I will not weary my reader with a narrative of my mountain walk, nor the dangers and difficulties which beset me on that day of storm and hurricane. Few as were the miles to travel, what with accidents, mistakes of the path, and the halts to take shelter, I only reached Murrah as the day was declining.
The little village, which consisted of some twenty cabins, occupied a narrow gorge between two mountains, and presented an aspect of greater misery than I had ever witnessed before, not affording even the humblest specimen of a house of entertainment. From some peasants that were lounging in the street I learned that ‘Father Doogan’ had passed through two days before in company with a naval officer, whom they believed to be French. At least ‘he came from one of the ships in the lough, and could speak no English.’ Since that the priest had not returned, and many thought that he had gone away for ever. This story varied in a few unimportant particulars. I also learned that a squadron of several sail had, for three or four days, been lying at the entrance of Lough Swilly, with, it was said, large reinforcements for the ‘army of independence.’ There was then no time to be lost; here was the very force which I had been sent to communicate with; there were the troops that should at that moment be disembarking. The success of my mission might all depend now on a little extra exertion, and so I at once engaged a guide to conduct me to the coast; and having fortified myself with a glass of mountain whisky I felt ready for the road.
My guide could only speak a very little English, so that our way was passed in almost unbroken silence; and as, for security, he followed the least frequented paths, we scarcely met a living creature as we went. It was with a strange sense of half pride, half despondency, that I bethought me of my own position there—a Frenchman alone, and separated from his countrymen—in a wild mountain region of Ireland, carrying about him documents that, if detected, might peril his life; involved in a cause that had for its object the independence of a nation, and that against the power of the mightiest kingdom in Europe. An hour earlier or later, an accident by the way, a swollen torrent, a chance impediment of any kind that should delay me—and what a change might that produce in the whole destiny of the world!
The despatches I carried conveyed instructions the most precise and accurate: the places for combined action of the two armies—information as to the actual state of parties, and the condition of the native forces, was contained in them. All that could instruct the newly-come generals, or encourage them to decisive measures, were there; and yet, on what narrow contingencies did their safe arrival depend! It was thus, in exaggerating to myself the part I played—in elevating my humble position into all the importance of a high trust—that I sustained my drooping spirits, and acquired energy to carry me through fatigue and exhaustion. During that night, and the greater part of the following day, we walked on, almost without halt, scarcely eating, and, except by an occasional glass of whisky, totally unrefreshed; and, I am free to own, that my poor guide—a barelegged youth of about seventeen, without any of those high-sustaining illusions which stirred within my heart—suffered far less either from hunger or weariness than I did. So much for motives. A shilling or two were sufficient to equalise the balance against all the weight of my heroism and patriotic ardour together.
A bright sun, and a sharp wind from the north, had succeeded to the lowering sky and heavy atmosphere of the morning, and we travelled along with light hearts and brisk steps, breasting the side of a steep ascent, from the summit of which, my guide told me, I should behold the sea—the sea! not only the great plain on which I expected to see our armament, but the link which bound me to my country! Suddenly, just as I turned the angle of a cliff, it burst upon my sight—one vast mirror of golden splendour—appearing almost at my feet! In the yellow gleams of a setting sun, long columns of azure-coloured light streaked its calm surface, and tinged the atmosphere with a warm and rosy hue. While I was lost in admiration of the picture, I heard the sound of voices close beneath me, and, on looking down, saw two figures who, with telescope in hand, were steadily gazing on a little bay that extended towards the west.
At first, my attention was more occupied by the strangers than by the object of their curiosity, and I remarked that they were dressed and equipped like sportsmen, their guns and game-bags lying against the rock behind them.
‘Do you still think that they are hovering about the coast, Tom?’ said the elder of the two, ‘or are you not convinced, at last, that I am right?’
‘I believe you are,’ replied the other; ‘but it certainly did not look like it yesterday evening, with their boats rowing ashore every half-hour, signals flying, and blue lights burning; all seemed to threaten a landing.’
‘If they ever thought of it they soon changed their minds,’ said the former. ‘The defeat of their comrades in the west, and the apathy of the peasantry here, would have cooled down warmer ardour than theirs. There they go, Tom. I only hope that they’ll fall in with Warren’s squadron, and French insolence receive at sea the lesson we failed to give them on land.’
‘Not so,’ rejoined the younger; ‘Humbert’s capitulation, and the total break up of the expedition, ought to satisfy-even your patriotism.’
‘It fell far short of it, then!’ cried the other. ‘I’d never have treated those fellows other than as bandits and freebooters. I’d have hanged them as highwaymen. Theirs was less war than rapine; but what could you expect? I have been assured that Humbert’s force consisted of little other than liberated felons and galley-slaves—the refuse of the worst population of Europe!’
Distracted with the terrible tidings I had overheard—overwhelmed with the sight of the ships, now glistening like bright specks on the verge of the horizon, I forgot my own position—my safety—everything but the insult thus cast upon my gallant comrades.
‘Whoever said so was a liar, and a base coward, to boot!’ cried I, springing down from the height and confronting them both where they stood. They started back, and, seizing their guns, assumed an attitude of defence, and then, quickly perceiving that I was alone—for the boy had taken to flight as fast as he could—they stood regarding me with faces of intense astonishment.
‘Yes,’ said I, still boiling with passion, ‘you are two to one, on your own soil besides, the odds you are best used to; and yet I repeat it, that he who asperses the character of General Humbert’s force is a liar.’
‘He’s French.’
‘No, he’s Irish,’ muttered the elder.
‘What signifies my country, sirs,’ cried I passionately, ‘if I demand retraction for a falsehood.’
