And then he sang on and on and we joined in the round, and made a real ringing roundelay out of it; and that was the only real roundelay we sang in all that Christmas time. The women kissed him and petted him; and Handsome Jack Maloney, of whom you will hear much more, beat time with the tears streaming down his face and said:
Sing more and more, my lad, with old tunes of the old country, so you will make my rotten old heart crack with the joy of it all.
I can sing no more, the drummer boy answered, for I remember the beauty of Dublin city, before me uncle sold me to go overseas into bondage.
But yeâre not in bondage now, me lad, the girls pleaded.
I can sing no more, he said, for me heart is breaking, and I want to lay me down and die.
They went on with their persuasion until big Angus MacGrath roared, Now let the lad be, for will ye make music out of a broken lute, like the officers make war out of our own lifeblood?
He withered, did little Tommy Mahoney, like the apple that is picked too soon and then goes uneaten, and when the last day of the year 1780 came, he laid himself down and he died.
We were hutted up then with our own bitterness, and because you should know to understand what followed, I will tell you what our huts were like. This one of mine will serve, for I was sergeant over the drummer boy, and apart from myself, fifteen men were hutted there in my house. Also, in this same house, the first Congress of the Line was held, and also in this same house there came into being the Committee of
For that reason, we did not clip Tommy Mahoney when he beat his crying rhythms. The lad is not for this world, we said. He is making a requiem for himself, and who will deny him that privilege?
He was undersized, the way most of us in the Line were, coming as we had from foreign soil, or out of bondage and poverty. When Massachusetts or Connecticut had first marched alongside us, they made many a joke of it, shouting things like, Ho for the dirty little runts! Ho for the little men! Are you going to war now, little men? But the Yankees sang another song when the grape opened up, hissing like a great kettle boiled over, and when the muskets balls whistled from the British volleys. Then they ran away but we stood and died, even as we stood and died on every field, New York, White Plains, Trenton, Monmouth, Stony Point â how many there were, and we in our line stood with our Irish and Scotch and Germans and Poles and French and Portuguese, our black men and our Jews and our Romans â we stood and they stopped calling us little men!
Yet Tommy Mahoney was smaller than most. His arms and legs were like sticks; he had a pinched face, pocked and tired and sad, but for all that a little boyâs face. He had sandy hair, close-cropped, that stood straight up from his head, and he had a dainty alto voice that was the sweetest thing men ever heard. How he loved to sing once! But he sang no more now. We urged him and urged him, thinking that music would be like medicine, but only when Christmas time approached did he lift up his head and sing, On the first day of Christmas, my truelove sent to me, a partridge in a pear tree. On the second day of Christmas, my truelove sent to me, two turtle doves and a partridge in a pear tree. â¦
And then he sang on and on and we joined in the round, and made a real ringing roundelay out of it; and that was the only real roundelay we sang in all that Christmas time. The women kissed him and petted him; and Handsome Jack Maloney, of whom you will hear much more, beat time with the tears streaming down his face and said:
Sing more and more, my lad, with old tunes of the old country, so you will make my rotten old heart crack with the joy of it all.
I can sing no more, the drummer boy answered, for I remember the beauty of Dublin city, before me uncle sold me to go overseas into bondage.
But yeâre not in bondage now, me lad, the girls pleaded.
I can sing no more, he said, for me heart is breaking, and I want to lay me down and die.
They went on with their persuasion until big Angus MacGrath roared, Now let the lad be, for will ye make music out of a broken lute, like the officers make war out of our own lifeblood?
He withered, did little Tommy Mahoney, like the apple that is picked too soon and then goes uneaten, and when the last day of the year 1780 came, he laid himself down and he died.
We were hutted up then with our own bitterness, and because you should know to understand what followed, I will tell you what our huts were like. This one of mine will serve, for I was sergeant over the drummer boy, and apart from myself, fifteen men were hutted there in my house. Also, in this same house, the first Congress of the Line was held, and also in this same house there came into being the Committee of
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