Further particulars respecting George Robert Fitzgerald—His band of
myrmidons—Proposal made to the author—He accedes to it, and commences
the “recruiting service”—Hospitality at an Irish inn—Practical
joking—The author’s success in enlisting George Robert’s
outlaws—Serjeant Hearn and Corporal O’Mealy—Fair day at Castlebar—A
speech, succeeded by “beating orders”—Mutiny among the new levies—The
utility of hanks of yarn—An inglorious retreat, and renunciation, by
the author, of the honours of a military life.
There were few men who flourished in my early days that excited more
general or stronger interest than Mr. George Robert Fitzgerald, of
Turlow, the principal object of the preceding sketch. He was born to an
ample fortune, educated in the best society, had read much, travelled,
and been distinguished at foreign courts: he was closely allied to one
of the most popular and also to one of the most eminent personages of
his own country; being brother-in-law to Mr. Thomas Conolly of
Castletown, and nephew to the splendid, learned, and ambitious Earl of
Bristol, Bishop of Derry:—yet, so powerfully did some demon seize upon
his mind, and—let us hope—disorder his intellect, that though its
starting was thus brilliant, his life presented one continuous series of
outrage, and his death was a death of ignominy.
I have neither space nor inclination to become his general
biographer;—in truth, he has never, to my knowledge, had any true
one.[20] Both his friends and enemies are now all nearly _hors de
combat_. I know but two contemporaries capable of drawing his portrait;
and in the words of one of these I have recited an anecdote not unworthy
of being recorded.—I always conceive that a writer characterising the
nearly exhausted generation of which he has been a contemporary,
resembles a general who dates dispatches from the field of battle,
wherein he details the actions and merits of his friends or enemies,
while the subjects of the bulletin lie gasping or quite dead before
him—and he himself only awaiting the fatal bullet which, even while he
writes, may send him to his comrades. This is my own case!
-----
Footnote 20:
I have read, in biographical books, George Robert Fitzgerald described
as a great, coarse, violent Irishman, of ferocious appearance and
savage manners. His person and manners were totally the reverse of
this: a more polished and elegant gentleman was not to be met with.
His person was very slight and juvenile, his countenance extremely
mild and insinuating; and, knowing that he had a _turn_ for single
combat, I always fancied him too _genteel_ to kill any man except with
the _small_-sword.
-----
The singular life, and miserable death of Mr. Fitzgerald form an
historic episode which the plan and character of this work will neither
admit of my detailing nor altogether passing over. The consideration of
his career and catastrophe arouses in the memory acts and incidents long
since erased from ordinary recollection, and thus, like a mirror,
reflects the manners of the age wherein he lived.
While George Robert Fitzgerald was undergoing a part of his sentence in
Newgate, Dublin,[21] his brother, Charles Lionel, got possession of the
house and demesne of Turlow, near Castlebar, County Mayo—one of the most
lawless places then in Ireland. George Robert, as hinted in the former
sketch, had armed and organised a band of desperadoes, who knew no will
but his, and had no desire but his pleasure. All men were in awe of
them, and the regular army alone was then held sufficient to curb their
outrages. When their leader was convicted and imprisoned their spirit
was somewhat depressed; but idleness and vice were by habit so deeply
engrafted in their minds, that peaceable or honest means of livelihood
were scouted by them. They were at length proclaimed outlaws; the
military chased them; and ultimately, a sort of treaty took place,
which, like our modern diplomatic negotiations, exhibited only one party
endeavouring to outwit the other. The desperadoes agreed to give up all
their wild courses on a promise of pardon; a great proportion declared
they would “take on” for a musket; and as the army had no objection to
receive robbers and murderers to fight for their king, country, and
religion, their offer was accepted.
-----
Footnote 21:
Having been tried and convicted of a most _unparalleled_ series of
assaults upon, and imprisonment of, his own father, he was sentenced
to three years’ imprisonment; but, as we have before stated, was
pardoned (in six months), to the disgrace of the government.
