announced, unequivocally, that the horsemen were of the military profession.
‘The red-coats will stop here
undoubtedly,’ said the old woman, observing, I suppose, the anxiety of my countenance; ‘they never pass us without
coming in for half an hour to drink or smoke. If you desire to avoid them, I
can hide you safely; but don’t lose a moment. They will be here before you can count a hundred.’
I thanked the good woman for her
hospitable zeal; but I felt a repugnance to concealing myself as she suggested,
which was enhanced by the consciousness that if by any accident I were de-
tected while lurking in the room, my situation would of itself inevitably lead to suspicions, and probably to discovery.
I therefore declined her offer, and
awaited in suspense the entrance of the soldiers.
I had time before they made their
appearance to move my seat hurriedly from the table to the hearth, where,
under the shade of the large chimney, I might observe the coming visitors with less chance of being myself remarked upon.
As my hostess had anticipated, the
horsemen drew up at the door of the hut, and five dragoons entered the dark chamber
where I awaited them.
Leaving their horses at the entrance, with much noise and clatter they proceeded to seat themselves and call for
liquor.
Three of these fellows were Dutchmen, and, indeed, all belonged, as I afterwards found, to a Dutch regiment, which had
been recruited with Irish and English, as also partly officered from the same
nations.
Being supplied with pipes and drink
they soon became merry; and not suffering their smoking to interfere with their
conversation, they talked loud and quickly, for the most part in a sort of barbarous language, neither Dutch nor English, but compounded of both.
They were so occupied with their own
jocularity that I had very great hopes of escaping observation altogether, and
remained quietly seated in a corner of the chimney, leaning back upon my seat as if asleep.
My taciturnity and quiescence, however, did not avail me, for one of these fellows coming over to the hearth to light his pipe, perceived me, and looking me very hard in the face, he said:
‘What countryman are you, brother, that you sit with a covered head in the room
with the prince’s soldiers?’
At the same time he tossed my hat off my head into the fire. I was not fool
enough, though somewhat hot-blooded, to suffer the insolence of this fellow to involve me in a broil so dangerous to
my person and ruinous to my schemes as a riot with these soldiers must prove. I therefore, quietly taking up my hat and shaking the ashes out of it, observed:
‘Sir, I crave your pardon if I have
offended you. I am a stranger in these quarters, and a poor, ignorant, humble
man, desiring only to drive my little trade in peace, so far as that may be done in these troublous times.’
‘And what may your trade be?’ said
the same fellow.
‘I am a travelling merchant,’ I replied; ‘and sell my wares as cheap as any trader in the country.’
‘Let us see them forthwith,’ said he; ‘mayhap I or my comrades may want
something which you can supply. Where is thy chest, friend? Thou shalt have
ready money’ (winking at his companions), ‘ready money, and good weight, and sound metal; none of your rascally pinchbeck.
Eh, my lads? Bring forth the goods, and let us see.’
Thus urged, I should have betrayed
myself had I hesitated to do as required; and anxious, upon any terms, to quiet these turbulent men of war, I unbuckled my
pack and exhibited its contents upon the table before them.
‘A pair of lace ruffles, by the Lord!’ said one, unceremoniously seizing upon the articles he named.
‘A phial of perfume,’ continued another, tumbling over the farrago which I had
submitted to them, ‘wash-balls, combs, stationery, slippers, small knives, tobacco; by —-, this merchant is a prize! Mark
me, honest fellow, the man who wrongs thee shall suffer–‘fore Gad he shall; thou shalt be fairly dealt with’ (this he said while in the act of pocketing a small silver tobacco-box, the most valuable article in the lot). ‘You shall come with me to
head-quarters; the captain will deal with you, and never haggle about the price.
I promise thee his good will, and thou wilt consider me accordingly. You’ll find him a profitable customer–he has money
without end, and throws it about like a gentleman. If so be as I tell thee, I shall expect, and my comrades here, a piece or two in the way of a compliment–but of
this anon. Come, then, with us; buckle on thy pack quickly, friend.’
There was no use in my declaring my
willingness to deal with themselves in preference to their master; it was clear that they had resolved that I should, in the
most expeditious and advantageous way, turn my goods into money, that they might excise upon me to the amount of their
wishes.
The worthy who had taken a lead in
these arrangements, and who by his stripes I perceived to be a corporal, having
insisted on my taking a dram with him to cement our newly-formed friendship, for
which, however, he requested me to pay, made me mount behind one of his comrades; and the party, of which I thus
formed an unwilling member, moved at a slow trot towards the quarters of the
troop.
They reined up their horses at the head of the long bridge, which at this village spans the broad waters of the Shannon
connecting the opposite counties of Tipperary and Clare.
A small tower, built originally, no doubt, to protect and to defend this pass, occupied the near extremity of the bridge, and in its rear, but connected with it, stood several straggling buildings rather dilapidated.
A dismounted trooper kept guard at the door, and my conductor having, dismounted, as also the corporal, the latter inquired:
‘Is the captain in his quarters?’
‘He is,’ replied the sentinel.
And without more ado my companion
shoved me into the entrance of the small dark tower, and opening a door at the
extremity of the narrow chamber into which we had passed from the street, we entered a second room in which were seated some
half-dozen officers of various ranks and ages, engaged in drinking, and smoking,
and play.
I glanced rapidly from man to man, and was nearly satisfied by my inspection, when one of the gentlemen whose back had been turned towards the place where I stood,
suddenly changed his position and looked towards me.
As soon as I saw his face my heart
sank within me, and I knew that my life or death was balanced, as it were, upon a razor’s edge.
The name of this man whose unexpected appearance thus affected me was Hugh
Oliver, and good and strong reason had I to dread him, for so bitterly did he hate me, that to this moment I do verily believe he would have compassed my death if it
lay in his power to do so, even at the hazard of his own life and soul, for I had been–though God knows with many sore
strugglings and at the stern call of public duty–the judge and condemner of his
brother; and though the military law, which I was called upon to administer,
would permit no other course or sentence than the bloody one which I was compelled to pursue, yet even to this hour the
recollection of that deed is heavy at my breast.
As soon as I saw this man I felt that my safety depended upon the accident of
his not recognising me through the disguise which I had assumed, an accident against which were many chances, for he well knew my person and appearance.
It was too late now to destroy General Sarsfield’s instructions; any attempt to do so would ensure detection. All then
depended upon a cast of the die.
When the first moment of dismay and
heart-sickening agitation had passed, it seemed to me as if my mind acquired a
collectedness and clearness more complete and intense than I had ever experienced
before.
I instantly perceived that he did not know me, for turning from me to the
soldier with all air of indifference, he said,
‘Is this a prisoner or a deserter? What have you brought him here for, sirra?’
‘Your wisdom will regard him as you
see fit, may it please you,’ said the corporal. ‘The man is a travelling merchant, and,
overtaking him upon the road, close by old Dame MacDonagh’s cot, I thought I might
as well make a sort of prisoner of him that your honour might use him as it might appear most convenient; he has many
commododies which are not unworthy of price in this wilderness, and some which you may condescend to make use of yourself. May he exhibit the goods he has
for sale, an’t please you?’
‘Ay, let us see them,’ said he.
‘Unbuckle your pack,’ exclaimed the
corporal, with the same tone of command with which, at the head of his guard,
he would have said ‘Recover your arms.’ ‘Unbuckle your pack, fellow, and show
your goods to the captain–here, where you are.’
