Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by Google Books
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2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
MY LORDS OF STROGUE.
MY LORDS OF STROGUE.
_A CHRONICLE OF IRELAND, FROM THE CONVENTION
TO THE UNION_.
BY
HON. LEWIS WINGFIELD,
AUTHOR OF 'LADY GRIZEL,' ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1879.
[_All Rights Reserved_.]
'God of Vengeance! smite us
With Thy shaft sublime,
If one bond unite us
Forged in fraud or crime.
But if humbly kneeling
We implore Thine ear,
For our rights appealing--
God of Nations! Hear!'
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
CHAPTER
I. SAWDUST IN THE CHANCELLOR'S DOLL.
II. MR. CASSIDY IS IN DOUBT.
III. SHANE'S LITTLE PARTY.
IV. THE SHAMBLES.
V. THE ALTAR OF MOLOCH.
VI. APRES LA MORT, LE MEDECIN.
VII. SUSPENSE.
VIII. EAVESDROPPING.
IX. PREPARATIONS FOR THE SACRIFICE.
X. CONSIGNED TO MOILEY.
XI. ATE.
XII. MOILEY'S LAST MEAL.
TO THE READER.
LIST OF WORKS CONSULTED.
MY LORDS OF STROGUE.
CHAPTER I.
SAWDUST IN THE CHANCELLOR'S DOLL.
If the cits of Dublin during this time were in the throes of
apprehension and suspense, the Lords and Commons were enduring the
agonies of evil conscience. They regretted that parliament had not
been prorogued in order that they might have pretended ignorance as to
what was passing; for they felt that the world was pointing the finger
of derision at them. Not that the English world--the _beau monde_ that
is--cared one way or the other. In London it was always difficult to
arouse interest in the affairs of a remote colony, whose ways were
like those of Madagascar. The Viceroy's bleatings appeared weekly in
the _Gentlemen's Magazine_, and coffee-house critics barely glanced at
them, for they were always the same. His excellency was always
lamenting the misbehaviour of the populace; was always delighted to
report that four or five hundred rebels had on such a day been sent to
another sphere. The scraps of poetry that stood cheek by jowl beside
this gabble were infinitely more amusing to the critics. Rhapsodies on
Chloe's shoe-string--a ravishing account of the last balloon ascent.
But these delectable topics failed to amuse young Robert Emmett, whose
heart, during weary weeks, was feeding on itself in the English
metropolis. On his arrival there, he had been kindly taken by the hand
by my Lord Moira, who had held a seat in the Houses of both countries,
and who, shocked at what he heard, rose up in his place and protested
that it was time for the British public to interfere. A member
suggested lightly that there was an Irish parliament whose province it
was to look after such matters. Lord Moira hung his head. He knew too
well how low that parliament had fallen--how mean-spirited were those
who were haggling over the price of their birthright.
The sneers of the Londoners were hard to bear. The dangers which
seemed to menace the Irish senators terrified their timid souls.
From the 24th to the 31st of May no mail-coach had arrived in Dublin.
There was no news save what the Viceroy chose to dribble out; bonfires
were seen upon the Wicklow hills. Awful reports were circulating
hourly--reports that warrior priests were in possession of Arklow; had
arrived at Bray; were at their very gates. If such should prove to be
the case, then was the career ended of the faithful Lords and Commons.
The sulky scowls of the Liberty-boys boded no good. There would be a
massacre of the Innocents. What could Heaven be about to allow its
chosen and elect to suffer such gnawing torments? The scum had been
evilly ill-treated; but not enough, it seemed, to make them meek and
mild. If they were beaten now, they should receive an extra trouncing
for presuming in this egregious manner to alarm their betters. Then
General Lake started with his army; all the regulars went with him.
