together with a large party of their friends on both sides, were
drinking in a public-house, determined to take no portion in the fight,
at all at all. Poor Rose, when she heard the shouting and terrible
strokes, got as pale as death, and sat close to John, whose hand she
captured hers, beseeching him, and looking up in his face with the most
imploring sincerity as she spoke, not to go out among them; the tears
falling all the time from her fine eyes, the mellow flashes of which,
when John's pleasantry in soothing her would seduce a smile, went into
his very heart. But when, on looking out of the window where they sat,
two of the opposing factions heard that a man on each side was killed;
and when on ascertaining the names of the individuals, and of those who
murdered them, it turned out that one of the murdered men was brother
to a person in the room, and his murderer uncle to one of those in the
window, it was not in the power of man or woman to keep them asunder,
particularly as they were all rather advanced in liquor. In an instant
the friends of the murdered man made a rush at the window, before any
pacifiers had time to get between them, and catching the nephew of him
who had committed the murder, hurled him head-foremost upon the stone
pavement, where his skull was dashed to pieces, and his brains scattered
about the flags!
“A general attack instantly took place in the room, between the two
factions; but the apartment was too low and crowded to permit of proper
fighting, so they rushed out to the street, shouting and. yelling, as
they do when the battle comes to the real point of doing business. As
soon as it was seen that the heads of the O'Callaghan's and O'Hallaghans
were at work as well as the rest, the fight was recommenced with
retrebled spirit; but when the mutilated body of the man who had been
flung from the window, was observed lying in the pool of his own proper
brains and blood, such a cry arose among his friends, as would cake
(* harden) the vital fluid in the veins of any one not a party in
the quarrel. Now was the work--the moment of interest--men and women
groaning, staggering, and lying insensible; others shouting, leaping,
and huzzaing; some singing, and not a few able-bodied spalpeens
blurting, like over-grown children, on seeing their own blood; many
raging and roaring about like bulls;--all this formed such a group as a
faction fight, and nothing else, could represent.
“The battle now blazed out afresh; and all kinds of instruments were
pressed into I the service. Some got flails, some spades, some shovels,
and one man got his hands upon a scythe, with which, unquestionably,
he would have taken more lives than one; but, very fortunately, as he
sallied out to join the crowd, he was politely visited in the back of
the head by a brick-bat, which had a mighty convincing way with it of
giving him a peaceable disposition, for he instantly lay down, and did
not seem at all anxious as to the result of the battle. The O'Hallaghans
were now compelled to give way, owing principally to the introvention of
John O'Ohallaghan, who, although he was as good as sworn to take no part
in the contest, was compelled to fight merely to protect himself. But,
blood-and-turf! when he did begin, he was dreadful. As soon as his party
saw him engaged, they took fresh courage, and in a short time made the
O'Hallaghan's retreat up the church-yard. I never saw anything equal to
John; he absolutely sent them down in dozens; and when a man would give
him any inconvenience with the stick, he would down him with the fist,
for right and left were all alike to him. Poor Rose's brother and he
met, both roused like two lions; but when John saw who it was, he held
back his hand:--
“'No, Tom,' says he, 'I'll not strike you, for Rose's sake. I'm not
fighting through ill will to you or your family; so take another
direction, for I can't strike you.'
“The blood, however, was unfortunately up in Tom.
“'We'll decide it now,' said he, 'I'm as good a man as you, O'Callaghan:
and let me whisper this in your ears--you'll never warm the one bed
with Rose, while's God's in heaven--it's past that now--there can be I
nothing but blood between us!'
“At this juncture two of the O'Callaghans ran with their shillelaghs up,
to beat down Tom on the spot.
“'Stop, boys!' said John, 'you mustn't touch him; he had no hand in the
quarrel. Go, boys, if you respect me; lave him to myself.'
“The boys withdrew to another part of the fight; and the next instant
Tom struck the very man that interfered to save him, across the temple,
and cut him severely. John put his hand up and staggered.
“'I'm sorry for this,' he observed; 'but it's now self-defence with me;'
and at the same moment, with one blow, he left Tom O'Hallaghan stretched
insensible on the street.
“On the O'Hallaghans being driven to the church-yard, they were at a
mighty great inconvenience for weapons. Most of them had lost their
sticks, it being a usage in fights of this kind to twist the cudgels
from the grasp of the beaten men, to prevent them from rallying. They
soon, however, furnished themselves with the best they could find,
videlicet, the skull, leg, thigh, and arm bones, which they found lying
about the grave-yard. This was a new species of weapon, for which the
majority of the O'Callaghans were scarcely prepared. Out they sallied in
a body--some with these, others with stones, and making fierce assault
upon their enemies, absolutely druv then--not so much by the damage they
we're doing, as by the alarm and terror which these unexpected species
of missiles excited. At this moment, notwithstanding the fatality that
had taken place, nothing could be more truly comical and facetious
than the appearance of the field of battle. Skulls were flying in every
direction--so thick, indeed, that it might with truth be assevervated,
that many who were petrified in the dust, had their skulls broken in
this great battle between the factions.--God help poor Ireland! when
its inhabitants are so pugnacious, that even the grave is no security
against getting their crowns cracked, and their bones fractured! Well,
any how, skulls and bones flew in every direction--stones and brick-bats
were also put in motion; spades, shovels, loaded whips, pot-sticks,
churn-staffs, flails, and all kinds of available weapons were in hot
employment.
