There was no resisting the inquisitive curiosity of my companion. The
short dry cough, the little husky ‘ay,’ that sounded like anything
rather than assent, which followed on my replies to his questions, and,
more than all, the keen, oblique glances of his shrewd grey eyes, told
me that I had utterly failed in all my attempts at mystification, and
that he read me through and through.
‘And so,’ said he, at last, after a somewhat lengthy narrative of my
shipwreck, ‘and so the Flemish sailors wear spurs?’
‘Spurs! of course not; why should they?’ asked I, in some astonishment.
‘Well, but don’t they?’ asked he again.
‘No such thing; it would be absurd to suppose it.’
‘So I thought,’ rejoined he; ‘and when I looked at yer “honour’s” boots’
(it was the first time he had addressed me by this title of deference),
‘and saw the marks on the heels for spurs, I soon knew how much of a
sailor you were.’
‘And if not a sailor, what am I, then?’ asked I; for, in the loneliness
of the mountain region where we walked, I could afford to throw off my
disguise without risk.
‘Ye’re a French officer of dragoons, and God bless ye; but ye ‘re young
to be at the trade. Aren’t I right, now?’
‘Not very far from it, certainly, for I am a lieutenant of hussars,’
said I, with a little of that pride which we of the loose pelisse always
feel on the mention of our corps.
‘I knew it well all along,’ said he coolly; ‘the way you stood in the
room, your step as you walked, and, above all, how you believed me when
I spoke of the spring-tides, and the moon only in her second quarter,
I saw you never was a sailor, anyhow. And so I set a-thinking what you
were. You were too silent for a pedlar, and your hands were too white to
be in the smuggling trade; but when I saw your boots, I had the secret
at once, and knew ye were one of the French army that landed the other
day at Killala.’
‘It was stupid enough of me not to have remembered the boots!’ said I,
laughing.
‘Arrah, what use would it be,’ replied he; ‘sure ye ‘re too straight in
the back, and your walk is too regular, and your toes turns in too much,
for a sailor; the very way you hould a switch in your hand would betray
you!’
‘So it seems, then, I must try some other disguise,’ said I, ‘if I ‘m to
keep company with people as shrewd as you are.’
‘You needn’t,’ said he, shaking his head doubtfully; ‘any that wants to
betray ye wouldn’t find it hard.’
I was not much flattered by the depreciating tone in which he dismissed
my efforts at personation, and walked on for some time without speaking.
‘Yez came too late, four months too late,’ said he, with a sorrowful
gesture of the hands. ‘When the Wexford boys was up, and the Kildare
chaps, and plenty more ready to come in from the north, then, indeed, a
few thousand French down here in the west would have made a differ; but
what’s the good in it now? The best men we had are hanged or in gaol;
some are frightened; more are traitors! ‘Tis too late--too late!’
‘But not too late for a large force landing in the north, to rouse the
island to another effort for liberty.’
‘Who would be the gin’ral?’ asked he suddenly.
‘Napper Tandy, your own countryman,’ replied I proudly.
‘I wish ye luck of him!’ said he, with a bitter laugh; ‘‘tis more like
mocking us than anything else the French does be, with the chaps they
sent here to be gin’rals. Sure it isn’t Napper Tandy, nor a set of young
lawyers like Tone and the rest of them, we wanted. It was men that knew
how to drill and manage troops--fellows that was used to fightin’; so
that when they said a thing, we might believe that they understhood it,
at laste. I ‘m ould enough to remimber the “Wild Geese,” as they used
to call them--the fellows that ran away from this to take sarvice in
France; and I remimber, too, the sort of men the French were that came
over to inspect them--soldiers, real soldiers, every inch of them. And a
fine sarvice it was. _Volte-face!_ cried he, holding himself erect, and
shouldering his stick like a musket, _marche!_ Ha, ha! ye didn’t think
that was in me; but I was at the thrade long before you were born.’
‘How is this?’ said I, in amazement; ‘you were not in the French army?’
‘Wasn’t I, though? maybe I didn’t get that stick there.’ And he bared
his breast as he spoke, to show the cicatrix of an old flesh-wound from
a Highlander’s bayonet. ‘I was at Fontenoy!’
The last few words he uttered with a triumphant pride that I shall never
forget. As for me, the mere name was magical. ‘Fontenoy’ was like one of
those great words which light up a whole page of history; and it almost
seemed impossible that I should see before me a soldier of that glorious
battle.
