I have never yet been able to discover whether General Humbert really did feel the confidence that he assumed at this period, or that he merely affected it, the better to sustain the spirits of those around him. If our success at Castlebar was undeniable, our loss was also great, and far more than proportionate to all the advantages we had acquired. Six officers and two hundred and forty men were either killed or badly wounded, and as our small force had really acquired no reinforcement worth the name, it was evident that another such costly victory would be our ruin.
Not one gentleman of rank or influence had yet joined us; few of the priesthood; and, even among the farmers and peasantry, it was easy to see that our recruits comprised those whose accession could never have conferred honour or profit on any cause.
Our situation was anything but promising. The rumours that reached us (and we had no other or more accurate information than rumours) told that an army of thirty thousand men, under the command of Lord Cornwallis, was in march against us; that all the insurrectionary movements of the south were completely repressed; that the spirit of the Irish was crushed, and their confidence broken, either by defeat or internal treachery. In a word, that the expedition had already failed, and the sooner we had the means of leaving the land of our disasters the better.
Such were the universal feelings of all my comrades; but Humbert, who had often told us that we were only here to prepare the way for another and more formidable mission, now pretended to think that we were progressing most favourably towards a perfect success. Perhaps he firmly believed all this, or perhaps he thought that the pretence would give more dignity to the finale of an exploit which he already saw was nearly played out. I know not which is the true explanation, and am half disposed to think that he was actuated as much by one impulse as the other.
‘The Army of the North’ was the talisman, which we now heard of for the first time, to repair all our disasters, and ensure complete victory. ‘The Army of the North,’ whose strength varied from twenty to twenty-five, and sometimes reached even thirty thousand men, and was commanded by a distinguished Irish general, was now the centre to which all our hopes turned. Whether it had already landed, and where, of what it consisted, and how officered, not one of us knew anything; but by dint of daily repetition and discussion we had come to believe in its existence as certainly as though we had seen it under arms.
The credulous lent their convictions without any trouble to themselves whatever; the more sceptical studied the map, and fancied twenty different places in which they might have disembarked; and thus the Army of the North grew to be a substance and reality, as undoubted as the scenes before our eyes.
Never was such a ready solution of all difficulties discovered as this same Army of the North. Were we to be beaten by Cornwallis, it was only a momentary check, for the Army of the North would come up within a few days and turn the whole tide of war. If our Irish allies grew insubordinate or disorderly, a little patience and the Army of the North would settle all that. Every movement projected was fancied to be in concert with this redoubted corps, and at last every trooper that rode in from Killala or Ballina was questioned as to whether his despatches did not come from the Army of the North.
Frenchmen will believe anything you like for twenty-four hours. They can be flattered into a credulity of two days, and, by dint of great artifice and much persuasion, will occasionally reach a third; but there, faith has its limit; and if nothing palpable, tangible, and real, intervene, scepticism ensues; and what with native sarcasm, ridicule, and irony, they will demolish the card edifice of credit far more rapidly than ever they raised it. For two whole days the Army of the North occupied every man amongst us. We toasted it over our wine; we discussed it at our quarters; we debated upon its whereabouts, its strength, and its probable destination; but on the third morning a terrible shock was given to our feelings by a volatile young lieutenant of hussars exclaiming—‘Ma foi! I wish I could see this same Army of the North!’
Now, although nothing was more reasonable than this wish, nor was there any one of us who had not felt a similar desire, this sudden expression of it struck us all most forcibly, and a shrinking sense of doubt spread over every face, and men looked at each other as though to say—‘Is the fellow capable of supposing that such an army does not exist?’ It was a very dreadful moment—a terrible interval of struggle between the broad daylight of belief and the black darkness of incredulity; and we turned glances of actual dislike at the man who had so unwarrantably shaken our settled convictions.
‘I only said I should like to see them under arms,’ stammered he, in the confusion of one who saw himself exposed to public obloquy.
This half-apology came too late—-the mischief was done! and we shunned each other like men who were afraid to read the accusation of even a shrewd glance. As for myself, I can compare my feelings only to those of the worthy alderman, who broke out into a paroxysm of grief on hearing that Robinson Crusoe was a fiction. I believe, on that sudden revulsion of feeling, I could have discredited any and everything. If there was no Army of the North, was I quite sure that there was any expedition at all? Were the generals mere freebooters, the chiefs of a marauding venture? Were the patriots anything but a disorderly rabble eager for robbery and bloodshed? Was Irish Independence a mere phantom? Such were among the shocking terrors that came across my mind as I sat in my quarters, far too dispirited and depressed to mix among my comrades.
It had been a day of fatiguing duty, and I was not sorry, as night fell, that I might betake myself to bed, to forget, if it might be, the torturing doubts that troubled me. Suddenly I heard a heavy foot upon the stair, and an orderly entered with a command for me to repair to the headquarters of the general at once. Never did the call of duty summon me less willing, never found me so totally disinclined to obey. I was weary and fatigued; but worse, than this, I was out of temper with myself, the service, and the whole world. Had I heard that the Royal forces were approaching, I was exactly in the humour to have dashed into the thick of them, and sold my life as dearly as I could, out of desperation.
Discipline is a powerful antagonist to a man’s caprices, for with all my irritability and discontent I arose, and resuming my uniform, set out for General Humbert’s quarters. I followed ‘the orderly,’ as he led the way through many a dark street and crooked alley till we reached the square. There, too, all was in darkness, save at the mainguard, where, as usual, the five windows of the first storey were a blaze of light, and the sounds of mirth and revelry, the nightly orgies of our officers, were ringing out in the stillness of the quiet hour. The wild chorus of a soldier-song, with its rataplan accompaniment of knuckles on the table, echoed through the square, and smote upon my ear with anything but a congenial sense of pleasure.
In my heart I thought them a senseless, soulless crew, that could give themselves to dissipation and excess on the very eve, as it were, of our defeat, and with hasty steps I turned away into the side-street, where a large lamp, the only light to be seen, proclaimed General Humbert’s quarters.
