At the point where the range of mountains which divides the Northern
from the Southern half of Donegal approaches nearest to the innermost
extremity of Donegal Bay, there is a wild and rocky pass which, from
a distance, shows as a saddle-shaped hollow on the skyline, giving
the impression of a bite taken by the mouth of a giant clean out of
the centre of the mountain.
This gorge is still, as it always has been in the past, the main
artery of communication between the level and fertile plains of
Tyrone and Londonderry and the tract of country south of the
mountains extending as far as Lough Erne. It is called Barnesmore
Gap, and the following is the legend current upon the countryside as
to the origin of the name.
'I tell the tale as 'twas told to me.'
At the beginning of this century when Mr. Balfour's light railways
were not thought of, and even the Finn Valley Railway as yet was not,
its place was taken in the internal economy of the country by the
highroad running through the Gap. Great then was the congestion of
traffic and the indignation of traders far and wide, when a
highwayman selected the part of this road which lay amidst the
mountains for the scene of his depredations, and levied toll upon all
comers.
Men of a peace-loving disposition or with time to spare diverted
their course round the southern extremity of the range. And as time
is the least valuable commodity in Ireland and usually the least
considered, the general stream of commerce followed this direction.
But there were cases where urgency or impatience led to the use of
the old route, and off these the highwayman made his profit.
When this state of siege had continued for some time, a gentleman of
Enniskillen of the name of O'Connor had need of a sum of two hundred
pounds within a certain time. This money he had to get from Derry.
But he could not trust the mail, which was regularly robbed, and it
would not reach him in time by any route, but the shortest--that
through the Gap. None of his servants would run the risk of a
meeting with the highwayman, and he had determined to take the
journey himself, when a half-witted hanger-on about the house, named
Blazing Barney from the color of his hair, volunteered for the sendee.
This man was a natural or a 'bit daft,' as they call it in Scotland.
But his master knew that he could be sharp enough upon occasion, and
no one would dream that such a half-witted creature would be trusted
with such an important commission. Altogether this was the best
chance of deceiving the highwayman, so he decided to risk it.
He offered Barney the pick of his weapons and his best hunter, but
the omadhawn preferred to go unarmed and mounted upon the worst
looking horse in the stable, an old gray, that was blind of one eye
and lame of one leg, but could still do a good day's travelling. As
he shrewdly remarked:
'Fwhat 'ud I be doin' on a gran' upstandin' baste like yon; the thafe
beyant wud rise till the thrick in no time.'
For Barney's silliness only came on in fits at the season of the new
moon; at other times he was merely a slightly exaggerated type of
that mixture of simplicity with a certain low-bred cunning in
practical matters which has distinguished the countryman in all ages
from the larger-minded dweller in cities. The present was a lucid
interval, so he could be trusted to take care of himself.
So Barney jogged along on his way towards Derry, through Fermanagh
and Donegal, without fear of any ill, and only had to ask for what he
wanted in the way of food and shelter in order to get it. The
simple-hearted peasantry never grudge 'bit nor sup' to the poor of
their own order, and those afflicted as he was they regard as being
under the special protection of heaven.
With the help of an early start, in spite of the sorriness of his
nag, he managed the fifty miles between Enniskillen and the town of
Donegal on the first day, and early on the second reached the Gap.
It was a moist, drizzling morning, and as he rode in among the
mountains a damp mist closed down upon him, almost hiding the ground
beneath him from his sight. The road passed upwards along the
mountain side, until it became a mere ledge jutting out from it, and
forming a break in the sheer descent of the cliff; on the one hand
was a precipice, from the bottom of which came the ripple of rushing
waters to warn the traveller from its brink, on the other rose the
steep hillside, whence he could hear above him the muffled crowing of
the grouse among the heather.
Suddenly a gigantic figure outlined itself upon the mist, seeming to
Barney larger than human, and he crossed himself as he rode nearer to
it. But as the deceitful folds of vapor rolled away from it, the
figure, resolved itself into a man on horseback standing across the
roadway at its narrowest point.
'Where are ye for?' said the stranger shortly.
'It's a saft day, yer 'ahner, an' where am I for, is it? Well, I'll
just tell ye, it's Derry I'm for, that same, an' mebbe ye'll infarm
me if I'm on the right road.' And Barney giggled vacantly.
