--Reilly and the _Cooleen Bawn_ Escape, and are Captured.
Cummiskey had a private and comfortable room of his own, to which he and
the cannie Scotchman proceeded, after having ordered from the butler a
tankard of strong ale. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and
when the tankard and glasses were placed upon the table the Scotchman
observed:
“De'il be frae my saul, maisther Cummiskey, but ye're vera comfortable
here.”
“Why, in troth, I can't complain, Mr. Malcomson; here's your health,
sir, and after that we must drink another.”
“Mony thanks, Andrew.”
“Hang it, I'm not Andrew: that sounds like Scotch; I'm Andy, man alive.”
“Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o' that, what the de'il
waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?”
“Bekaise I wouldn't like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow.”
“Weel, Andrew--Andy--I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered
Scotch, muckle more might be expeck' frae you than, being an Irisher as
you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas--”
“Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one.”
“Weel, but how is that now, Andy? Here's to ye in the meantime; and 'am
no savin' but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o'
the stamach, man.”
“You mane by that the pit o' the stomach, I suppose.”
“Ay, just that.”
“Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o' the
stomach--no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the
pratie bag, you don't forget the pocket.”
“And what for no, Andy? why the de'il war pockets made, gin they wanna to
be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?”
“Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate ye--flog you
hollow. You Scotchmen take so much time in givin' an answer that an
Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake. You think first
and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose
you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn't 'for what we are
to receive' you ought to say 'may the Lord make us thankful, but for
what we are to lose'--that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we
ought to be thankful for losin' it.”
“Weel, man, here's to ye, Andy--ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar'
gude.”
“Why,” replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who
was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, “it is. Mr. Malcomson, the
right stuff. But, as I was sayin', you Scotchmen think first and spake
afther--one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had. Now,
don't you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes
first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty
of time to think--here's God bless us all, anyhow--but that's the way an
Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin' an answer; for if he fails by word
o' mouth, why, whatever he's deficient in he makes up by the fist or
cudgel; and there's our three Irish answers for one Scotch.”
“Weel, man, a' richt--a' richt--we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht
ye promised to gie us another toast--de'il be frae my; saul, man, but
I'll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this.”
“Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense
put it out o' my head. And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a
friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it
I isn't daicent.
“Weel, but the toast, man?”
“Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man's head.
Well, you see this comfortable room?”
“Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it.
The auld squire, however, talks o' buildin' a new gertlen-hoose.”
“Well, then, fill your bumper. Here's to her that got me this room, and
had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it
for the remaindher o' my life--I mane the _Cooleen Bawn_--the Lily of
the Plains of Boyle. Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from
your lantern jaws! till it's finished, divil a wet lip ever I'll give
you.”
The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the
ale was both strong and mellow, and secondly, because the _Cooleen Bawn_
was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference she paid to
him as a botanist.
“Eh, sirs,” he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, “but she's a
bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she's bonnie--and de'il a higher
compliment she could get, I think. But, Andy, man, don't they talk some
clash and havers anent her predilection for that weel-farrant callan,
Reilly?”
“All, my poor girl,” replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; “I
pity her there; but the thing's impossible--they can't be married--the
law is against them.”
“Weel, Andy, they must e'en thole it; but 'am thinkin' they'll just
break bounds at last, an' tak' the law, as you Irish do, into their am
hands.”
“What do you mane by that?” asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by
the observation.
“Ah, man,” replied the Scotchman, “dinna let your birses rise at that
gate. Noo, there's the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male
and the tither female; and the upshot e'en is, Andy, that de'il a pickle
o' fruit ever the female produces until there's a braw halesome male
tree planted in the same gerden. But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and
that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo? De'il be frae my laul,
but I jalouse she's aff wi' him this vara nicht.”
“Oh, dear, no!” replied Cummiskey, starting; “that would kill her
father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them
there at such an hour? He and she may love one another as much as they
like, but I must think of my mas-ther.”
“In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm.”
“Hould,” replied Andy; “let us be cautious. They wouldn't go on foot,
I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out
whether she has made off or not. Sit you here, and I'll try to see
Connor, her maid.”
“Ah, but, Andy, man, it's no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped;
the tankard's, oot, ye ken.”
“Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o'you--who do you suppose could think of
a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will
kill him.”
He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she
was utterly unable to conceal.
“Well, Miss Connor,” he asked, “what's the matther? You're cryin', I
persave.”
“All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell.”
“Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met
her and you on your way to the back o' the garden.”
“Oh, yes,” replied Connor; “I forced her to come out, to try what a
little cool air-might do for her.”
“Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?”
“Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She's now in her own
room, quite ill.”
“Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know
it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for.”
“Ah, but she's now asleep, Cummiskey--that sleep may set her to rights;
she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to
disturb her.”
“Ah, I believe you,” he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by
Connor's agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; “the
sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor,
for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing
happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week.”
“That's true, indeed,” she replied; “and if she get's worse, Cummiskey,
I'll let the master know.”
“That's a good girl; ma gragal that you! war--good-by, acushla,” and he
immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor
went down to the kitchen.
“Now, Mr. Malcomson,” said he, “there is a good fire before you. I ax
your pardon--just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this
candle.”
“'Am sayin', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime
to send up anither tankard o' that yill.”
To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very
deliberately proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed
unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was
tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of
himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the
kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him.
He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss
Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped
with Willy Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was
searched, but no _Cooleen Bawn_ was found. Cummiskey himself remained
comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less
than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man
must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such
unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not
in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the
candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply
from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The
case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to
communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely
knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he
stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed:
“Good-night, Helen--good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something
to tell you about the discovery of--but I will let you know it to-morrow
at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to
bed, my love.”
“Sir,” said Cummiskey, “I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you.”
“What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter.”
“No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't
be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no
purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell
you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done.”
“What,” he exclaimed, starting up, “my child!--my child--my child gone!
God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!--my darling! my treasure! my
delight!--Oh, Cummiskey!--but it can't be--to desert me!--to leave me in
misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!--she that was the prop of
my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey,
it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the
house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this
night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she--ha--what? what?--she
wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said--Here,
Cummiskey, assist me to dress. Oh, I see it, Cummiskey, I see it! she
is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and
unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning.”
It is impossible to describe the almost frantic distraction of that
loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his
_Cooleen Bawn_, for he himself often loved to call her by that
appellation.
“Cummiskey,” he proceeded, “we will pursue them--we must have my
darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a
child, Cummiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him
dead--dead--dead--if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out
I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison
it, transport it, hang it--hang it, Cummiskey, as round as a hoop. Ring
the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always
does it; his father was my grandfather's gamekeeper, and he understands
fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will
be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the
grooms and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set
out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will
not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet
them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand
before the throne of judgment this night. Go now, give the pistols to
Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily.”
We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his
party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy
person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir
Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and
consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment. Indeed,
it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had
led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned
him his social trangressions, as a _per contra_ for those political ones
which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case,
although he was not altogether free from misgiving, and a certain vague
apprehension. Be this as it may, he had yet to learn a lesson which his
employer was not disposed to teach him by any other means than handing
him over to the authorities on the following day. How matters might have
terminated between him and the baronet it is out of our power to detail.
The man was at all times desperate and dreadful, where either revenge
or anger was excited, especially as he labored under the superstitious
impression that he was never to be hanged or perish by a violent death,
a sentiment then by no means uncommon among persons of his outrageous
and desperate life. It has been observed, and with truth, that the Irish
Rapparees seldom indulged in the habit of intoxication or intemperance,
and this is not at all to be wondered at. The meshes of authority
were always spread for them, and the very consciousness of this fact
sharpened their wits, and kept them perpetually on their guard against
the possibility of arrest. Nor was this all. The very nature of the
lawless and outrageous life they led, and their frequent exposure to
danger, rendered habits of caution necessary--and those were altogether
incompatible with habits of intemperance. Self-preservation rendered
this policy necessary, and we believe there are but few instances on
record of a Rapparee having been arrested in a state of intoxication.
Their laws, in fact, however barbarous they were in other matters,
rendered three cases of drunkenness a cause of expulsion from the gang.
O'Donnel, however, had now relaxed from the rigid observation of his own
rules, principally for the reasons we have already stated--by which we
mean, a conviction of his own impunity, as falsely communicated to him
by Sir Robert Whitecraft. The sheriff had not at first intended to be
personally present at his capture; but upon second consideration he came
to the determination of heading the party who were authorized to secure
him. This resolution of Oxley's had, as will presently be seen, a
serious effect upon the fate and fortunes of the _Cooleen Bawn_ and her
lover. The party, who were guided by Tom Steeple, did not go to Mary
Mahon's, but to a neighboring cottage, which was inhabited by a
distant relative of O'Donnel. A quarrel had taken place between the
fortune-teller and him, arising from his jealousy of Sir Robert, which
caused such an estrangement as prevented him for some time from visiting
her house. Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without
ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had
him set as a soho man has a hare in her form. Guided, therefore, by the
intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which
the Rapparee resided. The house was instantly surrounded and the door
knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside.
