Nothing could be kinder than the stout homely lady's treatment of her guest. He seemed to have a sad sort of fascination for her. He caught her watching him sometimes with a queer expression of pity, which broke into amicable grins and head-shakings so soon as she found herself detected. Norah, too, turned out to be a good-natured, unpretentious creature.
On the whole, Terence was not surprised at his brother's choice, considering what a terror that truculent individual betrayed for high-bred damosels, and how little he was able to appreciate the refined fascinations of the haughty, calm Doreen.
'It stood to reason,' so Terence argued, 'that if he were blind to the existence of a divinity who, in semblance of a mortal maid, abode by his fireside, then, of course, his senses must be gross, and nothing would suit him but a house-wench.'
Despite the draggled ball-room finery in which Norah elected to array herself for breakfast, in honour of the guest, he could not but perceive that she was no better than a serving-wench in mistress's attire. But then she was a cheery, pleasant house-wench, instead of a designing, cross one, as might have been the case. So he clasped her to his bosom, and the twain were soon fast friends.
In the kitchen things did not go so smoothly. Phil's orders were that he must never go out by daylight; so he sat in the kitchen all day long, staring at Jug Coyle, the collough, who sat muttering and growling as she stared at him.
For many years, when mistress of the 'Irish Slave,' Jug had nourished a resentment against this unoffending youth, shaking a lean fist at him as he passed her door, muttering a curse when he called in for 'the laste taste in life of the crayther.'
Why? Because she was a collough and he a farrier; or, if he wasn't, why should he wield a firing-iron? Colloughs have always hated farriers, time out of mind, because they are rival practitioners in the art of medicine, and the colloughs nourish a vague belief that, in the days of the Bound Towers, the herbalists were lady-doctors, and that they enjoyed an undisputed sway over both kine and gentlefolk until Crummell introduced the veterinary as a special branch of Æsculapian science.
He tried to ingratiate himself with the old dame by playing Peter to her Nurse; but she scorned to be so wheedled, remarking curtly, when he was particularly civil:
'The curse of Crummell light on yez, breed, seed, and branch, ye villainous cow-doctor. The Lord planted our cures in the fields before there was no 'pothecaries.'
Which remark being usually irrelevant, not to say incomprehensible, he met it by a good-tempered nod, which brought the irate lady to the extreme of patience.
The days dragged on thus but slowly. Madam Gillin was a strange mixture of bravery and pusillanimity. As we have seen, she stood in terror of a particular gentleman, because he had discovered that she took her Protestant child to mass, and had threatened to expose the awful secret. Such a matter would disturb no one at the present day; but at that time it was a heinous sin, which would have pointed the sinner out for some practical joking on the part of the Protestant squireens. At the same time she fearlessly harboured one who was a marked man, upon whose head shortly a price might be set, who might drag her with him to ruin, if the worst came to the worst; and all because she had sworn an oath once to a dying paramour, and had watched, with anger mingled with sorrow, the career of the child she had promised to protect.
Knowing Ireland's wrongs better than he did, and learning from hearsay how proud-stomached a boy he was, she had always dreaded that which actually came to pass. She and Curran agreed that it would be deplorable if he joined the popular party; but as both secretly leaned in that direction, they could not discountenance him for having the courage to maintain, in face of danger, what they felt to be the rightful cause. For all their sakes, however, she acted with feminine tact. She kept him a close prisoner in a garret while it was day, sitting alone herself in the garden during fine weather, where all who passed along the high-road might perceive a strange figure they were little likely to forget. At night she took him out under personal escort to take the air, bidding Phil march forty yards in front and whistle at the first hint of danger, while Norah fulfilled the same office behind; Jug meanwhile being strictly enjoined to allow no strange foot to cross the threshold, under any pretence whatever.
In the course of these walks they wandered by the shore, coming quite accidentally, sometimes, upon a group of fishermen, who bowed to the young man with respect, and conversed with him in long and earnest whispers. It transpired by-and-by that some of the ubiquitous informers were beginning to turn their attention to the rage for fishing which seemed to have arisen about Strogue Point. Then Madam Gillin forbade even the solace of these nocturnal wanderings.
It became known that many of the marked ones were journeying to and fro, in a suspicious and mysterious manner, between Wexford and Dublin and the adjacent districts. It also became a matter of public scandal that the object of the journeys was to commune with a personage of rank, the only one who dared to prefer his country to his class. Unwise conspirators began to babble of a lordling who would shortly lead them to certain victory--who, English though he might be by lineage, did not forget how many centuries of sojourn bound his family to the sister island. They spoke with gratitude and pride of thisrara avis, all the more incautiously, perhaps, because they knew him to be safely hidden beyond the ken of Sirr and of his bloodhounds.
Now as week followed week, and month glided after month, it chanced that my Lord Clare departed to the bath of Harrogate to drink the waters for his health. By a singular coincidence, Mr. Pitt also travelled thitherward. It was, of course, a coincidence; but folks did say--well, no matter what they said.
When Lord Clare returned to the Irish metropolis, he discovered, with concern, that the secret committee of Lords--the Wehmgericht who still performed in the shadow unholy and illegal deeds--had requested the Viceroy to issue a certain warrant.
Lord Camden, rather pleased for once to act upon his separate account, mumbled that the lords were quite right to keep their own nest clean; that it was shocking to think that one of their body should so fearfully misbehave himself. He went further. Other younger sons of an adventurous turn might follow this pernicious example. Not only must he be taken forthwith, but must also be made an example of. His brother might object possibly--that nice loyal young nobleman, who had assisted in building many Martello towers; but his outcry, should he presume to make one, must be stopped by timely courtesy. The Glandores of Strogue were earls; why should they not be created marquises?
So my Lord Camden delivered the warrant, which had for long been lying in his escritoire, to Major Sirr, and offered, as well, a reward of a thousand guineas for the culprit, alive or dead.
Quite a tremor went through both Houses. One of the nobles! This was serious. A few thousand peasants, more or less, mattered to nobody; but it was a pity to touch thenoblesse. Then they talked of Lafayette, who was a marquis, whilst this was only an earl's younger son, and soon felt quite comfortable; even applauded the Viceroy's timely severity.
Lord Clare was more troubled, when he learned these things, than his enemies would have deemed possible. He wrote to his dear old friend at Glas-aitch-é, bidding her not grieve too much. It was done in his absence. He dared not openly interfere in favour of her misguided son, but would make a personal request to Mr. Pitt to urge his Majesty to clemency. He had done much work for Mr. Pitt (forgetting to state how dirty that work was); and no doubt his boon would be granted. If not, still must his loving mother not despair. Prison bars might be sawn; turnkeys were very shortsighted. There were boats about, and men to man them.
He never doubted for a moment that the reward would be claimed. How blind both Curran and hisprotégéhad been not to guess his transparent riddle! My lady wrote back in course of time, deploring, in bitter terms, the blow which had befallen the family; the dart which had transfixed her heart. And my Lord Clare was no little amazed to perceive, or to seem to perceive, that my lady took her anguish calmly. Either she was a Stoic, or more unfeeling as to her offspring than he liked to consider a lady to be who was also his old friend.