The conclusion of his directions was
suggested by my endeavouring to move round in order to get my back towards
the windows, hoping, by keeping my face in the shade, to escape detection.
In this manoeuvre, however, I was
foiled by the imperiousness of the soldier; and inwardly cursing his ill-timed
interference, I proceeded to present my merchandise to the loving contemplation of the officers who thronged around me,
with a strong light from an opposite window full upon my face.
As I continued to traffic with these
gentlemen, I observed with no small anxiety the eyes of Captain Oliver frequently fixed upon me with a kind of
dubious inquiring gaze.
‘I think, my honest fellow,’ he said
at last, ‘that I have seen you somewhere before this. Have you often dealt with
the military?’
‘I have traded, sir,’ said I, ‘with the soldiery many a time, and always been
honourably treated. Will your worship please to buy a pair of lace ruffles?–very cheap, your worship.’
‘Why do you wear your hair so much
over your face, sir?’ said Oliver, without noticing my suggestion. ‘I promise you,
I think no good of thee; throw back your hair, and let me see thee plainly. Hold
up your face, and look straight at me; throw back your hair, sir.’
I felt that all chance of escape was at an end; and stepping forward as near as
the table would allow me to him, I raised my head, threw back my hair, and fixed
my eyes sternly and boldly upon his face.
I saw that he knew me instantly, for
his countenance turned as pale as ashes with surprise and hatred. He started up, placing his hand instinctively upon his
sword-hilt, and glaring at me with a look so deadly, that I thought every moment he would strike his sword into my heart.
He said in a kind of whisper: ‘Hardress Fitzgerald?’
‘Yes;’ said I, boldly, for the excitement of the scene had effectually stirred my
blood, ‘Hardress Fitzgerald is before you. I know you well, Captain Oliver. I know
how you hate me. I know how you thirst for my blood; but in a good cause, and
in the hands of God, I defy you.’
‘You are a desperate villain, sir,’ said Captain Oliver; ‘a rebel and a murderer! Holloa, there! guard, seize him!’
As the soldiers entered, I threw my
eyes hastily round the room, and observing a glowing fire upon the hearth, I suddenly drew General Sarsfield’s packet from my
bosom, and casting it upon the embers, planted my foot upon it.
‘Secure the papers!’ shouted the captain; and almost instantly I was laid prostrate and senseless upon the floor, by a blow
from the butt of a carbine.
I cannot say how long I continued in
a state of torpor; but at length, having slowly recovered my senses, I found myself lying firmly handcuffed upon the floor of a small chamber, through a narrow loop-
hole in one of whose walls the evening sun was shining. I was chilled with
cold and damp, and drenched in blood, which had flowed in large quantities from the wound on my head. By a strong
effort I shook off the sick drowsiness which still hung upon me, and, weak and giddy, I rose with pain and difficulty to my
feet.
The chamber, or rather cell, in which I stood was about eight feet square, and of a height very disproportioned to its
other dimensions; its altitude from the floor to the ceiling being not less than twelve or fourteen feet. A narrow slit
placed high in the wall admitted a scanty light, but sufficient to assure me that my prison contained nothing to render the
sojourn of its tenant a whit less comfortless than my worst enemy could have
wished.
My first impulse was naturally to
examine the security of the door, the loop-hole which I have mentioned being
too high and too narrow to afford a chance of escape. I listened attentively to ascer- tain if possible whether or not a guard had been placed upon the outside.
Not a sound was to be heard. I now
placed my shoulder to the door, and sought with all my combined strength and weight to force it open. It, however, resisted all my efforts, and thus baffled in my appeal to mere animal power, exhausted and
disheartened, I threw myself on the ground.
It was not in my nature, however, long to submit to the apathy of despair, and in a few minutes I was on my feet again.
With patient scrutiny I endeavoured to ascertain the nature of the fastenings which secured the door.
The planks, fortunately, having been
nailed together fresh, had shrunk considerably, so as to leave wide chinks between
each and its neighbour.
By means of these apertures I saw that my dungeon was secured, not by a lock, as I had feared, but by a strong wooden bar, running horizontally across the door, about midway upon the outside.
‘Now,’ thought I, ‘if I can but slip
my fingers through the opening of the planks, I can easily remove the bar, and then—-‘
My attempts, however, were all
frustrated by the manner in which my hands were fastened together, each embarrassing the other, and rendering my efforts so
hopelessly clumsy, that I was obliged to give them over in despair.
I turned with a sigh from my last hope, and began to pace my narrow prison floor, when my eye suddenly encountered an
old rusty nail or holdfast sticking in the wall.
All the gold of Plutus would not have been so welcome as that rusty piece of
iron.
I instantly wrung it from the wall, and inserting the point between the planks of the door into the bolt, and working it
backwards and forwards, I had at length the unspeakable satisfaction to perceive that the beam was actually yielding to my
efforts, and gradually sliding into its berth in the wall.
I have often been engaged in struggles where great bodily strength was required, and every thew and sinew in the system
taxed to the uttermost; but, strange as it may appear, I never was so completely
exhausted and overcome by any labour as by this comparatively trifling task.
Again and again was I obliged to desist, until my cramped finger-joints recovered their power; but at length my perseverance was rewarded, for, little by little, I
succeeded in removing the bolt so far as to allow the door to open sufficiently to permit me to pass.
With some squeezing I succeeded in forcing my way into a small passage, upon
which my prison-door opened.
This led into a chamber somewhat more spacious than my cell, but still containing no furniture, and affording no means of
escape to one so crippled with bonds as I was.
At the far extremity of this room was a door which stood ajar, and, stealthily
passing through it, I found myself in a room containing nothing but a few raw hides,
which rendered the atmosphere nearly intolerable.
Here I checked myself, for I heard
voices in busy conversation in the next room.
I stole softly to the door which
separated the chamber in which I stood from that from which the voices proceeded.
A moment served to convince me that
any attempt upon it would be worse than fruitless, for it was secured upon the
outside by a strong lock, besides two bars, all which I was enabled to ascertain by means of the same defect in the joining of the planks which I have mentioned as belonging to the inner door.
I had approached this door very softly, so that, my proximity being wholly
unsuspected by the speakers within, the conversation continued without interruption.
Planting myself close to the door, I
applied my eye to one of the chinks which separated the boards, and thus obtained
a full view of the chamber and its occupants.
It was the very apartment into which I had been first conducted. The outer door, which faced the one at which I stood, was closed, and at a small table were seated the only tenants of the room–two officers, one of whom was Captain Oliver. The latter
was reading a paper, which I made no doubt was the document with which I had been
entrusted.
‘The fellow deserves it, no doubt’
said the junior officer. ‘But, me-
thinks, considering our orders from head-quarters, you deal somewhat too
hastily.’
‘Nephew, nephew,’ said Captain Oliver, ‘you mistake the tenor of our orders. We were directed to conciliate the peasantry by fair and gentle treatment, but not to suffer spies and traitors to escape. This packet is of some value, though not, in all its parts, intelligible to me. The bearer has made
his way hither under a disguise, which, along with the other circumstances of his appearance here, is sufficient to convict him as a spy.’