'What are you laughing at, fool?'
'Laffin' is it me, yer 'ahner? Troth I was only--'
'Don't stand bletherin' there,' interrupted the other angrily.
'What'll ye be doin' at Derry?'
'At Derry? He! he! he! That's just fwhat I was tould not to let an
to a livin' sowl, but there can be no harrum, musha, in tellin' a
fine jintleman like yersilf now, kin there now? I'm goin' to Derry
for two hunner pund. That's what I'll be doin'. What do ye say to
that?'
'An' who'd give you two hundred pounds, ye cod ye?'
'Two hunner pun', he! he! he! two hunner pun'..!'
'Look here, my good fellow, does this money belong to you?'
'Me is it? No for shure, it's the masther's.'
'And who's your master?'
'The masther? Troth he's just the masther, he! he! he!'
'What's his name, you idiot?'
'Oh his name, his name's Misther O'Connor of Inniskilling.'
'And has he much money?'
'Lashins.'
'An' what did the master send you for?'
'Fwhat for? Two hunner pun', he! he! he!'
'Why did he choose you to send? Don't you know that there is a
highwayman on this road?'
'Ah, that's just it yer 'ahner, I'm only a fule, so the thafe of the
wurruld won't suspect me, but mebbe I'll not be such a fule as he
thinks me.'
'How do you know I'm not the highwayman?'
'Ah ye're makin' game yer 'ahner. A fine jintleman like yersilf on a
splendacious baste, the likes of yon is it that would be a dhirty
robber? I'm not such a fule as to think that.'
'Well, well, what would you do if you did meet the robber?'
'Rin like a hare, yer 'ahner.'
'That old horse of yours wouldn't, I'm thinkin'. And if ye couldn't
run?'
'Well, I dunno,' and Barney scratched his head--'stan' I spose an'
give him the money if he axed far it.'
'A nice cowardly thing to do with your master's property.'
'Betther be a coward nor a corp,' replied Barney pithily.
'Well, I hope you'll find Derry a good sort of place.'
'For sartin, shure. Why wudn't I? I hear tell ye can git as much
cahfee there for a pinny as wud make tay for tin min.'
'Will you shake your elbow?'
'Thank ye kindly, sirr, but niver a dhrain do I take.'
'Well, the loss is yours. Here's luck!' and the stranger raised the
rejected flask to his own lips.
'Will you be coming back this way?'
'I dunno.'
'What day will you be coming back, d'ye think?'
'I d'no.'
'To-morrow?'
'Aiblins.'
'Well, will ye be coming back the day after?'
'Mebbe I might an' mebbe I mightn't, an' mebbe I might too.' The
omadhawn had turned suddenly sulky after the manner of his kind, and
it was evident that there was nothing more to be got out of him. The
stranger saw this, and said, 'Well, don't go telling everybody you
meet all you've told me, and mind you don't get robbed before you get
back here. Good luck to you.'
'Morrow till ye, an' God be wi' ye, whereever ye go,' responded the
haverel as he rode off.
Two days afterwards Barney was once more passing through the Gap,
this time on his return journey. It was evening and the scene was
very different from the first occasion of his visit to the place.
Instead of damp and mist there was now brilliant sunshine which
flooded the valley and the far hill-sides with purple light, and
glittered upon the surface of the brook with the slanting rays of
eventide. Barney could now see that the side of the precipice
leading downwards from the road was not absolutely perpendicular, but
was diversified with rocky ledges and huge boulders, which lent a
wild and rugged aspect to the scenery, intensified by the great
mountains which towered steeply upon either hand. While the sight of
the sea in the background added to the loneliness of the mountains
the vaster loneliness of the ocean.
At a turn of the road he came upon the stranger stationed at the same
point as before, and as then drawn up across the path.
'Why it's yer 'ahner's self agin,' cried Barney delightedly, 'more
power to yer elbow.'
'Oh, so you're here, then,' said the other with evident relief,
'where's the money?'
'The money is it? Troth it's in my pooch safe enough, I'll warrant,
I thought I'd sarcumvint that robber villain.'
'Hand it over.'
'I hope yer 'ahner hasn't met him yersilf at ahl.'
'Hand it over.'
