“'Tis a dreary time to take to the cowld mountain for a home,” said Owen, as he drew his thick frieze coat around him, and turned his shoulder to the storm. “I hardly think the police, or the king's throops either, will try a chase after me this night.”
There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflection than at first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind of heroism in his own daring at that moment, that supported and actually encouraged him in his course. The old spirit of bold defiance, which for ages has characterised the people; the resolute resistance to authority, or to tyranny, which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy nature; and he asked for nothing better, than to pit his own skill, ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents, for the mere pleasure of the encounter.
As there was little question on Owen's mind that no pursuit of him would take place on such a night, he resolved to pass the time till day-break within the walls of the old churchyard, the only spot he could think of which promised any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there, where he could safely remain till morning. An hour's walking brought him to the little gate, the last time he had entered which, was at his poor father's funeral. His reflection, now, was rather on his own altered condition since that day; but even on that thought he suffered himself not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face the future, in utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part he proposed to himself; and he did his utmost to bend his mind to the effort.
As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was amazed to see the faint flickering of a fire within it. At first a superstitious fear held him back, and he rapidly repeated some prayers to himself; but the emotion was soon over, and he advanced boldly toward it. “Who's there? stand! or give the word!” said a gruff voice from within. Owen stood still, but spoke not. The challenge was like that of a sentry, and he half-feared he had unwittingly strayed within the precincts of a patrol. “Give the word at once! or you'll never spake another,” was the savage speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his ears, while the click of a gun-Cock was distinctly audible.
“I'm a poor man, without a home or a shelter,” said Owen, calmly; “and what's worse, I'm without arms, or maybe you wouldn't talk so brave.”
“What's yer name? Where are ye from?”
“I'm Owen Connor; that's enough for ye, whoever ye are,” replied he, resolutely; “it's a name I'm not ashamed nor afraid to say, anywhere.”
The man within the cell threw a handful of dry furze upon the smouldering flame, and while he remained concealed himself, took a deliberate survey of Owen as he stood close to the doorway. “You're welcome, Owen,” said he, in an altered voice, and one which Owen immediately recognised as that of the old blacksmith, Miles Regan; “you're welcome, my boy! better late than never, anyhow!”
“What do you mean, Miles? 'Tisn't expecting me here ye were, I suppose?”
“'Tis just that same then, I was expecting this many a day,” said Miles, as with a rugged grasp of both hands he drew Owen within the narrow cell. “And 't'aint me only was expecting it, but every one else. Here, avich, taste this—ye're wet and cowld both; that will put life in ye—and it never ped tha king sixpence.”
And he handed Owen a quart bottle as he spoke, the odour of which was unmistakeable enough, to bear testimony to his words.
“And what brings you here, Miles, in the name of God?” said Owen, for his surprise at the meeting increased every moment.
“'Tis your own case, only worse,” said the other, with a drunken laugh, for the poteen had already affected his head.
“And what's that, if I might make bould?” said Owen, rather angrily.
“Just that I got the turn-out, my boy. That new chap, they have over the property, sould me out, root and branch; and as I didn't go quiet, ye see, they brought the polis down, and there was a bit of a fight, to take the two cows away; and somehow”—here he snatched the bottle rudely from Owen's hand, and swallowed a copious draught of it—“and, somehow, the corporal was killed, and I thought it better to be away for a while—for, at the inquest, though the boys would take 'the vestment' they seen him shot by one of his comrades, there was a bit of a smash in his skull, ye see”—here he gave a low fearful laugh—“that fitted neatly to the top of my eleven-pound hammer; ye comprehend?”
Owen's blood ran cold as he said, “Ye don't mean it was you that killed him?”
“I do then,” replied the other, with a savage grin, as he placed his face within a few inches of Owen's. “There's a hundred pounds blood-money for ye, now, if ye give the information! A hundred pounds,” muttered he to himself; “musha, I never thought they'd give ten shillings for my own four bones before!”
Owen scorned to reply to the insinuation of his turning informer, and sat moodily thinking over the event.
“Well, I'll be going, anyhow,” said he rising, for his abhorrence of his companion made him feel the storm and the hurricane a far preferable alternative.
“The divil a one foot ye'll leave this, my boy,” said Miles, grasping him with the grip of his gigantic hand; “no, no, ma bouchai, 'tisn't so easy airned as ye think; a hundred pounds, naboclish!
“Leave me free! let go my arm!” said Owen, whose anger now rose at the insolence of this taunt.
“I'll break it across my knee, first,” said the infuriated ruffian, as he half imitated by a gesture his horrid threat.
There was no comparison in point of bodily strength between them; for although Owen was not half the other's age, and had the advantage of being perfectly sober, the smith was a man of enormous power, and held him, as though he were a child in his grasp.
“So that's what you'd be at, my boy, is it?” said Miles, scoffing; “it's the fine thrade you choose! but maybe it's not so pleasant, after all. Stay still there—be quiet, I say—by——,” and here he uttered a most awful oath—“if you rouse me, I'll paste your brains against that wall;” and as he spoke, he dashed his closed fist against the rude and crumbling masonry, with a force that shook several large stones from their places, and left his knuckles one indistinguishable mass of blood and gore.
