Finnerty's house, which had been built for more purposes than were
necessary for the accommodation of a caretaker or gamekeeper, was simply
a plain apartment, tolerably large, with room enough in it for a
couple of beds; to this was added a shooting-lodge for the owner of the
mountains, which consisted of three or four bed-rooms opening from a
well-sized dining-room, and a kitchen distinct from the apartment which
constituted the dwelling of the gamekeeper, being that which Finnerty,
as such, then occupied. It was in the dining-room of the shooting-lodge
that the Whiteboy meetings were uniformly held, although of late it had
been usual for those who attended them to sit in Finnerty's house until
the hour had arrived for commencing business, when they adjourned to the
other. We should say that the gamekeeper's house, though under the same
roof, as it is termed, with the shooting-lodge, was distinct from it
in other respects; that is to say, there was no internal communication
between them.
“Who was that fellow that we met with you a while ago?” asked one of
them a second time, as if having forgotten his name.
“Poor Mogue Moylan,” replied Finnerty, “and sadly bate down he was wid
this day's Work; I advised him to go to bed as soon as he could, and
refresh himself by a good sleep.”
“Advise!” said a voice, that almost made M'Carthy start, “it's aisier
to give good advice than it is to take it; Mogue's not the only fool in
this world that won't take good advice when it's given.”
There could be no mistaking his voice. M'Carthy at once recognized
that of the unknown friend who had warned him of danger on the night he
encountered the Whiteboys, as already described.
“Come,” proceeded he, “it is time we should commence business and settle
the affairs of the nation at wanst; throth,” he added, with a laugh, “if
I was the same nation, and had a pair of good legs undher me--”
“Of what?” said the person with the black whiskers, who was evidently
their leader, “of what?”
“Of ginerals like Bonnypart and Sarsfield, I'd soon have the country
clear and the millstone pavin' the roads under our feet, as it will be
before long, plaise God. Come, then, to business.”
They accordingly proceeded to the adjoining house, with the exception of
Finnerty himself, who, whether for the sake of safety, or rather for the
purpose of watching M'Carthy, remained at his own fireside. His wife, on
seeing this, pretended to be engaged with some domestic matter about
the dresser, on which she placed a freshly lit rushlight, and availing
herself of her position behind the back of her husband, who sat with his
face towards the bed, she slightly raised her hands and eyes, as if to
intimate that escape, she feared, was impossible.
It is incredible, the reaction which a new sensation, especially of joy
or terror, or, indeed, of any feeling that is strong, superinduces
upon the spirit, under circumstances of peculiar danger or interest.
M'Carthy's fatigue, for instance, had now as completely departed from
him as if he had not been abroad that day, and in consequence of
the significant hint which he had received through the voice of his
mysterious friend, he felt that if an opportunity were only offered him
he would use the two legs to which his friend had alluded, when checked
by the stern voice of their leader, with as much agility as ever they
possessed during his life. It was this hint which made him feel certain,
for the first time, that he was in imminent danger.
Half an hour had now elasped, and it was evident, from the listening
attitudes and frequent stortings of Finnerty, that the debate in the
lodge was high and serious. At length, one of the society hurriedly made
his appearance, exclaiming; in a kind of condensed and agitated whisper,
“Come in and help us--they won't stand the thing, there's only three for
us.” Finnerty took the candle; and, after signing to the person to
go out, brought it close to M'Carthy's eyes, who opened his mouth and
assumed with singular success all the deep insensible relaxation which
characterizes heavy sleep. Finnerty even shook him, and said, “Hadn't
you better get up, sir, and come to meet the car?” He addressed a log,
however, and after another more careless and evidently satisfied glance,
he laid down the candle, and then said to his wife, in a whisper, which,
however, M'Carthy could hear; “The moment he wakens let us know.”
Vread, who would not seem to attach any importance to the circumstance,
simply nodded, by way of acquiescence, and her husband, went to join
those in the lodge.