There was a pause here, and after a few minutes the younger officer said:
‘Spy is a hard term, no doubt, uncle; but it is possible–nay, likely, that this poor devil sought merely to carry the parcel
with which he was charged in safety to its destination. Pshaw! he is sufficiently punished if you duck him, for ten minutes or so, between the bridge and the mill-dam.’
‘Young man,’ said Oliver, somewhat
sternly, ‘do not obtrude your advice where it is not called for; this man, for whom you plead, murdered your own father!’
I could not see how this announcement affected the person to whom it was
addressed, for his back was towards me; but I conjectured, easily, that my last poor chance was gone, for a long silence ensued. Captain Oliver at length resumed:
‘I know the villain well. I know him
capable of any crime; but, by —-, his last card is played, and the game is up. He
shall not see the moon rise to-night.’
There was here another pause.
Oliver rose, and going to the outer door, called:
‘Hewson! Hewson!’
A grim-looking corporal entered.
‘Hewson, have your guard ready at
eight o’clock, with their carbines clean, and a round of ball-cartridge each. Keep them sober; and, further, plant two upright
posts at the near end of the bridge, with a cross one at top, in the manner of a gibbet. See to these matters, Hewson: I shall be with you speedily.’
The corporal made his salutations, and retired.
Oliver deliberately folded up the papers with which I had been commissioned, and
placing them in the pocket of his vest, he said:
‘Cunning, cunning Master Hardress
Fitzgerald hath made a false step; the old fox is in the toils. Hardress Fitzgerald, Hardress Fitzgerald, I will blot you out.’
He repeated these words several times, at the same time rubbing his finger strongly upon the table, as if he sought to erase a stain:
‘I WILL BLOT YOU OUT!’
There was a kind of glee in his manner and expression which chilled my very heart.
‘You shall be first shot like a dog, and then hanged like a dog: shot to-night,
and hung to-morrow; hung at the bridge- head–hung, until your bones drop
asunder!’
It is impossible to describe the exultation with which he seemed to dwell upon, and
to particularise the fate which he intended for me.
I observed, however, that his face was deadly pale, and felt assured that his
conscience and inward convictions were struggling against his cruel resolve. Without further comment the two officers left
the room, I suppose to oversee the preparations which were being made for the deed
of which I was to be the victim.
A chill, sick horror crept over me as they retired, and I felt, for the moment, upon the brink of swooning. This feeling, however, speedily gave place to a sensation still more terrible. A state of excitement so intense and tremendous as to border upon literal madness, supervened; my brain
reeled and throbbed as if it would burst; thoughts the wildest and the most hideous flashed through my mind with a spontaneous rapidity that scared my very soul;
while, all the time, I felt a strange and frightful impulse to burst into uncontrolled laughter.
Gradually this fearful paroxysm passed away. I kneeled and prayed fervently, and felt comforted and assured; but still I
could not view the slow approaches of certain death without an agitation little short of agony.
I have stood in battle many a time when the chances of escape were fearfully small. I have confronted foemen in the deadly
breach. I have marched, with a constant heart, against the cannon’s mouth. Again and again has the beast which I bestrode been shot under me; again and again have I seen the comrades who walked beside me in an instant laid for ever in the dust; again and again have I been in the thick of battle, and of its mortal dangers, and never felt my heart shake, or a single nerve tremble: but now, helpless, manacled,
imprisoned, doomed, forced to watch the approaches of an inevitable fate–to wait, silent and moveless, while death as it were crept towards me, human nature was
taxed to the uttermost to bear the horrible situation.
I returned again to the closet in which I had found myself upon recovering from
the swoon.
The evening sunshine and twilight was fast melting into darkness, when I heard the outer door, that which communicated
with the guard-room in which the officers had been amusing themselves, opened and
locked again upon the inside.
A measured step then approached, and
the door of the wretched cell in which I lay being rudely pushed open, a soldier
entered, who carried something in his hand; but, owing to the obscurity of the place, I could not see what.
‘Art thou awake, fellow?’ said he,
in a gruff voice. ‘Stir thyself; get upon thy legs.’
His orders were enforced by no very
gentle application of his military boot.
‘Friend,’ said I, rising with difficulty, ‘you need not insult a dying man. You
have been sent hither to conduct me to death. Lead on! My trust is in God,
that He will forgive me my sins, and receive my soul, redeemed by the blood
of His Son.’
There here intervened a pause of some length, at the end of which the soldier
said, in the same gruff voice, but in a lower key:
‘Look ye, comrade, it will be your own fault if you die this night. On one
condition I promise to get you out of this hobble with a whole skin; but if you go
to any of your d—-d gammon, by G–, before two hours are passed, you will have as many holes in your carcase as a target.’
‘Name your conditions,’ said I, ‘and
if they consist with honour, I will never balk at the offer.’
‘Here they are: you are to be shot
to-night, by Captain Oliver’s orders. The carbines are cleaned for the job, and the cartridges served out to the men. By
G–, I tell you the truth!’
Of this I needed not much persuasion, and intimated to the man my conviction
that he spoke the truth.
‘Well, then,’ he continued, ‘now for the means of avoiding this ugly business.
Captain Oliver rides this night to head-quarters, with the papers which you carried. Before he starts he will pay you a visit, to fish what he can out of you with all the fine promises he can make. Humour him a
little, and when you find an opportunity, stab him in the throat above the
cuirass.’
‘A feasible plan, surely,’ said I, raising my shackled hands, ‘for a man thus
completely crippled and without a
weapon.’
‘I will manage all that presently for you,’ said the soldier. ‘When you have
thus dealt with him, take his cloak and hat, and so forth, and put them on; the
papers you will find in the pocket of his vest, in a red leather case. Walk
boldly out. I am appointed to ride with Captain Oliver, and you will find me
holding his horse and my own by the door. Mount quickly, and I will do the same,
and then we will ride for our lives across the bridge. You will find the holster-
pistols loaded in case of pursuit; and, with the devil’s help, we shall reach Limerick without a hair hurt. My only condition
is, that when you strike Oliver, you strike home, and again and again, until
he is FINISHED; and I trust to your honour to remember me when we reach the
town.’
I cannot say whether I resolved right or wrong, but I thought my situation,
and the conduct of Captain Oliver,
warranted me in acceding to the conditions propounded by my visitant, and with
alacrity I told him so, and desired him to give me the power, as he had promised
to do, of executing them.
With speed and promptitude he drew
a small key from his pocket, and in an instant the manacles were removed from
my hands.
How my heart bounded within me
as my wrists were released from the iron gripe of the shackles! The first step toward freedom was made–my self-
reliance returned, and I felt assured of success.
‘Now for the weapon,’ said I.
‘I fear me, you will find it rather
clumsy,’ said he; ‘but if well handled, it will do as well as the best Toledo.
It is the only thing I could get, but I sharpened it myself; it has an edge like a skean.’
He placed in my hand the steel head
of a halberd. Grasping it firmly, I found that it made by no means a bad weapon
in point of convenience; for it felt in the hand like a heavy dagger, the portion which formed the blade or point being
crossed nearly at the lower extremity by a small bar of metal, at one side shaped into the form of an axe, and at the other into that of a hook. These two transverse appendages being muffled by the folds of my cravat, which I removed for the purpose, formed a perfect guard or hilt, and
the lower extremity formed like a tube, in which the pike-handle had been inserted, afforded ample space for the grasp of my hand; the point had been made as sharp
as a needle, and the metal he assured me was good.