Thus did events unroll themselves, till one fine day a party of yeomanry, more intoxicated even than they usually were, took it into their wise heads to investigate the Little House. Happily the chatelaine was at home to defend her penates, whilst old Jug shrieked maledictions on the party like a frantic Chorus. Madam Gillin stoutly (in both senses of the word) spread her redundant charms across her entrance-stone, daring them one and all to come forward and strike a woman. She threatened them--Catholic though she was--with the vengeance of the Bar. Was she not the chosen ally of my Lords Clonmell and Carleton--those gay and festive judges--who held her company and her wine in such deservedly high esteem? Did not even the gradually saddening attorney-general--Mr. Arthur Wolfe--count her among his friends? Woe be to the military gentlemen who should outrage her sacred hearth. They might come in and do their worst, for she had naught to hide. What could she have to hide? But she warned them, in very positive language indeed, that they would rue the day they did it. They were abashed, but loath to retire, after drunken blustering, before a mere woman's tongue. Such a woman and such a tongue! Would she give the boys some drink? the captain coaxingly suggested. She pertinently retorted that if they or some of their kidney had not already destroyed the shebeen, which she had set up for the benefit of arid throats, drink might be got in plenty without stealing it from a lone woman. Yet would she even give them drink if they'd promise to be off. Not special drink, such as the judges drank, but some other, by no means despicable.
She showed the officers into the dining-parlour; produced for them a few bottles of undeniable Lafitte, bidding Norah act Hebe (who objected not at all), and ordering Jug to distribute jorums of whisky among the common men upon the lawn. It soon became an orgie. One man said something rude to Jug about her erring Biddy with the carroty poll, which sent the hag into a fury. If Biddy was sliding from the straight path, the sin must lie on her head, not her mother's. They were spalpeens, she yelled, who would rot some time--the sooner the better. When should come Judgment-day they would not awake, ne'er a recreant sowl of them, having long ago been absorbed by lean pigs that were their betters. One man bade her keep a civil tongue, or it would be the worse for her. A riot ensued, which the mistress of the dwelling hurried forth to quell. Before the officers could interfere, Madam Gillin had received a scratch upon her arm, which she exhibited in the moonlight, swearing she was 'kilt entirely,' with an accompaniment of screams from Norah, who was really terrified. The judges should hear of the outrage--my lords Clonmell and Carleton--she vociferated, and the rapscallions should be drummed out of the regiment for insulting lone women who had friends among the great. The party stole away, ashamed of the din, but Madam Gillin made capital of the incident. Bandaging her arm in bloody linen, she drove into the capital, laid a complaint there, and made believe to see a surgeon. Every day for many days she drove into town and back again, closely draped in shawls, with ensanguined bandages exposed. Long ago she perceived that if Terence was to consent to continued imprisonment, his mind must be set at rest by communication with the Directory. He chafed so in his cage that she dreaded sometimes whether he might not escape in the night while the kindly gaoleress slept. Therefore, knowing what a hue-and-cry there was after him--or rather after the unlucky thousand pounds reward--she became in some sort a conspirator herself, going daily to and fro to see her doctor, who was no other than one of the new delegates, and who thus was enabled to commune with the lordling in spite of Sirr and his battalion of watchers.
There was a lull of expectation in Dublin. Reports flew over the city--no one could tell how or whence they came--reports which set quiet citizens quivering in their beds. Hints of murder, rapine, kidnapping, explosion. Rumour swept howling over the city. The Castle would be blown into the air; it was known that the train was laid, that the match was ready. The lives of the Viceroy and his ministers were not worth a groat. What wonder if loyal yeoman souls were yet further set aflame? What wonder if the terrified senate acquiesced without murmuring at the line of action which the loyalists pursued. Soon so many prospective victims choked the alleys of the Riding-school that extra triangles had to be set up elsewhere. The Royal Exchange itself echoed with the thud of the cat; the screams of the victims for mercy could be heard in the viceregal apartments hard by. Happily for Lady Camden's peace of mind, she had fled long since. Soldiers were sent out at free quarters to the right and left, with hints that it would be well that their hosts should not forget their coming. Virgins were tossed naked in blankets, while their fathers and brothers were compelled to watch their shame. The pitch-cap was in daily use; gunpowder was exploded in the hair. A new and splendid jest was invented by a merry dog. Why notpicketthe recalcitrant scum? What better joke than to poise an insolent fellow barefoot upon a pointed stake? His movements would be mirth-inspiring--so grotesque and comical! The only drawback was (as experiment showed) that he fainted all too soon. No; decidedly there was nothing better than the old-fashioned lash. Men swooned under it no doubt; some died; some went raving mad. But even when these misfortunes chanced there was diversion to be had from the expectant moans of those who were awaiting a like fate. Some even lost consciousness before they were tied up at all. Such a lack of humorous perception was disgusting. Why, a rat in a pit gives sport, though his fate is predetermined. A man, though low-born, should shame to be less plucky than a rat! It was rather amusing, and salutary to a certain point in its results, to shoot down children--babes and sucklings--before their mothers' eyes. Yet no! there was so little variety in the behaviour of the mothers. They all rocked themselves and stretched their palms to heaven. It was monotonous and dull. Even the imagination of the squireens, spurred as it was by enterprising colonels, began to flag. Perhaps, after all, they were not so very much more witty or more inventive than the French in the Reign of Terror. Their superiors grew ashamed of them, forgetting that in our imperfect state there is a limit to the human intellect. They grew ashamed of their own dearth of ingenuity, being by this time so swinish and sodden with alcohol and blood-quaffing, that the English and Scotch regiments turned their backs on them, declining to associate with their Irish comrades at all, even under stress of orders and of whisky.
Winter had come again; not white this time, but red--a dusky red, by reason of the shadow of that thunderous cloud which, bloated now, was on the eve of bursting. If there is a limit set to the torturing ingenuity of fiends, so is there--by Divine ordinance--to the endurance even of slaves. A roar swept across the land--a roar of expostulation with the Most High in that He had slept too long. Sure man was not created only for the sake of torment. Children were not born merely to be ripped asunder--virgins to be ravished--men to be done to death by inches? Why, whilst the sun smiled on earth for good and bad alike--its glory heightened by a casual vapour-fleck--was Ireland alone exempted from the boon of light? The last trump had not yet sounded. Why was Erin alone to be a hell? Messengers moved like ants on the earth's surface. Something was preparing. After many delays and feints the real crisis was at hand at last. The cloud, three years ago no bigger than a hand, blackened the horizon. Even the chancellor's stony face grew wan--his nature of adamant faltered--when he surveyed the darkened heavens, hushed in an awful stillness, and waited for what might come. For a moment he trembled like Frankenstein before the monster he had fashioned.
Through Madam Gillin Terence heard of these things, and was fretted beyond measure in his seclusion. The plot was ripe. Vague tales of succour were wafted from France, but the conspirators knew better now than to lean on broken reeds. They were resolved to make a frantic effort on their own account, independent of extraneous aid. Men can die but once. Death by rope or musket-ball would be preferable to such life as this--life with a brutal soldiery at free quarters in the houses; with triangles in every barrack-yard, each bearing its quivering burthen. Details had been laboriously gone into by Terence and the Wexford chiefs. The project was complete in all its details. The counties were to rise simultaneously at a given signal. The Viceroy and the members of his privy council were each to be captured in his bed. A detachment was to seize the artillery at Chapelizod; a second was to storm Kilmainham and set free the patriot leaders. It was the old plan which had always proved abortive; could it be brought to fruition now? Horses would be in waiting, so that each leader could escape and scamper off to assume the post allotted to him. The men were enthusiastic, the Wexford chiefs declared, and built great hopes on the fact of having a noble in their ranks. The only objection which Terence's anxious eye could detect was that the lower order among the priests were assuming an authority to which they were not entitled; one which, by reason of their want of education, might prove mischievous. Tone, in all his letters, had always laid stress upon this point.
