I have already passingly alluded to Joe's conversational powers; and
certainly they were exercised on this occasion with a more than common
ability. Either taking my silence as a suggestion for him to speak, or
perhaps, and more probably, perceiving that some deep depression was
over me, the kind-hearted fellow poured forth his stores of song and
legend without ceasing. Now amusing me by his wild and fitful snatches
of old ballads, now narrating in his simple but touching eloquence some
bygone story of thrilling interest, the long hours of the night passed
over, and at daybreak we found ourselves descending the mountain towards
a large and cultivated valley, in which I could faintly distinguish in
the misty distance the little mill where our relay was to be found.
I stopped for a few minutes to gaze upon the scene before me. It was one
of those peaceful landscapes of rural beauty which beam more of soothing
influence upon the sorrow-struck heart than the softest voice of
consolation. Unlike the works of man, they speak directly to our souls
while they appeal to our reason; and the truth comes forced upon us,
that we alone must not repine. A broad and richly cultivated valley was
bounded by mountains whose sides were clothed with deep wood; a stream,
whose wayward course watered every portion of the plain, was seen now
flowing among the grassy meadows, now peeping from the alders that
lined the banks. The heavy mist of morning was rolling lazily up the
mountain-side; and beneath its grey mantle the rich green of pasture
and meadow land was breaking forth, dotted with cattle and sheep. As I
looked, Joe knelt down and placed his ear upon the ground, and seemed
for some minutes absorbed in listening. Then suddenly springing up, he
cried out--
'The mill isn't going to-day! I wonder what's the matter. I hope Andy
isn't sick.'
A shade of sorrow came over his wild features as he muttered between his
teeth the verse of some old song, of which I could but catch the last
two lines--
'And when friends are crying around the dying,
Who wouldn't wish he had lived alone!'
'Ay,' cried he aloud, as his eye glistened with an unnatural lustre,
'better be poor Tipperary Joe, without house or home, father or mother,
sister or friend, and when the time comes, run to earth, without a wet
eye after him.'
'Come, come, Joe, you have many a friend! and when you count them over,
don't forget me in the reckoning.'
'Whisht, whisht!' he whispered in a low voice, as if fearful of being
overheard, 'don't say that; them's dangerous words.'
I turned towards him with astonishment, and perceived that his whole
countenance had undergone a striking change. The gay and laughing look
was gone; the bright colour had left his cheek, and a cold, ghastly
paleness was spread over his features; and as he cast a hurried and
stealthy look around him, I could mark that some secret fear was working
within him.
'What is it, Joe?' said I; 'what's the matter? Are you ill?'
'No,' said he, in a tone scarce audible--'no, but you frightened me just
now when you called me your friend.'
'How could that frighten you, my poor fellow?'
'I 'll tell you. That's what they called my father; they said he was
friendly with the gentlemen, and sign's on it.' He paused, and his eye
became rooted to the ground as if on some object there from which he
could not turn his gaze. 'Yes, I mind it well; we were sitting by the
fire in the guard-room all alone by ourselves--the troops was away,
I don't know where--when we heard the tramp of men marching, but not
regular, but coming as if they didn't care how, and horses and carts
rattling and rumbling among them.
'“Thim's the boys,” says my father. “Give me that ould cockade there,
till I stick it in my cap; and reach me over the fiddle, till I rise a
tune for them.”
'I mind little more till we was marching at the head of them through the
town, down towards the new college that was building--it's Maynooth, I'm
speaking about--and then we turned to the left, my father scraping away
all the time every tune he thought they 'd like; and if now and then
by mistake he 'd play anything that did not plaze them, they'd damn and
blast him with the dreadfullest curses, and stick a pike into him, till
the blood would come running down his back; and then my father would cry
out--
'“I'll tell my friends on you for this--divil a lie in it, but I will”
'At last we came to the duke's wall, and then my father sat down on the
roadside, and cried out that he wouldn't go a step farther, for I was
crying away with sore feet at the pace we were going, and asking every
moment to be let sit down to rest myself.
'“Look at the child,” said he, “his feet's all bleeding.”
'“Ye have only a little farther to go,” says one of them that had
crossed belts on and a green sash about him.
'“The divil resave another step,” says my father.
'“Tell Billy to play us 'The Parmer's Daughter' before he goes,” says
one in the crowd.
'“I 'd rather hear 'The Little Bowld Fox,'” says another.
'“No, no, 'Baltiorum! Baltiorum!'” says many more behind.
'“Ye shall have them all,” says my father, “and that'll plaze ye.”
'And so he set to, and played the three tunes as beautiful as ever ye
heard; and when he was done, the man with the belts ups and says to
him--
'“Ye're a fine hand, Billy, and it's a pity to lose you, and your
friends will be sorry for you,” and he said this with a grin; “but take
the spade there and dig a hole, for we must be jogging, it's nigh day.”
'Well, my father, though he was tired enough, took the spade, and began
digging as they told him; for he thought to himself, “The boys is going
to hide the pikes and the carbines before they go home.” Well, when he
worked half an hour, he threw off his coat, and set to again; and at
last he grew tired and sat down on the side of the big hole, and called
out--
'“Isn't it big enough now, boys?”
'“No,” says the captain, “nor half.”
'So my father set to once more, and worked away with all his might; and
they all stood by, talking and laughing with one another.
'“Will it do now?” says my father; “for sure enough I'm clean beat.”
'“Maybe it might,” says one of them; “lie down, and see if it's the
length.”
'“Well, is it that it's for?” says my father; “faix, I never guessed it
was a grave.” And so he took off his cap and lay down his full length in
the hole.
'“That's all right,” says the others, and began with spades and shovels
to cover him up. At first he laughed away as hearty as the rest; but
when the mould grew heavy on him he began to screech out to let him up;
and then his voice grew weaker and fainter, and they waited a little;
then they worked harder, and then came a groan, and all was still; and
they patted the sods over him and heaped them up. And then they took me
and put me in the middle of them, and one called out, “March!” I thought
I saw the green sod moving on the top of the grave as we walked away,
and heard a voice half choking calling out, “There, boys, there!” and
then a laugh. But sure I often hear the same still, when there's nobody
near me, and I do be looking on the ground by myself.'
'Great God!' cried I, 'is this true?'
'True as you 're there,' replied he. 'I was ten years of age when it
happened, and I never knew how time went since, nor how long it is ago;
only it was in the year of the great troubles here, when the soldiers
and the country-people never could be cruel enough to one another; and
whatever one did to-day, the others would try to beat it out to-morrow.
But it's truth every word of it; and the place is called “Billy the
fool's grave” to this hour. I go there once a year to see it myself.'
This frightful story--told, too, with all the simple power of
truth--thrilled through me with horror long after the impression seemed
to have faded away from him who told it; and though he still continued
to speak on, I heard nothing; nor did I mark our progress, until I found
myself beside the little stream which conducted to the mill.