I have spent pleasanter, but I greatly doubt if I ever knew busier days, than those I passed at the Bishop’s Palace at Killala; and now, as I look upon the event, I cannot help wondering that we could seriously have played out a farce so full of absurdity and nonsense! There was a gross mockery of all the usages of war, which, had it not been for the serious interests at stake, would have been highly amusing.
Whether it was the important functions of civil government, the details of police regulation, the imposition of contributions, the appointment of officers, or the arming of the volunteers, all was done with a pretentious affectation of order that was extremely ludicrous. The very institutions which were laughingly agreed to overnight, as the wine went briskly round, were solemnly ratified in the morning, and, still more strange, apparently believed in by those whose ingenuity devised them; and thus the ‘Irish Directory,’ as we styled the imaginary government, the National Treasury, the Pension Fund, were talked of with all the seriousness of facts! As to the commissariat, to which I was for the time attached, we never ceased writing receipts and acknowledgments for stores and munitions of war, all of which were to be honourably acquitted by the Treasury of the Irish Republic.
No people could have better fallen in with the humour of this delusion than the Irish. They seemed to believe everything, and yet there was a reckless, headlong indifference about them, which appeared to say, that they were equally prepared for any turn fortune might take, and if the worst should happen, they would never reproach us for having misled them. The real truth was—but we only learned it too late—all those who joined us were utterly indifferent to the great cause of Irish independence; their thoughts never rose above a row and a pillage. It was to be a season of sack, plunder, and outrage, but nothing more! That such were the general sentiments of the volunteers, I believe none will dispute. We, however, in our ignorance of the people and their language, interpreted all the harum-scarum wildness we saw as the buoyant temperament of a high-spirited nation, who, after centuries of degradation and ill-usage, saw the dawning of liberty at last.
Had we possessed any real knowledge of the country, we should at once have seen that, of those who joined us, none were men of any influence or station. If, now and then, a man of any name strayed into the camp, he was sure to be one whose misconduct or bad character had driven him from associating with his equals; and, even of the peasantry, our followers were of the very lowest order. Whether General Humbert was the first to notice the fact, I know not; but Charost, I am certain, remarked it, and even thus early predicted the utter failure of the expedition.
I must confess the volunteers were the least imposing of allies. I think I have the whole scene before my eyes this moment, as I saw it each morning in the palace garden.
The inclosure, which, more orchard than garden, occupied a space of a couple of acres, was the headquarters of Colonel Charost; and here, in a pavilion formerly dedicated to hoes, rakes, rolling-stones, and garden-tools, we were now established to the number of fourteen. As the space beneath the roof was barely sufficient for the colonel’s personal use, the officers of his staff occupied convenient spots in the vicinity. My station was under a large damson-tree, the fruit of which afforded me, more than once, the only meal I tasted from early morning till late at night; not, I must say, from any lack of provisions, for the palace abounded with every requisite of the table, but that, such was the pressure of business, we were not able to leave off work even for half an hour during the day.
A subaltern’s guard of grenadiers, divided into small parties, did duty in the garden; and it was striking to mark the contrast between these bronzed and war-worn figures, and the reckless tatterdemalion host around us. Never was seen such a scarecrow set! Wild-looking, ragged wretches, their long lank hair hanging down their necks and shoulders, usually barefooted, and with every sign of starvation in their features; they stood in groups and knots, gesticulating, screaming, hurrahing, and singing, in all the exuberance of a joy that caught some, at least, of its inspiration from whisky.
It was utterly vain to attempt to keep order amongst them; even the effort to make them defile singly through the gate into the garden was soon found impracticable, without the employment of a degree of force that our adviser, Kerrigan, pronounced would be injudicious. Not only the men made their way in, but great numbers of women, and even children also; and there they were, seated around fires, roasting their potatoes in this bivouac fashion, as though they had deserted hearth and home to follow us.
Such was the avidity to get arms—of which the distribution was announced to take place here—that several had scaled the wall in their impatience, and as they were more or less in drink, some disastrous accidents were momentarily occurring, adding the cries and exclamations of suffering to the ruder chorus of joy and revelry that went on unceasingly.
The impression—we soon saw how absurd it was—the impression that we should do nothing that might hurt the national sensibilities, but concede all to the exuberant ardour of a bold people, eager to be led against their enemies, induced us to submit to every imaginable breach of order and discipline.
‘In a day or two, they ‘ll he like your own men; you ‘ll not know them from a battalion of the line. Those fellows will be like a wall under fire.’
Such and such like were the assurances we were listening to all day, and it would have been like treason to the cause to have refused them credence.
Perhaps I might have been longer a believer in this theory, had I not perceived signs of a deceptive character in these our worthy allies; many who, to our faces, wore nothing but looks of gratitude and delight, no sooner mixed with their fellows than their downcast faces and dogged expression betrayed some inward sense of disappointment.
One very general source of dissatisfaction arose from the discovery, that we were not prepared to pay our allies! We had simply come to arm and lead them, to shed our own blood, and pledge our fortunes in their cause; but we certainly had brought no military chest to bribe their patriotism, nor stimulate their nationality; and this I soon saw was a grievous disappointment.
In virtue of this shameful omission on our part, they deemed the only resource was to be made officers, and thus crowds of uneducated, semi-civilised vagabonds were every hour assailing us with their claims to the epaulette. Of the whole number of these, I remember but three who had ever served at all; two were notorious drunkards, and the third a confirmed madman, from a scalp wound he had received when fighting against the Turks. Many, however, boasted high-sounding names, and were, at least so Kerrigan said, men of the first families in the land.
Our general-in-chief saw little of them while at Killala, his principal intercourse being with the bishop and his family; but Colonel Charost soon learned to read their true character, and from that moment conceived the most disastrous issue to our plans. The most trustworthy of them was a certain O’Donnell, who, although not a soldier, was remarked to possess a greater influence over the rabble volunteers than any of the others. He was a young man of the half-squire class, an ardent and sincere patriot, after his fashion; but that fashion, it must be owned, rather partook of the character of class-hatred and religious animosity than the features of a great struggle for national independence. He took a very low estimate of the fighting qualities of his countrymen, and made no secret of declaring it.
‘You would be better without them altogether,’ said he one day to Charost; ‘but if you must have allies, draw them up in line, select one-third of the best, and arm them.’
‘And the rest?’ asked Charost. ‘Shoot them,’ was the answer.