'Keep the priests out of it,' he had constantly written to Miss Wolfe (Terence remembered it now). 'They will mean well, but are outrageously illiterate and given to fable, which might have a pernicious effect, their influence being enormous.'
A certain Father Roche and a Father Murphy were never weary of writing letters, suggesting changes, offering wild advice. It would be well for the Church militant to be nipped in the bud. The leaders now in Kilmainham should be warned to see to this. Councillor Crosbie would have liked more muskets and a supply of gunpowder. What a pity it was that the French attempts had failed! After all, it was perhaps better as it was. The pike was the weapon for Pat; and though many had been captured, the land was bristling with them. Cars, too, would be useful for barricades. The small farmers must be told to keep their market-cars in constant readiness. Terence's eye scanned the details. They were not to be improved. All was ready.
Nothing remained but to fix a day. New Year's Eve was suggested, in order that the year 1798 might be well begun. It was amazing and disheartening to find how impossible it was for Pat to keep a secret. A week before the old year expired, proclamations appeared on all the walls, which showed that Government was aware of what was doing. Each householder was commanded, under pain of flogging, to chalk a list on the outer door of the persons who dwelt upon his premises; with the exception (so ran the quaint document) of those who might be suffering from pecuniary embarrassment, whose names were to be transmitted privately to the Lord Mayor. He was likewise bidden to see that no one under his roof went forth into the street between nine at night and five in the morning. Could the conspirators doubt that somehow their every movement was reported?
Madam Gillin, who, strive to control herself as she would, was feverishly excited about the future, discussed the plot in all its bearings with her guest when shutters were shut and curtains drawn. It was a marvel, she declared, that his retreat had remained so long undiscovered. It was a narrow escape though, when the yeomanry arrived; but that was evidently due to accident. There was no cause to suspect treachery there. It spoke well for the country chiefs--at least the few who had been let into the secret; for a thousand pounds is a tidy nest-egg--a by no means despicable windfall. She liked those leaders whom she had seen when pretending to visit her doctor in Dublin. The best of them was a certain Mr. Bagenal Harvey--a nice gintleman--one of the few who has much personal property at stake. 'He's prudent too, for an Irishman. And so are you, my child!' she remarked, laying a plump hand affectionately on his arm. 'You've never even told your mother where you're hid. I verily believe she hates me so that, if she knew, she'd write and tell the chancellor!'
'I fear she doesn't care,' returned Terence, sadly. 'Nor does Doreen.'
The strange look of compassion flitted across the face of his hostess which he had observed there before. She muttered something which he did not catch, but he knew by the tone that it was uncomplimentary to her ladyship.
'You mustn't think ill of my lady,' he said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. 'Indeed, she so dotes on Shane that there's no room in her heart for poor me! He quite filled up that shrine before ever I came into the world. If I thought she would have been anxious, I would have informed her. But nobody cared, so I told nobody--except one.'
'You told some one! Who was that?'
'A trusty old friend of long standing--true as gold, if a little stupid--Tim Cassidy. By-the-bye, he said you didn't like him. He's good, but not clever; though I've been a little shaken of late as to the weakness of his intellect. It's wonderful how circumstances bring people out!'
Madam Gillin sat bolt upright, her fat hands clasped round her fat knees.
'You toldhim!' she cried aghast.
'Yes. Do not fear. He's playing a useful game, if a shady one. Each of us must do what he can, you know.'
Mrs. Gillin was so taken aback that, to conceal her emotion, she retired abruptly from the garret, and stared out of the landing-window to consider this intelligence.
'A useful game forhimself,' she murmured. 'Heknows--he who has wrecked them all--and has left this one here so long with a thousand pounds upon his head! What can he mean? Can he in this be sincere? No. The days of miracles are past.'
Madam Gillin had seen our friend Cassidy once without his jovial mask. It is astonishing how deceived we are in people! We may live with them on familiar terms for years, and discover at last by a gleam that their real selves are quite other from what we thought. Sometimes the gleam never comes at all. How many sons are there who never knew their mothers? How many mothers who have never known their sons--the real person with the veil withdrawn? Madam Gillin had seen Cassidy once when he was himself, and felt satisfied that he could never be true except to his own interests. Then this new position which looked the darker for the light she could throw on it, twisted itself in her mind, displaying all its facets.Heknew that the young man, on whom so much depended, had been lying for weeks and weeks in ambush at the Little House. Why did he leave him there? Was he waiting for the reward to be doubled? When the moment arrived for herprotégéto be taken--when he chose to speak, what would become of HER? He would surely ruin her. Could the judges save her from the penalties which would accrue from taking a Protestant under age to mass, as well as harbouring an arch-rebel?
'Well, I can't help it,' she said aloud, mentally tossing up the sponge. 'I've done what I thought right. It's difficult to see the way. He must be got out of this while there's time, and New Year's Eve so near, too! Oh that I had learnt this before!' Painful misgivings possessed her mind. 'Pray God and the Holy Mother that the poor boy may be spared!' she whispered. 'Knowing what I do, it's bitterly sorry I am for him. That proud mother of his will burn for what she's doing some time or other, though she's happy now.'
Mrs. Gillin, argus-eyed as she thought herself, could not know that the chatelaine of Strogue had already passed through a part of the travail of her punishment. She had to judge by the face, which was a mask--the face which was stony and cold enough--as cold as a face of marble.
Suddenly (as she meditated) the buxom lady saw something which caused her to crouch down and draw hastily back from the window.
'It's come!' she murmured; 'I felt itherein my heart. What a mercy that he told me, or it would have come on us unawares! Norah!' she called with caution down the stairs, 'send Phil up here this minute.' Then she sped to the garret. 'My lad,' she said quickly, 'hurry now! Get through the trap on to the roof. Phil must do the same. I'll tidy the place in a jiffy! Ye can both lie cosy in the valley of the roof.'
'What's the matter?' asked Terence, without moving.
'Matter enough. There's a party coming down the road. I'll stake my head it's Sirr or some of them. They're coming to look for you!'
'Then give them some of your Lafitte, my second mother!' laughed Terence, carelessly, 'and pack them about their business.'
'No,' Mrs. Gillin said, 'I can't explain now. They must go over the house, and be convinced that ye're not in it; and to-night we'll pack ye somewhere else for safety.'
There was no withstanding her energy. The two young men obeyed their peremptory hostess, marvelling much at her. It was Sirr, sure enough. His peculiar stoop could be recognised a mile off. Behind him were a dozen redcoats.
Mrs. Gillin was snipping dead twigs with a large pair of scissors; she wore a loose green kerchief over her turban, so unbecomingly arranged that it was evident she expected no visitors. Norah was dutifully holding a basket. How idle of the gardener to have neglected to trim those hedges! Old Jug sat crooning in the wintry sun, her eyes twinkling like beads from under a tangle of sandy elf-locks and flopping cap, her favourite dudheen between her lips.
'Misthress dear!' she croaked between two puffs of smoke, 'it's the meejor.'
But that lady was too much absorbed in gardening to hear.
'Good-day, madam,' quoth Sirr, wrinkling down his brow-tufts with a smirk, and saluting in military fashion.
'Bless the pigs, meejor! is it you?' she cried, throwing down her scissors. 'Ye've called to ask after my arm? It's mighty kind! The ruffin gave my poor hand a terrible wrench, and sprains are slow to cure. The bleeding's stopped this long while, but the docthor's eating the sowl out of me. I go to be bandaged three times a week. It's not your boys, meejor, that would outrage a leedy so!'
Major Sirr was disconcerted, and began to stammer:
'Glad ye're better, madam--hugely glad! I would not for the world do anything disagreeable to a lady--but business is business, isn't it?'