‘It signifies more than you think of, young man,’ said the elder calmly, and without evincing even the slightest irritation in his manner. ‘If you be a Frenchman born, the lenity of our Government accords you the privilege of a prisoner of war. If you be only French by adoption, and a uniform, a harsher destiny awaits you.’
‘And who says I am a prisoner yet?’ asked I, drawing myself up, and staring them steadily in the face.
‘We should be worse men, and poorer patriots than you give us credit for, or we should be able to make you so,’ said he quietly; ‘but this is no time for ill-temper on either side. The expedition has failed. Well, if you will not believe me, read that. There, in that paper, you will see the official account of General Humbert’s surrender at Boyle. The news is already over the length and breadth of the island; even if you only landed last night I cannot conceive how you should be ignorant of it!’ I covered my face with my hands to hide my emotion; and he went on: ‘If you be French you have only to claim and prove your nationality, and you partake the fortunes of your countrymen.’
‘And if he be not,’ whispered the other, in a voice which, although low, I could still detect, ‘why should we give him up?’
‘Hush, Tom, be quiet,’ replied the elder, ‘let him plead for himself.’
‘Let me see the newspaper,’ said I, endeavouring to seem calm and collected; and, taking it at the place he pointed out, I read the heading in capitals, ‘Capitulation of General Humbert and his whole Force.’ I could see no more. I could not trace the details of so horrible a disaster, nor did I ask to know by what means it occurred. My attitude and air of apparent occupation, however, deceived the other; and the elder, supposing that I was engaged in considering the paragraph, said, ‘You’ll see the Government proclamation on the other side—a general amnesty to all under the rank of officers in the rebel army, who give up their arms within six days. The French to be treated as prisoners of war.’
‘Is he too late to regain the fleet?’ whispered the younger.
‘Of course he is. They are already hull down; besides, who’s to assist his escape, Tom? You forget the position he stands in.’
‘But I do not forget it,’ answered I; ‘and you need not be afraid that I will seek to compromise you, gentlemen. Tell me where to find the nearest justice of the peace, and I will go and surrender myself.’
‘It is your wisest and best policy,’ said the elder. ‘I am not in the commission, but a neighbour of mine is, and lives a few miles off, and, if you like, we ‘ll accompany you to his house.’
I accepted the offer, and soon found myself descending the steep path of the mountain in perfect good-fellowship with the two strangers. It is likely enough, if they had taken any peculiar pains to obliterate the memory of our first meeting, or if they had displayed any extraordinary efforts of conciliation, that I should have been on my guard against them; but their manners, on the contrary, were easy and unaffected in every respect. They spoke of the expedition sensibly and dispassionately, and while acknowledging that there were many things they would like to see altered in the English rule of Ireland, they were very averse from the desire of a foreign intervention to rectify them.
I avowed to them that we had been grossly deceived. That all the representations made to us depicted Ireland as a nation of soldiers, wanting only arms and military stores to rise as a vast army. That the peasantry were animated by one spirit, and the majority of the gentry willing to hazard everything on the issue of a struggle. Our Killala experiences, of which I detailed some, heartily amused them, and it was in a merry interchange of opinions that we now walked along together.
A cluster of houses, too small to be called a village, and known as the ‘Cranagh,’ stood in a little nook of the bay; and here they lived. They were brothers; and the elder held some small appointment in the revenue, which maintained them as bachelors in this cheap country. In a low conversation that passed between them it was agreed that they would detain me as their guest for that evening, and on the morrow accompany me to the magistrate’s house, about five miles distant. I was not sorry to accept their hospitable offer. I longed for a few hours of rest and respite before embarking on another sea of troubles. The failure of the expedition, and the departure of the fleet, had overwhelmed me with grief, and I was in no mood to confront new perils.
If my new acquaintances could have read my inmost thoughts, their manner towards me could not have displayed more kindness or good-breeding. Not pressing me with questions on subjects where the greatest curiosity would have been permissible, they suffered me to tell only so much as I wished of our late plans; and, as if purposely to withdraw my thoughts from the unhappy theme of our defeat, led me to talk of France, and her career in Europe.
It was not without surprise that I saw how conversant the newspapers had made them with European politics, nor how widely different did events appear when viewed from afar off, and by the lights of another and different nationality. Thus all that we were doing on the Continent to propagate liberal notions, and promote the spread of freedom, seemed to their eyes but the efforts of an ambitious power to crush abroad what they had annihilated at home, and extend their own influence in disseminating doctrines, all to revert, one day or other, to some grand despotism, whenever the man arose capable to exercise it. The elder would not even concede to us that we were fit for freedom.
‘You are glorious fellows at destroying an old edifice,’ said he, ‘but sorry architects when comes the question of rebuilding; and as to liberty, your highest notion of it is an occasional anarchy like schoolboys, you will bear any tyranny for ten years, to have ten days of a “barring out” afterward.’
I was not much flattered by these opinions; and, what was worse, I could not get them out of my head all night afterwards. Many things I had never doubted about now kept puzzling and confounding me, and I began, for the first time, to know the misery of the struggle between implicit obedience and conviction.
I went to bed at night in all apparent health; save from the flurry and excitement of an anxious mind, I was in no respect different from my usual mood; and yet, when I awoke next morning, my head was distracted with a racking pain, cramps were in all my limbs, and I could not turn or even move without intense suffering. The long exposure to rain, while my mind was in a condition of extreme excitement, had brought on an attack of fever, and before evening set in, I was raving in wild delirium. Every scene I had passed through, each eventful incident of my life, came flashing in disjointed portions through my poor brain, and I raved away of France, of Germany, of the dreadful days of terror, and the fearful orgies of the ‘Revolution.’ Scenes of strife and struggle—the terrible conflicts of the streets—all rose before me; and the names of every blood-stained hero of France now mingled with the obscure titles of Irish insurrection.