This conversation is on record—indeed, I believe there is yet one witness living to corroborate it.
I have said that we were very hard worked, but I must fain acknowledge that the real amount of business done was very insignificant, so many were the mistakes, misconceptions, and interruptions, not to speak of the time lost by that system of conciliation of which I have already made mention. In our distribution of arms there was little selection practised or possible. The process was a brief one, but it might have been briefer.
Thomas Colooney, of Banmayroo, was called, and not usually being present, the name would be passed on, from post to post, till it swelled into a general shout of Colooney.
‘Tom Colooney, you’re wanted; Tom, run for it, man, there’s a price bid for you! Here’s Mickey, his brother, maybe he ‘ll do as well.’
And so on: all this accompanied by shouts of laughter, and a running fire of jokes, which, being in the vernacular, was lost to us.
At last the real Colooney was found, maybe eating his dinner of potatoes, maybe discussing his poteen with a friend—-sometimes engaged in the domestic duties of washing his shirt or his small-clothes, fitting a new crown to his hat, or a sole to his brogues—whatever his occupation, he was urged forward by his friends and the public, with many a push, drive, and even a kick, into our presence, where, from the turmoil, uproar, and confusion, he appeared to have fought his way by main force, and very often, indeed, this was literally the fact, as his bleeding nose, torn coat, and bare head attested.
‘Thomas Colooney—are you the man?’ asked one of our Irish officers of the staff.
‘Yis, yer honour, I ‘m that same!’
‘You’ve come here, Colooney, to offer yourself as a volunteer in the cause of your country?’
Here a yell of ‘Ireland for ever!’ was always raised by the bystanders, which drowned the reply in its enthusiasm, and the examination went on:—
‘You’ll be true and faithful to that cause till you secure for your country the freedom of America and the happiness of France? Kiss the cross. Are you used to firearms?’
‘Isn’t he?—maybe not! I’ll be bound he knows a musket from a mealy pratie!’
Such and such like were the comments that rang on all sides, so that the modest ‘Yis, sir,’ of the patriot was completely lost.
‘Load that gun, Tom,’ said the officer.
Here Colooney, deeming that so simple a request must necessarily be only a cover for something underhand—a little clever surprise or so—takes up the piece in a very gingerly manner, and examines it all round, noticing that there is nothing, so far as he can discover, unusual nor uncommon about it.
‘Load that gun, I say.’
Sharper and more angrily is the command given this time.
‘Yis, sir, immadiately.’
And now Tom tries the barrel with the ramrod, lest there should be already a charge there—a piece of forethought that is sure to be loudly applauded by the public, not the less so because the impatience of the French officers is making itself manifest in various ways.
At length he rams down the cartridge, and returns the ramrod; which piece of adroitness, if done with a certain air of display and flourish, is unfailingly saluted by another cheer. He now primes and cocks the piece, and assumes a look of what he believes to be most soldierlike severity.
As he stands thus for scrutiny, a rather lively debate gets up as to whether or not Tom bit off the end of the cartridge before he rammed it down. The biters and anti-biters being equally divided, the discussion waxes strong. The French officers, eagerly asking what may be the disputed point, laugh very heartily on hearing it.
‘I’ll lay ye a pint of sperits she won’t go off,’ cries one.
‘Done! for two naggins, if he pulls strong,’ rejoins another.
‘Devil fear the same gun,’ cries a third; ‘she shot Mr. Sloan at fifty paces, and killed him dead.’
‘Tisn’t the same gun—that’s a Frinch one—a bran-new one!’
‘She isn’t.’
‘She is.’
‘No, she isn’t.’
‘Yes, but she is.’ ‘What is’t you say?’ ‘Hould your prate.’
‘Arrah, teach your mother to feed ducks.’
‘Silence in the ranks. Keep silence there. Attention, Colooney!’
‘Yis, sir.’
‘Fire!’
‘What at, sir?’ asks Tom, taking an amateur glance of the company, who look not over satisfied at his scrutiny.
‘Fire in the air!’
260
Bang goes the piece, and a yell follows the explosion, while cries of ‘Well done, Tom,’ ‘Begorra, if a Protestant got that!’ and so on, greet the performance.
‘Stand by, Colooney!’ and the volunteer falls back to make way for another and similar exhibition, occasionally varied by the humour of the blunders of the new candidate.
As to the Treasury orders, as we somewhat ludicrously styled the cheques upon our imaginary bank, the scenes they led to were still more absurd and complicated. We paid liberally, that is to say in promises, for everything, and our generosity saved us a good deal of time, for it was astonishing how little the owners disputed our solvency when the price was left to themselves. But the rations were indeed the most difficult matter of all; it being impossible to convince our allies of the fact that the compact was one of trust, and the ration was not his own to dispose of in any manner that might seem fit.
‘Sure, if I don’t like to ate it—if I haven’t an appetite for it—if I’d rather have a pint of sperits, or a flannel waistcoat, or a pair of stockings, than a piece of mate, what harm is that to any one?’
This process of reasoning was much harder of answer than is usually supposed, and even when replied to, another difficulty arose in its place. Unaccustomed to flesh diet, when they tasted they could not refrain from it, and the whole week’s rations of beef, amounting to eight pounds, were frequently consumed in the first twenty-four hours.
Such instances of gormandising were by no means unfrequent, and, stranger still, in no one case, so far as I knew, followed by any ill consequences.
The leaders were still more difficult to manage than the people. Without military knowledge or experience of any kind, they presumed to dictate the plan of a campaign to old and distinguished officers like Humbert and Serasin, and when overruled by argument or ridicule, invariably fell back upon their superior knowledge of Ireland and her people, a defence for which, of course, we were quite unprepared, and unable to oppose anything. From these and similar causes it may well be believed that our labours were not light, and yet somehow, with all the vexations and difficulties around us, there was a congenial tone of levity, an easy recklessness, and a careless freedom in the Irish character that suited us well There was but one single point whereupon we were not thoroughly together, and this was religion. They were a nation of most zealous Catholics; and as for us, the revolution had not left the vestige of a belief amongst us.
A reconnaissance in Ballina, meant rather to discover the strength of the garrison than of the place itself, having shown that the royal forces were inconsiderable in number, and mostly militia, General Humbert moved forward, on Sunday morning the 26th, with nine hundred men of our own force, and about three thousand ‘volunteers,’ leaving Colonel Charost and his staff, with two companies of foot, at Killala, to protect the town, and organise the new levies as they were formed.
