My great-aunt, Elizabeth—Besieged in her castle of Moret—My uncle seized
and hanged before the walls—Attempted abduction of Elizabeth, whose
forces surprise the castle of Reuben—Severe battle.
A great-aunt of mine, Elizabeth Fitzgerald, was married to Stephen
Fitzgerald, who possessed the castle of Moret, near Bally-Brittis, not
very far from Cullenagh.[9] She and her husband held their castle firmly
during the troubles. They had above forty good warders; their local
enemies had no cannon, and but few guns. The warders, protected by the
battlements, pelted their adversaries with large stones, when they
ventured to approach the walls; and in front of each of that description
of castle, there was a hole perpendicularly over the entrance, wherefrom
any person, himself unseen, could drop down every species of defensive
material upon assailants.
-----
Footnote 9:
I have heard the _battle of Moret_ told a hundred times, and never
with one variation of fact or incident. It was a favourite legend with
the old people, and affords a good idea of the habits and manners of
those lawless times.
-----
About the year 1690, when Ireland was in a state of great disorder, and
no laws were regarded, numerous factious bodies were formed in every
part of the country to claim old rights, and re-take possession of
forfeited estates, by mere force, when their factions were strong
enough.
My uncle and aunt, or rather my aunt and uncle (for she was said to be
far the most effective of the two), at one time suffered the enemy, who
were of the faction of the O’Cahils of Timagho, and who claimed my
uncle’s property, (which they said—very truly—Queen Elizabeth had turned
them out of,) to approach the gate in the night-time. There were neither
outworks nor wet fosse; the assailants therefore, counting upon victory,
brought fire to consume the gate, and so gain admittance. My aunt, aware
of their designs, drew all her warders to one spot, large heaps of great
stones being ready to their hands at the top of the castle.
When the O’Cahils, in great numbers, had got close to the gate, and were
directly under the loop-hole, on a sudden streams of boiling water,
heated in the castle coppers, came showering down upon the heads of the
crowd below: this extinguished their fire, and cruelly scalded many of
the besiegers.
The scene may be conceived which was presented by a multitude of scalded
wretches, on a dark night, under the power and within the reach of all
sorts of offensive missiles. They attempted to fly; but whilst one part
of the warders hurled volleys of weighty stones beyond them, to deter
them from retreating, another party dropped stones more ponderous still
on the heads of those who, for protection, crouched close under the
castle-walls: the lady of the castle herself, meantime, and all her
maids, assisting the chief body of the warders in pelting the Jacobites
with every kind of destructive missile, till all seemed pretty still;
and wherever a groan was heard, a volley of stones quickly ended the
troubles of the sufferer.
The old traditionists of the country say, that at day-break there were
lying one hundred of the assailants under the castle-walls—some scalded,
some battered to pieces, and many lamed so as to have no power of moving
off; but my good aunt kindly ordered them all to be put out of their
misery, as fast as ropes and a long gallows, erected for their sakes,
could perform that piece of humanity:—her faithful old partizan, Keeran
Karry, always telling them how sorry the lady was that she had no doctor
in the castle, she being so _tender-hearted_ that she could not bear to
hear their groaning under the castle-walls, and so had them hanged out
of _pure good-nature_.
After the victory, the warders had a feast on the castle-top, whereat
each of them recounted his own feats. Squire Fitzgerald, who was a quiet
easy man, and hated fighting, and who had told my aunt, at the
beginning, that they would surely kill him, having seated himself all
night peaceably under one of the parapets, was quite delighted when the
fray was over. He walked out into his garden outside the walls to take
some tranquil air, when an ambuscade of the hostile survivors surrounded
and carried him off. In vain his warders sallied—the squire was gone
past all redemption!
It was supposed he had paid his debts to Nature—if any he owed—when,
next day, a large body of the O’Cahil faction appeared near the castle.
Their force was too great to be attacked by the warders, who durst not
sally; and the former assault had been too calamitous to the O’Cahils to
warrant them in attempting another. Both were therefore standing at bay,
when, to the great joy of the garrison, Squire Fitzgerald was produced,
and one of the assailants, with a white cloth on a pike, advanced to
parley.
