[1]Our Celtic ancestors believed that the raven was gifted with the power, among others, of describing the quality and character of any person or animal approaching the house. If a soldier is coming it cries “grob, grob”; if a layman, “bacach, bacach”; if one in holy orders, “gradh, gradh!” etc; if wolves, as above.[2]This belief was common in the old days in Ireland, and wolf stories still survive in the Celtic romances which have come down to us.
[1]Our Celtic ancestors believed that the raven was gifted with the power, among others, of describing the quality and character of any person or animal approaching the house. If a soldier is coming it cries “grob, grob”; if a layman, “bacach, bacach”; if one in holy orders, “gradh, gradh!” etc; if wolves, as above.
[1]Our Celtic ancestors believed that the raven was gifted with the power, among others, of describing the quality and character of any person or animal approaching the house. If a soldier is coming it cries “grob, grob”; if a layman, “bacach, bacach”; if one in holy orders, “gradh, gradh!” etc; if wolves, as above.
[2]This belief was common in the old days in Ireland, and wolf stories still survive in the Celtic romances which have come down to us.
[2]This belief was common in the old days in Ireland, and wolf stories still survive in the Celtic romances which have come down to us.
(From the Memoirs of an Officer of the Irish Brigade).
I waslittle over twenty when, as one of “The Wild Geese,” I entered, in the year 1695, the infantry regiment of the Honourable Charles Dillon, who was serving under the Marquis de Sylvestre, then conducting a campaign against the Spaniards in Catalonia. I was travel-stained and weary when towards the close of a May evening I arrived in camp, and, having shown my credentials, I was directed to the quarters of the Irish regiment, and very glad I was to receive the hospitality of the mess, I need not say that they gave meCead mile failte. Every recruit to their ranks seemed to bring with him some of the atmosphere of the home which so many of them were destined to see nevermore—the home which often rose before them in a vision on battle eves, and to which they so often returned in their dreams. After the first fervent welcome was over, and after the many enquiries as to how affairs were in Ireland, they began to recount the services of the regiment, and to sing the praises of their gallant colonel. They spoke of battles and sieges of which I had never heard, but in which they hadparticipated, and in all of which Colonel Dillon had taken a distinguished part. Many of them bore on their persons evidences of fierce encounters, but they said nothing in praise of themselves; ’twas all of the colonel, who was, they said, as beloved by every man serving under him as he was esteemed by the great generals of the army of King Louis. These enconiums naturally heightened my desire to meet Colonel Dillon.
I informed my new comrades that I was the younger son of a County Mayo family, who were friends of the colonel’s, and that I brought with me letters of recommendation from his kinsmen, the Lallys of Tullenaghdaly.
“You come well credited, young gentleman,” said the senior sergeant, whose name, I learned later, was O’Kelly, a man of forty or thereabouts, whose right cheek was marked by a sabre slash, and whose left sleeve was empty (I heard afterwards that he had lost his arm the previous year at the capture of Palamos from the Spaniards), “and you are sure of a hearty welcome from our colonel; but let me tell you, without offence, that if you came with nothing but your sword you would be equally sure of a cordial welcome, for our colonel esteems his men for their valour, and not for birth or connections, and if I may say it, without boasting, wherever he leads we follow, and will, boys, to the end. Here’s to the colonel!”
Every man rose to his feet. There was a clinkingof glasses, and a cheer that nearly lifted the roof off the tent.
I joined heartily in the toast, and made an indifferent attempt to take part in the chorus of a song which followed, but my eyelids began to feel very heavy, and, notwithstanding my efforts, were closing on my eyes.
This was noticed by my comrades, and one of them got up, and, putting his arm around me as tenderly as if I were a child, said:—
“You’re tired out, my lad. Come with me, you can’t see the colonel to-night; he is dining with the Marquis; but, to-morrow when you are refreshed, I’ll take you to his quarters.”
I bade my new friends a sleepy good-night, and remembered nothing till I heard thereveillesound the next morning. I started up to find myself lying in a tent with a half-dozen others. For a moment I was a little bewildered. I rubbed my eyes. The bugle had ceased, and I heard the voices of the birds saluting the bright May morning. The curtain of the tent had been withdrawn, and the bright light and the sweet air came in.
“You can lie there as long as you like,” said one of my comrades. “There’s no need for you to get up yet.”
But I was eager to be up and about. It was a glorious morning. The sun shone from a cloudless sky, and the tents, stretching far, were flashing in its light. Everywhere was stir and motion, andmany salutations of comrade to comrade resounded on all sides.
I was delighted with the scene, the well-ordered tents with wide streets between, the flags and bannerets fluttering in the brisk morning air, the bustling soldiers, the neighing horses, the fanfare of the trumpets. It was just the scene to captivate the heart of a youth. Here was all the glorious pageantry of war untarnished, and that buoyant sense of life that forbade all thoughts of disaster or defeat, and their woeful consequences.
“That tent yonder,” said one of my comrades, who was drying his hair after dipping his head in a bucket of water, “with the French standard over it is the tent of the Lieutenant-General, the Marquis de Sylvestre, and that to the right of it at the end of our lines is the colonel’s. The Marshal, the Duke de Noailles ought to be in command, but he is ill, and the marquis takes his place.”
Just then Sergeant O’Kelly came up to me.
“I am glad to see you looking so fresh, young gentleman,” said he, “this morning. We shall have breakfast soon, and after it you shall call on the colonel. The marquis intends to inspect all the troops to-day, and we must be early on parade. Hard work is expected in a day or two, and as the colonel is likely to be very busy you had better see him as soon as possible.”
About nine o’clock I presented myself at thecolonel’s tent, and learned that he had just finished breakfast.
I handed my letters to the guard, and requested him to send them to the colonel. He called one of the colonel’s servants and gave him the letters. In a few seconds the servant returned, and ushered me into the presence of his master.
Young as I was I was surprised at his youth. He hardly looked his twenty-five years, and he was one of the handsomest men I had ever seen. He looked every inch a soldier—tall, well-knit and with an indefinable suggestion of strength and activity in his shapely figure. I bowed as I entered, and before I had well lifted up my head his hands were on my shoulders.
“You’re welcome, my lad,” said he in the cheeriest voice, “and you are not a day older than I was when I joined, and you are from the old country, too. Well, I wish ’twas in my power to do something for you for your people’s sake and for your own; but, you see, since the new formation of the Irish army of King James in the French service many Irish gentlemen who had served as officers at home in the Williamite wars, have been reduced; some even to the rank of privates, and not a few are in my regiment in that category, and it would be invidious of me were I to put a youth like you above them; but,courage mon camarade, there are stirring times before us, and Dillon’s regiment is sure to be found where the bullets fall thickest andwhere ranks are thinned, and a gentleman is sure of promotion if he be put beyond caring for it.”
