The attorney’s corps of yeomanry, and their strange
appellation—Eccentric loyalty in Dublin—The Fogies—Sir John Ferns, and
his anti-rebel resolve—Aide-de-Camp Potterton and the other members of
Sir John’s chivalrous party—Tragi-comic incidents attending their
martial progress—Admixture of discretion with bravery—Discovery of a
suspicious lurker, and zealous anxiety for his immediate
execution—Process of suspension—Attorney Walker’s accidental
participation in the captive’s lot—Respective demeanor of the two
sufferers—Appearance of the enemy in sight—The attorney relieved from
his situation—Conclusion of the day’s adventures.
A hanging match of a very curious nature occurred a few days after the
breaking out of the same rebellion in Dublin, and its relation will form
an excellent companion to that of Lieutenant H——’s mode of execution
(_ante_).
The attorneys’ corps of yeomanry, horse and foot, were at that period
little less than 800 or 900 strong; and I really believe it might, in an
enemy’s country, (or even in a remote district of its own,) have passed
for as fine a “pulk of Cossacks” as ever came from the banks of the Don
or the Danube.
In Ireland, every thing has its _alias_ denomination;—in the regular
army, certain regiments are honoured by the titles of the “King’s
_own_,” the “Queen’s _own_,” or the “Prince’s _own_,” & c. Many of the
Irish yeomanry corps, in 1798, were indulged with similar distinctions;
not indeed by the King himself, but by his majesty’s sovereign mob of
Dublin. For example, the attorneys’ regiment was christened,
collectively, the “_Devil’s_ own;” the infantry part of it, the _Rifle_
Brigade; and the cavalry, the _Chargers_; the Custom-house corps,
Cæsar’s (_seizer’s_) army, &c. &c. &c. The pre-eminent titles thus given
to the attorneys, (who are gentlemen by _Act of Parliament_,) were
devised by one Mr. Murry, a cheese and oilman in Great George Street,
whose premises (as he deposed) were stormed one night by a patrol of
that legal corps, and divers articles of the first quality-food and
luxury, cheeses, hams, tongues, anchovies, Burton ale, and bottled
porter, &c. were abstracted against his will therefrom, and feloniously
conveyed into, and concealed in, the bodies, bowels, and intestines, of
divers ravenous and thirsty attorneys, solicitors, and scriveners; and
thereby conveyed beyond the reach or jurisdiction of any search
warrants, replevins, or other legal process. A more curious deposition
did not appear during the whole of those troublesome times, than that
sworn by Mr. Murry, cheese and oilman, and annexed to a petition to
parliament for _compensation_. However, the parliament, not considering
Mr. Murry to be an extra-loyalist (but which the attorneys certainly
were, and _ultra_ into the bargain), refused to replenish his warehouse.
In consequence whereof, Mr. Murry decided upon his own revenge by
nicknaming the _enemy_, wherein he succeeded admirably.
Here I cannot avoid a little digression, by observing, that so strong
and enthusiastic was the genuine loyalty which seized upon the nobility,
gentry, and clergy of Dublin at that period, that even the young
gentlemen of Merrion Square, who had so far advanced toward their grand
climacteric as to exceed threescore, formed a strong band of volunteers,
who proved their entire devotion to king and country, by first parading
every fine evening, then drinking tea and playing whist, and afterwards
patrolling all Merrion Square—east, west, north, and south; and if there
had been any more sides, no doubt they would have patrolled them also.
They then, in a most loyal manner, supped alternately at each other’s
houses. They were commanded by Lord Viscount Allen, who was surnamed the
“_Bog of Allen_,” from his size and substance, and contrasted with the
Lieutenant-Colonel, Mr. Westenra, (father of the present Lord Rossmore,)
who, having no flesh of his own, was denominated “the Commissary.” This
company, as a body, were self-intitled the _Garde du Corps_, alluding to
their commander Lord Allen; and as they could have (by the course of
nature) but a short period either to fight or run away, and life, like
every other commodity, when it runs rather short, becomes the more
valuable, so they very wisely took most especial care of the remnants of
their own, as _civilians_: and, of a wet or damp night, I have with
great pleasure seen a score, at least, of our venerable _Garde
Grenadier_ gallantly patrolling Merrion Square, and marching in a long
file of sedan-chairs, with their muskets sticking out of the windows
ready to deploy and fire upon any rebel enemy to church or state, who
should dare to oppose their progress and manœuvres.