“That's brave, anyhow,” said Owen, with a bitter mockery, for his own danger, at the moment, could not repress his contempt for the savage conduct of the other.
Fortunately, the besotted intellect of the smith made him accept the speech in a very different sense, and he said, “There never was the man yet, I wouldn't give him two blows at me, for one at him, and mine to be the last.”
“I often heard of that before,” said Owen, who saw that any attempt to escape by main force was completely out of the question, and that stratagem alone could present a chance.
“Did ye ever hear of Dan Lenahan?” said Miles, with a grin; “what I did to Dan: I was to fight him wid one hand, and the other tied behind my back; and when he came up to shake hands wid me before the fight, I just put my thumb in my hand, that way, and I smashed his four fingers over it.”
“There was no fight that day, anyhow, Miles.”
“Thrue for ye, boy; the sport was soon over—raich me over the bottle,” and with that, Miles finished the poteen at a draught, and then lay back against the wall, as if to sleep. Still, he never relinquished his grasp, but, as he fell off asleep, held him as in a vice.
As Owen sat thus a prisoner, turning over in his mind every possible chance of escape, he heard the sound of feet and men's voices rapidly approaching; and, in a few moments, several men turned into the churchyard, and came towards the crypt. They were conversing in a low but hurried voice, which was quickly hushed as they came nearer.
“What's this,” cried one, as he entered the cell; “Miles has a prisoner here!”
“Faix, he has so, Mickey;” answered Owen, for he recognised in the speaker an old friend and schoolfellow. The rest came hurriedly forward at the words, and soon Owen found himself among a number of his former companions. Two or three of the party were namesakes and relations.
The explanation of his capture was speedily given, and they all laughed heartily at Owen's account of his ingenious efforts at flattery.
“Av the poteen held out, Owen dear, ye wouldn't have had much trouble; but he can drink two quarts before he loses his strength.”
In return for his narrative, they freely and frankly told their own story. They had been out arms-hunting—unsuccessfully, however—their only exploit being the burning of a haggard belonging to a farmer who refused to join the “rising.”
Owen felt greatly relieved to discover, that his old friends regarded the smith with a horror fully as great as his own. But they excused themselves for the companionship by saying, “What are we to do with the crayture? Ye wouldn't have us let him be taken?” And thus they were compelled to practise every measure for the security of one they had no love for, and whose own excesses increased the hazard tenfold.
The marauding exploits they told of, were, to Owen's ears, not devoid of a strange interest, the danger alone had its fascination for him; and, artfully interwoven as their stories were with sentiments of affected patriotism and noble aspirations for the cause of their country, they affected him strongly.
For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country—a mistaken sense of national honour—prompted many to these lawless courses. Vague notions of confiscated lands to be restored to their rightful possessors; ancient privileges reconferred; their church once more endowed with its long-lost wealth and power: such were the motives of the more high-spirited and independent. Others sought redress for personal grievances; some real or imaginary hardship they laboured under; or, perhaps, as was not unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge or malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of requiting. Many were there, who, like the weak-minded in all popular commotions, float with the strong tide, whichever way it may run. They knew not the objects aimed at; they were ignorant of the intentions of their leaders; but would not be under the stain of cowardice among their companions, nor shrink from any cause where there was danger, if only for that very reason. Thus was the mass made up, of men differing in various ways; but all held together by the common tie of a Church and a Country. It might be supposed that the leaders in such a movement would be those who, having suffered some grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure on any course that promised vengeance;—very far from this. The principal promoters of the insurrection were of the class of farmers—men well to do, and reputed, in many cases wealthy. The instruments by which they worked were indeed of the very poorer class—the cottier, whose want and misery had eat into his nature, and who had as little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice denied him; his ejection from his tenement; a chance word, perhaps, spoken to him in anger by his landlord or the agent, were the springs which moved a man like this, and brought him into confederacy with those who promised him a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into the belief that his individual case had all the weight and importance of a national question. Many insurrectionary movements have grown into the magnitude of systematic rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others, that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self-importance suggested by a bold opposition to the law, is a strong agent in arming men against its terrors. The mock martyrdom of Ireland is in this way, perhaps, her greatest and least curable evil.
Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for amongst them. Independent of his personal courage and daring, he was regarded as one fruitful in expedients, and never deterred by difficulties. This mingled character of cool determination and headlong impulse, made him exactly suited to become a leader; and many a plot was thought of, to draw him into their snares, when the circumstances of his fortune thus anticipated their intentions.
It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell upon the life he now led. It was indeed an existence full of misery and suffering. To exaggerate the danger of his position, his companions asserted that the greatest efforts were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies scattered far and wide through the country; and while they agreed with him that nothing could be laid to his charge, they still insisted, that were he once taken, false-swearing and perjury would bring him to the gallows, “as it did many a brave boy before him.”
Half-starved, and harassed by incessant change of place; tortured by the fevered agony of a mind halting between a deep purpose of vengeance and a conscious sense of innocence, his own daily sufferings soon brought down his mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation, in which the very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and blunted. “I cannot be worse!” was his constant expression, as he wandered alone by some unfrequented mountain-path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine. “I cannot be worse!” It is an evil moment that suggests a thought like this!
Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old churchyard, where some of the “boys,” as they called themselves, assembled to deliberate on future measures, or talk over the past. It was less in sympathy with their plans that Owen came, than for the very want of human companionship. His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their voices, and see their faces; while in their recitals of outrage, he felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies, at any tale of sorrow and suffering.
At these meetings the whisky-bottle was never forgotten; and while some were under a pledge not to take more than a certain quantity—a vow they kept most religiously—others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The few moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the coveted minutes of his long dreary day, and he wished for night to come as the last solace that was left him.
His companions knew him too well, to endeavour by any active influence to implicate him in their proceedings. They cunningly left the work to time and his own gloomy thoughts; watching, however, with eager anxiety, how, gradually he became more and more interested in all their doings; how, by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against some deed of unnecessary cruelty; and listened with animation where before he but heard with apathy, if not repugnance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in the rich soil of a heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted and debased. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from disliking the theme of violence and outrage, became half-angry with his comrades, that they neither proposed any undertaking to him, nor even asked his assistance amongst them.
This spirit grew hourly stronger in him; offended pride worked within his heart during the tedious days he spent alone, and he could scarcely refrain from demanding what lack of courage and daring they saw in him, that he should be thus forgotten and neglected.
In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should not propose himself for some hazardous scheme, or still remain a mere spectator of others, he arrived one evening in the old churchyard. Of late, “the boys,” from preconcerted arrangements among themselves, had rather made a show of cold and careless indifference in their manner to Owen—conduct which deeply wounded him.
As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that a greater number than usual were assembled through the churchyard, and many were gathered in little knots and groups, talking eagerly together; a half-nod, a scarcely muttered “Good even,” was all the salutation he met, as he moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves—the custom and privilege of those who had been last out on any marauding expedition. A smoking pot of potatoes and some bottles of whisky formed the entertainment, at which Owen stood a longing and famished spectator.
“Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yerselves?” said a gruff voice from the crowd to the party within; “and ye know well enough there's business to be done to-night.”
“And ain't we doing it?” answered one of the feasters. “Here's your health, Peter!” and so saying, he took a very lengthened draught from the “poteen” bottle.
“'Tis the thrade ye like best, anyhow,” retorted the other. “Come, boys; be quick now!”
The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from the place, and removing the big pot to make more room, they prepared the little cell for the reception of some other visitors.
“That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, have yez the deck,' my boy?”
“There's the book, darlint,” said a short, little, de-crepid creature, speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced a pack of cards, which, if one were to judge from the dirt, made the skill of the game consist as much in deciphering as playing them.
“Where's Sam M'Guire?” called out the first speaker, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the whole space around; and the name was repeated from voice to voice, till it was replied to by one who cried—
“Here, sir; am I wanted?”
“You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself is always to the fore when we need yez.”
“I hope so indeed,” said Sam, as he came forward, a flush of gratified pride on his hardy cheek. He was a young, athletic fellow, with a fine manly countenance, expressive of frankness and candour.
“Luke Heffernan! where's Luke?” said the other.
“I'm here beside ye,” answered a dark-visaged, middle-aged man, with the collar of his frieze coat buttoned high on his face; “ye needn't be shouting my name that way—there may be more bad than good among uz.
“There's not an informer, any way—if that's what ye mean,” said the other quickly. “Gavan Daly! Call Gavan Daly, will ye, out there?” And the words were passed from mouth to mouth in a minute, but no one replied to the summons.
“He's not here—Gavan's not here!” was the murmured answer of the crowd, given in a tone that hoded very little in favour of its absent owner.
“Not here!” said the leader, as he crushed the piece of paper, from which he read, in his hand; “not here! Where is he, then? Does any of yez know where's Gavan Daly?”
But there was no answer.
“Can no body tell?—is he sick?—or is any belonging to him sick and dying, that he isn't here this night, as he swore to be?”
“I saw him wid a new coat on him this morning early in Oughterarde, and he said he was going to see a cousin of his down below Oranmore,” said a young lad from the outside of the crowd, and the speaker was in a moment surrounded by several, anxious to find out some other particulars of the absent man. It was evident that the boy's story was far from being satisfactory, and the circumstance of Daly's wearing a new coat, was one freely commented on by those who well knew how thoroughly they were in the power of any who should betray them.
“He's in the black list this night,” said the leader, as he motioned the rest to be silent; “that's where I put him now; and see, all of yez—mind my words—if any of uz comes to harm, it will go hard but some will be spared; and if there was only one remaining, he wouldn't be the cowardly villain not to see vengeance on Gavan Daly, for what he's done.”
A murmur of indignation at the imputed treachery of the absent man buzzed through the crowd; while one fellow, with a face flushed by drink, and eyes bleared and bloodshot, cried out: “And are ye to stop here all night, calling for the boy that's gone down to bethray yez? Is there none of yez will take his place?”
“I will! I will! I'm ready and willin'!” were uttered by full twenty, in a breath.