The capital was handed over to the custody of four thousand yeomen,
who--drunken, dissolute, uncurbed--proceeded to make hay while the
blood-red sun was shining. Major Sirr and his Staghouse bloodhounds
were a power in the state. From being town-major, a title scarcely
legible in the list of public encumbrances, Sirr became invested,
through the usefulness of his bully band, with all the real powers of
the most absolute authority. He was growing rich, for among other
trades he was a licensed victualler, owned Nelly's Coffee-house, and
obtained the lucrative monopoly of supplying wines to prisoners. He
was also a virtuoso; remitted triangle-torture, and sold tickets to
his victims for extra light and air, in exchange for orders upon
hapless wives for pictures, bric-a-brac, and household stuff. How,
when so many came to a violent end, did such a monster escape
assassination? Because one of his first rules of conduct was to push
forward somebody else to perform a dangerous job. When his hounds had
pulled down the quarry, then would he come forward and strike an
attitude upon the body of the hunted beast. It is in the hot-bed of
public calamity that such fungi grow quick to ripeness. So soon as the
counties rose to arms and caused a panic, the life and liberty of
every man was at his disposal. If one offended him, he charged him
with high treason and swept him off to prison, and a court-martial.
Just now, to be accused was much the same as to be convicted. One day,
a professor of language was seized and carted to the Riding-school to
receive five hundred lashes because a letter was found in his pocket
written in the French tongue. Another day (all this before the month
of May was out), a gentleman was pistolled in the street by an
intoxicated yeoman because his hair was cut short. Of course he was a
'Croppy'! It transpired afterwards that he was an invalid recovering
from fever. Another time, a party broke into a baker's shop at dawn,
demanding bread. The oven had not long been lighted--the baking was
not complete. No matter; his Majesty's servants would eat the dough
half-baked--aye, and wash it down as it stuck in the throat with a
jorum of raw whisky. Strange to relate, the whole party was taken ill.
Of course the villanous Croppies had poisoned the servants of his
Majesty. An example should be made of the malignants! (How fond were
these pioneers of a new era of making examples!) The baker and his
wife and his two sons were dragged into the street and shot down,
without time for shriving, in front of their own door.
Lieutenant Hepenstall, as a type of his class, rose to unenviable
celebrity. He stood six feet two, was strong and broad--could lift a
ton. The expression of his face was mild as milk--the blackness of his
heart was dark as hell. Full of zeal for his Majesty's service, he
took to hanging on his own brawny back those persons whose
physiognomies he judged to be characteristic of rebellion. First, he
knocked down his man to quiet him. His garters did duty as handcuffs.
His cravat was a convenient rope. With a powerful chuck he drew his
victim's head as high as his own and trotted about with his burden,
considerately advising him to pray for King George, since prayers
would be wasted on his own damned Popish soul, till the gulping
wretch's neck was broken. Is it any marvel that the bullet, the sabre,
the lash, the halter, should have been met by the pike, the scythe,
the hatchet, and the firebrand?
Major Sirr became all-powerful, and shortly after Terence's mishap had
words with Cassidy. He came to look on his old ally with a feeling
akin to contempt, for he considered a man mean-spirited who had not
the courage of his own iniquity. The time was over now when masks were
comfortable wearing. He, Major Sirr, had never stooped to wear one; if
Cassidy intended to feather his nest, now was the time, or never. He
roundly told him so when the giant called in at the major's lodgings
to claim his portion of the L1,000 reward. The latter's brow-tufts
came down over his nose; he laughed a sardonic laugh and shook his
pear-shaped head. He was specially spiteful over this reward, by
reason of the slashes he had received from Phil. True, they were mere
flesh-wounds; but he resented having his legs carved about in this
reckless way by an amateur surgeon.
'If ye'd have your part of the money,' he said, with incisive scorn,
'come and claim it in the public street. Don't come to me in the dead
o' night as though the bumbailiffs were creeping at your heels.'
He held by his decision, and the two cronies quarrelled. Indeed they
were very near a duel; but Cassidy, with commendable prudence,
observed, 'There is enough discord already among the patriots, so
don't let us fall into a similar mistake.' They snarled and showed
their teeth, like dogs; then made it up, as wisdom dictated.