-----
About this time my military propensities were not totally extinguished,
but susceptible of being rekindled by proper stimuli—and Dean Coote,
brother to Sir Eyre Coote, then Commander-in-chief in India, sent to my
father, and made him what my family considered a magnificent
offer—namely, that one of his sons should forthwith receive a captain’s
commission in the East India Company’s service, on recruiting a hundred
men for that service, and for each of which recruits, if the number were
completed, twenty guineas should be paid on their being handed over to
the depôt in Dublin.
In acknowledgment of this flattering offer my father immediately
nominated me. I now almost fancied myself a nabob, or something better,
helping to plunder and dethrone a few of the native princes—then quite
plentiful, and considered fair game by the Honourable Company’s
servants, civil and military. I with joy accepted the proposition—fully
expecting, in four or five years, to return loaded with lacks of rupeés,
and carats of diamonds, and enabled to realise all my visions of
ulterior happiness. The Dean also sent me the “beating order” and
instructions, with a letter of introduction, and a strong recommendation
to Mr. Lionel Fitzgerald, then residing at Turlow, requesting he would
aid me in enlisting his brother’s outlaws for the Company’s service, of
whom above eighty had promised to accept the king’s money on terms of
pardon. All now went on prosperously; the tenants of Cullenagh brought
in every shilling they could rap or run, to set the young captain
a-spinning; and in a week I was on my road, through frost and snow, to
the county of Mayo: my father’s old huntsman, Matthew Querns, was
selected to attend me as being most _sensible_, at least among the
domestics of the family.
Matthew was attired in his best field clothing—namely, a green plush
coat, scarlet-laced waistcoat of old times, buckskin breeches, and a
black leather hunting cap. He carried my portmanteau, with my volunteer
broad-sword buckled to it, behind him, and his own hunting horn was
strapped by a belt about his middle:—this he sounded at every inn door,
as he said, to make us _respectable_.
I was mounted on a large _white_ horse called Friday, after Robinson
Crusoe’s _black_ boy. A case of huge holster pistols jogged before me,
and my cavalry coat-case behind, containing my toilet, flints, a bullet
mould, my flute, my beating order, with—to amuse leisure hours—a
song-book, and the Sentimental Journey (then in high vogue, being
totally new both in style and subject). Thus caparisoned and equipped,
the late Matthew Querns and the present Sir Jonah Barrington, set out,
fifty years ago, for the purpose of enlisting robbers and outlaws in
Mayo, to plunder gentoos in the Carnatic, and establish the Christian
religion on the plains of Hindostan.
At that period of my life, cold or fatigue was nothing when I had an
object in view; and at the end of the third day’s trotting we arrived,
through deep snow, bog roads, and after some tumbles (miserably tired),
at a little cabin at Hallymount, near the plains of Kilcommon, where
many a bloody battle had been fought in former times;—and as the ground
was too rocky to dig graves, thousands of human skeletons had been
covered up with stones—of which there is no scarcity in any,
particularly that part of Ireland. Our reception was curious; and as
affording an excellent idea of the species of inns and innkeepers then
prevalent in Ireland, I shall sketch one of the oddest imaginable places
of “entertainment for man and horse,”—which notification was written in
large letters over the door,—and the house certainly did not belie it.
The landlord was a fat, red-nosed, pot-bellied, jovial fellow, the very
emblem of goodnature and hospitality; he greeted me cordially before he
knew any thing about me, and said I should have the best his house
afforded, together with a hearty welcome (the welcome of an innkeeper,
indeed, is generally very sincere). He also told Matthew that he never
suffered his bin of oats in the stable to be closed, always leaving it
to gentlemen’s beasts to eat at their own discretion—as he’d engage they
would stop of themselves when they had got enough; and the more they eat
at one meal, the less they would eat the next—so he should be no loser.
The inn consisted of cabins on the ground-floor only, and a very good
hard dry floor it certainly was. The furniture was in character: but my
bed (if I were to judge from its bulk and softness) had the best
feathers of five hundred geese at least in it: the curtains had
obviously once been the property of some greater personage than an
innkeeper, as the marks of embroidery remained (on crimson silk), which
had been carefully picked out—I suppose to sell the silver. My host
begged I would not trouble myself as to dinner, as he knew what was good
for me after so bad a journey. He protested that, so far as poultry,
game, and lobsters went, no man in Mayo could beat him; and that he had
a vessel of Powldoody oysters, which was sent him by Squire Francis
Macnamara, of Doolan, for old acquaintance sake.