What narratives of my early life I may have given—what stories I may have revealed of my strange career, I cannot tell; but the interest my kind hosts took in me grew stronger every day. There was no care nor kindness they did not lavish on me. Taking alternate nights to sit up with me, they watched beside my bed like brothers. All that affection could give they rendered me; and even from their narrow fortunes they paid a physician, who came from a distant town to visit me. When I was sufficiently recovered to leave my bed, and sit at the window, or stroll slowly in the garden, I became aware of the full extent to which their kindness had carried them, and in the precautions for secrecy I saw the peril to which my presence exposed them. From an excess of delicacy towards me, they did not allude to the subject, nor show the slightest uneasiness about the matter; but day by day some little circumstance would occur, some slight and trivial fact reveal the state of anxiety they lived in.
They were averse, too, from all discussion of late events, and either answered my questions vaguely or with a certain reserve; and when I hinted at my hope of being soon able to appear before a magistrate and establish my claim as a French citizen, they replied that the moment was an unfavourable one: the lenity of the Government had latterly been abused, their gracious intentions misstated and perverted—that, in fact, a reaction towards severity had occurred, and military law and courts-martial were summarily disposing of cases that a short time back would have received the mildest sentences of civil tribunals. It was clear, from all they said, that if the rebellion was suppressed, the insurrectionary feeling was not extinguished, and that England was the very reverse of tranquil on the subject of Ireland.
It was to no purpose that I repeated my personal indifference to all these measures of severity, that in my capacity as a Frenchman and an officer I stood exempt from all the consequences they alluded to. Their reply was, that in times of trouble and alarm things were done which quieter periods would never have sanctioned, and that indiscreet and over-zealous men would venture on acts that neither law nor justice could substantiate. In fact, they gave me to believe, that such was the excitement of the moment, such the embittered vengeance of those whose families or fortunes had suffered by the rebellion, that no reprisals would be thought too heavy, nor any harshness too great, for those who aided the movement.
Whatever I might have said against the injustice of this proceeding, in my secret heart I had to confess that it was only what might have been expected; and coming from a country where it was enough to call a man an aristocrat, and then cryà la lanterne!I saw nothing unreasonable in it all.
My friends advised me, therefore, instead of preferring any formal claim to immunity, to take the first occasion of escaping to America, whence I could not fail, later on, of returning to France. At first, the counsel only irritated me, but by degrees, as I came to think more calmly and seriously of the difficulties, I began to regard it in a different light; and at last I fully concurred in the wisdom of the advice, and resolved on adopting it.
To sit on the cliffs, and watch the ocean for hours, became now the practice of my life—to gaze from daybreak almost to the falling of night oyer the wide expanse of sea, straining my eyes at each sail, and conjecturing to what distant shore they were tending. The hopes which at first sustained at last deserted me, as week after week passed over, and no prospect of escape appeared. The life of inactivity gradually depressed my spirits, and I fell into a low and moping condition, in which my hours rolled over without thought or notice. Still, I returned each day to my accustomed spot, a lofty peak of rock that stood over the sea, and from which the view extended for miles on every side. There, half hid in the wild heath, I used to lie for hours long, my eyes bent upon the sea, but my thoughts wandering away to a past that never was to be renewed, and a future I was never destined to experience.
Although late in the autumn, the season was mild and genial, and the sea calm and waveless, save along the shore, where, even in the stillest weather, the great breakers came tumbling in with a force independent of storm; and, listening to their booming thunder, I have dreamed away hour after hour unconsciously. It was one day, as I lay thus, that my attention was caught by the sight of three large vessels on the very verge of the horizon. Habit had now given me a certain acuteness, and I could perceive from their height and size that they were ships of war. For a while they seemed as if steering for the entrance of the lough, but afterwards they changed their course, and headed towards the west. At length they separated, and one of smaller size, and probably a frigate from her speed, shot forward beyond the rest, and, in less than half an hour, disappeared from view. The other two gradually sank beneath the horizon, and not a sail was to be seen over the wide expanse. While speculating on what errand the squadron might be employed, I thought I could hear the deep and rolling sound of distant cannonading. My ear was too practised in the thundering crash of the breakers along shore to confound the noises; and as I listened I fancied that I could distinguish the sound of single guns from the louder roar of a whole broadside. This could not mean saluting, nor was it likely to be a mere exercise of the fleet. They were not times when much powder was expended un-profitably. Was it then an engagement? But with what or whom? Tandy’s expedition, as it was called, had long since sailed, and must ere this have been captured or safe in France. I tried a hundred conjectures to explain the mystery, which now, from the long continuance of the sounds, seemed to denote a desperately contested engagement. It was not till after three hours that the cannonading ceased, and then I could descry a thick dark canopy of smoke that hung hazily over one spot in the horizon, as if marking out the scene of the struggle. With what aching, torturing anxiety I burned to know what had happened, and with which side rested the victory!
Well habituated to hear of the English as victors in every naval engagement, I yet went on hoping against hope itself, that Fortune might for once have favoured us; nor was it till the falling night prevented my being able to trace out distant objects, that I could leave the spot and turn homewards. With wishes so directly opposed to theirs, I did not venture to tell my two friends what I had witnessed, nor trust myself to speak on a subject where my feelings might have betrayed me into unseemly expressions of my hopes. I was glad to find that they knew nothing of the matter, and talked away indifferently of other subjects. By daybreak the next morning I was at my post, a sharp nor’-wester blowing, and a heavy sea rolling in from the Atlantic. Instinctively carrying my eyes to the spot where I had heard the cannonade, I could distinctly see the tops of spars, as if the upper rigging of some vessels beyond the horizon.
Gradually they rose higher and higher, till I could detect the yard-arms and cross-trees, and finally the great hulls of five vessels that were bearing towards me.