Cassidy could not well explain the reasons for his secrecy. He
could not say that if he were known to have accepted her cousin's
blood-money there would be an impassable gulf 'twixt him and Doreen
for ever. Sirr would have only gibed in that a man who was such a
rascal should be sighing after an honest wench; so he gave up the
blood-money. Cassidy was very undecided at this moment. Prudence
whispered that the major's counsel was good. He knew, too, that as
things were going, he could not wear his mask much longer. What was he
to do? Unless he were careful he would fall between two stools. Doreen
had never given her clumsy admirer any encouragement; would probably
refuse him even though he hoarded mines of gold. Was she not rich
herself? If he could not have Doreen, it would be quite as well to
have money; and he could not earn his proper wage without openly
joining the Battalion of Testimony. It was a very delicate question.
Would it not be best to sound Miss Wolfe once more? Maidens are coy.
Some who are prepared to take us if we persevere, require much wooing.
Maybe the fair Doreen was one of these. On second thoughts he did not
quite think she was, with her calm bearing and solemn eyes; but at all
events it was worth the trial. No harm could come of that.
He determined, therefore, to make a journey to Glas-aitch-e, and trim
his sails according to the wind that blew there. Meanwhile it was a
dirty trick that his old ally had played him. Yet, after all, it
mattered little. The sweetness of revenge is better than guineas. His
long-concealed loathing for his unconscious rival had found vent at
last, and he felt the better for it, independent of any considerations
of pelf. The odious, good-tempered, bright-visaged, careless young
councillor! He dared to aspire to Doreen, did he? The same words as
the giant had muttered as he stood before the sleeper, he spoke again
through his grinding teeth. If he could not have the maid himself, the
councillor should not have her. That unlucky person was sick unto
death in duress, with the gallows looming close at hand. There was
comfort--great comfort in that. The thousand pounds might go to the
devil--or to Major Sirr. Decidedly it would be well to make a trip
northward, for though he played his game cunningly and let out useless
Castle secrets with much vapouring, yet were the chiefs of the popular
party beginning to suspect him. Even unsuspicious Tom Emmett, whom he
had been to see in Kilmainham gaol a few days back, twitted him with
his liberty. The double game was no longer possible. He would have to
make up his mind presently either to assume the palm of martyrdom for
Doreen's sake, with a pardon in his portfolio for past delinquencies,
or, flinging off boldly all disguise, to pocket the guineas and the
obloquy which were the portion of the Staghouse crew.
The sufferings of the Lords and Commons were endured also in full
measure by the Privy Council, who found themselves in a quandary. Lord
Moira's little agitation in London was not without its effect,
although folks did sneer at the wild Irish. On leaving St. Stephen's,
the head of opposition linked his arm in my Lord Moira's, and begged
to inquire whether he had not been drawing on his imagination.
'Your countrymen are so dreadfully imaginative, you know!' he said
plaintively. 'I never forget the story of "potatoes and point" that
somebody told me. So Irish! What is it? Oh! some notion of a Hibernian
feast on a frugal scale in the far west, where the guests sat in a
circle, each with his potato, which was dipped from time to time to
give it flavour into a pot of salt in the middle. When the salt began
to fail, each potato was _pointed_ at the relish instead of being
dipped in it, which many declared to be an economical improvement, for
imagination did the rest! The Irish, you know, pull the long-bow
terribly, and disconcert you by themselves believing their own lies.'
Being at last persuaded that Lord Moira's details were facts which had
taken place lately, and would take place each day for months, unless
summarily stopped, Mr. Pitt's rival expressed much delight. This was a
hole in the harness of Mr. Pitt, of which he would proceed straightway
to make the most brilliant use. But Mr. Pitt saw the pair walking
together, and, divining at once the subject of their discourse,
resolved to forestall any rude suggestions which might be made. He
wrote accordingly to Lord Clare, expressing surprise at the reports,
bidding him act with discretion--tempering a just firmness with
lenity; deploring and disapproving a waste of life; suggesting fewer
executions and more close imprisonment. The chancellor was annoyed at
being thus interfered with. He was doing his work steadily and well.