Thus equipped he left me, having
observed, ‘The captain sent me to bring you to your senses, and give you some water
that he might find you proper for his visit. Here is the pitcher; I think I have revived you sufficiently for the captain’s purpose.’
With a low savage laugh he left me to my reflections.
Having examined and adjusted the
weapon, I carefully bound the ends of the cravat, with which I had secured the cross part of the spear-head, firmly round my
wrist, so that in case of a struggle it might not easily be forced from my hand; and
having made these precautionary dispositions, I sat down upon the ground with
my back against the wall, and my hands together under my coat, awaiting my
visitor.
The time wore slowly on; the dusk
became dimmer and dimmer, until it nearly bordered on total darkness.
‘How’s this?’ said I, inwardly;
‘Captain Oliver, you said I should not see the moon rise to-night. Methinks you are
somewhat tardy in fulfilling your prophecy.’
As I made this reflection, a noise at the outer door announced the entrance of a
visitant. I knew that the decisive moment was come, and letting my head sink upon
my breast, and assuring myself that my hands were concealed, I waited, in the at- titude of deep dejection, the approach of my foe and betrayer.
As I had expected, Captain Oliver
entered the room where I lay. He was equipped for instant duty, as far as the imperfect twilight would allow me to see; the long sword clanked upon the floor as he made his way through the lobbies which led to my place of confinement; his ample military cloak hung upon his arm; his
cocked hat was upon his head, and in all points he was prepared for the road.
This tallied exactly with what my
strange informant had told me.
I felt my heart swell and my breath come thick as the awful moment which was to
witness the death-struggle of one or other of us approached.
Captain Oliver stood within a yard or two of the place where I sat, or rather lay; and folding his arms, he remained silent for a minute or two, as if arranging in
his mind how he should address me.
‘Hardress Fitzgerald,’ he began at length, ‘are you awake? Stand up, if you desire
to hear of matters nearly touching your life or death. Get up, I say.’
I arose doggedly, and affecting the
awkward movements of one whose hands were bound,
‘Well,’ said I, ‘what would you of me? Is it not enough that I am thus imprisoned without a cause, and about, as I suspect, to suffer a most unjust and violent sentence, but must I also be disturbed during
the few moments left me for reflection and repentance by the presence of my persecutor? What do you want of me?’
‘As to your punishment, sir,’ said he, ‘your own deserts have no doubt sug-
gested the likelihood of it to your mind; but I now am with you to let you know
that whatever mitigation of your sentence you may look for, must be earned by your compliance with my orders. You must
frankly and fully explain the contents of the packet which you endeavoured this
day to destroy; and further, you must tell all that you know of the designs of the popish rebels.’
‘And if I do this I am to expect a
mitigation of my punishment–is it not so?’
Oliver bowed.
‘And what IS this mitigation to be?
On the honour of a soldier, what is it to be?’ inquired I.
‘When you have made the disclosure
required,’ he replied, ‘you shall hear. ‘Tis then time to talk of indulgences.’
‘Methinks it would then be too late,’ answered I. ‘But a chance is a chance,
and a drowning man will catch at a straw. You are an honourable man, Captain Oliver. I must depend, I suppose, on your good
faith. Well, sir, before I make the desired communication I have one question more
to put. What is to befall me in case that I, remembering the honour of a soldier
and a gentleman, reject your infamous terms, scorn your mitigations, and defy
your utmost power?’
‘In that case,’ replied he, coolly, ‘before half an hour you shall be a corpse.’
‘Then God have mercy on your soul!’
said I; and springing forward, I dashed the weapon which I held at his throat.
I missed my aim, but struck him full
in the mouth with such force that most of his front teeth were dislodged, and the point of the spear-head passed out under his jaw, at the ear.
My onset was so sudden and unexpected that he reeled back to the wall, and did not recover his equilibrium in time to
prevent my dealing a second blow, which I did with my whole force. The point
unfortunately struck the cuirass, near the neck, and glancing aside it inflicted but a flesh wound, tearing the skin and tendons along the throat.
He now grappled with me, strange to
say, without uttering any cry of alarm; being a very powerful man, and if anything rather heavier and more strongly
built than I, he succeeded in drawing me with him to the ground. We fell together with a heavy crash, tugging and straining in what we were both conscious was a
mortal struggle. At length I succeeded in getting over him, and struck him twice more in the face; still he struggled with an energy which nothing but the tremendous stake at issue could have sustained.
I succeeded again in inflicting several more wounds upon him, any one of which
might have been mortal. While thus
contending he clutched his hands about my throat, so firmly that I felt the blood swelling the veins of my temples and face almost to bursting. Again and again I
struck the weapon deep into his face and throat, but life seemed to adhere in him with an almost INSECT tenacity.
My sight now nearly failed, my senses almost forsook me; I felt upon the point of suffocation when, with one desperate
effort, I struck him another and a last blow in the face. The weapon which I wielded
had lighted upon the eye, and the point penetrated the brain; the body quivered
under me, the deadly grasp relaxed, and Oliver lay upon the ground a corpse!
As I arose and shook the weapon and
the bloody cloth from my hand, the moon which he had foretold I should never see rise, shone bright and broad into the room, and disclosed, with ghastly distinctness, the mangled features of the dead soldier; the mouth, full of clotting blood and broken teeth, lay open; the eye, close by whose lid the fatal wound had been inflicted, was not, as might have been expected, bathed in blood, but had started forth nearly from the socket, and gave to the face, by its fearful unlikeness to the other glazing
orb, a leer more hideous and unearthly than fancy ever saw. The wig, with all
its rich curls, had fallen with the hat to the floor, leaving the shorn head exposed, and in many places marked by the recent
struggle; the rich lace cravat was drenched in blood, and the gay uniform in many
places soiled with the same.
It is hard to say, with what feelings I looked upon the unsightly and revolting
mass which had so lately been a living and a comely man. I had not any time,
however, to spare for reflection; the deed was done–the responsibility was upon me, and all was registered in the book of that God who judges rightly.
With eager haste I removed from the
body such of the military accoutrements as were necessary for the purpose of my
disguise. I buckled on the sword, drew off the military boots, and donned them
myself, placed the brigadier wig and cocked hat upon my head, threw on the
cloak, drew it up about my face, and proceeded, with the papers which I found as the soldier had foretold me, and the
key of the outer lobby, to the door of the guard-room; this I opened, and with a
firm and rapid tread walked through the officers, who rose as I entered, and passed without question or interruption to the
street-door. Here I was met by the grim- looking corporal, Hewson, who, saluting
me, said:
‘How soon, captain, shall the file be drawn out and the prisoner despatched?’
‘In half an hour,’ I replied, without raising my voice.
The man again saluted, and in two
steps I reached the soldier who held the two horses, as he had intimated.
‘Is all right?’ said he, eagerly.
‘Ay,’ said I, ‘which horse am I to
mount?’
He satisfied me upon this point, and I threw myself into the saddle; the soldier mounted his horse, and dashing the spurs into the flanks of the animal which I
bestrode, we thundered along the narrow bridge. At the far extremity a sentinel, as we approached, called out, ‘Who goes there? stand, and give the word!’ Heedless of the interruption, with my heart bounding with excitement, I dashed on, as did also the soldier who accompanied me.