Here the colonel paused for a second, and looking full in my eyes, added, “if he win his spurs.”
I confess I was a little disappointed. I had hoped that, backed up as I was by my family connections and my letters of recommendation, I would have obtained the post of ensign. The colonel doubtless noticed my disappointment.
“You were in camp last night?” he said.
“Yes, colonel.”
“With whom did you stay?”
“In Sergeant O’Kelly’s tent,” I replied.
“Sergeant O’Kelly!” he exclaimed. “By right of service and of valour, since he came to France, he should be captain. He was one in Ireland; he has not grumbled at his reduction.”
I felt the rebuke.
“I shall be glad to serve under him, colonel,” I said.
“Good, my lad. You will serve under a gallant Irish gentleman, and it will not be his fault if he does not give yon a thousand chances of ‘a bed on the field of honour.’ “Death or Victory” is the motto of the regiment.”
An officer riding up to the tent announced that the lieutenant-general was waiting for the colonel.
“Au revoir, mon camarade,” as he held out his hand to me, adding, with a laugh, “perhaps you have not yet caught up this foreign lingo, which wouldhardly pass current in the County Mayo. Soslan leat.”
The colonel vaulted lightly into his saddle, and many an admiring eye followed him as he rode with tossing plumes towards the tent of the Lieutenant-General, the Marquis de Sylvestre.
I returned to that of Sergeant O’Kelly.
“Well, young gentleman, you saw the colonel, and what did he say to you and what do you think of him.”
“I think he is worth fighting with,” I replied, “and worth dying with, and he said—well he said that in serving under you I should serve under a gallant Irish gentleman who would give me every chance of death or glory.”
The sergeant drew himself up.
“My faith, lad, the colonel himself will give it you, but I am proud to have you with me.”
For the next week we were kept very busy. The colonel was a strict disciplinarian, and his men were exercised for several hours every day. I quickly picked up a fair knowledge of my duties, and it was with a certain self-confidence I heard the news that we were ordered to revictual Ostalric which had been captured from the Spaniards a year or two previously. The task was easily accomplished, as the enemy retired on our approach, but when returning towards the evening, our regiment, which formed the rearguard, was suddenly attacked by over three thousandmiqueletsorguerillas. They seemed tohave sprung out of the ground, and charged us with the utmost fury; but our men, facing round, were as steady as a rock against which the wave dashes impotently. Some of the guerillas impaled themselves on our bayonets, and a well-directed volley threw their front ranks into confusion.
Our colonel, who had been riding in front, dashed round and put himself at our head.
“Charge, boys!” and quick as the flash of his sword in the sun, he was in the midst of the enemy.
We followed him with a ringing cheer. I was half beside myself with excitement. The rattle of the musketry and the smell of powder were intoxicating. Suddenly I was blinded. A warm spurt that I knew instinctively was the blood of a wounded comrade hit me in the eyes. I put up my hand; then I felt a sharp pang, and remember nothing more of the combat.
I learned afterwards that it lasted only a few minutes. Themiqueletswere driven off, leaving many dead and wounded on the field, and they vanished almost as quickly as they had appeared.
We had only two killed and three or four wounded, of which I was one. I was hit in the breast.
When I came to myself I was in hospital, and learned that the colonel had been frequent in his inquiries, as had also O’Kelly, who had distinguished himself in the repulse of the enemy.
My wound was rather serious; however, I expectedto be up and about in a few months. But in this I was disappointed, for when it was nearly healed, owing to my headstrong ways, as I insisted on leaving my bed too soon, it broke out afresh, so it came to pass that I missed several engagements, notably the raising of the siege of Palamos by the Duke of Vendome, in which our regiment took part, defeating the combined Spanish and English forces, and the subsequent defeat of the Spanish cavalry under the Prince of Hesse Darmstadt, who had fought at the Boyne. Like every other Irishman I would have given one of my eyes for a blow at the English enemy; but the day was to come.
Well, well; all this was a good many years ago. I was a stripling then. I am an old man now; but I am not writing a history of my life, and, indeed, I began this story not intending to speak much of myself, but only to relate a curious incident which made a very deep impression on me that time has not yet wholly effaced, but old men are apt to be garrulous, and old soldiers like to talk of the
“Battles, fortunes and sieges through which they have passed.”
“Battles, fortunes and sieges through which they have passed.”
“Battles, fortunes and sieges through which they have passed.”
While I was lying ill of my wound outside Ostalric, I was attended by one of the men of Dillon’s regiment who also had been wounded, though slightly, in the affair, and who I learned afterwards had begged permission to attend me as a special favour. He was as tender to me as a woman could havebeen, but he was curiously reserved, seldom speaking except when spoken to, and there was a sad look in his eyes which scarcely left them even when he smiled, which he rarely did, provoked by some sally of mine. He was a brave man they told me afterwards—they who themselves were brave—fought like a devil, they said, and was never wounded except in that affair of Ostalric, and that was when trying to save me, who was nearly trampled to death when I fell.
Well, in time I recovered my full health and strength, and rejoined my regiment along with my kind attendant, whose name, by the way, was Ryan, from the borders of Limerick and Tipperary, and I was in time to take part in the reduction of Barcelona in the year 1697.
It was one of the most difficult tasks of the French commander, the Duke of Vendome. The fortifications were so strong as to be deemed almost impregnable, and were defended by at least two hundred and forty pieces of artillery. The garrison consisted of eleven thousand regular troops and four thousand militia, and there was also one thousand five hundred cavalry, and it was well supplied with munitions of war. A complete investment was impracticable owing to the compass of the walls and the outlying very strong fortress of Monjuich, situated on a lofty hill, commanding the town and port and a large extent of the plain. Moreover, the Count de Velasco lay encamped about six milesoutside the town with a force mustering, all told, about twenty thousand men, mostly composed, it is true, of irregulars and guerillas. The French troops did not amount to quite thirty thousand men, including the marines landed from the fleet.
We approached the town on the 13th of July, Vendome having the day before surprised and routed the Count de Velasco, and on our approach the Spaniards abandoned the Convent of the Capuchins, which was some distance from the walls, and the Duke of Vendome ordered our regiment to occupy it, and that night I found myself for the first time in my life in a convent cell, having Ryan as my comrade.
The cell was small, and bore evidence not very agreeable of its recent occupation by the Spanish soldiery, but Ryan, who persisted in treating me as if he were my servant, soon set to work, cleaned it out, and brought in some hay and made comfortable beds for himself and me in opposite corners of the cell. It was quite bare of furniture of any kind, but this we did not miss, as we were to use it only for sleeping quarters.
We turned in about half-past ten, and I was soon sound asleep. I was awakened by a shout from Ryan:
“Did you see it? Did you see it?”
