Produced by David Widger
WILLY REILLY
by William Carleton
Illustrated by M. L. Flanery
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER
I.--An Adventure and an Escape
II.--The Cooleen Bawn
III.--Daring Attempt of the Red Rapparee
--Mysterious Disappearance of His
Gang--The Avowal
IV.--A Sapient Project for our Hero's
Conversion--His Rival makes his
Appearance, and its Consequences
V.--The Plot and the Victims
VI.--The Warning--an Escape
VII.--An Accidental Incident favorable to
Reilly, and a Curious Conversation
VIII.--A Conflagration--An Escape--And
an Adventure
IX.--Reilly's Adventure Continued
--A Prospect of By-gone Times--Reilly
gets a Bed in a Curious Establishment
X.--Scenes that took place in the Mountain
Cave
XI.--The Squire's Dinner and his Guests
XII.--Sir Robert Meets a Brother Sportsman
--Draws his Nets, but Catches Nothing
XIII.--Reilly is Taken, but connived at by
the Sheriff--the Mountain Mass
XIV.--Reilly takes Service with Squire
Folliard
XV.--More of Whitecraft's Plots and Pranks
XVI.--Sir Robert ingeniously extricates
Himself out of a great Difficulty
XVII.--Awful Conduct of Squire Folliard
--Fergus Keilly begins to Contravene
the Red Rapparee
XVIII.--Something not very Pleasant for all
Parties
XIX.--Reilly's Disguise Penetrated
--He Escapes--Fergus Reilly is on the Trail
of the Rapparee--Sir Robert begins
to feel Confident of Success
XX.--The Rapparee Secured--Reilly and
the Cooleen Bawn Escape, and are Captured
XXI.--Sir Robert Accepts of an Invitation
XXII.--The Squire Comforts Whitecraft in
his Affliction
XXIII.--The Squire becomes Theological and
a Proselytizer, but signally fails
XXIV.--Preparations--Jury of the Olden Time
--The Scales of Justice
XXV.--Rumor of Cooleen Bawn's Treachery
--How it appears--Reilly stands his Trial
--Conclusion
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
I am agreeably called upon by my bookseller to prepare for a Second
Edition of “Willy Reilly.” This is at all times a pleasing call upon an
author; and it is so especially to me, inasmuch as the first Edition
was sold at the fashionable, but unreasonable, price of a guinea and a
half--a price which, in this age of cheap literature, is almost fatal to
the sale of any three-volume novel, no matter what may be its merits.
With respect to “Willy Reilly,” it may be necessary to say that I never
wrote any work of the same extent in so short a time, or with so much
haste. Its popularity, however, has been equal to that of any other
of my productions; and the reception which it has experienced from the
ablest public and professional critics of the day has far surpassed my
expectations. I accordingly take this opportunity of thanking them most
sincerely for the favorable verdict which they have generously passed
upon it, as I do for their kindness to my humble efforts for the last
twenty-eight years. Nothing, indeed, can be a greater encouragement to
a literary man, to a novel writer, in fact, than the reflection that he
has an honest and generous tribunal to encounter. If he be a quack or an
impostor, they will at once detect him; but if he exhibit human nature
and truthful character in his pages, it matters not whether he goes to
his bookseller's in a coach, or plods there humbly, and on foot; they
will forget everything but the value and merit of what he places before
them. On this account it is that I reverence and respect them; and
indeed I ought to do so, for I owe them the gratitude of a pretty long
literary life.
Concerning this Edition, I must say something. I have already stated
that it was written rapidly and in a hurry. On reading it over for
correction, I was struck in my cooler moments by many defects in it,
which were, kindly overlooked, or, perhaps, not noticed at all. To
myself, however, who had been brooding over this work for a long time,
they at once became obvious. I have accordingly added an underplot of
affection between Fergus Reilly--mentioned as a distant relative of my
hero--and the _Cooleen Bawn's_ maid, Ellen Connor. In doing so, I have
not disturbed a single incident in the work; and the reader who may have
perused the first Edition, if he should ever--as is not unfrequently the
case--peruse this second one, will certainly wonder how the additions
were made. That, however, is the secret of the author, with which they
have nothing to do but to enjoy the book, if they can enjoy it.
With respect to the O'Reilly name and family, I have consulted my
distinguished' friend--and I am proud to call him so--John O'Donovan,
Esq., LL.D., M.R.I.A., who, with the greatest kindness, placed the
summary of the history of that celebrated family at my disposal. This
learned gentleman is an authority beyond all question. With respect to
Ireland--her language--her old laws--her history--her antiquities--her
archaeology--her topography, and the genealogy of her families, he is
a perfect miracle, as is his distinguished fellow-laborer in the same
field, Eugene Curry. Two such men--and, including Dr. Petrie, three such
men--Ireland never has produced, and never can again--for this simple
reason, that they will have left nothing after them for their successors
to accomplish. To Eugene Curry I am indebted for the principal fact upon
which my novel of the “Tithe Proctor” was written--the able introduction
to which was printed verbatim from a manuscript with which he kindly
furnished me. The following is Dr. O'Donovan's clear and succinct
history of the O'Reilly family from the year 435 until the present time:
“The ancestors of the family of O'Reilly had been celebrated in Irish
history long before the establishment of surnames in Ireland. In the
year 435 their ancestor, Duach Galach, King of Connaught, was baptized
by St. Patrick on the banks of Loch Scola, and they had remained
Christians of the old Irish Church, which appears to have been peculiar
in its mode of tonsure, and of keeping Easter (and, since the twelfth
century, firm adherents to the religion of the Pope, till Dowell
O'Reilly, Esq., the father of the present head of the name, quarrelling
with Father Dowling, of Stradbally, turned Protestant, about the year
1800).
