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of any fucker says a word against my fucking king.
BLOOM: (Terrified) He said nothing. Not a word. A pure
misunderstanding.
THE CITIZEN: Erin go bragh!
(Major Tweedy and the Citizen exhibit to each other med-
als, decorations, trophies of war, wounds. Both salute with
fierce hostility.)
PRIVATE COMPTON: Go it, Harry. Do him one in the
eye. He’s a proboer.
STEPHEN: Did I? When?
BLOOM: (To the redcoats) We fought for you in South
Africa, Irish missile troops. Isn’t that history? Royal Dublin
Fusiliers. Honoured by our monarch.
THE NAVVY: (Staggering past) O, yes! O God, yes! O,
make the kwawr a krowawr! O! Bo!
(Casqued halberdiers in armour thrust forward a pentice
of gutted spearpoints. Major Tweedy, moustached like Turko
the terrible, in bearskin cap with hackleplume and accou-
trements, with epaulettes, gilt chevrons and sabretaches, his
breast bright with medals, toes the line. He gives the pilgrim
warrior’s sign of the knights templars.)
MAJOR TWEEDY: (Growls gruffly) Rorke’s Drift! Up,
guards, and at them! Mahar shalal hashbaz.
PRIVATE CARR: I’ll do him in.
PRIVATE COMPTON: (Waves the crowd back) Fair play,
here. Make a bleeding butcher’s shop of the bugger.
(Massed bands blare Garryowen and God save the
King.)
CISSY CAFFREY: They’re going to fight. For me!