AN ADVENTURE.
As thus we lightened the road with chatting, the increasing concourse of
people, and the greater throng of carriages that filled the road, announced
that we had nearly reached our destination.
“Considine,” said my uncle, riding up to where we were, “I have just got a
few lines from Davern. It seems Bodkin’s people are afraid to come in; they
know what they must expect, and if so, more than half of that barony is
lost to our opponent.”
“Then he has no chance whatever.”
“He never had, in my opinion,” said Sir Harry.
“We’ll see soon,” said my uncle, cheerfully, and rode to the post.
The remainder of the way was occupied in discussing the various
possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find that
defeat never entered.
In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very different thing
indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that name:
where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as assessor; a few
drunken voters, a radical O’Connellite grocer, a demagogue priest, a deputy
grand-purple-something from the Trinity College lodge, with some half-dozen
followers, shouting, “To the Devil with Peel!” or “Down with Dens!” form
the whole _corp-de-ballet_. No, no; in the times I refer to the voters were
some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took the field, far less
dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise made them than upon
the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth, like a general to battle,
surrounded by a numerous and well-chosen staff,--one party of friends,
acting as commissariat, attended to the victualling of the voters, that
they obtained a due, or rather undue allowance of liquor, and came properly
drunk to the poll; others, again, broke into skirmishing parties, and
scattered over the country, cut off the enemy’s supplies, breaking
down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting-cars, stealing their
poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were secret-service
people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and lastly, there
was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false documents,
denied the identity of the opposite party’s people, and when hard pushed,
provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave evidence
afterwards on a petition. Amidst all these encounters of wit and ingenuity,
the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle brigade,
picking out the enemy’s officers, and doing sore damage to their tactics
by shooting a proposer or wounding a seconder,--a considerable portion of
every leading agent’s fee being intended as compensation for the duels he
might, could, would, should, or ought to fight during the election. Such,
in brief, was a contest in the olden time. And when it is taken into
consideration that it usually lasted a fortnight or three weeks; that a
considerable military force was always engaged (for our Irish law permits
this), and which, when nothing pressing was doing, was regularly assailed
by both parties; that far more dependence was placed in a bludgeon than a
pistol; and that the man who registered a vote without a cracked pate was
regarded as a kind of natural phenomenon,--some faint idea may be formed
how much such a scene must have contributed to the peace of the county, and
the happiness and welfare of all concerned in it.
As we rode along, a loud cheer from a road that ran parallel to the one we
were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the cortége of
the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could distinguish
the Blake girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in undress, and
saw something like a bonnet in the carriage-and-four which headed the
procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George Dashwood. My heart
beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss Dashwood was there; but
I could not discern her, and it was with a sense of relief that I reflected
on the possibility of our not meeting under circumstances wherein our
feelings and interests were so completely opposed. While I was engaged in
making this survey, I had accidentally dropped behind my companions; my
eyes were firmly fixed upon that carriage, and in the faint hope that it
contained the object of all my wishes, I forgot everything else. At length
the cortége entered the town, and passing beneath a heavy stone gateway,
was lost to my view. I was still lost in revery, when an under-agent of my
uncle’s rode up.
“Oh, Master Charles!” said he, “what’s to be done? They’ve forgotten Mr.
Holmes at Woodford, and we haven’t a carriage, chaise, or even a car left
to send for him.”
“Have you told Mr. Considine?” inquired I.
“And sure you know yourself how little Mr. Considine thinks of a lawyer.
It’s small comfort he’d give me if I went to tell him. If it was a case of
pistols or a bullet mould he’d ride back the whole way himself for them.”
“Try Sir Harry Boyle, then.”
“He’s making a speech this minute before the court-house.”
This had sufficed to show me how far behind my companions I had been
loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my eyes in that
direction; it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving Sir George
at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was now
closed, and I could not make out if any one were inside.
“Devil a doubt of it,” said the agent, in answer to some question of a
farmer who rode beside him; “will you stand to me?”
“Troth, to be sure I will.”
“Here goes, then,” said he, gathering up his reins and turning his horse
towards the fence at the roadside; “follow me now, boys.”
The order was well obeyed; for when he had cleared the ditch, a dozen
stout country fellows, well mounted, were beside him. Away they went, at a
hunting pace, taking every leap before them, and heading towards the road
before us.
