I have never yet been able to discover whether General Humbert really
did feel the confidence that he assumed at this period, or that he
merely affected it, the better to sustain the spirits of those around
him. If our success at Castlebar was undeniable, our loss was also
great, and far more than proportionate to all the advantages we had
acquired. Six officers and two hundred and forty men were either
killed or badly wounded, and as our small force had really acquired no
reinforcement worth the name, it was evident that another such costly
victory would be our ruin.
Not one gentleman of rank or influence had yet joined us; few of the
priesthood; and, even among the farmers and peasantry, it was easy to
see that our recruits comprised those whose accession could never have
conferred honour or profit on any cause.
Our situation was anything but promising. The rumours that reached us
(and we had no other or more accurate information than rumours)
told that an army of thirty thousand men, under the command of Lord
Cornwallis, was in march against us; that all the insurrectionary
movements of the south were completely repressed; that the spirit of
the Irish was crushed, and their confidence broken, either by defeat or
internal treachery. In a word, that the expedition had already failed,
and the sooner we had the means of leaving the land of our disasters the
better.
Such were the universal feelings of all my comrades; but Humbert, who
had often told us that we were only here to prepare the way for another
and more formidable mission, now pretended to think that we were
progressing most favourably towards a perfect success. Perhaps he firmly
believed all this, or perhaps he thought that the pretence would give
more dignity to the finale of an exploit which he already saw was
nearly played out. I know not which is the true explanation, and am half
disposed to think that he was actuated as much by one impulse as the
other.
‘The Army of the North’ was the talisman, which we now heard of for the
first time, to repair all our disasters, and ensure complete victory.
‘The Army of the North,’ whose strength varied from twenty to
twenty-five, and sometimes reached even thirty thousand men, and was
commanded by a distinguished Irish general, was now the centre to which
all our hopes turned. Whether it had already landed, and where, of what
it consisted, and how officered, not one of us knew anything; but by
dint of daily repetition and discussion we had come to believe in its
existence as certainly as though we had seen it under arms.
The credulous lent their convictions without any trouble to themselves
whatever; the more sceptical studied the map, and fancied twenty
different places in which they might have disembarked; and thus the Army
of the North grew to be a substance and reality, as undoubted as the
scenes before our eyes.
Never was such a ready solution of all difficulties discovered as this
same Army of the North. Were we to be beaten by Cornwallis, it was only
a momentary check, for the Army of the North would come up within a
few days and turn the whole tide of war. If our Irish allies grew
insubordinate or disorderly, a little patience and the Army of the North
would settle all that. Every movement projected was fancied to be in
concert with this redoubted corps, and at last every trooper that rode
in from Killala or Ballina was questioned as to whether his despatches
did not come from the Army of the North.
Frenchmen will believe anything you like for twenty-four hours. They
can be flattered into a credulity of two days, and, by dint of great
artifice and much persuasion, will occasionally reach a third; but
there, faith has its limit; and if nothing palpable, tangible, and real,
intervene, scepticism ensues; and what with native sarcasm, ridicule,
and irony, they will demolish the card edifice of credit far more
rapidly than ever they raised it. For two whole days the Army of the
North occupied every man amongst us. We toasted it over our wine; we
discussed it at our quarters; we debated upon its whereabouts, its
strength, and its probable destination; but on the third morning a
terrible shock was given to our feelings by a volatile young lieutenant
of hussars exclaiming--‘_Ma foi!_ I wish I could see this same Army of
the North!’
Now, although nothing was more reasonable than this wish, nor was there
any one of us who had not felt a similar desire, this sudden expression
of it struck us all most forcibly, and a shrinking sense of doubt spread
over every face, and men looked at each other as though to say--‘Is the
fellow capable of supposing that such an army does not exist?’ It was a
very dreadful moment--a terrible interval of struggle between the broad
daylight of belief and the black darkness of incredulity; and we turned
glances of actual dislike at the man who had so unwarrantably shaken our
settled convictions.
