sthruck me I’d venture inland an’ have a look at the sighths, for
’tis often I heard tell of the vartues of the Blarney Stone.”
All this time Saint Pathrick was dyin’ of curiosity to know where the
mischief this dhragon was while he was deliverin’ the curse which
banished the reptiles, but of coorse he didn’t like to let on to
a dhragon that he was ignorant of anything. The remark about Spike
Island gev him a kind of a sort of an idaya, an’ says he,—
“’Tis fond of a swim you are, Misther Dhragon.”
“You’re right there,” says the dhragon; “but how the mischief you
knows all about my feelin’s an’ habits is a hardher puzzle to me
every minute.”
“I towld you there wor some things I didn’t know,” says Saint
Pathrick, who was never ashamed of tellin’ the thruth; “an’ if you’ll
enlighten me on a few points, fair an’ honest, mind you, I’ll make an
honourable thratey wud you.”
“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, nearly ready to jump out of his
scales at the notion of makin’ an honourable thratey wud the great
persecuthor of the dhragon thribe. “I’ll tell you anything you axes,
wudout a word of a lie, if you passes your promise to spare my life,
for as dhragons go I’m only in the prime of manhood.”
“All right,” says Saint Pathrick. “I’ll tell you the terms of the
thratey when you answers my queshtions, but mind that ’tis the
thruth you tell me, for ’tis the divil’s own liar you are.”
“Fire away,” says the dhragon, “an’ I’ll answer you sthraight, for I
know ’tis useless to thry an’ bamboozle a larned saint like yerself.”
“Where wor you the day I banished all the varmint from this counthry?”
“Well, to the best of my belief,” says the dhragon, “I was hove-to
in a fog that day off the banks of Newfoundland. You see, not like
the other dhragons you sent to kingdom-come, I had always a great
taste for the wather, an’ when I was quite a youngsther I larned how
to swim an’ dive. Now when I heard that your own self was goin’ to
desthroy the breed, I made wan jump into the Atlantic off Cape Clear,
an’ sthruck out for the westhern ocean; an’ that’s how I got out of
yer reverence’s clutches.”
“That explains it, of coorse,” says Saint Pathrick. “Now tell me,”
says he, “how many more of ye is there in this vale of tears, so far
as yer knowledge goes?”
“Divil a wan more but meself,” says the dhragon; an’, begor, the
tears came rowlin’ down the poor baste’s cheeks as he said the words.
“I’m the last of the dhragons, worse luck!”
“The last of ’em!” says Saint Pathrick, fairly delighted to hear such
good news.
“Ay, indeed,” says the dhragon. “Of late the breed has been havin’
a hard time of it. Saint George, over in England beyant, desthroyed
all my relations there, except wan eldherly faymale cousin by the
mother’s side.”
“An’ what became of her?” axes Saint Pathrick.
“As misfortune should have it,” says the dhragon, “the poor craychur
emigrated over here on a raft, an’ never bein’ at say before she got
so mortial sick that by the time I got to her side she was heavin’
the last gasp.”
“An’ have you no family at all at all?” axes Saint Pathrick.
“Naither chick nor child,” says the dhragon. “In my airly youth I was
rather gay, an’ could never knuckle down to mathrimony. Of coorse,
if I had the laiste suspicion yerself was comin’ over here, I’d have
settled down beforehand, an’ brought up a family whom I’d take care
would larn how to swim an’ dive. But yer reverence took the win’ out
of my sails complately, an’ as I’ve said before, I’m the last of the
dhragons.”
Begor, the poor baste quite broke down as he towld his story to Saint
Pathrick, an’ to tell the thruth, though he was mighty glad to know
there was an end to the breed of dhragons for ever an’ ever, the
great Saint couldn’t help feelin’ for the poor _angashore_.
“Look here,” says he, afther wipin’ a tear out of his eye, for ’tis
a rale tindher-hearted Saint he was, “I won’t be very hard on you.
The terms of the thratey will be that you take your hook straight
to the Shannon, an’ do no damage on the road to man or mortial, an’
I’ll allow you to live the remainder of your naatural life in the
salt ocean, where you’ll be known to future generations as the great
Say-Sarpint. But if ever you shoves yer snout on dhry land the
thratey will be broke, an’ you’ll die of the lockjaw. I gave you a
taste of what that means a while back.”