It was all very fine for an English minister to prate in platitudes,
at a distance, about firmness and lenity. He would reap the full
benefit of the transaction when it was completed, whilst his tools in
Ireland were laying in a harvest of opprobrium. Then, as his mind
worked, the look of anxiety cleared from Lord Clare's face. What
happened to the rest of the Privy Council mattered little to him. _He_
was the guiding pilot. To _him_ must come honours, an English peerage,
a seat at St. Stephen's. There might he give a loose rein to his
ambition. This letter, though, might prove useful in the matter of
Terence Crosbie. The Viceroy's prerogative of mercy should be
exercised first of all in the case of the misguided youth, son of the
old friend who persisted in remaining so singularly cold as to his
fate. Why were my lady's letters so cold? he wondered. Never mind. Her
son should be saved, if possible, without more parley.
His plan, however, met with unexpected resistance from Lord Camden,
who was usually so ductile. To his amazement that effete person
declined altogether to interfere. Vainly the chancellor browbeat him,
employing those artifices of language and manner which were wont to
make him quiver. The more he argued the more the Viceroy mumbled. Like
all weak natures, he could be wofully obstinate at times in the wrong
place. He had worked himself up to consider the unhappy Terence as his
own private victim, because, in his case, he had acted on his own
authority for once, and had even been visited with the sublime
inspiration of the reward. He clung to his victim with the tenacity of
a bulldog; nothing should wrest from his lips the savoury morsel. For
his part, he declared, he thought Mr. Pitt barely civil. He desired
these hopeless Irish people to be well kept under, and yet he gave
vent to windy phrases which his coadjutors in Dublin could not
possibly act upon, without changing their course and becoming
laughing-stocks. He, for one, declined to stultify himself. As for
this sprig of nobility who had disgraced the ermine and dirtied his
nest, it was essential above all things to make an example of him,
lest any other misguided youth of the same rank should be deluded
enough to follow his pernicious lead.
Lord Clare, like a good diplomat, dropped the subject for that time,
and went on to speak of the other imprisoned leaders. What was to be
done with them? Could they be executed? No! It would be impolitic to
martyrise them too openly, for they were well known in Dublin as
patriotic and single-minded young men who led blameless lives.
Moreover it was evident from this epistolary hint that Mr. Pitt would
object to such a proceeding.
'I'd try 'em by court-martial!' mumbled the Viceroy from the head of
the council board, taking snuff.
'State prisoners!' retorted Arthur Wolfe with unusual warmth, from the
bottom. 'Better not go through the farce of trial at all.'
The Viceroy glared, and the chancellor bit his lip. Why could not
Arthur Wolfe hold his stupid tongue? Lord Clare felt more than ever
that this weak-minded friend must be got out of the way somehow. On
him, as attorney-general, would of course fall the duties of crown
prosecutor. Dear, dear! people seemed to throw obstacles in his way on
purpose, as though his task were not entangled enough already! All
this considered, these members of the Directory, over whose capture
there had been such crowing, seemed disposed to revenge themselves by
becoming white elephants. They could not be hanged _en masse_ without
creating scandal; it was not even certain that they would be convicted
if brought to trial, for against several of their number very little
tangible evidence could be brought. Their names on a list--their
presence at a meeting. This was not enough. Of course the Battalion
could be brought forward with fictitious evidence--but Lord Clare
shrank from this, except as a last resource. Besides, they were not to
be hanged--that was settled. What then could be done with them? A
light punishment, as for a misdemeanour, would drive the Orangemen to
madness, who were shouting for blood, after the manner of religious
bigots. Petty larceny and high treason could not be placed on the same
level. Could not somebody suggest something?