'Hand what over? Is it me yer talkin' to, surr?'
'Yes, I want that money you've got. I'm the highwayman.'
'Now you're jokin', surr,' said the natural anxiously. 'Shure ye
wouldn't go to play a thrick that road upon a poor bhoy.'
'Don't stand jabberin' there, give me the hard stuff.'
'An' he was the thafe ahl the time, see that now, he! he! he!' and
the idiot went into a fit of laughter, rocking himself to and fro on
his horse, and wagging his hands helplessly.
'Give me the money, damn you,' said the robber out of patience as he
drew a pistol from his holster, 'or I'll shoot you.'
'Oh, wirra, wirra, shure yer 'ahner wouldn't harrum Barney, he's only
a nathral, that never done no one no hurt, may the saints presarve
ye.'
'I don't want to hurt you,' said the other, 'but I must have that two
hundred pounds, so just hand it over, and no more foolery.'
'Ah thin,' cried the idiot, flying into a passion, which lent fluency
to his invective, 'bad cess to ye for a decaivin' sarpent, may the
divil roast ye for yer blandandherin' ways, gettin' me saycrit fram
me, an' thin thurnin' on me. Bad scran to yer sowl. My curse and
the curse of Crummle rest on ye. Sorra till ye. May ye live till ye
wish ye were dead, an' die like a dog in a ditch, but the divil a
thraneen of the masther's wud ye get, if I had to throw it from here
into the say, so now,' and before the robber could prevent him he had
taken the two packages of money from his pocket and thrown them down
the precipice.
'Ay, luk at it now, luk at the goold aleppin' an' arowlin' over the
stones, there's yer money, ye thafe ye, much good may it do ye.'
As he spoke the paper packages burst on the rocks below, and the
glittering shower of coins could be seen leaping from point to point,
ever gathering velocity, while the ring of the metal upon the stones
mingled with the babbling of the brook, towards which they were
hastening.
With a curse the robber replaced his pistol in its holster, leaped
from his horse, and began scrambling down the cliff, to try and save
a part of the spoil if possible.
'He! he! he!' laughed the idiot, as he rocked and swayed at the edge
of the precipice, and he giggled and slobbered and gibbered, as he
pointed at the robber toiling after his elusive quest.
When the highwayman was about half-way down the descent, Barney
mounted the other's fine black horse and began to ride off, leaving
his own old screw behind.
'Stop, damn your soul,' cried the highwayman, starting to climb up
again. 'What are ye doin', ye jape ye? Stop, or I'll shoot ye.'
'Shute away, ye blatherskite,' replied Barney cheerfully, 'haven't I
got yer pistols in yer own holsters? but I'm thinkin' I'm goin' to
take this illigant baste of yer 'ahner's instid av me own. Shure,
fair exchange is no robbery, an' ye can make up the differ in the
price foreby the lucks-penny with all them bright farthin's down
there. I got them out of the bank o' purpose for yous.'
After that day the highwayman was seen no more in his accustomed
haunts. But in honor of the omadhawn's stratagem the place has ever
since borne the name of Barney's or Barnesmore Gap.
'MORE CRUEL THAN THE GRAVE'
There were four of them,--two men and two girls,--and they sat on the
top of the outermost cliffs of Donegal, dangling their legs over the
Atlantic. Behind them stretched Donegal Bay, with its rugged,
mountainous shores and varied inlets, the sun throwing purple shadows
on the steep sides of Slieve League. In this direction they could
see the long lines of towering black-faced cliffs, clad in parts with
honeysuckle and capped with heather, giving place as they marched
inland to lowland stretches, where the sandy dunes with their tufted
bent-grass sloped gradually to the water's edge, from which they were
separated by strips of hard and silvery strand. Looking out westward
in front of them there was nothing but the wide ocean between them
and America.
'Well, and how do you find your new parish, Fairchild?' said the
elder of the two men, throwing a piece of rock-slate at a passing
gull, 'slightly different from anything you ever came across in
England, isn't it?'
'Yes, this is an entirely new experience for me. Of course six
months is a very short time to justify a wholesale opinion, but I
never imagined previously that quite such a primitive people could
exist anywhere in these islands.'