“It’s a bargain,” says the dhragon, glad of any thratey that would
save his life. “But raley you might sthretch a point for me—a poor
misforthunate exile.”
“What is it?” says Saint Pathrick.
“Well, to tell the truth, I’m fairly famished wud the hunger. When
I met your good self I was headin’ for that castle over beyant.
There’s a fine, fat landlord lives there—he rides sixteen stone, I’m
towld—and between yerself an’ meself ’twould be only a holy an’ a
wholesome deed to make an end of the rack-rentin’ vagabone.”
“I can’t allow it,” says Saint Pathrick, “though indeed I agrees wud
you that his room ’ud be betther than his company; but sure even if
you swallyed him his sons ’ud only be glad to take up the runnin’.”
“Arrah, my dear man,” says the dhragon, “’tis swally sons an’ all I
would, for I’m shrunk wud the hunger.”
Begor, ’twas a great temptation to Saint Pathrick, but he struv agen
it an’ shuk his head.
“I can’t allow it, Misther Dhragon,” says he. “Sure you can have a
fine male of salmon when you gets into the river—they’re as thick as
flies there now an’ as fat as butther. Content yerself wud a snack of
salmon if you’ll be said by me. The best in the land wouldn’t turn up
their noses at the fish in the Shannon.”
“Ah! but if yerself wor livin’ on fish as long as I have been, you’d
give a dale for a change of diet. You’re mighty hard on me, Pathrick.”
“Hard on you, you scoundhrel!” says the Saint. “This is what comes of
havin’ too much sintiment. It’s as like as not I’ll be hauled over
the coals for makin’ a bargain at all wud a heretic, but as I’ve
passed my word to you I won’t dhraw back, for I was never known yet
to violate a thratey. Don’t let me hear another grumble out of you
now, or ’tis lose my timper I will.”
Hunger an’ vexation wor beginnin’ to tell on the dhragon by this
time, an’ he was startin’ to give a few ugly lashes wud his tail,
but when he saw the dark look in Saint Pathrick’s face an’ knew there
was no chance of gettin’ round him, he purtended he was only thryin’
to scratch his ear. But, of coorse, Saint Pathrick was up to the
thricks and schames of dhragons, an’ says he in an angry voice,—
“How dar’ you show timper you bla’guard? Keep your ugly tail study,
or I’ll stand up in the stirrups this minute an’ read the Curse of
Crummle agen you.”
Begor, the bare mintion of the Curse of Crummle sent a cowld thrill
through the whole six hundhred feet of the dhragon’s carcase, an’ in
a thremblin’ tone he implored Saint Pathrick not to say the words.
“Don’t, acorra,” says he. “Betther die of lockjaw at wance than have
Crummle hove at me.”
“I thought I’d fix you, my bucko,” says Saint Pathrick. “Stir your
stumps now, for I feel I’m gettin’ an appetite for breakfast meself,
an’ I’m greatly in favour of regular livin’.”
“Well, I wish you as good an appetite as my own,” says the dhragon,
“an’ I’ll be biddin’ you a last farewell.”
“Good-bye,” says Saint Pathrick. “An’ mind you keep your tail study
on the road to the Shannon. You can scratch your ear,” says he, wud a
laugh, “as soon as you get abreast of Scatthery Island.”
An’ that’s how the great Saint Pathrick got rid of the last of the
dhragons.
[Illustration: THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE.]
[Illustration: (banner) THE SIEGE OF DON ISLE]
When Crummle came to Munsther first he heard a dale of talk about
a castle that was situated about half-way between Thramore an’
Bonmahon, an’ a head general of his made bowld enough wan day to tell
him that the divil a bit of him ’ud ever be able for to take it.
Of coorse Crummle thought there was nothing above or below ground in
Ireland he couldn’t take, an’ ’tis only laugh at the general he did.
“It’s dhramein’ you are,” says he. “Sure what could stand agen my
cannon-balls? an’ ’tis lashin’s and layvin’s of ’em I have.”
“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will,” says the
general, “when you claps your eye on this castle of the Poers”—for
that was the name of the family that owned the buildin’ I’m spaykin’
of—“for ’tis the dickens’ own place altogether.”