A bustle and stir, very unusual at this late hour, pervaded the passages and stairs, and it was some time before I could find one of the staff to announce my arrival, which at last was done somewhat unceremoniously, as an officer hurried me through a large chamber crowded with the staff into an inner room, where, on a small field-bed, lay General Humbert, without coat or boots, a much-worn scarlet cloak thrown half over him, and a black handkerchief tied round his head. I had scarcely seen him since our landing, and I could with difficulty recognise the burly, high-complexioned soldier of a few days back, in the worn and haggard features of the sick man before me. An attack of ague, which he had originally contracted in Holland, had relapsed upon him, and he was now suffering all the lassitude and sickness of that most depressing of all maladies.
Maps, books, plans, and sketches of various kinds scattered the bed, the table, and even the floor around him; but his attitude as I entered betrayed the exhaustion of one who could labour no longer, and whose worn-out faculties demanded rest. He lay flat on his back, his arms straight down beside him, and with half-closed eyes, seemed as though falling off to sleep.
His first aide-de-camp, Merochamp, was standing with his back to a small turf fire, and made a sign to us to be still, and make no noise as we came in.
‘He ‘s sleeping,’ said he; ‘it ‘s the first time he has closed his eyes for ten days.’
We stood for a moment uncertain, and were about to retrace our steps, when Humbert said, in a low, weak voice—
‘No! I’m not asleep, come in.’
The officer who presented me now retired, and I advanced towards the bedside.
‘This is Tiernay, general,’ said Merochamp, stooping down and speaking low; ‘you wished to see him.’
‘Yes, I wanted him. Ha! Tiernay, you see me a good deal altered since we parted last; however, I shall be all right in a day or two, it’s a mere attack of ague, and will leave when the good weather comes. I wished to ask you about your family, Tiernay; was not your father Irish?’
‘No, sir; we were Irish two or three generations back, but since that we have belonged either to Austria or to France.’
‘Then where were you born?’
‘In Paris, sir, I believe, but certainly in France.’
‘Then I said so, Merochamp; I knew that the boy was French.’
‘Still I don’t think the precaution worthless,’ replied Merochamp; ‘Teeling and the others advise it.’
‘I know they do,’ said Humbert peevishly, ‘and for themselves it may be needful; but this lad’s case will be injured, not bettered by it. He is not an Irishman; he never was at any time a British subject. Have you any certificate of birth or baptism, Tiernay?’
‘None, sir; but I have my ‘livret’ for the school of Saumur, which sets forth my being a Frenchman by birth.’
‘Quite sufficient, boy, let me have it.’
It was a document which I always carried about with me since I landed, to enable me any moment, if made prisoner, to prove myself an alien, and thus escape the inculpation of fighting against the flag of my country. Perhaps there was something of reluctance in my manner as I relinquished it, for the general said, ‘I’ll take good care of it, Tiernay; you shall not fare the worse because it is in my keeping. I may as well tell you that some of our Irish officers have received threatening letters. It is needless to say they are without name, stating that if matters go unfortunately with us in this campaign they will meet the fate of men taken in open treason; and that their condition of officers in our service will avail them nothing. I do not believe this. I cannot believe that they will be treated in any respect differently from the rest of us. However, it is only just that I should tell you that your name figures amongst those so denounced; for this reason I have sent for you now. You, at least, have nothing to apprehend on this score. You are as much a Frenchman as myself. I know Merochamp thinks differently from me, and that your Irish descent and name will be quite enough to involve you in the fate of others.’
A gesture, half of assent but half of impatience, from the aide-de-camp, here arrested the speaker.
‘Why not tell him frankly how he stands?’ said Humbert eagerly; ‘I see no advantage in any concealment.’
Then addressing me, he went on. ‘I purpose, Tiernay, to give you the same option I gave the others, but which they have declined to accept. It is this: we are daily expecting to hear of the arrival of a force in the north under the command of Generals Tandy and Rey.’
‘The Army of the North?’ asked I, in some anxiety. ‘Precisely; the Army of the North. Now I desire to open a communication with them, and at the same time to do so through the means of such officers as, in the event of any disaster here, may have the escape to France open to them; which this army will have, and which, I need not say, we have no longer. Our Irish friends have declined this mission as being more likely to compromise them if taken; and also as diminishing and not increasing their chance of escape. In my belief that you were placed similarly I have sent for you here this evening, and at the same time desire to impress upon you that your acceptance or refusal is purely a matter at your own volition.’
‘Am I to regard the matter simply as one of duty, sir? or as an opportunity of consulting my personal safety?’
‘What shall I say to this, Merochamp?’ asked Humbert bluntly.
‘That you are running to the full as many risks of being banged for going as by staying; such is my opinion,’ said the aide-de-camp. ‘Here as a rebel, there as a spy.’
‘I confess, then,’ said I, smiling at the cool brevity of the speech, ‘the choice is somewhat embarrassing! May I ask what you advise me to do, general?’
‘I should say go, Tiernay.’
‘Go, by all means, lad,’ broke in the aide-de-camp, who throughout assumed a tone of dictation and familiarity most remarkable. ‘If a stand is to be made in this miserable country it will be with Rey’s force; here the game will not last much longer. There lies the only man capable of conducting such an expedition, and his health cannot stand up against its trials!’
‘Not so, Merochamp; I ‘ll be on horseback to-morrow or the day after at furthest; and if I never were to take the field again, there are others, yourself amongst the number, well able to supply my place: but as to Tiernay—what says he?’
‘Make it duty, sir, and I shall go, or remain here with an easy conscience,’ said I.
‘Then duty be it, boy,’ said he; ‘and Merochamp will tell you everything, for all this discussion has wearied me much, and I cannot endure more talking.’
‘Sit down here,’ said the aide-de-camp, pointing to a seat at his side, ‘and five minutes will suffice.’
He opened a large map of Ireland before us on the table, and running his finger along the coast-line of the western side, stopped abruptly at the bay of Lough Swilly.
‘There,’ said he, ‘that is the spot. There, too, should have been our own landing! The whole population of the north will be with them—not such allies as these fellows, but men accustomed to the use of arms, able and willing to take the field. They say that five thousand men could hold the passes of those mountains against thirty.’
‘Who says this?’ said I, for I own it that I had grown marvellously sceptical as to testimony.