In every country whose political, commercial, or social relations, are
not properly settled, or in which there exists a struggle between
the principles at variance with civil order and those of enlightened
progress, there will always be found a considerable portion of
the population ripe and ready for violence and crime. This is an
undisputable fact, and one the more dangerous too, inasmuch as crime is
usually stripped by these misguided wretches of its inherent guilt, and
looked upon as a necessary instrument, or, in other words, as a means
to work out an end. It is true, the relative portion of the reckless
and guilty is, in this country at least, considering its population,
exceedingly small, for we all know how miserable the number of those
who are at any time necessary to involve the character of a district at
large, or inculpate the moral reputation of a whole country. At the same
time, we must unquestionably admit, that, if we contrast the population
of the country at large, and the frequency of crime in it, joined to
its character of cool and deliberate atrocity, with that of the sister
countries, we must candidly acknowledge, that the conduct of the people,
even taking the proportions I have mentioned into consideration, is not
only without parallel in modern times, but that religion is not merely a
name, but, in every sense, incapable, whether by its internal spirit
or maladministration, of discharging to society those great functional
duties which mankind have a right to expect from it. But now to return.
Finnerty had joined the meeting; his wife, approaching M'Carthy, said,
in a low whisper--
“They have some argument about you, whatever it is. However, with God's
assistance, I'll venthur to do a thing that may be dangerous enough to
myself, at any rate; but what do I care about that, if I can save an
unoffendin' fellow-creature from harm?--Stay where you are then, till I
come in again.”
She went out as she spoke, and after an? interval of about six or eight
minutes again made her appearance.
“I can't hear them plain enough,” she said, on her return, “but whatever
it is, I can undherstan' that the most of them all is against it. In
God's name, at any rate, stay where you are--they're risin' to go
home, and as the night's light they'd be sure to pounce upon you if
you attempted to escape. Whatever I can do to save you from harm here I
will.”
The poor woman's escape from detection, while performing the friendly
office of listening, was indeed very narrow. Short and hurried as her
last advice to M'Carthy was, the words in which she conveyed it had
scarcely been uttered, when her husband, accompanied by three persons,
their faces still blackened, made his appearance. They took seats in
silence around the fire, and one of them, handing over a bottle of
whiskey to Finnerty, merely nodded, as much as to say, pass that about.
Finnerty accordingly did so, and each of them drank a glass or two,
after which they were silent as before. This silence, to M'Carthy, began
to wear a solemn and a fearful aspect, especially as he knew enough of
the habits of the people to be aware, that in drinking whiskey is often
resorted to in order to deaden their moral, perceptions, or, in other
words, as a stimulant to crime.
At length, after about a quarter of an hour had elapsed, and three of
them--that is to say, two of the strangers and Finnerty--had each drank
three glasses of spirits, the fourth, who had taken only one glass,
beckoned to the other two to follow him.
“I think,” said he, “they are all gone, and the coast is clear.”
In this man's voice, M'Carthy, to his infinite delight, once more
recognized that of his unknown well-wisher. Be this as it may, he and
the other two left the house, and, as the reader is no doubt interested
in their movements, we shall permit him to follow them to the
dining-room of the shooting-lodge, where the meeting had just been held.
“Very well, then,” he proceeded, “it is so best, as none of us can
become a traitor against the rest. Shew me your pistols; for, as I'm an
ould soger, I'll regulate them for you better than you'll be able to do
yourselves.”
He accordingly took their pistols, examined them closely, fixed the
powder in the pans, adding' a fresh supply of priming from a little
goat's horn which he carried in his-pocket. He then took out his own,
which he simply looked at, and again returned to his pocket.
“Now,” said he, “our best plan is to take him about the small o' the
back, when he's before us, one only at a time; you,” said he, addressing
the tallest, “will fire first; you,”--to the other--“next if he misses
him; and, as I'm the boy that doesn't miss my mark, I'll take him down,
never fear, if he should escape either of you. Come now, let us go in
and get him to his legs, that we may start.”
On making their appearance again, Finnerty approached M'Carthy, and
exclaimed as before, but on this occasion with a loud and earnest voice,
“Come, sir, get up if you plaise; it's time for you to meet the car.” To
this M'Carthy made no reply.
“Come, sir,” repeated Finnerty, “bounce; hillo, I say, Mr. M'Carthy; up
wid you, sir, the car will be waitin' for you;” and he gave him a slap
on the shoulder as he spoke.