We saw our companions defile from the town with heavy hearts. The small body of real soldiers seemed even smaller still from being enveloped by that mass of peasants who accompanied them, and who marched on the flanks or in the rear, promiscuously, without discipline or order—a noisy, half-drunken rabble, firing off their muskets at random, and yelling as they went, in savage glee and exultation. Our sole comfort was in the belief, that, when the hour of combat did arrive, they would fight to the very last. Such were the assurances of their own officers, and made so seriously and confidently, that we never thought of mistrusting them.
‘If they be but steady under fire,’ said Charost, ‘a month will make them good soldiers. Ours is an easy drill, and soon learned; but I own,’ he added, ‘they do not give me this impression.’
Such was the reflection of one who watched them as they went past, and with sorrow we saw ourselves concurring in the sentiment.
We were all occupied with our drill at daybreak on the morning of the 27th of August, when a mounted orderly arrived at full gallop, with news that our troops were in motion for Castlebar, and orders for us immediately to march to their support, leaving only one subaltern and twenty men in ‘the Castle.’
The worthy bishop was thunderstruck at the tidings. It is more than probable that he never entertained any grave fears of our ultimate success; still he saw that in the struggle, brief as it might be, rapine, murder, and pillage would spread over the country, and that crime of every sort would be certain to prevail during the short interval of anarchy.
As our drums were beating the ‘rally,’ he entered the garden, and with hurried steps came forward to where Colonel Charost was standing delivering his orders.
‘Good-day, Mons. l‘Évêque,’ said the colonel, removing his hat, and bowing low. You see us in a moment of haste. The campaign has opened, and we are about to march.’
‘Have you made any provision for the garrison of this town, colonel?’ said the bishop, in terror. ‘Your presence alone here restrained the population hitherto. If you leave us——-’
‘We shall leave you a strong force of our faithful allies, sir,’ said Charost; ‘Irishmen could scarcely desire better defenders than their countrymen.’
‘You forget, colonel, that some of us here are averse to this cause, but, as non-combatants, lay claim to protection.’
‘You shall have it, too, Mons. l‘Évêque; we leave an officer and twenty men.’
‘An officer and twenty men!’ echoed the bishop, in dismay.
‘Quite sufficient, I assure you,’ said Charost coldly; ‘and if a hair of one of their heads be injured by the populace, trust me, sir, that we shall take a terrible vengeance.’
‘You do not know these people, sir, as I know them,’ said the bishop eagerly. ‘The same hour that you march out, will the town of Killala be given up to pillage. As for your retributive justice, I may be pardoned for not feeling any consolation in the pledge, for certes neither I nor mine will live to witness it.’
As the bishop was speaking, a crowd of volunteers, some in uniform and all armed, drew nearer and nearer to the place of colloquy; and although understanding nothing of what went forward in the foreign language, seemed to watch the expressions of the speakers’ faces with a most keen interest. To look at the countenances of these fellows, truly one would not have called the bishop’s fears exaggerated; their expression was that of demoniac passion and hatred.
‘Look, sir,’ said the bishop, turning round, and facing the mob, ‘look at the men to whose safeguard you propose to leave us.’
Charost made no reply; but making a sign for the bishop to remain where he was, re-entered the pavilion hastily. I could see, through the window that he was reading his despatches over again, and evidently taking counsel with himself how to act. The determination was quickly come to.
‘Mons. l‘Évêque,’ said he, laying his hand on the bishop’s arm, ‘I find that my orders admit of a choice on my part. I will, therefore, remain with you myself, and keep a sufficient force of my own men. It is not impossible, however, that in taking this step I may be perilling my own safety. You will, therefore, consent that one of your sons shall accompany the force now about to march, as a hostage. This is not an unreasonable request on my part.’
‘Very well, sir,’ said the bishop sadly. ‘When do they leave?’
‘Within half an hour,’ said Charost.
The bishop, bowing, retraced his steps through the garden back to the house. Our preparations for the road were by this time far advanced. The command said, ‘Light marching order, and no rations’; so that we foresaw that there was sharp work before us. Our men—part of the 12th demi-brigade, and a half company of grenadiers—were, indeed, ready on the instant; but the Irish were not so easily equipped. Many had strayed into the town; some, early as it was, were dead drunk; and not a few had mislaid their arms or their ammunition, secretly preferring the chance of a foray of their own to the prospect of a regular engagement with the Royalist troops.
Our force was still a considerable one, numbering at least fifteen hundred volunteers, besides about eighty of our men. By seven o’clock we were under march, and with drums beating, defiled from the narrow streets of Killala into the mountain-road that leads to Cloonagh; it being our object to form a junction with the main body at the foot of the mountain.
Two roads led from Ballina to Castlebar—one to the eastward, the other to the west of Lough Con. The former was a level road, easily passable by wheel carriages, and without any obstacle or difficulty whatever; the other took a straight direction over lofty mountains, and in one spot—the Pass of Barnageeragh—traversed a narrow defile, shut in between steep cliffs, where a small force, assisted by artillery, could have arrested the advance of a great army. The road itself, too, was in disrepair; the rains of autumn had torn and fissured it, while heavy sandslips and fallen rocks in many places rendered it almost impassable.
The Royalist generals had reconnoitred it two days before, and were so convinced that all approach in this direction was out of the question, that a small picket of observation, posted near the Pass of Barnageeragh, was withdrawn as useless, and the few stockades they had fixed were still standing as we marched through.
General Humbert had acquired all the details of these separate lines of attack, and at once decided for the mountain-road, which, besides the advantage of a surprise, was in reality four miles shorter.
The only difficulty was the transport of our artillery, but as we merely carried those light field-pieces called ‘curricle guns,’ and had no want of numbers to draw them, this was not an obstacle of much moment. With fifty, sometimes sixty, peasants to a gun, they advanced at a run, up places where our infantry found the ascent sufficiently toilsome. Here, indeed, our allies showed in the most favourable colours we had yet seen them. The prospect of a fight seemed to excite their spirits almost to madness; every height they surmounted they would break into a wild cheer, and the vigour with which they tugged the heavy ammunition-carts through the deep and spongy soil never interfered with the joyous shouts they gave, and the merry songs they chanted in rude chorus.