‘Napper Tandy, who is a general of division, and one of the leaders of this force’; and he went on: ‘The utmost we can do will be to hold these towns to the westward till they join us. We may stretch away thus far,’ and he moved his finger towards the direction of Leitrim, but no farther. ‘You will have to communicate with them; to explain what we have done, where we are, and how we are. Conceal nothing—let them hear fairly that this patriot force is worth nothing, and that even to garrison the towns we take they are useless. Tell them, too, the sad mistake we made by attempting to organise what never can be disciplined, and let them not arm a population, as we have done, to commit rapine and plunder.’
Two letters were already written—one addressed to Rey, the other to Napper Tandy. These I was ordered to destroy if I should happen to become a prisoner; and with the map of Ireland, pen-marked in various directions, by which I might trace my route, and a few lines to Colonel Charost, whom I was to see on passing at Killala, I was dismissed.’ When I approached the bedside to take leave of the general he was sound asleep. The excitement of talking having passed away, he was pale as death, and his lips totally colourless. Poor fellow, he was exhausted-looking and weary, and I could not help thinking, as I looked on him, that he was no bad emblem of the cause he had embarked in!
I was to take my troop-horse as far as Killala, after which I was to proceed either on foot, or by such modes of conveyance as I could find, keeping as nigh the coast as possible, and acquainting myself, so far as I might do, with the temper and disposition of the people as I went. It was a great aid to my sinking courage to know that there really was an Army of the North, and to feel myself accredited to hold intercourse with the generals commanding it.
Such was my exultation at this happy discovery, that I was dying to burst in amongst my comrades with the tidings, and proclaim, at the same time, my own high mission. Merochamp had strictly enjoined my speedy departure without the slightest intimation to any, whither I was going, or with what object.
A very small cloak-bag held all my effects, and with this slung at my saddle I rode out of the town just as the church clock was striking twelve. It was a calm, starlight night, and once a short distance from the town, as noiseless and still as possible; a gossoon, one of the numerous scouts we employed in conveying letters or bringing intelligence, trotted along on foot beside me to show the way, for there was a rumour that some of the Royalist cavalry still loitered about the passes to capture our despatch bearers, or make prisoners of any stragglers from the army.
These gossoons, picked up by chance, and selected for no other qualification than because they were keen-eyed and swift of foot, were the most faithful and most worthy creatures we met with. In no instance were they ever known to desert to the enemy, and, stranger still, they were never seen to mix in the debauchery and excesses so common to all the volunteers of the rebel camp. Their intelligence was considerable, and to such a pitch had emulation stimulated them in the service, that there was no danger they would not incur in their peculiar duties.
My companion on the present occasion was a little fellow of about thirteen years of age, and small and slight even for that; we knew him as ‘Peter,’ but whether he had any other name, or what, I was ignorant. He was wounded by a sabre-cut across the hand, which nearly severed the fingers from it, at the bridge of Castlebar, but, with a strip of linen bound round it, now he trotted along as happy and careless as if nothing ailed him.
I questioned him as we went, and learned that his father had been a herd in the service of a certain Sir Roger Palmer, and his mother a dairymaid in the same house, but as the patriots had sacked and burned the ‘Castle,’ of course they were now upon the world. He was a good deal shocked at my asking what part his father took on the occasion of the attack, but for a very different reason than that which I suspected.
‘For the cause, of course!’ replied he, almost indignantly; ‘why wouldn’t he stand up for ould Ireland!’
‘And your mother—what did she do?’
He hung down his head, and made no answer till I repeated the question.
‘Faix,’ said he slowly and sadly, ‘she went and towld the young ladies what was goin’ to be done, and if it hadn’t been that the “boys” caught Tim Haynes, the groom, going off to Foxford with a letter, we’d have had the dragoons down upon us in no time! They hanged Tim, but they let the young ladies away, and my mother with them, and off they all went to Dublin.’
‘And where’s your father now?’ I asked.
‘He was drowned in the bay of Killala four days ago. He went with a party of others to take oatmeal from a sloop that was wrecked in the bay, and an English cruiser came in at the time and fired on them; at the second discharge the wreck and all upon it went down!’
He told all these things without any touch of sorrow in voice or manner. They seemed to be the ordinary chances of war, and so he took them. He had three brothers and a sister; of the former, two were missing, the third was a scout; and the girl—she was but nine years old—was waiting on a canteen, and mighty handy, he said, for she knew a little French already, and understood the soldiers when they asked for a goutte, or wanted du feu for their pipes.
Such, then, was the credit side of the account with Fortune, and, strange enough, the boy seemed satisfied with it; and although a few days had made him an orphan and houseless, he appeared to feel that the great things in store for his country were an ample recompense for all. Was this, then, patriotism? Was it possible that one, untaught and unlettered as he was, could think national freedom cheap at such a cost? If I thought so for a moment, a very little further inquiry undeceived me. Religious rancour, party feuds, the hate of the Saxon—a blind, ill-directed, unthinking hate—were the motives which actuated him. A terrible retribution for something upon somebody, an awful wiping out of old scores, a reversal of the lot of rich and poor, were the main incentives to his actions, and he was satisfied to stand by at the drawing of this great lottery, even without holding a ticket in it!
It was almost the first moment of calm reflective thought I had enjoyed, as I rode along thus in the quiet stillness of the night, and I own that my heart began to misgive me as to the great benefits of our expedition. I will not conceal the fact, that I had been disappointed in every expectation I had formed of Ireland.
The bleak and barren hills of Mayo, the dreary tracts of mountain and morass, were about as unworthy representatives of the boasted beauty and fertility, as were the half-clad wretches who flocked around us of that warlike people of whom we had heard so much. Where were the chivalrous chieftains with their clans behind them? Where the thousands gathering around a national standard? Where that high-souled patriotism, content to risk fortune, station—all, in the conflict for national independence? A rabble led on by a few reckless debauchees, and two or three disreputable or degraded priests, were our only allies; and even these refused to be guided by our councils, or swayed by our authority. I half suspected Serasin was right when he said—‘Let the Directory send thirty thousand men and make it a French province, but let us not fight an enemy to give the victory to the sans-culottes.’
As we neared the pass of Barnageeragh, I turned one last look on the town of Castlebar, around which, at little intervals of space, the watch-fires of our pickets were blazing; all the rest of the place was in darkness.
