The two men delegated to act as guardians, or, as they are technically termed, “keepers,” were old friends and comrades of the deceased, and had served with him in the same yeomanry corps. Jack O’Malley was a Roman Catholic—a square, stout-built, and handsome fellow, with a pleasant word for every one, and full of that gaiety, vivacity, and nonchalance for which the Roman Catholic peasantry of Ireland are so particularly distinguished. He was now about forty-five years of age, sternly attached to the dogmas of his religion, and always remarkable for his revolutionary and anti-British principles. He was brave as a lion, and never quailed before a man; but, though caring so little for alivingman, he was extremely afraid of adeadone, and would go ten miles out of his road at night to avoid passing a “rath,” or “haunted bush.” Harry Taylor, on the other hand, was a staunch Protestant; a tall, genteel-looking man, of proud and imperious aspect, and full of reserve and hauteur—the natural consequence of a consciousness of political and religious ascendency and superiority of intelligence and education, which so conspicuously marked the demeanour of the Protestant peasantry of those days. Harry, too, loved his glass as well as Jack, but was of a more peaceful disposition, and as he was well educated and intelligent, he was utterly opposed to superstition, and laughed to scorn the mere idea of ghosts, goblins, and fairies. Thus Jack and Harry were diametrically opposed to each other in every point except their love of the cruiskeen, yet they never failed to seize every opportunity of being together; and, although they often blackened each other’s eyes in their political and religious disputes, yet their quarrels were always amicably settled, and they never found themselves happy but in each other’s society.
It was now the sixth or seventh night that Jack and Harry, as usual, kept their lonely watch in the kitchen of the murdered man. A large turf fire blazed brightly on the hearth, and on a bed of straw in the ample chimney-corner was stretched old Moya in a profound sleep. On the hearthstone, between the two friends, stood a small oak table, on which was placed a large decanter of whisky, a jug of boiled water, and a bowl of sugar; and, as if to add an idea of security to that of comfort, on one end of the table were placed in saltier a formidable-looking blunderbuss and a brace of large brass pistols. Jack and his comrade perpetually renewed their acquaintance with the whisky-bottle, and laughed and chatted and recounted the adventures of their young days with as much hilarity as if the house which now witnessed their mirth never echoed to the cry of death or blood. In the course of conversation Jack mentioned the incident of the strange appearance of the banshee, and expressed a hope that she would not come that night to disturb their carouse.
“Banshee the devil!” shouted Harry; “how superstitious you papists are! I would like to see the phiz of any man, dead or alive, who dare make his appearance here to-night.” And, seizing the blunderbuss, and looking wickedly at Jack, he vociferated, “By Hercules, I would drive the contents of this through their sowls who dare annoy us.”
“Better for you to shoot your mother than fire at the banshee, anyhow,” remarked Jack.
“Psha!” said Harry, looking contemptuously at his companion. “I would think no more of riddling the old jade’s hide than I would of throwing off this tumbler;” and, to suit the action to the word, he drained off another bumper of whisky-punch.
“Jack,” says Harry, “now that we are in such prime humour, will you give us a song?”
“With all the veins of my heart,” says Jack. “What will it be?”
“Anything you please; your will must be my pleasure,” answered Harry.
Jack, after coughing and clearing his pipes, chanted forth, in a bold and musical voice, a rude rigmarole called “The Royal Blackbird,” which, although of no intrinsic merit, yet, as it expressed sentiments hostile to British connection and British government and favourable to the house of Stewart, was very popular amongst the Catholic peasantry of Ireland, whilst, on the contrary, it was looked upon by the Protestants as highly offensive and disloyal. Harry, however, wished his companion too well to oppose the song, and he quietly awaited its conclusion.
“Bravo, Jack,” said Harry, as soon as the song was ended; “that you may never lose your wind.”
“In the king’s name now I board you for another song,” says Jack.
Harry, without hesitation, recognised his friend’s right to demand a return, and he instantly trolled forth, in a deep, sweet, and sonorous voice, the following:
SONG.“Ho, boys, I have a song divine!Come, let us now in concert join,And toast the bonny banks of Boyne—The Boyne of ‘Glorious Memory.’“On Boyne’s famed banks our fathers bled;Boyne’s surges with their blood ran red;And from the Boyne our foemen fled—Intolerance, chains, and slavery.“Dark superstition’s blood-stained sonsPressed on, but ‘crack’ went William’s guns,And soon the gloomy monster runs—Fell, hydra-headed bigotry.“Then fill your glasses high and fair,Let shouts of triumph rend the air,Whilst Georgy fills the regal chairWe’ll never bow to Popery.”