“Who will ye have with yez? take your own choice!” said the leader, turning towards M'Quire and Heffernan, who stood whispering eagerly together.
“There's the boy I'd take out of five hundred, av he was the same I knew once,” said M'Guire, laying his hand on Owen's shoulder.
“Begorra then, I wondher what ye seen in him lately to give you a consate out of him,” cried Heffernan, with a rude laugh. “'Tisn't all he's done for the cause anyway.”
Owen started, and fixed his eyes first on one, then on the other of the speakers; but his look was rather the vacant stare of one awakening from a heavy sleep, than the expression of any angry passion—for want and privation had gone far to sap his spirit, as well as his bodily strength.
“There, avich, taste that,” said a man beside him, who was struck by his pale and wasted cheek, and miserable appearance.
Owen almost mechanically took the bottle, and drank freely, though the contents was strong poteen.
“Are ye any betther now?” said Heffernan, with a sneering accent.
“I am,” said Owen, calmly, for he was unconscious of the insolence passed off on him; “I'm a deal better.”
“Come along, ma bouchal!” cried M'Guire; “come into the little place with us, here.”
“What do ye want with me, boys?” asked Owen, looking about him through the crowd.
“'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more,” said an old fellow near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among the rest.
“I'm ready and willin',” said Owen; “but sorra farthen I've left me to play; and if the stakes is high—”
“Faix, that's what they're not,” said Heffernan; “they're the lowest ever ye played for.”
“Tell me what it is, anyway,” cried Owen.
“Just, the meanest thing at all—the life of the blaguard that turned yerself out of yer holdin'—Lucas the agent.”
“To kill Lucas?”
“That same; and if ye don't like the game, turn away and make room for a boy that has more spirit in him.”
“Who says I ever was afeard?” said Owen, on whom now the whisky was working. “Is it Luke Heffernan dares to face me down?—come out here, fair, and see will ye say it again.”
“If you won't join the cause, you mustn't be bringing bad blood among us,” cried the leader, in a determined tone; “there's many a brave boy here to-night would give his right hand to get the offer you did.”
“I'm ready—here I am, ready now,” shouted Owen wildly; “tell me what you want me to do, and see whether I will or no.”
A cheer broke from the crowd at these words, and all within his reach stretched out their hands to grasp Owen's; and commendations were poured on him from every side.
Meanwhile Heffernan and his companion had cleared the little crypt of its former occupants, and having heaped fresh wood upon the fire, sat down before the blaze, and called out for Owen to join them. Owen took another draught from one of the many bottles offered by the bystanders, and hastened to obey the summons.
“Stand back now, and don't speak a word,” cried the leader, keeping off the anxious crowd that pressed eagerly forward to witness the game; the hushed murmuring of the voices shewing how deeply interested they felt.
The three players bent their heads forward as they sat, while Heffernan spoke some words in a low whisper, to which the others responded by a muttered assent. “Well, here's success to the undhertakin' anyhow,” cried he aloud, and filling out a glass of whisky, drank it off; then passing the liquor to the two others, they followed his example.
“Will ye like to deal, Owen?” said M'Guire; “you're the new-comer, and we'll give ye the choice.”
“No, thank ye, boys,” said Owen; “do it yerselves, one of ye; I'm sure of fair play.”
Heffernan then took the cards, and wetting his thumb for the convenience of better distributing them, slowly laid five cards before each player; he paused for a second before he turned the trump, and in a low voice said: “If any man's faint-hearted, let him say it now—”
“Turn the card round, and don't be bothering us,” cried M'Guire; “one 'ud think we never played a game before.”
“Come, be alive,” said Owen, in whom the liquor had stimulated the passion for play.
“What's the thrump—is it a diamond? look over and tell us,” murmured the crowd nearest the entrance.
“'Tis a spade!—I lay fourpence 'tis a spade!”
“Why wouldn't it be?” said another; “it's the same spade will dig Lucas's grave this night!”
“Look! see!” whispered another, “Owen Connor's won the first thrick! Watch him now! Mind the way he lays the card down, with a stroke of his fist!”
“I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast!” said another.
“Who won that? who took that thrick?” “Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I never see him lose yet.”
“There's another; that's Owen's!” “No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has it.” “That's Sam M'Quire's! See how aizy he takes them up.”
“Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round!” and at this moment, a breathless silence prevailed among the crowd; for while such as were nearest were eagerly bent on observing the progress of the game, the more distant bent their heads to catch every sound that might indicate its fortune.
“See how Luke grins! watch his face!” whispered a low voice. “He doesn't care how it goes, now, he's out of it!” and so it was. Heffernan had already won two of the five tricks, and was safe whatever the result of the last one. The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen.
“Come, Owen, my hearty!” said M'Guire, as he held a card ready to play, “you or I for it now; we'll soon see which the devil's fondest of. There's the two of clubs for ye!”
“There's the three, then!” said Owen, with a crash of his hand, as he placed the card over the other.
“And there's the four!” said Heffernan, “and the thrick is Sam M'Guire's.”