“The ancestor, after whom they took the family name, was Reillagh, who
was chief of his sect, and flourished about the year 981.
“From this period they are traced in the Irish Annals through a
long line of powerful chieftains of East Breifny (County Cavan), who
succeeded each other, according to the law of Tanistry, till the year
1585, when two rival chieftians of the name, Sir John O'Reilly and
Edmund O'Reilly, appeared in Dublin, at the parliament summoned by
Perrot. Previously to this, John O'Reilly, finding his party weak, had
repaired to England, in 1583, to solicit Queen Elizabeth's interest,
and had been kindly received at Court, and invested with the order of
Knighthood, and promised to be made Earl, whereupon he returned home
with letters from the Queen to the Lord Deputy and Council of Ireland,
instructing them to support him in his claims. His uncle, Edmund, of
Kilnacrott, would have succeeded Hugh Connallagh O'Reilly, the father of
Sir John, according to the Irish law of Tanistry, but he was set aside
by Elizabeth's government, and Sir John set up as O'Reilly in his place.
Sir John being settled in the chieftainship of East Breifny, entered
into certain articles of agreement with Sir John Perrot, the Lord
Deputy, and the Council of Ireland, whereby he agreed to surrender the
principality of East Breifny to the Queen, on condition of obtaining it
again from the crown _in capite_ by English tenure, and the same to be
ratified to him and the heirs male of his body. In consequence of this
agreement, and with the intent of abolishing the tanistic succession,
he, on the last day of August, 1590, perfected a deed of feofment,
entailing thereby the seignory of Breifny (O'Reilly) on his eldest son,
Malmore (Myles), surnamed Alainn (the comely), afterwards known as the
Queen's O'Reilly.
“Notwithstanding these transactions, Sir John O'Reilly soon after joined
in the rebellion of Hugh, Earl of Tyrone, and died on the first of June,
1596. After his death the Earl of Tyrone set up his second brother,
Philip, as the O'Reilly, and the government of Elizabeth supported the
claim of Sir John's son, Malmore, the comely, in opposition to Philip,
and Edmund of Kilnacrott. But Malmore, the Queen's O'Reilly, was slain
by Tyrone in the great battle of the Yellow Ford, near Benburb, on the
14th of August, 1528, and the Irish of Ulster agreed to establish Edmund
of Kilnacrott, as the O'Reilly.
“The lineal descendants of Sir John passed into the French service, and
are now totally unknown, and probably extinct. The descendants of Edmund
of Kilnacrott have been far more prolific and more fortunate. His senior
representative is my worthy old friend Myles John O'Reilly, Esq., Heath
House, Emo, Queen's Co., and from him are also descended the O'Reillys
of Thomastown Castle, in the County of Louth, the Counts O'Reilly of
Spain, the O'Reillys of Beltrasna, in Westmeath, and the Reillys of
Scarva House, in the County of Down.
“Edmund of Kilnacrott had a son John who had a son Brian, by Mary,
daughter of the Baron of Dunsany, who had a famous son Malmore, commonly
called Myles the Slasher. This Myles was an able military leader during
the civil wars of 1641, and showed prodigies of valor during the years
1641, 1642, and 1643; but, in 1644, being encamped at Granard, in the
County of Longford, with Lord Castlehaven, who ordered him to proceed
with a chosen detachment of horse to defend the bridge of Finea against
the Scots, then bearing down on the main army with a very superior
force, Myles was slain at the head of his troops, fighting bravely on
the middle of the bridge. Tradition adds, that during this action he
encountered the colonel of the Scots in single combat, who laid open his
cheek with a blow of his sword; but Myles, whose jaws were stronger than
a smith's vice, held fast the Scotchman's sword between his teeth till
he cut him down, but the main body of the Scots pressing upon him, he
was left dead on the bridge.
“This Myles the Slasher was the father of Colonel John O'Reilly, of
Ballymacadd, in the County Meath, who was elected Knight of the Shire
for the County of Cavan, in the parliament held at Dublin on the 7th of
May, 1689. He raised a regiment of dragoons, at his own expense, for the
service of James II., and assisted at the siege of Londonderry in
1689. He had two engagements with Colonel Wolsley, the commander of
the garrison of Belturbet, whom he signally defeated. He fought at the
battles of the Boyne and Aughrim, and was included in the articles of
capitulation of Limerick, whereby he preserved his property, and was
allowed to carry arms.
