A Ribbon Lodge--Their Crimes against the People,--Their Doom and
Sentence--A Rebel Priest Preaching Treason--A Respite.
It is undoubtedly a fact, as was observed in the dialogue just given,
that the state of affairs on this property was absolutely fearful. The
framework of society was nearly broken up, for such was the heartless
rapacity and cruelty--such the multiplied and ingenious devices by which
he harassed and robbed the tenantry, or wreaked his personal vengeance
on all who were obnoxious to him or his son, that it was actually
impossible matters could proceed much longer in a peaceable state. If
the reader will accompany us to a large waste house, from which a
man had been some time before ejected, merely because Val had a pique
against him, he may gather from the lips of the people themselves, there
assembled, on the very night in question, sufficiently clear symptoms of
the state of feeling in the neighborhood.
The hour at which they assembled, or rather began to assemble, was
eleven o'clock, from which period until twelve they came in small groups
of two or three at a time; so as to avoid observation on the way. Some
of them had their faces blackened, and others who appeared utterly
indifferent to consequences, did not think it worth their while to
assume such a disguise. The waste house in which they were assembled,
stood on a hillside, about half way between Castle Cumber and Drum Dhu;
so that its isolated situation was an additional proof of their security
from, surprise by the bloodhounds. The party were nearly all armed, each
with such weapons as he could get, and most of them with fire or side
arms, such as they were. They had several lights, but so cautious were
they, that quilts and window-cloth's were brought to hang over the
windows, to prevent them from being seen; for it was well known that the
house was not inhabited, and the appearance of lights in it would most
certainly send the wreckers on their back; as it was, however, they
obviated all danger of this in the way I mention. When these men were
met together, it might be supposed that they presented countenances
marked by savage and ferocious passions, and that atrocity and cruelty
were the-predominating traits in each face. This, however, was not so.
In general they were just as any other number of men brought together
for any purpose might be. Some, to be sure, among them betrayed strong
indications of animal impulse; but taken together, they looked just as
I say. When they were all nearly assembled, one might-naturally imagine
that the usual animated dialogue and discussions, which the cause that
brought them together furnished, would have taken place. This, however,
was not the case. On the contrary, there was something singularly wild,
solemn, and dreadful, in their comparative quietness; for silence we
could not absolutely term it.
There were many reasons for this. In the first place, there existed
an apprehension of the yeomanry and cavalry, who had on more than one
occasion surprised meetings of this description before. 'Tis true
they had sentinels placed--but the sentinels themselves had been made
prisoners of by parties of yeomen and blood-hounds, who had come in
colored clothes, in twos and threes, like the Ribbon men themselves.
There were other motives, however, for the stillness which
prevailed--motives which, when we consider them, invest the whole
proceedings with something that is calculated to fill the mind with
apprehension and fear. Here were men unquestionably assembled for
illegal purposes--for the perpetration of crime--for the shedding
of human blood. But in what light did they view this terrible
determination? Simply as a redress of grievances; as the only means left
them of doing that for themselves which the laws refused to do for them.
They keenly and bitterly felt the scourge of the oppressor, who,
under the sanction, and in the name of those laws which ought to
have protected them, left scarcely anything undone to drive them
to desperation; and now finding that the law existed only for their
punishment, they resolved to legislate for themselves, and retaliate
on their oppressor. There is an awful lesson in all this; for it is
certainly a frightful thing to see law and justice so partially and
iniquitously administered as to disorganize society, and to make men
look upon murder as an act of justice, and the shedding of blood as a
moral triumph, if not a moral virtue. When, therefore, the very little
conversation which took place among them, and that little in so low a
tone, is placed in connection with the dark and deadly object of their
meeting, it is no wonder that one cannot help feeling strangely and
fearfully on contemplating it.
About twelve o'clock they were all assembled but one individual, whom
they appeared to expect, and for whom they looked out eagerly. Indeed
they all came to a unanimous resolution of doing nothing that pertained
to the business of the night until he should come. For this purpose they
had not to wait long. A little past twelve a tall and powerful young
man entered, leading by the hand poor insane Mary O'Regan--his pitiable
and unconscious mother. He had heard of the death of his brother, during
the cruel scene at Drum Dhu, and of the other inhuman outrage which
had driven her mad. He had come from a remote part of England with the
single, fixed, and irrevocable purpose of wreaking vengeance on the head
of him who had brought madness, desolation, and death upon his family.
On his entering, there was a slight low murmur of approbation, but the
appearance of his mother caused it to die away. This, however, was
almost immediately succeeded by another of a very different
character--one in which there was a blending of many feelings--compassion,
rage, revenge. The first thing the young man did was to take a candle in
his hand, and hold it first close to his mother, so as that she might be
distinctly seen, and afterward, near to his own face, in order that she
might have a clear and equally distinct view of him. “Mother,” said he,
then, in a full voice, “do you know your son?” Her eye was upon him as
he spoke, but it was vacant; there appeared no trace of recognition or
meaning in it.
