I am at a loss to know whether or not I owe an apology to my reader for
turning away from the more immediate object of this memoir of a life, to
speak of events which have assumed an historical reputation. It may be
thought ill-becoming in one who occupied the subordinate station that
I did, to express himself on subjects so very far above both his
experience and acquaintance; but I would premise, that in the opinions I
may have formed, and the words of praise or censure dropped, I have been
but retailing the sentiments of those older and wiser than myself, and
by whose guidance I was mainly led to entertain not only the convictions
but the prejudices of my early years.
Let the reader bear in mind, too, that I was very early in life thrown
into the society of men--left self-dependent, in a great measure, and
obliged to decide for myself on subjects which usually are determined
by older and more mature heads. So much of excuse, then, if I seem
presumptuous in saying that I began to conceive a very low opinion
generally of popular attempts at independence, and a very high one of
the powers of military skill and discipline. A mob, in my estimation,
was the very lowest, and an army about the very highest, object I
could well conceive. My short residence at Castlebar did not tend to
controvert these impressions. The safety of the town and its inhabitants
was entirely owing to the handful of French who held it, and who,
wearied with guards, pickets, and outpost duty, were a mere fraction of
the small force that had landed a few days before.
Our ‘allies’ were now our most difficult charge, Abandoning the hopeless
task of drilling and disciplining them, we confined ourselves to the
more practical office of restraining pillage and repressing violence--a
measure, be it said, that was not without peril, and of a very
serious kind. I remember one incident, which, if not followed by grave
consequences, yet appeared at the time of a very serious character.
By the accidental misspelling of a name, a man named Dowall, a
notorious ruffian and demagogue, was appointed _commandant de place_, or
town-major, instead of a most respectable shopkeeper named Downes, who,
although soon made aware of the mistake, from natural timidity took
no steps to undeceive the general. Dowall was haranguing a mob of
half-drunken vagabonds, when his commission was put into his hands; and,
accepting the post as an evidence of the fears the French entertained of
his personal influence, became more overbearing and insolent than ever.
We had a very gallant officer, the second major of the 12th Regiment
of the Line, killed in the attack on Castlebar, and this Dowall at once
took possession of poor Delaitre’s horse, arms, and equipment. His coat
and shako, his very boots and gloves, the scoundrel appropriated; and,
as if in mockery of us and our poor friend, assumed a habit that he had
when riding fast, to place his sabre between his leg and the saddle, to
prevent its striking the horse on the flanks.
I need scarcely say that, thoroughly disgusted by the unsightly
exhibition, our incessant cares, and the endless round of duty we were
engaged in, as well as the critical position we occupied, left us no
time to notice the fellow’s conduct by any other than a passing sign
of anger or contempt--provocations that he certainly gave us back as
insolently as we offered them. I do not believe that the general ever
saw him, but I know that incessant complaints were daily made to him
about the man’s rapacity and tyranny, and scarcely a morning passed
without a dozen remonstrances being preferred against his overbearing
conduct.
Determined to have his own countrymen on his side, he issued the
most absurd orders for the billeting of the rabble, the rations and
allowances of all kinds. He seized upon one of the best houses for his
own quarters, and three fine saddle-horses for his personal use, besides
a number of inferior ones for the ruffian following he called his staff!
It was, indeed, enough to excite laughter, had not indignation been the
more powerful emotion, to see this fellow ride forth of a morning--a
tawdry scarf of green, with deep gold fringe, thrown over his shoulder,
and a saddle-cloth of the same colour, profusely studded with gold
shamrocks, on his horse; a drawn sword in his hand, and his head erect,
followed by an indiscriminate rabble on foot or horseback--some with
muskets, some pikes, some with sword blades, bayonets, or even knives
fastened on sticks, but all alike ferocious-looking.
They affected to march in order, and, with a rude imitation of soldiery,
carried something like a knapsack on their shoulders, surmounted by a
kettle or tin cup, or sometimes an iron pot--a grotesque parody on the
trim cooking equipment of the French soldier. It was evident, from their
step and bearing, that they thought themselves in the very height of
discipline; and this very assumption was far more insulting to the real
soldier than all the licentious irregularity of the marauder. If to us
they were objects of ridicule and derision, to the townspeople they were
images of terror and dismay. The miserable shopkeeper who housed one of
them lived in continual fear; he knew nothing to be his own, and felt
that his property and family were every moment at the dictate of a
ruffian gang, who acknowledged no law, nor any rule save their own will
and convenience. Dowall’s squad were indeed as great a terror in that
little town as I had seen the great name of Robespierre in the proud
city of Paris.