“Arrah man!” says Crummle, “there’s nothing too hot or too heavy for
me. Sure the world couldn’t stand agen me if I was only to let meself
out.”
“Plaize yourself an’ you’ll plaize me,” says the general; “but, mind
you, ’tis in airnist I am, an’ maybe you’ll be sorry by-an’-by that
you didn’t give heed to me. The divil himself couldn’t take that
castle, it’s my humble opinion.”
“Maybe ’tis in laygue wud the divil I am,” says Crummle, wud an
onaisey grin on him.
“Maybe!” says the general. “But ’twill take yerself an’ ould Nick all
yer time to grab their sthronghold from the Poers of Don Isle.”
“An’ what sort of a place is it all?” axes Crummle, surprised at the
way his head general kept harpin’ on the same sthring. “Did you ever
take a survey of it?”
“I did,” say the general, “through a sthrong nightglass, for nearer
than that I didn’t like to venture.”
“Is that so?” says Crummle, beginnin’ to be throubled in himself, for
he knew this same general was a darin’ bla’guard. “What is it like at
all?”
“Well, I’ll tell you,” says the general. “It’s built near the
say-coast on the top of a big square lump of solid rock that rises
like the side of a house nearly two hundhred feet from the ground on
all sides.”
“Oh murdher!” says Crummle; “but that’s the mischief’s own sort of a
place to build a castle! How big is it in diminsions?”
“I couldn’t take the measurement of it by algebra,” says the general;
“but it’s wan of the biggest in Munsther, an’ the portholes in it are
as plenty as peelers in a proclaimed disthrict.”
“’Tis surprisin’ how these bla’guard Irish thries to defy me!” says
Crummle. “Have you any idaya as to the number of hands they keeps
inside?”
“There’s a sthreet-full of people in it, I’m towld,” says the
general. “They looked like a swarm of flies through the spyglass,
anyhow.”
“An’ are they well armed?” axes Crummle.
“Armed, is it?” says the general. “Begor, aich of ’em is a walkin’
man-o’-war.”
“An’ what sort of a chap is the owner of this monsthrosity of a
castle?” axes Crummle.
“A chap!” says the general. “Sure ’tis a faymale that owns the place.”
“Bad luck to yer impudence!” says Crummle. “Do you think I’m not
a match for a faymale, or a whole ridgement of faymales, for the
matther of that? The idaya,” says he, “of tellin’ me to my face that
a slip of a girl could howld out agen me is nothing short of high
thraison. For two pins I’d thrate you like I thrated Charlie the
First.”
“Oh, you needn’t lose your timper!” says the general, “for the
Countess of Don Isle is a match single-handed for a sthriker to a
blacksmith. You should see the arm she have!”
“An’ do you think I’m only as good as a sthriker to a blacksmith?”
says Crummle. “Look here, general,” says he, “’tis a fair coward you
are!”
“Coward!” says the general. “Did you ever hear me say before that I
wasn’t able to knock the daylight out of any woman in these parts?
Arrah man!” says he, “this is a faymale giant, or you wouldn’t hear
me singin’ small. ’Tis onnathural she is altogether, I tell you.”
“Maybe you have designs on her,” says Crummle, “an’ are aiger to
protect her.”
“No more than yerself,” says the general. “All the designs I have on
her are to knock herself an’ her castle into smithereens, an’ yerself
bein’ the great Protecthor couldn’t have any betther designs than
that.”
Begor, Crummle laughed at that, an’ says he, “I’ll christen you
‘Protecthor of faymales’ if you don’t take this castle.”
“All right,” says the general. “Of coorse I’ll do my best, but I hope
we’ll see yerself to the fore in the fight, for the poor craychurs in
these parts thinks ’tis the divil himself you are, an’ that gives us
a great pull on ’em, glory be to heaven!”
“Depind on me,” says Crummle. “I’ll make the first offer at this
faymale, and if we don’t grab the castle from her between us, I’ll
send in my resignation to the Long Parlyment.”
Well, the next mornin’ Crummle rides off by himself in the direction
of Thramore, an’ after a hard hour’s gallop he gets within sight of
Don Isle. He pulls up his horse an’ takin’ a telescope from the tail
pocket of his coat he has a spy at the castle.
