As I thought over the various incidents the last few days of my life had
presented, I began to wonder with myself whether the world always went
on thus, and if the same scenes of misery and woe I had witnessed were
in the ordinary course of nature. The work of years seemed to me to
have been accomplished in a few brief hours. Here, where I stood
but yesterday, a happy family were met together; and now, death and
misfortune had laid waste the spot, and save the cold walls, nothing
marked it as a human habitation. What had become of them? where had
they gone to? Had they fled from the blood-stained hands of the cruel
soldiery, or were they led away to prison? These were the questions
constantly recurring to my mind. And the French officer, too,--what of
him? I felt the deepest interest in his fate. Poor fellow! he looked so
pale and sickly; and yet there was something both bold and manly in his
flashing eye and compressed lip. He was doubtless one of those Darby
alluded to. What a lot was his! and how little did my own sorrows seem,
as I compared them with his houseless, friendless condition!
As my thoughts thus wandered on, a dark shadow fell across the gleam of
moonlight that lit up the ruined cabin. I turned suddenly, and saw the
figure of a man leaning against the doorpost. For a second or two fear
was uppermost in my mind, but rallying soon, I called out, “Who 's
there?”
“'T is me. Darby M'Keown!” said a well-known voice, but in a tone of
deepest sorrow. “I came over to have a look at the ould walls once
more.”
“You heard it all, then. Darby?”
“Yes; they wor bringing the prisoners into Athlone as I left the town,
and I thought to myself you 'd maybe be hiding somewhere hereabouts. Is
the captain away? Is he safe?”
“The French officer? Yes, he escaped early in the business. I know he
must be far off by this time; Heaven knows which way, though.”
“Maybe I could guess,” said Darby, quietly. “Well, well! it 's hard to
know what 's best. Sometimes it would seem the will of God that we are
n't to succeed; and if we hadn't right on our side, it would not be easy
to bear up against such misfortunes as these.”
There was a silence on both sides after these words, during which I
pandered them well in my mind.
“Come, Mister Tom!” said Darby, suddenly; “'tis time we were moving.
You 're not safe here no more nor others. Basset is looking for you
everywhere, and you 'll have to leave the neighborhood, for a while
at least. Your friend, the captain, too, is gone; his regiment marched
yesterday. So now make up your mind what to do.”
“That's easily done, Darby,” said I, attempting to seem at ease.
“Whichever is your road shall be mine, if you let me.”
“Let you? Yes, with a hearty welcome, too, my darling! But the first
thing is to get you some clothes that won't discover on you. Here 's a
hat I squeezed into my own that 'll just fit you; and I 've a coat here
that 's about your size. That's enough for the present; and as we go
along, I 'll teach you your part, how you are to behave, and he 'll be
no fool that 'll find you out after ten days or a fortnight.”
My change of costume was soon effected, and my wound, which turned out
to be a trifling one, looked after. I took a farewell look at the old
walls, and stepped after my companion down the boreen.
“If we make haste,” said Darby, “we'll be beyond Shannon Harbor before
day; and then, when we 're on the canal, we 'll easy get a lift in some
of the boats going to Dublin.”
“And are you for Dublin?” inquired I, eagerly.
“Yes. I'm to be there on the twenty-fourth of this month, please God.
There 's a meeting of the friends of Ireland to be then, and some
resolutions will be taken about what 's to be done. There 's bad work
going on in the Parliament.”
“Indeed, Darby! What is it?”
“Oh! you couldn't understand it well. But it's just as if we war n't to
have anything to say to governing ourselves; only to be made slaves of,
and sent abroad to fight for the English, that always hate us and abuse
us.”
“And are we going to bear with this?” cried I, passionately.
“No,” said Darby, laying his hand on my shoulder,--“no; not at least
if we had twenty thousand like you, my brave boy. But you'll hear
everything yourself soon. And now, let me attend to your education a
bit, for we're not out of the enemy's country.”
Darby now commenced his code of instruction to me, by which I learned
that I was to perform a species of second to him in all minstrelsy; not
exactly on the truest principles of harmony, but merely alternating with
him in the verses of his songs. These, which were entirely of his
own composition, were all to be learned,--and orally, too, for Mister
M'Keown was too jealous of his copyright ever to commit them to
writing, and especially charged me never to repeat any lyric in the same
neighborhood.
“It's not only the robbery I care for,” quoth Darby, “but the varmints
desthroys my poethry completely; some' times changing the words,
injuring the sentiments, and even altering the tune. Now, it's only last
Tuesday I heerd 'Behave politely,' to the tune of 'Look how he sarved
me!'”