‘I only said I should like to see them under arms,’ stammered he, in the
confusion of one who saw himself exposed to public obloquy.
This half-apology came too late---the mischief was done! and we shunned
each other like men who were afraid to read the accusation of even a
shrewd glance. As for myself, I can compare my feelings only to those of
the worthy alderman, who broke out into a paroxysm of grief on hearing
that _Robinson Crusoe_ was a fiction. I believe, on that sudden
revulsion of feeling, I could have discredited any and everything. If
there was no Army of the North, was I quite sure that there was any
expedition at all? Were the generals mere freebooters, the chiefs of a
marauding venture? Were the patriots anything but a disorderly rabble
eager for robbery and bloodshed? Was Irish Independence a mere phantom?
Such were among the shocking terrors that came across my mind as I
sat in my quarters, far too dispirited and depressed to mix among my
comrades.
It had been a day of fatiguing duty, and I was not sorry, as night
fell, that I might betake myself to bed, to forget, if it might be, the
torturing doubts that troubled me. Suddenly I heard a heavy foot upon
the stair, and an orderly entered with a command for me to repair to the
headquarters of the general at once. Never did the call of duty summon
me less willing, never found me so totally disinclined to obey. I was
weary and fatigued; but worse, than this, I was out of temper with
myself, the service, and the whole world. Had I heard that the Royal
forces were approaching, I was exactly in the humour to have dashed
into the thick of them, and sold my life as dearly as I could, out of
desperation.
Discipline is a powerful antagonist to a man’s caprices, for with all
my irritability and discontent I arose, and resuming my uniform, set out
for General Humbert’s quarters. I followed ‘the orderly,’ as he led the
way through many a dark street and crooked alley till we reached the
square. There, too, all was in darkness, save at the mainguard, where,
as usual, the five windows of the first storey were a blaze of light,
and the sounds of mirth and revelry, the nightly orgies of our officers,
were ringing out in the stillness of the quiet hour. The wild chorus
of a soldier-song, with its rataplan accompaniment of knuckles on the
table, echoed through the square, and smote upon my ear with anything
but a congenial sense of pleasure.
In my heart I thought them a senseless, soulless crew, that could give
themselves to dissipation and excess on the very eve, as it were, of our
defeat, and with hasty steps I turned away into the side-street, where
a large lamp, the only light to be seen, proclaimed General Humbert’s
quarters.
A bustle and stir, very unusual at this late hour, pervaded the passages
and stairs, and it was some time before I could find one of the staff to
announce my arrival, which at last was done somewhat unceremoniously,
as an officer hurried me through a large chamber crowded with the staff
into an inner room, where, on a small field-bed, lay General Humbert,
without coat or boots, a much-worn scarlet cloak thrown half over him,
and a black handkerchief tied round his head. I had scarcely seen him
since our landing, and I could with difficulty recognise the burly,
high-complexioned soldier of a few days back, in the worn and haggard
features of the sick man before me. An attack of ague, which he had
originally contracted in Holland, had relapsed upon him, and he was now
suffering all the lassitude and sickness of that most depressing of all
maladies.
Maps, books, plans, and sketches of various kinds scattered the bed,
the table, and even the floor around him; but his attitude as I entered
betrayed the exhaustion of one who could labour no longer, and whose
worn-out faculties demanded rest. He lay flat on his back, his arms
straight down beside him, and with half-closed eyes, seemed as though
falling off to sleep.
His first aide-de-camp, Merochamp, was standing with his back to a small
turf fire, and made a sign to us to be still, and make no noise as we
came in.
‘He ‘s sleeping,’ said he; ‘it ‘s the first time he has closed his eyes
for ten days.’
We stood for a moment uncertain, and were about to retrace our steps,
when Humbert said, in a low, weak voice--
‘No! I’m not asleep, come in.’
The officer who presented me now retired, and I advanced towards the
bedside.
‘This is Tiernay, general,’ said Merochamp, stooping down and speaking
low; ‘you wished to see him.’