‘Ay, faith!’ he added, ‘‘tis more than fifty, ‘tis nigh sixty years
now since that, and I remember it as if it was yesterday. I was in
the regiment “Tourville”; I was recruited for the “Dillon,” but they
scattered us about among the other corps afterwards, because we used now
and then to be fighting and quarrellin’ among one another. Well, it was
the Dillons that gained the battle; for after the English was in the
village of Fontenoy, and the French was falling back upon the heights
near the wood--arrah, what’s the name of the wood? Sure, I’ll forget
my own name next. Ay, to be sure, Verzon--the “Wood of Verzon.” Major
Jodillon--that’s what the French called him, but his name was Joe
Dillon--turned an eight-pounder short round into a little yard of a
farmhouse, and making a breach for the gun, he opened a dreadful fire on
the English column. It was loaded with grape, and at half-musket range,
so you may think what a peppering they got. At last the column halted
and lay down; and Joe seen an officer ride off to the rear, to bring up
artillery to silence our guns. A few minutes more and it would be all
over with us. So Joe shouts out as loud as he could, “Cavalry there!
tell off by threes, and prepare to charge.” I needn’t tell you that the
divil a horse nor a rider was within a mile of us at the time; but the
English didn’t know that, and, hearin’ the ordher, up they jumps, and we
heerd the word passin’, “Prepare to receive cavalry.” They formed square
at once, and the same minute we plumped into them with such a charge as
tore a lane right through the middle of them. Before they could recover,
we opened a platoon-fire on their flank; they staggered, broke, and at
last fell back in disorder upon Aeth, with the whole of the French army
after them. Such firin’--grape, round shot, and musketry--I never seed
afore, and we all shouting like divils, for it was more like a hunt nor
anything else; for ye see the Dutch never came up, but left the English
to do all the work themselves, and that’s the reason they couldn’t form,
for they had no supportin’ column.
‘It was then I got that stick of the bayonet, for there was such runnin’
that we only thought of pelting after them as hard as we could; but ye
see, there’s nothin’ so treacherous as a Highlander. I was just behind
one, and had my sword-point between his bladebones ready to run him
through, when he turned short about, and run his bayonet into me under
the short ribs, and that was all I saw of the battle; for I bled till I
fainted, and never knew more of what happened. ‘Tisn’t by way of
making little of Frenchmen I say it, for I sarved too long wid them for
that--but sorra taste of that victory ever they’d see if it wasn’t for
the Dillons, and Major Joe that commanded them! The English knows it
well, too! Maybe they don’t do us many a spite for it to this very day!’
‘And what became of you after that?’
‘That same summer I came over to Scotland with the young Prince Charles,
and was at the battle of Prestonpans afterwards! and, what’s worse, I
was at Culloden! Oh, that was the terrible day. We were dead bate before
we began the battle. We were on the march from one o’clock the night
before, under the most dreadful rain ever ye seen! We lost our way
twice, and after four hours of hard marching, we found ourselves
opposite a milldam we crossed early that same morning; for the guides
led us all astray! Then came ordhers to wheel about face and go back
again; and back we went, cursing the blaguards that deceived us, and
almost faintin’ with hunger. Some of us had nothing to eat for two days,
and the Prince, I seen myself, had only a brown bannock to a wooden
measure of whisky for his own breakfast. Well, it’s no use talking; we
were bate, and we retreated to Inverness that night, and next morning we
surrendered and laid down our arms--that is, the “Régiment do Tournay”
and the “Voltigeurs de Metz,” the corps I was in myself.’
‘And did you return to France?’
‘No; I made my way back to Ireland, and after loiterin’ about home some
time, and not liking the ways of turning to work again, I took sarvice
with one Mister Brooke, of Castle Brooke, in Fermanagh, a young man that
was just come of age, and as great a divil, God forgive me, as ever was
spawned. He was a Protestant, but he didn’t care much about one side or
the other, but only wanted diversion and his own fun out of the world;
and faix he took it, too! He had plenty of money, was a fine man to look
at, and had courage to face a lion!
‘The first place we went to was Aix-la-Chapelle, for Mr. Brooke was
named something--I forget what--to Lord Sandwich, that was going there
as an Ambassador.