For above an hour I could see their every movement, as with all canvas spread they held on majestically towards the land, when at length a lofty promontory of the bay intervened, and they were lost to my view. I jumped to my legs at once, and set off down the cliff to reach the headland, from whence an uninterrupted prospect extended. The distance was greater than I had supposed, and in my eagerness to take a direct line to it, I got entangled in difficult gorges among the hills, and impeded by mountain torrents which often compelled me to go back a considerable distance; it was already late in the afternoon as I gained the crest of a ridge over the bay of Lough Swilly. Beneath me lay the calm surface of the lough, landlocked and still; but farther out seaward there was a sight that made my very limbs tremble, and sickened my heart as I beheld it. There was a large frigate, that, with studding-sails set, stood boldly up the bay, followed by a dismasted three-decker, at whose mizzen floated the ensign of England over the French tricolour. Several other vessels were grouped about the offing, all of them displaying English colours.
The dreadful secret was out. There had been a tremendous sea-fight, and theHoche, of seventy-four guns, was the sad spectacle which, with shattered sides and ragged rigging, I now beheld entering the bay. Oh, the humiliation of that sight! I can never forget it. And although on all the surrounding hills scarcely fifty country-people were assembled, I felt as if the whole of Europe were spectators of our defeat. The flag I had always believed triumphant now hung ignominiously beneath the ensign of the enemy, and the decks of our noble ship were crowded with the uniforms of English sailors and marines.
The blue water surged and spouted from the shot-holes as the great hull loomed heavily from side to side, and broken spars and ropes still hung over the side, as she went, a perfect picture of defeat. Never was disaster more legibly written. I watched her till the anchor dropped, and then, in a burst of emotion, I turned away, unable to endure more. As I hastened homeward I met the elder of my two hosts coming to meet me, in considerable anxiety. He had heard of the capture of theHoche, but his mind was far more intent on another and less important event. Two men had just been at his cottage with a warrant for my arrest. The document bore my name and rank, as well as a description of my appearance, and significantly alleged that, although Irish by birth, I affected a foreign accent for the sake of concealment.
‘There is no chance of escape now,’ said my friend; ‘we are surrounded with spies on every hand. My advice is, therefore, to hasten to Lord Cavan’s quarters—he is now at Letterkenny—and give yourself up as a prisoner. There is at least the chance of your being treated like the rest of your countrymen. I have already provided you with a horse and a guide, for I must not accompany you myself. Go, then, Maurice. We shall never see each other again; but we’ll not forget you, nor do we fear that you will forget us. My brother could not trust himself to take leave of you, but his best wishes and prayers go with you.’
Such were the last words my kind-hearted friend spoke to me; nor do I know what reply I made, as, overcome by emotion, my voice became thick and broken. I wanted to tell all my gratitude, and yet could say nothing. To this hour I know not with what impression of me he went away. I can only assert, that in all the long career of vicissitudes of a troubled and adventurous life, these brothers have occupied the chosen spot of my affection for everything that was disinterested in kindness and generous in good feeling.
They have done more; for they have often reconciled me to a world of harsh injustice and illiberality, by remembering that two such exceptions existed, and that others may have experienced what fell to my lot.
For a mile or two my way lay through the mountains, but after reaching the highroad I had not proceeded far when I was overtaken by a jaunting-car, on which a gentleman was seated, with his leg supported by a cushion, and bearing all the signs of a severe injury.
‘Keep the near side of the way, sir, I beg of you,’ cried he; ‘I have a broken leg, and am excessively uneasy when a horse passes close to me.’
I touched my cap in salute, and immediately turned my horse’s head to comply with his request.
‘Did you see that, George?’ cried another gentleman, who sat on the opposite side of the vehicle; ‘did you remark that fellow’s salute? My life on’t he’s a French soldier.’
‘Nonsense, man; he’s the steward of a Clyde smack, or a clerk in a counting-house,’ said the first, in a voice which, though purposely low, my quick hearing could catch perfectly.
‘Are we far from Letterkenny just now, sir?’ said the other, addressing me.
‘I believe about five miles,’ said I, with a prodigious effort to make my pronunciation pass muster.
‘You’re a stranger in these parts, I see, sir,’ rejoined he, with a cunning glance at his friend, while he added, lower, ‘Was I right, Hill?’
Although seeing that all concealment was now hopeless, I was in nowise disposed to plead guilty at once, and therefore, with a cut of my switch, pushed my beast into a sharp canter to get forward.
My friends, however, gave chase, and now the jaunting-car, notwithstanding the sufferings of the invalid, was clattering after me at about nine miles an hour. At first I rather enjoyed the malice of the penalty their curiosity was costing, but as I remembered that the invalid was not the chief offender, I began to feel compunction at the severity of the lesson, and drew up to a walk.
They at once shortened their pace, and came up beside me.
‘A clever hack you’re riding, sir,’ said the inquisitive man.
‘Not so bad for an animal of this country,’ said I superciliously.
‘Oh, then, what kind of a horse are you accustomed to?’ asked he, half insolently.
‘The Limousin,’ said I coolly, ‘what we always mount in our hussar regiments in France.’
‘And you are a French soldier, then,’ cried he, in evident astonishment at my frankness.
‘At your service, sir,’ said I, saluting; ‘a lieutenant of hussars; and if you are tormented by any further curiosity concerning me, I may as well relieve you by stating that I am proceeding to Lord Cavan’s headquarters to surrender as a prisoner.’
‘Frank enough that!’ said he of the broken leg, laughing heartily as he spoke. ‘Well, sir,’ said the other, ‘you are, as your countrymen would call it,bien venu, for we are bound in that direction ourselves, and will be happy to have your company.’
