When the first grey light of morning began to make objects indistinctly
visible, I thought I saw the door of my apartment open very softly. I
was broad awake, and kept my eyes fixed upon it--it opened by very slow
degrees; my head was so full of visions, that I expected a ghost to
enter--but it was only Ellinor.
“Ellinor!” cried I; “is it you at this time in the morning?”
“Hush! hush!” said she, shutting the door with great precaution, and
then coming on tiptoe close to my bedside; “for the love of God, speak
softly, and make no stir to awake them that’s asleep near and too near
you. It’s unknown to all that I come up; for may be, when them people
are awake and about, I might not get the opportunity to speak, or they
might guess I knew something by my looks.”
Her looks were full of terror--I was all amazement and expectation.
Before she would say a word more, she searched the closets carefully,
and looked behind the tapestry, as if she apprehended that she might be
overheard: satisfied that we were alone, she went on speaking, but still
in a voice that, with my utmost strained attention, I could but just
hear.
“As you hope to live and breathe,” said she, “never go again after
night-fall any time walking in that lone place by the sea-shore. It’s a
mercy you escaped as you did; but if you go again you’ll never come back
alive--for never would they get you to do what they want, and to be as
wicked as themselves the wicked villains!”
“Who?” said I. “What wicked villains? I do not understand you; are you
in your right senses?”
“That I am, and wish you was as much in yours; but it’s time yet, by the
blessing of God! What wicked villains am I talking of? Of three hundred
that have sworn to make you their captain, or, in case you refuse, to
have your life this night. What villains am I talking of? Of him, the
wickedest of all, who is now living in the very house with you, that is
now lying in the very next room to you.”
“Joe Kelly?”
“That same. From the first minute I saw him in the castle, I should
have hated him, but for his causing you for to put off the journey to
England. I never could abide him; but that blinded me, or I am sure I
would have found him out long ago.”
“And what have you found out concerning him?”
“That he is (speaking very low) a _united-man_, and stirring up the
_rubbles_ again here; and they have their meetings at night in the great
cave, where the smugglers used to hide formerly, under the big rock,
opposite the old abbey--and there’s a way up into the abbey, that you
used to be so fond of walking to, dear.”
“Good Heavens! can this be true?”
“True it is, and too true, dear.”
“But how did you find all this out, Ellinor?”
“It was none of I found it, nor ever could any such things have come
into my head--but it pleased God to make the discovery of all by one of
the _childer_--my own grandson--the boy you gave the gun to, long and
long ago, to shoot them rabbits. He was after a hare yesterday, and it
took him a chase over that mountain, and down it went and took shelter
in the cave, and in went the boy after it, and as he was groping about,
he lights on an old great coat; and he brought it home with him, and was
showing it, as I was boiling the potatoes for their dinner yesterday, to
his father forenent me; and turning the pockets inside out, what should
come up but the broken head of a pipe; then he _sarches_ in the other
pocket, and finds a paper written all over--I could not read it--thank
God, I never could read none of them wicked things, nor could the
boy--by very great luck he could not, being no scholar, or it would be
all over the country before this.”
“Well, well! but what was in the paper after all? Did any body read it?”
“Ay, did they--that is, Christy read it--none but Christy--but he would
not tell us what was in it--but said it was no matter, and he’d not be
wasting his time reading an old song--so we thought no more, and he sent
the boy up to the castle with a bill for smith’s work, as soon as we had
eat the potatoes, and I thought no more about any thing’s being going
wrong, no more than a child; and in the evening Christy said he must go
to the funeral of a neighbour, and should not be home till early in the
morning, may be; and it’s not two hours since he came home and wakened
me, and told me where he had been, which was not to the funeral at all,
but to the cave where the coat was found; and he put the coat and the
broken head of the pike, and the papers all in the pockets, just as we
found it, in the cave--and the paper was a list of the names of them
_rubbles_ that met there, and a letter telling how they would make Lord
Glenthorn their captain, or have his life; this was what made Christy
to try and find out more--so he hid hisself in a hole in the side of the
cave, and built hisself up with rubbish, only just leaving a place for
hisself to breathe--and there he stayed till nightfall; and then on till
midnight, God help us! so sure enough, them villains all come filling
fast into the cave. He had good courage, God bless him for it--but he
always had--and there he heard and saw all--and this was how they were
talking:--First, one began by saying, how they must not be delaying
longer to show themselves; they must make a rising in the country--then
named the numbers in other parts that would join, and that they
would not be put down so _asy_ as afore, for they would have good
leaders--then some praised you greatly, and said they was sure you
favoured them in your heart, by all the ill-will you got in the county
the time of the last ‘ruction. But, again, others said you was milk and
water, and did not go far enough, and never would, and that it was not
in you, and that you was a sleepy man, and not the true thing at all,
and neither beef nor _vael_. Again, thim that were for you spoke and
said you would show yourself soon--and the others made reply, and
observed you must now spake out, or never spake more; you must either
head ‘em, or be tramped under foot along with the rest, so it did not
signify talking, and Joey Kelly should not be fribbling any more about
it; and it was a wonder, said they, he was not the night at the meeting.