‘Yes, I wanted him. Ha! Tiernay, you see me a good deal altered since we
parted last; however, I shall be all right in a day or two, it’s a mere
attack of ague, and will leave when the good weather comes. I wished to
ask you about your family, Tiernay; was not your father Irish?’
‘No, sir; we were Irish two or three generations back, but since that we
have belonged either to Austria or to France.’
‘Then where were you born?’
‘In Paris, sir, I believe, but certainly in France.’
‘Then I said so, Merochamp; I knew that the boy was French.’
‘Still I don’t think the precaution worthless,’ replied Merochamp;
‘Teeling and the others advise it.’
‘I know they do,’ said Humbert peevishly, ‘and for themselves it may be
needful; but this lad’s case will be injured, not bettered by it. He is
not an Irishman; he never was at any time a British subject. Have you
any certificate of birth or baptism, Tiernay?’
‘None, sir; but I have my ‘livret’ for the school of Saumur, which sets
forth my being a Frenchman by birth.’
‘Quite sufficient, boy, let me have it.’
It was a document which I always carried about with me since I landed,
to enable me any moment, if made prisoner, to prove myself an alien, and
thus escape the inculpation of fighting against the flag of my country.
Perhaps there was something of reluctance in my manner as I relinquished
it, for the general said, ‘I’ll take good care of it, Tiernay; you shall
not fare the worse because it is in my keeping. I may as well tell you
that some of our Irish officers have received threatening letters. It
is needless to say they are without name, stating that if matters go
unfortunately with us in this campaign they will meet the fate of men
taken in open treason; and that their condition of officers in our
service will avail them nothing. I do not believe this. I cannot believe
that they will be treated in any respect differently from the rest
of us. However, it is only just that I should tell you that your name
figures amongst those so denounced; for this reason I have sent for you
now. You, at least, have nothing to apprehend on this score. You are as
much a Frenchman as myself. I know Merochamp thinks differently from me,
and that your Irish descent and name will be quite enough to involve you
in the fate of others.’
A gesture, half of assent but half of impatience, from the aide-de-camp,
here arrested the speaker.
‘Why not tell him frankly how he stands?’ said Humbert eagerly; ‘I see
no advantage in any concealment.’
Then addressing me, he went on. ‘I purpose, Tiernay, to give you the
same option I gave the others, but which they have declined to accept.
It is this: we are daily expecting to hear of the arrival of a force in
the north under the command of Generals Tandy and Rey.’
‘The Army of the North?’ asked I, in some anxiety. ‘Precisely; the Army
of the North. Now I desire to open a communication with them, and at the
same time to do so through the means of such officers as, in the event
of any disaster here, may have the escape to France open to them; which
this army will have, and which, I need not say, we have no longer.
Our Irish friends have declined this mission as being more likely to
compromise them if taken; and also as diminishing and not increasing
their chance of escape. In my belief that you were placed similarly
I have sent for you here this evening, and at the same time desire to
impress upon you that your acceptance or refusal is purely a matter at
your own volition.’
‘Am I to regard the matter simply as one of duty, sir? or as an
opportunity of consulting my personal safety?’
‘What shall I say to this, Merochamp?’ asked Humbert bluntly.
‘That you are running to the full as many risks of being banged for
going as by staying; such is my opinion,’ said the aide-de-camp. ‘Here
as a rebel, there as a spy.’
‘I confess, then,’ said I, smiling at the cool brevity of the speech,
‘the choice is somewhat embarrassing! May I ask what you advise me to
do, general?’
‘I should say go, Tiernay.’
‘Go, by all means, lad,’ broke in the aide-de-camp, who throughout
assumed a tone of dictation and familiarity most remarkable. ‘If a stand
is to be made in this miserable country it will be with Rey’s force;
here the game will not last much longer. There lies the only man capable
of conducting such an expedition, and his health cannot stand up against
its trials!’