The humorists of that day, however, would not consent to any _Gallic_
denomination for these loyal yeomen, whom they rather chose to
distinguish by a real Irish title; viz. the _Fogies_,[57]—a term
meaning, in Hibernian dialect, “a bottle that has no liquor in it.” This
excellent corps, in due time, however, died off without the aid of any
enemy, and, I fear, not one of them remains to celebrate the loyalty of
the defunct. I therefore have taken upon myself that task, (so far as my
book can accomplish it,) for which I shall, doubtless, receive the
heartfelt thanks of their sons and grandchildren.
-----
Footnote 57:
Few gentlemen in Ireland made more “_Fogies_” than the good and witty
Sir Hercules Langrish, one of that corps, and who was said to have
been the godfather of his company.
Sir Hec’s idea of “_Fogies_” may be collected from an anecdote Sir
John Parnell, chancellor of the exchequer, used to tell of him with
infinite pleasantry.
Sir John, one evening immediately after dinner, went to Sir Hercules
on some official business: he found him in the midst of revenue
papers, with two empty bottles and a glass standing immediately before
him. “What the deuce, Sir Hec!” said Sir John, “why, have you finished
these two already?”—“To be sure I have,” said Sir Hec; “they were only
claret.”—“And was nobody helping you?” said Sir John. “Oh, yes, yes!”
said Sir Hercules; “see there, a bottle of port came to my assistance;
there’s his _fogy_.”
-----
I shall now proceed to the misfortunes of an attorney, neither deserved
nor expected by that loyal yeoman: the anecdote, however, should remain
as a caution and warning to all hangmen by profession, and other loyal
executioners, down to the latest posterity.
The regiment of attorneys, &c. (or, as the malicious Mr. Murry called
them, the “Devil’s own”) was at that time extremely well commanded; the
cavalry (or “chargers”) by a very excellent old fox-hunting solicitor,
Arthur Dunn; the infantry, (or rifle companies,) by Mr. Kit Abbot, a
very good, jovial, popular practitioner.
Both commanders were loyal to the back-bone; they formed unbending
buttresses of church and state, and had taken the proper obligation, “to
bury themselves under the ruins of the Weavers’ Hall and Skinners’
Alley, sooner than yield one inch of the _Dodder River_ or the _Poddle
Gutters_ to any _Croppy_ or democratic papist.”
After the rebellion broke out, some of these true and loyal attorneys,
feeling that martial law had totally superseded their own,—and that,
having nothing to do in the _money_-market, their visits to the
_flesh_-market were proportionably curtailed; credit having likewise got
totally out of fashion, (as usual during rebellions,)—they bethought
themselves of accomplishing some military achievement which might raise
their renown, and perhaps at the same time “raise the wind;” and, as
good luck would have it, an opportunity soon turned up, not only of
their signalising their loyalty, but also (as they imagined without much
hazard) of a _couple of days’ feasting_ at free quarters.
This adventure eventually had the fortunate result of procuring a
bulletin in several of the Dublin newspapers, though it did not
seriously give the gallant yeomen half the credit which their
intrepidity and sufferings had merited.
Sir John Ferns,[58] who had been sheriff, and the most celebrated
wine-merchant of Dublin, was at that period justly admired for his
singing—his luxurious feasts—insatiable thirst—and hard-going
hospitality: his amarynth nose, with cheeks of Bardolph, twinkling black
eyes with a tinge of blood in the white of them, rendered any further
sign for his wine-vaults totally unnecessary.
-----
Footnote 58:
Sir J. Ferns had one quality to an astonishing extent, which I can
well vouch for, having often heard and seen its extraordinary effects.
