CHAPTER XVI.
I was one day on the main guard in Kilkenny, when a deserter, passing through under escort to Dublin, was delivered to our charge. The poor fellow was accompanied by his mother and two sisters. Such unusual company with a man in his situation excited my curiosity, and inquiring into the particulars of his case, he told me that his father had died about two years before, leaving his family, consisting of his wife and six children, the lease of a small farm of twenty acres, at a moderate rent; he was the elder child, and only son of the family, and the charge and cultivation of the land principally devolved upon him.
For two years things went on prosperously; but at the end of that time the lease expired through the failure of the last life on which it depended. This was a sudden and unlooked-for event; but as they had been regular tenants, they had never doubted for a momentthat they would get their lease renewed. In this, however, the poor creatures were mistaken, for when Frank called on the agent, he found that unless he could raise twenty pounds in cash, to give by way of fine, the farm would be given to some person who would give it. Sorrowful enough he returned home, and communicated this intelligence to his mother and sisters, who were thunderstruck; for raising twenty pounds in cash was out of the question. Many plans were thought of, but none fully answered the purpose, for when all their efforts were exerted, they were only able to raise twelve pounds out of the twenty. The day on which Frank was to give in his answer was fast approaching, and as a last resource, it was determined that he should apply for the loan of the required sum to a gentleman, a friend of his father’s, who lived in an adjacent village; unluckily for poor Frank, when he went there, the gentleman was in Dublin, and was not expected home for a month.
Depressed and melancholy, he was returning home, not knowing what to do, when he met a recruiting party beating up through the town. The thought struck him instantly that he might raise the necessary sum by enlisting, and acting from the impulse of the moment, without nicely weighing the consequences, he took the king’s money; and after he got his bounty, went and took up the lease. He had never mentioned the affair to his mother, and she believed that the money was received from his father’s friend. The truth, however, could not be long concealed, for the sergeant came out to inform him that he had orders to send his recruits to head-quarters, and it would be necessary for him to be in readiness to leave home in three days. He was, therefore, obliged to disclose what he had done to his mother. It was dreadful news to the poor woman, for, independent of her great affection for him, he was her principal dependence in cultivating the farm. ‘What use can the lease be to us,’ said she, ‘when we have nobody to mind it?’ Frank felt the truth of what she said; but he endeavoured to consoleher by saying, that as Tim Brachnie, their neighbour, was on the point of marrying his elder sister Sally, they would not miss him, for Tim was well able to manage the land. As for himself, he was happy at having it in his power to secure a living to the friends he loved so much, and he was sure that he would agree better with the life of a soldier than labouring at home; he might soon rise to be a sergeant, perhaps make his fortune in the East Indies, and come home and make them all happy.
However Frank might please himself with these speculations, they afforded little consolation to his mother. But there was no helping the matter; he was obliged to bid his friends adieu, and march to join the depot in Chatham, the regiment being in the East Indies.
Shortly after his arrival, a draft was selected for embarkation to join the regiment. Frank was among the number, and he wrote home, taking a farewell of his friends. The time of his embarkation was fast approaching, but he had received no answer to the letter he had sent home; he felt grieved at this. ‘Could I but see them for one half hour,’ thought he, ‘or at least get a letter from them before I go, I would feel satisfied;’ but the day previous to the intended embarkation arrived without any letter. As he was sitting melancholy in the barrack-room, pondering over this unaccountable neglect, one of his comrades told him that some one wanted him outside the barrack gate. Frank’s heart leaped to his mouth, he made haste to obey the summons, and entering a room of the public-house to which he was directed, he was struck mute with astonishment on perceiving his mother and two of his sisters, who flew into his arms, clung round him, and cried and laughed by turns. ‘When do you go, my child?’ said his mother. ‘To-morrow,’ replied Frank. ‘For God’s sake, is that true! O Frank! what will I do? You are going where I will never see you again; you’ll never live to get there, and what will become of your poor mother, when shehears of your death?—but she’ll never live to hear of it, if you go.’ Poor Frank was sadly perplexed. ‘I have walked a hundred miles in Ireland, and two hundred and fifty in England,’ said his mother, ‘besides crossing the salt ocean, and your poor sisters walking foot for foot with me—and God knows we hadn’t much to live on—our money wasn’t very plenty, and the people in this country are not so ready stretching out their hands as the poor Irish. Now, Frank, you’re going to leave us for ever, and if you do, your poor mother will never see Ireland again, for she’ll die on the road, in a strange country, and what will become of your poor sisters?’ This was touching Frank on a tender point—a vague resolution flitted through his mind—he had found the life of a soldier not so much to his liking as he at first expected. ‘I wouldn’t wish to advise you to desert,’ said one of the sisters, who saw Frank wavering; ‘but how can you leave us and your poor mother forlorn here.’ ‘Och, the king, God bless him!’ said his mother, ‘will never miss you out of so many, and the Lord knows your poor mother would miss you all the days of her life.’