“Begor,” says he to himself, “the general is right, sure enough! The
dickens ever I’ll take that place except by a sthrategy. I must have
a day an’ a night to think over this job,” says he, “or maybe ’tis
get into disgrace I will.”
So he turns the horse’s head, an’ back he rides to the bog of
Kilbarry, where his camp was pitched.
He sent at wance for the head general, an’ says to him,—
“Faix, ’tis right you are! This Don Isle is the mischiefs own place.
’Tis bad enough to be sthrugglin’ agen the Irish, but when you have
to sthruggle agen natur’ too, ’tis the dickens own job altogether.
No matther, general,” says Crummle, partin’ him on the showlder,
“we have hapes of men, money, and gunpowdher, and those three
ingraydients go a long way. Blow a blast out of your bugle now, an’
I’ll sing out my insthructions.”
So the general blew his bugle, an’ the sogers assembled at the call,
and Crummle standin’ up on the top of a travellin’-thrunk addhressed
’em:—
“God save you, boys!” says he. “I’ve summoned ye from your tints to
make a few remarks. At midnight to-morrow we’ll start out of this
an’ skirt the town of Thramore, a thrifle to the nor’a’d. Then we’ll
sthrike down by the village of Fennor, an’ I’ll encamp ye there, for
I find there’s some good shebeens in the neighbourhood. At daybreak
I’ll start out alone for Don Isle, an’ if I can’t put the comether
on the owners of the castle, I’ll ride back an’ ax ye as honourable
men to make wan _hurrish_ at it an’ take it by storm. It’s only
a faymale that keeps the castle, an’ as far as my own survey
this mornin’ goes, I can tell ye all that there’s hapes of women
and children inside the walls—so let the watchword be, ‘Remember
Wexford!’”
Begor, a shout went up from the sogers at these words that you’d hear
from Mizzen Head to Cape Clear, an’ Crummle wud a wave of his hand
dismissed the throops an’ got off the travellin’-thrunk.
All day he spent in his own tint thinkin’ over plans for comin’
round the Countess of Don Isle; but he couldn’t hit on anything that
plaized him properly.
“I’ll have a sleep over it,” says he to himself, “an maybe an
idaya’ll come to me like it came to my friend Richard the Third in
his dhrames.”
* * * * *
Ever since the time she heard Crummle was prowlin’ about the
neighbourhood, the Countess of Don Isle kept a sharp look-out for
him, though ’twas little consarn she felt for him or his sogers,
knowin’ they never cud take the castle from her unless by her own
consint.
’Tis a fine iligant woman she was, measurin’ about six fut in her
vamps, an’ she had the right sperit in her, only on wan point, an’
’twas on this very point, though little she thought so, the great
wakeness in her armour was,—but we’ll come to that part of the story
in due coorse.
Lady Catherine—I believe I towld you that was the name of the
Countess—had no end of confidence in her head-gunner, Mike Morrissey;
an’ ’tis raison she had to be proud of him! He stud nearly six foot
an’ a half in his stockin’ feet, an’ he didn’t know what it was to
be second best in anything undher the sun. There wasn’t a man in the
counthry could shoot, fish, ride, or swim wud Mike or stand up agen
him at a game of “forty-five,” or in a row, or a hurlin’ match; but
for all that he wasn’t a quarrelsome or a conthrarey man at all, so
long as he wasn’t dhruv too hard, for of coorse he had his feelin’s.
Himself an’ the Countess wor great frinds intirely, except on the
wan point, an’, as I’ve said afore, it was because of this wakeness
in her characther that she was laiste sthrong where she expected she
was most sthrong.
Now, Lady Catherine, wud all her vartues, was a rank teetotaller; an’
Mike Morrissey was fond of a dhrop. He was never seen to take too
much—an’ indeed ’twould be a power of the hard stuff that ’ud knock
Mike off his head—but he liked his liquor in raison. Lady Catherine
was always thryin’ to get him to sign the pledge, but she couldn’t
come round him at all.