The lady on the castle-top attended his proposals, which were very
laconic. “I am a truce, lady!—Look here, (showing the terrified squire)
we have your husband in hault—yee’s have yeer castle _sure_ enough. Now
we’ll change, if you please: we’ll render the squire, and you’ll render
the keep; and if yees won’t do that same, the squire will be _throttled_
before your two eyes in half an hour.”
“Flag of truce!” said the heroine, with due dignity and without
hesitation; “mark the words of Elizabeth Fitzgerald, of Moret Castle:
they may serve for your own wife upon some future occasion.—Flag of
truce! I _won’t_ render my keep, and I’ll tell you why: Elizabeth
Fitzgerald _may_ get another _husband_, but Elizabeth Fitzgerald may
never get another _castle_; so I’ll keep what I have; and if you don’t
get off faster than your legs can readily carry you, my warders will try
which is hardest, your skull or a stone bullet.”
The O’Cahils kept their word, and old Squire Stephen Fitzgerald, in a
short time, was seen dangling and performing various evolutions in the
air, to the great amusement of the Jacobites, the mortification of the
warders, and chagrin (which however was not without a spice of
_consolation_) of my great-aunt, Elizabeth.
This magnanimous lady, after Squire Stephen had been duly cut down,
waked, and deposited in his garden, conceived that she might enjoy her
castle with tranquillity; but, to guard against every chance, she
replenished her stony magazine; had a wide trench dug before the gate of
the castle; and pit-falls, covered with green sods, having sharp stakes
driven within, scattered round it on every side—the passage through
these being only known to the faithful warders. She contrived, besides,
a species of defence that I have not seen mentioned in the Pacata
Hibernia, or any of the murderous annals of Ireland: it consisted of a
heavy beam of wood, well loaded with iron at the bottom, and suspended
by a pulley and cord from the top of the castle, and which, on any
future assault, she could let down through the projecting hole over the
entrance;—alternately, with the aid of a few strong warders above,
raising and letting it drop smash among the enemy who attempted to gain
admittance below,—thereby pounding them as if with a pestle and mortar,
without the power of resistance on their part.
The castle-vaults were well victualled, and at all events could safely
defy any attacks of hunger; and as the enemy had none of those despotic
engines called cannon, my aunt’s garrison were at all points in
tolerable security. Indeed, fortunately for Elizabeth, there was not a
single piece of ordnance in the country, except those few which were
mounted in the Fort of Dunrally, or travelled with the king’s army; and,
to speak truth, fire-arms then would have been of little use, since
there was not sufficient gunpowder among all the people to hold an
hour’s fighting.
With these and some interior defences, Elizabeth imagined herself well
armed against all marauders, and quietly awaited a change of times and a
period of general security.
Close to the castle there was, and I believe still remains, a shallow
swamp and a dribbling stream of water, in which there is a stone with a
deep indenture on the top. It was about three feet high—very like a
short joint of one of the pillars of the Giant’s Causeway. This stone
was always full of limpid water, called St. Bridget’s water,—that holy
woman having been accustomed daily to kneel in prayer on one knee, till
she wore a hole in the top of the granite by the cap of her pious joint.
She then filled it with water, and _vanished_ from that country. It took
the saint a full month, however, to bore the hole to her satisfaction.
To this well, old Jug Ogie, the oldest piece of furniture in Moret
Castle, (she was an hereditary cook,) daily went for the purpose of
drawing the most sacred crystal she could, wherewith to boil her
mistress’s dinner; and also, as the well was _naturally_ consecrated, it
saved the priest a quantity of trouble in preparing holy water for the
use of the warders. It was _then_ also found to boil vastly quicker, and
ten times hotter, than any common water, with a very small modicum of
any kind of fuel. But the tradition ran that it would not boil _at all_
for a year and a day after Madam Elizabeth died. It was believed, also,
that a cow was poisoned, which had the presumption to drink some of it,
as a just judgment for a _beast_ attempting to turn _Christian_.
On one of these sallies of old Jug, some fellows (who, as it afterward
appeared, had with a very deep design lain in ambush) seized and were
carrying her off, when they were perceived by one of the watchmen from
the tower, who instantly gave an alarm, and some warders sallied after
them. Jug was rescued, and the enemy fled through the swamp; but not
before one of them had his head divided into two equal parts by the
hatchet of Keeran Karry, who was always at the head of the warders, and
the life and soul of the whole garrison.