“See what?” I answered bewildered.
The moon was shining in through the window and the cell was half in light and half in shadow. The moonlight fell on Ryan’s share of it. I sawthat he was sitting up and that his usually dark face was very pale, and there was a wild gleam in his eyes.
“What was it?” I repeated.
“Oh nothing! What a fool I am. I had a horrible nightmare. I am sorry for disturbing you.”
“Well, you did startle me, I confess,” said I. He lay down again, and I did likewise, and slept without interruption until morning. I thought no more of the incident of the previous night, although I could not help noticing that my companion’s face looked rather haggard.
Our second night in the cell passed, for me, very quietly, and Ryan said nothing to suggest that it was otherwise with him. The third night the incident of the first night was repeated. Ryan started up, shouting:
“Did you see it? Did you see it?”
I jumped from my bed and struck a light. The cell was, of course, empty, the door fast closed.
“I am afraid you are ill, comrade,” said I, and as I went towards him I could see the perspiration in large beads on his forehead, and he was trembling like a scared child.
“Yes, yes, I must be getting ill, I suppose—but you saw nothing?” he added eagerly.
“Of course I saw nothing,” I replied. “What was there to see?”
“And—and you saw nothing on the wall there?”He pointed his hand towards one of the walls of the cell.
“Nothing. Wake up, man. You are still dreaming.”
He shuddered like one feeling a sudden chill, and then he said:
“It’s very foolish of me, and I’m sorry to be such a trouble to you.”
“Oh, that is nothing,” I said. “You had better see the doctor in the morning.”
The next day there was no time to see the doctor. We were early under arms, and marched several miles in the direction of Llobregat on a reconnoitring expedition. The day was very warm, and a good part of the way was rough, and when we returned to our quarters in the evening, I, for one, was pretty well tired out, and Ryan confessed to me that he was also; but I suspected that a hardened soldier such as he, was not fatigued by the march, and that want of rest and the disturbance of the previous nights were what had done him up.
“I expect to sleep well to-night,” he said, as we extinguished our lights.
“And I also,” said I.
But we were to be disappointed. Towards midnight a terrific thunderstorm burst over the town and our camp, and the rain came down in torrents. Nevertheless our battalions in the trenches, which had been opened the night before, were pushing on their work. The enemy suspecting this turned onthem the fire of forty pieces of cannon, which, notwithstanding the tempest, were very well served, and gave the quietus to not a few of our men. The booming of the guns and the peals of thunder made sleep impossible. Suddenly a vivid flash of lightning illumined the cell.
“My God! my God! Do you see him now?” cried Ryan in a tone of agony.
I was spellbound. I couldn’t answer.
There, standing between Ryan and me, was the figure of a Capuchin monk in his brown habit and cowl, and holding up in his hand a plain unfigured cross that in the lightning gleamed like fire. I saw the figure only for a second or two. It retreated towards the door and vanished.
“Look at the wall, look at the wall!” cried Ryan, hoarsely.
I looked, and on the wall appeared a cross, also without a figure, but this too disappeared in a second.
The roar of the tempest still continued, and the booming of the guns. Sleep now was out of the question. I got up and dressed myself. Ryan, who appeared unable to speak or move, lay back in his bed, his eyes closed. I roused him up.
“Tell me, did you see him, did you see him?” he whispered, clutching convulsively my arm.
“Let us get up and go down to the guard room,” I said. “The day is breaking, and we are not likely to sleep any more, and you are ill.”
Ryan dressed himself, and we went down, he more dead than alive, to the guard room. His illness was manifest to all, and he was quickly restored by portion of the contents of a brandy flask which seemed to work wonders with him.
We did not sleep in the cell again, and the weather being very warm we were not sorry when sometime after we were ordered to the outlying posts of the left wing of our army.
Before we quitted the convent I paid a visit, in the daytime, to the cell. There was nothing about it to suggest a ghostly visitant; but, on looking at one of the end walls, I noticed the faint sign of a cross. I was considerably startled by it, but on closer examination, I discovered it was such a mark as anything placed against a wall for a long time generally leaves, less through its own action as to that of the atmosphere, on the uncovered portion of the walls. But it did seem a little strange that it should be on the very part of the wall on which I had seen the vision of a cross. Perhaps, I said to myself, Ryan had noticed this mark, and it worked in some way on his disordered imagination. But this could not explain the vision as seen by myself, either of the cross or of the Capuchin, and it was with a feeling akin to awe that I left the cell for the last time, wondering whether anything would ever occur which might throw a light on the mystery.
Ryan, who shared the bivouac with me, hadbegged me not to mention to anyone what he fancied (as he put it) he had seen, for I had not told him that I had seen anything, and, after my promise to this effect, he never alluded to the matter; but I noticed that, henceforth, he became, even for him, unusually reserved, and that there was a deep seated trouble in his eyes; but he continued to be attentive, more attentive, if possible, to me than before.
For some weeks we lay close to the outposts, chafing under the inactivity to which we were condemned. Meanwhile, the trenches were being pushed forward, and, at intervals, we saw the flash and heard the roar of the cannon from the ramparts; but this after a time ceased to have much interest for us. Occasionally there were rumours of an attempt about to be made by the enemy to revictual Barcelona, where provisions had run low; but they came to nothing, and they no longer served to rouse any hope of a brush with the Spaniards.
At last, however, the scouts brought us the news that nearly the whole of the enemy’s cavalry were moving from the side of Llobregat, covering a large convoy, which they hoped to be able under the protection of the guns of Fort Monjuich, to take safely into the town. The Duke at once despatched a large body of troops to intercept the convoy, but, unfortunately, as we thought, we were not of the number, and expected another idle day at our posts. But our troops had hardly moved outagainst the enemy when from a mountain in the rear of the posts a large body of Spanish infantry swept down like a torrent, while from around its base appeared several hundred cavalry. Their object, of course, was to effect a diversion. They could not have hoped for a surprise; still, I confess, they came on so suddenly and so swiftly, that we had but just time to be ready to receive them.
We repelled their first fierce onset. They came on again and again, but under the steady fire of our men, aided by the fire from the French regiment under Colonel Solre, they at last gave way and broke, the cavalry galloping off down the valley and the infantry climbing the hill like goats, but with our colonel at our head we climbed up after them, pausing only to fire and bring them down in dozens. Foremost in the ascent was Ryan. With difficulty I kept within view of him, and when at length I reached the top of the mountain with several others, I found him lying thoroughly exhausted, and in his eyes was the wild look which I had noticed on the occasion of the apparitions. His musket was some paces from him.