In my temporary position on General Serasin’s staff, I came to hear much
of this fellow’s conduct. The most grievous stories were told me every
day of his rapacity and cruelty; but, harassed and overworked as the
general was with duties that would have been overmuch for three or four
men, I forebore to trouble him with recitals which could only fret and
distress him without affording the slightest chance of relief to others.
Perhaps this impunity had rendered him more daring, or, perhaps, the
immense number of armed Irish in comparison with the small force of
disciplined soldiers, emboldened the fellow; but certainly he grew day
by day more presumptuous and insolent, and at last so far forgot himself
as to countermand one of General Serasin’s orders, by which a guard
was stationed at the Protestant church to prevent its being molested or
injured by the populace.
General Humbert had already refused the Roman Catholic priest his
permission to celebrate mass in that building, but Dowall had determined
otherwise, and that, too, by a written order, under his own hand. The
French sergeant who commanded the guard of course paid little attention
to this warrant; and when Father Hennisy wanted to carry the matter with
a high hand, he coolly tore up the paper, and threw the fragments at
him.
Dowall was soon informed of the slight offered to his mandate. He was at
supper at the time, entertaining a party of his friends, who all heard
the priest’s story, and, of course, loudly sympathised with his sorrows,
and invoked the powerful leader’s aid and protection. Affecting to
believe that the sergeant had merely acted in ignorance, and from not
being able to read English, Dowall despatched a fellow whom he called
his aide-de-camp, a schoolmaster named Lowrie, and who spoke a little
bad French, to interpret his command, and to desire the sergeant to
withdraw his men, and give up the guard to a party of ‘the squad.’
Great was the surprise of the supper-party, when, after the lapse of
half an hour, a country fellow came in to say that he had seen Lowrie
led off to prison between two French soldiers. By this time Dowall had
drunk himself into a state of utter recklessness, while, encouraged by
his friends’ praises, and the arguments of his own passions, he fancied
that he might dispute ascendency with General Humbert himself. He at
once ordered out his horse, and gave a command to assemble the ‘squad.’
As they were all billeted in his immediate vicinity, this was speedily
effected, and their numbers swelled by a vast mass of idle and curious,
who were eager to see how the matter would end; the whole street was
crowded, and when Dowall mounted, his followers amounted to above a
thousand people.
If our sergeant, an old soldier of the ‘Sambre et Meuse,’ had not
already enjoyed some experience of our allies, it is more than likely
that, seeing their hostile advance, he would have fallen back upon the
main guard, then stationed in the market-square. As it was, he simply
retired his party within the church, the door of which had already been
pierced for the use of musketry. This done, and one of his men being
despatched to headquarters for advice and orders, he waited patiently
for the attack.
I happened that night to make one of General Serasin’s dinner-party,
and we were sitting over our wine, when the officer of the guard entered
hastily with the tidings of what was going on in the town.
‘Is it the _commandant de place_ himself who is at the head?’ exclaimed
Serasin, in amazement, such a thought being a direct shock to all his
ideas of military discipline.
‘Yes, sir,’ said the officer; ‘the soldier knows his appearance well,
and can vouch for its being him.’
‘As I know something of him, general,’ said I, ‘I may as well mention
that nothing is more likely.’
‘Who is he--what is he?’ asked Serasin hastily.
A very brief account--I need not say not a nattering one--told all that
I knew or had ever heard of our worthy town-major--many of the officers
around corroborating, as I went on, all that I said, and interpolating
little details of their own about his robberies and exactions.
‘And yet I have heard nothing of all this before,’ said the general,
looking sternly around him on every side.
None ventured on a reply; and what might have followed there is no
guessing, when the sharp rattle of musketry cut short all discussion.
‘That fire was not given by soldiers,’ said Serasin. ‘Go, Tiernay, and
bring this fellow before me at once.’
I bowed, and was leaving the room, when an officer, having whispered a
few words in Serasin’s ear, the general called me back, saying--
‘You are not to incur any risk, Tiernay; I want no struggle, still less
a rescue. You understand me?’
‘Perfectly, general; the matter will, I trust, be easy enough.’
And so I left the room, my heart--shall I avow it?--bumping and
throbbing in a fashion that gave a very poor corroboration to my words.
There were always three or four horses ready saddled for duty at each
general’s quarters, and, taking one of them, I ordered a corporal of
dragoons to follow me, and set out. It was a fine night of autumn; the
last faint sunlight was yet struggling with the coming darkness, as I
rode at a brisk trot down the main street towards the scene of action.