His singing voice, I believe, never yet was equalled for its depth and
volume of sound. It exceeded all my conceptions, and at times nearly
burst the tympanum of the ear, without the slightest discord!
Yet his falsetto, or feigned voice, stole in upon the bass without any
tones of that abrupt transition which is frequently perceptible
amongst the best of songsters: his changes, though as it were from
thunder to a flute, had not one disagreeable tone with them.
This extreme depth of voice was only in perfection when he was in one
of his singing humours; and the effect of it (often shivering empty
glass) was of course diminished in a large, and altogether inoperative
in a very spacious room; but, in a moderately low and not very large
chamber, its effect was miraculous.
-----
This Sir John (like the Earl of Northumberland in Cheviot Chase) had
made some vow, or cursed some curse, that he would take his sport three
summer days, hanging or hunting rebels, and burning their haunts and
houses about the town of Rathfarnan, where he had a villa. All this he
was then empowered and enabled to do, by virtue of martial law, without
pain or penalty, or lying under any compliment to judges or juries, as
in more formal or legal epochas. He accordingly set about recruiting
well-disposed and brave associates to join him in the expedition, and
most fortunately hit upon Attorney James Potterton, Esq., in every point
calculated for his aide-de-camp. The troop was quickly completed, and
twenty able and vehement warriors, with Captain Sir John Ferns at their
head, and Mr. James Potterton, (who was appointed sergeant,) set out to
hang, hunt, and burn all before them where they found disloyalty lurking
about Rathfarnan.
The troop was composed of five attorneys; three of Mr. John Claudius
Beresford’s most expert yeomen, called _manglers_, from his
riding-house; two grocers from the guild of merchants; an exciseman, and
a master tailor; a famous slop-seller from Poolbeg-street; a buck parson
from the county of Kildare; one of Sir John’s own bottlers, and his
principal corker; also a couple of sheriff’s officers. Previously to
setting out, the captain filled their stomachs gullet-high with ham,
cold round, and cherry bounce; and being so duly filled, Sir John then
told them the order of battle.
“I sent to the landlord of the yellow house of Rathfarnan, many months
ago,” said Sir John, “a hogshead of my capital _chateau margot_, for
which he has never paid me; and as that landlord now, in all
probability, deserves to be hanged, we can at least put up with him at
nights; drink my _chateau;_ do military execution in the days, which
will report well to Lord Castlereagh; and at all events, the riding and
good cheer can do us no harm.” This was universally approved of; and,
led by this gallant and celebrated vintner, the troop set off to acquire
food and fame about the environs of the capital.
Sergeant Potterton, who was a very good-humoured and good-natured
attorney, with a portion of slang dryness and a sly drawl, diverting
enough, afterwards recited to me the whole of their adventure, which
campaign was cut a good deal shorter than the warriors premeditated.
“No man,” said Attorney Potterton, “could be better calculated to lead
us to any burning excursion than Sir John. You know, Counsellor, that
every feature in his face is the picture of a conflagration; and the
people swear that when he bathes, the sea _fizzes_, as if he was a hot
iron.
“But,” continued Sergeant Potterton, “Counsellor Curran’s story of Sir
John’s nose setting a cartridge on fire, when he was for biting off the
end of it, has not one word of truth in it.”
This troop had advanced on their intended route just to the spot where,
a few nights before, the Earl of Roden had received a bullet in his
nightcap, and had slain some rebels, when Sergeant Potterton espied a
rebel skulking in what is called in Ireland a brake or knock of furze.
Of course the sergeant immediately shouted out, in the proper military
style—“Halloa, boys!—halloa!—hush!—hush!—silence!—halloa! Oh! by ——,
there’s a nest of rapparee rebels in that knock. Come on, lads, and
we’ll slice every mother’s babe of them to their entire satisfaction.
Now, draw, boys!—draw!—cock!—charge!” said the grocers. “Charge away!”
echoed the attorneys; and without further ceremony they did charge the
knock of furze with most distinguished bravery: but, alas! their loyal
intentions were disappointed; the knock of furze was found uninhabited;
the rebels had stolen off, on their hands and feet, across a ditch
adjoining it; and whilst the royal scouters were busily employed
cutting, hacking, and twisting every furze and tuft, in expectation that
a rebel was behind it, of a sudden a certain noise and smoke, which they
had no occasion for, came plump from an adjoining ditch.