‘Not so, Merochamp; I ‘ll be on horseback to-morrow or the day after at
furthest; and if I never were to take the field again, there are others,
yourself amongst the number, well able to supply my place: but as to
Tiernay--what says he?’
‘Make it duty, sir, and I shall go, or remain here with an easy
conscience,’ said I.
‘Then duty be it, boy,’ said he; ‘and Merochamp will tell you
everything, for all this discussion has wearied me much, and I cannot
endure more talking.’
‘Sit down here,’ said the aide-de-camp, pointing to a seat at his side,
‘and five minutes will suffice.’
He opened a large map of Ireland before us on the table, and running his
finger along the coast-line of the western side, stopped abruptly at the
bay of Lough Swilly.
‘There,’ said he, ‘that is the spot. There, too, should have been our
own landing! The whole population of the north will be with them--not
such allies as these fellows, but men accustomed to the use of arms,
able and willing to take the field. They say that five thousand men
could hold the passes of those mountains against thirty.’
‘Who says this?’ said I, for I own it that I had grown marvellously
sceptical as to testimony.
‘Napper Tandy, who is a general of division, and one of the leaders of
this force’; and he went on: ‘The utmost we can do will be to hold these
towns to the westward till they join us. We may stretch away thus
far,’ and he moved his finger towards the direction of Leitrim, but no
farther. ‘You will have to communicate with them; to explain what we
have done, where we are, and how we are. Conceal nothing--let them
hear fairly that this patriot force is worth nothing, and that even to
garrison the towns we take they are useless. Tell them, too, the sad
mistake we made by attempting to organise what never can be disciplined,
and let them not arm a population, as we have done, to commit rapine and
plunder.’
Two letters were already written--one addressed to Rey, the other to
Napper Tandy. These I was ordered to destroy if I should happen to
become a prisoner; and with the map of Ireland, pen-marked in various
directions, by which I might trace my route, and a few lines to Colonel
Charost, whom I was to see on passing at Killala, I was dismissed.’
When I approached the bedside to take leave of the general he was sound
asleep. The excitement of talking having passed away, he was pale
as death, and his lips totally colourless. Poor fellow, he was
exhausted-looking and weary, and I could not help thinking, as I looked
on him, that he was no bad emblem of the cause he had embarked in!
I was to take my troop-horse as far as Killala, after which I was to
proceed either on foot, or by such modes of conveyance as I could find,
keeping as nigh the coast as possible, and acquainting myself, so far as
I might do, with the temper and disposition of the people as I went. It
was a great aid to my sinking courage to know that there really was an
Army of the North, and to feel myself accredited to hold intercourse
with the generals commanding it.
Such was my exultation at this happy discovery, that I was dying to
burst in amongst my comrades with the tidings, and proclaim, at the same
time, my own high mission. Merochamp had strictly enjoined my speedy
departure without the slightest intimation to any, whither I was going,
or with what object.
A very small cloak-bag held all my effects, and with this slung at my
saddle I rode out of the town just as the church clock was striking
twelve. It was a calm, starlight night, and once a short distance from
the town, as noiseless and still as possible; a gossoon, one of
the numerous scouts we employed in conveying letters or bringing
intelligence, trotted along on foot beside me to show the way, for there
was a rumour that some of the Royalist cavalry still loitered about
the passes to capture our despatch bearers, or make prisoners of any
stragglers from the army.
These gossoons, picked up by chance, and selected for no other
qualification than because they were keen-eyed and swift of foot, were
the most faithful and most worthy creatures we met with. In no instance
were they ever known to desert to the enemy, and, stranger still, they
were never seen to mix in the debauchery and excesses so common to all
the volunteers of the rebel camp. Their intelligence was considerable,
and to such a pitch had emulation stimulated them in the service, that
there was no danger they would not incur in their peculiar duties.
My companion on the present occasion was a little fellow of about
thirteen years of age, and small and slight even for that; we knew him
as ‘Peter,’ but whether he had any other name, or what, I was ignorant.