‘Tra, la, la! the French is comin’,What ‘ll now the red-coats do?Maybe they won’t get a drubbin’!Sure we ‘ll lick them black and blue!‘Ye little knew the day was near ye,Ye little thought they ‘d come so far;But here’s the boys that never fear ye—Run, yer sowls, for Castlebar!’
To this measure they stepped in time, and although the poetry was lost upon our ignorance, the rattling joyousness of the air sounded pleasantly, and our men, soon catching up the tune, joined heartily in the chorus. Another very popular melody ran somewhat thus:—
‘Our day is now begun,Says the Shan van voght,Our day is now begun,Says the Shan van voght.Our day is now begun,And ours is all the fun!Be my sowl ye ‘d better run!Says the Shan van voght!’
There were something like a hundred verses to this famous air, but it is more than likely, from the specimen given above, that my reader will forgive the want of memory that leaves me unable to quote the remaining ninety-nine; nor is it necessary that I should add, that the merit of these canticles lay in the hoarse accord of a thousand rude voices, heard in the stillness of a wild mountain region, and at a time when an eventful struggle was before us; such were the circumstances which possibly made these savage rhymes assume something of terrible meaning.
We had just arrived at the entrance of Barnageeragh, when one of our mounted scouts rode up to say, that a peasant, who tended cattle on the mountains, had evidently observed our approach, and hastened into Castlebar with the tidings.
It was difficult to make General Humbert understand this fact.
‘Is this the patriotism we have heard so much of? Are these the people who would welcome us as deliverers?!Parbleu!I’ve seen nothing but lukewarmness or downright opposition since I landed! In that same town we have just quitted—a miserable hole, too, was it—what was the first sight that greeted us? a fellow in our uniform hanging from the stanchion of a window, with an inscription round his neck, to the purport that he was a traitor! This is the fraternity which our Irish friends never wearied to speak of!’
Our march was now hastened, and in less than an hour we debouched from the narrow gorge into the open plain before the town of Castlebar. A few shots in our front told us that the advanced picket had fallen in with the enemy, but a French cheer also proclaimed that the Royalists had fallen back, and our march continued unmolested. The road, which was wide and level here, traversed a flat country, without hedgerow or cover, so that we were able to advance in close column, without any precaution for our flanks; but before us there was a considerable ascent, which shut out all view of the track beyond it. Up this our advanced guard was toiling, somewhat wearied with a seven hours’ march and the heat of a warm morning, when scarcely had the leading files topped the ridge, than plump went a round shot over their heads, which, after describing a fine curve, plunged into the soft surface of a newly ploughed field. The troops were instantly retired behind the crest of the hill, and an orderly despatched to inform the general that we were in face of the enemy. He had already seen the shot and marked its direction. The main body was accordingly halted, and defiling from the centre, the troops extended on either side into the fields. While this movement was being effected Humbert rode forward, and crossing the ridge, reconnoitred the enemy.
It was, as he afterwards observed, a stronger force than he had anticipated, consisting of between three and four thousand bayonets, with four squadrons of horse, and two batteries of eight guns, the whole admirably posted on a range of heights, in front of the town, and completely covering it.
The ridge was scarcely eight hundred yards’ distance, and so distinctly was every object seen, that Humbert and his two aides-de-camp were at once marked and fired at, even in the few minutes during which the reconnaissance lasted.
As the general retired the firing ceased, and now all our arrangements were made without molestation of any kind. They were, indeed, of the simplest and speediest Two companies of our grenadiers were marched to the front, and in advance of them, about twenty paces, were posted a body of Irish in French uniforms. This place being assigned them, it was said, as a mark of honour, but in reality for no other purpose than to draw on them the Royalist artillery, and thus screen the grenadiers.
Under cover of this force came two light six-pounder guns, loaded with grape, and intended to be discharged at point-blank distance. The infantry brought up the rear in three compact columns, ready to deploy into line at a moment.
In these very simple tactics no notice whatever was taken of the great rabble of Irish who hung upon our flanks and rear in disorderly masses, cursing, swearing, and vociferating in all the license of insubordination; and O’Donnell, whose showy uniform contrasted strikingly with the dark-blue coat and low glazed cocked-hat of Humbert, was now appealed to by his countrymen as to the reason of this palpable slight.
‘What does he want? what does the fellow say?’ asked Humbert, as he noticed his excited gestures and passionate manner.
‘He is remonstrating, sir,’ replied I, ‘on the neglect of his countrymen; he says that they do not seem treated like soldiers; no post has been assigned, nor any order given them.’
‘Tell him, sir,’ said Humbert, with a savage grin, ‘that the discipline we have tried in vain to teach them hitherto, we’ll not venture to rehearse under an enemy’s fire; and tell him also that he and his ragged followers are free to leave us, or, if they like better, to turn against us, at a moment’s warning.’
I was saved the unpleasant task of interpreting this civil message by Conolly, who, taking O’Donnell aside, appeared endeavouring to reason with him, and reduce him to something like moderation.
‘There, look at them, they’re running like sheep!’ cried Humbert, laughing, as he pointed to an indiscriminate rabble, some hundred yards off, in a meadow, and who had taken to their heels on seeing a round shot plunge into the earth near them. ‘Come along, sir: come with me, and when you have seen what fire is, you may go back and tell your countrymen! Serasin, is all ready? Well then, forward, march!’
‘March!’ was now re-echoed along the line, and steadily, as on a parade, our hardy infantry stepped out, while the drums kept up a continued roll as we mounted the hill.
The first to cross the crest of the ascent were the ‘Legion,’ as the Irish were called, who, dressed like French soldiers, were selected for some slight superiority in discipline and bearing. They had but gained the ridge, however, when a well-directed shot from a six-pounder smashed in amongst them, killing two, and wounding six or seven others. The whole mass immediately fell back on our grenadiers. The confusion compelled the supporting column to halt, and once more the troops were retired behind the hill.
‘Forward, men, forward!’ cried Humbert, riding up to the front, and in evident impatience at these repeated checks; and now the grenadiers passed to the front, and, mounting the height, passed over, while a shower of balls flew over and around them. A small slated house stood half-way down the hill, and for this the leading files made a dash and gained it, just as the main body were, for the third time, driven back to re-form.
It was now evident that an attack in column could not succeed against a fire so admirably directed, and Humbert quickly deployed into line, and prepared to storm the enemy’s position.