The dead man turned out to be a son of Andrew M‘Mahon, a faction-man of
Reuben; but nobody could then guess the motive for endeavouring to carry
off old Jug, the most ancient hag in that country. However, the matter
soon became developed.
Elizabeth was accounted to be very rich,—the cleverest woman of her
day,—and she had a large demesne into the bargain: and finding the
sweets of independence, she refused matrimonial offers from many
quarters; but as her castle was, for those days, a durably safe
residence, such as the auctioneers of the present time would denominate
_a genuine undeniable mansion_, the country squires determined she
_should_ marry one of them, since marry willingly she would not—but they
nearly fell to loggerheads who should _run away_ with her. Almost every
one of them had previously put the question to her by _flag of truce_,
as they all stood in too much awe of the lady to do it personally: till
at length, teased by their importunities, she gave notice of her fixed
intention to _hang_ the next flag of truce who brought any such impudent
proposals of marriage.
Upon this information, it was finally agreed to decide by lot, at a full
meeting of her suitors, who should be the hero to surprise and carry off
Elizabeth by force, which was considered a matter of danger on account
of the warders, who would receive no other commandant, were well fed,
and very ferocious.
Elizabeth got wind of their design and place of meeting, which was to be
in the old castle of Reuben, near Athy. Eleven or twelve of the squires
privately attended at the appointed hour, and it was determined, that
whoever should be the lucky winner was to receive the aid and assistance
of the others in bearing away the prize, and gaining her hand. To this
effect, a league offensive and defensive was entered into between
them—one part of which went to destroy Elizabeth’s warders root and
branch; and to forward their object, it was desirable, if possible, to
procure some inmate of the castle, who, by fair or foul means, might be
induced to inform them of the best mode of entry: this caused the
attempt to carry off old Jug Ogie.
However, they were not long in want of a spy; for Elizabeth, hearing of
their plan from the gossoon[10] of Reuben (a nephew of Jug’s),
determined to take advantage of it. “My lady,” said Jug Ogie, “pretend
to turn me adrift in a dark night, and give out that my gossoon here was
found robbing you—they’ll soon get wind of it, and I’ll be the very
person the squires want—and then you’ll hear all.”
-----
Footnote 10:
A gossoon was then, and till very lately, an indispensable part of a
country gentleman’s establishment;—a dirty, bare-legged boy, who could
canter six miles an hour on all sorts of errands and messages—carry
turf—draw water—light the fires—turn the spit, when the dog was
absent, &c. tell lies, and eat _any thing_. One of these gossoons took
a _run_ (as they call it) of ten miles and back for some person, and
only required a large dram of whiskey for his payment.
-----
The matter was agreed on, and old Jug Ogie and the gossoon were turned
out, as thieves, to the great surprise of the warders and the country.
But Jug was found and hired, as she expected; and soon comfortably
seated in the kitchen at Castle Reuben, with the gossoon, whom she took
in as kitchen-boy. She gave her tongue its full fling,—told a hundred
stories about her “_devil_ of a mistress,”—and undertook to inform the
squires of the best way to get to her apartment.
Elizabeth was now sure to learn every thing so soon as determined on.
The faction had arranged all matters for the capture:—the night of its
execution approached: the old cook prepared a good supper for the
_quality_:—the squires arrived, and the gossoon had to run only three
miles to give the lady the intelligence. Twelve cavaliers attended, each
accompanied by one of the ablest of his faction—for they were all afraid
of each other, whenever the wine should rise upwards; and they did not
take more for fear of discovery.
The lots, being formed of straws of different lengths, were held by
M‘Mahon, the host, who was disinterested; and the person of Elizabeth,
her fortune, and Moret castle, fell to the lot of M‘Carthy O’Moore, one
of the Cremorgan squires, and, according to tradition, as able-bodied,
stout a man as any in the whole country. The rest all swore to assist
him till death; and one in the morning was the time appointed for the
surprise of Elizabeth and her castle—while in the mean time they began
to enjoy the good supper of old Jug Ogie.