“Owen Connor's lost!” “Owen's lost!” murmured the crowd; and, whether in half-compassion for his defeat, or grief that so hazardous a deed should be entrusted to a doubtful hand, the sensation created was evidently of gloom and dissatisfaction.
“You've a right to take either of us wid ye, Owen,” said M'Guire, slapping him on the shoulder. “Luke or myself must go, if ye want us.”
“No; I'll do it myself,” said Owen, in a low hollow voice.
“There's the tool, then!” said Heffernan, producing from the breast of his frieze coat a long horse-pistol, the stock of which was mended by a clasp of iron belted round it; “and if it doesn't do its work, 'tis the first time it ever failed. Ould Miles Cregan, of Gurtane, was the last that heard it spake.”
Owen took the weapon, and examined it leisurely, opening the pan and settling the priming, with a finger that never trembled. As he drew forth the ramrod to try the barrel, Heffernan said, with a half-grin, “There's two bullets in it, avich!—enough's as good as a feast.”
Owen sat still and spoke not, while the leader and Heffernan explained to him the circumstances of the plot against the life of Mr. Lucas. Information had been obtained by some of the party, that the agent would leave Galway on the following evening, on his way to Westport, passing through Oughterarde and their own village, about midnight. He usually travelled in his gig, with relays of horses ready at different stations of the way, one of which was about two miles distant from the old ruin, on the edge of the lake—a wild and dreary spot, where stood a solitary cabin, inhabited by a poor man who earned his livelihood by fishing. No other house was within a mile of this; and here, it was determined, while in the act of changing horses, the murder should be effected. The bleak common beside the lake was studded with furze and brambles, beneath which it was easy to obtain shelter, though pursuit was not to be apprehended—at least they judged that the servant would not venture to leave his master at such a moment; and as for the fisherman, although not a sworn member of their party, they well knew he would not dare to inform against the meanest amongst them.
Owen listened attentively to all these details, and the accurate directions by which they instructed him on every step he should take. From the moment he should set foot within the cover to the very instant of firing, each little event had its warning.
“Mind!” repeated Heffernan, with a slow, distinct whisper, “he never goes into the house at all; but if the night's cowld—as it's sure to be this sayson—he'll be moving up and down, to keep his feet warm. Cover him as he turns round; but don't fire the first cover, but wait till he comes back to the same place again, and then blaze. Don't stir then, till ye see if he falls: if he does, be off down the common; but if he's only wounded—but sure ye'll do better than that!”
“I'll go bail he will!” said M'Guire. “Sorra fear that Owen Connor's heart would fail him! and sure if he likes me to be wid him—”
“No, no!” said Owen, in the same hollow voice as before, “I'll do it all by myself; I want nobody.”
“'Tis the very words I said when I shot Lambert of Kilclunah!” said M'Guire. “I didn't know him by looks, and the boys wanted me to take some one to point him out. 'Sorra bit!' says I, 'leave that to me;' and so I waited in the gripe of the ditch all day, till, about four in the evening, I seen a stout man wid a white hat coming across the fields, to where the men was planting potatoes. So I ups to him wid a letter in my hand, this way, and my hat off—'Is yer honner Mr. Lambert?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'what do ye want with me?' ''Tis a bit of a note I've for yer honner,' says I; and I gav him the paper. He tuck it and opened it; but troth it was little matter there was no writin' in it, for he would'nt have lived to read it through. I sent the ball through his heart, as near as I stand to ye; the wadding was burning his waistcoat when I left him. 'God save you!' says the men, as I went across the potato-field. 'Save you kindly!' says I. 'Was that a shot we heard?' says another. 'Yes,' says I; 'I was fright'ning the crows;' and sorra bit, but that's a saying they have against me ever since.” These last few words were said in a simper of modesty, which, whether real or affected, was a strange sentiment at the conclusion of such a tale.
The party soon after separated, not to meet again for several nights; for the news of Lucas's death would of course be the signal for a general search through the country, and the most active measures to trace the murderer. It behoved them, then, to be more than usually careful not to be absent from their homes and their daily duties for some days at least: after which they could assemble in safety as before.
Grief has been known to change the hair to grey in a single night; the announcement of a sudden misfortune has palsied the hand that held the ill-omened letter; but I question if the hours that are passed before the commission of a great crime, planned and meditated beforehand, do not work more fearful devastation on the human heart, than all the sorrows that ever crushed humanity. Ere night came, Owen Connor seemed to have grown years older. In the tortured doublings of his harassed mind he appeared to have spent almost a lifetime since the sun last rose. He had passed in review before him each phase of his former existence, from childhood—free, careless, and happy childhood—to days of boyish sport and revelry; then came the period of his first manhood, with its new ambitions and hopes. He thought of these, and how, amid the humble circumstances of his lowly fortune, he was happy. What would he have thought of him who should predict such a future as this for him? How could he have believed it? And yet the worst of all remained to come. He tried to rally his courage and steel his heart, by repeating over the phrases so frequent among his companions. “Sure, aint I driven to it? is it my fault if I take to this, or theirs that compelled me?” and such like. But these words came with no persuasive force in the still hour of conscience: they were only effectual amid the excitement and tumult of a multitude, when men's passions were high, and their resolutions daring. “It is too late to go back,” muttered he, as he arose from the spot, where, awaiting nightfall, he had lain hid for several hours; “they mustn't call me a coward, any way.”