Besides the musical portion of my education, there was another scarcely
less difficult to be attended to: this was, the skilful adaptation of
our melodies, not only to the prevailing tastes of the company, but
to their political and party bearings; Darby supplying me with various
hints how I was to discover at a moment the peculiar bias of any
stranger's politics.
“The boys,” said Darby, thereby meaning his own party, “does be always
sly and careful, and begin by asking, maybe, for 'Do you incline?'
or 'Crows in the barley,' or the like. Then they 'll say, 'Have you
anything new, Mister M'Keown, from up the country?' 'Something sweet,
is it?' says I. 'Ay, or sour, av ye have it,' they 'll 'say. 'Maybe ye'd
like “Vinegar-hill,” then,' says I. Arrah, you'd see their faces redden
up with delight; and how they 'll beat time to every stroke of the tune,
it 's a pleasure to play for them. But the yeos (meaning the yeomen)
will call out mightily,--'Piper! halloo there! piper, I say, rise The
Boyne water, or Croppies lie down.'”
“And of course you refuse, Darby?”
“Refuse! Refuse, is it? and get a bayonet in me? Devil a bit, my dear.
I 'll play it up with all the spirit I can; and nod my head to the tune,
and beat the time with my heel and toe; and maybe, if I see need of
it, I fasten this to the end of the chanter, and that does the business
entirely.”
Here Darby took from the lining of his hat a bunch of orange ribbon,
whose faded glories showed it had done long and active service in the
cause of loyalty.
I confess Darby's influence over me did not gain any accession of
power by this honest avowal of his political expediency; and the
bold assertion of a nation's wrongs, by which at first he won over my
enthusiasm, seemed sadly at variance with this truckling policy. He was
quicksighted enough to perceive what was passing in my mind, and at once
remarked,--
“'Tis a hard part we're obliged to play, Master Tom; but one comfort we
have,--it 's only a short time we 'll need it. You know the song? “Here
he broke into the popular tune of the day:--
“'And the French will come again,
Says the Shan van vaugh;
And they 'll bring ten thousand men.
Says the Shan van vaugh;
And with powder and with ball,
For our rights we 'll loudly call:
Don't you think they 'll hear us then!
Says the Shan van vaugh.'
Ye must larn that air, Master Tom. And see, now, the yeos is as fond of
it as the boys; only remember to put their own words to it,--and devil a
harm in that same when one 's not in earnest. See, now, I believe it 's
a natural pleasure for an Irishman to be humbugging somebody; and faix,
when there 's nobody by he 'd rather be taking a rise out of himself
than doing nothing. It 's the way that 's in us, God help us! Sure it 's
that same makes us sich favorites with the ladies, and gives us a kind
of native janius for coortin':
“''T is the look of his eye,
And a way he can sigh,
Makes Paddy a darlin' wherever he goes;
With a sugary brogue.
Ye 'd hear the rogue
Cheat the girls before their nose.'
And why not? Don't they like to be chated, when they 're sure to win
after all,--to win a warm heart and a stout arm to fight for them?”
This species of logic I give as a specimen of Mister M'Keown's power of,
if not explaining away a difficulty, at least getting out of all reach
of it,--an attribute almost as Irish as the cause it was 'employed to
defend.
As we journeyed along, Darby maintained a strict reserve as to the event
which had required his presence in Athlone; nor did he allude to the
mayor but passingly, observing that he did n't know how it happened that
a Dublin magistrate should have come up to these parts,--“though, to be
sure, he 's a great friend of the Right Honorable.”
“And who is he?” asked I.
“The Right Honorable! Don't you know, then? Why, I did n't think there
was a child in the county could n't tell that. Sure, it 's Denis Browne
himself.”
The name seemed at once to suggest a whole flood of recollections; and
Darby expatiated for hours long on the terrible power of a man by whose
hands life and death were distributed, without any aid from judge or
jury,--thus opening to me another chapter of the lawless tyranny to
which he was directing my attention, and by which he already saw my mind
was greatly influenced.
About an hour after daybreak we arrived at a small cabin; which served
as a lockhouse on the canal side. It needed not the cold, murky sky,
nor the ceaseless pattering of the rain, to make this place look more
comfortless and miserable than anything I had ever beheld. Around, for
miles in extent, the country was one unbroken flat, without any trace
of wood, or even a single thorn hedge, to relieve the eye. Low,
marshy meadows, where the rank flaggers and reedy grass grew tall and
luxuriant, with here and there some stray patches of tillage, were girt
round by vast plains of bog, cut up into every variety of trench and
pit. The cabin itself, though slated and built of stone, was in bad
repair; the roof broken in many places, and the window mended with
pieces of board, and even straw. As we came close. Darby remarked that
there was no smoke from the chimney, and that the door was fastened on
the outside.