'What's up?' cried the amazed little woman.
'I'm here, I regret to say, on painful business. May we come inside? Thank you!'
'The meejor's always welcome,' affably returned the other, with one of those superb but ceremonious curtseys wherewith she was wont to electrify the Viceroy. Then, plucking off the kerchief, she whispered audibly to Norah, 'Begorrer, it's rooned we are! To be seen with a square of green silk round mee ould noddle! But the meejor won't tell.'
Major Sirr observed with sorrow that the lady was not so cordial as usual. There was an air of suspicious virtue with the ears set back which distressed him, for he was really partial to her, though he loved her claret better.
''Tis with deepest pain----' he was beginning, when she cut him short.
'Give tongue!' she said curtly. 'What ails you?'
This was a slap in the face. He was accustomed to be fondled and caressed by those whom it was his painful duty to flay alive. She could not be so hoighty-toighty if afraid.
'You are right,' he returned; 'business is business. I regret to say I must search your house, for I've reason to know that Councillor Crosbie is concealed here. I advise you to produce him, and have done with it.'
Oh, Major Sirr! Major Sirr! You should have sent your better-half to cope with Mrs. Gillin. What are a dozen men against one woman, in a battle of wits? What are two dozen men against one woman whose blood is roused, who stands like a tigress 'twixt her whelp and danger?
Major Sirr expected her to change colour, to betray at least a quiver of the lip, a tremor of the fingers; then, recovering herself, to deny largely and pour forth claret with effusion. Such signs would have been the sure tokens of guilt, and he would have known how to act accordingly.
Instead of this she stabbed him, rather too hard for playfulness, with her scissors, and skipped away laughing with elephantine grace. Then wagging her turban at him (which was wofully awry), she set her hands akimbo on her high waistband, thereby sending her elbows almost to the level of her ears, and remarked with unusual bluntness:
'Pah! ye stink of the Staghouse! Stale blood and brains! Go on, hangman; do your worst. Mr. Crosbiewashere--has been here for weeks. I won't deny, since ye know all about it. If ye hadn't been a dolt, ye'd have found him long ago. Why, he walked out with Norah each evening on the shore. He was here when the yeoman blackguards wounded and hurt my arm. Do ye think, if it was otherwise, I'd have stooped to give them drink? Not likely! Mr. Crosbiewashere, but the bird's flown. You may well look glum. Sorra a drop of the crathur your men'll get out of me this day. Go, search the house; turn it inside out. He lived in the right-hand garret. Ye'll find some of his things about, though he's in Wexford by this time. Here are all my keys (except the cellar key). Search!'
This was disheartening. Behaviour coarse and rude. But duty is duty. Sirr stooped to pick up the keys, which had been tossed to his feet, and, wrapping himself in a rag of dignity, proceeded to examine the premises. It was as she said. There was no one there, though there were signs of recent occupation. Ruefully the major looked into the dining-parlour. There were no nice things laid out for his behoof.
'I've only done my duty,' he urged, as he clutched the virtuous lady's fat hand. 'Don't be cross with me. I'm glad my mission's failed, though I should have won a thousand by it--there!'
But she shook him off and swept away, murmuring over her shoulder, with sniffing nostrils, that she had done with him; would never meet him as a friend again (though her house was open to examination whensoever he was anxious for an outrage); that she would take it as a personal favour if he would save her the pain of cutting him dead in public; for under no conditions whatsoever would she consent to condone this insult.
Sirr was sorry, but shrugged his shoulders. He ordered his men to march on to Strogue. Perhaps the culprit was not gone to Wexford, but was lying perdu in the vaults of the ancient Abbey. Mrs. Gillin screamed to old Jug, from an upper window, to run round to Larry in the farm-buildings, and bid him bring out the carriage. She must go to Dublin to the doctor. Her nerves were rooned now, as well as her spirits and poor arm.
Then, closing the window, she called on the fugitives to come forth.
'There's no time to be lost,' she said. 'Sirr suspects nothing, but the other will. The serpent! He is capable of coming down himself, in a friendly way, to spend the evening; and that's more than I could endure, even for you.'
'Of whom do you speak?' asked Terence, bewildered.
'Don't chatter!' interrupted the kind lady. ''Twill be twilight in an hour or so. You must get out of this before Sirr gets back, and reports to the other what he's done. Then the brute may come, and welcome. It'll be a pleasure to laugh at him. Sirr'll be an hour or so rummaging through the Abbey. Meanwhile you'll take my place in the coach. You're just my size and figure. Your arm looks awful bad. You want a doctor sadly. But that gossoon there; he can't go too, as I've always gone alone. Unlucky! He can't stay, either; that's certain. What'll we do at all?' She tore off the soiled turban to rub her head, for the better coaxing of her ingenuity. Presently she clapped her hands. 'That's it. Ye'll go separate to the same rendezvous. You, Phil, shall go first, for ye must walk. It's like a masquerade in the good old times; yet my heart is dreadful sore--ochone!'
Rapidly Madam Gillin produced some sailor-slops which her own boatman used to wear when she took her pleasure on the bay. 'Phil will wear these and start at once,' she explained. 'His face must not be seen; it's too well known. In the boathouse yonder he'll find a coil of rope. He must bear it on his shoulders as a motive, and let a loop or two fall over his forehead. Be off now, and be careful. Take a knife, in case of accidents. Ye must be clear off before Sirr returns from the Abbey. If by ill-luck ye were to come face to face, stab at his legs. He wears a coat of mail.I felt it with my scissors. Away!'
Phil departed, quite glad of the excitement, delighted to break through his long and weariful incarceration.
Terence was packed in the celebrated wrapper, which once to see was never to forget. A beaver bonnet and veil covered his head. An arm was deftly bandaged. He stepped into the coach, drew up the glasses, and leaning back in the shadow as the coachman whipped his horses, began to collect his thoughts. Whew! What a whirl it was! Why dear Madam Gillin should suddenly become nervous, and wag her plumes so, he could not imagine. Unpleasant things are ofttimes for the best. Concealed in the capital itself he would be all the better able to superintend in person the proceedings of New Year's Eve. Yes! It was quite fortunate that she should thus have sent him off. He would see some of the delegates that very evening; concert passwords and signals. Five minutes' talk is worth a dozen letters. He would send round for Cassidy, who, faithful to hisrôle, should be able to unravel for them the ins and outs of the Castle tactics, some of which seemed hazy. He would---- What was that? Sirr and his men! Then they had not lingered at the Abbey, but had started Dublinwards before him? No matter. All was right. The major had peered into the carriage, and, perceiving the wounded arm and well-known wrapper, had turned away his head abruptly. How cleverly Mrs. Gillin had managed the whole thing! Why had she taken such a fancy to him? If he were her own son, she could not be more loving and considerate.--What was that? A man bending under a load. Phil, of course. How slow he walked! Sirr's men seemed stepping out. Please Heaven they would not overtake him. No. And if they did, what then? A boor with a burthen of rope. A guilty conscience; how it racks and torments us about nothing!
Hark! a sound--audible through the rumbling coach-wheels. A shout--a cry! Unable to resist the impulse, Terence lowered a glass and protruded his head, with the beaver bonnet and veil. Great heavens! The soldiers had gained on Phil, whose burthen impeded movement; had, from sheer brutality, torn it from him and disclosed his features. He had been recognised! Sirr saw through the trick, and shook his fist with balked fury. He was gesticulating in the road. Some soldiers were hailing the coach from afar, but Larry whipped his horses with a will. Some more, jumping a ditch, had broken through a hedge and vanished. Poor Phil! he would be murdered. Was it not base to leave him thus unaided? Yet--the Cause. Terence felt that his life was not his own. Eagerly he looked backwards as the road took a loop-turn. He must see the last of poor Phil--probably the very last of his faithful henchman. Phil had ceased struggling. Terence drew in his head, and, man though he was, burst into a flood of tears. Poor, faithful Phil! What a sad end!