Fortunately close to where he was lying was a mountain spring of perfectly cool, clear water. I filled my shako with it, and put it to his lips. The draught revived him and I sat down beside him, glad enough of the rest. Ryan continued silent and so did I, gazing down on the magnificent panorama that lay stretched before me—the wide,far-reaching plains, the camp and the beleaguered town all framed in the blue gleaming waters of the Mediterranean. Away in the distance to the far right a cloud of dust and smoke and an incessant rattle of musketry betrayed the whereabouts of the conflict between our troops and the Spanish cavalry. On the mountain the firing had ceased, except for a stray shot. The escaped Spaniards had fled precipitately down its opposite side. Our colonel ordered the recall to be sounded, and with the light hearts of victors we stepped down the mountain to our posts, counting on our way some hundreds of killed of the enemy.
The attack on the convoy was successful. The Spanish cavalry were put to flight, though not until after a sturdy resistance, and the convoy fell into our hands. This decided the fate of the siege, for the next day negotiations for the surrender of Barcelona were opened up, and on that very day the Marshal the Duke de Vendome rode down to our posts and publicly thanked Colonel Dillon and the Irish regiment for their services and complimented them on their matchless valour, and, indeed, to the last day of his life the gallant Duke never missed saying a good word for the soldiers of the Irish Brigade, and he insisted that no one had better opportunities of knowing what they could do in the face of an enemy.
For several days Ryan continued very silent and was almost morose, but on the day before that onwhich the enemy were to march out from Barcelona he found me as I was lying by a small stream at the base of the mountain up which we had chased the Spaniards, and enjoying what to me then was a novel luxury—a pipe.
“Would you mind coming up a bit of the mountain,” said he to me gravely, “I want to speak to you.”
The request seemed strange as the nearest soldiers were several yards away from where we were, but I rose and followed him. When we had ascended about thirty or forty yards he sat down under a bush and I beside him. I waited for him to speak.
“I saw him again,” he said, “when I came up here the other day. I had just reached the spot where you found me. I aimed, as I thought, at the back of a flying Spanish trooper. He whom I took for the trooper turned round. It was he.”
“Who?” I asked, although I anticipated the answer.
“The Capuchin!” and Ryan trembled as he said the word.
“I cannot bear it any longer. I must confess at last. God grant I have not done you irreparable wrong.”
“Me!”
“You! You are one of the Browns of the County Mayo; the youngest son of that Captain Brown, who, when he was not much older thanyou, fought against Cromwell and lost his patrimony, but who afterwards, having been an exile with Charles II. regained it, though not till several years after the Restoration.”
“And what do you know of him or his family?” I asked curiously.
“Not much more than I have told you,” he replied, to my surprise, “except that your father went abroad again, and died not long after you were born.”
“That is so,” I said.
“Your mother had not received a communication from him for some time prior to his death.”
“But how do you know that?”
“Let me go on,” he replied, “I shall be the sooner finished. He died in Madrid, and he sent home papers and valuables through a Spanish Capuchin monk, who was visiting Ireland on a mission, which, I understood, was part political and part religious.”
“From whom did you learn this?”
“From himself.”
“The monk?”
“Yes. He was riding by where I lived on a lonely, bare spot, that you may chance to have heard of, Knockcreggan. The night was bad, dark, and wild; the road couldn’t be worse. It was like the bed of a torrent, huge stones and boulders everywhere. Just opposite the door of my cabin the horse stumbled and fell.I heard a cry, and went out and found the prostrate monk bleeding badly from a wound over his temple. I brought him in, put him down on a truss of straw, and bandaged him as well as I could.
“After a while, for he was at first unconscious, he spoke faintly, and asked for ‘more light.’ I made a blazing fire of turf, and lit a couple of candles—all I had.
“‘I know I am dying,’ he said, ‘are you a Catholic?’ I told him I was.
“‘I am a monk,’ he said ‘a Spanish Capuchin monk. I want you to swear on this cross that you will do what I ask you; it being only an act of charity,’ and he held up the cross which had been hidden in the breast of his riding coat.
“It blazed, my God! as I saw it blaze in the cell the night of the storm,” and Ryan shuddered, although we were then in the full light of the evening, and the bustling camp below us. “I took the oath on the cross,” Ryan went on to say, “to carry to the captain’s widow—your mother—two parcels, one of papers, which the monk told me, while of the greatest importance to your family were of no use to strangers; and another containing some gold and valuable jewels.
“‘You will be well paid for your trouble, I know,’ the monk said to me; ‘but promise me again on the cross that you will deliver both these parcels safe and sound, and will not touch coin or jewel.If you do, I warn you, you will be struck dead when you least expect it, and by an invisible and supernatural hand. But tell no one of your mission.’
“The monk died that night. I sent for the neighbours, and we waked him and buried him, and I thought of setting out for your mother’s house, but the weather grew worse and worse, and the roads were impassable. ’Twas unlucky for me. I meant well, and intended to do what I promised, but the temptation came to me to look at the purse, and when I saw the gold and the jewels shining, the temptation came to me to keep ’em—who would be the wiser, and I was poor? I was living alone there on the side of the Knock, and here was a fortune in my hands. Well, the temptation grew stronger, and I yielded. I kept the money, and went to Dublin and spent it, and I sold the jewels, and when the money got for them was nearly all gone, the troubles broke out and the Viscount raised the regiment for the young colonel, and I joined it. And ’tis many and many’s the time I’ve looked death in the face since, and he passed me by. And when I saw you I thought I’d try and make up for my crime some little bit, and that I’d guard and give my life for you.”
I was so amazed at the story that I did not speak for a moment or two after he had concluded.
“Will you forgive me, for God’s sake?”
“The papers,” I said. “What about the papers?”
“I have them here,” he said, “here!” And with his bayonet point he ripped open the lining of his coat and produced a bundle of papers in a leathern wrapper. “I never opened them. I could not read. I don’t know what is in them. I thought they might be of use some day, and that I could give them up to the rightful owner, as I am doing now.”
I took the papers like one in a dream. I rose without another word, and went down the mountain. I sought out a sequestered spot where I was sure to be uninterrupted, opened the package and read. Well, it boots nothing to anyone now to know what was in them. There were family secrets which, if revealed at the time, would have changed the current of many lives, including my own; but it could serve nothing but a selfish purpose of my own were I to reveal them now; so having read the papers, and dropped a tear over the handwriting of him who was my father, I tore the papers into bits, set them alight, and waited until every vestige was consumed.
Ryan avoided me for the next few days, but if I had any resentment against him it died out. I might still have taken advantage of the information given by the papers, but deliberately decided not to do so. As for the money and the trinkets—well, they were gone, and Ryan had suffered terribly, was still suffering, had risked his life and shed his blood at Ostalric to save mine.