“Halloa!—halloa!—I’m hit, by ——!” said one. “I’m grazed, by the ——!”
said another. “I heard the slugs whiz like hailstones by my head!” swore
a third. “O, blood and ——z!” roared out Sergeant Potterton the attorney,
“I’ve got an _indenture_ in my forehead.”—“This is nothing else but a
fair ambush,” said Malony the bailiff, scratching his cheek, through
which a couple of slugs had made an illegal entry to visit his grinders.
“Church and state be d——d!” said the buck parson, _inadvertently_, on
seeing a dash of blood on his waistcoat. “Oh, murder! murder!” cried the
slop-merchant. “Oh, Mary Ann, Mary Ann! why did I not stay fair and easy
at Poolbeg-street, as you wanted me, and I would not be massacred in
this manner?”
Many of the combatants actually fancied themselves mortally wounded, at
least, and all flocked round Captain Sir John Ferns for orders in this
emergency. “Halloa!” roared the captain; “Halloa, boys,
wheel—wheel—eel—l—boys! I say, wheel—l—l!” But being too brave to
specify whether to the right, or left, or front, or rear, every wheeler
wheeled according to his own taste and judgment; some to right and
others to left, by twos, threes, fours, and single files, as was most
convenient; of course the poor horses, being equally uncertain as the
riders, absolutely charged each other in one _mélange_—heads and
tails—helter skelter—higgledy piggledy—rumps and foreheads all toulting
and twisting, to the great edification of the gentlemen rebels, who
stood well hid behind the ditch, charging for another volley.
Sir John standing bravely in the centre to rally his men, his nose like
the focus of a burning-glass collecting its rays, was himself a little
astounded at seeing the number who appeared wounded and bleeding after
so short an encounter. For this surprise the captain no doubt had very
good cause: his charger had, in truth, got a bullet through his
nostrils, and not being accustomed to twitches of that kind, he began to
toss up his head, very naturally, in all directions, dispersing his
blood on the surrounding warriors; whilst, there being no particular
tint by which the blood of a Christian or an attorney and that of a
horse are distinguished on a field of battle, every gallant who got a
splash of the gelding’s _aqua vitæ_ from his nose and nostrils, fancied
it was his own precious gore which was gushing out of some hole bored
into himself, in defence of the church and state; to both of which
articles he gave a smothered curse for bringing him into so perilous and
sanguinary an adventure.
However, they wisely considered that the greatest bravery may be carried
too far, and become indiscretion. By a sort of instinctive coincidence
of military judgment, therefore, without waiting for a council of war,
word of command, or such ill-timed formalities, the whole troop
immediately proved in what a contemptible point of view they held such
dangers; and to show that they could turn a battle into a matter of
amusement, commonly called a horse-race—such as was practised by the
carbineers at the battle of Castlebar (_ante_), Captain Ferns, Sergeant
Potterton, and the entire troop, started from the post, or rather the
knock of furze, at the same moment, every jockey trying whose beast
could reach a quarter of a mile off with the greatest expedition. This
was performed in a time incredibly short. The winner, however, never was
decided; as, when a halt took place, every jockey swore that he was the
last—being directly contrary to all horse-races which do not succeed a
_battle_.
When the race was over, a council of war ensued, and they unanimously
agreed, that as no rebel had actually appeared, they must of course be
defeated, and that driving rebels out of the furze was, in matter of
fact, a victory.
After three cheers, therefore, for the Protestant ascendancy, they
determined to follow up their success, and scour the neighbourhood of
all lurking traitors.