Up to this the conduct of the Royalists had been marked by the greatest steadiness and determination. Every shot from their batteries had told, and all promised an easy and complete success to their arms. No sooner, however, had our infantry extended into line, than the militia, unaccustomed to see an enemy before them, and unable to calculate distance, opened a useless, dropping fire, at a range where not a bullet could reach!
The ignorance of this movement, and the irregularity of the discharge, were not lost upon our fellows, most of whom were veterans of the army of the Rhine, and, with a loud cheer of derision, our troops advanced to meet them, while a cloud of skirmishers dashed forward and secured themselves under cover of a hedge.
Even yet, however, no important advantage had been gained by us, and if the Royalists had kept their ground in support of their artillery, we must have been driven back with loss; but, fortunately for us, a movement we made to keep open order was mistaken by some of the militia officers for the preparation to outflank them, a panic seized the whole line, and they fell back, leaving their guns totally exposed and unprotected.
‘They ‘re running! they ‘re running!’ was the cry along our line; and now a race was seen, which should be first up with the artillery. The cheers at this moment were tremendous, for our ‘allies,’ who had kept wide aloof hitherto, were now up with us, and, more lightly equipped than we were, soon took the lead. The temerity, however, was costly, for three several times did the Royalist artillery load and fire; and each discharge, scarcely at half-musket range, was terribly effective.
We were by no means prepared for either so sudden or complete a success, and the scene was exciting in the highest degree, as the whole line mounted the hill, cheering madly. From the crest of this rising ground we could now see the town of Castlebar beneath us, into which the Royalists were scampering at full speed. A preparation for defending the bridge into the town did not escape the watchful eyes of our general, who again gave the word ‘Forward!’ not by the road alone, but also by the fields at either side, so as to occupy the houses that should command the bridge, and which, by a palpable neglect, the others had forgotten to do.
Our small body of horse, about twenty hussars, were ordered to charge the bridge, and had they been even moderately well mounted, must have captured the one gun of the enemy at once; but the miserable cattle, unable to strike a canter, only exposed them to a sharp musketry; and when they did reach the bridge, five of their number had fallen. The six-pounder was, however, soon taken, and the gunners sabred at their posts, while our advanced guard coming up, completed the victory; and nothing now remained but a headlong flight.
Had we possessed a single squadron of dragoons, few could have escaped us, for not a vestige of discipline remained. All was wild confusion and panic. Such of the officers as had ever seen service, were already killed or badly wounded; and the younger ones were perfectly unequal to the difficult task of rallying or restoring order to a routed force.
The scene in the market-square, as we rode in, is not easily to be forgotten; about two hundred prisoners were standing in a group, disarmed, it is true, but quite unguarded, and without any preparation or precaution against escape!
Six or seven English officers, amongst whom were two majors, were gathered around General Humbert, who was conversing with them in tones of easy and jocular familiarity. The captured guns of the enemy (fourteen in all) were being ranged on one side of the square, while behind them were drawn up a strange-looking line of men, with their coats turned. These were part of the Kilkenny militia, who had deserted to our ranks after the retreat began.
Such was the ‘fight’ of Castlebar. It would be absurd to call it a ‘battle’—a day too inglorious for the Royalists to reflect any credit upon us; but, such as it was, it raised the spirits of our Irish followers to a pitch of madness, and, out of our own ranks, none now doubted in the certainty of Irish independence.
Our occupation of the town lasted only a week; but, brief as the time was, it was sufficient to widen the breach between ourselves and our allies into an open and undisguised hatred. There were, unquestionably, wrongs on both sides. As for us, we were thoroughly, bitterly disappointed in the character of those we had come to liberate; and, making the egregious mistake of confounding these semi-civilised peasants with the Irish people, we deeply regretted that ever the French army should have been sent on so worthless a mission. As for them, they felt insulted and degraded by the offensive tone we assumed towards them. Not alone were they never regarded as comrades, but a taunting insolence of manner was assumed in all our dealings with them, very strikingly in contrast to that with which we conducted ourselves towards all the other inhabitants of the island, even those who were avowedly inimical to our object and our cause.
These things, with native quickness, they soon remarked. They saw the consideration and politeness with which the bishop and his family were treated; they saw several Protestant gentlemen suffered to return to their homes ‘on parole.’ They saw, too—worse grievance of all—how all attempts at pillage were restrained, or severely punished, and they asked themselves, ‘To what end a revolt, if neither massacre nor robbery were to follow? If they wanted masters and rulers, sure they had the English that they were used to, and could at least understand.’
Such were the causes, and such the reasonings, which gradually ate deeper and deeper into their minds, rendering them at first sullen, gloomy, and suspicious, and at last insubordinate, and openly insulting to us.
Their leaders were the first to exhibit this state of feeling. Affecting a haughty disdain for us, they went about with disparaging stories of the French soldiery; and at last went even so far as to impugn their courage!
In one of the versions of the affair at Castlebar, it was roundly asserted that but for the Irish threatening to fire on them, the French would have turned and fled; while in another, the tactics of that day were all ascribed to the military genius of Neal Kerrigan, who, by-the-bye, was never seen from early morning until late the same afternoon, when he rode into Castlebar on a fine bay horse that belonged to Captain Shortall of the Royal Artillery!
If the feeling between us and our allies was something less than cordial, nothing could be more friendly than that which subsisted between us and such of the Royalists as we came in contact with. The officers who became our prisoners were treated with every deference and respect. Two field-officers and a captain of carbineers dined daily with the general, and Serasin entertained several others. We liked them greatly; and I believe I am not flattering if I say that they were equally satisfied with us.Nos amis l’ennemis, was the constant expression used in talking of them; and every day drew closer the ties of this comrade regard and esteem.
Such was the cordial tone of intimacy maintained between us, that I remember well, one evening at Humbert’s table, an animated discussion being carried on between the general and an English staff-officer on the campaign itself—the Royalist averring that in marching southward at all, a gross and irreparable mistake had been made, and that if the French had occupied Sligo, and extended their wings towards the north, they would have secured a position of infinitely greater strength, and also become the centre for rallying round them a population of a very different order from the half-starved tribes of Mayo.
Humbert affected to say that the reason for his actual plan was that twenty thousand French were daily expected to land in Lough Swilly, and that the western attack was merely to occupy time and attention, while the more formidable movement went on elsewhere.