“Hallo!” exclaimed the pretended sleeper, “have a care--easy,'
easy--what's that? who are you?--eh--aw--oh, dear me, where am I?”
“In a friend's house, sir; get up, you know Mr. Purcel's car is waitin'
for you at the mountain road below.”
M'Carthy started to his feet, and on looking about him, exclaimed, “How
is this, Finnerty? why are the faces of these men blackened?”
“Never you mind that, sir,” replied Finnerty, “they are two or three
poor fellows that's on their keepin' in regard to havin' paid their
tithes against the will o' the people; an' they don't wish to be known,
that's all.”
“Well,” replied M'Carthy, “that's their own affair, and neither yours
nor mine, Finnerty. Come, then, are you ready? for I am.”
“These boys, Mr. M'Carthy, has promised to take the best care of you
while in their company, an' as they're goin' to the mountain road,
where your're to meet the car, they'll bring you safe, sir.”
“Most certainly not, Finnerty,” replied the other; “I shall be escorted
by no person or persons ashamed to show their faces. If you refuse to
come, you break your word with me; but, in any event, I shall not
travel with these men. I am too well aware of the disturbed state of the
country, and that, being a friend of Mr. Purcel, I may not be popular. I
consider myself, however, under your protection and under the protection
of your roof, and for this reason I shall hold you accountable for my
safety; and, at all events, unless you insist on expelling me, I shall
remain where I am until morning.”
“Why, if you insist upon it, I'll go,” replied Finnerty, and four
friends about you will be betther and safer than one; but in troth, to
tell you the truth, Mr. M'Carthy, I'm a'most fairly knocked up myself,
havin' been down the counthry and through the hills the greater part of
the day. I have a great number of cattle to look afther, an' am seldom
off my foot.”
“Don't, sir,” said his wife, in tones which were now perfectly
intelligible to him, “don't ax poor Frank to go wid you tonight; you'll
be as well widout him, especially as the night's so bright and clear;
he's tired indeed, and, be the same token, I don't like to be here in
the clouds of the night, wid nobody wid me but myself.”
“If you're a gentlemen, sir,” said the friendly voice, “you won't take
this honest man from his wife at such an hour o' the night. If you take
my advice too, I'd recommend you to come along wid ourselves at wanst.”
There was no mistaking the friendly voice embodied in these words, as
well as in those of Mrs. Finnerty. M'Carthy accordingly replied:--
“Very, well, Finnerty, I will proceed with these men. I should indeed
be sorry to cause you any additional fatigue, or to fetch you from your
house at such an hour. I will therefore put myself under the protection
and guidance of these worthy fellows, who, I hope, will remember
that although a friend to Mr. Purcel personally, yet I am none to any
harshness he may have resorted to for the recovery of his tithes.”
“There's nobody here,” replied the still friendly voice, “inclined
to offer you any offense, bekaise you happen to be a friend to Mr.
Purcel”--and there was a marked emphasis laid upon the name--“so now,”
the voice proceeded, “you may make your mind aisy on that head.”
A singular but significant laugh proceeded, from the other two, which,
however, was repressed by a glance from “the friend,” who said, “Come,
boys, turn out; now, sir, the sooner we get over this journey the
betther.”
“Well, Finnerty,” said M'Carthy, “many thanks for the hospitable shelter
of your house, and to you also, Mrs. Finnerty, for your kindness and the
trouble I have occasioned you.”
Mrs. Finnerty's voice had now nearly abandoned her; and, as our young
sportsman, after having shaken hands with her husband, now paid that
compliment to herself, he perceived that the poor creature's hand was
literally passive and cold as ice, whilst the words she attempted to
utter literally died away unspoken on her lips.
Having got about a mile from the house, his unknown friend began to
become loquacious, and related several anecdotes of successful escape
from the meshes and minions of the law, a theme in which his
two companions seemed to take singular delight; for they laughed
immoderately at every recorded victory in outwitting the legal
functionaries aforesaid.
“I was wanst upon a time,” he proceeded, “taken up for a resky; (* a
rescue) the case bein' you see, that we wanted the rent and the landlord
wanted patience; so begad, at any rate, we gev the bloody bailiffs a
thrifle for themselves, and the consequence was that we brought the cows
back to a neighbor's place that belonged to another property, and the
four bailiffs, poor creatures, lay upon the ground lookin' at us, an'
never said ill we did it, for a raison they had; do you undherstand,
boys?”