As Owen reached the valley the darkness spread far and near, not a star could be seen; great masses of cloud covered the sky, and hung down heavily, midway upon the mountains. There was no rain; but on the wind came from time to time a drifted mist, which shewed that the air was charged with moisture. The ground was still wet and plashy from recent heavy rain. It was indeed a cheerless night and a cheerless hour; but not more so than the heart of him who now, bent upon his deadly purpose, moved slowly on towards the common.
On descending towards the lake-side, he caught a passing view of the little village, where a few lights yet twinkled, the flickering stars that shone within some humble home. What would he not have given to be but the meanest peasant there, the poorest creature that toiled and sickened on his dreary way! He turned away hurriedly, and with his hand pressed heavily on his swelling heart walked rapidly on. “It will soon be over now,” said Owen; he was about to add, with the accustomed piety of his class, “thank God for it,” but the words stopped in his throat, and the dreadful thought flashed on him, “Is it when I am about to shed His creature's blood, I should say this?”
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He sat down upon a large stone beside the lake, at a spot where the road came down to the water's edge, and where none could pass unobserved by him. He had often fished from that very rock when a boy, and eaten his little dinner of potatoes beneath its shelter. Here he sat once more; saying to himself as he did so, “'Tis an ould friend, anyway, and I'll just spend my last night with him;”, for so in his mind he already regarded his condition. The murder effected, he determined to make no effort to escape. Life was of no value to him. The snares of the conspiracy had entangled him, but his heart was not in it.
As the night wore on, the clouds lifted, and the wind, increasing to a storm, bore them hurriedly through the air; the waters of the lake, lashed into waves, beat heavily on the low shore; while the howling blast swept through the mountain-passes, and over the bleak, wide plain, with a rushing sound. The thin crescent of a new moon could be seen from time to time as the clouds rolled past: too faint to shed any light upon the earth, it merely gave form to the dark masses that moved before it.
“I will do it here,” said Owen, as he stood and looked upon the dark water that beat against the foot of the rock; “here, on this spot.”
He sat for some moments with his ear bent to listen, but the storm was loud enough to make all other sounds inaudible; yet, in every noise he thought he heard the sound of wheels, and the rapid tramp of a horse's feet. The motionless attitude, the cold of the night, but more than either, the debility brought on by long fasting and hunger, benumbed his limbs, so that he felt almost unable to make the least exertion, should any such be called for.
He therefore descended from the rock and moved along the road; at first, only thinking of restoring lost animation to his frame, but at length, in a half unconsciousness, he had wandered upwards of two miles beyond the little hovel where the change of horses was to take place. Just as he was on the point of returning, he perceived at a little distance, in front, the walls of a now ruined cabin, once the home of the old smith. Part of the roof had fallen in, the doors and windows were gone, the fragment of an old shutter alone remained, and this banged heavily back and forwards as the storm rushed through the wretched hut.
Almost without knowing it, Owen entered the cabin, and sat down beside the spot where once the forge-fire used to burn. He had been there, too, when a boy many a time—many a story had he listened to in that same corner; but why think of this now? The cold blast seemed to freeze his very blood—he felt his heart as if congealed within him. He sat cowering from the piercing blast for some time; and at last, unable to bear the sensation longer, determined to kindle a fire with the fragments of the old shutter. For this purpose he drew the charge of the pistol, in which there were three bullets, and not merely two, as Heffernan had told him. Laying these carefully down in his handkerchief, he kindled a light with some powder, and, with the dexterity of one not unaccustomed to such operations, soon saw the dry sticks blazing on the hearth. On looking about he discovered a few sods of turf and some dry furze, with which he replenished his fire, till it gradually became a warm and cheering blaze. Owen now reloaded the pistol, just as he had found it. There was a sense of duty in his mind to follow out every instruction he received, and deviate in nothing. This done, he held his numbed fingers over the blaze, and bared his chest to the warm glow of the fire.
The sudden change from the cold night-air to the warmth of the cabin soon made him drowsy. Fatigue and watching aiding the inclination to sleep, he was obliged to move about the hut, and even expose himself to the chill blast, to resist its influence. The very purpose on which he was bent, so far from dispelling sleep, rather induced its approach; for, strange as it may seem, the concentration with which the mind brings its powers to bear on any object will overcome all the interest and anxiety of our natures, and bring on sleep from very weariness.
He slept, at first, calmly and peacefully—exhaustion would have its debt acquitted—and he breathed as softly as an infant. At last, when the extreme of fatigue was passed, his brain began to busy itself with flitting thoughts and fancies,—some long-forgotten day of boyhood, some little scene of childish gaiety, flashed across him, and he dreamed of the old mountain-lake, where so often he watched the wide circles of the leaping trout, or tracked with his eye the foamy path of the wild water-hen, as she skimmed the surface. Then suddenly his chest heaved and fell with a strong motion, for with lightning's speed the current of his thoughts was changed; his heart was in the mad tumult of a faction-fight, loud shouts were ringing in his ears, the crash of sticks, the cries of pain, entreaties for mercy, execrations and threats, rung around him, when one figure moved slowly before his astonished gaze, with a sweet smile upon her lips, and love in her long-lashed eyes. She murmured his name; and now he slept with a low-drawn breath, his quivering lips repeating, “Mary!”