I know not if the English believed this; I rather suspect not. Certes, they were too polite to express any semblance of distrust of what was told them with all the air of truth.
It was amusing, too, to see the candour with which each party discussed the other to his face—the French general criticising all the faulty tactics and defective manoeuvres of the Royalists; while the English never hesitated to aver that whatever momentary success might wait upon the French arms, they were just as certain to be obliged to capitulate in the end.
‘You know it better than I do, general,’ said the major of dragoons. ‘It may be a day or two earlier or later, but the issue will and must be—a surrender.’
‘I don’t agree with you,’ said Humbert, laughing; ‘I think there will be more than one “Castlebar.” But let the worst happen—and you must own that your haughty country has received a heavy insult—your great England has got asouffletin the face of all Europe!’
This, which our general regarded as a great compensation—the greatest, perhaps, he could receive for all defeat—did not seem to affect the English with proportionate dismay, nor even to ruffle the equanimity of their calm tempers.
Upon one subject both sides were quite agreed—that the peasantry never could aid, but very possibly would always shipwreck, every attempt to win national independence.
‘I should have one army to fight the English, and two to keep down the Irish!’ was Humbert’s expression; and very little experience served to show that there was not much exaggeration in the sentiment.
Our week at Castlebar taught us a good lesson in this respect. The troops, wearied with a march that had begun on the midnight of the day before, and with an engagement that lasted from eight till two in the afternoon, were obliged to be under arms for several hours, to repress pillage and massacre. Our allies now filled the town, to the number of five thousand, openly demanding that it should be given up to them, parading the streets in riotous bands, and displaying banners with long lists of names doomed for immediate destruction.
The steadiness and temper of our soldiery were severely tried by these factious and insubordinate spirits; but discipline prevailed at last, and before the first evening closed in, the town was quiet, and, for the time at least, danger over.
I am at a loss to know whether or not I owe an apology to my reader for turning away from the more immediate object of this memoir of a life, to speak of events which have assumed an historical reputation. It may be thought ill-becoming in one who occupied the subordinate station that I did, to express himself on subjects so very far above both his experience and acquaintance; but I would premise, that in the opinions I may have formed, and the words of praise or censure dropped, I have been but retailing the sentiments of those older and wiser than myself, and by whose guidance I was mainly led to entertain not only the convictions but the prejudices of my early years.
Let the reader bear in mind, too, that I was very early in life thrown into the society of men—left self-dependent, in a great measure, and obliged to decide for myself on subjects which usually are determined by older and more mature heads. So much of excuse, then, if I seem presumptuous in saying that I began to conceive a very low opinion generally of popular attempts at independence, and a very high one of the powers of military skill and discipline. A mob, in my estimation, was the very lowest, and an army about the very highest, object I could well conceive. My short residence at Castlebar did not tend to controvert these impressions. The safety of the town and its inhabitants was entirely owing to the handful of French who held it, and who, wearied with guards, pickets, and outpost duty, were a mere fraction of the small force that had landed a few days before.
Our ‘allies’ were now our most difficult charge, Abandoning the hopeless task of drilling and disciplining them, we confined ourselves to the more practical office of restraining pillage and repressing violence—a measure, be it said, that was not without peril, and of a very serious kind. I remember one incident, which, if not followed by grave consequences, yet appeared at the time of a very serious character.
By the accidental misspelling of a name, a man named Dowall, a notorious ruffian and demagogue, was appointedcommandant de place, or town-major, instead of a most respectable shopkeeper named Downes, who, although soon made aware of the mistake, from natural timidity took no steps to undeceive the general. Dowall was haranguing a mob of half-drunken vagabonds, when his commission was put into his hands; and, accepting the post as an evidence of the fears the French entertained of his personal influence, became more overbearing and insolent than ever. We had a very gallant officer, the second major of the 12th Regiment of the Line, killed in the attack on Castlebar, and this Dowall at once took possession of poor Delaitre’s horse, arms, and equipment. His coat and shako, his very boots and gloves, the scoundrel appropriated; and, as if in mockery of us and our poor friend, assumed a habit that he had when riding fast, to place his sabre between his leg and the saddle, to prevent its striking the horse on the flanks.
I need scarcely say that, thoroughly disgusted by the unsightly exhibition, our incessant cares, and the endless round of duty we were engaged in, as well as the critical position we occupied, left us no time to notice the fellow’s conduct by any other than a passing sign of anger or contempt—provocations that he certainly gave us back as insolently as we offered them. I do not believe that the general ever saw him, but I know that incessant complaints were daily made to him about the man’s rapacity and tyranny, and scarcely a morning passed without a dozen remonstrances being preferred against his overbearing conduct.
Determined to have his own countrymen on his side, he issued the most absurd orders for the billeting of the rabble, the rations and allowances of all kinds. He seized upon one of the best houses for his own quarters, and three fine saddle-horses for his personal use, besides a number of inferior ones for the ruffian following he called his staff!
It was, indeed, enough to excite laughter, had not indignation been the more powerful emotion, to see this fellow ride forth of a morning—a tawdry scarf of green, with deep gold fringe, thrown over his shoulder, and a saddle-cloth of the same colour, profusely studded with gold shamrocks, on his horse; a drawn sword in his hand, and his head erect, followed by an indiscriminate rabble on foot or horseback—some with muskets, some pikes, some with sword blades, bayonets, or even knives fastened on sticks, but all alike ferocious-looking.
They affected to march in order, and, with a rude imitation of soldiery, carried something like a knapsack on their shoulders, surmounted by a kettle or tin cup, or sometimes an iron pot—a grotesque parody on the trim cooking equipment of the French soldier. It was evident, from their step and bearing, that they thought themselves in the very height of discipline; and this very assumption was far more insulting to the real soldier than all the licentious irregularity of the marauder. If to us they were objects of ridicule and derision, to the townspeople they were images of terror and dismay. The miserable shopkeeper who housed one of them lived in continual fear; he knew nothing to be his own, and felt that his property and family were every moment at the dictate of a ruffian gang, who acknowledged no law, nor any rule save their own will and convenience. Dowall’s squad were indeed as great a terror in that little town as I had seen the great name of Robespierre in the proud city of Paris.