We did not meet again until we entered Barcelona, the enemy having marched out. That night it chanced that both he and I were ordered for duty on the ramparts as sentries. Before our time came I went to him, and holding out my hand, said, “Ryan, I forgive you with all my heart, and forget.”
“Buthewon’t,” he replied with a slight tremor.
“Nonsense,” I said, “you have confessed your wrong-doing, and all is over. You shall never see him again.”
The clock of the cathedral had sounded midnight. The officers went their rounds, and I from my station was looking down on the port and out over the Mediterranean, scarcely stirring beneath the stars. The clock sounded one. All was quiet. Two o’clock struck. Suddenly I heard fierce voices of challenge given in Spanish. I was on the alert, but could see nothing. The voices appeared to be in the air, and to come close to the ramparts. I shook myself to see if I were wide awake, but the voices continued. Then I heard the sentries challenging “Qui vive?” one after another. I too challenged. A musket shot rang through the night. The cry to arms was raised, and the ramparts were quickly crowded with officers and men. In the east the day was breaking. Its full light was soon on the ramparts. Men looked curiously at each other. The sentries questioned, all repeated the same story. They heard the voices, as they thought, of Spanish soldiers, and had replied by challenging.
Who fired the shot?
There was not much need to ask. Ryan was lying dead close to one of the batteries. His musket, which had been exploded, lay beside him. Even in death his face wore the scared look of a man who had seen a dreadful vision. I shuddered as I looked at him, and thought of the threat of the Capuchin of the “invisible and supernatural hand.” I kept my own counsel. I myself never heard anything after that night, but others did, or thought so, and this fact is attested by Captain Drake, of Drakerath, in the county of Meath, who was of our regiment, and one of the coolest and bravest officers of the brigade, and who has set forth in his memoirs that he, while on night duty on the ramparts, thought he saw and heard the Spectre of Barcelona.
“Didyou ever see a ghost, Tim?”
“No, then; I don’t mane to say I ever see a ghost, nor I don’t mane to say that I didn’t nayther; but maybe I see more than any of ye ever saw in your born days,” said old Tim Kerrigan, as he stooped over the hearth, and, picking up a sod of turf, put the fire to his dhudeen.
His listeners were a group of light-hearted youngsters (of whom I was one), who turned in to old Tim’s one Christmas Eve a good many years ago, and who, seated round the fire, were trying to coax him to tell them some of his supernatural experiences, which, if Tim were to be relied on, were as numerous as they were varied. Tim, at the time, was an old man of about five-and-seventy, still hardy and supple; but his brown face—“brown as the ribbed sea-sand”—was full of wrinkles. Over these wrinkles he appeared to us, youngsters, to have wonderful power. He had a trick of pursing, and withdrawing, and inflating his lips before answering any question put to him, with the result that the wrinkles appeared to close in and to open out after the manner of the bellows of a concertina, and when, at the same time, he contracted his forehead, and brought his shaggy, grey eyebrowsdown over his bright, little, brown eyes, they peered out from under them in such a way as to bear a curious resemblance to those of a rabbit peeping out under the edge of his burrow.
“Troth and maybe I did,” repeated Tim, “see more nor any of ye ever saw, and maybe more than wud be good for any of ye to see, ayther.”
“Oh, we don’t doubt you, Tim,” said I, putting in a word to mollify him; “But that was a long time ago, for none ofthemthings are going about now.”
“Ar’n’t they!” said Tim. “How mighty clever some people thinks they are.” And he took three or four strong whiffs of his dhudeen and sent a blue cloud of pungent smoke through the room.
“Did ye ever hear of the black dog?” said he.
“No,” said we in chorus.
“No; and I suppose none of ye would believe in it?”
“Oh, indeed, Tim, we’d believe anything you’d tell us.”
“Well, I know ye are all dacent boys,” said Tim, “an’, seein’ the night that it is, I don’t mind tellin’ ye, but I hope that none of ye will meet the likes of it. And, be the same token, ’twas a Christmas Eve, too, it happened, before any of ye was born. I was only a gorsoon myself then, but I remember it as if ’twas only last night. Ould Hegarty lived up in the big house on the hill with the grove around it. ’Tis little better nor a ruin now, with the jackdaws nesting in the chimneys andthe swallows buildin’ in the drawin’-room, where the quality used to be. Ould Hegarty, when I first saw him, was a fine, splendid-lookin’ man, as straight as a pikestaff. He had a free hand and an open house to them that he thought was good enough for him, but he was as hard as flint to the poor. There was a poor widow that lived in a cabin where the railway is now, bad luck to it, and she had an only son, a poor angashore of a fellow that didn’t rightly know what he was doin’, and one fine day me bould Hegarty caught him stealin’ a few turnips for his ould mother, an’ nothin’ wud do Hegarty but to put the law agin’ him, and the poor boy was transported, and sure the luck was that he wasn’t hanged, bekase they’d hang you then for stealin’ a tinpenny bit. And sure the night the assizes was over myself seen the poor lone widow up at ould Hegarty’s doorstep, an’ she cursin’ him, and, says she, ‘May the black dog follow ye night and day till the hour of yer death,’ and she was down on her two knees, and her poor grey hairs was streamin’ in the wind. And out kem Hegarty with his ridin’ whip in his hand, and he lashed her wud it until the welts on her shoulders wor as thick as yer fingers. ‘Do yer worst, Hegarty,’ sez she, ‘but the curse of the widow and the orphan is on ye, and the black dog will follow ye to your dyin’ day,’ and the poor crather got up and she staggered away, an’ sure before a fortnight was over they buried her in thechurchyard beyant. He murdhered her, as sure as ye’re sittin’ there, but there was no one to take the law agin him; an’, sure, if there was ’twud be no use, for the likes of him could do what they liked in them times wud the poor people. But, for all that, they say he hadn’t an easy day nor night from that out, and in daylight or dark he always thought he saw a black dog following him. He wouldn’t sleep by himself if he got the world full of goold, and he always had his servant-man—one, Jim Cassidy—to sleep wud him. An’, sure, Jim himself tould me that Hegarty wud often start up out of his sleep and cry out, ‘Cassidy, Cassidy, Cassidy, turn out the dog!’ But Cassidy let on to me that he never seed the dog, though he used to make believe as if he wor huntin’ him out of the room, but he said whenever he did that he used to hear a dog howlin’ outside for all the world like a banshee.”
“Well, this went on for a year or two, and me bould Hegarty that used to have a face, from eatin’ and dhrinkin’, as red as a turkey-cock’s gills, grew as white an’ as thin as a first coat of whitewash, and he’d never go home in the night, after playin’ cards up at the club-house, without havin’ one or two friends along with him, and he used to keep them playin’ and dhrinkin’ in his own house till cock-crow, and then he used to get a bit easy in his mind, and Cassidy tould me he could get a few hours’ sleep.”