I had not proceeded far when the crowds compelled me to slacken my pace
to a walk, and finding that the people pressed in upon me in such a
way as to prevent anything like a defence if attacked, still more, any
chance of an escape by flight, I sent the corporal forward to clear
a passage, and announce my coming to the redoubted commandant. It was
curious to see how the old dragoon’s tactic effected his object,
and with what speed the crowd opened and fell back, as, with a flank
movement of his horse, he ‘passaged’ up the street, prancing, bounding,
and back-leaping, yet all the while perfectly obedient to the hand,
and never deviating from the straight line in the very middle of the
thoroughfare.
I could catch from the voices around me that the mob had fired a volley
at the church door, but that our men had never returned the fire; and
now a great commotion of the crowd, and that swaying, surging motion of
the mass, which is so peculiarly indicative of a coming event, told that
something more was in preparation. And such was it; for already numbers
were hurrying forward with straw faggots, broken furniture, and other
combustible material, which, in the midst of the wildest cries and
shouts of triumph, were now being heaped up against the door. Another
moment, and I should have been too late; as it was, my loud summons to
‘halt,’ and a bold command for the mob to fall back, only came at the
very last minute.
‘Where’s the commandant?’ said I, in an imperious tone.
‘Who wants him?’ responded a deep, husky voice, which I well knew to be
Dowall’s.
‘The general in command of the town,’ said I firmly--‘General Serasin.’
‘Maybe I’m as good a general as himself,’ was the answer. ‘I never
called him my superior yet! Did I, boys?’
‘Never--devil a bit--why would you?’ and such like, were shouted by the
mob around us, in every accent of drunken defiance.
‘You ‘ll not refuse General Serasin’s invitation to confer with your
commandant, I hope?’ said I, affecting a tone of respectful civility,
while I gradually drew nearer and nearer to him, contriving, at the same
time, by a dexterous plunging of my horse, to force back the bystanders,
and thus isolate my friend Dowall.
‘Tell him I’ve work to do here,’ said he, ‘and can’t come; but if he’s
fond of a bonfire he may as well step down this far and see one.’
By this time, at a gesture of command from me, the corporal had placed
himself on the opposite side of Dowall’s horse, and, by a movement
similar to my own, completely drove back the dense mob, so that we had
him completely in our power, and could have sabred or shot him at any
moment.
‘General Serasin only wishes to see you on duty, commandant,’ said I,
speaking in a voice that could be heard over the entire assemblage; and
then, dropping it to a whisper, only audible to himself, I added--
‘Come along quietly, sir, and without a word. If you speak, if you
mutter, or if you lift a finger, I’ll run my sabre through your body.’
‘Forward, way, there!’ shouted I aloud, and the corporal, holding
Dowall’s bridle, pricked the horse with the point of his sword, and
right through the crowd we went at a pace that defied following, had any
the daring to think of it.
So sudden was the act and so imminent the peril, for I held the point of
my weapon within a few inches of his back, and would have kept my word
most assuredly too, that the fellow never spoke a syllable as we went,
nor ventured on even a word of remonstrance till we descended at the
general’s door. Then, with a voice tremulous with restrained passion, he
said--
‘If ye think I’ll forgive ye this thrick, my fine hoy, may the flames
and fire be my portion! and if I haven’t my revenge on ye yet, my name
isn’t Mick Dowall.’
With a dogged, sulky resolution he mounted the stairs, but as he neared
the room where the general was, and from which his voice could even now
be heard, his courage seemed to fail him, and he looked back as though
to see if no chance of escape remained. The attempt would have been
hopeless, and he saw it.
‘This is the man, general,’ said I, half pushing him forward into the
middle of the room, where he stood with his hat on, and in an attitude
of mingled defiance and terror.
‘Tell him to uncover,’ said Serasin; but one of the aides-de-camp, more
zealous than courteous, stepped forward and knocked the hat off with his
hand. Dowall never budged an inch, nor moved a muscle, at this insult;
to look at him you could not have said that he was conscious of it.
‘Ask him if it was by his orders that the guard was assailed,’ said the
general.
I put the question in about as many words, but he made no reply.
‘Does the man know where he is? does he know who I am?’ repeated Serasin
passionately.
‘He knows both well enough, sir,’ said I; ‘this silence is a mere
defiance of us.’
‘_Parbleu!_’ cried an officer, ‘that is the _coquin_ took poor
Delaitre’s equipments; the very uniform he has on was his.’
‘The fellow was never a soldier,’ said another.