‘Stand, or I fire! give the word!’ cried the sentry.
‘God save the king, and to hell with
the prince!’ shouted I, flinging the cocked hat in his face as I galloped by.
The response was the sharp report of
a carbine, accompanied by the whiz of a bullet, which passed directly between me and my comrade, now riding beside me.
‘Hurrah!’ I shouted; ‘try it again, my boy.’
And away we went at a gallop, which
bid fair to distance anything like pursuit.
Never was spur more needed, however,
for soon the clatter of horses’ hoofs, in full speed, crossing the bridge, came sharp
and clear through the stillness of the night.
Away we went, with our pursuers close behind; one mile was passed, another
nearly completed. The moon now shone forth, and, turning in the saddle, I
looked back upon the road we had
passed.
One trooper had headed the rest, and was within a hundred yards of us.
I saw the fellow throw himself from his horse upon the ground.
I knew his object, and said to my comrade:
‘Lower your body–lie flat over the
saddle; the fellow is going to fire.’
I had hardly spoken when the report of a carbine startled the echoes, and the ball, striking the hind leg of my companion’s
horse, the poor animal fell headlong upon the road, throwing his rider head-foremost over the saddle.
My first impulse was to stop and share whatever fate might await my comrade;
but my second and wiser one was
to spur on, and save myself and my
despatch.
I rode on at a gallop, turning to observe my comrade’s fate. I saw his pursuer,
having remounted, ride rapidly up to him, and, on reaching the spot where the man
and horse lay, rein in and dismount.
He was hardly upon the ground, when
my companion shot him dead with one of the holster-pistols which he had drawn
from the pipe; and, leaping nimbly over a ditch at the side of the road, he was
soon lost among the ditches and thorn- bushes which covered that part of the
country.
Another mile being passed, I had the
satisfaction to perceive that the pursuit was given over, and in an hour more I crossed Thomond Bridge, and slept that night in
the fortress of Limerick, having delivered the packet, the result of whose safe arrival was the destruction of William’s great train of artillery, then upon its way to the besiegers.
Years after this adventure, I met in
France a young officer, who I found had served in Captain Oliver’s regiment; and he explained what I had never before understood– the motives of the man who had
wrought my deliverance. Strange to say, he was the foster-brother of Oliver, whom he thus devoted to death, but in revenge for the most grievous wrong which one
man can inflict upon another!
‘THE QUARE GANDER.’
Being a Twelfth Extract from the Legacy of the late Francis Purcell, P.P. of Drumcoolagh.
As I rode at a slow walk, one soft
autumn evening, from the once
noted and noticeable town of
Emly, now a squalid village, towards the no less remarkable town of Tipperary, I
fell into a meditative mood.
My eye wandered over a glorious
landscape; a broad sea of corn-fields, that might have gladdened even a golden age,
was waving before me; groups of little cabins, with their poplars, osiers, and light mountain ashes, clustered shelteringly
around them, were scattered over the plain; the thin blue smoke arose floating through their boughs in the still evening air. And far away with all their broad lights and shades, softened with the haze of approaching twilight, stood the bold wild Galties.
As I gazed on this scene, whose richness was deepened by the melancholy glow of
the setting sun, the tears rose to my eyes, and I said:
‘Alas, my country! what a mournful
beauty is thine. Dressed in loveliness and laughter, there is mortal decay at thy
heart: sorrow, sin, and shame have mingled thy cup of misery. Strange rulers have
bruised thee, and laughed thee to scorn, and they have made all thy sweetness
bitter. Thy shames and sins are the austere fruits of thy miseries, and thy miseries have been poured out upon thee by foreign hands. Alas, my stricken country! clothed with this most pity-moving smile, with
this most unutterably mournful loveliness, thou sore-grieved, thou desperately-beloved! Is there for thee, my country, a resurrection?’
I know not how long I might have
continued to rhapsodize in this strain, had not my wandering thoughts been suddenly
recalled to my own immediate neighbourhood by the monotonous clatter of a horse’s
hoofs upon the road, evidently moving, at that peculiar pace which is neither a walk nor a trot, and yet partakes of both, so much in vogue among the southern
farmers.
In a moment my pursuer was up with me, and checking his steed into a walk he
saluted me with much respect. The cavalier was a light-built fellow, with good-humoured sun-burnt features, a shrewd and lively
black eye, and a head covered with a crop of close curly black hair, and surmounted with a turf-coloured caubeen, in the pack- thread band of which was stuck a short
pipe, which had evidently seen much service.
My companion was a dealer in all kinds of local lore, and soon took occasion to let me see that he was so.
After two or three short stories, in which the scandalous and supernatural were
happily blended, we happened to arrive at a narrow road or bohreen leading to a snug-looking farm-house.
‘That’s a comfortable bit iv a farm,’ observed my comrade, pointing towards the dwelling with his thumb; ‘a shnug spot,
and belongs to the Mooneys this long time. ‘Tis a noted place for what happened
wid the famous gandher there in former times.’
‘And what was that?’ inquired I.
‘What was it happened wid the gandher!’ ejaculated my companion in a tone of
indignant surprise; ‘the gandher iv Ballymacrucker, the gandher! Your raverance must be a stranger in these parts. Sure
every fool knows all about the gandher, and Terence Mooney, that was, rest his
sowl. Begorra, ’tis surprisin’ to me how in the world you didn’t hear iv the
gandher; and may be it’s funnin me ye are, your raverance.’
I assured him to the contrary, and
conjured him to narrate to me the facts, an unacquaintance with which was sufficient it appeared to stamp me as an ignoramus
of the first magnitude.
It did not require much entreaty to
induce my communicative friend to relate the circumstance, in nearly the following words:
‘Terence Mooney was an honest boy and well to do; an’ he rinted the biggest farm on this side iv the Galties; an’ bein’
mighty cute an’ a sevare worker, it was small wonder he turned a good penny every harvest. But unluckily he was blessed
with an ilegant large family iv daughters, an’ iv coorse his heart was allamost bruck, striving to make up fortunes for the whole of them. An’ there wasn’t a conthrivance iv any soart or description for makin’ money out iv the farm, but he was up to.
‘Well, among the other ways he had iv gettin’ up in the world, he always kep a power iv turkeys, and all soarts iv poul- trey; an’ he was out iv all rason partial to geese–an’ small blame to him for that same–for twice’t a year you can pluck them as bare as my hand–an’ get a fine price for the feathers, an’ plenty of rale sizable eggs–an’ when they are too ould to lay
any more, you can kill them, an’ sell them to the gintlemen for goslings, d’ye see, let alone that a goose is the most manly bird that is out.
‘Well, it happened in the coorse iv time that one ould gandher tuck a wondherful
likin’ to Terence, an’ divil a place he could go serenadin’ about the farm, or lookin’ afther the men, but the gandher id be at his heels, an’ rubbin’ himself agin his legs, an’ lookin’ up in his face jist like any other Christian id do; an’ begorra, the likes iv it was never seen–Terence Mooney an’ the gandher wor so great.
‘An’ at last the bird was so engagin’ that Terence would not allow it to be
plucked any more, an’ kep it from that time out for love an’ affection–just all as one like one iv his childer.
‘But happiness in perfection never lasts long, an’ the neighbours begin’d to suspect the nathur an’ intentions iv the gandher, an’ some iv them said it was the divil, an’ more iv them that it was a fairy.