Castle Reuben had been one of the strongest places in the county,
situated on the river Barrow, in the midst of a swamp, which rendered it
nearly inaccessible. It had belonged to a natural son of one of the
Geraldines, who had his throat cut by Andy M‘Mahon, a game-keeper of his
own; and nobody choosing to interfere with the _sportsman_, he, with his
five sons, (all rapparees well-armed and wicked) remained peaceably in
possession of the castle, and now accommodated the squires during their
plot against Elizabeth.
That heroic dame, on her part, was not inactive; she informed her
warders of the scheme to force a new master on her and them; and many a
round oath she swore (with corresponding gesticulations, the description
of which would not be over agreeable to modern readers,) that she never
would grant her favours to mortal man, but preserve her castle and her
chastity to the last extremity.
The warders took fire at the attempt of the squires. They always
detested the _defensive_ system; and probably to that hatred may be
attributed a few of the robberies, burglaries, and burnings, which in
those times were considered in that neighbourhood as little more than
occasional pastimes.
“Arrah! lady,” said Keeran Karry, “how many rogues ’ill there be at
Reuben, as you larn, to-night?—arrah!”
“I hear four-and-twenty,” said Elizabeth, “besides the M‘Mahons.”
“Right, a’nuff,” said Keeran: “the fish in the Barrow must want
food this hard weather; and I can’t see why the rump of a rapparee
may not make as nice a tit-bit for them as any thing else:
four-and-twenty!—phoo!”
All then began to speak together, and join most heartily in the
meditated attack on Reuben.
“Arrah! run for the priest,” says Ned Regan; “maybe yee’d like a touch
of his reverence’s office first, for fear there might be any _sin_ in
it.”
“I thought you’d like him with your brandy, warders,” said Elizabeth
with dignity: “I have him below: he’s _praying_ a little, and will be up
directly. The whole plan is ready for you, and Jug Ogie has the signal.
Here, Keeran,” giving him a green ribbon with a daub of old Squire
Fitzgerald, (who was hanged,) dangling therefrom, “if you and the
warders do not bring me the captain’s _ear_, you have neither the
courage of a weazel, nor—nor” (striking her breast hard with her able
hand) “even the revenge of a woman in yees.”
“Arrah, be asy, my lady!” said Keeran, “be asy! by my sowl, we’ll bring
you _four-and-twenty pair_, if your ladyship have any longing for the
ears of such villains, my lady!”
“Now, warders,” said Elizabeth, who was too cautious to leave her castle
totally unguarded, “as we are going to be just, let us also be generous;
only twenty-four of them, besides five or six of the M‘Mahons, will be
there. Now it would be an eternal disgrace to Moret, if we went to
overpower them by _numbers_: twenty-four chosen warders, Father Murphy
and the corporal, the gossoon and the piper, are all that shall leave
this castle to-night; and if Reuben is not a big bonfire by day-break
to-morrow, I hope none of you will come back to me again.”
The priest now made his appearance; he certainly seemed _rather_ as if
he had not been idle below during the colloquy on the leads; and the
deep impressions upon the bottle which he held in his hand, gave ground
to suppose that he had been very busy and earnest in his devotions.
“My flock!” said Father Murphy,—somewhat lispingly,—“my flock”—
“Arrah!” said Keeran Karry, “we’re not _sheep_ to-night: never mind your
flocks just now. Father! give us a couple of glasses a piece!—time
enough for _mutton-making_.”
“You are right, my chickens!” bellowed forth Father Murphy, throwing his
old black surtout over his shoulder, leaving the empty sleeves dangling
at full liberty, and putting a knife and fork in his pocket for ulterior
operations:—“I forgive every mother’s babe of you _every_ thing you
choose to do till sun-rise: but if you commit any sin after that time,
as big even as the blacks of my nele, I can’t take charge of yeer sowls,
without a chance of disappointing you.”