One piece of tact my worldly experience had profoundly impressed upon me, and that was, the necessity of always assuming an air of easy unconcern in every circumstance of doubtful issue. There was quite enough of difficulty in the present case to excite my anxiety, but I rode along beside the jaunting-car, chatting familiarly with my new acquaintances, and, I believe, without exhibiting the slightest degree of uneasiness regarding my own position.
From them I learned so much as they had heard of the late naval engagement. The report was that Bompard’s fleet had fallen in with Sir John Warren’s squadron; and having given orders for his fastest sailers to make the best of their way to France, had, with theHoche, theLoire, and theResolve, given battle to the enemy. These had all been captured, as well as four others which fled, two alone of the whole succeeding in their escape. I think now, that, grievous as these tidings were, there was nothing of either boastfulness or insolence in the tone in which they were communicated to me. Every praise was accorded to Bompard for skill and bravery, and the defence was spoken of in terms of generous eulogy. The only trait of acrimony that showed itself in the recital was a regret that a number of Irish rebels should have escaped in theBiche, one of the smaller frigates; and several emissaries of the people, who had been deputed to the admiral, were also alleged to have been on board of that vessel.
‘You are sorry to have missed your friend the priest of Murrah,’ said Hill jocularly.
‘Yes, by George, that fellow should have graced a gallows if I had been lucky enough to have taken him.’
‘What was his crime, sir?’ asked I, with seeming unconcern.
‘Nothing more than exciting to rebellion a people with whom he had no tie of blood or kindred! He was a Frenchman, and devoted himself to the cause of Ireland,* as they call it, from pure sympathy——’
‘And a dash of Popery,’ broke in Hill.
‘It’s hard to say even that; my own opinion is, that French Jacobinism cares very little for the Pope. Am I right, young gentleman—you don’t go very often to confession?’
‘I should do so less frequently if I were to be subjected to such a system of interrogatory as yours,’ said I tartly.
They both took my impertinent speech in good part, and laughed heartily at it; and thus, half amicably, half in earnest, we entered the little town of Letterkenny, just as night was falling.
‘If you’ll be our guest for this evening, sir,’ said Hill, ‘we shall be happy to have your company.’
I accepted the invitation, and followed them into the inn.
Early the next morning, a messenger arrived from the Cranagh, with a small packet of my clothes and effects, and a farewell letter from the two brothers. I had but time to glance over its contents when the tramp of feet and the buzz of voices in the street attracted me to the window, and on looking out I saw a long line of men, two abreast, who were marching along as prisoners, a party of dismounted dragoons keeping guard over them on either side, followed by a strong detachment of marines. The poor fellows looked sad and crest-fallen enough. Many of them wore bandages on their heads and limbs, the tokens of the late struggle. Immediately in front of the inn door stood a group of about thirty persons; they were the staff of the English force, and the officers of our fleet, all mingled together, and talking away with the greatest air of unconcern. I was struck by remarking that all our seamen, though prisoners, saluted the officers as they passed, and in the glances interchanged I thought I could read a world of sympathy and encouragement. As for the officers, like true Frenchmen they bore themselves as though it were one of the inevitable chances of war, and, however vexatious for the moment, not to be thought of as an event of much importance. The greater number of them belonged to the army, and I could see the uniforms of the staff, artillery and dragoons, as well as the less distinguished costume of the line.
Perhaps they carried the affectation of indifference a little too far, and in the lounging ease of their attitude, and the cool unconcern with which they puffed their cigars, displayed an over-anxiety to seem unconcerned.
That the English were piqued at their bearing was still more plain to see; and indeed, in the sullen looks of the one, and the careless gaiety of the other party, a stranger might readily have mistaken the captor for the captive.
My two friends of the evening before were in the midst of the group. He who had questioned me so sharply now wore a general officer’s uniform, and seemed to be the chief in command. As I watched him I heard him addressed by an officer, and now saw that he was no other than Lord Cavan himself, while the other was a well-known magistrate and country gentleman, Sir George Hill.
The sad procession took almost half an hour to defile; and then came a long string of country cars and carts, with sea-chests and other stores belonging to our officers, and, last of all, some eight or ten ammunition-waggons and gun-carriages, over which an English union-jack now floated in token of conquest.
There was nothing like exultation or triumph exhibited by the peasantry as this pageant passed. They gazed in silent wonderment at the scene, and looked like men who scarcely knew whether the result boded more of good or evil to their own fortunes. While keenly scrutinising the looks and bearing of the bystanders, I received a summons to meet the general and his party at breakfast.
Although the occurrence was one of the most pleasurable incidents of my life, which brought me once more into intercourse with my comrades and my countrymen, I should perhaps pass it over with slight mention, were it not that it made me witness to a scene which has since been recorded in various different ways, but of whose exact details I profess to be an accurate narrator.
After making a tour of the room, saluting my comrades, answering questions here, putting others there, I took my place at the long table, which, running the whole length of the apartment, was indiscriminately occupied by French and English, and found myself with my back to the fireplace, and having directly in front of me a man of about thirty-three or thirty-four years of age, dressed in the uniform of achef de brigade; light-haired and blue-eyed, he bore no resemblance whatever to those around him, whose dark faces and black beards proclaimed them of a foreign origin. There was an air of mildness in his manner, mingled with a certain impetuosity that betrayed itself in the rapid glances of his eye, and I could plainly mark that while the rest were perfectly at their ease, he was constrained, restless, watching eagerly everything that went forward about him, and showing unmistakably a certain anxiety and distrust, widely differing from the gay and careless indifference of his comrades. I was curious to hear his name, and on asking, learned that he was theChef de BrigadeSmith, an Irishman by birth, but holding a command in the French service.
