How this long, melancholy day wore on I cannot say. To me it was as
gloomy in revery as in its own dismal aspect; the very sounds of mirth
that issued from the cabin beneath grated harshly on my ear; and the
merry strains of Darby's pipes and the clear notes of his rich voice
seemed like treachery from one who so lately had spoken in terms of
heart-breathing emotion of his countrymen and their wrongs. While,
therefore, my estimation for my companion suffered, my sorrow for the
cause that demanded such sacrifices deepened at every moment, and I
panted with eagerness for the moment when I might take my place among
the bold defenders of my country, and openly dare our oppressors to the
battle. All that M'Keown had told me of English tyranny and oppression
was connected in my mind with the dreadful scene I had so lately been a
witness to, and for the cause of which I looked no further than an act
of simple hospitality. From this I wandered on to the thought of those
brave allies who had deserted their career of Continental glory to share
our almost hopeless fortunes here; and how I burned to know them, and
learn from them something of a soldier's ardor.
Night had fallen when the fitful flashing of lamps between the tall elms
that lined the banks announced our approach to the capital. There is
something dreadfully depressing in the aspect of a large city, to the
poor, unfriended youth, who without house or home is starting upon his
life's journey. The stir, the movement, the onward tide of population,
intent on pleasure or business, are things in which he has no part. The
appearance of wealth humiliates, while the sight of poverty affrights
him; and, while every one is animated by some purpose, he alone seems
like a waif thrown on the shores of life, unclaimed, unlocked for. Thus
did I feel among that busy crowd who now pressed to the deck, gathering
together their luggage, and preparing for departure. Some home awaited
each of these,--some hearth, some happy faces to greet their coming. But
I had none of these. This was a sorrowful thought; and as I brooded
over it, my head sank upon my knees, and I saw nothing of what was going
forward about me.
“Tom,” whispered a low voice in my ear,--“Master Tom, don't delay, my
dear; let us slip out here. The soldiers want me to go with them to
their billets, and I have promised; but I don't mean to do it.”
I looked up. It was Darby, buttoned up in his coat, his pipes unfastened
for the convenience of carriage.
“Slip out after me at the lock here; it 's so dark we 'll never be
seen.”
Keeping my eye on him, I elbowed my way through the crowded deck, and
sprang out just as the boat began her forward movement.
“Here we are, all safe!” said Darby, patting me on the shoulder. “And
now that I 've time to ask you, did you get your dinner, my child?”
“Oh yes; the captain brought me something to eat.”
“Come, that's right, anyhow. Glory be to God! I ate heartily of some
bacon and greens; though the blackguards--bad luck to them for the
same!--made me eat an orange lily whole, afraid the _greens_, as they
said, might injure me.”
“I wonder. Darby,” said I, “that you haven't more firmness than to
change this way at every moment.”
“Firmness, is it? Faix, it's firm enough I'd be, and Stiff, too, if I
did n't. Sure it 's the only way now at all. Wait, my honey, till the
time comes round for ourselves, and faix, you 'll never accuse me of
coorting their favor; but now, at this moment, you perceive, we must do
it to learn their plans. What do you think I got to-night? I learned all
the signs the yeos have when they 're drinking together, and what they
say at each sign. Thers 's a way they have of gripping the two little
fingers together that I'll not forget soon.”
For some time we walked on at a rapid pace, without exchanging more than
an occasional word. At last we entered a narrow, ill-lighted street,
which led from the canal harbor to one of the larger and wider
thoroughfares.
“I almost forget the way here,” said Darby, stopping and looking about
him.
At last, unable to solve the difficulty, he leaned over the half-door
of a shop, and called out to a man within, “Can you tell where is Kevin
Street?”
“No. 39?” said the man, after looking at him steadily for a moment.
Darby stroked down one side of his face with his hand slowly; a gesture
immediately imitated by the other man.
“What do you know?” said Darby.
“I know 'U,'” replied the man.
“And what more?”
“I know 'N'”
“That 'ill do,” said Darby, shaking hands with him cordially. “Now, tell
me the way, for I have no time to spare.”
“Begorra! you 're in as great haste as if ye were Darby the Blast
himself. Ye 'll come in and take a glass?”
Darby only laughed, and again excusing himself, he asked the way; which
having learned, he wished his newly-made friend good-night, and we
proceeded.
“They know you well hereabouts; by name, at least,” said I, when we had
walked on a little.
“That they do,” said Darby, proudly. “From Wexford to Belfast there
's few does n't know me; and they 'll know more of me, av I 'm right,
before I die.”
This he spoke with more of determination than I ever heard him use
previously.
“Here 's the street now; there 's the lamp,--that one with the two
burners there. Faix, we 've made good track since morning, anyhow.”
As he spoke we entered a narrow passage, through which the street lamp
threw a dubious half-light. This conducted us to a small paved court,
crossing which we arrived at the door of a large house. Darby knocked
in a peculiar manner, and the door was speedily opened by a man who
whispered something, to which M'Keown made answer in the same low tone.
