THE DESERTER.
I was one day on the main guard in Kilkenny, when a deserter, passing
through under escort to Dublin, was delivered to our charge. The
poor fellow was accompanied by his mother and two sisters. Such
unusual company with a man in his situation excited my curiosity,
and inquiring into the particulars of his case, he told me that
his father had died about two years before, leaving his family,
consisting of his wife and six children, the lease of a small farm
of twenty acres, at a moderate rent; he was the elder child, and
only son of the family, and the charge and cultivation of the land
principally devolved upon him.
For two years things went on prosperously; but at the end of that
time the lease expired through the failure of the last life on
which it depended. This was a sudden and unlooked-for event; but as
they had been regular tenants, they had never doubted for a moment
that they would get their lease renewed. In this, however, the poor
creatures were mistaken, for when Frank called on the agent, he found
that unless he could raise twenty pounds in cash, to give by way
of fine, the farm would be given to some person who would give it.
Sorrowful enough he returned home, and communicated this intelligence
to his mother and sisters, who were thunderstruck; for raising twenty
pounds in cash was out of the question. Many plans were thought of,
but none fully answered the purpose, for when all their efforts
were exerted, they were only able to raise twelve pounds out of the
twenty. The day on which Frank was to give in his answer was fast
approaching, and as a last resource, it was determined that he should
apply for the loan of the required sum to a gentleman, a friend of
his father’s, who lived in an adjacent village; unluckily for poor
Frank, when he went there, the gentleman was in Dublin, and was not
expected home for a month.
Depressed and melancholy, he was returning home, not knowing what
to do, when he met a recruiting party beating up through the town.
The thought struck him instantly that he might raise the necessary
sum by enlisting, and acting from the impulse of the moment, without
nicely weighing the consequences, he took the king’s money; and
after he got his bounty, went and took up the lease. He had never
mentioned the affair to his mother, and she believed that the money
was received from his father’s friend. The truth, however, could not
be long concealed, for the sergeant came out to inform him that he
had orders to send his recruits to head-quarters, and it would be
necessary for him to be in readiness to leave home in three days. He
was, therefore, obliged to disclose what he had done to his mother.
It was dreadful news to the poor woman, for, independent of her great
affection for him, he was her principal dependence in cultivating
the farm. ‘What use can the lease be to us,’ said she, ‘when we have
nobody to mind it?’ Frank felt the truth of what she said; but he
endeavoured to console her by saying, that as Tim Brachnie, their
neighbour, was on the point of marrying his elder sister Sally, they
would not miss him, for Tim was well able to manage the land. As for
himself, he was happy at having it in his power to secure a living
to the friends he loved so much, and he was sure that he would agree
better with the life of a soldier than labouring at home; he might
soon rise to be a sergeant, perhaps make his fortune in the East
Indies, and come home and make them all happy.
However Frank might please himself with these speculations, they
afforded little consolation to his mother. But there was no helping
the matter; he was obliged to bid his friends adieu, and march to
join the depot in Chatham, the regiment being in the East Indies.
Shortly after his arrival, a draft was selected for embarkation to
join the regiment. Frank was among the number, and he wrote home,
taking a farewell of his friends. The time of his embarkation was
fast approaching, but he had received no answer to the letter he had
sent home; he felt grieved at this. ‘Could I but see them for one
half hour,’ thought he, ‘or at least get a letter from them before
I go, I would feel satisfied;’ but the day previous to the intended
embarkation arrived without any letter. As he was sitting melancholy
in the barrack-room, pondering over this unaccountable neglect, one
of his comrades told him that some one wanted him outside the barrack
gate. Frank’s heart leaped to his mouth, he made haste to obey the
summons, and entering a room of the public-house to which he was
directed, he was struck mute with astonishment on perceiving his
mother and two of his sisters, who flew into his arms, clung round
him, and cried and laughed by turns. ‘When do you go, my child?’ said
his mother. ‘To-morrow,’ replied Frank. ‘For God’s sake, is that
true! O Frank! what will I do? You are going where I will never see
you again; you’ll never live to get there, and what will become of
your poor mother, when she hears of your death?—but she’ll never
live to hear of it, if you go.’ Poor Frank was sadly perplexed. ‘I
have walked a hundred miles in Ireland, and two hundred and fifty
in England,’ said his mother, ‘besides crossing the salt ocean,
and your poor sisters walking foot for foot with me—and God knows
we hadn’t much to live on—our money wasn’t very plenty, and the
people in this country are not so ready stretching out their hands
as the poor Irish. Now, Frank, you’re going to leave us for ever,
and if you do, your poor mother will never see Ireland again, for
she’ll die on the road, in a strange country, and what will become
of your poor sisters?’ This was touching Frank on a tender point—a
vague resolution flitted through his mind—he had found the life of
a soldier not so much to his liking as he at first expected. ‘I
wouldn’t wish to advise you to desert,’ said one of the sisters, who
saw Frank wavering; ‘but how can you leave us and your poor mother
forlorn here.’ ‘Och, the king, God bless him!’ said his mother, ‘will
never miss you out of so many, and the Lord knows your poor mother
would miss you all the days of her life.’