Without thinking further of the matter, I was laughing at the droll effect
the line of frieze coats presented as they rode side by side over the
stone-walls, when an observation near me aroused my attention.
“Ah, then, av they know anything of Tim Finucane, they’ll give it up
peaceably; it’s little he’d think of taking the coach from under the judge
himself.”
“What are they about, boys?” said I.
“Goin’ to take the chaise-and-four forninst ye, yer honor,” said the man.
I waited not to hear more, but darting spurs into my horse’s sides, cleared
the fence in one bound. My horse, a strong-knit half-breed, was as fast as
a racer for a short distance; so that when the agent and his party had come
up with the carriage, I was only a few hundred yards behind. I shouted out
with all my might, but they either heard not or heeded not, for scarcely
was the first man over the fence into the road when the postilion on the
leader was felled to the ground, and his place supplied by his slayer; the
boy on the wheeler shared the same fate, and in an instant, so well managed
was the attack, the carriage was in possession of the assailants. Four
stout fellows had climbed into the box and the rumble, and six others were
climbing to the interior, regardless of the aid of steps. By this time the
Dashwood party had got the alarm, and returned in full force, not, however,
before the other had laid whip to the horses and set out in full gallop;
and now commenced the most terrific race I ever witnessed.
The four carriage-horses, which were the property of Sir George, were
English thorough-breds of great value, and, totally unaccustomed to the
treatment they experienced, dashed forward at a pace that threatened
annihilation to the carriage at every bound. The pursuers, though well
mounted, were speedily distanced, but followed at a pace that in the end
was certain to overtake the carriage. As for myself, I rode on beside
the road at the full speed of my horse, shouting, cursing, imploring,
execrating, and beseeching at turns, but all in vain; the yells and shouts
of the pursuers and pursued drowned all other sounds, except when the
thundering crash of the horses’ feet rose above all. The road, like most
western Irish roads until the present century, lay straight as an arrow
for miles, regardless of every opposing barrier, and in the instance in
question, crossed a mountain at its very highest point. Towards this
pinnacle the pace had been tremendous; but owing to the higher breeding of
the cattle, the carriage party had still the advance, and when they reached
the top they proclaimed the victory by a cheer of triumph and derision. The
carriage disappeared beneath the crest of the mountain, and the pursuers
halted as if disposed to relinquish the chase.
“Come on, boys; never give up,” cried I, springing over into the road, and
heading the party to which by every right I was opposed.
It was no time for deliberation, and they followed me with a hearty cheer
that convinced me I was unknown. The next instant we were on the mountain
top, and beheld the carriage half way down beneath us, still galloping at
full stretch.
“We have them now,” said a voice behind me; “they’ll never turn Lurra
Bridge, if we only press on.”
The speaker was right; the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect
right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge over a mountain
torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath. On we went, gaining at
every stride; for the fellows who rode postilion well knew what was before
them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell of victory
arose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of
defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when the
head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once recognized
as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most reckless fellows
in the county, was seen standing on the seat, holding,--gracious Heavens!
it was true,--holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure of Miss
Dashwood.
“Hold in!” shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the
other sounds. “Hold in! or by the Eternal, I’ll throw her, body and bones,
into the Lurra Gash!” for such was the torrent called that boiled and
foamed a few yards before us.
[Illustration: THE RESCUE.]
He had by this time got firmly planted on the hind seat, and held the
drooping form on one arm with all the ease of a giant’s grasp.
“For the love of God!” said I, “pull up. I know him well; he’ll do it to a
certainty if you press on.”
“And we know you, too,” said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker
meeting beneath his chin, “and have some scores to settle ere we part--”
But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my horse forward.
The carriage turned an angle of the road, for an instant was out of sight,
another moment I was behind it.
“Stop!” I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened
and infuriated, sprang forward, and heedless of all efforts to turn them
the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and hanging for a
second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath.
By this time I was beside the carriage. Finucane had now clambered to the
box, and regardless of the death and ruin around, bent upon his murderous
object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent backwards
as if to give greater impulse to his effort, when, twining my lash around
my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his head. The
weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat; he staggered, his
hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same instant I was
felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.