“Ay, we do undherstand; the bloddy thieves; divil break his neck
that invinted rint, anyhow; sure there's no harm in wishin' that, the
villain.”
“Ay, an' tides,” (* Tithes) replied the other; “however, we'll settle
that first, and then the rents will soon follow them; an' sure there's
no harm in that aither.”
“Well an' good:--no, divil a harm's in it;--well an' good: to make a
long story short, they grabbed me in a house up in the mountains--not
unlike Finnerty's, I think that's his name--where I was on my keepin';
so what 'ud you have of it, but we were comin' acrass the hills, jist as
it might be said we are now--only there's none of us a prisoner, thank
goodness--hem! Well, I said to myself, hit or miss, I'll thry it; I have
a pair o' legs, an' it won't be my fault or I'll put them to the best
use: an' for that raison it'll be divil take the hindmost wid us. Now
listen, boys; I started off, an' one fellow that had a pistol let bang
at me, but long life to the pistol, divil a one of it would go off; bang
again came the other chap's, but 'twas ditto repaited, and no go any
more than the other. Well, do you know now, that the third fellow--for
there was only three af them, I must tell you--the third fellow, I'm
inclined to think, was a friend at bottom; for the devil a one of him
struv to break his heart in overtakin' me. Well, by that manes, I say, I
got off from two of as double-distilled villains as ever wor born to die
by suspin-sion.”
This narrative, the spirit of which was so acceptable to his two
companions, and, if truth must be told, equally so to the third, was
treasured up by M'Carthy, who felt that it ingeniously but cautiously
pointed out to him the course he should adopt under his own peculiar
circumstances. The consequence was, that on coming within about a couple
of furlongs of a dark, narrow, thickly-wooded glen, through which he
knew they must pass, he bolted off at the top of his speed, which,
although very considerable for a man whose strength had been so
completely exhausted by fatigue and the unusual slavery of that day's
wandering through the mountains, was, notwithstanding, such as would
never have enabled him to escape from his companions.
He had not gone a perch when the click of a pistol was heard, but no
report; the fact having been, that the pistol missed fire, and did not
go off.
“D--n your blood!” exclaimed the “friend” to the other, “fire, and don't
let him escape;” the ruffian did so when click No. 2 was heard, but as
before no report.
“Aisy,” said the fellow who had fired first, pulling out a long Spanish
dagger; “an inch or two of this is as safe as a bullet, any day; and
by japers he won't escape it.” He sprang after M'Carthy as he spoke,
followed by his companion. The third man stepped a pace or two to the
right, and levelling a long double-barrelled pistol, deliberately fired,
when McCarthy's first pursuer fell; the second man, however, with that
remarkable, quickness of wit which characterizes the Irish, in their
outrages as well as in their pastimes, suddenly stooped, and taking
the dreadful dagger out of the hands of the wounded man, continued the
pursuit bounding after his foe with a spirit of vengeance and ferocity,
now raised to the highest pitch. The stranger, seeing that M'Carthy was
still in equal danger if not in still greater, for the now infuriated
ruffian was gaining upon him, once more levelled his pistol--fired--and,
as before, down came the intended assassin. He himself then sprang
forward, as if in pursuit of M'Carthy, exclaiming, “Hell and fury, why
did yez keep between me and him--I think he's hit; give me that dagger,
and I'll go bail I'll make his body soon put six inches of it out of
sight,” and having uttered, these words, he rushed forward, as if in
pursuit of their victim.
After he had left them, the following brief dialogue took place between
these two worthies:--
“Hourigan, blazes to me but I'm shot.”
“Hell's perdition to the unlucky villain--so am I--where are you shot,
Mark?”
“By japers, the blood's pourin' out from me in the thigh, an' I'm afeard
I'm done for--blast his unlucky hand, the villain; I wisht I had my
dagger in him. Where are you shot, Darby?”
“Oh, vo--vo--on the right hip--but--oh, sweet Jasus, what will become
of us if we're to die here--may the devil clap his cruibs (* Talons;
claws) in the sowl of him that done it!”