“Of the eldest son of this Colonel John O'Reilly, who left issue, my
friend Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is now the senior representative.
“From Colonel John O'Reilly's youngest son, Thomas O'Reilly, of
Beltrasna, was descended Count Alexander O'Reilly, of Spain, who took
Algiers! immortalized by Byron. This Alexander was born near Oldcastle,
in the County Meath, in the year 1722. He was Generalissimo of his
Catholic Majesty's forces, and Inspector-General of the Infantry, etc.,
etc. In the year 1786 he employed the Chevalier Thomas O'Gorman to
compile for him a history of the House of O'Reilly, for which he paid
O'Gorman the sum of £1,137 10.s., the original receipt for which I have
in my possession.
“Prom this branch of the O'Reilly family was also descended the
illustrious Andrew Count O'Reilly, who died at Vienna in 1832, at the
age of 92. He was General of Cavalry in the Austrian service. This
distinguished man filled in succession all the military grades in the
Austrian service, with the exception of that of Field Marshal, and was
called by Napoleon '_le respectable General O'Reilly_.'
“The eldest son of Myles J. O'Reilly, Esq., is a young gentleman of
great promise and considerable fortune. His rencontre with Lord Clements
(now Earl of Leitrim) has been not long since prominently before the
public, and in a manner which does justice to our old party quarrels!
Both are, however, worthy of their high descent; and it is to be hoped
that they will soon become good friends, as they are boih young, and
remarkable for benevolence and love of fatherland.”
As this has been considered by some persons as a historical novel,
although I really never intended it as such, it may be necessary to give
the reader a more distinct notion of the period in which the incidents
recorded in it took place. The period then was about that of 1745, when
Lord Chesterfield was Governor-General of Ireland. This nobleman, though
an infidel, was a bigot, and a decided anti-Catholic; nor do I think
that the temporary relaxation of the penal laws against Catholics was
anything else than an apprehension on the part of England that the
claims of the Pretender might be supported by the Irish Catholics, who
then, so depressed and persecuted, must have naturally felt a strong
interest in having a prince who professed their own religion placed upon
the English throne. Strange as it may appear, however, and be the cause
of it what it may, the Catholics of Ireland, as a people and as a body,
took no part whatever in supporting him. Under Lord Chesterfield's
administration, one of the most shocking and unnatural Acts of
Parliament ever conceived passed into a law. This was the making void
and null all intermarriages between Catholic and Protestant that should
take place after the 1st of May, 1746. Such an Act was a renewal of the
Statute of Kilkenny, and it was a fortunate circumstance to Willy Reilly
and his dear Cooleen Bawn that he had the consolation of having been
transported for seven years. Had her father even given his consent at an
earlier period, the laws of the land would have rendered their marriage
impossible. This cruel law, however, was overlooked; for it need hardly
be said that it was met and spurned not only by human reason, but by
human passion. In truth, the strong and influential of both religions
treated it with contempt, and trampled on it without any dread of the
consequences. By the time of his return from transportation, it was
merely a dead letter, disregarded and scorned by both parties, and was
no obstruction to either the marriage or the happiness of himself and
his dear _Cooleen Bawn_.
I know not that there is any thing else I can add to this preface,
unless the fact that I have heard several other ballads upon the subject
of these celebrated lovers--all of the same tendency, and all in the
highest praise of the beauty and virtues of the fair _Cooleen Bawn_.
Their utter vulgarity, however, precludes them from a place in these
pages. And, by the way, talking of the law which passed under the
administration of Lord Chesterfield against intermarriages, it is not
improbable that the elopement of Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_, in
addition to the execution of the man to whom I have given the name of
Sir Robert Whitecraft, may have introduced it in a spirit of reaction,
not only against the consequences of the elopement, but against the
baronet's ignominious death. Thus, in every point from which we can
view it, the fate of this celebrated couple involved not only popular
feeling, but national importance.
I have not been able to trace with any accuracy or satisfaction that
portion or branch of the O'Reilly family to which my hero belonged. The
dreary lapse of time, and his removal from the country, have been the
means of sweeping into oblivion every thing concerning him, with the
exception of his love for Miss Folliard, and its strange consequences.
Even tradition is silent upon that part of the subject, and I fear that
any attempt to throw light upon it must end only in disappointment.
I have reason to believe that the Counsellor Fox, who acted as his
advocate, was never himself raised to the bench; but that that honor was
reserved for his son, who was an active judge a little before the close
of the last century.
W. Carleton.
Dublin, December, 1856.
CHAPTER I.--An Adventure and an Escape.
Spirit of George Prince Regent James, Esq., forgive me this
commencement! *
* I mean no offence whatsoever to this distinguished and
multitudinous writer; but the commencement of this novel really
resembled that of so many of his that I was anxious to avoid the
charge of imitating him.