“You all see that miserable sight,” said he--“there my mother stands,
and doesn't know who it is that is spaking to her. There she stands,
blasted and destroyed by the oppressor. You all see this heart-breaking
sight with your own eyes, and you all know who did it.”
'Tis singular how closely virtue and crime are allied! The very sympathy
excited by this touching and melancholy spectacle--the very tenderness
of the compassion that was felt for the mother and son, hardened the
heart in a different sense, and stimulated them to vengeance.
“Now,” said the young man, whose name was Owen, “let them that have been
oppressed and harassed by this Vulture, state their grievances, one at a
time.”
An old man near sixty rose up, and after two or three attempts to speak,
was overpowered by his feelings, and burst into tears. “Poor Jemmy
Devlin!” they exclaimed, “may God pity you!”
“Spake for Jemmy, some of you, as the poor man isn't able to spake for
himself.”
“Why, the case was this,” said a neighbor of the poor man's. “Jemmy's
son, Peter, was abused by Phil, the boy, because he didn't pay him
duty-work, and neglect his own harvest. He told Peter that he was a
Popish rebel and would be hanged. Peter told him to his teeth that he
was a liar, and that he couldn't be good, havin' the father's bastard
dhrop in him. That was very well, but one night in about a month
afterwards, the house was surrounded by the bloodhounds, poor Peter's
clo'es searched, and some Ribbon papers found in them; they also got, or
pretended to get, other papers in the thatch of the house. The boy
was dragged out of his bed, sent to goal, tried, found guilty on the
evidence of the bloodhounds, and sentenced to be flogged three times;
but never was flogged a third time, for he died on the fourth day after
the second flogging; and so, bein' an only son--indeed all the child the
poor couple had--the old man is now childless and distracted, God help
him!”
“Very well,” exclaimed Owen bitterly--“very well--who next?”
A man named M'Mahon rose up,--“The curse of the Almighty God may for
ever rest upon him!” he exclaimed. “He transported my two brave sons,
because they were White-boys; and if they were, who made them Whiteboys
but himself and his cruelty? I will never see my darling sons' faces
again, but if I die without settlin' accounts wid him, may I never know
happiness here or hereafter!”
The usual murmur of commiseration followed this.
“Well,” said Owen, “whose turn comes next?”
About a dozen of those who had been turned out of Drum Dhu now stood up.
“We were turned out,” said one of them, who acted as spokesman, “on one
of the bittherest days that God ever sent on the earth; out of shame, I
believe, because your brother and ould Mary Casey died, he let us back
for a few days, but after that we had to flit. Some of the houses he had
pulled down, and then he had to build them again for his voters. Oh, if
it was only known what we suffered!”
“And why did he turn you out?”
“Why, because we didn't promise to vote as he wished.”
“He took my crop,” said another, “at his own valuation, drew it home,
and stacked it until the markets rose. I know what he got beyond the
rent,” proceeded the man, “but divil a rap ever the villain gave me back
of the surplus, but put it in his pocket--and now I and my family are
starving.”
“Ay, and,” said another, “he took five firkins of as good butter from
me as ever was made by hand, and at his own price, too. What could I
do?--he said it was as a friend he did it; but if I objected to it, he
said he must only seize. May the divil seize him, at any rate, as he
will, the villain, I trust in God! He got to my own knowledge, thirteen
pence a pound for it, and all he allowed me for it was eight pence
halfpenny. May the devil run an auger through him, or baste his sowl wid
it, this night; for of all the villains that ever cursed an estate, he's
the greatest--barrin' the scoundrel that employs him.”
A poor but decent-looking man rose up. “I could bear,” said he, “his
cheating, or his defrauding me out of my right--I could bear that,
although it's bad enough too; but when I think of the shame and disgrace
his son brought upon my innocent girl, undher his father's roof,
where she was at sarvice--may God curse him this night! My child--my
child--when I think of what she was, and what she is, sure the thought
of it is enough to drive me distracted, and to break my heart. Are we to
live undher sich men? Ought we to allow sich villains to tramp us undher
their feet? When I spoke to his blasted son about ruinin' my child--'My
good fellow,' says he, 'if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head,
I will trot you off the estate--I will send you to graze somewhere else.
It's d--d proud you ought to feel for your daughter having a child by
the like o' me;'--for that's the way--they first injure us, and kick us
about as they plaise, and then laugh at and insult us.”