And what was this about your being going off for England--what would
they do when you was gone with M’Leod the Scotchman, to come in over
them again agent, who was another guess sort of man from you, and never
slept at all, and would scent ‘em out, and have his corps after ‘em, and
that once M’Leod was master, there would be no making any head again his
head; so, not to be tiring you too much with all they said, backward and
forward, one that was a captain, or something that way, took the word,
and bid ‘em all hold their peace, for they did not know what they was
talking on, and said that Joey Kelly and he had settled it all, and that
the going to England was put off by Joe, and all a sham, and that when
you would be walking out to-morrow at nightfall, in those lone places
by the sea-side or the abbey, he and Joe was to seize upon you, and when
you would be coming back near the abbey, to have you down through the
trap-door into the cave, and any way they would swear you to join and
head them, and if you would not, out with you, and shove you into the
sea, and no more about it, for it would be give out you drown’ yourself
in a fit of the melancholy lunacy, which none would question, and it
would be proved too you made away wid yourself, by your hat and gloves
lying on the bank--Lord save us! What are you laughing at in that, when
it is truth every word, and Joe Kelly was to find the body, after a
great search. Well, again, say you would swear and join them, and head
them, and do whatever they pleased, still that would not save you in
the end; for they would quarrel with you at the first turn, because you
would not be ruled by them as captain, and then they would shoot or pike
you (God save the mark, dear), and give the castle to Joe Kelly, and the
plunder all among ‘em entirely. So it was all laid out, and they are
all to meet in the cave to-morrow evening--they will go along bearing
a funeral, seemingly to the abbey-ground. And now you know the whole
truth, and the Lord preserve you! And what will be done? My poor head
has no more power to think for you no more than an infant’s, and I’m all
in a tremble ever since I heard it, and afraid to meet any one lest they
should see all in my face. Oh, what will become of _yees_ now--they will
be the death of you, whatever you do!”
By the time she came to these last words, Ellinor’s fears had so much
overpowered her, that she cried and sobbed continually, repeating--“What
will be done now! What will be done! They’ll surely be the death of
you, whatever you do.” As to me, the urgency of the danger wakened my
faculties: I rose instantly, wrote a note to Mr. M’Leod, desiring to
see him immediately on particular business. Lest my note should by any
accident be intercepted or opened, I couched it in the most general
and guarded terms; and added a request, that he would bring his last
settlement of accounts with him; so that it was natural to suppose my
business with him was of a pecuniary nature. I gradually quieted poor
Ellinor by my own appearance of composure: I assured her, that we should
take our measures so as to prevent all mischief--thanked her for the
timely warning she had given me--advised her to go home before she was
observed, and charged her not to speak to any one this day of what had
happened. I desired that as soon as she should see Mr. M’Leod coming
through the gate, she would send Christy after him to the castle, to get
his bill paid; so that I might then, without exciting suspicion, talk to
him in private, and we might learn from his own lips the particulars of
what he saw and heard in the cavern.
Ellinor returned home, promising to obey me exactly, especially as to my
injunction of secrecy--to make sure of herself she said “she would go to
bed straight, and have the rheumatism very bad all day; so as not to
be in a way to talk to none who would call in.” The note to M’Leod was
despatched by one of my grooms, and I, returning to bed, was now left at
full leisure to finish my morning’s nap.
Joe Kelly presented himself at the usual hour in my room; I turned my
head away from him, and, in a sleepy tone, muttered that I had passed a
bad night, and should breakfast in my own apartment.
Some time afterwards Mr. M’Leod arrived, with an air of sturdy pride,
and produced his accounts, of which I suffered him to talk, till the
servant who waited upon us had left the room; I then explained the real
cause of my sending for him so suddenly. I was rather vexed, that I
could not produce in him, by my wonderful narrative, any visible signs
of agitation or astonishment. He calmly observed--“We are lucky to have
so many hours of daylight before us. The first thing we have to do is to
keep the old woman from talking.”