It was one evening at the close of a September month and a September day
that two equestrians might be observed passing along one of those old
and lonely Irish roads that seemed, from the nature of its construction,
to have been paved by a society of antiquarians, if a person could judge
from its obsolete character, and the difficulty, without risk of neck or
limb, of riding a horse or driving a carriage along it. Ireland, as our
English readers ought to know, has always been a country teeming with
abundance--a happy land, in which want, destitution, sickness, and
famine have never been felt or known, except through the mendacious
misrepresentations of her enemies. The road we speak of was a proof
of this; for it was evident to every observer that, in some season of
superabundant food, the people, not knowing exactly how to dispose of
their shilling loaves, took to paving the common roads with them, rather
than they should be utterly useless. These loaves, in the course
of time, underwent the process of petrifaction, but could not,
nevertheless, be looked upon as wholly lost to the country. A great
number of the Irish, within six of the last preceding years--that is,
from '46 to '52--took a peculiar fancy for them as food, which, we
presume, caused their enemies to say that we then had hard times in
Ireland. Be this as it may, it enabled the sagacious epicures who lived
upon them to retire, in due course, to the delightful retreats of Skull
and Skibbereen,* and similar asylums, there to pass the very short
remainder of their lives in health, ease, and luxury.
* Two poor-houses in the most desolate parts of the County of
Cork, where famine, fever, dysentery, and cholera, rendered more
destructive by the crowded state of the houses and the consequent
want of ventilation, swept away the wretched in-mates to the
amount, if we recollect rightly, of sometimes from fifty to
seventy per diem in the years '45 and '47.
The evening, as we have said, was about the close of September, when the
two equestrians we speak of were proceeding at a pace necessarily slow.
One of them was a bluff, fresh-complexioned man, of about sixty summers;
but although of a healthy look, and a frame that had evidently once
been vigorous, yet he was a good deal stooped, had about him all the
impotence of plethora, and his hair, which fell down his shoulders, was
white as snow. The other, who rode pretty close to him, was much about
his own age, or perhaps a few years older, if one could judge by a face
that gave more undeniable evidences of those furrows and wrinkles which
Time usually leaves behind him. This person did not ride exactly side by
side with the first-mentioned, but a little aback, though not so far
as to prevent the possibility of conversation. At this time it may be
mentioned here that every man that could afford it wore a wig, with the
exception of some of those eccentric individuals that are to be found
in every state and period of society, and who are remarkable for
that peculiar love of singularity which generally constitutes their
character--a small and harmless ambition, easily gratified, and
involving no injury to their fellow-creatures. The second horseman,
therefore, wore a wig, but the other, although he eschewed that
ornament, if it can be called so, was by no means a man of that mild
and harmless character which we have attributed to the eccentric and
unfashionable class of whom we have just spoken. So far from that, he
was a man of an obstinate and violent temper, of strong and unreflecting
prejudices both for good and evil, hot, persevering, and vindictive,
though personally brave, intrepid, and often generous. Like many of his
class, he never troubled his head about religion as a matter that must,
and ought to have been, personally, of the chiefest interest to himself,
but, at the same time, he was looked upon as one of the best and
staunchest Protestants of the day. His loyalty and devotedness to
the throne of England were not only unquestionable, but proverbial
throughout the country; but, at the same time, he regarded no clergyman,
either of his own or any other creed, as a man whose intimacy was worth
preserving, unless he was able to take off his three or four bottles
of claret after dinner. In fact, not to keep our readers longer in
suspense, the relation which he and his companion bore to each other was
that of master and servant.
The hour was now a little past twilight, and the western sky presented
an unusual, if not an ominous, appearance. A sharp and melancholy breeze
was abroad, and the sun, which had set among a mass of red clouds, half
placid, and half angry in appearance, had for some brief space gone
down. Over from the north, however, glided by imperceptible degrees a
long black bar, right across the place of his disappearance, and nothing
could be more striking than the wild and unnatural contrast between the
dying crimson of the west and this fearful mass of impenetrable darkness
that came over it. As yet there was no moon, and the portion of light
or rather “darkness visible” that feebly appeared on the sky and
the landscape, was singularly sombre and impressive, if not actually
appalling. The scene about them was wild and desolate in the extreme;
and as the faint outlines of the bleak and barren moors appeared in the
dim and melancholy distance, the feelings they inspired were those of
discomfort and depression. On each side of them were a variety of lonely
lakes, abrupt precipices, and extensive marshes; and as our travellers
went along, the hum of the snipe, the feeble but mournful cry of the
plover, and the wilder and more piercing whistle of the curlew, still
deepened the melancholy dreariness of their situation, and added to
their anxiety to press on towards the place of their destination.
“This is a very lonely spot, your honor,” said his servant, whose name
was Andrew, or, as he was more familiarly called, Andy Cummiskey.
“Yes, but it's the safer, Andy,” replied his master. “There is not a
human habitation within miles of us.”
“It doesn't follow, sir, that this place, above all others in the
neighborhood, is not, especially at this hour, without some persons
about it. You know I'm no coward, sir.”
“What, you scoundrel! and do you mean to hint that I'm one?”