The speaker was a young English curate, only recently appointed to
this out-of-the-way parish of Kilcross. His companion was a young
ship's doctor home on leave. The two girls were the granddaughters
of the vicar, one of the few clergymen in Ireland who refused to
commute at the time of the disestablishment of the Irish Church, and
who now, at the advanced age of ninety, was still enjoying the fruits
of his obstinacy. It could be seen from the bundles beside them that
the girls were on their way to a bathe, when they had met the two men
and fallen into conversation with them.
'Primitive is just the word to describe them,' replied the doctor,
'it is curious how utterly our civilization has passed them by in
this remote corner of the world, and left them exactly the same as
their earliest forefathers must have been generations back. A fisher
folk are proverbially benighted, but shut in here between the
seriousness of the barren soil on the one hand and the melancholy of
the Atlantic upon the other, the inhabitants of these highland
villages upon the seaboard are utterly barbarous. And they possess
all the virtues and vices of uncivilized types. Hospitable,
good-natured, treacherous and superstitious, they have the
unreflecting cruelty common to the child and the savage--I could tell
you some horrible stories about that if I liked--joined to--what
shall I call it?--their want of solidarity of character.'
'I don't quite understand, though you are saying things that I have
often dimly tried to puzzle out for myself,' interrupted the elder
girl.
'I suppose you refer to my last phrase, Miss Ruth. I mean that there
is no common element running through their natures and joining their
different moods and emotions together, harmonizing them or shading
them off one into the other. There is no coherence about them, no
compromise, they are a mere medley of odd passions, all in the raw
and without sequence, each following crudely and logically from its
own peculiar premises. None of their moods ever has reference to any
previous mood.'
'I suppose, Seymour,' said the clergyman thoughtfully, 'that is why I
have found I could never get any grip of them. I have often thought
I was progressing favorably, making an impression, and then at some
sudden turn, as they express it themselves, I have "come a jundy up
agin'" a blank-wall in their character, and had to confess myself
baffled again.'
'Yes, that is it. I have been brought up among them and been
familiar with them since childhood, and I can safely say that with
the exception of Miss Ruth here, I have never known any one not of
their own race and religion obtain any hold over them, or exercise
the slightest effect upon their conduct in any one way, and even her
influence stops short with the women. The difficulty is that there
is no central point to work upon. There is no use trying to argue
with them or soften them. One mood can only be exorcised by another.
Their obstinacy or their superstition can only be cast out by an
appeal to their cupidity or their fear. It is there that the hold of
the Roman Catholic Church over them comes in. The priest has the
power to excommunicate any one at any time, which means not only
destruction for them in the next world, but also discomfort in this.
We Protestants have no such deterrents. If you take my advice you
won't remain here long. You don't sympathize enough with the people
ever to understand them. They want a stern, determined,
coarse-grained nature to drive them. You are too delicate and subtle
for them. Your work is all thrown away here.'
'The people are not necessarily the only attraction,' returned the
curate a little sullenly.
'Oh, do come and look at this wee bubbly bit,' broke in the younger
girl, who, unlike her more mature and graver sister had ceased to pay
any further attention to the conversation, as soon as she found that
it had turned upon the 'Parish.'
'Just watch it,' she continued, pointing to a crevice in the rocks
below, 'the water is ever so far away down, and then it rises
gradually higher and higher until it reaches the edge with a "plop"
and runs over, and then it sinks again right down until it leaves the
long wrack at the sides hanging clear out of the water and dripping
down into it like dead water snakes, till the next wave comes and
flushes them into life again,' and she bobbed her head gravely in
time with the rhythmical heave and subsidence of the recurrent
surges, glinting the sunlight from her bright gold hair.
'Yes, that shows a very heavy swell. It is the distant muttering of
a storm far out in the Atlantic. A bad sign for your bathe. In fact
I don't think you ought to bathe at all to-day, Miss Selina. These
ground-swells are very dangerous, and the sea looks angry to-day.
Just notice how dirty and disturbed the water is with the sand
stirred up from its depths. That fringe of seaweed too along the
tidal mark is ominous.'
'Dangerous, nonsense,' replied the girl. 'Why, the sea is as calm as
a mill-pond, and I never saw a lovelier day. You're becoming a
perfect old woman, Dr. Seymour. I'm sure even Mr. Fairchild doesn't
think it dangerous, now, do you?'