“But, perhaps, there was nothing more-truly felicitous or original in
its way than the mode of warfare adopted by little Neal Malone, who was
tailor for the O'Callaghan side: for every tradesman is obliged to fight
on behalf of his own faction. Big Frank Farrell, the miller, being
on the O'Hallaghan side, had been sent for, and came up from his mill
behind the town, quite fresh. He was never what could be called a good
man,* though it was said that he could lift ten hundred weight. He
puffed forward with a great cudgel, determined to commit slaughter
out of the face, and the first man he met was the weeshy fraction of
a tailor, as nimble as a hare. He immediately attacked him, and would
probably have taken his measure for life had not the tailor's activity
protected him. Farrell was in a rage, and Neal, taking advantage of his
blind fury, slipped round him, and, with a short run, sprung upon the
miller's back, and planted, a foot upon the threshold of each coat
pocket, holding by the mealy collar of his waistcoat. In this position
he belabored the miller's face and eyes with his little hard fist to
such purpose, that he had him in the course of a few minutes nearly
as blind as a mill-horse. The' miller roared for assistance, but the
pell-mell was going on too warmly for his cries to be available. In
fact, he resembled an elephant with a monkey on his back.
* A brave man. He was a man of huge size and prodigious
strength, and died in consequence of an injury he received
in lifting one of the cathedral bells at Clogher, which is
said to be ten hundredweight.
“'How do you like that, Farrell?' Neal would say, giving him a
cuff--'and that, and that; but that is best of all. Take it again,
gudgeon (two cuffs more)--here's grist for you (half a dozen
additional)--hard fortune to you! (crack, crack.) What! going to lie
down!--by all that's terrible, if you do, I'll annigulate* you! Here's a
dhuragh,** (another half dozen)--long measure, you savage!--the baker's
dozen, you baste!--there's five-an'-twenty to the score, Sampson! and
one or two in' (crack, whack).
* Annihilate--Many of the jawbreakers--and this was one in a
double sense--used by the hedge-schoolmasters, are scattered
among the people, by whom they were so twisted that it would
be extremely difficult to recognize them.
** Dhuragh--An additional portion of anything thrown in from
a spirit of generosity, after the Measure agreed on is
given. When the miller, for instance, receives his toll, the
country-people usually throw in several handfuls of meal as
a Dhuragh.
“'Oh! murther sheery!' shouted the miller. 'Murther-an-age, I'm kilt!
Foul play!--foul play!'
“'You lie, big Nebuchodonosor! it's not--this is all fair play, you
big baste! Fair play, Sampson!--by the same a-token, here's to jog your
memory that it's the Fair day of Knockimdowny! Irish Fair play, you
whale! But I'll whale you' (crack, crack, whack).
“'Oh! oh!' shouted the miller.
“'Oh! oh! is it? Oh, if I had my scissors here till I'd clip your ears
off--wouldn't I be the happy man, any how, you swab, you?' (whack,
whack, crack).
“'Murther! murther! murther!' shouted the miller. 'Is there no help?'
“'Help, is it?--you may say that (crack crack): there's a trifle--a
small taste in the milling style, you know; and here goes to dislodge
a grinder. Did ye ever hear of the tailor on horseback, Sampson? eh?
(whack, whack). Did you ever expect to see a tailor on horseback of
yourself, you baste? (crack). I tell you, if you offer to lie down, I'll
annigulate you out o' the face.'
“Never, indeed, was a miller before or since so well dusted; and, I dare
say, Neal would have rode him long enough, but for an O'Hallaghan, who
had gone into one of the houses to procure a weapon. This man was nearly
as original in his choice of one as the tailor in the position which he
selected for beating the miller. On entering the kitchen, he found
that he had been anticipated: there was neither tongs, poker, nor
churn-staff, nor, in fact, anything wherewith he could assault his
enemies; all had been carried off by others. There was, however, a
goose, in the action of being roasted on a spit at the fire: this
was enough; Honest O'Hallaghan saw nothing but the spit, which he
accordingly seized, goose and all, making the best of his way, so armed,
to the scene of battle. He just came out of an entry as the miller was
once more roaring for assistance, and, to a dead certainty, would have
spitted the tailor like a cook-sparrow against the miller's carcase, had
not his activity once more saved him. Unluckily, the unfortunate miller
got the thrust behind which was intended for Neal, and roared like a
bull. He was beginning to shout 'Foul play!' again, when, on turning
round, he perceived that the thrust had not been intended for him, but
for the tailor.