Frank had summoned his honour and fair fame to his side; but what
do they know of these things in the bogs of Ireland? thought he—His
oath—ay, that was a tickler; but isn’t it like a custom-house
oath—And then his poor mother. Frank yielded to their solicitations.
The next point was to make his escape; but that was soon arranged,—he
was dressed in a suit of his elder sister’s clothes, and under the
cloud of night they set off on their return home.
They had a weary journey travelling to Bristol, where they embarked
on board the packet for Waterford, and were safely landed on Erin’s
green isle once more. They had travelled a long day’s stage on
their way home, and thinking themselves safe, were sitting in their
lodging-house refreshing themselves with a cup of tea, when the
sergeant who had enlisted Frank came into the house, and presented
a billet to the landlady. He had been ordered to remove to another
station, and was so far on the way with his party. He knew Frank’s
mother the moment he came in, and coming over inquired for her
family, and when she heard from her son. The poor woman was so
confused, that she did not know what she was saying, and stammered
out some nonsense, which, along with the petrified appearance of
the daughters, raised a suspicion in his mind. Frank, in his female
dress, sat holding down his head,—‘Is this your daughter Peggy that’s
looking so bashful?’ said the sergeant, putting his hand out to raise
up Frank’s chin, when he saw enough of the face to understand who it
was. Frank saw he was detected, and dropping any attempt to disguise
himself farther, lifted the stool on which he was sitting, to knock
the sergeant down, as the only means of effecting his escape; but the
sergeant had beckoned in his party, who were standing at the door,
and he saw that resistance would be madness, and therefore submitted
to his fate with the best grace he could. He was sworn in a deserter
and committed to jail, having previously resumed his own dress, and
was thus far on his way to Dublin, accompanied by his mother and
sisters, who were determined, as they said themselves, to follow him
to the _end of the world_.
What became of poor Frank afterwards I never heard, but happening
to be in Chatham about two years after, I inquired at one of the
sergeants of the depot, and found his story perfectly correct. I had
even the curiosity to go to the house where they had effected his
disguise, the landlady of which corroborated the story so far as his
mother and sisters being in the house, and the soldiers coming there
after him when he was gone.
I have little left worthy of relating that occurred while stationed
in Kilkenny, but I cannot dismiss the subject without paying a
tribute of respect and admiration to the character of the clergyman
who acted as chaplain to the troops in that place—the Rev. Mr Rowe,
rector of St Mary’s. Joined to an indefatigable discharge of his
duty, the purest benevolence, and a liberal mind, he possessed
an eloquence that caught the attention of the most illiterate and
careless. Our men were never very remarkable for their church-going
propensities, but we had not been long in Kilkenny when the greater
part of the regiment voluntarily attended his Sunday evening sermons.
Without stooping to coarseness of expression, he rendered himself
plain and intelligible to all; and by his earnest and affectionate
manner, endeared himself to his hearers. His preaching had a very
visible effect on the conduct of many of our men, and I am sure they
all remember him with feelings of esteem and veneration. He was no
time-server, ‘with doctrines fashioned to the varying hour,’ but
rigidly followed the example of his Master in being ‘no respecter of
persons.’ It would be well for the people of Ireland were all the
clergymen of the established church like Mr Rowe.
As a specimen of the familiar manner in which he drew the men’s
attention, I was once on the jail guard when he came to visit the
prisoners. Those of the guard not posted as sentinels were always
called in on such occasions, and when we were assembled he read some
passages of Scripture; but while he was reading the men’s attention
wandered. Perceiving this, he shut the book, and looking round his
audience, ‘I will tell you a story,’ said he; every eye was fixed on
him, ready to hear the promised tale:—
‘There was once a gentleman possessed of great riches, and he lived
up to his income, enjoying all that this world could afford. He was
on the point of setting out on a pleasure tour, when he took suddenly
ill and soon after died. Some time after, a gentleman, who had been
on very intimate terms with the deceased, but ignorant of his death,
called at the door, and asked the servant if his master was at home;
the servant replied, in melancholy accents, “Alas, sir! my master
has gone to his long home—he is dead.” “Dead!” said the gentleman,
horror-struck with the news, but recovering himself,—“Well,” said
he, “it is the road we must all go sooner or later—but I hope he has
gone to heaven?” The servant, who knew his master’s wild manner of
living, shook his head. “What!” said the gentleman, “do you doubt
it?” “I don’t know,” said the servant, “but when my master was on
the eve of going a journey, he was always talking about it, and
making great preparations some days before he set out; but during his
illness I never once heard him mention _heaven_.”
‘Are you, my friends, making preparation for that long journey that
we must all soon take?’
He then took advantage of their attention being awakened to impress
upon them the necessity of that preparation.