He was wounded by a sabre-cut across the hand, which nearly severed the
fingers from it, at the bridge of Castlebar, but, with a strip of linen
bound round it, now he trotted along as happy and careless as if nothing
ailed him.
I questioned him as we went, and learned that his father had been a herd
in the service of a certain Sir Roger Palmer, and his mother a dairymaid
in the same house, but as the patriots had sacked and burned the
‘Castle,’ of course they were now upon the world. He was a good deal
shocked at my asking what part his father took on the occasion of the
attack, but for a very different reason than that which I suspected.
‘For the cause, of course!’ replied he, almost indignantly; ‘why
wouldn’t he stand up for ould Ireland!’
‘And your mother--what did she do?’
He hung down his head, and made no answer till I repeated the question.
‘Faix,’ said he slowly and sadly, ‘she went and towld the young ladies
what was goin’ to be done, and if it hadn’t been that the “boys” caught
Tim Haynes, the groom, going off to Foxford with a letter, we’d have had
the dragoons down upon us in no time! They hanged Tim, but they let the
young ladies away, and my mother with them, and off they all went to
Dublin.’
‘And where’s your father now?’ I asked.
‘He was drowned in the bay of Killala four days ago. He went with a
party of others to take oatmeal from a sloop that was wrecked in the
bay, and an English cruiser came in at the time and fired on them; at
the second discharge the wreck and all upon it went down!’
He told all these things without any touch of sorrow in voice or manner.
They seemed to be the ordinary chances of war, and so he took them. He
had three brothers and a sister; of the former, two were missing, the
third was a scout; and the girl--she was but nine years old--was waiting
on a canteen, and mighty handy, he said, for she knew a little French
already, and understood the soldiers when they asked for a _goutte_, or
wanted _du feu_ for their pipes.
Such, then, was the credit side of the account with Fortune, and,
strange enough, the boy seemed satisfied with it; and although a few
days had made him an orphan and houseless, he appeared to feel that the
great things in store for his country were an ample recompense for
all. Was this, then, patriotism? Was it possible that one, untaught and
unlettered as he was, could think national freedom cheap at such a cost?
If I thought so for a moment, a very little further inquiry undeceived
me. Religious rancour, party feuds, the hate of the Saxon--a blind,
ill-directed, unthinking hate--were the motives which actuated him. A
terrible retribution for something upon somebody, an awful wiping out
of old scores, a reversal of the lot of rich and poor, were the main
incentives to his actions, and he was satisfied to stand by at the
drawing of this great lottery, even without holding a ticket in it!
It was almost the first moment of calm reflective thought I had enjoyed,
as I rode along thus in the quiet stillness of the night, and I own that
my heart began to misgive me as to the great benefits of our expedition.
I will not conceal the fact, that I had been disappointed in every
expectation I had formed of Ireland.
The bleak and barren hills of Mayo, the dreary tracts of mountain and
morass, were about as unworthy representatives of the boasted beauty and
fertility, as were the half-clad wretches who flocked around us of that
warlike people of whom we had heard so much. Where were the chivalrous
chieftains with their clans behind them? Where the thousands gathering
around a national standard? Where that high-souled patriotism,
content to risk fortune, station--all, in the conflict for national
independence? A rabble led on by a few reckless debauchees, and two or
three disreputable or degraded priests, were our only allies; and even
these refused to be guided by our councils, or swayed by our authority.
I half suspected Serasin was right when he said--‘Let the Directory send
thirty thousand men and make it a French province, but let us not fight
an enemy to give the victory to the _sans-culottes_.’
As we neared the pass of Barnageeragh, I turned one last look on the
town of Castlebar, around which, at little intervals of space, the
watch-fires of our pickets were blazing; all the rest of the place was
in darkness.
It was a strange and a thrilling thought to think that there, hundreds
of miles from their home, without one link that could connect them
to it, lay a little army in the midst of an enemy’s country, calm,
self-possessed, and determined. How many, thought I, are destined to
leave it? How many will bring back to our dear France the memory of this
unhappy struggle?