It was a strange and a thrilling thought to think that there, hundreds of miles from their home, without one link that could connect them to it, lay a little army in the midst of an enemy’s country, calm, self-possessed, and determined. How many, thought I, are destined to leave it? How many will bring back to our dear France the memory of this unhappy struggle?
I found a very pleasant party assembled around the bishop’s breakfast-table at Killala. The bishop and his family were all there, with Charost and his staff, and some three or four other officers from Ballina. Nothing could be less constrained, more easy, or more agreeable, than the tone of intimacy which in a few days had grown up between them. A cordial good feeling seemed to prevail on every subject, and even the reserve which might be thought natural on the momentous events then happening was exchanged for a most candid and frank discussion of all that was going forward, which, I must own, astonished as much as it gratified me.
The march on Castlebar, the choice of the mountain-road, ‘which led past the position occupied by the Royalists, the attack and capture of the artillery, had all to be related by me for the edification of such as were not conversant with French; and I could observe that however discomfited by the conduct of the militia, they fully relied on the regiments of the line and the artillery. It was amusing, too, to see with what pleasure they listened to all our disparagement of the Irish volunteers.
Every instance we gave of insubordination or disobedience delighted them, while our own blundering attempts to manage the people, the absurd mistakes we fell into, and the endless misconceptions of their character and habits, actually convulsed them with laughter.
‘Of course,’ said the bishop to us, ‘you are prepared to hear that there is no love lost between you, and that they are to the full as dissatisfied with you as you are dissatisfied with them?’
‘Why, what can they complain of?’ asked Charost, smiling; ‘we gave them the place of honour in the very last engagement!’
‘Very true, you did so, and they reaped all the profit of the situation. Monsieur Tiernay had just told the havoc that grape and round shot scattered amongst the poor creatures. However, it is not of this they complain—it is their miserable fare, the raw potatoes, their beds in open fields and highways, while the French, they say, eat of the best and sleep in blankets; they do not understand this inequality, and perhaps it is somewhat hard to comprehend.’
‘Patriotism ought to be proud of such little sacrifices,’ said Charost, with an easy laugh; ‘besides, it is only a passing endurance: a month hence, less, perhaps, will see us dividing the spoils, and revelling in the conquest of Irish independence.’
‘You think so, colonel?’ asked the bishop, half slyly.
‘Parbleu! to be sure I do—and you?’
‘I’m just as sanguine,’ said the bishop, ‘and fancy that, about a month hence, we shall be talking of all these things as matters of history; and while sorrowing over some of the unavoidable calamities of the event, preserving a grateful memory of some who came as enemies but left us warm friends.’
‘If such is to be the turn of fortune,’ said Charost, with more seriousness than before, ‘I can only say that the kindly feelings will not be one-sided.’
And now the conversation became an animated discussion on the chances of success or failure. Each party supported his opinion ably and eagerly, and with a degree of freedom that was not a little singular to the bystanders. At last, when Charost was fairly answered by the bishop on every point, he asked—
‘But what say you to the Army of the North?’
‘Simply, that I do not believe in such a force,’ rejoined the bishop.
‘Not believe it—not believe on what General Humbert relies at this moment, and to which that officer yonder is an accredited messenger! When I tell you that a most distinguished Irishman, Napper Tandy——’
‘Napper Tandy!’ repeated the bishop, with a good-humoured smile; ‘the name is quite enough to relieve one of any fears, if they ever felt them. I am not sufficiently acquainted with your language to give him the epithet he deserves, but if you can conceive an empty, conceited man, as ignorant of war as of politics, rushing into a revolution for the sake of a green uniform, and ready to convulse a kingdom that he may be called a major-general, only enthusiastic in his personal vanity, and wanting even in that heroic daring which occasionally dignifies weak capacities—such is Napper Tandy.’
‘What in soldier-phrase we call a “Blague,”’ said Charost, laughing; ‘I’m sorry for it.’
What turn the conversation was about to take I cannot guess, when it was suddenly interrupted by one of the bishop’s servants rushing into the room, with a face bloodless from terror. He made his way up to where the bishop sat, and whispered a few words in his ear.
‘And how is the wind blowing, Andrew?’ asked the bishop, in a voice that all his self-command could not completely steady.
‘From the north, or the north-west, and mighty strong, too, my lord,’ said the man, who trembled in every limb.
The affrighted aspect of the messenger, the excited expression of the bishop’s face, and the question as to the ‘wind,’ at once suggested to me the idea that a French fleet had arrived in the bay, and that the awful tidings were neither more nor less than the announcement of our reinforcement.
‘From the north-west,’ repeated the bishop; ‘then, with God’s blessing, we may be spared.’ And so saying, he arose from the table, and with an effort that showed that the strength to do so had only just returned to him.
‘Colonel Charost, a word with you!’ said he, leading the way into an adjoining room.
‘What is it?—what has happened?—what can it be?’ was asked by each in turn. And now groups gathered at the windows, which all looked into the court of the building, now crowded with people, soldiers, servants, and country-folk gazing earnestly towards the roof of the castle.
‘What’s the matter, Terry?’ asked one of the bishop’s sons, as he threw open the window.
‘Tis the chimbley on fire, Master Robert,’ said the man; ‘the kitchen chimbley, wid those divils of Frinch!’
I cannot describe the burst of laughter that followed the explanation.
So much terror for so small a catastrophe was inconceivable; and whether we thought of Andrew’s horrified face, or the worthy bishop’s pious thanksgiving as to the direction of the wind, we could scarcely refrain from another outbreak of mirth. Colonel Charost made his appearance at the instant, and although his step was hurried, and his look severe, there was nothing of agitation or alarm on his features.
‘Turn out the guard, Truchet, without arms,’ said he. ‘Come with me, Tiernay—an awkward business enough,’ whispered he, as he led me along. ‘These follows have set fire to the kitchen chimney, and we have three hundred barrels of gunpowder in the cave!’ Nothing could be more easy and unaffected than the way he spoke this; and I actually stared at him, to see if his coldness was a mere pretence, but far from it—every gesture and every word showed the most perfect self-possession, with a prompt readiness for action.