It was a grand life there while it lasted. Such liveries, such coaches,
such elegant dinners every day, I never saw even in Paris. But my master
was soon sent away for a piece of wildness he did. There was an ould
Austrian there--a Count Riedensegg was his name---and he was always
plottin’ and schamin’ with this, that, and the other; buyin’ up the
sacrets of others, and gettin’ at their private papers one way or the
other; and at last he begins to thry the same game with us; and as he
saw that Mr. Brooke was very fond of high play, and would bet anything
one offered him, the ould count sends for a great gambler from Vienna,
the greatest villain, they say, that ever touched a card. Ye may have
heerd of him, tho’ ‘twas long ago that he lived, for he was well known
in them times. He was the Baron von Breokendorf, and a great friend
afterwards of the Prince Ragint and all the other blaguards in London.
‘Well, sir, the baron arrives in great state, with despatches, they
said, but sorrow other despatch he carried nor some packs of marked
cards, and a dice-box that could throw sixes whenever ye wanted; and he
puts up at the Grand Hotel, with all his servants in fine liveries
and as much state as a prince. That very day Mr. Brooke dined with the
count, and in the evening himself and the baron sits down to the cards;
and, pretending to be only playin’ for silver, they were bettin’ a
hundred guineas on every game.
‘I always heerd that my master was cute with the cards, and that few
was equal to him in any game with pasteboard or ivory; but, be my
conscience, he met his match now, for if it was ould Nick was playin’ he
couldn’t do the thrick nater nor the baron. He made everything come up
just like magic: if he wanted a seven of diamonds, or an ace of spades,
or the knave of clubs, there it was for you.
‘Most gentlemen would have lost temper at seein’ the luck so dead agin’
them, and everything goin’ so bad; but my master only smiled, and
kept muttering to himself, “Faix, its beautiful; by my conscience its
elegant; I never saw anybody could do it like that.” At last the baron
stops and asks, “What is it he’s saying to himself?” “I’ll tell you
by-and-by,” says my master, “when we’re done playing”; and so on they
went, betting higher and higher, till at last the stakes wasn’t very
far from a thousand pounds on a single card. At the end, Mr. Brooke lost
everything, and in the last game, by way of generosity, the baron says
to him, “Double or quit?” and he tuk it.
‘This time luck stood to my master, and he turned the queen of hearts;
and as there was only one card could beat him, the game was all as one
as his own. The baron takes up the pack, and begins to deal. “Wait,”
says my master, leaning over the table, and talking in a whisper;
“wait,” says he; “what are ye doin’ there wid your thumb?” for sure
enough he had his thumb dug hard into the middle of the pack.
‘“Do you mane to insult me?” says the baron, getting mighty red, and
throwing down the cards on the table. “Is that what you’re at?”
‘“Go on with the deal,” says Mr. Brooke quietly; “but listen to me,” and
here he dropped his voice to a whisper, “as sure as you turn the king
of hearts, I’ll send a bullet through your skull! Go on, now, and don’t
rise from that seat till you ‘ve finished the game.” Faix he just did as
he was bid; he turned a little two or three of diamonds, and gettin’ up
from the table, he left the room, and the next morning there was no
more seen of him in Aix-la-Chapelle. But that wasn’t the end of it, for
scarce was the baron two posts on his journey when my master sends in
his name, and says he wants to speak to Count Riedensegg. There was a
long time and a great debatin’, I believe, whether they’d let him in or
not; for the count couldn’t make if it was mischief he was after; but at
last he was ushered into the bedroom where the other was in bed.
‘“Count,” says he, after he fastened the door, and saw that they was
alone, “Count, you tried a dirty thrick with that dirty spalpeen of a
baron--an ould blaguard that’s as well known as Preney the robber--but
I forgive you for it all, for you did it in the way of business. I know
well what you was afther; you wanted a peep at our despatches--there, ye
needn’t look cross and angry--why wouldn’t ye do it, just as the baron
always took a sly glance at my cards before he played his own. Well,
now, I’m just in the humour to sarve you. They’re not trating me as they
ought here, and I’m going away, and if you’ll give me a few letthers
to some of the pretty women in Vienna, Katinka Batthyani, and Amalia
Gradoffseky, and one or two men in the best set, I’ll send you in return
something that will surprise you.”
‘It was after a long time and great batin’ about the bush, that the ould
count came in; but the sight of a sacret cipher did the business, and he
consented.