“That looks bad,” said he, as he stopped short about a dozen paces from
the hovel, and looked steadily at it; “they've taken him too!”
“Who is it, Darby?” said I; “what did he do?”
M'Keown paid no attention to my question, but unfastening the hasp,
which attached the door without any padlock, entered. The fire was yet
alive on the hearth, and a small stool drawn close to it showed where
some one had been sitting. There was nothing unusual in the appearance
of the cabin; the same humble furniture and cooking utensils lying about
as were seen in any other. Darby, however, scrutinized everything
most carefully, looking everywhere and into everything; till at last,
reaching his hand above the door, he pulled out from the straw of the
thatch a small piece of dirty and crumpled paper, which he opened with
the greatest care and attention, and then flattening it out with his
hand, began to read it over to himself, his eye flashing and his cheek
growing redder as he pored over it. At last he broke silence with,--
“'T is myself never doubted ye, Tim, my boy. Look at that, Master Tom.
But sure, you wouldn't understand it, after all. The yeos took him up
last night. 'T is something about cutting the canal and attacking the
boat that 's again' him; and he left that there--that bit of paper--to
give the boys courage that he wouldn't betray them' That 's the way the
cause will prosper,--if we 'll only stick by one another. For many a
time, when they take a man up, they spread it about that he's turned
informer against the rest; and then the others gets careless, and don't
mind whether they're taken or not.”
Darby replaced the piece of paper carefully; and then, listening for a
moment, exclaimed,--“I hear the boat coming; let's wait for it outside.”
While he employed himself in getting his pipes into readiness, I could
not help ruminating on the strength of loyalty to one another the poor
people observed amid every temptation and every seduction; how, in the
midst of such misery as theirs, neither threats nor bribery seemed to
influence them, was a strong testimony in favor of their truth, and, to
such a reasoner as I was, a no less cogent argument for the goodness of
the cause that elicited such virtues.
As the boat came alongside, I remarked that the deck was without a
passenger. Heaps of trunks and luggage littered it the entire way; but
the severity of the weather had driven every one under cover, except the
steersman and the captain, who, both of them wrapped up in thick coats
of frieze, seemed like huge bears standing on their hindquarters.
“How are you, Darby?” shouted the skipper. “Call out that lazy rascal to
open the lock.”
“I don't think he's at home, sir,” said Darby, as innocently as though
he knew nothing of the reason for his absence.
“Not at home! The scoundrel, where can he be, then? Come, youngster,”
cried he, addressing me, “take the key there, and open the lock.”
Until this moment, I forgot the character which my dress and appearance
assigned to me. But a look from the piper recalled me at once to
recollection; and taking up the iron key, I proceeded, under Darby's
instructions, to do what I was desired, while Darby and the captain
amused themselves by wondering what had become of Tim, and speculated on
the immediate consequences his absence would bring down on him.
“Are you going with us, Darby?” said the captain.
“Faix, I don't know, sir,” said he, as if hesitating. “Ar there was any
gentleman that liked the pipes--”
“Yes, yes; come along, man,” rejoined the skipper. “Is the boy with you?
Very well; come in, youngster.”
We were soon under way again; and Darby, having arranged his instrument
to his satisfaction, commenced a very spirited voluntary to announce
his arrival. In an instant the cabin door opened, and a red-faced,
coarse-looking fellow, in uniform, called out,--
“Halloo, there! is that a piper?”
“Yes, sir,” said Darby, without turning his face round; while, at the
same time, he put a question in Irish to the skipper, who answered it
with a single word.
“I say, piper, come down here!” cried the yeoman, for such he
was,--“come down here, and let 's have a tune!”
“I 'm coming, sir!” cried Darby, standing up; and holding out his hand
to me, he called out,--“Tom, alannah, lead me down stairs.”
I looked up in his face, and to my amazement perceived that he had
turned up the white of his eyes to represent blindness, and was groping
with his hand like one deprived of sight. As any hesitation on my part
might have betrayed him at once, I took his hand, and led him along,
step by step, to the cabin door.
I had barely time to perceive that all the passengers were habited in
uniform, when one of them called out,--“We don't want the young fellow;
let him go back. Piper, sit down here.”
The motion for my exclusion was passed without a negative; and I closed
the door, and sat down by myself among the trunks on deck.
For the remainder of the day I saw nothing of Darby,--the shouts of
laughter and clapping of hands below stairs occasionally informing
me how successful were his efforts to amuse his company; while I had
abundant time to think over my own plans, and make some resolutions for
the future.