'I have an idea,' mild Arthur Wolfe murmured, as he nervously gnawed a
pen. 'Banishment might be proposed to them, on conditions which might
be made to look like mutual accommodation. For instance, make them
confess their offences and explain the ins and outs of their scheme,
in order that it may be guarded against in future. By confession they
would show the world that we've not been tilting against windmills.
Surely the establishment of the traitorous conspiracy by the testimony
of the principal actors in it might be fairly taken as an equivalent
for the lives of a few men, without loss of dignity on our part?'
The chancellor mused. The notion was ingenious. The Viceroy drew a
picture of a gallows on his paper, and gabbled of court-martials in an
injured tone.
'Very pretty, but they would not consent,' affirmed Lord Clare, at
last.
'I think they would,' returned the attorney-general, blushing. 'In
fact, the idea is not mine. Tom Emmett suggested it to me.'
'You've been to see them?'
'Yes. I've been to Kilmainham and to Newgate. It's a shocking sight,'
answered Arthur Wolfe, kindling, 'to see decent men loaded with irons,
mixed up with thieves, insulted hourly by the low janissaries of Major
Sirr! The poor fellows are so shocked at the accounts which reach
them, and see so plainly the futility of struggling now, that they
would do anything, I think, to stop the effusion of blood.'
'If they would consent to banishment for life, and let us into the
secrets of the society, we should be well out of the job,' the
chancellor decided. 'Curran shall be sent to put it to the rascals.
The blackguard has influence with them. Meanwhile we will turn on the
screw by bringing the worst to trial. Sure Mr. Pitt must not mind just
a few being strung up.'
So it was provisionally arranged; but the affair did not run on
wheels. The patriots were captious, held out for special terms,
dictated alterations in the proposed agreement, behaved in a flippant
manner--not meekly and decorously as people should who feel the hemp
about their necks.
'It must be understood,' they declared, 'that they were to mention no
names, criminate no person; that after an examination before the
secret committee of Lords, upon the intentions and aims of the United
Irish Society, they were to be sent to America, as Tone had been
before them.' Here was insolence! This in order, of course, that they
might join Tone in France, and stir up the French again. Contumacious
traitors!
The chancellor became exceeding wroth. The screw must be twisted with
a vengeance, he said. 'What a pity that they could not be hanged _en
masse!_ One or two at any rate must suffer--just to teach the others
to behave themselves.' Lord Camden suggested Terence, the malignant
aristocrat, as a good victim; but the chancellor fenced the matter
off, and overruled his excellency. Arthur Wolfe implored and
begged--vowed that the words would choke his utterance as he made his
opening speech--swore that he could not, would not, come forward to
prosecute--even so far forgot himself as to fling the pens and paper
about, and beard the Privy Council with upbraiding words. Then my Lord
Camden absolutely cackled. Mr. Speaker and Mr. Prime Sergeant laid
their hands upon their swords. How indecent! Luckily they sat with
closed doors. Here was a split in the cabinet when unity was so
essential. Lord Clare's harsh voice rose above the hubbub. He coerced
them all to order with verbal whips, like the keeper of some
menagerie. The animals, cowed, lay down and growled. The peace was
kept for this once, but the astute chancellor perceived that something
must be done with promptitude, or the whole of his beautiful fabric,
which only needed a roof now to finish it, would come tumbling about
his ears. Truly he deserved well of his master, for he laboured hard.
He discovered that the excellent, the humane, Arthur Wolfe was too
good and clever for his position--almost too good for this world; and
so he was graciously put on the shelf--I mean the Bench--and raised to
the peerage of Kilwarden, _en attendant_ a front seat in heaven. As my
Lord Kilwarden we shall know him for the future--the same weak
well-meaning man as ever--compelled to listen to false witness from
his high chair, but unable to interfere because his mouth was stopped
by the fur which trimmed his coronet. The solicitor-general, Toler,
was promoted to the vacant place, and proved to be a prosecutor 'of
the right sort,' a fitting _pendant_ to the jury, in the state-trials
which commenced immediately in the sessions-house in Green Street,
hard by Newgate prison.