‘“There it is,” says Mr. Brooke, “there’s the whole key to our
correspondence; study it well, and I’ll bring you a sacret despatch in
the evening--something that will surprise you.”
‘“Ye will--will ye?” says the count.
‘“On the honour of an Irish gentleman, I will,” says Mr. Brooke.
‘The count sits down on the spot and writes the letters to all the
princesses and countesses in Vienna, saying that Mr. Brooke was the
elegantest, and politest, and most trusty young gentleman ever he met;
and telling them to treat him with every consideration.
‘“There will be another account of me,” says the master to me, “by the
post; but I ‘ll travel faster, and give me a fair start, and I ask no
more.”
‘And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna,
without lave or license, and that’s the way he got dismissed from his
situation.’
‘And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him
any intelligence?’
‘He kept his word, like a gentleman; he promised him something
that would surprise him, and so he did. He sent him “The Weddin’ of
Ballyporeen” in cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they
‘ve never got to the right understandin’ it yet.’
‘I’m curious to hear how he was received in Vienna, after this,’ said I.
‘I suppose you accompanied him to that city?’
‘Troth I did, and a short life we led there. But here we are now, at the
end of our journey. That’s Father Doogan’s down there, that small, low,
thatched house in the hollow.’
‘A lonely spot, too. I don’t see another near it for miles on any side.’
‘Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes
isn’t over good; but I don’t think there’s any smoke coming out of the
chimley.’
‘You are right--there is not.’
‘He’s not at home, then, and that’s a bad job for us, for there’s not
another place to stop the night in.’
‘But there will be surely some one in the house.’
‘Most likely not; ‘tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when
he’s at home, and I’m sure he’s not there now.’
This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much
brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in
a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze,
intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak
forest. A brown, mournful tint was over everything--sky and landscape
alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining
course along took the same colour from the gravelly bed it flowed over.
Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and
still.
‘There’s few would like to pass their lives down there, then!’ said my
companion, as if speaking to himself.
‘I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters.’
‘Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the
county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He’s a friar
of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he
could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there
wasn’t his equal for other tongues in all Europe. They wanted him to
stop and be the head of a college somewhere in Spain, but he wouldn’t.
“There was work to do in Ireland,” he said, and there he’d go, and to
the wildest and laste civilised bit of it besides; and ye see that he
was not far ont in his choice when he took Murrah.’
‘Is he much liked here by the people?’
‘They’d worship him, if he’d let them, that’s what it is; for if he has
more larnin’ and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in Ireland,
there’s not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. He that
knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the
world’s going, and what’s comin’ afther her, hasn’t a thought for the
wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! He could tell
you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment,
and I don’t think he’d know which end of the spade goes into the
ground.’
While we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the
windows, was closely barred and fastened. The great padlock, however,
on the former, with characteristic acuteness, was looked without being
hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the
fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter.
A roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall;
and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once
proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact
of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunderstorm had already
burst, and the rain was now swooping along in torrents.
While he was thus busied, I took a ramble through the little cabin,
curious to see something of the ‘interior’ of one whose life had already
interested me. There were but two small chambers, one at either side of
the kitchen. The first I entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being
a common bed, or a tressel like that of a hospital, a little coloured
print of St. Michael adorning the wall overhead. The bed-covering was
cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and
the black ‘soutane’ of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show
long years of service. The few articles of any pretensions to comfort
were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some
well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and
a few pencil-drawings, appeared. All seemed as if he had just quitted
the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished
sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within, the leaves of a
little book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it,
still waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly
enough betrayed it to be by his own hands.
I inspected everything with an interest inspired by all I had been
hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his
humble library, to trace, if I might, some due to his habits in his
readings. They were all, however, of one cast and character--religious
tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing
by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. It was easy to see
that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he
permitted himself to indulge. What a strange life of privation, thought
I, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the
sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and
unpromising, I perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there
hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk.
Curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, I drew
aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little
coloured sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry
and much-worn uniform of a drummer. I started. Something flashed
suddenly across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not
unknown to me. Was I awake, or were my senses misleading me? I took
it down and held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands
permitted, I spelled out at the foot of the drawing, the words ‘Le Petit
Maurice, as I saw him last.’ Yes, it was my own portrait, and the words
were in the writing of my dearest friend in the world, the Père Michel.