‘I know him well,’ interposed a third--’ he is the very terror of the
townsfolk.’
‘Who gave him his commission?--who appointed him?’ asked Serasin.
Apparently the fellow could follow some words of French, for as the
general asked this he drew from his pocket a crumpled and soiled paper,
which he threw heedlessly upon the table before us.
‘Why, this is not his name, sir,’ said I; ‘this appointment is made out
in the name of Nicholas Downes, and our friend here is called Dowall.’
‘Who knows him? who can identify him?’ asked Serasin.
‘I can say that his name is Dowall, and that he worked as a porter on
the quay in this town when I was a boy,’ said a young Irishman who was
copying letters and papers at a side-table. ‘Yes, Dowall,’ said the
youth, confronting the look which the other gave him. ‘I am neither
afraid nor ashamed to tell you to your face that I know you well, and
who you are, and what you are.’
‘I’m an officer in the Irish Independent Army now,’ said Dowall
resolutely. ‘To the divil I fling the French commission and all that
belongs to it. Tisn’t troops that run and guns that burst we want.
Let them go back again the way they came--we ‘re able for the work
ourselves.*
Before I could translate this rude speech an officer broke into the
room, with tidings that the streets had been cleared, and the rioters
dispersed; a few prisoners, too, were taken, whose muskets bore trace of
being recently discharged.
‘They fired upon our pickets, general,’ said the officer, whose excited
look and voice betrayed how deeply he felt the outrage.
The men were introduced; three ragged, ill-looking wretches, apparently
only roused from intoxication by the terror of their situation, for each
was guarded by a soldier with a drawn bayonet in his hand.
‘We only obeyed ordhers, my lord; we only did what the captain tould
us,’ cried they, in a miserable, whining tone, for the sight of their
leader in captivity had sapped all their courage.
‘What am I here for? who has any business with me?’ said Dowall,
assuming before his followers an attempt at his former tone of bully.
‘Tell him,’ said Serasin, ‘that wherever a French general stands in full
command he will neither brook insolence nor insubordination. Let those
fellows be turned out of the town, and warned never to approach the
quarters of the army under any pretence whatever. As for this scoundrel,
we’ll make an example of him. Order a _peloton_ into the yard, and shoot
him!’
I rendered this speech into English as the general spoke it, and never
shall I forget the wild scream of the wretch as he heard the sentence.
‘I’m an officer in the army of Ireland. I don’t belong to ye at all.
You’ve no power over me. Oh, captain, darlin’; oh, gentlemen, speak for
me! General, dear; general, honey, don’t sintince me! don’t, for the
love o’ God!’ and in grovelling terror the miserable creature threw
himself on his knees to beg for mercy.
‘Tear off his epaulettes,’ cried Serasin; ‘never let a French uniform be
so disgraced!’
The soldiers wrenched off the epaulettes at the command, and, not
satisfied with this, they even tore away the lace from the cuffs of the
uniform, which now hung in ragged fragments over his trembling hands.
‘Oh, sir! oh, general! oh, gentlemen, have marcy!’
‘Away with him,’ said Serasin contemptuously; ‘it is only the cruel can
be such cowards. Give the fellow his fusillade with blank cartridge,
and, the chances are, fear will kill him outright.’
The scene that ensued is too shocking, too full of abasement, to record;
there was nothing that fear of death, nothing that abject terror could
suggest, that this miserable wretch did not attempt to save his life; he
wept--he begged in accents that were unworthy of all manhood--he kissed
the very ground at the general’s feet in his abject sorrow; and when at
last he was dragged from the room, his screams were the most piercing
and terrific.
Although all my compassion was changed into contempt, I felt that I
could never have given the word to fire upon him, had such been my
orders; his fears had placed him below all manhood, but they still
formed a barrier of defence around him. I accordingly whispered a few
words to the sergeant, as we passed down the stairs, and then, affecting
to have forgotten something, I stepped back towards the room, where the
general and his staff were sitting. The scuffling sound of feet, mingled
with the crash of firearms, almost drowned the cries of the still
struggling wretch; his voice, however, burst forth into a wild cry, and
then there came a pause--a pause that at last became insupportable to my
anxiety, and I was about to rush downstairs, when a loud yell, a savage
howl of derision and hate burst forth from the street; and on looking
out I saw a vast crowd before the door, who were shouting after a man,
whose speed soon carried him out of reach. This was Dowall, who, thus
suffered to escape, was told to fly from the town and never to return to
it.
‘Thank Heaven,’ muttered I, ‘we’ve seen the last of him.’
The rejoicing was, however, premature.