‘Well, Terence could not but hear something of what was sayin’, an’ you may be
sure he was not altogether asy in his mind about it, an’ from one day to another he was gettin’ more ancomfortable in himself, until he detarmined to sind for Jer Garvan, the fairy docthor in Garryowen, an’ it’s he was the ilegant hand at the business, an’ divil a sperit id say a crass word to him, no more nor a priest. An’ moreover he
was very great wid ould Terence Mooney– this man’s father that’ was.
‘So without more about it he was sint for, an’ sure enough the divil a long he was about it, for he kem back that very
evenin’ along wid the boy that was sint for him, an’ as soon as he was there, an’ tuck his supper, an’ was done talkin’ for a while, he begined of coorse to look into the gandher.
‘Well, he turned it this away an’ that away, to the right an’ to the left, an’
straight-ways an’ upside-down, an’ when he was tired handlin’ it, says he to Terence Mooney:
‘ “Terence,” says he, “you must remove the bird into the next room,” says he, “an’ put a petticoat,” says he, “or anny other convaynience round his head,” says he.
‘ “An’ why so?” says Terence.
‘ “Becase,” says Jer, says he.
‘ “Becase what?” says Terence.
‘ “Becase,” says Jer, “if it isn’t done you’ll never be asy again,” says he, “or pusilanimous in your mind,” says he; “so ax no more questions, but do my biddin’,” says he.
‘ “Well,” says Terence, “have your own way,” says he.
‘An’ wid that he tuck the ould gandher, an’ giv’ it to one iv the gossoons.
‘ “An’ take care,” says he, “don’t
smother the crathur,” says he.
‘Well, as soon as the bird was gone,
says Jer Garvan says he:
‘ “Do you know what that ould gandher IS, Terence Mooney?”
‘ “Divil a taste,” says Terence.
‘ “Well then,” says Jer, “the gandher is your own father,” says he.
‘ “It’s jokin’ you are,” says Terence, turnin’ mighty pale; “how can an ould
gandher be my father?” says he.
‘ “I’m not funnin’ you at all,” says Jer; “it’s thrue what I tell you, it’s your father’s wandhrin’ sowl,” says he, “that’s naturally tuck pissession iv the ould gandher’s
body,” says he. “I know him many
ways, and I wondher,” says he, “you do not know the cock iv his eye yourself,” says he.
‘ “Oh blur an’ ages!” says Terence,
“what the divil will I ever do at all at all,” says he; “it’s all over wid me, for I plucked him twelve times at the laste,” says he.
‘ “That can’t be helped now,” says Jer; “it was a sevare act surely,” says he, “but it’s too late to lamint for it now,” says he; “the only way to prevint what’s past,” says he, “is to put a stop to it before it happens,” says he.
‘ “Thrue for you,” says Terence, “but how the divil did you come to the knowledge iv my father’s sowl,” says he, “bein’
in the owld gandher,” says he.
‘ “If I tould you,” says Jer, “you would not undherstand me,” says he, “without
book-larnin’ an’ gasthronomy,” says he; “so ax me no questions,” says he, “an’ I’ll tell you no lies. But blieve me in this much,” says he, “it’s your father that’s in it,” says he; “an’ if I don’t make him
spake to-morrow mornin’,” says he, “I’ll give you lave to call me a fool,” says he.
‘ “Say no more,” says Terence, “that
settles the business,” says he; “an’ oh! blur and ages is it not a quare thing,”
says he, “for a dacent respictable man,” says he, “to be walkin’ about the coun-
thry in the shape iv an ould gandher,” says he; “and oh, murdher, murdher!
is not it often I plucked him,” says he, “an’ tundher and ouns might not I have
ate him,” says he; and wid that he fell into a could parspiration, savin’ your
prisince, an was on the pint iv faintin’ wid the bare notions iv it.
‘Well, whin he was come to himself
agin, says Jerry to him quite an’
asy:
‘ “Terence,” says he, “don’t be
aggravatin’ yourself,” says he; “for I have a plan composed that ‘ill make him spake
out,” says he, “an’ tell what it is in the world he’s wantin’,” says he; “an’ mind
an’ don’t be comin’ in wid your gosther, an’ to say agin anything I tell you,” says he, “but jist purtind, as soon as the bird is brought back,” says he, “how that
we’re goin’ to sind him to-morrow mornin’ to market,” says he. “An’ if he don’t
spake to-night,” says he, “or gother himself out iv the place,” says he, “put him into the hamper airly, and sind him in the cart,” says he, “straight to Tipperary, to be sould for ating,” says he, “along wid the two gossoons,” says he, “an’ my name isn’t Jer Garvan,” says he, “if he doesn’t spake out before he’s half-way,” says he. “An’ mind,” says he, “as soon as iver
he says the first word,” says he, “that very minute bring him aff to Father
Crotty,” says he; “an’ if his raverince doesn’t make him ratire,” says he, “like the rest iv his parishioners, glory be to God,” says he, “into the siclusion iv the flames iv purgathory,” says he, “there’s no vartue in my charums,” says he.
‘Well, wid that the ould gandher was
let into the room agin, an’ they all bigined to talk iv sindin’ him the nixt mornin’
to be sould for roastin’ in Tipperary, jist as if it was a thing andoubtingly settled. But divil a notice the gandher tuck, no
more nor if they wor spaking iv the Lord-Liftinant; an’ Terence desired the
boys to get ready the kish for the
poulthry, an’ to “settle it out wid hay soft an’ shnug,” says he, “for it’s the last jauntin’ the poor ould gandher ‘ill get in this world,” says he.
‘Well, as the night was gettin’ late, Terence was growin’ mighty sorrowful
an’ down-hearted in himself entirely wid the notions iv what was goin’ to happen. An’ as soon as the wife an’ the crathurs war fairly in bed, he brought out some
illigint potteen, an’ himself an’ Jer Garvan sot down to it; an’ begorra, the more
anasy Terence got, the more he dhrank, and himself and Jer Garvan finished a
quart betune them. It wasn’t an
imparial though, an’ more’s the pity, for them wasn’t anvinted antil short since;
but divil a much matther it signifies any longer if a pint could hould two quarts, let alone what it does, sinst Father
Mathew–the Lord purloin his raverence –begin’d to give the pledge, an’ wid
the blessin’ iv timperance to deginerate Ireland.
‘An’ begorra, I have the medle myself; an’ it’s proud I am iv that same, for
abstamiousness is a fine thing, although it’s mighty dhry.
‘Well, whin Terence finished his pint, he thought he might as well stop; “for
enough is as good as a faste,” says he; “an’ I pity the vagabond,” says he, “that is not able to conthroul his licquor,” says he, “an’ to keep constantly inside iv a
pint measure,” said he; an’ wid that he wished Jer Garvan a good-night, an’
walked out iv the room.
‘But he wint out the wrong door, bein’ a thrifle hearty in himself, an’ not rightly knowin’ whether he was standin’ on his
head or his heels, or both iv them at the same time, an’ in place iv gettin’ into
bed, where did he thrun himself but into the poulthry hamper, that the boys had
settled out ready for the gandher in the mornin’. An’ sure enough he sunk down
soft an’ complate through the hay to the bottom; an’ wid the turnin’ and roulin’
about in the night, the divil a bit iv him but was covered up as shnug as
a lumper in a pittaty furrow before mornin’.