All was now in a bustle:—the brandy circulated merrily, and each warder
had in his own mind made mince-meat of three or four of the Reuben
faction, whose ears they fancied already in their pockets. The priest,
spitting on his thumb, marked down the “_De profundis_” in the leaves of
his double manual, to have it ready for the burials:—every man took his
long skeen in his belt—had a thick _club_, with a strong spike at the
end of it, slung with a stout leather thong to his wrist; and under his
coat, a sharp broad hatchet with a black blade and a crooked handle. And
thus, in silence, the twenty-five Moret warders, commanded by Keeran
Karry, set out with their priest, the piper, and the gossoon with a
copper pot slung over his shoulders as a drum, and a piece of a poker in
his hand, to beat it with, on their expedition to the castle of Reuben.
Before twelve o’clock, the warders, the priest, Keeran Karry, and the
castle piper, had arrived in the utmost silence and secrecy. In that
sort of large half-inhabited castle, the principal entrance was through
the farm-yard, which was, indeed, generally the only assailable quarter.
In the present instance, the gate was half open, and the house lights
appeared to have been collected in the rear, as was judged from their
reflection in the water of the Barrow, which ran close under the
windows. A noise was heard, but not of drunkenness;—it was a sound as of
preparation for battle. Now and then a clash of steel, as if persons
were practising at the sword or skeen for the offensive, was going
forward in the back hall; and a loud laugh was occasionally heard. The
warders foresaw it would not be so easy a business as they had
contemplated, and almost regretted that they had not brought a less
chivalrous numerical force.
It was concerted that ten men should creep upon their hands and feet to
the front entrance, and await there until, by some accident, it might be
sufficiently open for the ferocious rush which was to surprise their
opponents.
But Keeran, always discreet, had some forethought that more than usual
caution would be requisite. He had counted on dangers which the others
had never dreamt of, and his prudence, in all probability, saved the
lives of many of the warders. He preceded his men, crawling nearly on
his breast; he had suspected that a dog overheard them, and a bark soon
confirmed the truth of that suspicion, and announced the possibility of
discovery. Keeran, however, was prepared for this circumstance; he had
filled his pockets with pieces of bacon impregnated with a concentrated
preparation of nux vomica, then, and at a much later period, well known
to the clergy and spirituals on the continent.[11] Its fatal effect on
dogs was instantaneous; and the savoury bacon having rendered them quite
greedy to devour it, it had now an immediate influence on two great
mastiffs and a wolf-dog who roamed about the yard at nights. On taking
each a portion, they resigned their share of the contest without further
noise.
-----
Footnote 11:
It was formerly used by nuns, monks, &c. in the warm climates to
_temper their blood_ withal. There is a sort of cooling root sold at
the herbalists in Paris at present, of which the young _religieuses_
of both sexes are said to make a cheap, palatable, and powerful
_anti-satanic ptisan_. It is displayed in the shops on strings, like
dried lemon-peel.
-----
Keeran thus advanced crawling to the door; he found it fast, but on
listening, soon had reason to conjecture that the inmates were too
numerous and well armed to make the result of the battle at all certain.
He crept back to the hedge; and having informed the warders of the
situation in which they were placed, one and all swore that they would
enter or die. The priest had lain himself down under a hay-stack in the
outer yard, and the piper had retired nobody knew where, nor in fact did
any body care much about him, as he was but a very indifferent chanter.
Keeran now desired the warders to handle their hatchets, and be prepared
for an attack so soon as they should see the front door open, and hear
three strokes on the copper kettle. The gossoon had left that machine on
a spot which he had described near the gate, and Keeran requested that,
in case of any fire, they should not mind it till the kettle sounded. He
then crawled away, and they saw no more of him.
The moments were precious, and seemed to advance too fast. At one
o’clock, a body armed possibly better than themselves, and probably much
more numerous, would issue from the castle on their road to Moret,
prepared for combat. The result in such a case might be very precarious.
The warders by no means felt pleased with their situation; and the
absence of their leader, priest, and piper gave no additional ideas of
conquest or even security. In this state of things near half an hour had
elapsed, when of a sudden they perceived, on the side of the hay-yard
toward their own position, a small blaze of fire issue from a
corn-stack—in a moment another, and another! The conflagration was most
impetuous; it appeared to be devouring every thing, but as yet was not
perceived by the inmates at the rear of the house. At length volumes of
flame illuminated by reflection the waters of the river under the back
windows. The warders now expecting the sally, rubbed their hands well
with bees’ wax, and grasped tightly their hatchets, yet moved
not:—breathless, with a ferocious anxiety, they awaited the event in
almost maddening suspense. A loud noise now issued from the interior of
the house; the fire was perceived by the garrison—still it might be
accidental—the front door was thrown open, and above thirty of the
inmates poured out, some fully, others not fully armed. They rushed into
the hay-yard—some cried out it was “treachery!” whilst others
vociferated “accident! accident!”—All was confusion, and many a stout
head afterward paid for its incredulity.