I promptly asked for a bottle of his best wine; but he told me he never
sold a _single_ bottle to a gentleman, and hoped I would have no
objection to two. Of course I acquiesced, though intending to dine alone
and only to drink the half of one. I was therefore surprised to see
shortly a spruce young maid-servant lay out the table for six persons,
with every thing in good order:—and on dinner coming in, my landlord
introduced his old wife, two smart pretty daughters, and his son, by no
means a “promising boy.” He uncorked both bottles at once, and no
persons ever fared more sumptuously. The wine, he said, was the finest
old claret, of the “real smuggling” by Sir Neil O’Donnel’s own cutter
called Paddy Whack, from the Isle of Man;—and Sir Neil (a baronet of
Newport) never sent a bad hogshead to any of his _customers_: his
honour’s brandy, likewise, was not a jot worse than his claret, and
always tasted best of a cold morning.
We had got deep into our second bottle, of which the ladies took a glass
each, while the young gentleman drank a bumper of brandy, when my host,
who knew every body and every thing local, gave me the life, adventures,
and character, of almost each person of note in that county, including
numerous anecdotes of George Robert, which originated in, and were
confined to the neighbourhood. He laughed so heartily at his own
stories, that it was impossible not to join him. Tea and hot cakes
followed; a roast goose, brandy punch, and old ale, made the supper, and
I retired to bed hearty and careless.
Next morning I was roused rather early by a very unexpected guest,
namely, a hen, which having got into my room, layed a couple of eggs at
once on my coat, which lay beside me; and then, as hens accustom
themselves to do, (and it is no bad practice,) she gave as loud and
protracted a notice of her _accouchement_ as her voice could furnish.
I immediately rose, brought out my two eggs to our breakfast-table, and
was expressing my surprise at the circumstance, when Miss Betty Jennings
winked, and whispered me that it was a standing joke of her
father’s.—The breakfast was nearly as good as the dinner had been the
previous day; and on procuring my bill, I found I was charged eighteen
pence for dinner, eighteen pence for claret, tenpence for my horses,
sixpence for my breakfast, and nothing for the rest, though Matthew
Querns had got dead drunk, my horses were nearly bursting, and I was
little better myself. My host told me, when a guest who would drink with
him had a bottle of claret, he always indulged in one himself; and that
if I had drunk two, he should have thought it mighty uncivil if he had
not done the same. I left his house with an impression that he was the
most extraordinary innkeeper I had ever met with, and really bade adieu
to himself and his daughters with regret.[22]
-----
Footnote 22:
Both Mr. Jenning’s daughters were pretty and pleasant girls. I
observed Miss Betty mending silk stockings, which was rather odd at
the plains of Kilcommon. I told her I fancied she was kind-hearted,
and had an uncommon degree of sense for her years, and she firmly
believed me. I made her a present of the “Sentimental Journey,” which
I had in my coat-case. I construed the French for her (except two
words): and on my return she told me it had taught her what
_sentiment_ was; that she found she had a great deal of sentiment
herself, but did not know the name of it before; and that she would
always keep the book in kind remembrance of the donor.
-----
Arriving in the course of the day at Turlow, I found that the whole
family were at Castle Magarret; but Mr. Fitzgerald had got a letter
about me, and all was ready for my reception. I found I was left to the
care of one Hughy Hearn, who had been a serjeant of the band, but had
changed sides and come over to Mr. Lionel at Turlow, after losing one of
his arms in some skirmish for George Robert. I did not know who Hughy
was at the time, or I should have kept aloof from him.
“Mr. Hearn,” said I, next day, “have you a gun in the house? I should
like to go out.”
“I have, captain,” said he.
“Have you powder and shot?” said I.