Half-way betwixt Strogue and Dublin the road leaves the shore, and winds inland with an intricate series of doubles--arranged so for the benefit of certain small villa-holders, round whose tiny properties the way meanders. Terence forgot this fact, so absorbed was he in the fate of his attached servant, otherwise he would have seen his danger, and, throwing off his disguise, would have trusted to a hare's tactics in the open. But, clad in woman's attire, he was weeping like a woman, and bemoaning his fate, when the carriage came to a standstill with a shock. A detachment of soldiers, taking a short cut, had come upon the carriage, and, springing on the bits, had thrust back the horses on their haunches.
Deception was futile now. Dragging off the ignoble bonnet and wrapper, Terence sprang lightly out, and drawing a pistol, prepared to barter his life against as many of the foe as possible.
One man shot poor Larry on his box, lest he should take part in the scuffle; another hamstrung the off-horse, which whinnied, and leaped up with pain. The shot was answered by a hulloo and rush of feet. Through the hedge-gap appeared Sirr, breathless but foaming, urging on his men, two of whom dragged Phil, an inert mass, between them.
'Murther!' groaned Phil. 'That the masther should be tuk, and through me!'
'Yes,' jeered Sirr; 'we have him now. Having detected you, I knew at once that he could not be far off!'
Terence discharged his pistols with good effect. A man fell to each of them. Then, drawing a dagger, he leaned his back against a tree.
Sirr, as his way was on these occasions, withdrew to the rear, content with egging on his hounds from a safe distance. The men waited for a second, watching the eye of the man who stood at bay. Phil saw his opportunity, and took it. With a jerk he freed himself, stabbed one fellow, and, lunging at another, slipped, and tumbled on the moist earth. But he was not to be thus foiled. Wriggling along the ground, he reached Major Sirr, and slashed him across both legs, who, springing into the air with a howl, tossed away the sword-cane that he had unsheathed and fell disabled. Phil caught it, and stabbed the shrieking major again and again till it broke. 'Right she was!' he said; 'the dastard does wear mail!'
The diversion seemed likely to save Terence, who, turning, sped swiftly along the furrows, favoured by sinking twilight.
'Run, masther, run!' Phil screamed. 'Please the Lord, he'll be safe yet.'
'Dead or alive!' howled Sirr, who clawed the ground with his fingers in his pain.
A man levelled his musket and fired. Terence turned like a top, dropped on his knees, then struggling up, moved on as swiftly as before. Another fired, but missed. The fugitive flew on, but not so fast. A mere youth outstripped him, and stooping down in front, tripped him by the feet. Both fell heavily. The bigger of the two being uppermost--his right arm swinging loose--made a desperate effort to throttle the boy with his left hand. It took several men, pressing his chest with heavy muskets, to tear his prey from him, and bind him in such a way as to prevent further resistance.
Terence and Phil were taken to the provost, whilst Sirr (vowing vengeance especially against the latter) was borne away to have the wounds dressed which disfigured his comely calves.
Madam Gillin sat at home in a perspiration, waiting for news. No news! That looked well. It was dawn before she sought her couch, determined to try and sleep. A hubbub aroused the three occupants of the Little House. What was it? eight o'clock! An enormous detachment of soldiers' wives, with kettles, equipage, and baggage, demanding hospitality, producing an official order to that effect. Free quarters; and for women, too--the dirty, drunken drabs! Madam Gillin clasped her fat hands in anguish. Then the stratagem must have been discovered. One had been taken--which? or both? Oh, Heaven! Would no one tell her?
A blowsy wife, more compassionate than the rest, said that all the world knew by this time that the meejor had won the big reward.
Madam Gillin tightened her lips, and said no more, while Jug whistled lamentations through her gums. 'It's the curse of Crummell on the farriers--breed, seed, and branch. If he'd gone alone he'd have been safe.' Which, in all probability, was true enough, though not because Phil chose to wield a firing-iron. But Madam Gillin would not listen to her nurse. Poor lad! To be taken without striking a blow--without even the threadbare satisfaction which belongs to a leader of forlorn hopes--of laying down life, perhaps, but at a heavy price. What an unjust world it is! Mrs. Gillin felt it more and more.
Mr. Pitt's scheme was doing well. Protestants and Catholics, the upper and the lower class, having been successfully set at each other's throats--the leading spirits of the popular party being snugly caged--the executive thought the moment come to harvest their Dead-sea apples. The capture of Terence was accomplished at a fortunate moment; for things had gone too far now for the project of resistance to be tamely abandoned. The proposed rising was perforce postponed that the harried Directory might for a fourth time reorganise itself. Ill-luck haunted that Directory. Tone, inaugurator of the society, was a broken-spirited exile; Emmett, Neilson, Russell, Bond, zealous disciples of their prophet, languished in Kilmainham; the Honourable Terence Crosbie (most promising blossom on the stem) lay wounded--delirious from fever--within the provost. None of the projectors of rebellion were permitted to take part in it; yet it was evident that the days of meek endurance were at an end. The places of the absent were supplied by men, ambitious but incapable: small country gentlemen of limited attainment, or farmers of little culture, who were speedily swallowed by the flood, to be supplanted in turn by furious fanatics, as ignorant but more unscrupulous than they.
Nothing was attempted on New Year's Eve. January and February passed; March and April came, and were gone. Lord Clare wondered whether he had been too precipitate, and digested Sully's saying: 'Pour la populace ce n'est jamais par envie d'attaquer qu'elle se soulève, mais par impatience de souffrir.' Had the people not suffered enough yet? The yeomanry motto had been, 'Soyons frères, ou je t'assomme!' and nobly they had acted on it. The people glared and showed their fangs, ready and willing for the fray; but they were leaderless. Those who in the emergency affected to command, racked by indecision, put off the important moment. Rebel and royalist frowned silently one at the other, lance in rest, both itching to go to work, both declining the odium of the first move. It was the last brief lull of stillness before the bursting of the storm--of the storm which had been so long in bursting. Dublin was uncertain how to proceed. If the Croppies would rise and gain one decisive victory, then Dublin, joining them openly, would turn and tear its rulers. On the other hand, should the Croppies encounter tribulation the capital would grovel at the mumbling Viceroy's feet, presenting both cheeks to the smiter with expressions of Christian meekness.
It was an anxious time for the lord-lieutenant and his Privy Council.
To the chancellor's disgust General Abercromby (who supplanted Carhampton), on whom he had counted for friendly co-operation as commander of the forces, chose this awkward period of uncertainty to retire.
'Nothing,' he bluffly said, 'could justify the behaviour of Government. If the two Houses of Parliament chose to turn their motherland into a slaughter-house, dire retribution would be sure to fall upon them some day. At all events he, a stranger, would have nothing to do with political crimes.' And so he went away; and the supreme command was acceptedpro tem, by General Lake, till such time as a fit substitute could be selected.