‘So wid the first light, up gets the
two boys, that war to take the sperit, as they consaved, to Tipperary; an’ they
cotched the ould gandher, an’ put him in the hamper, and clapped a good wisp iv
hay an’ the top iv him, and tied it down sthrong wid a bit iv a coard, and med
the sign iv the crass over him, in dhread iv any harum, an’ put the hamper up an
the car, wontherin’ all the while what in the world was makin’ the ould burd so
surprisin’ heavy.
‘Well, they wint along quite anasy
towards Tipperary, wishin’ every minute that some iv the neighbours bound the
same way id happen to fall in with them, for they didn’t half like the notions iv havin’ no company but the bewitched
gandher, an’ small blame to them for that same.
‘But although they wor shaking in their skhins in dhread iv the ould bird beginnin’ to convarse them every minute, they did
not let an’ to one another, bud kep singin’ an’ whistlin’ like mad, to keep the dread out iv their hearts.
‘Well, afther they war on the road betther nor half an hour, they kem to the bad bit close by Father Crotty’s, an’ there was one divil of a rut three feet deep at the laste; an’ the car got sich a wondherful chuck goin’ through it, that it wakened Terence widin in the basket.
‘ “Bad luck to ye,” says he, “my bones is bruck wid yer thricks; what the divil are ye doin’ wid me?”
‘ “Did ye hear anything quare, Thady?” says the boy that was next to the car, turnin’ as white as the top iv a musharoon;
“did ye hear anything quare soundin’ out iv the hamper?” says he.
‘ “No, nor you,’ says Thady, turnin’ as pale as himself, “it’s the ould gandher
that’s gruntin’ wid the shakin’ he’s gettin’,” says he.
‘ “Where the divil have ye put me
into,” says Terence inside, “bad luck to your sowls,” says he, “let me out, or
I’ll be smothered this minute,” says he.
‘ “There’s no use in purtending,” says the boy, “the gandher’s spakin’, glory be to God,” says he.
‘ “Let me out, you murdherers,” says
Terence.
‘ “In the name iv the blessed Vargin,” says Thady, “an’ iv all the holy saints, hould yer tongue, you unnatheral gandher,” says he.
‘ “Who’s that, that dar to call me nick- names?” says Terence inside, roaring wid the fair passion, “let me out, you blasphamious infiddles,” says he, “or by this crass
I’ll stretch ye,” says he.
‘ “In the name iv all the blessed saints in heaven,” says Thady, “who the divil are ye?”
‘ “Who the divil would I be, but Terence Mooney,” says he. “It’s myself that’s in it, you unmerciful bliggards,” says he, “let me out, or by the holy, I’ll get out in spite iv yes,” says he, “an’ by jaburs, I’ll wallop yes in arnest,” says he.
‘ “It’s ould Terence, sure enough,” says Thady, “isn’t it cute the fairy docthor found him out,” says he.
‘ “I’m an the pint iv snuffication,” says Terence, “let me out, I tell you, an’ wait till I get at ye,” says he, “for begorra, the divil a bone in your body but I’ll powdher,’ says he.
‘An’ wid that, he biginned kickin’ and flingin’ inside in the hamper, and dhrivin his legs agin the sides iv it, that it was a wonder he did not knock it to
pieces.
‘Well, as soon as the boys seen that, they skelped the ould horse into a gallop as hard as he could peg towards the priest’s house, through the ruts, an’ over the stones; an’ you’d see the hamper fairly flyin’ three feet up in the air with the joultin’; glory be to God.
‘So it was small wondher, by the time they got to his Raverince’s door, the breath was fairly knocked out of poor Terence, so that he was lyin’ speechless in the bottom iv the hamper.
‘Well, whin his Raverince kem down,
they up an’ they tould him all that happened, an’ how they put the gandher into the hamper, an’ how he beginned to spake, an’ how he confissed that he was ould
Terence Mooney; an’ they axed his honour to advise them how to get rid iv the spirit for good an’ all.
‘So says his Raverince, says he:
‘ “I’ll take my booke,” says he, “an’ I’ll read some rale sthrong holy bits out iv it,” says he, “an’ do you get a rope and put it round the hamper,” says he, “an’ let it
swing over the runnin’ wather at the bridge,” says he, “an’ it’s no matther if I don’t make the spirit come out iv it,” says he.
‘Well, wid that, the priest got his horse, and tuck his booke in undher his arum, an’ the boys follied his Raverince, ladin’ the horse down to the bridge, an’ divil a word out iv Terence all the way, for he seen it was no use spakin’, an’ he was afeard if he med any noise they might thrait him to
another gallop an finish him intirely.
‘Well, as soon as they war all come to the bridge, the boys tuck the rope they had with them, an’ med it fast to the top iv the hamper an’ swung it fairly over the bridge, lettin’ it hang in the air about twelve feet out iv the wather.
‘An’ his Raverince rode down to the
bank of the river, close by, an’ beginned to read mighty loud and bould intirely.
‘An’ when he was goin’ on about five
minutes, all at onst the bottom iv the hamper kem out, an’ down wint Terence,
falling splash dash into the water, an’ the ould gandher a-top iv him. Down they
both went to the bottom, wid a souse you’d hear half a mile off.
‘An’ before they had time to rise agin, his Raverince, wid the fair astonishment, giv his horse one dig iv the spurs, an’
before he knew where he was, in he went, horse an’ all, a-top iv them, an’ down to the bottom.
‘Up they all kem agin together, gaspin’ and puffin’, an’ off down wid the current wid them, like shot in under the arch iv the bridge till they kem to the shallow
wather.
‘The ould gandher was the first out, and the priest and Terence kem next, pantin’ an’ blowin’ an’ more than half dhrounded, an’ his Raverince was so freckened wid the droundin’ he got, and wid the sight iv the sperit, as he consaved, that he wasn’t the better of it for a month.
‘An’ as soon as Terence could spake, he swore he’d have the life of the two gossoons; but Father Crotty would not give him his will. An’ as soon as he was got quiter,
they all endivoured to explain it; but Terence consaved he went raly to bed the night before, and his wife said the same to shilter him from the suspicion for
havin’ th’ dthrop taken. An’ his Raverince said it was a mysthery, an’ swore if
he cotched anyone laughin’ at the accident, he’d lay the horsewhip across their
shouldhers.
‘An’ Terence grew fonder an’ fonder iv the gandher every day, until at last he died in a wondherful old age, lavin’ the gandher afther him an’ a large family iv childher.
‘An’ to this day the farm is rinted by one iv Terence Mooney’s lenial and legitimate postariors.’
BILLY MALOWNEY’S TASTE OF LOVE AND GLORY.
Let the reader fancy a soft summer
evening, the fresh dews falling on
bush and flower. The sun has
just gone down, and the thrilling vespers of thrushes and blackbirds ring with a wild joy through the saddened air; the west is piled with fantastic clouds, and clothed in tints of crimson and amber, melting away into a wan green, and so eastward into the deepest blue, through which soon the stars will begin to peep.
Let him fancy himself seated upon the low mossy wall of an ancient churchyard, where hundreds of grey stones rise above the sward, under the fantastic branches of two or three half-withered ash-trees, spreading their arms in everlasting love and sorrow over the dead.