“No powder,” said Hughy. “I fired all I had left of it last night at a
man whom I saw skulking about the road after nightfall.”
“Did you hit him?” asked I, rather alarmed.
“I can’t say,” replied Hughy: “there was only one bullet _in it_, and
it’s not so easy to shoot a man with a single bullet when the night is
very dark—and I’m hard set to aim with one arm, though I dare say I all
as one as _scratcht_ him, for he cried out, ‘Oh! bad luck to you,
Hughy!’ and ran down the cross lane before I could get the other double
to slap after him.”
I immediately set about recruiting the outlaws with the utmost activity
and success. I appointed Hughy Hearn, who had but one arm, my
drill-serjeant, and a monstrous athletic ruffian of the name of O’Mealy,
my corporal, major, and inspector of recruits. I found no difficulty
whatsoever in prevailing on them to take my money, clap up my cockade,
get drunk, beat the towns-people, and swear “true allegiance to King
George, Sir Eyre Coote, and myself.” This was the oath I administered to
them, as they all seemed zealous to come with me; but I took care not to
tell them _where_.
The kindness and hospitality I meanwhile received at Turlow, from Mr.
and Mrs. Fitzgerald, was extremely gratifying: nobody could be more
interesting than the latter. There I met two remarkable persons of that
country—George Lyster, whose finger was broken by George Robert
Fitzgerald, as previously mentioned, and a little, decrepid sharp-witted
dog, called George Elliston, who afterward challenged me, and threatened
Counsellor Saurin, because we did not succeed in a bad cause of his in
the King’s Bench, wherein we had taken his briefs without fees, as a
matter of kindness to a pretended sufferer.
In less than a fortnight I had enlisted between fifty and sixty able,
good-looking outlaws; and as my money was running low, I determined to
march off my first batch of fifty men, three serjeants, and three
corporals, for Dublin, and having placed them in depôt there, to return
and make up my number with a replenished purse.
To give my march the greater éclat, I chose a market-day of Castlebar
whereon to parade and address my company. There happened to be also a
fair of linen yarn, and the street was crowded with cars laden with
hanks of yarn of different sizes and colours. Having drawn up my men, I
ordered each one to get a bumper of whisky; after which, taking off
their hats, they gave three cheers for King George, Sir Eyre Coote, and
Captain Barrington. I then made them a speech from the top of a car. I
told them we were going to a place where the halfpennys were made of
gold; where plunder was permitted by the Honourable Company, and the
officers taught their men how to avail themselves of this permission;
where robbery and murder were not hanging matters, as in Ireland; where
women were married at nine years’ old, and every soldier had as many
wives as he could keep from starving, with a right to rob the rich, in
order to support a barrack full of them.
In short, I expatiated on all the pleasures and comforts I purposed for
them; and received in return three more cheers—though neither so long or
loud as I could have wished; and I perceived a good deal of whispering
among my soldiers which I could not account for, save by the pain they
might feel in taking leave of their fellow-robbers, as was natural
enough. I was, however, soon undeceived, when, on ordering them to
march, one said aloud, as if he spoke for the rest, “March _is it_?
march, then, _for fat_?”
Observing their reluctance to quit Castlebar, I felt my young, slight,
and giddy self swell with all the pride and importance of a martinet; I
almost fancied myself a giant, and my big recruits mere pigmies. “Here,
serjeant,” said I arrogantly to Hughy Hearn, “draw up those _mutineers_:
fall in—fall in!” but nobody fell in, and Serjeant Hearn himself fell
_back_. “Serjeant,” pursued I, “this moment arrest Corporal O’Mealy,
he’s the ringleader.”
“He won’t _let_ me, captain,” replied Serjeant Hearn.
“’Tis your captain’s command!” exclaimed I.
“He says your honour’s no captain at all,” said Hughy Hearn; “only a
slip of a _crimp_, nothing else but a gaoler’s son, that wants to sell
the boys like _negers_, all as one as Hart and the green linnets in
Dublin city.”
My choler could no longer be restrained:—I drew my broadsword, and vowed
I would divide the head of the first man that refused to march. “I’ll
teach these mutineers to obey his majesty’s commission and officer,”
said I.