The attitude of pugnacious Pat, eager for the fight, but lance in rest, could not be permitted to endure. That those who were wont to tread on the tails of each other's coats at Donnybrook should in incongruous fashion assume patience like that of St. Simon Stylites was merely an insult to their masters. A little more humour must be displayed by the friends of England--a few more jokes, quite broad ones now. A dozen or so of judicious murders, a grand confiscation of poor men's cattle, a few more virgins ravished--a real sharp touch of the spur, in fact. The jokers acted with a will, and the desired effect was gained. Kildare rose on the 23rd of May. Simultaneous attacks of a timorous kind were made on various strongholds, of which one only could be pronounced successful. The barrack of Prosperous was surprised in the night, the commandant killed, and a few officers sacrificed, the place committed to the flames. This was encouraging, and Government could well afford the loss of a few lives. But the rebels needed a deal of spurring; they were still too craven for an important venture; their hands were unnerved; their blood was chilled by fear of treachery. Oh! degenerate scions of turbulent Keltic kings!
The boys of Kildare, who were the first, casting distrust aside, to take the field, had been ground too low to allow the lamp of patriotism to burn steadily. After an abortive effort of a few days they sued for mercy. Slaves of the soil, hewers of wood and drawers of water, they were doomed to be; their leaders saw it now, and roundly told them so, and they retorted on their leaders. Both indeed were sadly below the mark. If those who endeavoured to command were unable to manage their rabble, the latter were no better than the most innocent of savages. In presence of the foe they forgot the little drilling they had learned, danced forward like children, with hats on pikes and wild gestures of defiance, and tumbled pellmell over each other, hit or alarmed at the first blare of musketry. The business of the disciplined cohorts was simply to stand quiet until the gibbering simpletons advanced to an easy distance; then to cut them down as the sickle mows the corn, in serried heaps upon the furrows. The boys of Kildare sued for mercy, and were graciously informed that if they would come to the Gibbet-Rath on the Curragh, within given hours on a certain day, and there deliver up all weapons of offence, they might be permitted to return to bondage and be happy. They came, having been assured that General Dundas had received permission from the Castle to show clemency. Thirteen cartloads of pikes were delivered on the plain. General Duff, who, assisted by the colonel of the Foxhunters, was acting for Dundas, bade the rebels make of these a heap, and confessing on their knees their insolence and wickedness, beg the King's pardon humbly. The craven wretches obeyed, for no vestige of courage was left in them. Bereft even of the courage to die, they kneeled, praying that the agony of death might be past. They kneeled, with misery too intense for speech, on the great plain, with heads bowed and hands clutched together--a spectacle of human abjectness harrowing enough to have made the angels weep.
'Charge!' shouted General Duff, 'and spare no rebel!'
The obedient Foxhunters (so called from the brushes they wore in their helmets) hacked down with their sabres the defenceless peasants to the number of three hundred and more. There were eighty-five widows in one single street of Kildare that afternoon. It is but fair to say that no part of the infamy of this splendid joke attaches to General Dundas, for the massacre was shown to have taken place without his knowledge or consent. Duff and the colonel of the Foxhunters must bear the brunt of it alone, along with other jests of equal brilliancy. A few of the victims managed to scuttle off, hiding in furze-bushes or behind walls, and reached Kildare at nightfall, to tell the tale of butchery. A woman who lay ill ten miles off, woke (so it is said) from a vision of her husband weltering in gore, and nothing would appease her but that her daughter and aged father should go forth to seek him. They were met by knots of country-folk flying along the road in wildest excitement.
'Bad news, old man!' they wailed as they pursued their course like a whirl of wraiths. 'Our friends lie kilt--God rest their sowls--all--on the Curragh, this day!'
Old man and grandchild harnessed a horse and car, determined to learn more. The gloaming rested on the plain when they reached the Gibbet-Rath.
Two hundred bodies were turned over before they came upon the one they sought. Its hands moved, in an effort to stanch a wound with a remnant of an old cravat, and in the increasing darkness they chanced to observe the flutter. But for that movement, where so many around were still, they might have passed by their bread-winner. Filled with thankfulness in that he yet lived, they stretched him on the car, for prudence' sake in corpse-like attitude, shaded his eyes with a hat, sprinkled some soiled hay over his prostrate form, and hurried home in haste. But a rumour somehow got wind that 'the Croppies were getting alive again,' and so the military were sent round to scour the adjacent country to make certain that no such untoward circumstance occurred.
Two men belonging to the Ancient Britons approached the hut at midnight where this man lay, snatched by a marvel from the jaws of Death.
'What!' one said, 'that Croppy living still?'
'Yes, your honour,' replied the sick wife, with meekness. 'The Lord has been pleased to grant the boy a longer day.'
'Come, come!' was the jocose retort. 'He'll be best out of misery, for he can't possibly recover. Leastways, his curing will be tedious to an ailing wife like you.' And the wretch pistolled him in cold blood then and there, while the frenzied widow shrieked for mercy, and the daughter strove to shield him with her own body in the ecstasy of her despair.
This carnival on the Gibbet-Rath finally snuffed out Kildare; but Wexford, which was made of different materials, rose up to take her place. The men of Wexford belonged to another caste, had different hair and features, were of a fiercer nature than the Kelts. They rose with one accord, their blood stirred to fever-frenzy by the intelligence which drifted down to them. Kildare had disgraced the emerald flag; it should be the privilege of Wexford to retrieve its tarnished honour. They would set an example to pusillanimous counties that still hesitated about rising. War to the knife! no quarter given! Such should be their watchword. Proudly let the green banner wave. Victory or Death!
These raw but doughty warriors meant business. They set about establishing themselves, therefore, in true military array; and in the first instance collected their strength into two detachments, the first of which, mustering three thousand men, encamped on Killthomas Hill, where three hundred of the yeomanry gave them battle and obtained a bloodless victory. Not quite bloodless though, for one Lieutenant Bookey lost his life, and his indignant comrades offered to his manes (after a massacre on Killthomas Hill which was only business) the sacrifice of several Popish chapels and at least a hundred Catholic dwellings on their next day's march. This had the auspicious effect of infuriating to delirium the second and greater camp, whose leading spirits saw that, for them and theirs, their motto was but too prophetic a one. Unless they were prepared to see their faith stamped out, there was clearly nothing for the men of Wexford but Death or Victory.
Like desperate men as they were, they set about accomplishing the latter straightway. On the rising ground of Oulart, distant eight miles from Wexford town, they rallied round the green at least four thousand strong. With proud defiance and undaunted mien they beheld the enemy's approach--red coats dimmed by dust and mist, and bayonets glimmering. They awaited the onset with stern determination, and--fled helter-skelter on the first attack. The yeomanry pursued with shouts and jeers, following fast over rock and boulder, sweeping the rebels before them as a broom sweeps chaff. But, arrived at the summit of the hill, a hint came to the insurgents that cavalry lay in ambush on the other side to intercept their flight. Cavalry! To their untutored minds a charge of horsemen meant instant annihilation, whilst they were quite resolved to live--for Victory. They rallied, turned on the disordered and breathless pursuers, and charging downward with their pikes, bore all before them. Taken by surprise, out of breath, disorganised, none of the quondam pursuers survived to tell of their defeat, save the lieutenant-colonel, a sergeant, and three privates. Many of the rebels succumbed, but what mattered that? Those who remained alive were masters of the situation. Theirs was the prestige of having beaten the royalist soldiers in the open field. Numbers had vanquished discipline; ignorance had made science of none effect; the spirits of the enemy were lowered in proportion to their own triumph. Hosts of peasants, lukewarm hitherto through fear, flocked to join the victors. Mustering now quite four thousand strong, and burning to add new leaves of laurel to their chaplet, they marched with childish gesture, intoning as they marched the 'Marseillaise,' to storm the town of Enniscorthy.