With this object (like hounds that had lost their game), they made a
cast to get upon the scent again; so at a full hand-gallop they set out,
and were fortunate enough to succeed in the enterprise. In charging
through a corn-field, the slop-seller’s horse, being rather
near-sighted, came head foremost over some bulky matter hid amongst the
corn.—“Ambush!—ambush!” cried Sir John:—“Ambush! ambush!” echoed his
merry men all. Sergeant Potterton, however, being more fool-hardy than
his comrades, spurred on to aid the poor slop-trader: in getting across
the deep furrows, his gelding took the same summersets as his less
mettlesome companion, and seated Sergeant Potterton exactly on the
carcass of the slop-man, who, for fear of worse, had laid himself very
quietly at full length in the furrow; and the sergeant, in rising to
regain his saddle, perceived that the slop-man’s charger had stumbled
over something which was snoring as loud as a couple of French-horns
close beside him. The sergeant promptly perceived that he had gotten a
real prize: it was, with good reason, supposed to be a drunken rebel,
who lay dozing and snorting in the furrow, but, certainly, not dreaming
of the uncomfortable journey he was in a few minutes to travel into a
world that, before he fell asleep, he had not the least idea of
visiting.
“Hollo! hollo! hollo! Captain, and brave boys,” cried Attorney
Potterton: “I’ve got a lad sure enough; and though he has no arms about
him, there can be no doubt but they lie hid in the corn: so his guilt is
proved; and I never saw a fellow a more proper example to make in the
neighbourhood!” In this idea all coincided. But what was to be done to
legalize his death and burial, was a query. A drum-head court-martial
was very properly mentioned by the captain; but on considering that they
had no drum to try him on, they were at a considerable puzzle, till Mr.
Malony declared “that he had seen a couple of gentlemen hanged in Dublin
on Bloody-bridge a few days before, without any trial, and that by
martial law no trial was then necessary for hanging of any body.” This
suggestion was unanimously agreed to, and the rebel was ordered to be
immediately executed on an old leafless tree, (which was at the corner
of the field, just at their possession,) called in Ireland a rampike.
It was, however, thought but a proper courtesy to learn from the
malefactor himself _whom_ they were to hang. He protested an innocence,
that no loyal man in those times could give any credit to; he declared
that he was Dan Delany, a well-known brogue-maker at Glan Malour; that
he was going to Dublin for leather; but the whisky was too many for him,
and he lay down to sleep it off when their hands waked him. “Nonsense!”
said the whole troop, “he’ll make a most beneficial example!”
Nothing now was wanting but a rope, a couple of which the bailiff had
fortunately put into his coat-case for a magistrate near Rathfarnan, as
there were no ropes there the strength of which could be depended upon,
if rebels happened to be fat and weighty, or hanged in couples.
This was most fortunate; and all parties lent a hand at preparing the
cravat for Mr. Dan Delany, brogue-maker. Mr. Walker happened to be the
most active in setting the throttler, so as to ensure no failure. All
was arranged; the rebel was slung cleverly over the rampike; but Mr.
Walker, perceiving that the noose did not run glib enough, rode up to
settle it about the neck so as to put Mr. Delany out of pain, when, most
unfortunately, his own fist slipped inadvertently into the noose, and,
whilst endeavouring to extricate himself, his charger got a smart kick
with the rowels, which, like all other horses, considering as an order
to proceed, he very expertly slipped from under Attorney Walker, who was
fast, and left him dangling in company with his friend the brogue-maker,
one by the head, and the other by the fist; and as the rope was of the
best manufacture, it kept both fast and clear from the ground, swinging
away with some grace and the utmost security.
The beast being thus freed from all constraint, thought the best thing
he could do was to gallop home to his own stable (if he could find the
way to it), and so set out with the utmost expedition, kicking up
behind, and making divers vulgar noises, as if he was ridiculing his
master’s misfortune.
He was, however, stopped on the road, and sent home to Dublin, with an
intimation that Captain Ferns and all the troop were cut off near
Rathfarnan; and this melancholy intelligence was published, with further
particulars, in a second edition of the Dublin Evening Post, two hours
after the arrival of Mr. Walker’s charger in the metropolis.