Another man got up. “You all know,” said he, “that I hould fourteen
acres in the townland of Augha-Winchal; and when Jerry Grogan went to
America last spring, I offered for his farm of twelve acres, that lay
into my own, marchin it. I offered him the rent he axed, which indeed
was too much at any rate--but it lay so snug to me, that I could take
more out of it than another. 'You shall have the farm, Frank,' said he;
'but if you do, there must be ten pounds of an Imput.'* Well and good,
I paid him the ten pounds, and Paddy Gormly, of Aughadarragh, gave him
another Input for the same farm; and yet, hell bellis the villain, he
gave it to neither of us, but to one of his own Blood-hounds, who gave
him twenty for it. But that wasn't all--when I axed him for my money,
he laughs in iny face, and says, 'Is 'it jokin' you are? Keep yourself
quiet,' says he, 'or may be I'll make it a black joke to you.' Hell
re-save him!”
* Imput--a douceur--or, in other words, a bribe to the
agent, on entering upon a farm.
“He engaged me, and my horse and car,” said another, “and Toal Hart with
his, in the same way; to draw stones from Kilrud-den; and he said that
whatever we earned he'd allow us in the rint. Of coorse we were glad to
bounce at it; and, indeed, he made us both believe that it was a favor
he did us. So far so good; but when the rint day came, hell purshue the
testher he'd allow either of us; but threatened and abused us, callin'
us names till the dogs wouldn't lick our blood. The Lord conshume him
for a netarnal villain!”
“That's all very well, but yait till you hear how he sarved me out,”
said a poor, simple-looking creature. “It was at the gale day before
the last, that I went to him wid my six guineas of rint. 'Paddy Hanlon,'
says he, 'I'm glad to see you; an', Paddy, I've something in my eye for
you; but don't be spakin' of it. Is that the rent?--hand it to me--an',
Paddy, as this is Hurry Day with me--do like a good decent man, call
down on Saturday about twelve o'clock, and I'll give you your receipt,
and mention the other thing.' By coorse I went highly delighted; but the
receipt he gave me was a notice to pay the same gale over agin, tellin'
me besides, that of all the complatest rascals ever came acrass him
I was the greatest; that he'd banish me off the estate and what not!
Accordingly, I had to pay the same rint twiste. Now will any one tell me
how that man can prosper by robbin' and oppressin the poor in this way?
Hell scorch him!”
The next that rose was a tall, thin-looking man, with much care and
sorrow in his face. “Many a happy day,” he said, “did I and mine spend
under this roof; and now we may say that we hardly have a roof to
cover us. Myself, and my wife, hould a cabin on' the estate of Major
Richardson. My sons and daughters, instead of living comfortably at home
with us, are now scattered abroad, earnin' their hard bread on other
people's floors. And why? Because the Vulture's profligate son couldn't
succeed in ruinin' one of my daughters; and because her brother 'Tom
tould him that if ever he catched him comin' about the place again, or
annoyin' his sisther, he'd split him with a spade. Afther that,
they were both very friendly--father and son--and when I brought my
half-year's rent--'never mind now,' said they, 'bring it home, Andy;
maybe you may want it for something else that 'ud be useful to you.
Buy a couple o' cows--or keep it till next rent day; we won't hurry
you--you're a dacent man, and we respect you.' Well, I did put the
money to other uses, when what should come down on me when the next half
year's rent was due, but an Execution. He got a man of his own to swear
that I was about to run away wid the rent, and go to America; and in
a few days we were scattered widout a house to cover us. May the Lord
reward him accordin' to his works!”
There were other unprincipled cases where Phil's profligacy was
brought to bear upon the poverty and destitution of the uneducated
and unprotected female; but it is not our intention to do more than to
allude to them.
We now return to young O'Regan himself, who, at the conclusion, once
more got a candle, and precisely in the same manner as he had done in
the beginning, held it up and asked in a full firm voice, “mother,
do you know your son?” And again received the same melancholy and
unconscious gaze. “Now,” said he, “you've all heard an account, and
a true account, of these two villains' conduct. What have they left
undone? They have cheated you, robbed you, and oppressed you in every
shape. They have scourged to death and transported your sons--and they
have ruined your daughters, and brought them to sin and shame--sorrow
and distraction. What have they left undone, I ax again? Haven't they
treated yez like the dirt under their feet? hunted yez like bloodhounds,
as they are--and as if ye were mad dogs? What is there that they haven't
made yez suffer? Shame, sin, poverty, hardship, bloodshed, ruin, death,
and madness; look there”--he added, vehemently pointing to his insane
mother--“there's one proof that you see; and you've heard and know the
rest. And now for their trial.”
Those blood-stirring observations were followed by a deep silence, in
fact, like that of death.
“Now,” said he, pulling out a paper, “I have marked down here twelve
names that I will read for you. They are to act as a jury; they are to
thry them both for their lives--and then to let us hear their sentence.”
He then read over the twelve names, every man answering to his name as
he called them out.