“Not at all, sir; but you see the truth is, that, this being the very
hour for duck and wild-fowl shootin', it's hard to say where or when a
fellow might start up, and mistake me for a wild duck, and your honor
for a curlew or a bittern.”
He had no sooner spoken than the breeze started, as it were, into more
vigorous life, and ere the space of many minutes a dark impenetrable
mist or fog was borne over from the solitary hills across the dreary
level of country through which they passed, and they felt themselves
suddenly chilled, whilst a darkness, almost palpable, nearly concealed
them from each other. Now the roads which we have described, being
almost without exception in remote and unfrequented parts of the
country, are for the most part covered over with a thick sole of close
grass, unless where a narrow strip in the centre shows that a pathway is
kept worn, and distinctly marked by the tread of foot-passengers. Under
all these circumstances, then, our readers need not feel surprised
that, owing at once to the impenetrable obscurity around them, and the
noiseless nature of the antique and grass-covered pavement over which
they went, scarcely a distance of two hundred yards had been gained when
they found, to their dismay,' that they had lost their path, and were
in one of the wild and heathy stretches of unbounded moor by which they
were surrounded.
“We have lost our way, Andy,” observed his master. “We've got off that
damned old path; what's to be done? where are you?”
“I'm here, sir,” replied his man; “but as for what's to be done, it
would take Mayo Mullen, that sees the fairies and tells fortunes, to
tell us that. For heaven's sake, stay where you are, sir, till I get up
to you, for if we part from one another, we're both lost. Where are you,
sir?”
“Curse you, sirra,” replied his master angrily, “is this either a time
or place to jest in? A man that would make a jest in such a situation as
this would dance on his father's tombstone.”
“By my soul, sir, and I'd give a five-pound note, if I had it, that you
and I were dancing 'Jig Polthogue' on it this minute. But, in the mane
time, the devil a one o' me sees the joke your honor speaks of.”
“Why, then, do you ask me where I am, when you know I'm astray, that
we're both astray, you snivelling old whelp? By the great and good King
William, I'll be lost, Andy!”
“Well, and even if you are, sir,” replied Andy, who, guided by his
voice, had now approached and joined him; “even if you are, sir, I trust
you'll bear it like a Christian and a Trojan.”
“Get out, you old sniveller--what do you mean by a Trojan?”
“A Trojan, sir, I was tould, is a man that lives by sellin' wild-fowl.
They take an oath, sir, before they begin the trade, never to die until
they can't help it.”
“You mean to say, or to hint at least, that in addition to our other
dangers we run the risk of coming in contact with poachers?”
“Well, then, sir, if I don't mistake they're out to-night. However,
don't let us alarm one another. God forbid that I'd say a single word to
frighten you; but still, you know yourself that there's many a man not
a hundred miles from us that 'ud be glad to mistake you for a target, a
mallard, or any other wild-fowl or that description.”
“In the meantime we are both well armed,” replied his master; “but what
I fear most is the risk we run of falling down precipices, or walking
into lakes or quagmires. What's to be done? This fog is so cursedly cold
that it has chilled my very blood into ice.”
“Our best plan, sir, is to dismount, and keep ourselves warm by taking
a pleasant stroll across the country. The horses will take care of
themselves. In the meantime keep up your spirits--we'll both want
something to console us; but this I can tell you, that devil a bit of
tombstone ever will go over either of us, barrin' the sky in heaven; and
for our coffins, let us pray to the coffin-maker, bekaise, you see, it's
the _maddhu ruah_ * (the foxes), and ravens, and other civilized animals
that will coffin us both by instalments in their hungry guts, until
our bones will be beautiful to look at--afther about six months'
bleaching--and a sharp eye 'twould be that 'ud know the difference
between masther and man then, I think.”
We omitted to say that a piercing and most severe hoar frost had set in
with the fog, and that Cummiskey's master felt the immediate necessity
of dismounting, and walking about, in order to preserve some degree of
animal heat in his body.
“I cannot bear this, Andy,” said he, “and these two gallant animals
will never recover it after the severe day's hunting they've had. Poor
Fiddler and Piper,” he exclaimed, “this has proved a melancholy day to
you both. What is to be done, Andy? I am scarcely able to stand, and
feel as if my strength had utterly left me.”
“What, sir,” replied his servant, who was certainly deeply attached to
his master, “is it so bad with you as all that comes to? Sure I only
thought to amuse you, sir. Come, take courage; I'll whistle, and maybe
somebody will come to our relief.”
He accordingly put his two fingers into his mouth, and uttered a loud
and piercing whistle, after which both stood still for a time, but no
reply was given.
“Stop, sir,” proceeded Andrew; “I'll give them another touch that'll make
them spake, if there's any one near enough to hear us.”
He once more repeated the whistle, but with two or three peculiar shakes
or variations, when almost instantly one of a similar character was
given in reply.
“Thank God,” he exclaimed, “be they friends or foes, we have human
creatures not far from us. Take courage, sir. How do you feel?”