Frank had summoned his honour and fair fame to his side; but what do they know of these things in the bogs of Ireland? thought he—His oath—ay, that was a tickler; but isn’t it like a custom-house oath—And then his poor mother. Frank yielded to their solicitations. The next point was to make his escape; but that was soon arranged,—he was dressed in a suit of his elder sister’s clothes, and under the cloud of night they set off on their return home.
They had a weary journey travelling to Bristol, where they embarked on board the packet for Waterford, and were safely landed on Erin’s green isle once more. They had travelled a long day’s stage on their way home, and thinking themselves safe, were sitting in their lodging-house refreshing themselves with a cup of tea, when the sergeant who had enlisted Frank came into the house, and presented a billet to the landlady. He had been ordered to remove to anotherstation, and was so far on the way with his party. He knew Frank’s mother the moment he came in, and coming over inquired for her family, and when she heard from her son. The poor woman was so confused, that she did not know what she was saying, and stammered out some nonsense, which, along with the petrified appearance of the daughters, raised a suspicion in his mind. Frank, in his female dress, sat holding down his head,—‘Is this your daughter Peggy that’s looking so bashful?’ said the sergeant, putting his hand out to raise up Frank’s chin, when he saw enough of the face to understand who it was. Frank saw he was detected, and dropping any attempt to disguise himself farther, lifted the stool on which he was sitting, to knock the sergeant down, as the only means of effecting his escape; but the sergeant had beckoned in his party, who were standing at the door, and he saw that resistance would be madness, and therefore submitted to his fate with the best grace he could. He was sworn in a deserter and committed to jail, having previously resumed his own dress, and was thus far on his way to Dublin, accompanied by his mother and sisters, who were determined, as they said themselves, to follow him to theend of the world.
What became of poor Frank afterwards I never heard, but happening to be in Chatham about two years after, I inquired at one of the sergeants of the depot, and found his story perfectly correct. I had even the curiosity to go to the house where they had effected his disguise, the landlady of which corroborated the story so far as his mother and sisters being in the house, and the soldiers coming there after him when he was gone.
I have little left worthy of relating that occurred while stationed in Kilkenny, but I cannot dismiss the subject without paying a tribute of respect and admiration to the character of the clergyman who acted as chaplain to the troops in that place—the Rev. Mr Rowe, rector of St Mary’s. Joined to an indefatigable discharge of his duty, the purest benevolence, and aliberal mind, he possessed an eloquence that caught the attention of the most illiterate and careless. Our men were never very remarkable for their church-going propensities, but we had not been long in Kilkenny when the greater part of the regiment voluntarily attended his Sunday evening sermons. Without stooping to coarseness of expression, he rendered himself plain and intelligible to all; and by his earnest and affectionate manner, endeared himself to his hearers. His preaching had a very visible effect on the conduct of many of our men, and I am sure they all remember him with feelings of esteem and veneration. He was no time-server, ‘with doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,’ but rigidly followed the example of his Master in being ‘no respecter of persons.’ It would be well for the people of Ireland were all the clergymen of the established church like Mr Rowe.
As a specimen of the familiar manner in which he drew the men’s attention, I was once on the jail guard when he came to visit the prisoners. Those of the guard not posted as sentinels were always called in on such occasions, and when we were assembled he read some passages of Scripture; but while he was reading the men’s attention wandered. Perceiving this, he shut the book, and looking round his audience, ‘I will tell you a story,’ said he; every eye was fixed on him, ready to hear the promised tale:—
‘There was once a gentleman possessed of great riches, and he lived up to his income, enjoying all that this world could afford. He was on the point of setting out on a pleasure tour, when he took suddenly ill and soon after died. Some time after, a gentleman, who had been on very intimate terms with the deceased, but ignorant of his death, called at the door, and asked the servant if his master was at home; the servant replied, in melancholy accents, “Alas, sir! my master has gone to his long home—he is dead.” “Dead!” said the gentleman, horror-struck with the news, but recovering himself,—“Well,” said he, “it is the road we must all go sooner or later—but I hope he has goneto heaven?” The servant, who knew his master’s wild manner of living, shook his head. “What!” said the gentleman, “do you doubt it?” “I don’t know,” said the servant, “but when my master was on the eve of going a journey, he was always talking about it, and making great preparations some days before he set out; but during his illness I never once heard him mentionheaven.”
‘Are you, my friends, making preparation for that long journey that we must all soon take?’
He then took advantage of their attention being awakened to impress upon them the necessity of that preparation.