'It certainly appears calm enough to me,' said the person thus
appealed to.
Seymour flushed and retorted shortly with a slight sneer.
'Fairchild doesn't know the sea well enough to be afraid of it. He
speaks out of the depths of his ignorance. But a wilful woman must
have her way. So I'll leave you to your bathe. Good morning!' and
the two men turned away along the top of the cliff, while the girls
ran gayly down the sloping path that led to the little cove below.
They had not gone far before Seymour recovered from his temporary
ill-humor, and halted.
'I'm not easy in my mind about those girls,' he said. 'A
ground-swell like that is more treacherous than the nature of our
Irish friends beyond. I think we ought to wait here within earshot
of them,' and they both sat down upon the sod bank with their backs
to the sea.
For a time there was a moody silence, which the clergyman broke at
last, enviously, kicking his heels against the sod ditch.
'Of course I've got no chance against you. I can see that. And I
think it's hardly fair.'
'Eh! why! what!' ejaculated the other, starting out of a reverie.
'That we are both in love with the same girl. And what chance have I
against a man of the world like you, who has travelled and studied
human nature and womankind? I think it's hardly fair,' repeated the
youth with what sounded suspiciously like a snivel.
'But I thought it was the sister you were in love with.'
'Oh, nonsense. The sister's all very well in her way. But no one
could look at her for a moment while the other one is by.'
'No, of course not,' assented Seymour with conviction.
'She is so beautiful, so large and gracious and serene.'
'That's not at all how I read it. Your notion of her sounds very
much like the character of--hark! what's that?'
A shrill long-drawn scream came pealing towards them across the sea.
They rose together and rushed tumultuously along the cliffs, towards
the sound, meeting another shriller than the first as they ran.
Suddenly they burst into sight of the little cove, and halted in
surprise. So peaceful was the scene. The sun was smiling broadly
down upon an ocean breathing the long deep respirations of a
dreamless slumber--couchant like a beast of prey. In the foreground
the two girls, clinging apprehensively together, were standing up to
their waist in water, their figures in the clinging bathing gowns
darkly silhouetted against the muddy light green of the
sandy-bottomed bay.
But even as they gazed a silent treacherous undulation passed like a
breath across the naked bosom of the sleeping ocean and crept
stealthily up to the terrified figures. Swiftly it lapped their
breasts and stole upwards about their throats. And still it rose and
rose with slow remorseless volume, till it met softly above their
heads, leaving a few bubbles to mark the spot where they had been.
The giant swell passed on its way, and for a moment they were seen
wallowing helplessly at large in the trough. Then the back surge
returned upon them and swept them seawards.
'Good God, they'll be drowned,' cried Seymour, throwing off his coat.
'What are you doing? You can't swim. Run as hard as you can to the
village for a boat. I'll do all that can be done here.'
'Promise to save her at all costs.'
'Ay, I swear to that, though I and the other one should tread the
short road to hell.'
The clergyman turned and ran vehemently away, his coat-tails flying
in the breeze.
'Bring the priest with you if you can,' shouted Seymour after him,
but a summer breath caught the words and wafted them away, and though
the vague echo of them reached the runner's ears, their full import
did not penetrate to his brain.
Reaching the village he quickly got a boat. The crew threw
themselves into it, urged on by the women to 'be sure and save Miss
Ruth.'
As soon as they rounded the horn of the bay a great throb of mingled
joy and anguish gripped the young man by the throat. For a dripping
figure was standing upon the shore and he knew that his love was
saved--saved by his rival.
Midway between the boat and the shore was a small point of rock, to
which the figure of the other girl could be seen clinging; so she too
was safe. Beyond that again a swimmer's head was visible in the
water. Directly they opened the point upon him, Seymour saw them,
and, with a wave of his hand, turned wearily shorewards. The girl's
eyes were bent on her rescuer away from the boat, and her numbed
senses did not perceive the sound of the approaching oars. She
thought herself abandoned, and, losing hope, released her hold and
slipped off into the water. With a shout the boatmen dashed to her
rescue.