I answered for Ellinor.
“Then the next thing is for me, who am a magistrate, to take the
examinations of her son, and see if he will swear to the same that he
says.”
Christy was summoned into our presence, and he came with his _bill for
smith’s work done_; so that the servants could have no suspicion of what
was going forward. His examinations were taken and sworn to in a
few minutes: his evidence was so clear and direct, that there was no
possibility of doubting the truth. The only variation between his story
and his mother’s report to me was as to the numbers he had seen in the
cavern--her fears had turned thirteen into three hundred.
Christy assured us that there were but thirteen at this meeting, but
that they said there were three hundred ready to join them.
“You were a very bold fellow, Christy,” said I, “to hazard yourself
in the cave with these villains; if you had been found out in your
hiding-place, they would have certainly murdered you.”
“True for me.” said Christy; “but a man must die some way, please your
honour; and where’s the way I could die better? Sure, I could not
but remember how good you was to me that time I was shot, and all you
suffered for it! It would have been bad indeed if I would stay quiet,
and let ‘em murder you after all. No, no, Christy O’Donoghoe would not
do that--any way. I hope, if there’s to be any fighting, your honour
would not wrong me so much as not to give me a blunderbush, and let me
fight a bit along wid de rest for yees.”
“We are not come to that yet, my good fellow,” said Mr. M’Leod, who went
on methodically; “if you are precipitate, you will spoil all. Go home to
your forge, and work as usual, and leave the rest to us; and I promise
that you shall have your share, if there is any fighting.”
Very reluctantly Christy obeyed. Mr. M’Leod then deliberately settled
our plan of operations. I had a fishing-lodge at a little distance,
and a pleasure-boat there: to this place M’Leod was to go, as if on
a fishing-party with his nephew, a young man, who often went there to
fish. They were to carry with them some yeomen in coloured clothes, as
their attendants, and more were to come as their guests to dinner. At
the lodge there was a small four-pounder, which had been frequently used
in times of public rejoicing; a naval victory, announced in the papers
of the day, afforded a plausible pretence for bringing it out. We were
aware that the rebels would be upon the watch, and therefore took every
precaution to prevent their suspecting that we had made any discovery.
Our fishing-party was to let the mock-funeral pass them quietly, to
ask some trifling questions, and to give money for pipes and tobacco.
Towards evening the boat, with the four-pounder on board, was to come
under shore, and at a signal given by me was to station itself opposite
to the mouth of the cave.
At the same signal a trusty man on the watch was to give notice to a
party hid in the abbey, to secure the trap-door above. The signal was to
be my presenting a pistol to the captain of the rebels, who intended
to meet and seize me on my return from my evening’s walk. Mr. M’Leod at
first objected to my hazarding a meeting with this man; but I insisted
upon it, and I was not sorry to give a public proof of my loyalty, and
my personal courage. As to Joe Kelly, I also undertook to secure him.
Mr. M’Leod left me, and went to conduct his fishing-party. As soon as he
was gone, I sent for Joe Kelly to play on the flute to me. I guarded my
looks and voice as well as I could, and he did not see or suspect any
thing--he was too full of his own schemes. To disguise his own plots
he affected great gaiety; and to divert me, alternately played on the
flute, and told me good stories all the morning. I would not let him
leave me the whole day. Towards evening I began to talk of my journey to
England, proposed setting out the next morning, and sent Kelly to look
for some things in what was called _the strong closet_--a closet with
a stout door and iron-barred windows, out of which no mortal could make
his escape. Whilst he was busy searching in a drawer, I shut the door
upon him, locked it, and put the key into my pocket. As I left the
castle, I said in a jesting tone to some of the servants who met me--“I
have locked Joe Kelly up in the strong room; if he calls to you to let
him out never mind him; he will not get out till I come home from my
walk--I owe him this trick.” The servants thought it was some jest, and
I passed on with my loaded pistols in my pocket. I walked for some
time by the sea-shore, without seeing any one. At last I espied our
fishing-boat, just peering out, and then keeping close to the shore. I
was afraid that the party would be impatient at not seeing my signal,
and would come out to the mouth of the cave, and show themselves too
soon. If Mr. M’Leod had not been their commander, this, as I afterwards
learned, would have infallibly happened; but he was so punctual, cool,
and peremptory, that he restrained the rest of the party, declaring
that, if it were till midnight, he would wait till the signal agreed
upon was given. At last I saw a man creeping out of the cave--I sat down
upon my wonted stone, and yawned as naturally as I could; then began to
describe figures in the sand with my stick, as I was wont to do, still
watching the image of the man in the water as he approached. He was
muffled up in a frieze great coat; he sauntered past, and went on to a
turn in the road, as if looking for some one. I knew well for whom he
was looking. As no Joe Kelly came to meet him, he returned in a few
minutes towards me. I had my hand upon the pistol in my pocket.