“'Give me that spit,' said he; 'by all the mills that ever were turned,
I'll spit the tailor this blessed minute beside the goose, and we'll
roast them both together.'
“The other refused to part with the spit, but the miller seizing the
goose, flung it with all his force after the tailor, who stooped,
however, and avoided the blow.
“'No man has a better right to the goose than the tailor,' said Neal, as
he took it up, and, disappearing, neither he nor the goose could be seen
for the remainder of the day.
“The battle was now somewhat abated. Skulls, and bones, and bricks, and
stones, were, however, still flying; so that it might be truly said,
the bones of contention were numerous. The streets presented a woeful
spectacle: men were lying with their bones broken--others, though not so
seriously injured, lappered in their blood--some were crawling up, but
were instantly knocked down by their enemies--some were leaning against
the walls, or groping their way silently along them, endeavoring to
escape observation, lest they might be smashed down and altogether
murdered. Wives were sitting with the bloody heads of their husbands in
their laps, tearing their hair, weeping and cursing, in all the gall of
wrath, those who left them in such a state. Daughters performed the
said offices to their fathers, and sisters to their brothers; not
pretermitting those who did not neglect their broken-pated bachelors to
whom they paid equal attention. Yet was the scene not without abundance
of mirth. Many a hat was thrown up by the O'Callaghan side, who
certainly gained the day. Many a song was raised by those who tottered
about with trickling sconces, half drunk with whiskey, and half stupid
with beating. Many a 'whoo,' and 'hurroo,' and 'huzza,' was sent forth
by the triumphanters; but truth to tell, they were miserably feeble and
faint, compared to what they had been in the beginning of the amusement;
sufficiently evincing that, although they might boast of the name
of victory, they had got a bellyful of beating; still there was hard
fighting.
“I mentioned, some time ago, that a man had adopted a scythe. I wish
from my heart there had been no such bloody instrument there that day;
but truth must be told. John O'Callaghan was now engaged against a set
of the other O's, who had rallied for the third time, and attacked him
and his party. Another brother of Rose Galh's was in this engagement,
and him did John O'Callaghan not only knock down, but cut desperately
across the temple. A man, stripped, and covered with blood and dust,
at that moment made his appearance, his hand bearing the blade of the
aforesaid scythe. His approach was at once furious and rapid, and I
may as well add, fatal; for before John O'Callaghan had time to be
forewarned of his danger, he was cut down, the artery of his neck laid
open, and he died without a groan. It was truly dreadful, even to
the oldest fighter present, to see the strong rush of red blood that
curvated about his neck, until it gurgled, gurgled, gurgled, and
lappered, and bubbled out, ending in small red spouts, blackening and
blackening, as they became fainter and more faint. At this criticality,
every eye was turned from the corpse to the murderer; but he had been
instantly struck down, and a female, with a large stone in her apron,
stood over him, her arms stretched out, her face horribly distorted with
agony, and her eyes turned backwards, as it were, into her head. In a
few seconds she fell into strong convulsions, and was immediately taken
away. Alas! alas! it was Rose Galh; and when we looked at the man she
had struck down, he was found to be her brother! flesh of her flesh, and
blood of her blood! On examining him more closely, we discovered that
his under-jaw hung loose, that his limbs were supple; we tried to make
him speak, but in vain--he too was a corpse.
“The fact was, that in consequence of his being stripped, and covered by
so much blood and dust, she know him not; and, impelled by her feelings
to avenge herself on the murderer of her lover, to whom she doubly owed
her life, she struck him a deadly blow, without knowing him to be her
brother. The shock produced by seeing her lover murdered, and the horror
of finding that she herself, in avenging him, had taken her brother's
life, was too much for a heart so tender as hers. On recovering from her
convulsions, her senses were found to be gone for ever! Poor girl! she
is still living; but from that moment to this, she has never opened her
lips to mortal. She is, indeed, a fair ruin, but silent, melancholy, and
beautiful as the moon in the summer heaven. Poor Rose Galh! you and many
a mother, and father, and wife, and orphan, have had reason to maledict
the _bloody Battles of the Factions_.
“With regard to my grandfather, he says that he didn't see purtier
fighting within his own memory; not since the fight between himself and
Big Mucklemurray took place in the same town. But, to do him justice, he
condemns the scythe and every other weapon except the cudgels; because,
he says, that if they continue to be resorted to, nate fighting will be
altogether forgotten in the country.”
[It was the original intention of the author to have made every man in
the humble group about Ned M'Keown's hearth narrate a story illustrating
Irish life, feeling, and manners; but on looking into the matter more
closely, he had reason to think that such a plan, however agreeable
for a time, would ultimately narrow the sphere of his work, and
perhaps fatigue the reader by a superfluity of Irish dialogue and its
peculiarities of phraseology. He resolved therefore, at the close of
the _Battle of the Factions_, to abandon his original design, and leave
himself more room for description and observation. ]
End of Project Gutenberg's The Ned M'Keown Stories, by William Carleton