In my temporary position on General Serasin’s staff, I came to hear much of this fellow’s conduct. The most grievous stories were told me every day of his rapacity and cruelty; but, harassed and overworked as the general was with duties that would have been overmuch for three or four men, I forebore to trouble him with recitals which could only fret and distress him without affording the slightest chance of relief to others. Perhaps this impunity had rendered him more daring, or, perhaps, the immense number of armed Irish in comparison with the small force of disciplined soldiers, emboldened the fellow; but certainly he grew day by day more presumptuous and insolent, and at last so far forgot himself as to countermand one of General Serasin’s orders, by which a guard was stationed at the Protestant church to prevent its being molested or injured by the populace.
General Humbert had already refused the Roman Catholic priest his permission to celebrate mass in that building, but Dowall had determined otherwise, and that, too, by a written order, under his own hand. The French sergeant who commanded the guard of course paid little attention to this warrant; and when Father Hennisy wanted to carry the matter with a high hand, he coolly tore up the paper, and threw the fragments at him.
Dowall was soon informed of the slight offered to his mandate. He was at supper at the time, entertaining a party of his friends, who all heard the priest’s story, and, of course, loudly sympathised with his sorrows, and invoked the powerful leader’s aid and protection. Affecting to believe that the sergeant had merely acted in ignorance, and from not being able to read English, Dowall despatched a fellow whom he called his aide-de-camp, a schoolmaster named Lowrie, and who spoke a little bad French, to interpret his command, and to desire the sergeant to withdraw his men, and give up the guard to a party of ‘the squad.’
Great was the surprise of the supper-party, when, after the lapse of half an hour, a country fellow came in to say that he had seen Lowrie led off to prison between two French soldiers. By this time Dowall had drunk himself into a state of utter recklessness, while, encouraged by his friends’ praises, and the arguments of his own passions, he fancied that he might dispute ascendency with General Humbert himself. He at once ordered out his horse, and gave a command to assemble the ‘squad.’ As they were all billeted in his immediate vicinity, this was speedily effected, and their numbers swelled by a vast mass of idle and curious, who were eager to see how the matter would end; the whole street was crowded, and when Dowall mounted, his followers amounted to above a thousand people.
If our sergeant, an old soldier of the ‘Sambre et Meuse,’ had not already enjoyed some experience of our allies, it is more than likely that, seeing their hostile advance, he would have fallen back upon the main guard, then stationed in the market-square. As it was, he simply retired his party within the church, the door of which had already been pierced for the use of musketry. This done, and one of his men being despatched to headquarters for advice and orders, he waited patiently for the attack.
I happened that night to make one of General Serasin’s dinner-party, and we were sitting over our wine, when the officer of the guard entered hastily with the tidings of what was going on in the town.
‘Is it thecommandant de placehimself who is at the head?’ exclaimed Serasin, in amazement, such a thought being a direct shock to all his ideas of military discipline.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the officer; ‘the soldier knows his appearance well, and can vouch for its being him.’
‘As I know something of him, general,’ said I, ‘I may as well mention that nothing is more likely.’
‘Who is he—what is he?’ asked Serasin hastily.
A very brief account—I need not say not a nattering one—told all that I knew or had ever heard of our worthy town-major—many of the officers around corroborating, as I went on, all that I said, and interpolating little details of their own about his robberies and exactions.
‘And yet I have heard nothing of all this before,’ said the general, looking sternly around him on every side.
None ventured on a reply; and what might have followed there is no guessing, when the sharp rattle of musketry cut short all discussion.
‘That fire was not given by soldiers,’ said Serasin. ‘Go, Tiernay, and bring this fellow before me at once.’
I bowed, and was leaving the room, when an officer, having whispered a few words in Serasin’s ear, the general called me back, saying—
‘You are not to incur any risk, Tiernay; I want no struggle, still less a rescue. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly, general; the matter will, I trust, be easy enough.’
And so I left the room, my heart—shall I avow it?—bumping and throbbing in a fashion that gave a very poor corroboration to my words. There were always three or four horses ready saddled for duty at each general’s quarters, and, taking one of them, I ordered a corporal of dragoons to follow me, and set out. It was a fine night of autumn; the last faint sunlight was yet struggling with the coming darkness, as I rode at a brisk trot down the main street towards the scene of action.
I had not proceeded far when the crowds compelled me to slacken my pace to a walk, and finding that the people pressed in upon me in such a way as to prevent anything like a defence if attacked, still more, any chance of an escape by flight, I sent the corporal forward to clear a passage, and announce my coming to the redoubted commandant. It was curious to see how the old dragoon’s tactic effected his object, and with what speed the crowd opened and fell back, as, with a flank movement of his horse, he ‘passaged’ up the street, prancing, bounding, and back-leaping, yet all the while perfectly obedient to the hand, and never deviating from the straight line in the very middle of the thoroughfare.
I could catch from the voices around me that the mob had fired a volley at the church door, but that our men had never returned the fire; and now a great commotion of the crowd, and that swaying, surging motion of the mass, which is so peculiarly indicative of a coming event, told that something more was in preparation. And such was it; for already numbers were hurrying forward with straw faggots, broken furniture, and other combustible material, which, in the midst of the wildest cries and shouts of triumph, were now being heaped up against the door. Another moment, and I should have been too late; as it was, my loud summons to ‘halt,’ and a bold command for the mob to fall back, only came at the very last minute.
‘Where’s the commandant?’ said I, in an imperious tone.
‘Who wants him?’ responded a deep, husky voice, which I well knew to be Dowall’s.
‘The general in command of the town,’ said I firmly—‘General Serasin.’
‘Maybe I’m as good a general as himself,’ was the answer. ‘I never called him my superior yet! Did I, boys?’
‘Never—devil a bit—why would you?’ and such like, were shouted by the mob around us, in every accent of drunken defiance.
‘You ‘ll not refuse General Serasin’s invitation to confer with your commandant, I hope?’ said I, affecting a tone of respectful civility, while I gradually drew nearer and nearer to him, contriving, at the same time, by a dexterous plunging of my horse, to force back the bystanders, and thus isolate my friend Dowall.
‘Tell him I’ve work to do here,’ said he, ‘and can’t come; but if he’s fond of a bonfire he may as well step down this far and see one.’
By this time, at a gesture of command from me, the corporal had placed himself on the opposite side of Dowall’s horse, and, by a movement similar to my own, completely drove back the dense mob, so that we had him completely in our power, and could have sabred or shot him at any moment.