“Who is there?” asked the old woman who kept the cottage.
“Open the door instantly,” said the sheriff, “or we shall smash it in.”
“No, I won't,” she replied; “no, I won't, you bosthoon, whoever you are.
I never did nothin' agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won't open my
door to any strolling vagabone like you.”
“Produce the man we want,” said the sheriff, “or we shall arrest you
for harboring an outlaw and a murderer. Your house is now surrounded by
military, acting under the king's orders.”
“Give me time,” said the crone; “I was at my prayers when you came to
disturb me, and I'll finish them before I open the door, if you were
to burn the house over my head, and myself in it. Up,” said she to the
Rapparee, “through the roof--get that ould table undher your feet--the
thatch is thin--slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let
them whistle jigs to the larks if they like.”
The habits of escape peculiar to the Rapparees were well known to
Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof.
It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe
it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards through
the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets were levelled at him,
accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot. Under
such circumstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was
handcuffed and a prisoner. The party then proceeded along the road on
which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative had
taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and
his _Cooleen Bawn_, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the
sheriff and his party. Their arrest was immediate.
“Mr. Reilly,” said the sheriff, “I am sorry for this. You must feel
aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now
find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend,
contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the
power and authority to take you into custody, which I accordingly do in
his Majesty's name. I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must
return with me to Squire Folliard's house. Miss Folliard, you must, as
you know me to be your father's friend, consider that I feel it my duty
to restore you to him.”
“I am not without means of defence,” replied Reilly, “but the exercise
of such means would be useless. Two of your lives I might take; but
yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel.”
“I feel, Mr. Reilly, that you are a man of honor; and, in point of fact,
there is ample apology for your conduct in the exquisite beauty of the
young lady who accompanies you; but I must also feel for her father,
whose bereavement, occasioned by her loss, would most assuredly break
his heart.”
Here a deep panting of the bosom, accompanied by violent sobs, was heard
by the party, and _Cooleen Bawn_ whispered to Reilly, in a voice nearly
stifled by grief and excitement:
“Dear Reilly, I love you; but it was madness in us to take this step;
let me return to my father--only let me see him safe?”
“But Whitecraft?”
“Death sooner. Reilly, I am ill, I am ill; this struggle is too much for
me. What shall I do? My head is swimming.”
[Illustration: PAGE 140--discharged a pistol at our hero]
She had scarcely uttered these words when her father, accompanied by his
servants, dashed rapidly up, and Cummiskey, the old huntsman, instantly
seized Reilly, exclaiming, “Mr. Reilly, we have you now;” and whilst
he spoke, his impetuous old master dashed his horse to one side,
and discharged a pistol at our hero, and this failing, he discharged
another. Thanks to Lanigan, however, they were both harmless, that
worthy man having forgotten to put in bullets, or even as much powder as
would singe an ordinary whisker.
“Forbear, sir,” exclaimed the sheriff, addressing Cummiskey; “unhand Mr.
Reilly. He is already in custody, and you, Mr. Folliard, may thank God
that you are not a murderer this night. As a father, I grant that an
apology may be made for your resentment, but not to the shedding of
blood.”
“Lanigan! villain! treacherous and deceitful villain!” shouted the
squire, “it was your perfidy that deprived me of my revenge. Begone, you
sneaking old profligate, and never let me see your face again. You did
not load my pistols as you ought.”
“No, sir,” replied Lanigan, “and I thank God that I did not. It wasn't
my intention to see your honor hanged for murder.”
“Mr. Folliard,” observed the sheriff, you ought to bless God that
gave you a prudent servant, who had too much conscience to become the
instrument of your vengeance. Restrain your resentment for the present,
and leave Mr. Reilly to the laws of his country. We shall now proceed to
your house, where, as a magistrate, you can commit him to prison, and I
will see the warrant executed this night. We have also another prisoner
of some celebrity, the Red Rapparee.”
“By sun and moon, I'll go bail for him,” replied the infuriated squire.
“I like that fellow because Reilly does not. Sir Robert spoke to me in
his favor. Yes, I shall go bail for him, to any amount.”
“His offence is not a bailable one,” said the cool sheriff; “nor, if the
thing were possible, would it be creditable in you, as a magistrate, to
offer yourself as bail for a common robber, one of the most notorious
highwaymen of the day.”
