or: the story of how war-worn, grief-stricken veteran Declan went from a penniless pauper with no friends, no home, no occupation, no cause, no direction to a commissioned officer with a renewed resilience to fight for the cause he'd given his life to serve.
Declan’s tankard finds the table with a deliberate thud. Amidst the birthday celebrations, there’s an unusually sombre expression etched on his face; the man seems deep in thought, and after a considered pause, he offers the company of eager, waiting ears:
“When ye’ve lived as long as I have, ye think ye’ve seen it all, ‘specially as one who’s dedicated his life in service to the King. An’ that’s the thing: when yer so certain o’ that - when ye think ye’ve seen it all, there’s nought more t’encounter - that’s when life’ll deliver ye a sharp blow t’the face. Or leg.” He chuckles bleakly, taking the tankard up in his hand again: “Just be sure to count yer blessings it’s not artillery…"
“Y’see, life’s a funny way o’ remindin’ us mortals that we’re not the ones in charge, no matter how much we'd like to think.” His voice trails off into a kind of Holy silence, and he eventually offers: "'S taken me all o' me forty-five years on this Earth to learn that - an’ I’m blessed to have had many more years than most.”
His mind wanders back to the last time he sat at this table, exactly a year ago, and his gaze finds a rafter on the ceiling somewhere out into the depths of the tavern. Even for those around the table who’ve known Declan for all of his forty-five years, there’s an unusual stillness, a humility, about the way his eyes glaze over in that moment.
Time and again he’s pulled himself out of a ditch, covered with dried leaves and muck and sweat. Time and again he's crawled off the battlefield covered in the blood of his friends, of his enemies…his own. Time and again he's cheated death - oh, truly, more times than he can count. More times than he believes he deserved.
And yet, here he sits, alone, in the tavern he once called home, now nothing but a penniless stranger. A pitiful way to die, isn't it.
“Well..." He doesn’t even realise he speaking aloud, as he tips the tankard of golden piss-water towards him and gazes through dead eyes at the liquid swirling beneath his trembling hands, and croaks through tears he doesn’t even acknowledge a faint “Sláinte mhaith…” before tipping the cold rim towards his lips – one last warmth in his belly, perhaps that’s all he needs now.
He chuckles mirthlessly: how uncanny it is that the Colonel should show up right now. Smiling tearfully down at the ever emptying tankard in front of him, he replies: “Aye, Colonel Monro, sir. ‘S been a while.” And he pauses, clearing his throat, before his soul speaks for him, and he glances up at the ceiling: “What’s it like in heaven, sir?”
You are already here, Private Finnegan.
Well, now he simply must be going mad. He glances around furtively, shuffling about on his seat like a man possessed, looking this and that way over both shoulders in cases of some kind of joke.
But there he is again: the presence of one man who could only be Colonel Monro. In fact, he swears he can see him now - those kindly pale eyes, smiling at him…
Have a drink with me, Private Finnegan.
Cold sweat trickles down his brow, pallid gaze fixed upon a rafter: "What Devil's work is this?!"
He swears the Colonel never called him that in his lifetime. And yet, something about the way he says it: the gentle, sober, almost paternal way... It gives Declan cause to stop in his tracks and listen to whatever sorcery this may be. For if he’s so far gone that the Devil has him in his grasp, then perhaps he's nought left to lose…
"...aye, sir.” His voice is wavering, choked, and goes as if to offer the Colonel the remainder of his ale.
You are already here, repeats the voice.
“Ye what now?” With a mildly terrified chuckle, Declan somehow manages to steel himself enough to respond with at least a wisp of his characteristic humour: “Well, if this is what ye call Heaven, I'd hate t'see what Hell's like!”
Your sands are not yet run, Declan. You must mark and remember your purpose here. Recall what cause you had to tread this path in the first place.
Declan falls silent, as wide, soft round blue, green eyes, stare vacantly into the distance… Into the pale, warm, welcoming eyes of the man he's not too ashamed to admit he always saw as his father.
Get up, Declan. Don the scarlet coat again. Take up your tomahawk and musket in the name of King George, for the glory of the country. You are needed. You are wanted. You are the most loyal and faithful soldier I ever knew, and I knew many men. You are full of the true goodness of your own name. Do not give in now Declan, for that will be the greatest tragedy of all.
Silence. Total silence. Not even the whisperings of locals and clinking of glasses around him can shake this.
His gaze firms. The water drains from his eyes defiantly, and he gets up slowly, shakily. He stands on both feet. He walks towards the barkeep. He places down his last shilling on the counter and meets the eyes of the other man with a steely determination, unstoppable, unshakeable - and with a steely tone he barely recognises as his own, he growls: “Ye can take that, fer I’m about to gain one o’ me own”.
He leaves. And, for a moment, the Tavern remains completely still and silent, chilled by the sheer power of the man who entered a derelict pauper, exited a King's Man.