These proceedings followed each other with the celerity which marked
the chief events of '98. The rebels had thrown down their gauntlet on
the 23rd of May. By the 1st of June, Kildare was quieted. It was on
the 11th of June that the court was first opened for the trial of the
patriots, whose chief advocate was Curran; whilst horrible reports
were arriving hourly from Wexford, which were made the most of, to
keep the jury up to the mark. The moment which the little lawyer had
prophetically seen was come, when he of the silver tongue was to stand
forth and boldly wrestle for noble human life with the demons of
Treachery and Malice. The brave little man shrank not from the task,
fraught as it was with personal danger to himself. He bore a charmed
life. The prisoners in their beds at Newgate could hear his earnest
tones in the hot night through opened windows, haranguing the jury
till daylight; could detect the trotting of his pony as he returned in
the morning to the Priory--no longer hospitably open as of yore, but
bolted and barred, with shutters closed and loopholed, in a besieged
condition, for timid Sara's sake. That which occupied the
sessions-house in Green Street was the only civil tribunal which
existed during this troublous time. Except in the instances of the six
state-trials, there was no law in town or country but martial law,
which is terrible enough even when fairly administered; how much more
awful then when conducted, as it was, by excited Irishmen--rabid with
religious fury, heated by rancour and revenge.
Events had marched quickly. The chancellor had nothing to complain of,
for, with a few trifling checks, everything went well enough. The
people had been maddened into committing themselves. All classes were
at sixes and sevens. The menagerie was in a chaotic condition. The
wolf snarled at the hyena, the bear showed his tusks at the tiger-cat.
The senate was as degraded as its bitterest foe could desire. But what
an exasperating world it is! How true the trite old maxim about the
slip 'twixt cup and lip! Lord Clare saw (not far off, neither) the
abolition of the Irish parliament. He heard his own voice ringing
along the rafters of the English House of Lords. He pictured himself
high in office--why not premier some day? But all of a sudden an event
occurred which had never entered into his calculations--a rap came on
his knuckles, swift and agonising, which woke him from his vision to
see that it was air.
That agitation of Lord Moira's went farther in its effect than its
author dreamed. Mr. Pitt perceived at once that it must cause him to
change his tactics, and with presence of mind he resolved to do so
instantly. 'How lucky,' he mused, as he sat under the comb of his
friseur after a night's debauch, 'that this dust was not stirred up
sooner! Now it matters not. The effect I wish produced is made, and
can't be unmade. But I must disavow the acts that made it. The thing
has gone so far now that it must run along to the end by the force of
its own impetus.' Then he reflected that it would not be amiss to
write a warning to Lord Clare, which might be brought up against him
later. He would let things go on quietly till other arrangements were
completed, then announce his new purpose as a surprise, and act upon
it on the instant.
So it came about that the English premier disarmed the opposition by
recalling at a few hours' notice the then Viceroy, Lord Camden, and
despatching to Ireland at once--with an energy that did him credit--a
new one, who was instructed to carry on the work on a new principle.
Lord Clare was thunderstruck. When the news came, his face lengthened
by an ell. He thought not of broken puppets, which, having served
their purpose, are tossed upon the dust-heap. A new Viceroy! Just at
this crisis, too, when more than ever unity was strength. What if the
new Viceroy should have a will of his own to clash with the lord
chancellor's? That was unlikely, for Lord Clare was essentially a
leader of men. He had coerced many viceroys, and thoroughly understood
the business. There was no reason for supposing that this one would be
more stubborn than the others. But he would of necessity come raw to
his work, would have to be taught, which would create delay. It was
very provoking. Yet, after all, there was a good side even to this
dilemma. Strong-willed or not, he would have to leave things alone
during his pupilage. For the present he could not interfere much. Yet,
turn the situation over as he would, my Lord Clare could not but see
that Mr. Pitt had made a fool of him; and it was with some misgiving
that the chancellor went down in state to Kingstown to make his bow to
his new master.