“Frozen and chilled almost to death,” replied his master; “I'll give
fifty pounds to any man or party of men that will conduct us safely
home.”
“I hope in the Almighty,” said Andrew to himself in an anxious and
apprehensive tone of voice, “that it's not Parrah Ruah (Red Patrick),
the red Rapparee, that's in it, and I'm afeered it is, for I think I
know his whistle. There's not a man in the three baronies could give
such a whistle as that, barring himself. If it is, the masther's a gone
man, and I'll not be left behind to tell the story, God protect us!
“What are you saying, Andy?” asked his master: “What were you muttering
just now?”
“Nothing, sir, nothing; but there can be no harm, at all events, to look
to our pistols. If there should be danger, let us sell our lives like
men.”
“And so we will, Andy. The country I know is in a disturbed and lawless
state, and ever since that unfortunate affair of the priest, I know I am
not popular with a great many. I hope we won't come across his Rapparee
nephew.”
“Whether we do or not, sir, let us look to our firearms. Show me yours
till I settle the powdher in them. Why, God bless me, how you are
tremblin'.”
“It is not from fear, sir,” replied the intrepid old man, “but from
cold. If any thing should happen me, Andy, let my daughter know that my
will is in the oaken cabinet; that is to say, the last I made. She is
my heiress--but that she is by the laws of the land. However, as I had
disposed of some personal property to other persons, which disposition
I have revoked in the will I speak of--my last, as I said--I wish you to
let her know where she may find it. Her mother's jewels are also in
the same place--but they, too, are hers by right of law--her mother
bequeathed them to her.”
“All! sir, you are right to remember and think well of that daughter.
She has been a guardian angel to you these five years. But why, sir, do
you give me this message? Do you think I won't sell my life in defence
of yours? If you do you're mistaken.”
“I believe it, Andrew; I believe it, Andy,” said he again, familiarizing
the word; “but if this red Rapparee should murder me, I don't, wish you
to sacrifice your life on my account. Make your escape if he should be
the person who is approaching us, and convey to my daughter the message
I have given you.”
At this moment another whistle proceeded from a quarter of the moor much
nearer them, and Andy, having handed back the pistols to his master,
asked him should he return it.
“Certainly,” replied the other, who during all this time was pacing to
and fro, in order to keep himself from sinking; “certainly, let us see
whether these persons are friends or enemies.”
His servant then replied to the whistle, and in a few minutes it was
answered again, whilst at the same time a strong but bitter wind
arose which cleared away the mist, and showed them with considerable
distinctness the position which they occupied.
Within about ten yards of them, to the left, the very direction in
which they had been proceeding, was a small deep lake' or tarn, utterly
shoreless, and into which they unquestionably would have walked and
perished, as neither of them knew how to swim. The clearing away of
the mist, and the light of the stars (for the moon had not yet risen),
enabled the parties to see each other, and in a few minutes Andrew and
his master were joined by four men, the principal person among them
being the identical individual whom they both had dreaded--the Red
Rapparee.
“Master,” said Cummiskey, in a whisper, on seeing them approach, “we
must fight for it, I'm afeered, but let us not be rash; there may be a
friend or two among them, and it is better to come off peaceably if we
can.”
“I agree with you,” replied his master. “There is no use in shedding
unnecessary blood; but, in any event, let us not permit them to disarm
us, should they insist on doing so. They know I never go three yards
from my hall-door without arms, and it is not improbable they may make
a point of taking them from us. I, however, for one, will not trust to
their promises, for I know their treachery, as I do their cowardice,
when their numbers are but few, and an armed opponent or two before
them, determined to give battle. Stand, therefore, by me, Andy, and, by
King William, should they have re-course to violence, we shall let them
see, and feel too, that we are not unprepared.”
“I have but one life, sir,” replied his faithful follower; “it was
spent--at least its best days were--in your service, and sooner than any
danger should come to you, it will be lost in your defence. If it was
only for the sake of her, that is not here, the _Cooleen Bawn_, I would
do it.”
“Who goes there?” asked a deep and powerful voice when the parties had
come within about twenty yards of each other.
“By the powers!” exclaimed Andrew in a whisper, “it's himself the Red
Rapparee!”
“We are friends,” he replied, “and have lost our way.”
The other party approached, and, on joining our travellers, the Rapparee
started, exclaiming, “What, noble Squire, is it possible that this is
you? Hut! it can't be--let me look at you closer, till I make sure of
you.”
“Keep your distance, sir,” replied the old man with courage and dignity;
“keep your distance; you see that I and my servant are both well armed,
and determined to defend ourselves against violence.”