At that moment the copper kettle was beaten rapidly and with force:—a
responsive sound issued from the house—the garrison hesitated, but
hesitation was quickly banished; for on the first blow of the kettle,
the warders, in a compact body, with hideous yells, rushed on the
astonished garrison, who had no conception who their enemies could be.
Every hatchet found its victim; limbs, features, hands, were chopped off
without mercy—death or dismemberment followed nearly every blow of that
brutal weapon, whilst the broad sharp skeens soon searched the bodies of
the wounded, and almost half the garrison were annihilated before they
were aware of the foe by whom they had been surprised. The survivors,
however, soon learned the cause (perhaps merited) of their comrades’
slaughter. The war cry of “A Gerald!—a Gerald!—a Gerald!”—which now
accompanied every crash of the murderous hatchet, or every plunge of the
broad-bladed skeen, informed them who they were fighting with:—fifteen
or sixteen still remained unwounded of the garrison—their case was
desperate. Keeran Karry now headed his warders. The gossoon rapidly and
fiercely struck the copper, in unison with the sound of the fatal
weapons, whilst the old and decrepit Jug Ogie, within the castle,
repeated the same sound, thereby leading the garrison to believe that to
retreat inside the walls would only be to encounter a fresh enemy.
The affair, however, was far from being finished;—the survivors rapidly
retired, and got in a body to the position first occupied by Keeran’s
warders. They were desperate—they knew they must die, and determined not
to go alone to the other regions. The flames still raged with
irresistible fury in the hay-yard. It was Keeran who had set fire to the
corn and hay, which materials produced an almost supernatural height of
blaze and impetuosity of conflagration. The survivors of the garrison
were at once fortified, and concealed from view, by a high holly hedge,
and awaited their turn to become assailants:—it soon arrived.
From the midst of the burning ricks in the hay-yard a shrill and
piercing cry was heard to issue, of “Ough, murther—murther!—the
devil—the devil! ough Holy Virgin, save me! if there is any marcy, save
me!” The voice was at once recognised by the warriors of Moret as that
of their priest Ned Murphy, who had fallen asleep under a hay-stack, and
never awakened till the flames had seized upon his cloak. Bewildered, he
knew not how to escape, being met, wherever he ran, by crackling masses.
He roared and cursed to the full extent of his voice; and gave himself
up for lost, though fortunately, as the materials of his habit did not
associate with flame, he was not dangerously burned, although suffering
somewhat in his legs. No sooner did they perceive his situation, than
the warders, each man forgetting himself, rushed to save their _clergy_,
on whom they conceived the salvation of their souls entirely to depend.
They imagined that the fight was ended, and prepared to enjoy themselves
by the plunder of Castle Reuben.