“You are my Lard Glenthorn, I presume,” said he.
“I am.”
“Then you will come with me, if you plase, my lard,” said he.
“Make no resistance, or I will shoot you instantly,” cried I, presenting
my pistol with one hand, and seizing him by the collar with the other.
I dragged him (for I had force enough, now my energy was roused) to the
spot appointed for my signal. The boat appeared opposite the mouth of
the cave. Every thing answered my expectation.
“There,” said I, pointing to the boat, “there are my armed friends;
they have a four-pounder--the match is ready lighted--your plot is
discovered. Go in to your confederates in that cave; tell them so.
The trap-door is secured above; there is no escape for them: bid them
surrender: if they attempt to rush out, the grape shot will pour upon
them, and they are dead men.”
I cannot say that my rebel captain showed himself as stout as I could
have wished, for the honour of my victory. The surprise disconcerted him
totally: I felt him tremble under my grasp. He obeyed my orders--went
into the cave to bring his associates to submission. His parley with
them, however, was not immediately successful: I suppose there were some
braver fellows than he amongst them, whose counsel might be for open
war. In the mean time our yeomen landed, and surrounded the cave on all
sides, so that there was no possibility of escape for those within. At
last they yielded themselves our prisoners. I am sorry I have no bloody
battle for the entertainment of such of my readers as like horrors; but
so it was, that they yielded without a drop of blood being spilled, or a
shot fired. We let them out of their hiding-place one by one, searching
each as he issued forth, to be secure that they had no concealed
weapons. After they had given up the arms which were concealed in the
cave, the next question was, what to do with our prisoners. As it was
now late, and they could not all be examined and committed with due
legal form to the county gaol, Mr. M’Leod advised that we should
detain them in the place they had chosen for themselves till morning.
Accordingly, in the cave we again stowed them, and left a guard at each
entrance to secure them for the night. We returned to the castle. I
stopped at the gate to tell Ellinor and Christy that I was safe. They
were sitting up watching for the news. The moment Ellinor saw me, she
clasped her hands in an ecstasy of joy, but could not speak. Christy was
voluble in his congratulations; but, in the midst of his rejoicing,
he could not help reproaching me with forgetting to give him the
_blunderbush_, and to let him have a bit of the fighting. “Upon my
honour,” said I, “there was none, or you should have been there.”
“Oh, don’t be plaguing and gathering round him now,” said Ellinor: “sure
he is tired, and look how hot--no wonder--let him get home and to bed:
I’ll run and warm it with the pan myself, and not be trusting them.”
She would not be persuaded that I did not desire to have my bed warmed,
but, by some short cut, got in before us. On entering the castle-hall,
I found her, with the warming-pan in her hand, held back by the
inquisitive servants, who were all questioning her about the news, of
which she was the first, and not very intelligible enunciator.
I called for bread and water for my prisoner in the strong-room, and
then I heard various exclamations of wonder.
“Ay, it is all true! it is no jest! Joe is at the bottom of all. _I_
never liked Joe Kelly--_I_ always knew Joe was not the right thing--and
_I_ always said so; and I, and I, and I. And it was but last week I was
saying so: and it was but yesterday _I_ said so and so.”
I passed through the gossiping crowd with bread and water for my
culprit. McLeod instantly saw and followed me.
“I will make bold to come with you,” said he; “a pent rat’s a dangerous
animal.”--I thanked him, and acquiesced; but there was no need for
the precaution. When we opened the door, we found the conscience or
terror-struck wretch upon his knees, and in the most abject terms he
implored for mercy. From the windows of the room, which looked into the
castle-yard, he had heard enough to guess all that had happened. I could
not bear to look at him. After I had set down his food, he clung to
my knees, crying and whining in a most unmanly manner. McLeod, with
indignation, loosened him from me, threw him back, and locked the door.
“Cowardice and treachery,” said he, “usually go together.”
“And courage and sincerity,” said I. “And now we’ll go to supper, my
good friends. I hope you are all as hungry as I am.”
I never did eat any meal with so much appetite.
“Tis a pity, my lord,” said McLeod, “but that there was a conspiracy
against you every day of your life, it seems to do you so much good.”