An ominous and ferocious glance passed from the Rapparee to his
comrades, who, however, said nothing, but seemed to be resolved to guide
themselves altogether by his conduct. The Red Rapparee was a huge man
of about forty, and the epithet of “Red” had been given to him in
consequence of the color of his hair. In expression his countenance was
by no means unhandsome, being florid and symmetrical, but hard, and
with scarcely any trace of feeling. His brows were far asunder, arguing
ingenuity and invention, but his eyes, which were small and treacherous,
glared--whenever he became excited--with the ferocity of an enraged
tiger. His shoulders were broad, his chest deep and square, his arms
long and powerful, but his lower limbs were somewhat light in proportion
to the great size of his upper figure. This, however, is generally
the case when a man combines in his own person the united qualities of
activity and strength. Even at the period we are describing, when this
once celebrated character was forty years of age, it was well known that
in fleetness of foot there was no man in the province able to compete
with him. In athletic exercises that required strength and skill he
never had a rival, but one--with whom the reader will soon be made
acquainted. He was wrapped loosely in a gray frieze big-coat, or
_cothamore_, as it is called in Irish--wore a hat of two colors, and so
pliant in texture that he could at any time turn it inside out. His coat
was--as indeed were all his clothes--made upon the time principle, so
that when hard pressed by the authorities he could in a minute or two
transmute himself into the appearance of a nun very different from the
individual described to them. Indeed he was such a perfect Proteus that
no vigilance of the Executive was ever a match for his versatility of
appearance, swiftness of foot, and caution. These frequent defeats of
the authorities of that day made him extremely popular with the people,
who were always ready to afford him shelter and means of concealment,
in return for which he assisted them with food, money, and the spoils
of his predatory life. This, indeed, was the sagacious principle of the
Irish Robbers and Rapparees from the beginning to _rob from the rich and
give to the poor_ being their motto.
The persons who accompanied him on this occasion were three of his own
gang, who usually constituted his body-guard, and acted as videttes,
either for his protection or for the purpose of bringing him information
of such travellers as from their known wealth or external appearance
might be supposed worth attacking. They were well-made, active, and
athletic men, in whom it would not be easy to recognise any particular
character at variance with that of the peasantry around them. It is
unnecessary to say that they were all armed. Having satisfied himself as
to the identity of master and man, with a glance at his companions, the
Rapparee said,
“What on earth brought you and Andy Cummiskey here, noble squire? Oh!
you lost your way Andy says. Well now,” he proceeded, “you know I have
been many a day and night on the lookout for you; aye, could have
put daylight through you many and many a time; and what do you think
prevented me?”
“Fear of God, or of the gallows, I hope,” replied the intrepid old man.
“Well,” returned the Rapparee, with a smile of scorn, “I'm not a man--as
I suppose you may know--that ever feared either of them much--God
forgive me for the one, I don't ask his forgiveness for the other. No,
Squire Folliard, it was the goodness, the kindness, the generosity, and
the charity of the _Cooleen Bawn_, your lovely daughter, that held my
hand. You persecuted my old uncle, the priest, and you would a' hanged
him too, for merely marryin' a Protestant and a Catholic together. Well,
sir, your fair daughter, and her good mother--that's now in heaven,
I hope--went up to Dublin to the Lord Lieutenant, and before him the
_Cooleen Bawn_, went on her two knees and begged my uncle's life, and
got it; for the Lord Lieutenant said that no one could deny her any
thing. Now, sir, for her sake, go home in peace. Boys, get their
horses.”
Andy Cummiskey would have looked upon all this as manly and generous,
but he could not help observing a particular and rather sinister meaning
in the look which the Rapparee turned on his companions as he spoke. He
had often heard, too, of his treacherous disposition and his unrelenting
cruelty whenever he entertained a feeling of vengeance. In his present
position, however, all he could do was to stand on his guard; and with
this impression strong upon him he resolved to put no confidence in the
words of the Rapparee. In a few minutes the horses were brought up, and
Randy (Randall) Ruah having wiped Mr. Folliard's saddle--for such was
his name--with the skirt of his _cothamore_, and removed the hoar frost
or rime which had gathered on it, he brought the animal over to him, and
said, with a kind of rude courtesy,
“Come, sir, trust me; I will help you to your saddle.”
“You have not the reputation of being trustworthy,” replied Mr.
Folliard; “keep back, sir, at your peril; I will not trust you. My own
servant will assist me.”
This seemed precisely the arrangement which the Rapparee and his men had
contemplated. The squire, in mounting, was obliged, as every man is, to
use both his hands, as was his servant also, while assisting him.
They consequently put up their pistols until they should get into the
saddles, and, almost in an instant, found themselves disarmed, and
prisoners in the hands of these lawless and unscrupulous men.
“Now, Squire Folliard,” exclaimed the Rapparee, “see what it is not to
trust an honest man; had you done so, not a hair of your head would
be injured. As it is, I'll give you five minutes to do three things;
remember my uncle, the priest, that you transported.”
“He acted most illegally, sir,” replied the old man indignantly; “and,
in my opinion, I say that, in consequence of his conduct, the country
had a good riddance of him. I only wish I could send you after him;
perhaps I shall do so yet. I believe in Providence, sirra, and that God
can protect me from your violence even here.”
“In the next place,” proceeded the Rapparee, “think of your daughter,
that you will never see again, either in this world or the next.”
“I know I am unworthy of having such an angel,” replied the old man,
“but unless you were a cruel and a heartless ruffian, you would not
at this moment mention her, or bring the thoughts of her to my
recollection.”