“But one night as myself was comin’ home late from buryin’ of ould Michil Gallagher, that was drowned on a rough night down near the bar, when the hooker struck again’ the Pollock Rock, who should I come up with but Hegarty, and a couple of other spree-boys along with him. A wild night it was, too, wud the moon, that was only half full, tearin’ every now and thin through the clouds that was as black as my hat, and sure ’twas they wor laughin’ and shoutin’, as if the dhrink wor in ’em, and, faix, maybe myself had a dhrop in, too, but sure that’s neither here nor there. Well, myself followed on, keepin’ at a civil distance, as was the best of me play, an’ it wasn’t long till they wor passin’ the churchyard, where the poor ould widow was buried, an’ just then the moon tore out through a cloud, an’ may I sup sorrow to my dyin’ day, if I didn’t see a black dog comin’ boundin’ over the gate of the churchyard, an’ every leg on him as big as my arm, an’ his two eyes blazin’ in his head like two live coals. Well, faix, meself felt all at once as if a lump of ice was slidderin’ down the small of me back, till I was almost as cowld as a corpse, God save the mark; but for all that I kept follyin’ on, an’ didn’t I see the black naygur of a dog sniff in’ and sniffin’ at Hegarty’s heels. I don’t rightly know whether Hegarty noticed him or no, but he began shoutin’ louder than ever, and the divel take me, Lord forgive me for cursin’, if I ever heard such swearin’ in my life as he was going’ on wud, and theplay-boys that were wud him wor nearly as bad as himself. Well, as soon as he got to his house, an’ they all went inside, may I never draw another breath if I didn’t see the black dog vanishin’ in a flame of blue fire that nearly blinded me eyes like a flash of lightnin’; and when I kem to myself again, what should I see on the doorstep but the ould widow herself—and sure as she was dead and buried over a year before, it must have been her ghost I saw—an’ she down on her two knees, an’ she cursin’ away as meself seed her the night ould Hegarty horsewhipped the poor crather. Well, of coorse, meself didn’t meddle or make wud her, and I hurried home as fast as I could, an’ I never tould what I seen to man or mortal.
“Well, the next day the talk was all over the place that Hegarty was in a ragin’ fever, an’ the best of doctors wor brought down from Dublin to try an’ cure him, but ’twas worse an’ worse he was gettin’, an’ at last he got so bad that they had to tie him down, an’ Cassidy had to watch him night an’ day, an’ the poor boy was nearly worn out like an ould shoe, an’ he asked me to come an’ help him.
“I didn’t like the job, at all; but Cassidy was an ould friend of mine, an’ we wor naybour’s childre, so by dint of persuasion he got meself to consint, an’ sure ’twas the hard time we had between us. Every minute Hegarty used to start up and cry out:
“‘Hunt him away! Hunt him away; his nails are in my throat! His eyes are scorchin’ me! I’m burnin’! I’m burnin’!’
“The Lord save us, but ’twas awful to listen to him.
“‘Hunt him out! Cassidy, hunt him out, or I’ll horsewhip you as I horsewhipped the widow, an’ ’tis her curse is on me, the ould hag. Hunt him out!’
“And we had to pretend we wor huntin’ him out, an’ daylight or dark we used to hear a long howl outside that wud make your flesh creep.
“Well, begob, we wor almost wasted to a thread watchin’ him, an’ we could hardly get a wink of sleep; but one night the two of us were dozin’ by the side of the bed when all of a sudden we heard glass crashin’, an’ before we had time to rub our eyes wud our fists what should we see but the black dog who had burst in through the window, an’ he in gores of blood an’ his eyes blazin’ like wildfire, and before we could stir a foot he was up on the bed an’ he tarin’ the throat out of ould Hegarty.
“‘The Lord between us an’ all harm!’ says Cassidy, an’ he caught up the poker an’ he hot the dog a belt that ought to have broken every rib in his body. ‘Ye divil get out of that,’ says he, an’ I gave him another thwack, an’, wud a screech that would waken the dead an’ that made every hair of our heads stand up like bristles, the black dogjumped out through the windy, an’ he tuk the whole sash along wud him, an’ ye’d take yer oath for a minnit that the whole house was on fire, an’ there was a smell of brimstone that would knock ye down. An’ when we kem to ourselves an’ looked at ould Hegarty, there he was stiff and stark, an’ the blue mark of the dog’s teeth across his windpipe. We called up the house an’ sent for the docthors, an’ they kem, an’ they said ’twas somethin’ or the other was the matter wud him that killed him; but Cassidy an’ meself knew betther nor they, but we kept our tongues quiet, for what was the good of talkin’ agin them docthors? Well, we waked him, though sorrow the wan kem to the wake barrin’ the playboys who kem to have a look at him, an’ he was buried up in the churchyard, and not far from the poor widow ayther, an’ when ye are goin’ home to-night take my advice and go round by the hill-road, and don’t pass by the churchyard, though ’tis your shortest way home, for as sure as ye do ye might meet wud the black dog who is always about on Christmas Eve, for that was when ould Hegarty bet the poor widow wud his horsewhip, and maybe if the dog met any one of yees he’d do to ye what he did to ould Hegarty.”
Perhaps we didn’t believe Tim’s story, but whether or no we all went by the hill road, and though many a year is past and gone since Tim told the story there is not one who heard it, whofor love or money would pass by that churchyard on a Christmas Eve, and it might after all be no harm if those who read the story as I tell it now, and who dwell in the place that knows old Tim no more, should take his advice as we did, and follow the hill road. It is longer than the road by the churchyard, but there is an old saying that the longest way round is the shortest way home.
Infulfilment of a promise of many years standing, I went to pay a visit to an old schoolfellow in the Christmas of the year 185—, and who then resided within a few miles of the hill called Knock Cord Na Gur, in the Queen’s County. He was a retired naval surgeon, named Lynam, to whom a substantial residence and farm had been left by an uncle whom he had never seen, and who had been a bachelor, as was my friend, the doctor. It was a lonely place for him to settle down in, but he had been for over twenty years roving in his ship all over the world, and he was tired of voyages, and he found, or professed to find, this comparatively lonely spot an agreeable retreat. Besides his housekeeper, his only servant was one Terry Brennan, who was at once coachman, gardener, valet, and butler. The farm was pasture, and this the doctor let on easy terms to the neighbouring tenants, and as he was ever ready on an emergency to give his medical services, he was very popular for miles round. He loved a book, a pipe, and could brew a glass of punch which would “satisfy an admiral,” as he was wont to boast, for this appeared to him to be the highest proof of its efficacy and quality; but, although he had read much, and travelled farand wide, he was as superstitious as the most unlettered sailor, and firmly believed in spiritual visitants, and had many a strange story of what he himself had seen of the dead returning.