I had but asked the question, when, pushing back his chair from the table, he arose suddenly, and stood stiff and erect, like a soldier on parade.
‘Well, sir, I hope you are satisfied with your inspection of me,’ cried he, and sternly, addressing himself to some one behind my back. I turned and perceived it was Sir George Hill, who stood in front of the fire, leaning on his stick. Whether he replied or not to this rude speech I am unable to say, but the other walked leisurely round the table and came directly in front of him. ‘You know me now, sir, I presume,’ said he, in the same imperious voice, ‘or else this uniform has made a greater change in my appearance than I knew of.’
‘Mr. Tone!’ said Sir George, in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
‘Ay, sir, Wolfe Tone; there is no need of secrecy here; Wolfe Tone, your old college acquaintance in former times, but nowchef de brigadein the service of France.’
‘This is a very unexpected, a very unhappy meeting, Mr. Tone,’ said Hill feelingly; ‘I sincerely wish you had not recalled the memory of our past acquaintance. My duty gives me no alternative.’
‘Your duty, or I mistake much, can have no concern with me, sir,’ cried Tone, in a more excited voice.
‘I ask for nothing better than to be sure of this, Mr. Tone,’ said Sir George, moving slowly towards the door.
‘You would treat me like anémigré rentré?cried Tone passionately, ‘but I am a French subject and a French officer!’
‘I shall be well satisfied if others take the same view of your case, I assure you,’ said Hill, as he gained the door.
‘You ‘ll not find me unprepared for either event, sir,’ rejoined Tone, following him out of the room, and banging the door angrily behind him.
For a moment or two the noise of voices was heard from without, and several of the guests, English and French, rose from the table, eagerly inquiring what had occurred, and asking for an explanation of the scene, when suddenly the door was flung wide open, and Tone appeared between two policemen, his coat off, and his wrists inclosed in handcuffs.
‘Look here, comrades,’ he cried in French; ‘this is another specimen of English politeness and hospitality. After all,’ added he, with a bitter laugh, ‘they have no designation in all their heraldry as honourable as these fetters, when worn for the cause of freedom! Good-bye, comrades; we may never meet again, but don’t forget how we parted.’
These were the last words he uttered, when the door was closed, and he was led forward under charge of a strong force of police and military. A postchaise was soon seen to pass the windows at speed, escorted by dragoons, and we saw no more of our comrade.
The incident passed even more rapidly than I write it. The few words spoken, the hurried gestures, the passionate exclamations, are yet all deeply graven on my memory; and I can recall every little incident of the scene, and every feature of the locality wherein it occurred. With true French levity many reseated themselves at the breakfast-table; whilst others, with perhaps as little feeling, but more of curiosity, discussed the event, and sought for an explanation of its meaning.
‘Then what’s to become of Tiernay,’ cried one, ‘if it be so hard to throw off this “coil of Englishmen?” His position may be just as precarious.’
‘That is exactly what has occurred,’ said Lord Cavan; ‘a warrant for his apprehension has just been put into my hands, and I deeply regret that the duty should violate that of hospitality, and make my guest my prisoner.’
‘May I see this warrant, my lord?’ asked I.
‘Certainly, sir. Here it is; and here is the information on oath through which it was issued, sworn to before three justices of the peace by a certain Joseph Dowall, late an officer in the rebel forces, but now a pardoned approver of the Crown; do you remember such a man, sir?’
I bowed, and he went on.
‘He would seem a precious rascal; but such characters become indispensable in times like these. After all, M. Tiernay, my orders are only to transmit you to Dublin under safe escort, and there is nothing either in my duty or in your position to occasion any feeling of unpleasantness between us. Let us have a glass of wine together.’
I responded to this civil proposition with politeness, and, after a slight interchange of leave-takings with some of my newly-found comrades, I set out for Derry on a jaunting-car, accompanied by an officer and two policemen, affecting to think very little of a circumstance which, in reality, the more I reflected over, the more serious I deemed it.
It would afford me little pleasure to write, and doubtless my readers less to read, my lucubrations as I journeyed along towards Dublin. My thoughts seldom turned from myself and my own fortunes, nor were they cheered by the scene through which I travelled. The season was a backward and wet one, and the fields, partly from this cause, and partly from the people being engaged in the late struggle, lay untilled and neglected. Groups of idle, lounging peasants stood in the villages, or loitered on the highroads as we passed, sad, ragged-looking, and wretched. They seemed as if they had no heart to resume their wonted life of labour, but were waiting for some calamity to close their miserable existence. Strongly in contrast with this were the air and bearing of the yeomanry and militia detachments with whom we occasionally came up. Quite forgetting how little creditable to some of them, at least, were the events of the late campaign, they gave themselves the most intolerable airs of heroism, and in their drunken jollity, and reckless abandonment, threatened, I know not what—utter ruin to France and all Frenchmen. Bonaparte was the great mark of their sarcasms, and, from some cause or other, seemed to enjoy a most disproportioned share of their dislike and derision.
At first it required some effort of constraint on my part to listen to this ribaldry in silence; but prudence, and a little sense, taught me the safer lesson of ‘never minding,’ and so I affected to understand nothing that was said in a spirit of insult or offence.
On the night of the 7th of November we drew nigh to Dublin; but instead of entering the capital, we halted at a small village outside of it, called Ghapelizod. Here a house had been fitted up for the reception of French prisoners, and I found myself, if not in company, at least under the same roof, with my countrymen.