“In the last place,” continued the other, “if you have any thing to say
in the shape of a prayer, say it, for in five minutes' time there will
be a bullet through your heart, and in five more you will be snug and
warm at the bottom of the loch there below--that's your doom.”
“O'Donnel,” said Andy, “think that there's a God above you. Surely
you wouldn't murdher this ould man and make the sowl within your body
redder--if the thing's possible--than the head that's on the top of
it, though in throth I don't think it's by way of ornament it's there
either. Come, come, Randal, my man, this is all _feastalagh_ (nonsense).
You only want to frighten the gentleman. As for your uncle, man alive,
all I can say is that he was a friend to your family, and to religion
too, that sent him on his travels.”
“Take off your gallowses” (braces)! said the Rapparee; “take them off,
a couple of you--for, by all the powers of darkness, they'll both go to
the bottom of the loch together, back to back. Down you'll go, Andy.”
“By my soul, then,” replied the unflinching servant, “if we go down
you'll go up; and we have those belongin' to us that will see you kiss
the hangman yet. Yerra, now, above all words in the alphabet what could
put a gallows into your mouth? Faith, Randal, it's about your neck
it'll go, and you'll put out your tongue at the daicent people that will
attend your own funeral yet--that is, if you don't let us off.”
“Put them both to their knees,” said the Rapparee in a voice of thunder,
“to their knees with them. I'll take the masther, and, Kineely, do you
take the man.”
The companions of the Rapparee could not avoid laughing at the comic
courage displayed by Cummiskey, and were about to intercede for him,
when O'Donnel, which was his name, stamped with fury on the ground and
asked them if they dared to disobey him. This sobered them at once,
and in less than a minute Mr. Folliard and Andy were placed upon their
knees, to await the terrific sentence which was about to be executed
on them, in that wild and lonely moor, and under such appalling
circumstances. When placed in the desired posture, to ask that mercy
from God which they were not about to experience at the hands of man,
Squire Folliard spoke:
“Red Rapparee,” said he, “it is not that I am afraid of death as such,
but I feel that I am not prepared to die. Suffer my servant and myself
to go home without harm, and I shall engage not only to get you a pardon
from the Government of the country, but I shall furnish you with money
either to take you to some useful calling, or to emigrate to some
foreign country, where nobody will know of your misdeeds, or the life
you have led here.”
“Randal, my man,” added Andy, “listen to what the gentleman says, and
you may escape what you know yet. As for my master, Randal, let him
pass, and take me in his place. I may as well die now, maybe, as another
time. I was an honest, faithful servant, at all times. I have neither
chick nor child to cry for me. No wife, thank God, to break my heart
afther. My conscience is light and airy, like a beggarmans blanket,
as they say; and, barrin' that I once got drunk wid your uncle in Moll
Flanagan's sheebeen house, I don't know that I have much to trouble me.
Spare _him_, then, and take _me_, if it must come to that. He has the
_Cooleen Bawn_ to think for. Do you think of her, too; and remember that
it was she who saved your uncle from the gallows.”
This unlucky allusion only deepened the vengeance of the Red Rapparee,
who looked to the priming of his gun, and was in the act of preparing
to perpetrate this most in-human and awful murder, when all interruption
took place for which neither party was prepared.
Now, it so happened that within about eight or ten yards of where they
stood there existed the walls and a portion of the arched roof of one
of those old ecclesiastical ruins, which our antiquarians denominate
Cyclopean, like _lucus a non lucendo_, because scarcely a dozen men
could kneel in them. Over this sad ruin was what sportsmen term “a pass”
for duck and widgeon, and, aided by the shelter of the building, any
persons who stationed themselves there could certainly commit great
havoc among the wild-fowl in question. The Red Rapparee then had his gun
in his hand, and was in the very act of adjusting it to his shoulder,
when a powerful young man sprung forward, and dashing it aside,
exclaimed:
“What is this, Randal? Is it a double murder you are about to execute,
you inhuman ruffian?”
[Illustration: PAGE 11--Is it a double murder you are about to execute?]
The Rapparee glared at him, but with a quailing and subdued, yet sullen
and vindictive, expression.
“Stand up, sir,” proceeded this daring and animated young man,
addressing Mr. Folliard; “and you, Cummiskey, get to your legs.
No person shall dare to injure either of you while I am here.
O'Donnel--stain and disgrace to a noble name--begone, you and your
ruffians. I know the cause of your enmity against this gentleman; and I
tell you now, that if you were as ready to sustain your religion as you
are to disgrace it by your conduct, you would not become a curse to it
and the country, nor give promise of feeding a hungry gallows some day,
as you and your accomplices will do.”
Whilst the young stranger addressed these miscreants with such energy
and determination, Mr. Folliard, who, as well as his servant, had now
got to his legs, asked the latter in a whisper who he was.
“By all that's happy, sir,” he replied, “it's himself, the only man
living that the Red Rapparee is afraid of; it's 'Willy Reilly.'”