He met me at the station with an ordinary outside car, which he was driving, having left Terry at home to have everything ready on our arrival.
We had some miles to go. Night had already fallen a few hours before, and the sky above was as black as ink. We made our way, driving cautiously, all right, until, after going for about an hour, a bend in the road brought us in view of a light, not more than half-a-mile ahead.
“That is the house,” said the doctor. “We’ll be there in five minutes.”
The announcement was very welcome to me, as I was cold and very hungry, and I was about to make some reply, when my companion suddenly exclaimed:—
“By ——, there is the light on the Knock.”
And I saw a second light higher up than the first, and at some distance to the right of it, but it vanished in a second.
The doctor’s tone was startling.
“What is it?” I queried.
“Quiet, pet; quiet, Molly; easy, girl.” The doctor was speaking to the mare and did not answer my question. “Hold on to the car. By heaven, we’re over!”
I felt the car was being overturned. I was flung outon to the side of the road, and as I was recovering myself I heard the mare, who had in some way broken from the harness, clattering down the hill.
I had fallen on the grassy margin near the ditch and escaped unhurt. The car tumbled into it without touching me.
“Are you hurt?” said the doctor, who was by my side as I was lifting myself up.
“No,” I replied, “and you?”
“All right,” he said, but I detected a tremor in his voice.
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Oh, yes! Come, let us get on—away from here.”
I was on my feet. “What is it, Lynam?”
“Do not ask. Come!” and the doctor caught my arm and hurried me along. I saw he was labouring under some great emotion and forebore to speak. We reached the gate leading up to the house. It was open, and in two minutes we were at the hall door. That, too, was open, and on the steps stood a man holding a lamp out from above his shoulder, and who seemed framed by the doorway. It was Terry.
“Doctor, darlint, did you see him?”
“Where’s the mare?”
“She’s in the yard, doctor. She has not a scratch on her, but there’s a lather on her all over.”
“Go and rub her down, put her up, and come back as soon as you can.”
The doctor’s tone had become calm again.
The excitement caused by this incident had mademe forget the hunger and the cold, but when I entered the doctor’s cosy room with its bright log fire glowing in the hearth and inhaled my first breath of the warm temperature I shuddered, and the doctor, noticing my discomfiture, uncorked a bottle of champagne and poured out a tumblerful. I observed that his hand shook as he presented it to me, and also that he appeared strangely put about.
I tossed off the wine and then accompanied the doctor to my room, and made myself ready for dinner.
When I came down again to the dining-room the doctor was standing with his back to the fire, looking still, as I thought, a little distrait.
But he brightened up at once, and saying: “I’m sure you must be hungry after your long journey,” he rang the bell for dinner.
It was brought in by the housekeeper in response to the summons, and shortly after Terry appeared dressed in the orthodox waiter fashion.
Our talk during dinner was chiefly about old times and old acquaintances. The wine, which was excellent, was done full justice to by both of us, and by the time dinner was over we were in the best possible humour with ourselves and all the world.
Then when the cloth had been removed, and Terry brought in the “materials,” the doctor set himself to brew two stiff tumblers of punch. This task accomplished, we lit our pipes, and as oftenhappens with smokers, we relapsed for a while into silence.
We were rudely interrupted by Terry, who pushed in the door without knocking, and who cried out excitedly:
“Doctor! doctor! you’re wanted. Michael Cassidy’s cart is overturned at the trough below, God save us from all harm, although the horse was only walking, and he’s lying under it, and his boy, who was along with him, has come up for you.”
“Get the lamp at once, Terry, and Jack,” said the doctor, addressing me, “on with your coat, I may need your help.”
In a few seconds, preceded by Terry with the lamp, and accompanied by Cassidy’s boy, we were hurrying down to the scene of the accident.
We found the cart upset in the middle of the road, and lying across the body of poor Cassidy.
Terry set down the lamp, and the four of us lifted up the cart and turned it over into the ditch, close to where our car was lying. The doctor examined the prostrate man, Terry holding the light for him.
“Dead!” cried the doctor. “Dead! My God, it’s awful.”
The blood in my veins became icy cold. I felt I was not only in the presence of death, but in the presence of a mystery still more weird if that were possible.
“What is it, Lynam?” I whispered hoarsely.
“That is the rattle of a cart coming along, Terry?” said the doctor, not heeding my question.
“It is, doctor.”
“Show them the light.”
Terry held out the light in the direction of the approaching cart. It belonged to one of the neighbours. When the cart came up to where we were standing around the corpse it halted. A few words were sufficient to explain what had happened, and the owner of the cart agreeing we lifted the corpse on to the cart and it was taken home.
The doctor, Terry and I returned towards the house. Not a word was spoken by any of us until we were within a few yards of the hall door.
“Look, doctor, look!” cried Terry, “the light is on the Knock again!”
I turned round and looked towards the Knock, which rose to the left about a quarter of a mile from the house. I saw a blue flame that quivered for a moment like a flame in the wind, and then went out.
“Let us go in,” said the doctor, “he has got his victim to-night.”
We entered the hall and I turned into the doctor’s room followed by him. I felt like one in a dream. But the room was bright and cheerful, and the logs were blazing merrily on the hearth. I flung myself into a chair. The doctor had closed the door, and was standing near me.
“I am sorry, Jack,” he said, in a serious tone,“that your visit has begun so unpropitiously, but let us forget what has occurred and make a pleasant night of it,” and he pulled a chair close to mine and sat down.
He lit a pipe. I followed his example, and we puffed away for a while in silence, but my curiosity got the better of me.
“Look here, Lynam, old man,” I said. “There is some mystery about this business of to-night. Our car was upset, as far as I know without any cause, and it was the same in the case of Cassidy’s cart. What is it all about, and what did you mean by talking of ‘a victim?’”
“It is a mystery,” he began, “but you saw the light on the Knock to-night?”
“Yes.”
“And that is very strange. The only two about here who have seen it—at least in our time—are Terry and myself. I saw it first on Christmas Eve ten years ago—the first Christmas Eve after my coming. I have seen it on three Christmas Eves since, and each time I saw it a man has been found dead where we found Cassidy to-night.”
The doctor spoke in low, measured tones, and a creepy feeling came over me as I listened.
“But what connection can there be between the light and the dead man on the road?” I asked.