The narrow road upon which I and my
companion await the tax-cart that is to carry me and my basket, with its rich fruitage of speckled trout, away, lies at his feet, and far below spreads an undulating plain, rising westward again into soft hills, and traversed (every here and there visibly) by a winding stream which, even through the mists of evening, catches and returns the funereal glories of the skies.
As the eye traces its wayward wanderings, it loses them for a moment in the heaving verdure of white-thorns and ash, from among which floats from some dozen rude chimneys, mostly unseen, the transparent blue film of turf smoke. There we know, although we
cannot see it, the steep old bridge of Carrickadrum spans the river; and stretching away far to the right the valley of Lisnamoe: its steeps and hollows, its straggling hedges, its fair-green, its tall scattered trees, and old grey tower, are disappearing fast among the discoloured tints and haze of evening.
Those landmarks, as we sit listlessly expecting the arrival of our modest conveyance, suggest to our companion–a bare-
legged Celtic brother of the gentle craft, somewhat at the wrong side of forty, with a turf-coloured caubeen, patched frieze, a clear brown complexion, dark-grey eyes,
and a right pleasant dash of roguery in his features–the tale, which, if the reader pleases, he is welcome to hear along with me just as it falls from the lips of our humble comrade.
His words I can give, but your own
fancy must supply the advantages of an intelligent, expressive countenance, and, what is perhaps harder still, the harmony of his glorious brogue, that, like the
melodies of our own dear country, will leave a burden of mirth or of sorrow with nearly equal propriety, tickling the
diaphragm as easily as it plays with the heart- strings, and is in itself a national music that, I trust, may never, never–scouted and despised though it be–never cease, like the lost tones of our harp, to be heard in the fields of my country, in welcome or
endearment, in fun or in sorrow, stirring the hearts of Irish men and Irish women.
My friend of the caubeen and naked
shanks, then, commenced, and continued his relation, as nearly as possible, in the following words:
Av coorse ye often heerd talk of Billy Malowney, that lived by the bridge of
Carrickadrum. ‘Leum-a-rinka’ was the name they put on him, he was sich a beautiful dancer. An’ faix, it’s he was the rale
sportin’ boy, every way–killing the hares, and gaffing the salmons, an’ fightin’ the men, an’ funnin’ the women, and coortin’ the girls; an’ be the same token, there was not a colleen inside iv his jurisdiction but was breakin’ her heart wid the fair love iv him.
Well, this was all pleasant enough, to be sure, while it lasted; but inhuman beings is born to misfortune, an’ Bill’s divarshin was not to last always. A young boy can’t be continially coortin’ and kissin’ the girls (an’ more’s the pity) without exposin’
himself to the most eminent parril; an’ so signs all’ what should happen Billy Malowney
himself, but to fall in love at last wid little Molly Donovan, in Coolnamoe.
I never could ondherstand why in the
world it was Bill fell in love wid HER, above all the girls in the country. She
was not within four stone weight iv being as fat as Peg Brallaghan; and as for redness in the face, she could not hould a
candle to Judy Flaherty. (Poor Judy! she was my sweetheart, the darlin’, an’
coorted me constant, ever antil she married a boy of the Butlers; an’ it’s twenty years now since she was buried under the ould
white-thorn in Garbally. But that’s no matther!)
Well, at any rate, Molly Donovan tuck his fancy, an’ that’s everything! She had smooth brown hair–as smooth as silk-an’ a pair iv soft coaxin’ eyes–an’ the whitest little teeth you ever seen; an’, bedad, she was every taste as much in love wid himself as he was.
Well, now, he was raly stupid wid love: there was not a bit of fun left in him. He was good for nothin’ an airth bud sittin’ under bushes, smokin’ tobacky, and sighin’ till you’d wonder how in the world he got wind for it all.
An’, bedad, he was an illigant scholar, moreover; an’, so signs, it’s many’s the song he made about her; an’ if you’d be
walkin’ in the evening, a mile away from Carrickadrum, begorra you’d hear him singing out like a bull, all across the country, in her praises.
Well, ye may be sure, ould Tim Donovan and the wife was not a bit too well plased to see Bill Malowney coortin’ their daughter Molly; for, do ye mind, she was the only child they had, and her fortune was thirty- five pounds, two cows, and five illigant pigs, three iron pots and a skillet, an’ a trifle iv poultry in hand; and no one knew how much besides, whenever the Lord id
be plased to call the ould people out of the way into glory!
So, it was not likely ould Tim Donovan id be fallin’ in love wid poor Bill Malowney as aisy as the girls did; for, barrin’ his beauty, an’ his gun, an’ his dhudheen, an’ his janius, the divil a taste of property iv any sort or description he had in the wide world!
Well, as bad as that was, Billy would not give in that her father and mother had the smallest taste iv a right to intherfare, good or bad.
‘An’ you’re welcome to rayfuse me,’ says he, ‘whin I ax your lave,’ says he; ‘an’ I’ll ax your lave,’ says he, ‘whenever I want to coort yourselves,’ says he; ‘but it’s your daughter I’m coortin’ at the present,’ says he, ‘an that’s all I’ll say,’ says
he; ‘for I’d as soon take a doase of salts as be discoursin’ ye,’ says he.
So it was a rale blazin’ battle betune himself and the ould people; an’, begorra, there was no soart iv blaguardin’ that did not pass betune them; an’ they put a
solemn injection on Molly again seein’ him or meetin’ him for the future.
But it was all iv no use. You might
as well be pursuadin’ the birds agin flying, or sthrivin’ to coax the stars out iv the sky into your hat, as be talking common
sinse to them that’s fairly bothered and burstin’ wid love. There’s nothin’ like it. The toothache an’ cholic together id compose you betther for an argyment than
itself. It leaves you fit for nothin’ bud nansinse.
It’s stronger than whisky, for one good drop iv it will make you drunk for one
year, and sick, begorra, for a dozen.
It’s stronger than the say, for it’ll carry you round the world an’ never let you
sink, in sunshine or storm; an,’ begorra, it’s stronger than Death himself, for it is not afeard iv him, bedad, but dares him in every shape.
But lovers has quarrels sometimes, and, begorra, when they do, you’d a’most imagine they hated one another like man and
wife. An’ so, signs an, Billy Malowney and Molly Donovan fell out one evening
at ould Tom Dundon’s wake; an’ whatever came betune them, she made no more about it but just draws her cloak round her, and away wid herself and the sarvant-girl home again, as if there was not a corpse, or a fiddle, or a taste of divarsion in it.
Well, Bill Malowney follied her down
the boreen, to try could he deludher her back again; but, if she was bitther before, she gave it to him in airnest when she
got him alone to herself, and to that degree that he wished her safe home, short and sulky enough, an’ walked back again, as mad as the devil himself, to the
wake, to pay a respect to poor Tom
Dundon.
Well, my dear, it was aisy seen there was something wrong avid Billy Malowney, for he paid no attintion the rest of the evening to any soart of divarsion but the whisky alone; an’ every glass he’d drink it’s what he’d be wishing the divil had
the women, an’ the worst iv bad luck to all soarts iv courting, until, at last, wid the goodness iv the sperits, an’ the badness iv his temper, an’ the constant flusthration iv cursin’, he grew all as one as you might say almost, saving your presince, bastely