Mr. Pitt's choice was a most judicious one. He had to look for a man
who was brave and honest, high-spirited, clear-headed--the antithesis
to Camden. Some one who knew something of affairs, who was a
soldier--in order that at this difficult juncture the reins of
government and the command of the forces should be in one firm grasp.
Some one who was experienced in the world's ways, who would be too
wise to run a-muck or do anything Quixotic. Who would pull things
straight gradually and with circumspection, so as not to stop the ball
before it reached its goal, and yet who was too conspicuous for virtue
for the opposition to jut forth the tongue at him. Just such a man was
the Marquis Cornwallis, who had recently earned glorious laurels in
India; whom all the world respected because he was upright as well as
worldly-wise.
The preparations of the new Viceroy had been made in secret.
Therefore, the word of command being given, he started off, like the
good soldier that he was, at a moment's notice, and arrived at
Kingstown towards the end of June. As a salve to his predecessor's
feelings, a nephew of Lord Camden's was attached as chief
secretary--the young Viscount Castlereagh, who, report said, was
promising. Lord Clare met the party with a toothsome smile, in all the
bravery of tightly-fitting silk upon his dapper limbs, his rustling
robes stiffened with gold lace, his lappeted wig powdered with
perfumed flour. The viceregal state-coach was not in waiting, he
regretted to say. The rapidity of his excellency's coming was
extraordinary! My Lord Camden, who was living within a cordon of
guards away in the Ph[oe]nix Park, had not yet resigned it. But his
own poor coach was there (the one which cost four thousand guineas);
if his excellency would so far honour him as to take a seat in it, it
would be the proudest moment in the life of his humble servant.
Lord Cornwallis, thinking it a good opportunity of studying the
notorious chancellor, accepted graciously; and the two jogged
together along the high-road to Dublin, preceded by a body of the
Liberty-rangers, who appeared to the military optic a sad set of
clodpoles. Lord Clare descanted on the beauty of the scenery, the
loveliness of Dublin Bay, the delights of summer weather. Sure, his
excellency must have had a splendid passage. Was he never sick? Lucky
man! Never, never? This good beginning was a fine omen for the future.
Might his career in Ireland win his Majesty's approval! and so on, and
so forth. Vapid compliments! Lord Clare made himself as pleasant as he
possibly could, and congratulated himself rather on his success. It is
a fortunate circumstance that we do not abide in the Palace of Truth.
The first impression which the coercer of viceroys left upon the mind
of Lord Cornwallis, was one of a cruel eye, painfully glittering
teeth, a smile to be distrusted, a voice which went through him like a
knife.
'What of the people?' he asked somewhat abruptly; for he knew more
than he liked about Lake's plans, and feared lest the obloquy which
must attend them should be pinned to the new _regime_.
'The people!' echoed his companion, in a tone which spoke
volumes--'the people! Ah, well! They've offended the King, and are
having a hard time of it. To-morrow they will have a very hard time
indeed, but no worse than they deserve; for by nightfall, if all goes
well--why should it go ill?--a few hours hence, Wexford and
Enniscorthy will be taken, the camp at Vinegar Hill will be a
Golgotha--this deplorable folly will be at an end.'
Lord Cornwallis gave a sigh of relief. He had come expecting to see
unpleasant sights, to be for the nonce a bandager instead of a carver
of wounds. If the chancellor spoke truly, then was he indeed in luck,
for the horrors attending this 'Golgotha,' as his companion
picturesquely put it, would naturally be considered to belong to Lord
Camden's vice-royalty, not his.