Corporal O’Mealy and two others then took off their hats, and coming up
to me, said with great good-humour and civility, “Well, captain dear,
you’ll forgive and forget a joke from your own boys, so you will. Sure
’twas nothin else but a parting joke for the fair, your honour! Arrah!
put up that sliver of yours: sure it looks nasty in the fair, to be
drawing your falchion on your own recruits, captain.”
I had no suspicion; and the hanger was scarce secure in its scabbard,
when some of my soldiers came behind me, and others in front, and I was
completely surrounded. “I’ll show you all that I am a captain, and a
true captain,” continued I. “Here, serjeant! bring me my beating
orders.”
“_Beating_—Ough! is _that_ what you’d be at?” said Corporal O’Mealy, who
now assumed the command. “Ough! if it’s ‘beating’ you want, by my sowl
you’ll be easily satisfied without Hughy Hearn’s orders.”
I could stand it no longer: I could not run away if I wished; a crowd
was collecting around me, and so I sprang at the smallest of the
recruits, whom I thought I could master, and seized him by the throat;
but a smart crack given with a hank of linen yarn by some hand behind
soon made me quit my prey; another crack from another quarter quickly
followed. I turned round to see my executioners, when I was suddenly
wheeled back by the application of a third hank. This _cracking_, like a
_feu de joie_, increased every moment, and was accompanied with
vociferous laughs. In short, they pounded me almost to a jelly with
hanks of linen yarn, which lay ready to their hands on all the cars
around us. At length, stooping down between two cars, I had the pleasure
of seeing the whole of my recruits, drawn up by O’Mealy—for it appeared
he was their _real captain_—march regularly by me, every fellow in turn
saluting any part of me he thought proper with a hank of yarn;—and with
a shout I still remember of “A George! a George! long life to our
colonel!” they quitted the fair—as I learned, to take forcible
possession of a house and farm from which one of them had been
ejected—which feat I afterward heard they regularly performed that very
night, with the addition of _roasting_ the new proprietor in his own
kitchen.
Though I had no bones broken, some of my flesh took pretty much the
colour and consistence of what cooks call aspic jelly. I was placed on a
low garron, and returned to Turlow at night, sick, sore, and sorry.
There I pretended I was only _fatigued_, and had taken cold; and after
experiencing the kind hospitality of Mrs. Fitzgerald—then a most
interesting young lady—on the fourth day, at an early hour of a frosty
morning, old Matthew Querns and I mounted our horses, without my having
obtained any thing more for my trouble, and money spent in the
recruiting service, than a sound beating. A return carriage of Lord
Altamont’s having overtaken me on the road, I entered it, and was set
down at the little inn at Hallymount, where I remained some days with
Mr. Jennings and family, recovering from my bruises, and sighing over
the wreck of my fondly anticipated glories as a renowned colonel at the
head of my regiment, plundering a pagoda and picking precious stones out
of an idol. But, alas! having lost all the remaining cash out of my
pocket during the scuffle at Castlebar, instead of a _lac_ of _rupees_,
I found myself labouring under a complete _lack_ of _guineas_, and was
compelled to borrow sufficient from Candy, the innkeeper at Ballynasloe,
to carry me home by easy stages. Thus did my military ardour receive its
definitive cooling: no ice-house ever chilled champaign more
effectually. I, however, got quite enough of hospitality at Turlow, and
quite enough of thrashing at Castlebar, to engraft the whole
circumstances on my memory.
This journey gave me an opportunity of inspecting all the scenes of Mr.
George Robert Fitzgerald’s exploits. The cave in which he confined his
father, showed to me by Hughy Hearn, was concealed by bushes, and
wrought under one of the old Danish moats, peculiar, I believe, to
Ireland. Yet, in the perpetration of that act of brutality, almost of
parricide, he kept up the singular inconsistency of his character. Over
the entrance to the subterraneous prison of his parent a specimen of
classic elegance is exhibited by this inscription graven on a stone:
Intus ager dulces—vivoque
Sedilia Saxo—Nympharumque domus.