Nearer intercourse than this, however, I was not destined to enjoy, for early on the following morning I was ordered to set out for the Royal Barracks, to be tried before a court-martial. It was on a cold, raw morning, with a thin, drizzly rain falling, that we drove into the barrack-yard, and drew up at the mess-room, then used for the purposes of a court. As yet none of the members had assembled, and two or three mess-waiters were engaged in removing the signs of last night’s debauch, and restoring a semblance of decorum to a very rackety-looking apartment. The walls were scrawled over with absurd caricatures, in charcoal or ink, of notorious characters of the capital, and a very striking ‘battle-piece’ commemorated the ‘Races of Castlebar,’ as that memorable action was called, in a spirit, I am bound to say, of little flattery to the British arms. There were, to be sure, little compensatory illustrations here and there of French cavalry in Egypt, mounted on donkeys, or revolutionary troops on parade, ragged as scarecrows, and ill-looking as highwaymen; but a most liberal justice characterised all these frescoes, and they treated both Trojan and Tyrian alike.
I had abundant time given me to admire them, for although summoned for seven o’clock, it was nine before the first officer of the court-martial made his appearance, and he having popped in his head, and perceiving the room empty, sauntered out again, and disappeared. At last a very noisy jaunting-car rattled into the square, and a short, red-faced man was assisted down from it, and entered the mess-room. This was Mr. Peters, the Deputy Judge Advocate, whose presence was the immediate signal for the others, who now came dropping in from every side, the President, a Colonel Daly, arriving the last.
A few tradespeople, loungers, it seemed to me, of the barracks, and some half-dozen non-commissioned officers off duty, made up the public; and I could not but feel a sense of my insignificance in the utter absence of interest my fate excited. The listless indolence and informality, too, offended and insulted me; and when the President politely told me to be seated, for they were obliged to wait for some books or papers left behind at his quarters, I actually was indignant at his coolness.
As we thus waited, the officers gathered round the fireplace, chatting and laughing pleasantly together, discussing the social events of the capital, and the gossip of the day; everything, in fact, but the case of the individual on whose future fate they were about to decide.
At length the long-expected books made their appearance, and a few well-thumbed volumes were spread over the table, behind which the Court took their places, Colonel Daly in the centre, with the judge upon his left.
The members being sworn, the Judge Advocate arose, and in a hurried, humdrum kind of voice, read out what purported to be the commission under which I was to be tried; the charge being, whether I had or had not acted treacherously and hostilely to his Majesty, whose natural-born subject I was, being born in that kingdom, and, consequently, owing to him all allegiance and fidelity. ‘Guilty or not guilty, sir?’
‘The charge is a falsehood; I am a Frenchman,’ was my answer.
‘Have respect for the Court, sir,’ said Peters; ‘you mean that you are a French officer, but by birth an Irishman.’
‘I mean no such thing—that I am French by birth, as I am in feeling—that I never saw Ireland till within a few months back, and heartily wish I had never seen it.’
‘So would General Humbert, too, perhaps,’ said Daly, laughing; and the Court seemed to relish the jest.
‘Where were you born, then, Tiernay?’
‘In Paris, I believe.’
‘And your mother’s name, what was it?’
‘I never knew; I was left an orphan when a mere infant, and can tell little of my family.’
‘Your father was Irish, then?’
‘Only by descent. I have heard that we came from a family who bore the title of “Timmahoo”—-Lord Tiernay of Timmahoo.’
‘There was such a title,’ interposed Peters; ‘it was one of King James’s last creations after his flight from the Boyne. Some, indeed, assert that it was conferred before the battle. What a strange coincidence, to find the descendant, if he be such, labouring in something like the same cause as his ancestor.’
‘What’s your rank, sir?’ asked a sharp, severe-looking man, called Major Flood.
‘First Lieutenant of Hussars.’
‘And is it usual for a boy of your years to hold that rank; or was there anything peculiar in your case that obtained the promotion?’
‘I served in two campaigns, and gained my grade regularly.’
‘Your Irish blood, then, had no share in your advancement?’ asked he again.
‘I am a Frenchman, as I said before,’ was my answer.
‘A Frenchman, who lays claim to an Irish estate and an Irish title,’ replied Flood. ‘Let us hear Dowall’s statement.’
And now, to my utter confusion, a man made his way to the table, and, taking the book from the Judge Advocate, kissed it in token of an oath.
‘Inform the Court of anything you know in connection with the prisoner,’ said the judge.
And the fellow, not daring even to look towards me, began a long, rambling, unconnected narrative of his first meeting with me at Killala, affecting that a close intimacy had subsisted between us, and that, in the faith of a confidence, I had told him how, being an Irishman by birth, I had joined the expedition in the hope that with the expulsion of the English I should be able to re-establish my claim to my family rank and fortune. There was little coherence in his story, and more than one discrepant statement occurred in it; but the fellow’s natural stupidity imparted a wonderful air of truth to the narrative, and I was surprised how naturally it sounded even to my own ears, little circumstances of truth being interspersed through the recital, as though to season the falsehood into a semblance of fact.
‘What have you to reply to this, Tiernay?’ asked the colonel.
‘Simply, sir, that such a witness, were his assertions even more consistent and probable, is utterly unworthy of credit. This fellow was one of the greatest marauders of the rebel army; and the last exercise of authority I ever witnessed by General Humbert was an order to drive him out of the town of Castlebar.’
‘Is this the notorious Town-major Dowall?’ asked an officer of artillery.
‘The same, sir.’
‘I can answer, then, for his being one of the greatest rascals unhanged,’ rejoined he.
‘This is all very irregular, gentlemen,’ interposed the Judge Advocate; ‘the character of a witness cannot be impugned by what is mere desultory conversation. Let Dowall withdraw.’
The man retired, and now a whispered conversation was kept up at the table for about a quarter of an hour, in which I could distinctly separate those who befriended from those who opposed me, the major being the chief of the latter party. One speech of his which I overheard made a slight impression on me, and for the first time suggested uneasiness regarding the event.
