Mrs. Majilton was in a state of much excitement one day in the summer
of ’98 because parties of soldiers were passing her house one after
another. Her house was close to the high-road, half-way between Feeny
and Dungiven, and stood in a comfortable little farmyard. She was a
Church Protestant, dreadfully afraid of the rebels, and consequently
very glad to see the red-coats in the country. They had been
marching past her house all morning, and she had stood at the door
with the baby in her arms, wishing them “God speed.”
The men had exchanged a cheerful greeting with her now and then, and as
they went by she caught some of their conversation; the word Maghera
was repeated over and over again. They were marching to Maghera; no
time must be lost; they could not delay for refreshment or rest. The
day wore on, and a party of stragglers stopped at her door, young lads,
mere recruits, who had lagged behind the main body, not being able to
endure the hardships of their forced march from Londonderry as well as
the older men. Their sergeant, a bronzed veteran, asked the good woman
to give them a drink of water, for the love of God.
“I have sworn at the poor fellows till I’m hoarse, ma’am; but they’re
giving up, and I must let them rest a minute.”
Mrs. Majilton ran to lay the baby in its cradle; then she opened the
barrel, filled a large bowl half full of oatmeal, poured water upon it,
and handed it to the men, who sat down in the yard, and passed the bowl
from one to another.
“That’s both meat and drink,” said they, gratefully.
“Our orders are to hurry on to Maghera without stopping, for we’ve got
to burn it to the ground,” said the sergeant.
“God bless me, sir, what’s occurring at Maghera?”
She knew that Maghera was a country town farther off than Dungiven.
Some of her neighbors had been there, but she had never travelled so
far herself. The sergeant told her that news had reached Derry that the
rebels were in force at Maghera, and were murdering all who refused to
join them. There were few newspapers in those days, and no penny post;
rumor spread and perhaps exaggerated the evil tidings. It was said that
a young girl combing her hair beside her hearth had been shot dead by
a party of men who came to look for her father. They looked in at the
window, saw her, and murdered her out of revenge because her father had
escaped them. “And now,” concluded the sergeant, “our orders are that
Maghera is to be destroyed.”
Mrs. Majilton, who knew her Bible well, remembered the fate of Sodom
and Gomorrah, and of Nineveh—that wicked city; and she thought the
soldiers were the Lord’s instruments to execute His judgment upon
Maghera.
When the party of recruits got as far as Dungiven they found that
counter-orders had come—Maghera was _not_ to be burnt after all; but
sufficient troops to quiet the country were to be sent on, while the
remainder halted at Dungiven. We shall accompany two of the soldiers
who pressed forward. As they neared the town, scenes of desolation
met them on every hand—deserted houses, smouldering thatch, burnt
stackyards. They were told that the rebels had taken to the mountains
when they heard the troops were coming. The men separated; some
explored one road, some another, hoping to inclose the enemy in a net.
As Privates John Buckley and Tom Green advanced up one of these
mountain roads they were appalled by the terrible loneliness of the
place. Here a farmhouse stood empty, its door hanging off the hinges;
there were blackened circles where stacks of corn had been; again they
saw a cottage with a smouldering thatch, and no sign of life near,
excepting a starved cat that prowled about the door.
The rebels had clearly passed that way; those were the marks they
had left behind them. At length, where the lane seemed about to lose
itself in a mountain pass, they came to a cottage whose door stood
open. It looked like a comfortable small farmer’s homestead: a pretty
garden, gay with common flowers, was at one side of the house; there
were laburnums and lilacs just out of blossom; red and white roses in
full blossom; tall orange lilies with bursting buds; rows of peas and
beans and plots of cabbages. The whole place had a civilized air, and
reminded the Englishmen of their own homes. The pretty green railing
and rustic gate; the orderly stackyard and offices, gave an impression
of neatness, taste, and comfort unusual in that country.
The men went into the kitchen of the farmhouse. There was no fire upon
the hearth. The turf had burnt to ashes under a great black pot of
potatoes that hung upon the crook, and two children sat disconsolately
leaning against each other beside the cold hearth.
Buckley explored the “room,” and Green the loft; there was no trace
of human being to be found; the children were the only inmates of the
place.
The eldest child, a little girl of about four years old, with pretty
blue eyes and curly hair, looked up curiously, but did not move. Her
tiny brother was too languid to raise his head from her shoulder.
“Are you alone in the house?” asked Green.
“Ay,” replied the child.
“Where are your father and mother?”
“They are sleeping in the garden; they ha’ been there this good wee
while,” answered the little one, fixing her serious eyes upon them.
“Come, an’ I’ll show you where they are.”
She got up, gave her hand confidingly to the man, and led him to the
garden, the other soldier following; and behind the cabbages they found
a man and woman lying in a heap, stiff and cold, having evidently been
piked to death.
“Come back to the house, my little dear,” cried Green, drawing the poor
innocent away from the cruel sight. Her little brother still sat where
they had left him, leaning his sick head against the wall. He was very
faint and weak.
“Have you nothing to eat?” asked the men.
“My mammy has bread an’ butter in the kist, but she has the key in her
pocket,” replied the little girl. They broke open the chest and found
the food; but they had arrived too late to save the boy: he died in
Buckley’s arms before they reached Maghera. Green carried the girl
and presented her to his company. Each soldier subscribed toward her
maintenance, and she grew up among them, the pet and plaything of all.
She accompanied the regiment to England at the close of the rebellion,
and nothing further was known of her by her old neighbors.