“I 'm glad to see you again,” said the man, louder, as he made way for
him to pass.
I pushed forward to follow, when suddenly a strong arm was stretched
across my breast, and a gruff voice asked,--“Who are you?”
Darby stepped back, and said something in his ear. The other replied,
sturdily, in the negative; and although Darby, as it appeared, used
every power of persuasion he possessed, the man was inexorable.
At last, when the temper of both appeared nearly giving way. Darby
turned to me, and said,--“Wait for me a moment, Tom, where you are, and
I 'll come for you.”
So saying, he disappeared, and the door closed at the same time, leaving
me in darkness on the outside. My patience was not severely taxed; ere
five minutes the door opened, and Darby, followed by another person,
appeared.
“Mr. Burke,” said this latter, with the tone of voice that at once
bespoke a gentleman, “I am proud to know you.” He grasped my hand warmly
as he spoke, and shook it affectionately. “I esteem it an honor to be
your sponsor here. Can you find your way after me? This place is never
lighted; but I trust you 'll know it better ere long.”
Muttering some words of acknowledgment, I followed my unseen
acquaintance along the dark corridor.
“There's a step, here,” cried he; “and now mind the stairs.”
A long and winding flight conducted us to a landing, where a candle was
burning in a tin sconce. Here my conductor turned round.
“Your Christian name is Thomas, I believe,” said he. At the same moment,
as the light fell on me, he started suddenly back, with an air of
mingled astonishment and chagrin. “Why, M'Keown, you told me--” The rest
of the sentence was lost in a whisper.
“It 's a disguise I made him wear,” said Darby. “He 'd no chance of
escaping the country without it.”
“I 'm not speaking of that,” retorted the other, angrily.
“It is his age, I mean; he's only a boy. How old are you, sir?” continued
he, addressing me, but with far less courtesy than before.
“Old enough to live for my country; or die for it either, if need be,”
said I, haughtily.
“Bravo, my darling!” cried the piper, slapping me on the shoulder with
enthusiasm.
“That's not exactly my question,” said the stranger, smiling
good-naturedly; “I want to know your age.”
“I was fourteen in August,” said I.
“I had rather you could say twenty,” responded he, thoughtfully. “This
is a sad mistake of yours, Darby. What dependence can be placed on a
child like this? He's only a child, after all.”
“He's a child I'll go bail for with my head,” said Darby.
“Your head has fully as much on it as it is fit to carry,” said the
other, in a tone of rebuke. “Have you told him anything of the object
and intentions of this Society? But of course you have revealed
everything. Well, I 'll not be a party to this business. Young
gentleman,” continued he, in a voice of earnest and impressive accent,
“all I know of you is the few particulars this man has stated respecting
your unfriended position, and the cruelty to which you fear to expose
yourself in trusting to the guardianship of Mr. Basset. If these reasons
have induced you, from recklessness and indifference, to risk your life,
by association with men who are actuated by high and noble principles,
then, I say, you shall not enter here. If, however, aware of the object
and intentions of our Union, you are desirous to aid us, young though
you be, I shall not refuse you.”
“That's it,” interrupted Darby; “if you feel in your heart a friend to
your country--”
“Silence!” said the other, harshly; “let him decide for himself.”
“I neither know your intentions, nor even guess at them,” said I,
frankly. “My destitution, and the poor prospect before me, make me, as
you suppose, indifferent to what I embark in, provided that it be not
dishonorable.
“It is not danger that will deter me, that 's all I can promise you.”
“I see,” said the stranger, “this is but another of your pranks, Mr.
M'Keown; the young gentleman was to be kidnapped amongst us. One thing,”
said he, turning to me, “I feel assured of, that anything you have
witnessed here is safe within your keeping; and now we'll not press the
matter further. In a few days you can hear, and make up your mind on all
these things; and as you are not otherwise provided, let us make you our
guest in the mean while.”
Without giving me time to reply, he led me downstairs again, and
unlocking a room on the second floor, passed through several rooms,
until he reached one comfortably fitted up like a study.
“You must be satisfied with a sofa here for to-night but to-morrow I
will make you more comfortable.”
I threw my eyes over the well-filled bookshelf with delight, and was
preparing to thank him for all his kindness to me, when he added,--
“I must leave you now, but we 'll meet to-morrow; so good-night. Come
along, M'Keown; we shall want you presently.”
I would gladly have detained Darby to interrogate him about my new abode
and its inhabitants; but he was obliged to obey, and I heard the door
locked as they closed it on the outside, and shortly after the sounds of
their feet died away, and I was left in silence.
Determined to con over, and if possible explain to myself, the mystery
of my position, I drew my sofa towards the fire and sat down; but
fatigue, stronger than all my curiosity, had the mastery, and I was soon
sound asleep.