“It is a curious story,” he replied. “It was told to me by Terry. I doubted it at first, but my own eyes bore witness before to-night to the truthof part, at least of it. But I had better begin by telling you what Terry told me. It seems that in the old times—three hundred years ago or thereabouts—there was on the Knock-Cord-Na-Gur a strong castle, in which dwelt one of the offshoots of the Fitzgeralds, who was known as Garroid Jarla, or Garrett the Earl. He was a man of unrestrained passions, who knew no law save his own will. He was practised in every kind of devilry, and was dominated by a lust for blood and gold. Murder was his chief delight. He was surrounded by a band of villains as unscrupulous and as bloodthirsty as himself. His name was a name of terror for miles around, and many a blackened rafter and blood stained hearth bore witness to his infamous cruelties. Yet, for all that, he could be seemingly courteous, and could easily deceive an unsuspecting stranger into the belief that he was of a friendly and hospitable disposition.
“And it was his wont, especially at Christmas time, to intercept travellers who happened to be passing along the road which we have just left, and, after a courteous inquiry as to their destination, to bid them stay the night with him at his castle. Invariably he stationed himself on the spot where the drinking trough is, of which you heard Terry speak, and which, perhaps, you may have noticed when he held the lamp as I was seeing to poor Cassidy.”
“I saw something like a stone trough,” I said, “but did not take particular notice of it.”
“That was the trough,” continued the doctor. “It was not there at the time I am speaking of. It was placed there long after the so-called earl had gone to his account. The times were troublous times, and many a belated traveller was glad of the invitation to spend the night at the castle on the hill. Poor and rich were welcome there. The poor traveller set out the next day with the pleasant recollection of a hospitable night, carrying everywhere he went a good word for his host, Garroid Jarla, but for the traveller who had money about him, his night in the castle was his last. He was never seen or heard of again. But when the earl was killed, and the castle sacked, the only record of his treachery was a heap of bones and decaying corpses in a cellar under the diningroom, the only entrance to which was a trap door, over which the unsuspecting victim sat while he was enjoying the earl’s hospitality.
“Garroid Jarla had many enemies, but not one whom he hated more than Rory O’Moore, who then dwelt in the Castle of Cluin Kyle, and who, at the head of the Rapparees, was carrying fire and sword into the English territories. There was a price then on the head of Rory, fifteen thousand pounds of our money now, and many a plot and plan was framed and laid to entrap the dauntless Irish captain. Garroid Jarla determined atany cost to secure the blood money, and tried, again and again, to entice one of Rory’s followers, by the offer of a large bribe, to betray his master, but without success. Still he persisted, and, at last, he gained, or thought he had, one over to his interests. The renegade persuaded Garroid that he was desirous of avenging a grievous personal wrong he had suffered at the hands of Rory, and that he was willing to give his life to accomplish his destruction.
“Garroid’s hunger for gold induced him to believe that with it he could purchase a man’s soul, and, therefore, he gave ready credence to Rory’s retainer, whose name was Teague O’Moore, and Teague humoured Garroid to the top of his bent, and denounced Rory in all the moods and tenses. One night he came to Garroid, and told him that his chance of overcoming his enemy, Rory, had arrived. Rory, he said, had come to Cluin-Kyle, after some desperate and successful fighting, and was holding high revel in the castle. There was no watch kept, as Rory felt perfectly secure for that night at least, and, therefore, he might easily be surprised about midnight, and Teague undertook that he would see that the castle gates were unlocked, and as for signal he would place a lighted candle in the postern window.
“Garroid eagerly embraced the proposal, and decided to attempt the surprise of Rory’s castle, and, calling his retainers around him, he made afeast, believing that men fought better if their stomachs were not too empty, and that as there was stern and bloody work before them, they would be all the better prepared for it if they imbibed some draughts ofusquebaugh. Teague remained until the party seated at supper had begun to enjoy themselves, and then having taken care to see that the window of the room opposite which Garroid was seated was not curtained, he took his leave to go, as Garroid thought, to Cluin-Kyle; but Teague, having passed out of the castle, entered the wood that skirted the ford of Dysartgalen. He had not gone far through the fallen leaves that strewed his path when he was challenged.
“‘God and Our Lady and Rory O’Moore,’ was his reply.
“‘All right, pass on.’
“‘Is the captain here?’ said Teague.
“‘Here,’ answered a stalwart Rapparee.
“‘I want your best marksman, captain.’
“‘Come hither, Shan Dhu,’ said the captain.
“A man stepped forward with musket on shoulder.
“‘Follow me,’ said Teague, ‘and you captain and your men keep close to our heels. When you hear the shot rush straight for the castle. If the bullet does its work the castle is yours.’
“Teague and the marksman went ahead. They passed unnoticed within the outer walls, and advanced close to the uncurtained window.
“‘That candle that you see,’ said Teague to themarksman, ‘is in a line with Garroid Jarla. Snuff it and you kill him.’
“The marksman took a cautious aim.
“‘Bang!’ A crash of glass, a fierce yell.
“‘Oh, Captain!’ cried Teague, with a wild shout, that made the night tremble. The Rapparees burst in on the startled revellers. But, as the latter had their weapons ready to hand, a desperate conflict ensued, and it is said that, until the last of his followers was slain, Garroid Jarla remained sitting where he had been shot, and that his face was black as coal, while his eyes gleamed like fire. The Rapparees sacked the castle before they left for Cluin-Kyle with the news of the tyrant’s death.
“The next day the peasantry entered the ruined castle, and, finding the body of their arch-enemy, Garroid Jarla, they dragged it to the Ford of Dysartgallen, and, having cut it in quarters, they flung them into the river, and believed they had got rid, once and for all, of the ruthless tyrant of their homes.
“But in this, according to Terry’s story,” said the doctor, “they were mistaken. For, time after time, Garroid Jarla appeared at the very spot where he used to meet travellers during his life, and whomever he accosted never saw the morning break again.
“At last a friar coming this way heard of the apparitions and their fatal results, and he bade thepeople bring a stone trough, and place it on the spot, and this trough was fed with water from a running stream, and the friar blessed the water, so that no evil spirit could come near it. And after this, for generations, no one ever saw the ghost of Garroid Jarla. But in the dark days of Ninety-eight, a band of Yeos, coming along the road, broke the trough, and turned away the stream from it, and ever since then it is dry, and of no service to man or beast, and ever since then at irregular intervals, but always on Christmas Eve, the ghost reappears and claims a victim, and when he appears a light burns on the Knock. And that is Terry’s story,” said the doctor, and he shook the ashes from his pipe.
“Have you ever seen the ghost?” I asked.
“I have seen the light on the Knock,” he replied, “and I have seen the dead men. You saw the light on the Knock to-night; you also have seen a dead man. Do you doubt,” said he, looking me straight in the face, “that he is one of Garroid Jarla’s victims?”
“Perhaps, after all, doctor,” said I, “there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy.”
“It is getting late,” said the doctor, “and I am sure you must be tired.”
I was tired, and yet when I turned in I could not sleep. On that night and many a night since I was haunted by the ghost of Garroid Jarla.