Those who led them saw that if the God of battles would continue to favour them, their condition might be greatly improved, even to the point of rendering their unwieldy host truly formidable. The capture of Enniscorthy would aid the insurgents much, for that place (twelve miles or so from Wexford) is bisected by the Slaney, whose ebb and flow permits vessels of light tonnage to approach the bridge which unites the two portions of the town. Hence it was certain to be well stocked with useful things, lying there for transmission up the country. It might contain ammunition too--a precious find indeed--for the Wexford men were good shots with a gun, accustomed to earn a modest wage by shooting waterfowl for the markets of Dublin and of Cork, in consequence of which they had obtained exemption from the more vexatious clauses of the Gunpowder Act. If Enniscorthy should fall into their hands they would find themselves provided, too, with a splendid camping-ground called Vinegar Hill, which rose adjacent to the city. At their leisure they might take ship, and, sailing down the Slaney, seize the town of Wexford--a seaport with a magnificent harbour. What a pity the French had been so unfortunate! How gladly they would have welcomed the tricolour as it glided through the narrow entrance which admits into that glorious anchorage!
Certain intelligence arrived at Enniscorthy that it would be attacked on the 28th at midday. The drums beat to arms; the garrison took their posts. The North Cork Militia occupied the bridge; cavalry were posted in the leading street; a detachment of yeomanry occupied an elevation three or four hundred yards in front of the chief gate. On perceiving the latter, the insurgent column halted and deployed, extending largely to the right and left, to outflank the small band before them, and cut it off from the town. Then they moved forward, driving cattle in advance of them, opening at the same time a well-directed fire. The yeomanry, perceiving their tactics, retired within the walls, covered by a charge of cavalry which, whilst dispersing a band that was pressing them too closely, came itself to tribulation by reason of the cattle. A second body, with a second lot of kine, made for a gate to westward, which was protected by a tributary stream. The ford had previously been deepened, and was considered dangerous enough to act as its own defence. A gigantic priest, who wore a broad crossbelt and a dragoon's sabre swinging, was equal to the occasion:
'Drive in the cattle, boys, and swarm over their backs!'
No sooner said than done. Goaded by pikes the animals rushed headlong into the gulf, and the rebels, crossing the palpitating bridge, crept unperceived into the town, which was by this time a mass of flame. The disaffected inhabitants picked off the soldiery from their windows; fired their own houses to burn them out when the royalists sought protection there; dragged away frieze-coated bodies, that the carnage might not discourage the survivors; while women and young girls, in the heroism born of excitement, ran hither and thither among the bullets, administering new courage in the welcome shape of whisky. The streets were so involved in smoke that the yeomen could not perceive the rebels till they felt their pikes within their flesh. The whirling flame flared in such a sheet as to unite in a seething arch over their heads--singeing the bearskin of their caps, scorching their very hair and eyelashes. After a conflict wherein for three hours each inch was savagely disputed, the loyalists found themselves pushed backwards into the central square. 'Victory!' hallooed the insurgents--just a little bit too soon. A heavy discharge from the market-house made them waver. Profiting by their recoil, cavalry and infantry rallied. Their discipline stood them in good stead at the turning of the tide. They dashed forward; drove the huge wave in a vast roll before them, which ebbed across the bridge, down the straight street, away out of the town--a turbulent maelstrom of discomfited fugitives. Though the rebels were for the time repulsed, it was certain that they would return again on the morrow and sweep the place clean by sheer weight of numbers. The little garrison was weakened by half its strength. The loyalists, unwitting of the insidious purpose of Lord Clare, loudly blamed the executive for leaving so inadequate a force to battle with so immense a mob. It was a pernicious want of forethought which would cost many lives. A strong force of regulars, they complained, and this Hurry would be over in two days at most. Guileless loyalists of Enniscorthy! After all the labour of incubation, it was not fitting that the trouble should be too brief. The chancellor's twitter of conscience was past, and his hand was steady on the plough again, to force it through roots and stones. The iron, being drawn, might not be sheathed again before it had cut into the writhing soul of Erin ineffaceably. She must remember the Hurry to the end of her existence, as an awful sample of the terrors which would fall even yet more heavily upon her if she should dare again to rouse the wrath of her elder sister. Consistently, therefore, till the lesson was complete, two hundred regulars or so were always expected to cope with two thousand rebels; and, even with those odds against them, the former, more frequently than not, obtained the upper hand. In the present instance, however, it was not so; for it was clear that the loyalists must desert the town or be killed to a man. In the mid-hour of night, lighted by the afterglow of conflagration, they retreated without warning to Wexford--a melancholy train; bearing their women and their wounded on their horses; leaving infants by the wayside, while the aged sank down from weariness and were abandoned to the tender mercies of the mob.
On the 1st of June the great camping-ground hard-by Enniscorthy presented a strange picture, occupied as it had then become by an armed host of ten thousand men, independent of a grand array of camp-followers, suttlers, women and children, who flocked in from all quarters to applaud the defenders of their hearths. From a military point of view, Vinegar Hill is strong. High grounds are crowned by a cone of bold ascent, capped by a ruined mill, while the cultivated fields beneath are divided into small enclosures, intersected by stone walls and trenches. For defence by irregular troops who trusted rather to numbers than to skill, such a position was particularly favourable; for the enclosures afforded safe cover for skirmishers, who could watch the approach of an enemy whilst they remained themselves unseen. The appearance of the singular mushroom-bed which speedily sprouted up was extremely picturesque, in keeping with the wildness of guerilla warfare. Tents of the Donnybrook pattern rose on all sides. Vinegar Hill was intended to become a temporary home; for the chiefs were resolved that this should be the centre of their operations until such time as they could be masters of the Castle. Long avenues of bent wattles like straggling caterpillars of every hue crawled up the slope, covered with the spoils of Enniscorthy--patchwork-quilts, sheets, ripped sacks, rugs, blankets. At intervals a smaller edifice, crowned by an old brush and swinging lantern, invited to a temporary shebeen. If an old pot dangled too, it was a sign that food might also be procured there; though, the weather being warm, the soup-caldrons were usually placed without, that all the ragged host might lick their lips over the good things which tumbled into them for a ragout. Nor were the more æsthetic pleasures of the eye and ear neglected. The organ of Enniscorthy church and its peal of bells were brought thither in state for some one or other to jangle upon night and day; whilst as for flags, the camp was alive with them, of every colour except orange, bearing each a rude harp without a crown. One, conspicuous above the rest, was black, with the cognisance M. W. S. in white; and this the loyalists in their charity chose to unriddle as 'Murder without sin,' whereas its real meaning was 'Marksmen of Wexford and of Shelmalier.' Among the throng might be observed men in the King's uniform--bright spots in the mass of brown. Such soldier prisoners as the crew had taken were treated well and guarded with care, for they were of the greatest value as drill-sergeants, and might be seen day and night plodding up and down with awkward squads, into whom they were striving to instil the first germs of military science. What an unmanageable mob it was! swelling hourly through the constant influx of recruits, not one of whom possessed the faintest idea of discipline; each one of whom had a predilection for poteen and a dim suspicion of the incompetence of his leaders. It was at this juncture that the weak, well-intentioned country gentlemen, who had striven to occupy the empty shoes of their imprisoned betters, were swept into the shade by the unscrupulous influence of the lower clergy--uncultured, ferocious creatures, whose worst passions were aroused by the burning of their chapels, the desecration of their altars; men who scrupled not to play upon the vulgar superstition of a half-savage multitude for the gaining of a cherished end. They became hideous tyrants--such men as the priests of Tallat and of Boulovogue; merciless as their persecutors had been without mercy. Inflamed by wrong and intoxicated by a little brief authority, they were guilty of enormities which, at a quieter moment, they would themselves have surveyed with horror. The higher Catholic clergy withstood the force of the current, and, resisting temptation, publicly disapproved and deplored their acts; yet who (looking on the picture calmly at this distance of time) will throw the first stone at them? The multitude had, with deliberate art, been stung to madness. The bad passions of their teachers had been stirred in their most vital place. If the people were as ignorant as their own cattle, who was accountable for it? England, through the cruel enactments of centuries. If the members of the inferior priesthood were debased and wicked, who made them so? England, by persecuting them without ceasing, by forbidding their minds to be illumined by education--England, by her accursed Penal Code.