When we reached the court, the bustle and confusion had reached its highest, for, as the wind lulled, large masses of inky smoke hung, like a canopy, overhead, through which a forked flame darted at intervals, with that peculiar furnacelike roar that accompanies a jet of fire in confined places. At times, too, as the soot ignited, great showers of bright sparks floated upwards, and afterwards fell, like a fiery rain, on every side. The country-people, who had flocked in from the neighbourhood, were entirely occupied with these signs, and only intent upon saving the remainder of the house, which they believed in great peril, totally unaware of the greater and more imminent danger close beside them.
Already they had placed ladders against the walls, and, with ropes and buckets, were preparing to ascend, when Truchet marched in with his company, in fatigue-jackets, twenty sappers with shovels accompanying them.
‘Clear the courtyard, now,’ said Charost, ‘and leave this matter to us.’
The order was obeyed somewhat reluctantly, it is true, and at last we stood the sole occupants of the spot, the bishop being the only civilian present, he having refused to quit the spot, unless compelled by force.
The powder was stored in a long shed adjoining the stables, and originally used as a shelter for farming tools and utensils. A few tarpaulins we had carried with us from the ships were spread over the barrels, and on this now some sparks of fire had fallen, as the burning soot had been carried in by an eddy of wind.
The first order was, to deluge the tarpaulins with water; and while this was being done, the sappers were ordered to dig trenches in the garden, to receive the barrels. Every man knew the terrible peril so near him; each felt that at any instant a frightful death might overtake him, and yet every detail of the duty was carried on with the coldest unconcern; and when at last the time came to carry away the barrels, on a species of hand-barrow, the fellows stepped in time, as if on the march, and moved in measure, a degree of indifference, which, to judge from the good bishop’s countenance, evidently inspired as many anxieties for their spiritual welfare as it suggested astonishment and admiration for their courage.
He himself, it must be owned, displayed no sign of trepidation, and in the few words he spoke, or the hints he dropped, exhibited every quality of a brave man.
At moments the peril seemed very imminent indeed. Some timber having caught fire, slender fragments of burning wood fell in masses, covering the men as they went, and falling on the barrels, whence the soldiers brushed them off with cool indifference. The dense, thick smoke, too, obscuring every object a few paces distant, added to the confusion, and occasionally bringing the going and returning parties into collision, a loud shout, or cry, would ensue; and it is difficult to conceive how such a sound thrilled through the heart at such a time. I own that more than once I felt a choking fulness in the throat, as I heard a sudden yell, it seemed so like a signal for destruction. In removing one of the last barrels from the hand-barrow, it slipped, and, falling to the ground, the hoops gave way, it burst open, and the powder fell out on every side. The moment was critical, for the wind was baffling, now wafting the sparks clear away, now whirling them in eddies around us. It was then that an old sergeant of grenadiers threw off his upper coat and spread it over the broken cask, while, with all the composure of a man about to rest himself, he lay down on it, while his comrades went to fetch water. Of course his peril was no greater than that of every one around him, but there was an air of quick determination in his act which showed the training of an old soldier. At length the labour was ended, the last barrel was committed to the earth, and the men, formed into line, were ordered to wheel and march. Never shall I forget the bishop’s face as they moved past. The undersized and youthful look of our soldiers had acquired for them a kind of depreciating estimate in comparison with the more mature and manly stature of the British soldier, to whom, indeed, they offered a strong contrast on parade; but now, as they were seen in a moment of arduous duty, surrounded by danger, the steadiness and courage, the prompt obedience to every command, the alacrity of their movements and the fearless intrepidity with which they performed every act, impressed the worthy bishop so forcibly, that he muttered half aloud, ‘Thank Heaven there are so few of them!’
Colonel Charost resisted steadily the bishop’s proffer to afford the men some refreshment; he would not even admit of an extra allowance of brandy to their messes. ‘If we become too liberal for slight services, we shall never be able to reward real ones,’ was his answer; and the bishop was reduced to the expedient of commemorating what he could not reward. This, indeed, he did with the most unqualified praise, relating in the drawing-room all that he had witnessed, and lauding French valour and heroism to the very highest.
The better to conceal my route, and to avoid the chances of being tracked, I sailed that evening in a fishing-boat for Killybegs, a small harbour on the coast of Donegal, having previously exchanged my uniform for the dress of a sailor, so that if apprehended I should pretend to be an Ostend or Antwerp seaman, washed overboard in a gale at sea. Fortunately for me I was not called on to perform this part, for as my nautical experiences were of the very slightest, I should have made a deplorable attempt at the impersonation. Assuredly the fishermen of the smack would not have been among the number of the ‘imposed upon,’ for a more sea-sick wretch never masqueraded in a blue jacket.
My only clue, when I touched land, was a certain Father Doogan, who lived at the foot of the Bluerock Mountains, about fifteen miles from the coast, and to whom I brought a few lines from one of the Irish officers, a certain Bourke of Ballina. The road led in this direction, and so little intercourse had the shore folk with the interior, that it was with difficulty any one could be found to act as a guide thither. At last an old fellow was discovered, who used to travel these mountains formerly with smuggled tobacco and tea; and although, from the discontinuance of the smuggling trade, and increased age, he had for some years abandoned the line of business, a liberal offer of payment induced him to accompany me as guide.
It was not without great misgivings that I looked at the very old and almost decrepit creature who was to be my companion through a solitary mountain region.
The few stairs he had to mount in the little inn where I put up seemed a sore trial to his strength and chest; but he assured me that, once out of the smoke of the town, and with his foot on the ‘short grass of the sheep-patch,’ he’d be like a four-year-old; and his neighbour having corroborated the assertion, I was fain to believe him.
Determined, however, to make his excursion subservient to profit in his old vocation, he provided himself with some pounds of tobacco and a little parcel of silk handkerchiefs, to dispose of amongst the country-people, with which, and a little bag of meal slung at his back, and a walking-stick in his hand, he presented himself at my door just as the day was breaking.
‘We ‘ll have a wet day I fear, Jerry,’ said I, looking out.