“Well, but come along,” replied the squire; “I have changed my mind;
we shall hang them both; Sir Robert will assist and support me. I could
overlook the offence of a man who only took my purse; yes, I could
overlook that, but the man who would rob me of my child--of the solace
and prop of my heart and life--of--of--of--”
Here the tears came down his cheeks so copiously that his sobs prevented
him from proceeding. He recovered himself, however, for indeed he was
yet scarcely sober after the evening's indulgence, and the two parties
returned to his house, where, after having two or three glasses of
Burgundy to make his hand steady, he prepared himself to take the
sheriff's informations and sign unfortunate Reilly's committal to Sligo
jail. The vindictive tenacity of resentment by which the heart of the
ruffian Rapparee was animated against that young man was evinced, on
this occasion, by a satanic ingenuity of malice that was completely
in keeping with the ruffian's character. It was quite clear, from
the circumstances we are about to relate, that the red miscreant had
intended to rob Folliard's house on the night of his attack upon it, in
addition to the violent abduction of his daughter. We must premise here
that Reilly and the Rapparee were each strongly guarded in different
rooms, and the first thing the latter did was to get some one to inform
Mr. Folliard that he had a matter of importance concerning Reilly to
mention to him. This was immediately on their return, and before the
informations against Reilly were drawn up. Folliard, who knew not what
to think, paused for some time, and at! last, taking the sheriff along
with him, went! to hear what O'Donnel had to say.
“Is that ruffian safe?” he asked, before entering the room; “have you so
secured him that he can't be mischievous?”
“Quite safe, your honor, and as harmless as a lamb.”
He and the sheriff then entered, and found the huge savage champing his
teeth and churning with his jaws, until a line of white froth encircled
his mouth, rendering him a hideous and fearful object to look at.
“What is this you want with me, you misbegotten villain,” said
the squire. “Stand between the ruffian and me, fellows, in the
meantime--what is it, sirra?”
“Who's the robber now, Mr. Folliard?” he asked, with something, however,
of a doubtful triumph in his red glaring eye. “Your daughter had jewels
in a black cabinet, and I'd have secured the same jewels and your
daughter along with them, on a certain night, only for Reilly; and it
was very natural he should out-general me, which he did; but it was only
to get both for himself. Let him be searched at wanst, and, although I
don't say he has them, yet I'd give a hundred to one he has; she would
never carry them while he was with her.”
The old squire, who would now, with peculiar pleasure, have acted in
the capacity of hangman in Reilly's case, had that unfortunate young man
been doomed to undergo the penalty of the law, and that no person in the
shape of Jack Ketch was forthcoming--he, we say--the squire--started
at once to the room where Reilly was secured, accompanied also by the
sheriff, and, after rushing in with a countenance inflamed by passion,
shouted out:
“Seize and examine that villain; he has robbed me--examine him
instantly: he has stolen the family jewels.”
Reilly's countenance fell, for he knew his Fearful position; but
that which weighed heaviest upon his heart was a consciousness of the
misinterpretations which the world might put upon the motives of his
conduct in this elopement, imputing it to selfishness and a mercenary
spirit. When about to be searched, he said:
“You need not; I will not submit to the indignity of such an
examination. I have and hold the jewels for Miss Folliard, whose
individual property I believe they are; nay, I am certain of it, because
she told me so, and requested me to keep them For her. Let her be sent
for, and I shall hand them back to her at once, but to no other person
without violence.”
“But she is not in a condition to receive them,” replied the sheriff
(which was a fact); “I pledge my honor she, is not.”
“Well, then, Mr. Sheriff, I place them in your hands; you can do with
them as you wish--that is, either return them to Miss Folliard, the
legal owner of them, or to her father.”
The sheriff received the caske't which contained them, and immediately
handed it to Mr. Folliard, who put it in his pocket, exclaiming:
“Now, Reilly, if we can hang you for nothing else, we can hang you for
this; and we will, sir.”
“You, sir,” said Reilly, with melancholy indignation, “are privileged
to insult me; so, alas! is every man now; but I can retire into the
integrity of my own heart and find a consolation there of which you
cannot deprive me. My life is now a consideration of no importance to
myself since I shall die with the consciousness that your daughter loved
me. You do not hear this for the first time, for that daughter avowed
it to yourself! and if I had been mean and unprincipled enough to have
abandoned my religion, and that of my persecuted forefathers, I might
ere this have been her husband.”
“Come,” said Folliard, who was not prepared with an answer to this,
“come,” said he, addressing the sheriff, “come, till we make out his
_mittimus_, and give him the first shove to the gallows.” They then left
him.