“I’d do anything for your ladyship,” Mike used often say to her of
an evenin’ when she’d be sittin’ on the sofy afther taytime. “I’d
fight for you wud the last dhrop of my blood; but a good glass of
John Jameson now and again, and an odd pint of Guinness’s porther is
as necessary to my constitution as a cup of sthrong tay is to yours,
ma’am. I can walk six Irish mile an hour wud aise, an’ I’ll go bail
if I was to take the pledge I’d break down at four mile inside of a
week.”
Afther a time the Lady Catherine saw there was no use in thryin’ to
convart Mike to her views, an’ she gev it up for a bad job; but it
made her all the hardher with the other sarvants an’ follyers in
the castle. She sent the butler off wud a month’s wages in place of
warnin’, an’ she locked up the kays of the cellar in a chest in her
own bedroom; an’ by degrees she got all the folk inside the castle
grounds to take the pledge.
Mike was sore vexed at the way the Countess was actin’, but he didn’t
say much, an’ whenever he felt dhry he used to take a turn outside
the walls an’ spend a while in the nearest shebeen; but of coorse it
disthressed him that he used to have to walk so far for his dhrop
instead of havin’ it handy, as in the ould times, on the kitchen
dhresser.
Well, the evenin’ of the day that Crummle addhressed his sogers at
Kilbarry, Lady Catherine sent for Mike Morrissey to come to her
private apartments.
“I hear, Mike,” says she, “that this bla’guard Crummle is on the
march to Don Isle.”
“I partly guessed as much,” says Mike; “for when I was out havin’
a pint to-day I was towld that a sthrange horseman was seen on
the horizon this mornin’, takin’ a survey of the castle through a
spyglass.”
“Is that so?” says the Countess.
“’Tis,” says Mike.
“Then I hopes you’re gettin’ things snug for the visithors,” says her
ladyship.
“I am,” says Mike. “I’ll give ’em sugar in their tay, you may be
sure. I’ve been hard at it all day, an’ I’ll go bail there’ll be
some exthra gray hairs on ould Crummle’s skull before he finds a
wake spot in our four walls, or gets a prod of a bay’net into our
stomachs—savin’ your presence, ma’am!”
“Are all the guns an’ swoords an’ things in ordher?” axes the
Countess.
“They are, ma’am,” says Mike, “as far as they go. I’ve scoured the
insides of the cannons until ’tis like new churns they are, an’ as
for the swoords you could shave in the dark wud ’em; but indeed ’tis
only for show we’ll want the swoords or the cannons, for the dickens
ever Crummle will get wudin rayche of a swoord except we make a sally
out afther the vagabone when he’s in full rethrate, an’ I needn’t
tell yerself what sort the cannons are, but I’ll make a display wud
’em, you may depind.”
“’Tis a fine man you are!” says the Countess; “an’ if you’d only sign
the pledge I’d double your wages on the spot.”
“The laiste said about that the betther,” says Mike; “for what use
’ud more wages be to me if I couldn’t enjoy meself in my own way?”
“Well, ’tis an obsthinate craychur you are,” says the Countess; “but
’tis only for your good I’m spaykin’, Mike.”
“I know that, ma’am,” says he; “an’ ’tis much obliged to you I am for
the intherest you takes in me. An’ now if your ladyship would folly
my advice I’d recommend you to take a lie down until mornin’, for it
wouldn’t surprise me to see the sogers in the valley before we’re a
day ouldher, an’ the deuce a much sleep you can expect to get while
we’re firin’ the guns at the inemy.”
“All right, Mike!” says she. “I’ll retire airly to-night, an’ have a
good long stretch.”
“Well, pleasant dhrames to you, ma’am!” says Mike, bowin’ down to the
ground. “An’ depind yer life on me!”
Next mornin’, soon afther the break of day, the Countess was awoke
out of her sleep by the sound of a thrumpet, so up she jumps an’ puts
her head out of the bedroom windy.
Down in the valley under the castle walls, she sees a man on
horseback wavin’ a flag of thruce, an’ at once Lady Catherine made up
her mind this was an ambassadhor from Crummle himself.
The horseman didn’t see her for a spell, an’ begor, he nearly burst
his _giddawn_ blowin’ blasts out of his bugle. The Countess, seein’
at last that he’d exhausted all his spare win’, gev a shout at him,—
“Did you think ’tis deaf we wor here?” says she. “What’s your
business, my man?”