The original champions being caged, three Catholic priests. Fathers Murphy, Kearnes, and Roche, overturning established authority, assumed the conduct of affairs, and set about the organising of their army. What had been hitherto a conflict of classes tinged with a religious bias, became now a purely religious crusade, accompanied by all the crimes which, through the history of the world, have been intimately associated with religion. What an inscrutable vision it is--that of the stately Spirit walking through earth's story, her fair features distorted, her white robes edged with blood, her pure skirts soiled by the vilest lees of the human heart--always!
The new leaders divided their host into three divisions, with each a special mission. The first, under Father Kearnes, was to possess itself of Newtown Barry. This expedition proved abortive. The second, under Father Roche (which, owing to lack of space on Vinegar Hill, was encamped at Carrickbyrne with an outpost at Scullabogue), was to attack New Ross, then, proceeding northward, was to join the third body in a grand attempt on Dublin. This plan was plausible enough, for Gorey, Arklow, and Wicklow were weakly garrisoned, and, should those citadels give way, the road to the capital lay open--undefended. Perry of Inch and Father Murphy (who commanded the third division) were mighty men of valour. The latter swore by the Holy Mother that he was invulnerable, carrying bullets in his pockets to prove the miracle. Chances seemed fairly in favour of success. The garrison of Gorey, for instance, numbered but a hundred and thirty men. What could they hope to do--disciplined though they were--against a rabble of six thousand? They did what was wisest under the circumstances; called temerity to their aid, and essayed to brazen out the difficulty of their position. Instead of waiting to be attacked, they rushed out upon the road, raising such clouds of summer dust that the advancing rebels, supposing reinforcements to have arrived, turned and fled in terror. The advanced guard of the insurgents slinking off, had taken the courage from the rest. Each man vied with his neighbour in the race, and the Irish peasant is wondrous fleet of foot.
Father Kearnes' detachment met with more grave misfortune than this merely temporary rout. The simultaneous attempt upon New Ross (nineteen miles from Wexford) was the hardest-fought day of the entire Hurry--one, too, which will be darkened through all time by the memory of a deplorable outrage. The object in gaining possession of New Ross was the same as had induced the taking of Enniscorthy. For as the one stood on the Slaney, with water-access to Wexford Harbour, so did the other command water also, standing as it did upon the Nore and Barrow, within similar distance of the important port of Waterford. New Ross, too, was placed on the very border of Kilkenny. All the disaffected in that county were expected to join the insurgents in a united gigantic effort to win so fine a jewel; for, as soon as it was captured, nothing would have been easier than to drop down to Waterford, which loved not the Castle joss; which was weakly garrisoned, and tempting to boot in the way of plunder. But this well-balanced scheme was frustrated and made of no effect by the god of war's ill-temper. Sure he's as fickle and as false as Fortune is--that arrant feckless jade! And has not her excuse neither--being a man, who, by reason of his sex, should be above lowering his dignity by feminine whimsies. On this 5th of June he got out of bed on the wrong side (in consequence of being called so early maybe), and the plan against New Ross miscarried. At 3 a.m. Bagenal Harvey, who commanded in conjunction with Father Roche, despatched a flag of truce, imploring the garrison not to provoke rapine by useless resistance. He bade them look up at the heights which commanded the town, and count the myriads whose frieze turned the landscape dun. For the good of all 'twere better to surrender at once, rather than uselessly to sacrifice precious life. A letter worthy of the kindly soft-hearted gentleman who wrote it.
The flag of truce was slain. His name was Furlong, a popular man. The insurgents, watching from above, beheld him lying prone--shot through the heart by an outpost sentinel. With fury they upbraided Harvey as an old dame for his ill-timed courtesy, vowing that they would obey no one but the priest that day. Maddened by the sight of that single corpse lying far below upon its face, they poured with the overwhelming impulse of a destroying flood unexpectedly set free down the steep declivity--an avenging awful host, numbering twenty thousand--and battered in the Three-bullet Gate. If the huge force could have been divided by scientific skill, an attack might have been made on the three gates at once, and every loyalist would have miserably perished. But even the priest was powerless to cope with the boiling throng. Yelling and screaming, by mere weight they drove in the pickets; cavalry went down like barley; nothing could withstand the avalanche. In vain the principal thoroughfare of New Ross was swept by the steady fire of artillery, which, falling on a dense mass of men wedged tight together in a narrow street, shore down the column's head as often as it rose. The legend of the dragon's teeth was realised that day; as fast as row drooped over row, so did other rows spring up, propelled by a giant force behind. One fanatic pushed to the gun's very muzzle, and, plunging in his hat and wig, cried, 'Come on, boys! her mouth's stopped!' The next moment he was blown into the air, but the gun was trodden down, dismounted--rendered useless; and the yeomanry retired under shelter. If the Croppies had obeyed their priest, all would have gone well. But much as they adored their Church, much as they longed for beatific rest in Paradise, they at this moment loved mundane whisky more. They plundered the houses of meat and drink, broached barrels in the market-place, poured fiery rivers of consolation down their parched gullets. In vain Mr. Harvey begged them to desist; in vain Father Roche threatened them with purgatorial ills. They snapped their fingers at their God and at His minister. Had they not already suffered hell? Well, then, they were used to it. Its terrors had ceased to fill their souls with dread.
The royalist commandant was amazed at what he saw. It was a Pandemonium--but one whose horrors were evanescent. He only had to wait under his shelter. One little hour of drunken madness such as this, and the day would be his after all, in spite of apparently adverse destiny. The insurgents thought no more of a foe who had only retired out of sight down a by-street. They laughed and sang, and danced, and whirled in idiot frenzy; then fell into the gutter--drunk! By three in the afternoon such of the mob as could totter were hunted out of the town--those who remained were handed over to the tormentor. In the alleys and byways bodies choked the path three deep; two thousand more were borne away on carts. New Ross remained to his Majesty King George; but the terrors of the black 5th of June were not yet over. The gates were closed on the expulsion of the rabblement so quickly that many stragglers among the royalists were left without to batter on the wood in vain. The wounded amongst them were mercilessly piked, unless by a Romanist shibboleth they could 'bless themselves.' If they could go through the formula they might be saved--if not, they would, as a natural consequence, be butchered. A woman, vagrant in the turmoil, beheld a wounded friend who was a Protestant, and knew that he could not pass the ordeal. She knelt by him, whispered some words which he repeated, and for that time was saved. But a more awful vengeance than this in the lanes around New Ross had been already wreaked away at Scullabogue. I have mentioned above that Kearnes' detachment had come from Carrickbyrne, close to which lies Scullabogue; but I did not mention that at that place there was a goodly barn--strong, well-built--which was excellently useful as a prison-house, and at this time contained some three hundred and twenty prisoners--men, women, and children.