‘Not a bit of it,’ replied he. ‘Tis the spring-tides makes it cloudy there beyant; but when the sun gets up it will be a fine mornin’; but I ‘m thinkin’ ye ‘re strange in them parts’; and this he said with a keen, sharp glance under his eyes.
‘Donegal is new to me, I confess,’ said I guardedly.
‘Yes, and the rest of Ireland, too,’ said he, with a roguish leer. ‘But come along, we ‘ve a good step before us;’ and with these words he led the way down the stairs, holding the balustrade as he went, and exhibiting every sign of age and weakness. Once in the street, however, he stepped out more freely, and, before we got clear of the town, walked at a fair pace, and, to all seeming, with perfect ease.
There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The short dry cough, the little husky ‘ay,’ that sounded like anything rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and, more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd grey eyes, told me that I had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and that he read me through and through.
‘And so,’ said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my shipwreck, ‘and so the Flemish sailors wear spurs?’
‘Spurs! of course not; why should they?’ asked I, in some astonishment.
‘Well, but don’t they?’ asked he again.
‘No such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it.’
‘So I thought,’ rejoined he; ‘and when I looked at yer “honour’s” boots’ (it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference), ‘and saw the marks on the heels for spurs, I soon knew how much of a sailor you were.’
‘And if not a sailor, what am I, then?’ asked I; for, in the loneliness of the mountain region where we walked, I could afford to throw off my disguise without risk.
‘Ye’re a French officer of dragoons, and God bless ye; but ye ‘re young to be at the trade. Aren’t I right, now?’
‘Not very far from it, certainly, for I am a lieutenant of hussars,’ said I, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always feel on the mention of our corps.
‘I knew it well all along,’ said he coolly; ‘the way you stood in the room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how you believed me when I spoke of the spring-tides, and the moon only in her second quarter, I saw you never was a sailor, anyhow. And so I set a-thinking what you were. You were too silent for a pedlar, and your hands were too white to be in the smuggling trade; but when I saw your boots, I had the secret at once, and knew ye were one of the French army that landed the other day at Killala.’
‘It was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!’ said I, laughing.
‘Arrah, what use would it be,’ replied he; ‘sure ye ‘re too straight in the back, and your walk is too regular, and your toes turns in too much, for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray you!’
‘So it seems, then, I must try some other disguise,’ said I, ‘if I ‘m to keep company with people as shrewd as you are.’
‘You needn’t,’ said he, shaking his head doubtfully; ‘any that wants to betray ye wouldn’t find it hard.’
I was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without speaking.
‘Yez came too late, four months too late,’ said he, with a sorrowful gesture of the hands. ‘When the Wexford boys was up, and the Kildare chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the north, then, indeed, a few thousand French down here in the west would have made a differ; but what’s the good in it now? The best men we had are hanged or in gaol; some are frightened; more are traitors! ‘Tis too late—too late!’
‘But not too late for a large force landing in the north, to rouse the island to another effort for liberty.’
‘Who would be the gin’ral?’ asked he suddenly.
‘Napper Tandy, your own countryman,’ replied I proudly.
‘I wish ye luck of him!’ said he, with a bitter laugh; ‘‘tis more like mocking us than anything else the French does be, with the chaps they sent here to be gin’rals. Sure it isn’t Napper Tandy, nor a set of young lawyers like Tone and the rest of them, we wanted. It was men that knew how to drill and manage troops—fellows that was used to fightin’; so that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it, at laste. I ‘m ould enough to remimber the “Wild Geese,” as they used to call them—the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in France; and I remimber, too, the sort of men the French were that came over to inspect them—soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them. And a fine sarvice it was. Volte-face! cried he, holding himself erect, and shouldering his stick like a musket, marche! Ha, ha! ye didn’t think that was in me; but I was at the thrade long before you were born.’
‘How is this?’ said I, in amazement; ‘you were not in the French army?’
‘Wasn’t I, though? maybe I didn’t get that stick there.’ And he bared his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from a Highlander’s bayonet. ‘I was at Fontenoy!’
The last few words he uttered with a triumphant pride that I shall never forget. As for me, the mere name was magical. ‘Fontenoy’ was like one of those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it almost seemed impossible that I should see before me a soldier of that glorious battle.
‘Ay, faith!’ he added, ‘‘tis more than fifty, ‘tis nigh sixty years now since that, and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in the regiment “Tourville”; I was recruited for the “Dillon,” but they scattered us about among the other corps afterwards, because we used now and then to be fighting and quarrellin’ among one another. Well, it was the Dillons that gained the battle; for after the English was in the village of Fontenoy, and the French was falling back upon the heights near the wood—arrah, what’s the name of the wood? Sure, I’ll forget my own name next. Ay, to be sure, Verzon—the “Wood of Verzon.” Major Jodillon—that’s what the French called him, but his name was Joe Dillon—turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a farmhouse, and making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire on the English column. It was loaded with grape, and at half-musket range, so you may think what a peppering they got. At last the column halted and lay down; and Joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to bring up artillery to silence our guns. A few minutes more and it would be all over with us. So Joe shouts out as loud as he could, “Cavalry there! tell off by threes, and prepare to charge.” I needn’t tell you that the divil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time; but the English didn’t know that, and, hearin’ the ordher, up they jumps, and we heerd the word passin’, “Prepare to receive cavalry.” They formed square at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a charge as tore a lane right through the middle of them. Before they could recover, we opened a platoon-fire on their flank; they staggered, broke, and at last fell back in disorder upon Aeth, with the whole of the French army after them. Such firin’—grape, round shot, and musketry—I never seed afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it was more like a hunt nor anything else; for ye see the Dutch never came up, but left the English to do all the work themselves, and that’s the reason they couldn’t form, for they had no supportin’ column.
‘It was then I got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin’ that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye see, there’s nothin’ so treacherous as a Highlander. I was just behind one, and had my sword-point between his bladebones ready to run him through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under the short ribs, and that was all I saw of the battle; for I bled till I fainted, and never knew more of what happened. ‘Tisn’t by way of making little of Frenchmen I say it, for I sarved too long wid them for that—but sorra taste of that victory ever they’d see if it wasn’t for the Dillons, and Major Joe that commanded them! The English knows it well, too! Maybe they don’t do us many a spite for it to this very day!’
‘And what became of you after that?’