‘Whatever you do with this lad must have an immense influence on Tone’s trial. Don’t forget that if you acquit him, you’ll be sorely puzzled to convict the other.’
The colonel promptly overruled this unjust suggestion, and maintained that in my accent, manner, and appearance, there was every evidence of my French origin.
‘Let Wolfe Tone stand upon his own merits,’ said he, ‘but let us not mix this case with his.’
‘I’d have treated every man who landed to a rope,’ exclaimed the major, ‘Humbert himself among the rest. It was pure “brigandage,” and nothing less.’
‘I hope if I escape, sir, that it will never be my fortune to see you a prisoner of France,’ said I, forgetting all in my indignation.
‘If my voice have any influence, young man, that opportunity is not likely to occur to you,’ was the reply.
This ungenerous speech found no sympathy with the rest, and I soon saw that the major represented a small minority in the Court.
The want of my commission, or of any document suitable to my rank or position in the service, was a great drawback; for I had given all my papers to Humbert, and had nothing to substantiate my account of myself. I saw how unfavourably this acknowledgment was taken by the Court; and when I was ordered to withdraw that they might deliberate, I own that I felt great misgivings as to the result.
The deliberation was a long, and, as I could overhear, a strongly disputed one. Dowall was twice called in for examination, and when he retired on the last occasion the discussion grew almost stormy.
As I stood thus awaiting my fate, the public, now removed from the court, pressed eagerly to look at me; and while some thronged the doorway, and even pressed against the sentry, others crowded at the window to peep in. Among these faces, over which my eye ranged in half vacancy, one face struck me, for the expression of sincere sympathy and interest it bore. It was that of a middle-aged man of a humble walk in life, whose dress bespoke him from the country. There was nothing in his appearance to have called for attention or notice, and at any other time I should have passed him over without remark; but now, as his features betokened a feeling almost verging on anxiety, I could not regard him without interest.
Whichever way my eyes turned, however my thoughts might take me off, whenever I looked towards him I was sure to find his gaze steadily bent upon me, and with an expression quite distinct from mere curiosity. At last came the summons for me to reappear before the Court, and the crowd opened to let me pass in.
The noise, the anxiety of the moment, and the movement of the people confused me at first; and when I recovered self-possession, I found that the Judge Advocate was reciting the charge under which I was tried. There were three distinct counts, on each of which the Court pronounced me ‘Not Guilty,’ but at the same time qualifying the finding by the additional words—‘by a majority of two’; thus showing me that my escape had been a narrow one.
‘As a prisoner of war,’ said the President, ‘you will now receive the same treatment as your comrades of the same rank. Some have been already exchanged, and some have given bail for their appearance to answer any future charges against them.’
‘I am quite ready, sir, to accept my freedom on parole,’ said I; ‘of course, in a country where I am an utter stranger, bail is out of the question.’
‘I’m willing to bail him, your worship; I’ll take it on me to be surety for him,’ cried a coarse, husky voice from the body of the court; and at the same time a man dressed in a greatcoat of dark frieze pressed through the crowd and approached the table.
‘And who are you, my good fellow, so ready to impose yourself on the Court?’ asked Peters.
‘I’m a farmer of eighty acres of land, from the Black Pits, near Baldoyle, and the adjutant there, Mr. Moore, knows me well.’
‘Yes,’ said the adjutant, ‘I have known you some years, as supplying forage to the cavalry, and always heard you spoken of as honest and trustworthy.’
‘Thank you, Mr. Moore; that’s as much as I want.’
‘Yes; but it’s not as much as we want, my worthy man,’ said Peters; ‘we require to know that you are a solvent and respectable person.’
‘Come out and see my place, then; ride over the land and look at my stock; ask my neighbours my character; find out if there’s anything against me.’
‘We prefer to leave all that trouble on your shoulders,’ said Peters; ‘show us that we may accept your surety, and we ‘ll entertain the question at once.’
‘How much is it?’ asked he eagerly.
‘We demanded five hundred pounds for a major on the staff; suppose we say two, colonel, is that sufficient?’ asked Peters of the President.
‘I should say quite enough,’ was the reply.
‘There’s eighty of it, anyway,’ said the farmer, producing a dirty roll of bank-notes, and throwing them on the table; ‘I got them from Mr. Murphy in Smithfield this morning, and I’ll get twice as much more from him for asking; so if your honours will wait till I come back, I’ll not be twenty minutes away.’
‘But we can’t take your money, my man; we have no right to touch it.’
‘Then what are ye talking about two hundred pounds for?’ asked he sternly.
‘We want your promise to pay in the event of this bail being broken.’
‘Oh, I see, it’s all the same thing in the end; I’ll do it either way.’
‘We’ll accept Mr. Murphy’s guarantee for your solvency,’ said Peters; ‘obtain that, and you can sign the bond at once.’
‘‘Faith, I’ll get it, sure enough, and be here before you’ve the writing drawn out,’ said he, buttoning up his coat.
‘What name are we to insert in the bond?’ ‘Tiernay, sir.’
‘That’s the prisoner’s name, but we want yours.’ ‘Mine’s Tiernay, too, sir; Pat Tiernay of the Black Pits.’
Before I could recover from my surprise at this announcement he had left the court, which in a few minutes afterwards broke up, a clerk alone remaining to fill up the necessary documents and complete the bail-bond.
The colonel, as well as two others of his officers, pressed me to join them at breakfast, but I declined, resolving to wait for my namesake’s return, and partake of no other hospitality than his.
It was near one o’clock when he returned, almost worn out with fatigue, since he had been in pursuit of Mr. Murphy for several hours, and only came upon him by chance at last. His business, however, he had fully accomplished; the bail-bond was duly drawn out and signed, and I left the barrack in a state of mind very different from the feeling with which I had entered it that day.