‘General Serasin only wishes to see you on duty, commandant,’ said I, speaking in a voice that could be heard over the entire assemblage; and then, dropping it to a whisper, only audible to himself, I added—
‘Come along quietly, sir, and without a word. If you speak, if you mutter, or if you lift a finger, I’ll run my sabre through your body.’
‘Forward, way, there!’ shouted I aloud, and the corporal, holding Dowall’s bridle, pricked the horse with the point of his sword, and right through the crowd we went at a pace that defied following, had any the daring to think of it.
So sudden was the act and so imminent the peril, for I held the point of my weapon within a few inches of his back, and would have kept my word most assuredly too, that the fellow never spoke a syllable as we went, nor ventured on even a word of remonstrance till we descended at the general’s door. Then, with a voice tremulous with restrained passion, he said—
‘If ye think I’ll forgive ye this thrick, my fine hoy, may the flames and fire be my portion! and if I haven’t my revenge on ye yet, my name isn’t Mick Dowall.’
With a dogged, sulky resolution he mounted the stairs, but as he neared the room where the general was, and from which his voice could even now be heard, his courage seemed to fail him, and he looked back as though to see if no chance of escape remained. The attempt would have been hopeless, and he saw it.
‘This is the man, general,’ said I, half pushing him forward into the middle of the room, where he stood with his hat on, and in an attitude of mingled defiance and terror.
‘Tell him to uncover,’ said Serasin; but one of the aides-de-camp, more zealous than courteous, stepped forward and knocked the hat off with his hand. Dowall never budged an inch, nor moved a muscle, at this insult; to look at him you could not have said that he was conscious of it.
‘Ask him if it was by his orders that the guard was assailed,’ said the general.
I put the question in about as many words, but he made no reply.
‘Does the man know where he is? does he know who I am?’ repeated Serasin passionately.
‘He knows both well enough, sir,’ said I; ‘this silence is a mere defiance of us.’
‘Parbleu!’ cried an officer, ‘that is thecoquintook poor Delaitre’s equipments; the very uniform he has on was his.’
‘The fellow was never a soldier,’ said another.
‘I know him well,’ interposed a third—’ he is the very terror of the townsfolk.’
‘Who gave him his commission?—who appointed him?’ asked Serasin.
Apparently the fellow could follow some words of French, for as the general asked this he drew from his pocket a crumpled and soiled paper, which he threw heedlessly upon the table before us.
‘Why, this is not his name, sir,’ said I; ‘this appointment is made out in the name of Nicholas Downes, and our friend here is called Dowall.’
‘Who knows him? who can identify him?’ asked Serasin.
‘I can say that his name is Dowall, and that he worked as a porter on the quay in this town when I was a boy,’ said a young Irishman who was copying letters and papers at a side-table. ‘Yes, Dowall,’ said the youth, confronting the look which the other gave him. ‘I am neither afraid nor ashamed to tell you to your face that I know you well, and who you are, and what you are.’
‘I’m an officer in the Irish Independent Army now,’ said Dowall resolutely. ‘To the divil I fling the French commission and all that belongs to it. Tisn’t troops that run and guns that burst we want. Let them go back again the way they came—we ‘re able for the work ourselves.*
Before I could translate this rude speech an officer broke into the room, with tidings that the streets had been cleared, and the rioters dispersed; a few prisoners, too, were taken, whose muskets bore trace of being recently discharged.
‘They fired upon our pickets, general,’ said the officer, whose excited look and voice betrayed how deeply he felt the outrage.
The men were introduced; three ragged, ill-looking wretches, apparently only roused from intoxication by the terror of their situation, for each was guarded by a soldier with a drawn bayonet in his hand.
‘We only obeyed ordhers, my lord; we only did what the captain tould us,’ cried they, in a miserable, whining tone, for the sight of their leader in captivity had sapped all their courage.
‘What am I here for? who has any business with me?’ said Dowall, assuming before his followers an attempt at his former tone of bully.
‘Tell him,’ said Serasin, ‘that wherever a French general stands in full command he will neither brook insolence nor insubordination. Let those fellows be turned out of the town, and warned never to approach the quarters of the army under any pretence whatever. As for this scoundrel, we’ll make an example of him. Order apelotoninto the yard, and shoot him!’
I rendered this speech into English as the general spoke it, and never shall I forget the wild scream of the wretch as he heard the sentence.
‘I’m an officer in the army of Ireland. I don’t belong to ye at all. You’ve no power over me. Oh, captain, darlin’; oh, gentlemen, speak for me! General, dear; general, honey, don’t sintince me! don’t, for the love o’ God!’ and in grovelling terror the miserable creature threw himself on his knees to beg for mercy.
‘Tear off his epaulettes,’ cried Serasin; ‘never let a French uniform be so disgraced!’
The soldiers wrenched off the epaulettes at the command, and, not satisfied with this, they even tore away the lace from the cuffs of the uniform, which now hung in ragged fragments over his trembling hands.
‘Oh, sir! oh, general! oh, gentlemen, have marcy!’
‘Away with him,’ said Serasin contemptuously; ‘it is only the cruel can be such cowards. Give the fellow his fusillade with blank cartridge, and, the chances are, fear will kill him outright.’
The scene that ensued is too shocking, too full of abasement, to record; there was nothing that fear of death, nothing that abject terror could suggest, that this miserable wretch did not attempt to save his life; he wept—he begged in accents that were unworthy of all manhood—he kissed the very ground at the general’s feet in his abject sorrow; and when at last he was dragged from the room, his screams were the most piercing and terrific.
Although all my compassion was changed into contempt, I felt that I could never have given the word to fire upon him, had such been my orders; his fears had placed him below all manhood, but they still formed a barrier of defence around him. I accordingly whispered a few words to the sergeant, as we passed down the stairs, and then, affecting to have forgotten something, I stepped back towards the room, where the general and his staff were sitting. The scuffling sound of feet, mingled with the crash of firearms, almost drowned the cries of the still struggling wretch; his voice, however, burst forth into a wild cry, and then there came a pause—a pause that at last became insupportable to my anxiety, and I was about to rush downstairs, when a loud yell, a savage howl of derision and hate burst forth from the street; and on looking out I saw a vast crowd before the door, who were shouting after a man, whose speed soon carried him out of reach. This was Dowall, who, thus suffered to escape, was told to fly from the town and never to return to it.
‘Thank Heaven,’ muttered I, ‘we’ve seen the last of him.’
The rejoicing was, however, premature.