The cavalcade which had been rattling along came to a standstill. The
Liberty-rangers, with oaths and curses, were striving to force a
passage through a kneeling crowd which occupied the way; but the
peasants who formed the crowd seemed to have no feeling as they knelt
there in the middle of the road, with hats off and heads bowed down.
Vainly were the horses urged, vainly did the postilions, with artful
flips of their long knotted lashes, strive to tickle into
sensitiveness the soft bare arms of girls--their white necks, from
which the hair was braided. They knelt there and moved not.
Lord Cornwallis looked out at the spectacle in surprise, and lowered
the window-glass with a bang to bid the postilions respect the sex, in
terms of indignant remonstrance. What singular people! So silent; they
might be stone. His ear caught a distant wailing, very faint--a long
way off--and a peculiar sound which recalled long-forgotten memories
of youth. The falling of a flail--yes, that was it. A lightning-flash,
of the past revealed to his mind's eye a warm-coloured, familiar
threshing-floor, in which he used to play ere he grew hardened by
war's vicissitudes. He remembered, as though it were yesterday, the
chequered sunlight on the grain, the merry hum of life, the stalwart
fellows raising their brawny arms in clock-like rhythm. He heard again
the buzz of insects, the booming of gauze-winged beetles along the
hedgerows; the exhilarating murmur which sings of teeming nature--of
glorious summer. Why were these peasants turned to stone?
Lord Clare, forgetting himself, craned out of his window, and presumed
at the very start to counter-order his chief's commands.
'Go on!' he screamed. 'Get through this riff-raff!'
Lord Cornwallis roughly bade him hold his peace.
'It's only a flogging,' the chancellor apologised.
'And this is the silent protest of the people! Have they sunk to
this?' cried the Viceroy hoarsely, pulling at his cravat to ease the
lump that was in his throat. 'Poor creatures! Ground down so low that
they can protest only by their silence--a reverent silence, like that
of onlookers at a martyrdom! Who is acting here? Call him forward.'
Presently an aide-de-camp returned through an archway with the
sheriff. The aide's eyes were full of tears. He was a youth new to
Ireland. This pathetic method of protesting was strangely, weirdly
tragic! He had noted how, as the far-off moaning continued, and the
thuds poured down in an unrelenting shower, these fair young necks had
winced in concert, though no murmur passed their lips. Yet when the
postilions flicked them, calling up red marks upon the skin, they made
no movement, nor uttered cry. All their feeling was for the suffering
victim on the triangle, in the barrack-yard yonder, whose life the cat
was slowly beating out of him. None was left for a paltry personal
smart, which lasts a second and is gone.
'What are you doing there?' asked the frowning Viceroy.
''Deed it's a Croppy being flogged till he tells the truth, as is the
rule,' returned the sheriff confidentially, with grins. He knew not
the bluff speaker, but respected the golden coach.
'Learn then, in time, lest your own bones suffer for it,' retorted
Lord Cornwallis, 'that I am his Majesty's new representative. That my
first order on arriving in your capital shall be to put down corporal
punishment in any form whatever, unless sanctioned and signed for by
me.'
The sheriff knew not what to make of it. This the new Viceroy, and
these his orders? He merely bowed and smirked, taking his cue from my
Lord Clare.
A very old man in a long frieze coat, seeming to read some sort of
unusual sympathy in the flushed weather-beaten face of the last
speaker, advanced to the carriage-window with a grotesque salute.
'What can we do for you, my man?' quoth the bluff soldier, in the hope
of some answering quip which should warm away the chill which rested
on his heart.
'Plaze, yer honour!' quavered the aged man, with a vacant smile of
senility, 'sure I'd loike, if it moight be, for my two lads foreninst
the barriks there, as are sufferin', to be hanged at onst! And, av ye
plaze, might I go up too? Wid the blessing of God, I'd loike to shake
a fut wid my boys!'
Lord Cornwallis pulled up the window with a jerk; and Lord Clare
thought the omen not quite so good which marked the arrival of the new
Viceroy.