‘That same summer I came over to Scotland with the young Prince Charles, and was at the battle of Prestonpans afterwards! and, what’s worse, I was at Culloden! Oh, that was the terrible day. We were dead bate before we began the battle. We were on the march from one o’clock the night before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! We lost our way twice, and after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves opposite a milldam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides led us all astray! Then came ordhers to wheel about face and go back again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and almost faintin’ with hunger. Some of us had nothing to eat for two days, and the Prince, I seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a wooden measure of whisky for his own breakfast. Well, it’s no use talking; we were bate, and we retreated to Inverness that night, and next morning we surrendered and laid down our arms—that is, the “Régiment do Tournay” and the “Voltigeurs de Metz,” the corps I was in myself.’
‘And did you return to France?’
‘No; I made my way back to Ireland, and after loiterin’ about home some time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, I took sarvice with one Mister Brooke, of Castle Brooke, in Fermanagh, a young man that was just come of age, and as great a divil, God forgive me, as ever was spawned. He was a Protestant, but he didn’t care much about one side or the other, but only wanted diversion and his own fun out of the world; and faix he took it, too! He had plenty of money, was a fine man to look at, and had courage to face a lion!
‘The first place we went to was Aix-la-Chapelle, for Mr. Brooke was named something—I forget what—to Lord Sandwich, that was going there as an Ambassador.
It was a grand life there while it lasted. Such liveries, such coaches, such elegant dinners every day, I never saw even in Paris. But my master was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he did. There was an ould Austrian there—a Count Riedensegg was his name—-and he was always plottin’ and schamin’ with this, that, and the other; buyin’ up the sacrets of others, and gettin’ at their private papers one way or the other; and at last he begins to thry the same game with us; and as he saw that Mr. Brooke was very fond of high play, and would bet anything one offered him, the ould count sends for a great gambler from Vienna, the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a card. Ye may have heerd of him, tho’ ‘twas long ago that he lived, for he was well known in them times. He was the Baron von Breokendorf, and a great friend afterwards of the Prince Ragint and all the other blaguards in London.
‘Well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with despatches, they said, but sorrow other despatch he carried nor some packs of marked cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he puts up at the Grand Hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries and as much state as a prince. That very day Mr. Brooke dined with the count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards; and, pretending to be only playin’ for silver, they were bettin’ a hundred guineas on every game.
‘I always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few was equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould Nick was playin’ he couldn’t do the thrick nater nor the baron. He made everything come up just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades, or the knave of clubs, there it was for you.
‘Most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein’ the luck so dead agin’ them, and everything goin’ so bad; but my master only smiled, and kept muttering to himself, “Faix, its beautiful; by my conscience its elegant; I never saw anybody could do it like that.” At last the baron stops and asks, “What is it he’s saying to himself?” “I’ll tell you by-and-by,” says my master, “when we’re done playing”; and so on they went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn’t very far from a thousand pounds on a single card. At the end, Mr. Brooke lost everything, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says to him, “Double or quit?” and he tuk it.
‘This time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts; and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one as his own. The baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal. “Wait,” says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper; “wait,” says he; “what are ye doin’ there wid your thumb?” for sure enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack.
‘"Do you mane to insult me?” says the baron, getting mighty red, and throwing down the cards on the table. “Is that what you’re at?”
‘"Go on with the deal,” says Mr. Brooke quietly; “but listen to me,” and here he dropped his voice to a whisper, “as sure as you turn the king of hearts, I’ll send a bullet through your skull! Go on, now, and don’t rise from that seat till you ‘ve finished the game.” Faix he just did as he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and gettin’ up from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there was no more seen of him in Aix-la-Chapelle. But that wasn’t the end of it, for scarce was the baron two posts on his journey when my master sends in his name, and says he wants to speak to Count Riedensegg. There was a long time and a great debatin’, I believe, whether they’d let him in or not; for the count couldn’t make if it was mischief he was after; but at last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed.
‘"Count,” says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was alone, “Count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a baron—an ould blaguard that’s as well known as Preney the robber—but I forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. I know well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our despatches—there, ye needn’t look cross and angry—why wouldn’t ye do it, just as the baron always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. Well, now, I’m just in the humour to sarve you. They’re not trating me as they ought here, and I’m going away, and if you’ll give me a few letthers to some of the pretty women in Vienna, Katinka Batthyani, and Amalia Gradoffseky, and one or two men in the best set, I’ll send you in return something that will surprise you.”
‘It was after a long time and great batin’ about the bush, that the ould count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he consented.
‘"There it is,” says Mr. Brooke, “there’s the whole key to our correspondence; study it well, and I’ll bring you a sacret despatch in the evening—something that will surprise you.”
‘"Ye will—will ye?” says the count.
‘"On the honour of an Irish gentleman, I will,” says Mr. Brooke.
‘The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met; and telling them to treat him with every consideration.
‘"There will be another account of me,” says the master to me, “by the post; but I ‘ll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no more.”
‘And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna, without lave or license, and that’s the way he got dismissed from his situation.’
‘And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him any intelligence?’
‘He kept his word, like a gentleman; he promised him something that would surprise him, and so he did. He sent him “The Weddin’ of Ballyporeen” in cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they ‘ve never got to the right understandin’ it yet.’
‘I’m curious to hear how he was received in Vienna, after this,’ said I. ‘I suppose you accompanied him to that city?’
‘Troth I did, and a short life we led there. But here we are now, at the end of our journey. That’s Father Doogan’s down there, that small, low, thatched house in the hollow.’
‘A lonely spot, too. I don’t see another near it for miles on any side.’
‘Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes isn’t over good; but I don’t think there’s any smoke coming out of the chimley.’
‘You are right—there is not.’
‘He’s not at home, then, and that’s a bad job for us, for there’s not another place to stop the night in.’
‘But there will be surely some one in the house.’
‘Most likely not; ‘tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when he’s at home, and I’m sure he’s not there now.’
This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze, intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak forest. A brown, mournful tint was over everything—sky and landscape alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining course along took the same colour from the gravelly bed it flowed over. Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and still.
‘There’s few would like to pass their lives down there, then!’ said my companion, as if speaking to himself.