Scarce knowing what I did, I ransacked books and papers on every side,
to confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found,
I had no difficulty in recognising his hand, now so forcibly recalled to
my memory.
Hastening into the kitchen, I told my guide that I must set out to
Murrah at once, that it was, above all, important that I should see the
priest immediately. It was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the
fatigue of going farther, that the storm was increasing, the mountain
torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be
discovered after dark; I could not brook the thought of delay, and would
not listen to the detail of difficulties. ‘I must see him and I will,’
were my answers to every obstacle. If I were resolved on one side, he
was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience
all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me
unconvinced, he boldly declared that I might go alone, if I would, but
that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any
one.
There was nothing in the shape of argument I did not essay. I tried
bribery, I tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all--and all with
the like result. ‘Wherever he is to-night, he’ll not leave it, that’s
certain,’ was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and I retired
beaten from the contest, and disheartened. Twice I left the cottage,
resolved to make the journey alone, but the utter darkness of the night,
the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me the
impracticability of the attempt, and I retraced my steps crest-fallen
and discomfited. The most intense curiosity to know how and by what
chances he had come to Ireland mingled with my ardent desire to meet
him. What stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! Nor was it
without pride that I bethought me of the position I then held--an
officer of a hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and
high on the list for promotion. If I hoped, too, that many of the good
father’s prejudices against the career I followed would give way to the
records of my own past life, I also felt how, in various respects, I
had myself conformed to many of his notions. We should be dearer, closer
friends than ever. This I was sure of.
I never slept the whole night through. Tired and weary as the day’s
journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and I
walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out,
and peer for coming dawn. Never did hours lag so lazily. The darkness
seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was
through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an
atmosphere loaded with vapour.
‘This is a day for the chimney-corner, and thankful to have it we ought
to be,’ said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which
he was preparing our breakfast. ‘Father Doogan will be home here afore
night, I’m sure, and as we have nothing better to do, I’ll tell you some
of our old adventures when I lived with Mr. Brooke. Twill sarve to pass
the time, anyway.’
‘I’m off to Murrah, as soon as I have eaten something,’ replied I.
‘Tis little you know what a road it is,’ said he, smiling dubiously.
‘‘Tis four mountain rivers you ‘d have to cross, two of them, at least,
deeper than your head, and there’s the pass of Barnascorney, where you
‘d have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of
feet below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four!
There ‘s never a man in the barony would venture over the same path with
a storm ragin’ from the nor’-west.’
‘I never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain,’ said I,
laughing contemptuously.
‘Arrah, didn’t ye, then? then maybe ye never lived in parts where the
heaviest ploughs and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin
are flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn
out of the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the
spars of a shipwreck.’
‘But so long as a man has hands to grip with----’
‘How ye talk! sure, when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by
the roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their
place; when the very shingle on the mountain-side is flying about like
dust and sand, where would your grip be? It is not only on the mountains
either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that
the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many’s the time a
sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea.’
With many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little
meal of potatoes. Some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary
habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes
supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence,
but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. He displayed
all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on
unwilling ears, and when our meal was over I started up and began to
prepare for the road.
‘So you will go, will you?’ said he peevishly. ‘‘Tis in your country
to be obstinate, so I ‘ll say nothing more; but maybe ‘tis only into
throubles you ‘d be running, after all!’
‘I’m determined on it,’ said I, ‘and I only ask you to tell me what road
to take.’
‘There is only one, so there is no mistakin’ it; keep to the sheep-path,
and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye
can. And when ye come to four big rocks in the plain, leave them to your
left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, till ye see the
smoke of the village underneath you. Murrah is a small place, and ye’ll
have to look out sharp, or maybe ye’ll miss it.’
‘That’s enough,’ said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed
it. ‘We ‘ll probably meet no more; good-bye, and many thanks for your
pleasant company.’
‘No, we’re not like to meet again,’ said he thoughtfully, ‘and that’s
the reason I’d like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me, now,’ said
he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; ‘you can’t go far in this
country without being known; ‘tisn’t your looks alone, but your voice,
and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as
you can! there’s thraitors in every cause, and there’s chaps in Ireland
would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry.
Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Islay or Barra; get anywhere out
of this for the time.’
‘Thanks for the counsel,’ said I, somewhat coldly, ‘I’ll have time to
think over it as I go along;’ and with these words I set forth on my
journey.