THE LEADER.
Stealthily and in silence the Whiteboys proceeded to the scene of
intended operation. Not a word was spoken--not a sound heard, except the
noise of their footsteps whenever they got on the high road. As much as
possible they avoided the highway, the course which would the soonest
bring them to the appointed place. It would seem as if their leader had
bound them together, by some spell peculiarly their own, to yield
implicit and unquestioned obedience to his imperious will. It strongly
illustrated the aphorism--
"Those who think must govern those who toil."
Whoever knows how lively and mercurial is the natural temperament of
the peasantry in the South of Ireland, must be aware of the difficulty
of restraining them from loud-voiced talking in the open air; but now
not one of that large and excited gathering spoke above his breath.
Their leader commanded them to be silent, and to them his will was law.
Who was that leader? The question involves some mystery which it may be
as well to unveil before proceeding with the action of this narrative.
Who, and whence was that leader? His birth would have secured him a
"respectable" station in society, if his wild passions, and the strong
pressure of Circumstance (that unspiritual god), had not so far
"Profaned his spirit, sank his brow,"
that the ambition which, under better auspices, might have soared to the
highest aims, was now directed no farther than to establish an unstable
dominion over a few wild, uncultivated peasants, who, like fire and
water, might be excellent servants, but with any opportunity of
domination would probably prove tyrannic masters. He who would rule the
rude peasantry of Ireland, must make up his mind to be governed by them
in turn, whenever _his_ wishes and aims and actions fall short of
_theirs_. They will go with him while his desires and designs run
together with their own, but they will speedily leave him behind, or
force him with them, if they find him less eager than themselves. Even
under the regular discipline of the army the same may be observed. In
battle an Irish regiment cannot, or rather will not, understand any
order to retreat. They repudiate all strategy which even _appears_ to
withdraw them from
"The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife,"
and show, by the gallant impetuosity with which they plunge into the
attack, that their proper action is assault. If so under the harsh
restrictions of military discipline, what must it be when freed from
that coercion?
The leader of the Whiteboys in 1822--the veritable CAPTAIN ROCK, whom I
have introduced at the Wake of the slain John Sheehan--was no common
man. His birth had been respectable, his education good, his fortune had
been ample, his mind was affluent in varied and vigorous resources; he
had formerly won favor and fame from the world's opinion, and few men in
any country could compete with him in the personal advantages which
spring from manly beauty of form and feature, activity of body, and a
strength of frame which literally defied fatigue and over-exertion.
The father of John Cussen was "a gentleman of independent fortune," in
Irish parlance; that is, had succeeded to a pretty good estate, and
would have been in easy, if not affluent circumstances, could he have
realized any thing like the nominal amount of his rent-roll. But there
were two difficulties, at least. Irish estates have had a fatal facility
in becoming subjected to such things as mortgages, which relentlessly
absorb certain annual amounts in the shape of interest, and Irish
tenants have been apt to cherish the idea that they perform their duty
towards society in general, and themselves in particular, by paying as
little rent as possible. Still, though Mr. Cussen's property had
gradually come under the pressure of these two causes, it yielded an
income sufficient for his moderate wants. His children had died, one by
one, in the very bloom and promise of their youth, until, out of a
numerous family, only one son survived.
This youth, possessing a mind more active and aspirations more ambitious
than most of his class, disdained the ordinary routine of every-day
life. It was not difficult to persuade his father to permit him to go
into the world--the military and naval service, from its danger, being
the only profession which that doting parent positively forbade him to
think of. The lad, after wavering for some time, determined to become a
surgeon, and proceeded to pursue his studies in Dublin.
It would be tedious to narrate into what a circle of extravagance, while
thus engaged, the young man became gradually involved; it would be
painful to trace his downward lapse from folly to vice. Sufficient
to say that, by the time he received his diploma as a surgeon (having
passed his examinations with unexpected and even distinguished success),
he had contrived to involve himself so deeply that his paternal property
had to be additionally mortgaged to relieve him from heavy involvements.
His father, who might have repudiated the creditors' claims, admitted
them, without a murmur. Eager to snatch him from the haunts and the
society by which he had embarrassed his means and injured his health,
and looking on the military service as a good school of discipline, even
if it were not free from peril, his father overcame all personal
scruples, forgave the past, and looking hopefully at the future,
successfully employed his influence to obtain for him an appointment as
surgeon to one of the regiments which, just then, had been ordered to
Belgium, as the re-appearance of Napoleon, and his triumphant progress
from Elba to Paris--his eagle "flying from steeple to steeple until it
alighted on the tower of Notre Dame"--had awakened the fears and enmity
of Europe, bringing once more into action
"All quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war."
It was John Cussen's fortune to reach the scene of warfare in time to
witness the deadly struggle at Waterloo. But it was his hap, also, to do
more than witness it. He performed an act of heroism on the field,
which not only gained him high and merited praise, but had powerful
influence upon his future prospects.
Military discipline very properly provides that the surgeons of a
regiment shall not take part in any engagement on the field. The lives
of so many may depend upon the skill of even a single surgeon that it
would be inconvenient, to say the best of it, if, when his aid were
promptly required, during an encounter, it were found that he had
allowed his ardor to carry him into the actual peril of the strife.
Cussen was sufficiently near to witness the greater part of the contest
on the day of Waterloo. It was not without difficulty that his quick
Irish spirit could control the almost overwhelming desire to plunge into
the middle of the contest--which, on that day, had more single
encounters than any since Poictiers and Agincourt. As he stood outside a
tent which had been placed for the use of the medical staff, in the rear
of the British position, he observed an English officer, on an
unmanageable charger (bearing him along with an impetuous speed, which,
having received a severe wound in the bridle-arm, he could neither
control nor check), followed by a French cuirassier, who had nearly
overtaken him. Another moment and the uplifted sabre would have struck
the helpless man to the ground. Cussen rushed forward, literally tore
the Frenchman from his saddle, by main strength, and, wresting the
sword from his hand, gave him a death-wound. Quick as thought, turning
from the fallen foe and bounding forward with an agility which he had
acquired on his native hills, Cussen followed the swift horse, and
succeeded, by a strong and overmastering grasp, in checking its speed.
In its rider, he recognized his own Colonel, whose life he had thus
doubly saved, and received a grateful assurance that his service should
not be forgotten.
Having dressed the Colonel's wounds, Cussen resumed his position in the
rear.--But inaction was terrible to one whose spirit had been awakened
to the excitement before him--for "quiet to quick bosoms is a bane."
Nearer and nearer became his involuntary approach to that part of the
place in which the contest was hotly proceeding. At last, unable any
longer to resist the passionate impulse, he mounted on one of the many
war-steeds which were wildly galloping over the battle-field, caught the
eye of the officer whom he had rescued, rushed forward to join the
_mêlée_, and bravely fought side by side with him, when the "Up, Guards,
and at them!" of Wellington urged on the soldiers to that last terrific
charge which shook the imperial diadem from the brow of the first
Napoleon.
A gallant deed, even though it violate the strict rules of military
discipline, is not considered a very heinous offence by any commander.
So, while his Colonel hailed John Cussen as preserver, the brief lapse
of duty as a surgeon was forgiven, in consideration of his chivalry as a
soldier.