‘I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters.’
‘Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He’s a friar of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there wasn’t his equal for other tongues in all Europe. They wanted him to stop and be the head of a college somewhere in Spain, but he wouldn’t. “There was work to do in Ireland,” he said, and there he’d go, and to the wildest and laste civilised bit of it besides; and ye see that he was not far ont in his choice when he took Murrah.’
‘Is he much liked here by the people?’
‘They’d worship him, if he’d let them, that’s what it is; for if he has more larnin’ and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in Ireland, there’s not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. He that knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the world’s going, and what’s comin’ afther her, hasn’t a thought for the wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! He could tell you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment, and I don’t think he’d know which end of the spade goes into the ground.’
While we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the windows, was closely barred and fastened. The great padlock, however, on the former, with characteristic acuteness, was looked without being hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter.
A roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall; and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunderstorm had already burst, and the rain was now swooping along in torrents.
While he was thus busied, I took a ramble through the little cabin, curious to see something of the ‘interior’ of one whose life had already interested me. There were but two small chambers, one at either side of the kitchen. The first I entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being a common bed, or a tressel like that of a hospital, a little coloured print of St. Michael adorning the wall overhead. The bed-covering was cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and the black ‘soutane’ of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show long years of service. The few articles of any pretensions to comfort were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and a few pencil-drawings, appeared. All seemed as if he had just quitted the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within, the leaves of a little book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it, still waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly enough betrayed it to be by his own hands.
I inspected everything with an interest inspired by all I had been hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his humble library, to trace, if I might, some due to his habits in his readings. They were all, however, of one cast and character—religious tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. It was easy to see that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he permitted himself to indulge. What a strange life of privation, thought I, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and unpromising, I perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk.
Curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, I drew aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little coloured sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry and much-worn uniform of a drummer. I started. Something flashed suddenly across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not unknown to me. Was I awake, or were my senses misleading me? I took it down and held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands permitted, I spelled out at the foot of the drawing, the words ‘Le Petit Maurice, as I saw him last.’ Yes, it was my own portrait, and the words were in the writing of my dearest friend in the world, the Père Michel. Scarce knowing what I did, I ransacked books and papers on every side, to confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found, I had no difficulty in recognising his hand, now so forcibly recalled to my memory.
Hastening into the kitchen, I told my guide that I must set out to Murrah at once, that it was, above all, important that I should see the priest immediately. It was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the fatigue of going farther, that the storm was increasing, the mountain torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be discovered after dark; I could not brook the thought of delay, and would not listen to the detail of difficulties. ‘I must see him and I will,’ were my answers to every obstacle. If I were resolved on one side, he was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me unconvinced, he boldly declared that I might go alone, if I would, but that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any one.
There was nothing in the shape of argument I did not essay. I tried bribery, I tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all—and all with the like result. ‘Wherever he is to-night, he’ll not leave it, that’s certain,’ was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and I retired beaten from the contest, and disheartened. Twice I left the cottage, resolved to make the journey alone, but the utter darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me the impracticability of the attempt, and I retraced my steps crest-fallen and discomfited. The most intense curiosity to know how and by what chances he had come to Ireland mingled with my ardent desire to meet him. What stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! Nor was it without pride that I bethought me of the position I then held—an officer of a hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and high on the list for promotion. If I hoped, too, that many of the good father’s prejudices against the career I followed would give way to the records of my own past life, I also felt how, in various respects, I had myself conformed to many of his notions. We should be dearer, closer friends than ever. This I was sure of.
I never slept the whole night through. Tired and weary as the day’s journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and I walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out, and peer for coming dawn. Never did hours lag so lazily. The darkness seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an atmosphere loaded with vapour.
‘This is a day for the chimney-corner, and thankful to have it we ought to be,’ said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which he was preparing our breakfast. ‘Father Doogan will be home here afore night, I’m sure, and as we have nothing better to do, I’ll tell you some of our old adventures when I lived with Mr. Brooke. Twill sarve to pass the time, anyway.’
‘I’m off to Murrah, as soon as I have eaten something,’ replied I.
‘Tis little you know what a road it is,’ said he, smiling dubiously. ‘‘Tis four mountain rivers you ‘d have to cross, two of them, at least, deeper than your head, and there’s the pass of Barnascorney, where you ‘d have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of feet below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four! There ‘s never a man in the barony would venture over the same path with a storm ragin’ from the nor’-west.’
‘I never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain,’ said I, laughing contemptuously.
‘Arrah, didn’t ye, then? then maybe ye never lived in parts where the heaviest ploughs and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin are flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn out of the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the spars of a shipwreck.’
‘But so long as a man has hands to grip with——’
‘How ye talk! sure, when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by the roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their place; when the very shingle on the mountain-side is flying about like dust and sand, where would your grip be? It is not only on the mountains either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many’s the time a sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea.’
With many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little meal of potatoes. Some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence, but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. He displayed all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on unwilling ears, and when our meal was over I started up and began to prepare for the road.
‘So you will go, will you?’ said he peevishly. ‘‘Tis in your country to be obstinate, so I ‘ll say nothing more; but maybe ‘tis only into throubles you ‘d be running, after all!’
‘I’m determined on it,’ said I, ‘and I only ask you to tell me what road to take.’
‘There is only one, so there is no mistakin’ it; keep to the sheep-path, and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye can. And when ye come to four big rocks in the plain, leave them to your left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, till ye see the smoke of the village underneath you. Murrah is a small place, and ye’ll have to look out sharp, or maybe ye’ll miss it.’
‘That’s enough,’ said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed it. ‘We ‘ll probably meet no more; good-bye, and many thanks for your pleasant company.’
‘No, we’re not like to meet again,’ said he thoughtfully, ‘and that’s the reason I’d like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me, now,’ said he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; ‘you can’t go far in this country without being known; ‘tisn’t your looks alone, but your voice, and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as you can! there’s thraitors in every cause, and there’s chaps in Ireland would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry. Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Islay or Barra; get anywhere out of this for the time.’
‘Thanks for the counsel,’ said I, somewhat coldly, ‘I’ll have time to think over it as I go along;’ and with these words I set forth on my journey.