“Is the Countess of Don Isle at home?” says the horseman, scarcely
able to make his voice rayche the castle windy, he was so hoarse
from screechin’ into the thrumpet.
“She is,” says the Countess. “I’m the party in questhion, an’ who may
you be, my cock-crowin’ galivanther?”
“My name is Crummle,” says the horseman; “an’ I’m glad to find
’tis your own sweet self I have the pleasure of addhressin’, Lady
Catherine, my jewel.”
“I’ve heard tell of you,” says the Countess, “an’ by all accounts
’tis a dirty ruffian you are.”
“You’re not over civil, anyhow, in your spayche,” says Crummle, his
cheeks gettin’ as red as a turkey-cock’s comb at the words of her
ladyship. However he didn’t purtend to be offended, for the more he
looked at the castle the more he made up his mind that it was only by
palaver or sthrategy it could be taken.
“This is a fine hardy-lookin’ buildin’,” says he.
“’Tis,” says she. “I’m glad you admires it.”
“An’ yerself is a fine, wholesome-lookin’ faymale,” says he; “an’
only I’m a married man, maybe ’tis make you an offer of my own self
I would.”
“Look here,” says she; “I want none of your soft sawdher. If you have
anything to say to me on business, say it at wance.”
“Well, to tell you the thruth,” says Crummle, “I’m gettin’ sick an’
tired of all this murdher an’ bloodshed, an’ I’m come to offer you
terms.”
“Terms!” says she. “What do you mane by that, you insultin’
ignoramus?”
“Well,” says he, “wan of my head generals has taken a great fancy
to yerself an’ the castle. He’s a fine iligant man, an’ a rank
teetotaller, an’ I’m towld you’re given that way yerself. Now, if you
consints to marryin’ him, I’ll make the pair of ye a present of the
place, an’ I’ll rethrate wud my throops wudout firin’ wan solithary
box of a shot at you.”
“You’ll make me a present of my own castle!” says the Countess.
“Well, don’t be talkin’, but you have the impudence of the ould boy!
Look here, Crummle,” says she, fairly losin’ her timper, “if you
don’t gallop away this minute, I’ll give you a little cowld lead to
break your fast on.”
“Lead, is it!” says Crummle, wavin’ his flag.
“Yes,” says she, “an’ I can tell you that though I’m agen breakin’
the rules I’ll disregard your flag of thruce, for no dacent woman
ought to have mercy on a thraithor.”
Begor, Crummle turned as white as the big starched collar he wore
round his neck at the word “thraithor,” for ’tis right well he knew
he was afther cuttin’ off a king’s head, and between anger an’ dhread
he lost conthrol of himself for the minute.
“I gev you the offer,” says he, “but now I withdhraws it, an’ shot
an’ shell is the medicine I’ll ordher you for your conthrariness.”
“Two can play at that game,” says the Countess, seein’ that her words
wor bitin’ like pizened daggers into Crummle, “an’ I have a grand
docthor intirely in my head gunner. He’ll feel your pulse for you,
I’ll warrant.”
“Well,” says Crummle, puttin’ his pride in his pocket for the
instant, “I’ll give you the offer wance more, an’ if you don’t take
it,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his flag of thruce,
“I’ll thrate you, mark my words, like I’ve thrated your cousins over
beyant there.”
“How was that?” says the Countess aigerly, for she hadn’t heard any
news about her relations for a week or more, and Crummle’s words sent
a cowld thrill through her.
“I’m afther murdherin’ every blessed wan of ’em,” says Crummle.
Begor, when the Countess heard this, she set up a screech, an’
Crummle knew he was afther puttin’ his fut in it by tellin’ her the
news, so cursin’ his runaway tongue he dug his spurs into his horse
an’ galloped off, thinkin’ every minute ’tis a box of a bullet he’d
get in the back.
“Murdher alive!” says he to himself, “but ’tis all up wud my
sthrategy now. I must only make a bowld dash of it, an’ if I can’t
take the castle by storm I’ll do my best to starve the garrison out.”
Just as Crummle started off, Lady Catherine rushed up to the
battlements, where she knew she’d find her head gunner.
“Mike!” says she, tearin’ her hair. “Did you hear that?”