SONG.“Ho, boys, I have a song divine!Come, let us now in concert join,And toast the bonny banks of Boyne—The Boyne of ‘Glorious Memory.’“On Boyne’s famed banks our fathers bled;Boyne’s surges with their blood ran red;And from the Boyne our foemen fled—Intolerance, chains, and slavery.“Dark superstition’s blood-stained sonsPressed on, but ‘crack’ went William’s guns,And soon the gloomy monster runs—Fell, hydra-headed bigotry.“Then fill your glasses high and fair,Let shouts of triumph rend the air,Whilst Georgy fills the regal chairWe’ll never bow to Popery.”
SONG.
“Ho, boys, I have a song divine!Come, let us now in concert join,And toast the bonny banks of Boyne—The Boyne of ‘Glorious Memory.’
“On Boyne’s famed banks our fathers bled;Boyne’s surges with their blood ran red;And from the Boyne our foemen fled—Intolerance, chains, and slavery.
“Dark superstition’s blood-stained sonsPressed on, but ‘crack’ went William’s guns,And soon the gloomy monster runs—Fell, hydra-headed bigotry.
“Then fill your glasses high and fair,Let shouts of triumph rend the air,Whilst Georgy fills the regal chairWe’ll never bow to Popery.”
Jack, whose countenance had, from the commencement of the song, indicated his aversion to the sentiments it expressed, now lost all patience at hearing his darling “Popery” impugned, and, seizing one of the pistols which lay on the table and whirling it over his comrade’s head, swore vehemently that he would “fracture his skull if he did not instantly drop that blackguard Orange lampoon.”
“Aisy, avhic,” said Harry, quietly pushing away the upraised arm; “I did not oppose your bit of treason awhile ago, and besides, the latter end of my song is more calculated to please you than to irritate your feelings.”
Jack seemed pacified, and Harry continued his strain.
“And fill a bumper to the brim—A flowing one—and drink to himWho, let the world go sink or swim,Would arm for Britain’s liberty.“No matter what may be his hue,Or black, or white, or green, or blue,Or Papist, Paynim, or Hindoo,We’ll drink to him right cordially.”
“And fill a bumper to the brim—A flowing one—and drink to himWho, let the world go sink or swim,Would arm for Britain’s liberty.“No matter what may be his hue,Or black, or white, or green, or blue,Or Papist, Paynim, or Hindoo,We’ll drink to him right cordially.”
“And fill a bumper to the brim—A flowing one—and drink to himWho, let the world go sink or swim,Would arm for Britain’s liberty.
“No matter what may be his hue,Or black, or white, or green, or blue,Or Papist, Paynim, or Hindoo,We’ll drink to him right cordially.”
Jack was so pleased with the friendly turn which the latter part of Harry’s song took that he joyfully stretched out his hand, and even joined in chorus to the concluding stanza.
The fire had now decayed on the hearth, the whisky-bottle was almost emptied, and the two sentinels, getting drowsy, put out the candle and laid down their heads to slumber. The song and the laugh and the jest were now hushed, and no sound was to be heard but the incessant “click, click,” of the clock in the inner room and the deep, heavy breathing of old Moya in the chimney-corner.
They had slept they knew not how long when the old hag awakened with a wild shriek. She jumped out of bed, and crouched between the men; they started up, and asked her what had happened.
“Oh!” she exclaimed; “the banshee, the banshee! Lord have mercy on us! she is come again, and I never heard her so wild and outrageous before.”
Jack O’Malley readily believed old Moya’s tale; so did Harry, but he thought it might be some one who was committing some depredation on the premises. They both listened attentively, but could hear nothing; they opened the kitchen door, but all was still; they looked abroad; it was a fine, calm night, and myriads of twinkling stars were burning in the deep-blue heavens. They proceeded around the yard and hay-yard; but all was calm and lonely, and no sound saluted their ears but the shrill barking of some neighbouring cur, or the sluggish murmuring of the little tortuous river in the distance. Satisfied that “all was right,” they again went in, replenished the expiring fire, and sat down to finish whatever still remained in the whisky-bottle.
They had not sat many minutes when a wild, unearthly cry was heard without.
“The banshee again,” said Moya, faintly. Jack O’Malley’s soul sank within him; Harry started up and seized the blunderbuss; Jack caught his arm. “No, no, Harry, you shall not; sit down; there’s no fear—nothing will happen us.”
Harry sat down, but still gripped the blunderbuss, and Jack lit his tobacco-pipe, whilst the old woman was on her knees, striking her breast, and repeating her prayers with great vehemence.