Another and a sadder change was coming. He was on the mountains, in the midst of a large assemblage of wild-looking and haggard men, whose violent speech and savage gestures well suited their reckless air. A loud shout welcomed him as he came amongst them, and a cry of “Here's Owen Connor—Owen at last!” and a hundred hands were stretched out to grasp his, but as suddenly withdrawn, on seeing that his hands were not bloodstained nor gory.
He shuddered as he looked upon their dripping fingers; but he shuddered still more as they called him “Coward!” What he said he knew not; but in a moment they were gathered round him, and clasping him in their arms; and now, his hands, his cheeks, his clothes, were streaked with blood; he tried to wipe the foul stains out, but his fingers grew clotted, and his feet seemed to plash in the red stream, and his savage comrades laughed fiercely at his efforts, and mocked him.
“What am I, that you should clasp me thus?” he cried; and a voice from his inmost heart replied, “A murderer!” The cold sweat rolled in great drops down his brow, while the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips, and his frame trembled in a terrible convulsion. Confused and fearful images of bloodshed and its penalty, the crime and the scaffold, commingled, worked in his maddened brain. He heard the rush of feet, as if thousands were hurrying on, to see him die, and voices that swelled like the sea at midnight. Nor was the vision all unreal: for already two men had entered the hut.
The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its climax, and with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep, and cried in a shriek of heart-wrung anguish, “No, never—I am not a murderer. Owen Connor can meet his death like a man, but not with blood upon him.”
“Owen Connor! Owen Connor, did you say?” repeated one of the two who stood before him; “are you, then, Owen Connor?”
“I am,” replied Owen, whose dreams were still the last impression on his mind. “I give myself up;—do what ye will with me;—hang, imprison, or transport me; I'll never gainsay you.”
“Owen, do you not know me?” said the other, removing his travelling cap, and brushing back the hair from his forehead.
“No, I know nothing of you,” said he, fiercely.
“Not remember your old friend—your landlord's son, Owen?”
Owen stared at him without speaking; his parted lips and fixed gaze evidencing the amazement which came over him.
“You saved my life, Owen,” said the young man, horror-struck by the withered and wasted form of the peasant.
“And you have made me this,” muttered Owen, as he let fall the pistol from his bosom. “Yes,” cried he, with an energy very different from before, “I came out this night, sworn to murder that man beside you—your agent, Lucas; my soul is perjured if my hands are not bloody.”
Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, and cocked it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek shewed he did not think the danger was yet over.
“Put up your weapon,” said Owen, contemptuously. “What would I care for it, if I wanted to take your life? do you think the likes of me has any hould on the world?” and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh.
“How is this, then?” cried Leslie; “is murder so light a crime that a man like this does not shrink from it?”
“The country,” whispered Lucas, “is indeed in a fearful state. The rights of property no longer exist among us. That fellow—because he lost his farm—”
“Stop, sir!” cried Owen, fiercely; “I will deny nothing of my guilt—but lay not more to my charge than is true. Want and misery have brought me low—destitution and recklessness still lower—but if I swore to have your life this night, it was not for any vengeance of my own.”
“Ha! then there is a conspiracy!” cried Lucas, hastily. “We must have it out of you—every word of it—or it will go harder with yourself.”
Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that moment, he never uttered another word. All Lucas's threats, all Leslie's entreaties, were powerless and vain. The very allusion to becoming an informer was too revolting to be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every thing, rather than endure the mere proposal.
They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had succeeded in repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, which led to the opportune appearance of the landlord and his agent in the hut; Owen accompanying them without a word or a gesture.
So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips; the dread of committing himself, or in any way implicating one amongst his companions, deterred him; but when Leslie sent for him, alone, and asked him the circumstances which led him to the eve of so great a crime, he confessed all—omitting nothing, save such passages as might involve others—and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic.
The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow to the peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the mischiefs neglect and abandonment can propagate, nor of how many sins mere poverty can be the parent. He knew not before that the very endurance of want can teach another endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors of the law and its inflictions. He was not aware of the condition of his tenantry; he wished them all well off and happy; he had no self-accusings of a grudging nature, nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself of any hardships that originated with “the agent.”
The cases brought before his notice rather disposed him to regard the people as wily and treacherous, false in their pledges and unmindful of favours; and many, doubtless, were so; but he never inquired how far their experience had taught them, that dishonesty was the best policy, and that trick and subtlety are the only aids to the poor man. He forgot, above all, that they had neither examples to look up to, nor imitate, and that when once a people have become sunk in misery, they are the ready tools of any wicked enough to use them for violence, and false enough to persuade them, that outrage can be their welfare; and, lastly, he overlooked the great fact, that in a corrupt and debased social condition, the evils which, under other circumstances, would be borne with a patient trust in future relief, are resented in a spirit of recklessness; and that men soon cease to shudder at a crime, when frequency has accustomed them to discuss its details.