“Now,” he proceeded, “this is how you are to act; your silence will give
consent to any question that is asked of you. Are you willin' that these
twelve men should thry Valentine M'Clutchy and his son for their lives;
and that the sentence is to be put in execution on them?” To this there
was a profound and ominous silence.
“Very well,” said he, “you agree to this. Now,” said he to the jurors,
“find your sentence.”
The men met together, and whispered in the centre of the floor, for a
few minutes--when he, who acted as foreman, turned towards O'Regan and
said--“They're doomed.”
“To what death?”
“To be both shot.”
“Are you all satisfied with this sentence?”
Another silence as deep and ominous as before.
“Very well,” said he, “you all agree. As for the sentence, it is a just
one; none of you need throuble yourselves any farther about that; you
may take my word for it, that it will be carried into execution. Are you
willing it should?”
For the third time an unbroken silence. “That's enough,” said he; “and
now let us go quietly home.”
“It is not enough,” said a voice at the door; “let none depart without
my permission, I command you;” and the words were no sooner uttered than
the venerable Father Roche entered the house.
“Wretched and misguided men,” said he, to what a scene of blood and
crime have I just now been an ear witness? Are you men who live under
my ministry?--who have so often heard and attended to my sincere and
earnest admonitions? I cannot think ye are, and yet, I see no face here
that is unknown to me. Oh, think for a moment, reflect, if you can, upon
what you have been doing!--planning the brutal, ungodly murder of two
of your fellow creatures! And What makes the crime still more revolting,
these two fellow creatures father and son. What constituted you judges
over them? If they have oppressed you, and driven many of you to ruin
and distress, and even to madness, yet, do you not know that there is
a just God above to whom they must be accountable for the deeds done in
the flesh? Are you to put yourselves in the place of the Almighty?--to
snatch the sceptre of justice and judgment out of his hands, and take
that awful office into your own, which belongs only to him? Are ye
indeed mad, my friends? Do you not know that out of the multitude
assembled here this moment there is not one of you whose life would not
be justly forfeited to the law? not one. I paused at the half closed
door before I entered, and was thus enabled to hear your awful, your
guilty, your blasphemous proceedings. Justice belongs to God, and in
mocking justice you mock the God of Justice.”
“But you don't know, Father Roche,” said O'Regan, “you couldn't imagine
all the villany he and his son have been guilty of, and all they've made
the people suffer.”
“I do know it too well; and these are grievances that God in his own
good time will remove; but it is not for us to stain our souls with
guilt in order to redress them. Now, my children, do you believe that
I feel an interest in your welfare, and in your happiness hereafter? Do
you believe this?”
“We do, sir; who feels for us as you do?”
“Well, then, will you give me a proof of this?”
“Name it, sir, name it.”
“I know you will,” continued the old man; “I know you will. Then, in the
name of the merciful God, I implore, I entreat--and, if that will
not do, then, as his servant, and the humble minister of his word and
will--I command you to disavow the murderous purpose you have come to
this night. Heavenly Father,” said he, looking up with all the fervor
of sublime piety, “we entreat you to take from these mistaken men the
wicked intention of imbruing their guilty hands in blood; teach them a
clear sense of Christian duty; to love their very enemies; to forgive
all injuries that may be inflicted on them; and to lead such lives as
may never be disturbed by a sense of guilt or the tortures of remorse!”
The tears flowed fast down his aged cheeks as he spoke, and his deep
sobbings for some time prevented him from speaking. Those whom he
addressed were touched, awakened, melted. He proceeded:--
“Take pity on their condition, O Lord, and in thine own good time, if it
be thy will, let their unhappy lot in this life be improved! But,
above, all things, soften their hearts, inspire them with good and pious
purposes, and guard them from the temptations of revenge! They are my
flock--they are my children--and, as such, thou knowest how I lave and
feel for them!”
They were more deeply moved, more clearly awakened, and more
penetratingly touched. Several sobs were heard towards the close of his
prayer, and a new spirit was diffused among them.
“Now, my children,” said he, “will you obey the old man that loves you?”
“We will,” was the universal response, “we will obey you.”
“Then,” said he, “you promise in the presence of God, that you will not
injure Valentine M'Clutchy and his son?”
“In the presence of God we promise,” was the unanimous reply.
“Then, my children, may the blessing of Almighty God be with you, and
guard and protect you wherever you go. And now proceed home, and sleep
with consciences unburthened by guilt.”
And thus were Valentine M'Clutchy and his son saved, on this occasion,
by the very man whom they termed “a rebellious Popish priest.”
It was observed, however, by most of those present that Owen O'Regan
availed himself of the good priest's remonstrance to disappear from the
meeting--thus evading the solemn obligation to refrain from crime, into
which all the rest entered.