Misfortunes never come alone. The residue of the troop in high spirits
had cantered on a little. The kind offices of Mr. Walker to Mr. Delany
being quite voluntary, _they_ had not noticed his humanity; and, on his
roaring out to the very extent of his lungs, and the troop turning
round, as the devil would have it, another tree intercepted the view of
Mr. Walker, so that they perceived a very different object.—“Captain,
Captain,” cried out four or five of the troop, all at once, “Look there!
look there!” and there did actually appear several hundred men, attended
by a crowd of women and children, approaching them by the road on which
the rebel had been apprehended. There was no time to be lost; and a
second heat of the horse-race immediately took place, but without
waiting to be started, as on the former occasion; and this course being
rather longer than the last, led them totally out of sight of Messrs.
Walker and Delany.
The attorney and rebel had in the mean time enjoyed an abundance of that
swing-swang exercise which so many professors of law, physic, and
divinity practised pending the Irish insurrection; nor was there the
slightest danger of their pastime being speedily interrupted, as Captain
Ferns’ troop, being flanked by above three hundred rebels, considered
that the odds were too tremendous to hold out any hopes of a victory: of
course a retrograde movement was considered imperative, and they were
necessitated, as often happens after boasted victories, to leave Messrs.
Walker and Delany twirling about in the string, like a pair of fowls
under a bottle-jack.
But notwithstanding they were both in close and almost inseparable
contact, they seemed to enjoy their respective situations with a very
different demeanour.
The unpleasant sensations of Mr. Delany had for a considerable time
subsided into a general tranquillity, nor did his manner in the
slightest degree indicate any impatience or displeasure at being so long
detained in company with the inveterate solicitor; nor indeed did he
articulate one sentence of complaint against the boisterous conduct of
his outrageous comrade.
The attorney, on the contrary, not being blessed with so even a temper
as Mr. Delany, showed every symptom of inordinate impatience to get out
of his company, and exhibited divers samples of plunging, kicking, and
muscular convulsion, more novel and entertaining than even those of the
most celebrated rope-dancers; he also incessantly vociferated as loud,
if not louder than he had ever done upon any former occasion, though not
in any particular dialect or language, but as a person generally does
when undergoing a cruel surgical operation.
The attorney’s eyes not having any thing to do with the hanging matter,
he clearly saw the same crowd approaching which had caused the
retrograde movement of his comrades; and, as it approached, he gave
himself entirely up for lost, being placed in the very same convenient
position for piking as Absalom (King David’s natural son) when General
Joab ran him through the body without the slightest resistance; and
though the attorney’s toes were not two feet from the ground, he made as
much fuss, floundering and bellowing, as if they had been twenty.
The man of law at length became totally exhausted and tranquil, as
children generally are when they have no strength to squall any longer.
He had, however, in this state of captivity, the consolation of
beholding (at every up glance) the bloated, raven-gray visage of the
king’s enemy, and his disloyal eyes bursting from their sockets, and
full glaring with inanimate revenge on the loyalist who had darkened
them. A thrilling horror seized upon the nerves and muscles of the
attorney: his sins and clients were now (like the visions in Macbeth, or
King Saul and the Witch of Endor) beginning to pass in shadowy review
before his imagination. The last glance he could distinctly take, as he
looked upward to Heaven for aid, (there being none at Rathfarnan,) gave
a dismal glimpse of his once red-and-white engrossing member, now, like
the chameleon, assuming the deep purple hue of the rebel jaw it was in
contact with, the fingers spread out, cramped, and extended as a fan
before the rebel visage; and numbness, the avant-courier of
mortification, having superseded torture, he gave himself totally up to
Heaven. If he had a hundred prayers, he would have repeated every one of
them; but, alas! theology was not his forte, and he was gradually
sinking into that merciful insensibility invented by farriers, when they
twist an instrument upon a horse’s nostrils, that the torture of his
nose may render him insensible to the pains his tail is enduring.
In the mean time the royal troop, which had most prudentially retreated
to avoid an overwhelming force, particularly on their flank, as the
enemy approached, yielded ground, though gradually. The enemy being all
foot, the troop kept only a quarter of a mile from them, and merely
retreated a hundred yards at a time, being sure of superior speed to
that of the rebels,—when, to the surprise of Captain Ferns, the enemy
made a sudden wheel, and took possession of a churchyard upon a small
eminence, as if intending to pour down on the cavalry, if they could
entice them within distance; but, to the astonishment of the royal
troopers, instead of the Irish war-whoop, which they expected, the enemy
set up singing and crying in a most plaintive and inoffensive manner.