I must not—I dare not dwell longer on this theme. Leslie felt all the accusations of an awakened conscience. He saw himself the origin of many misfortunes—of evils of whose very existence he never heard before. Ere Owen concluded his sad story, his mind was opened to some of the miseries of Ireland; and when he had ended, he cried, “I will live at home with ye, amongst ye all, Owen! I will try if Irishmen cannot learn to know who is their true friend; and while repairing some of my own faults, mayhap I may remedy some of theirs.”
“Oh! why did you not do this before I came to my ruin?” cried Owen, in a passionate burst of grief; for the poor fellow all along had given himself up for lost, and imagined, that his own plea of guilt must bring him to the gallows. Nor was it till after much persuasion and great trouble, that Leslie could reconcile him to himself, and assure him, that his own fortunate repentance had saved him from destruction.
“You shall go back to your mountain-cabin, Owen; you shall have your own farm again, and be as happy as ever,” said the young man. “The law must deal with those who break it, and no one will go farther than myself to vindicate the law; but I will also try if kindness and fair-dealing will not save many from the promptings of their own hearts, and teach men that, even here, the breach of God's commandments can bring neither peace nor happiness.”
My object in this little story being to trace the career of one humble man through the trials and temptations incident to his lot in life, I must not dwell upon the wider theme of national disturbance. I have endeavoured—how weakly, I am well aware—to shew, that social disorganisation, rather than political grievances, are the source of Irish outrage; that neglect and abandonment of the people on the part of those who stood in the position of friends and advisers towards them, have disseminated evils deeper and greater than even a tyranny could have engendered. But for this desertion of their duties, there had been no loss of their rightful influence, nor would the foul crime of assassination now stain the name of our land. With an educated and resident proprietary, Ireland could never have become what she now is; personal comfort, if no higher motive could be appealed to, would have necessitated a watchful observance of the habits of the people—the tares would have been weeded from the wheat; the evil influence of bad men would not have been suffered to spread its contagion through the land.
Let me not be supposed for a moment as joining in the popular cry against the landlords of Ireland. As regards the management of their estates, and the liberality of their dealings with their tenantry, they are, of course with the exceptions which every country exhibits, a class as blameless, and irreproachable as can be found any where—their real dereliction being, in my mind, their desertion of the people. To this cause, I believe, can be traced every one of the long catalogue of disasters to which Ireland is a prey: the despairing poverty, reckless habits, indifference to the mandates of the law, have their source here. The impassioned pursuit of any political privilege, which they are given to suppose will alleviate the evils of their state, has thrown them into the hands of the demagogue, and banded them in a league, which they assume to be National. You left them to drift on the waters, and you may now be shipwrecked among the floating fragments!
My tale is ended. I have only one record more to add. The exercise of the law, assisted by the energy and determination of a fearless and resident landlord, at length suppressed outrage and banished those who had been its originators. Through the evidence of Gavan Daly, whose treachery had been already suspected, several of the leaders were found guilty, and met the dreadful penalty of their crimes. The fact of an informer having been found amongst them, did, however, far more to break up this unholy league than all the terrors of the law, unassisted by such aid; but it was long before either peace or happiness shed their true blessings on that land: mutual distrust, the memory of some lost friend, and the sad conviction of their own iniquity, darkened many a day, and made even a gloomier depth than they had ever known in their poverty.
There came, however, a reverse for this. It was a fine day in spring—the mountain and the lake were bright in the sunshine—the valley, rich in the promise of the coming year, was already green with the young wheat—the pleasant sounds of happy labour rose from the fields fresh-turned by the plough—the blue smoke curled into thin air from many a cabin, no longer mean-looking and miserable as before, but with signs of comfort around, in the trim hedge of the little garden and the white walls that glistened in the sun.
Towards the great mountain above the lake, however, many an eye was turned from afar, and many a peasant lingered to gaze upon the scene which now marked its rugged face.
Along the winding path which traced its zigzag course from the lake-side to the little glen where Owen's cabin stood, a vast procession could be seen moving on foot and some on horseback. Some, in country cars, assisted up the steep ascent by men's strong shoulders; others, mounted in twos and threes upon some slow-footed beast; but the great number walking, or rather, clambering their way—for in their eagerness to get forward, they, each moment, deserted the path to breast the ferny mountain-side. The scarlet cloaks of the women, as they fluttered in the wind, and their white caps, gave a brilliancy to the picture, which, as the masses emerged from the depth of some little dell and disappeared again, had all the semblance of some gorgeous panorama. Nor was eye the only sense gladdened by the spectacle—for even in the valley could be heard the clear ringing laughter as they went along, and the wild cheer of merriment that ever and anon burst forth from happy hearts, while, high above all, the pleasant sounds of the bagpipe rose, as, seated upon an ass, and entrusted to the guidance of a boy, the musician moved along; his inspiriting strains taken advantage of at every spot of level ground, by some merry souls, who would not “lose so much good music.”