This was the moment for the defeated garrison:—with a loud yell of “a
Moore! a Moore! a Moore!” they fell in their turn upon the entangled
warders in the hay-yard, five of whose original number had been wounded,
and one killed, in the first fray; whilst many had subsequently thrown
down their hatchets, to rescue their pastor, and had only their spikes
and skeens wherewith to defend themselves. The battle now became more
serious, because more doubtful, than at its commencement. Several of the
warders were wounded, and four more lay dead at the entrance to the
hay-yard; their spirit was dashed, and their adversaries laid on with
the fury of desperation. Keeran Karry had received two sword-thrusts
through his shoulder, and could fight no more; but he could do better—he
could command. He called to the warders to retreat and take possession
of the castle, which was now untenanted: this step saved them; they
retired thither with all possible rapidity, pursued by the former
garrison of the place, who however were not able to enter with them, but
killed another man before the doors were fast closed. Keeran directed
the thick planks and flag-stones to be torn up, thereby leaving the hall
open to the cellar beneath, as had been done at Moret. The enemy were at
bay at the door, and could not advance, but, on the other hand, many of
the warders having, as we before stated, flung away their hatchets, were
ill armed. The moment was critical: Keeran, however, was never at a loss
for some expedient; he counted his men; five had been killed in the
hay-yard, and one just outside the walls; several others were wounded,
amongst whom was the piper, who had been asleep. Keeran told the warders
that he feared the sun might rise on their total destruction, if
something were not immediately done. “Are there,” said he, “five among
ye, who are willing to swap your lives for the victory?” Every man cried
out at once—and, I!—I!—I!—echoed through the hall. “It is well!” said
Keeran, who without delay directed five men, and the gossoon with the
copper kettle, to steal out at the back of the castle, creep through the
hedges, and get round directly into the rear of the foe before they
attacked; having succeeded in which, they were immediately to advance,
beating the vessel strongly.—“They will suppose,” said the warlike
Keeran, “that it is a reinforcement, and we shall then return the sound
from within. If they believe it to be a reinforcement, they will submit
to mercy: if not, we’ll attack them front and rear—and as our numbers
are pretty equal, very few of us on either side will tell the story to
our childer! but we’ll have as good a chance, at any rate, as them
villains.”
This scheme was carried into immediate execution, and completely
succeeded. The enemy, who were now grouped outside the door, hearing the
kettle in their rear, supposed that they should be at once attacked by
sally and from behind. Thinking they had now only to choose between
death and submission, the mercy, which was offered, they accepted; and
peep-o’day being arrived, the vanquished agreed to throw their arms into
the well,—to swear before the priest that they never would disturb, or
aid in disturbing, Lady Elizabeth or the castle of Moret,—that no man on
either side should be called upon by law for his fighting that night;
and finally, that the person who had succeeded in drawing the lot for
Elizabeth, should deliver up the lock of his hair that grew next his
ear, to testify his submission: this latter clause, however, was
stipulated needlessly, as M‘Carthy O’Moore was discovered in the
farm-yard, with nearly all his face sliced off, and several skeen wounds
in his arms and body. Early in the morning, the dead were buried without
noise or disturbance in a consecrated gravel-pit, and both parties
breakfasted together in perfect cordiality and good-humour: those who
fell were mostly tenants of the squires. The priest, having had his
burnt legs and arm dressed with _chewed herbs_[12] by Jug Ogie, said a
full mass, and gave all parties double absolution, as the affair was
completed by the rising of the sun. The yard was cleared of blood and
havock; the warders and garrison parted in perfect friendship; and the
former returned to Moret Castle, bringing back Jug Ogie to her impatient
mistress. Of the warders, thirteen returned safe; six remained behind
badly wounded, and six were dead. Keeran’s wounds were severe, but they
soon healed; and Elizabeth afterward resided at Moret to a very late
period in the reign of George the First. Reuben soon changed its
occupant, M‘Mahon, who, in the sequel, was hanged for the murder of his
master; and that part of the country has since become one of the most
civilized of the whole province.
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Footnote 12:
I believe that most countries produce simple herbs, of a nature
adapted to the cure of diseases prevalent in their respective
climates. The old Irishwomen formerly had wonderful skill in finding
and applying such remedies; they chewed the herbs into a sort of pap,
and then extracted the juice, for the patient to take inwardly—whilst
the substance was applied as a poultice.
Many of the rebels told me, after 1798, that having no doctors, the
country bone-setters and the “_Colloughs_” (old women) soon cured
their flesh-wounds and broken limbs: “but,” added they, “when a _boy’s
skull_ was _smash’d_, there was no more _good_ in him.”
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I have given the foregoing little history in full, inasmuch as it is but
little known—is, I believe, strictly matter of fact, and exhibits a
curious picture of the state of Irish society and manners in or about
the year 1690. A small part of Moret castle is still standing, and
presents a very great curiosity. One single ivy tree has, for a period
beyond the memory of man, enveloped the entire ruins; has insinuated its
tendrils through the thick walls; penetrated every seam and aperture;
and now contributes to display one solid mass of combined masonry and
foliage. It stands on the old Byrne (now Lansdowne) estate, about a mile
from the great heath, Queen’s County.