The buck parson, with Malony the bailiff, being ordered to reconnoitre,
immediately galloped back, announcing that the enemy had a coffin, and
were performing a funeral; but, both swearing that it was a new ambush,
and the whole troop coinciding in the same opinion, a further retreat
was decided on, which might be now performed without the slightest
confusion. It was also determined to carry off their dead, for such it
was taken for granted the attorney must have been, by the excess of his
agitation, dancing and plunging till they lost sight of him, and also
through the contagion and poisonous collision of a struggling rebel, to
whom he had been so long cemented.
In order, therefore, to bring off the solicitor, dead or alive, they
rallied, formed, and charged, sword in hand, towards the rampike, where
they had left Attorney W—— and Mr. Delany in so novel a situation, and
where they expected no loving reception.
In the mean time, it turned out that the kicking, plunging, and
rope-dancing of the attorney had their advantages; as, at length, the
obdurate rope, by the repeated pulls and twists, slipped over the knot
of the rampike which had arrested its progress, ran freely, and down
came the rebel and royalist together, with an appropriate crash, on the
green sod under their gibbet, which seemed beneficently placed there by
nature on purpose to receive them.
The attorney’s innocent feet, however, still remained tightly moored to
the gullet of the guilty rebel, and might have remained there till they
grew or rotted together, had not the opportune arrival of his gallant
comrades saved them from mortification.
To effect the separation of Attorney W—— and Mr. Delany was no easy
achievement: the latter had gone to his forefathers, but the rope was
strong and tight, both able and willing to have hung half a dozen more
of them, if employed to do so. Many loyal pen-knives were set instantly
at work; but the rope defied them all; the knot was too solid. At length
Sergeant Potterton’s broad-sword, having assumed the occupation of a
saw, effected the operation without any accident, save sawing across one
of the attorney’s veins. The free egress of his loyal gore soon brought
its proprietor to his sense of existence; though three of the fingers
had got so clever a stretching, that the muscles positively refused to
bend any more for them, and they ever after retained the same fan-like
expansion as when knotted to Mr. Delany. The index and thumb still
retained their engrossing powers, to the entire satisfaction of the club
of Skinners’ Alley, of which he was an active alderman.
The maimed attorney was now thrown across a horse and carried to a
jingle,[59] and sent home with all the honours of war to his wife and
children, to make what use they pleased of.
-----
Footnote 59:
A jingle is a species of jaunting-car used in the environs of Dublin
by gentry that have no other mode of travelling.
-----
Captain Ferns’ royal troop now held another council of war, to determine
on ulterior operations; and, though the rebel army in the church-yard
might have been only a funeral, it was unanimously agreed that an
important check had been given to the rebels of Rathfarnan; yet that
prudence was as necessary an ingredient in the art of war as
intrepidity; and that it might be risking the advantage of what had been
done, if they made any attempt on the yellow house, or the captain’s
_Bourdeaux_, as they might be overpowered by a host of pot-valiant
rebels, and thereby his Majesty be deprived of their future services.
They therefore finally decided to retire upon Dublin at a
sling-trot—publish a bulletin of the battle in Captain Giffard’s Dublin
Journal—wait upon Lords Camden and Castlereagh, and Mr. Cooke, with a
detail of the expedition and casualties,—and, finally, celebrate the
action by a dinner, when the usual beverage, with the anthem of “God
save the King,” might unite in doing national honour both to the liquor
and to his Majesty, the latter being always considered quite lonesome by
the corporators of Dublin, unless garnished by the former accompaniment.
This was all carried into effect. Lieutenant H——, the walking gallows,
(_ante_) was especially invited; and the second metropolis of the
British empire had thus the honour of achieving the first victory over
the rebellious subjects of his Majesty in the celebrated insurrection of
1798.