For a few moments the bowman groped in the water with the boathook
without success, but at last it caught in the girl's bathing dress
and he drew her to the surface. The other men clustered around him
and began to chatter in a low tone. The stroke, a man of huge
stature called 'Big Dan Murphy,' sat stolidly opposite the curate,
shutting out the view. As the men still chattered and made no
further move Fairchild grew uneasy. Something in the harsher notes
of their voices betokened a change of mood. That momentary check had
been fatal, it had allowed their enthusiasm to cool and given an
opening for more calculating thoughts.
'What are you doing, men? Lift her into the boat,' he said, and
rising to his feet he saw for the first time the face supported just
above the surface of the water. The face was the face of Ruth--Ruth
whom he had thought safe on shore. 'My God, lift her in quick,' he
repeated, with a tremor in his voice.
The men muttered together, looking at him askance. One of them spoke
a few words in strident Erse to the stroke.
'What does he say, Dan?' the young man demanded impatiently.
'He says,' replied the other phlegmatically, 'that she's a corp
ahlready, and that it will only bring bad luck to the fishin' to take
a dead body intil the boat.'
'But she's not dead,' cried Fairchild wildly, 'she was alive this
minute on the rock. Make them lift her in.'
'Ye shud ha' brought the priest wid ye,' responded the giant with a
neutral compassion; 'them wans is not to be druv by no man barrin'
him, when they jine to take a conthrairy notion yon road.'
At this the echo of Seymour's last words returned clearly upon
Fairchild's brain, and he cursed himself for his inattention. With
it, too, there returned the remembrance of other words of Seymour's.
He recognized that this was a crisis and braced himself to make a
fight of it.
'Good God, men,' said he, 'you don't mean to say you will let a woman
die before your eyes for a miserable superstition like that? Why, I
can see her breathe; she's as much alive as any of us. See, she's
opening her eyes. For God's sake lift her in,' he broke off, in
frenzied tones. They turned indifferently away, and the hopelessness
of pulling against the dead weight of their superstition settled down
over his mind and enveloped it in black despair. But he continued
desperately:
'If you take her in I'll give you money,--a hundred pounds a
head,--five hundred pounds,--I'll give you all that I've got.' For a
moment their attention was attracted and their cupidity aroused. But
the sums he mentioned were so large that they defeated his own
object. They conveyed no meaning to the narrow minds of the
fishermen accustomed to think in pence. They sounded in their ears
like promises of fairy gold. Had he offered them a new boat and nets
they would have understood it and jumped at the offer. But he paid
the penalty now of not knowing his ground. Once more they turned
away.
Then something went snap in his temple, and he lost control over
himself, and with that all chance of influencing them.
'You are not men,' he raved, the tears streaming from his eyes, 'but
brutes. It is too cruel. You can't mean it. Will no one help me?
I'll have you all hung for murdering her. Why haven't I got a pistol
with me? and I'd shoot you all like dogs. You hounds, I'll strangle
you now,' and he threw himself choked with sobs upon the stroke. But
it was not more hopeless to cast his puny force against the dead wall
of their superstition than against that iron chest. The giant took
him in his arms like an infant, and replaced him gently upon his
seat. The others laughed.
'Av the whelp doesn't quit bletherin', putt him in the wather along
of his swateheart, Dan,' said one of them in an ugly tone.
The young man rose again from his seat, and tried to cast himself
over the side, even though he couldn't swim, to be beside his
beloved. But again he was caught and placed on the thwart, to which
this time he was strapped down, so that mercifully he could not see
over the gunwale of the boat.
Then the men tied a rope round the girl's arms, dropped her calmly
into the water again, resumed their oars, and rowed sullenly back the
mile to the village. Behind them the body spun at the end of its
long rope. In the stern-sheets curses and blasphemies bubbled from
the lips of a gibbering maniac.
When they reached the shore, not only was life extinct, but both the
girl's arms were broken. The sea itself would have been more
merciful than that.
* * * * * *
When Fairchild awoke from his long bout of brain fever his eyes fell
upon Seymour.
'Why didn't you save her as you promised?' were the first words he
uttered.
'Nonsense, old man, you're wandering still. Of course I saved her.
You forget, it was her sister Ruth that those devils murdered.'
'Oh, it's all a horrible mistake,' groaned the invalid, as he buried
his face in his hands and turned his head to the wall, moaning like a
wounded thing in pain.