The sad cry was again heard, louder and fiercer than before. It now seemed to proceed from the window, and again it appeared as if issuing from the door. At times it would seem as if coming from afar, whilst again it would appear as if coming down the chimney or springing from the ground beneath their feet. Sometimes the cry resembled the low, plaintive wail of a female in distress, and in a moment it was raised to a prolonged yell, loud and furious, and as if coming from a thousand throats; now the sound resembled a low, melancholy chant, and then was quickly changed to a loud, broken, demoniac laugh. It continued thus, with little intermission, for about a quarter of an hour, when it died away, and was succeeded by a heavy, creaking sound, as if of some large waggon, amidst which the loud tramp of horses’ footsteps might be distinguished, accompanied with a strong, rushing wind. This strange noise proceeded round and round the house two or three times, then went down the lane which led to the road, and was heard no more. Jack O’Malley stood aghast, and Harry Taylor, with all his philosophy and scepticism, was astonished and frightened.
“A dreadful night this, Moya,” said Jack.
“Yes,” said she, “that is the dead-coach; I often heard it before, and have sometimes seen it.”
“Seen, did you say?” said Harry; “pray describe it.”
“Why,” replied the old crone, “it’s like any other coach, but twice as big, and hung over with black cloth, and a black coffin on the top of it, and drawn by headless black horses.”
“Heaven protect us!” ejaculated Jack.
“It is very strange,” remarked Harry.
“But,” continued Moya, “it always comes before the death of a person, and I wonder what brought it now, unless it came with the banshee.”
“Maybe it’s coming for you,” said Harry, with an arch yet subdued smile.
“No, no,” she said; “I am none of that family at all at all.”
A solemn silence now ensued for a few minutes, and they thought all was vanished, when again the dreadful cry struck heavily on their ears.
“Open the door, Jack,” said Harry, “and put out Hector.”
Hector was a large and very ferocious mastiff belonging to Jack O’Malley, and always accompanied him wherever he went.
Jack opened the door and attempted to put out the dog, but the poor animal refused to go, and, as his master attempted to force him, howled in a loud and mournful tone.
“You must go,” said Harry, and he caught him in his arms and flung him over the half-door. The poor dog was scarcely on the ground when he was whirled aloft into the air by some invisible power, and he fell again to earth lifeless, and the pavement was besmeared with his entrails and blood.
Harry now lost all patience, and again seizing his blunderbuss, he exclaimed: “Come, Jack, my boy, take your pistols and follow me; I have but one life to lose, and I will venture it to have a crack at this infernal demon.”
“I will follow you to death’s doors,” said Jack; “but I would not fire at the banshee for a million of worlds.”
Moya seized Harry by the skirts. “Don’t go out,” she cried; “let her alone while she lets you alone, for an hour’s luck never shone on any one that ever molested the banshee.”
“Psha, woman!” said Harry, and he pushed away poor Moya contemptuously.
The two men now sallied forth; the wild cry still continued, and it seemed to issue from amongst some stacks in the hay-yard behind the house. They went round and paused; again they heard the cry, and Harry elevated his blunderbuss.
“Don’t fire,” said Jack.
Harry replied not; he looked scornfully at Jack, then put his finger on the trigger, and—bang—away it exploded with a thundering sound. An extraordinary scream was now heard, ten times louder and more terrific than they heard before. Their hair stood erect on their heads, and huge, round drops of sweat ran down their faces in quick succession. A glare of reddish-blue fight shone around the stacks; the rumbling of the dead-coach was again heard coming; it drove up to the house, drawn by six headless sable horses, and the figure of a withered old hag, encircled with blue flame, was seen running nimbly across the hay-yard. She entered the ominous carriage, and it drove away with a horrible sound. It swept through the tall bushes which surrounded the house; and as it disappeared the old hag cast a thrilling scowl at the two men, and waved her fleshless arms at them vengefully. It was soon lost to sight; but the unearthly creaking of the wheels, the tramping of the horses, and the appalling cries of the banshee continued to assail their ears for a considerable time after all had vanished.
The brave fellows now returned to the house; they again made fast the door, and reloaded their arms. Nothing, however, came to disturb them that night, nor from that time forward; and the arrival of the dead man’s brother from London, in a few days after, relieved them from their irksome task.
Old Moya did not live long after; she declined from that remarkable night, and her remains were decently interred in the churchyard adjoining the last earthly tenement of the loved family to which she had been so long and so faithfully attached.
The insulted banshee has never since returned; and although several members of that family have since closed their mortal career, still the warning cry was never given; and it is supposed that the injured spirit will never visit her ancient haunts until every one of the existing generation shall have “slept with their fathers.”
Jack O’Malley and his friend Harry lived some years after. Their friendship still continued undiminished; like “Tam O’Shanter” and “Souter Johnny,” they still continued to love each other like “a very brither”; and like that jovial pair, also, our two comrades were often “fou for weeks thegither,” and often over their cruiskeen would they laugh at their strange adventure with the banshee. It is now, however, all over with them too; their race is run, and they are now “tenants of the tomb.”