“Amin, I pray the blessed Saviour this night! Do you think, Darby, he
was a traitor, and done it a purpose?”
“Oh, mavrone, oh!--if I die widout the priest, what 'ud become o' me,
an' all the sins I have to answer?”
“I say, was the villain a traitor, do you think?”
“Mavrone, oh!--blessed Lord forgive me--well--I can hardly think
so--didn't he volunteer along wid yourself an' myself--oh, sweet Jasus!
what a life I lead--oh, Mark Ratigan, Mark Ratigan, what will become o'
me!---I swore away the lives of two innocent men--I proved three alibis
for three of as black villains as ever stretched a rope or charged a
blunderbush! 'Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy
kingdom come'--oh, Lord! forbid that yet a while! could you join in a
_Leadhan wurrah?_”
“Blast you, you thick-headed vagabone! don't you know it's wrong to call
me Mark Ratigan--isn't Phil Hart my name now?--no, I tell you, that I
can't join you in a _Leadhan wurrah_--nor I didn't think you wor such
a d--d cowardly hound as you are--can't you die--if you're goin' to
die--like a man, an' not like an ould woman? Be my sowl, Darby, my boy,
afther this night I'll never trust you again. It's yourself that 'ud
turn traitor on your country and her cause, if you got the rope and
hangman at your nose.”
“Holy Mary, mother of God! pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of
our death, amin! Oh, sweet Jasus! have parsecution on me this night, an'
spare me if it's your blessed will, till I get time to repint properly
anyhow. Mark, darlin', are you gettin' waker, for I am?”
“To blazes wid you, and don't bother me--no, I'm not--I've tied
my handkerchy about the place I was shot in, an' stopped
the blood--eh--here--well done, Mark--hem--Phil Hart, I
mane--bravo--see--that now--instead of bleatin' like a dyin' sheep, I've
stopped the blood, an' here I am able to stand and walk. Come,” said he,
approaching his companion, “where are you shot?--let us see?”
He stooped down, and on examining the Wound by the light of the moon,
perceived at once that it was not all imagination and evil conscience.
He consequently forced him to his legs, then bound up the wound with the
fellow's handkerchief just as he had done his own, and in a few minutes
they were able to resume their journey, slowly, it is true, and on the
part of Ratigan, whose wound was the more serious, with a good deal of
difficulty and pain, notwithstanding his hardihood.
In the meantime, M'Carthy was soon overtaken by the friendly Whiteboy,
whose speed; of foot was indeed extraordinary. On seeing, the dagger
in his pursuer's hand--for such he deemed him to be--he had prepared
himself for resistance, the fact being, than in consequence of their
blackened faces, and the state of perturbation and excitement in which
he felt himself, he was in no condition to recognize any of the party
unless by their voices.
“Don't be alarmed,” exclaimed the stranger, approaching him, “I have
saved your life for this night most likely, by takin' the, life of them
that intended to murder you.”
“I certainly feel,” replied M'Carthy, “that I owe my life to you, and I
know not what return I can make you for it. But why should I speak so,
since I am ignorant of your name, as well as of everything whatsoever
concerning you? As to the other two persons, I cannot understand why
they should attempt to murder me, as I am not conscious of having given
offence to, any person.”
“You have never given offence to them,” replied the stranger; “but
unfortunately this, part of the country's in such a state of feelin' at
the present time, that it's as aisy to find one man to murdher another
as it would be to get a man to shoot a dog. No, sir; you never offended
these men, but they were set on to take your life by a man who hates
you.”
“Well, since you have been on more than one occasion so generous to me,
can you not let me know who that person is?”
“No, sir; that man has a hundred--ay, ten hundred eyes through the
counthry--in the shape of spies--and five times as many hands any time
he may wish for them. You may thank a friend of yours for sendin' me to
save your life this night. Your family have been friends to him and to
me too, although you don't know it. As for me, I go with him heart an'
hand in puttin' down the tithes, but I'll always save the life of a
friend, if I can; and indeed I have been forced to shoot these two
men, in ordher to save yours to-night. I must go now and see what state
they're in--whether alive or dead; but before. I go, listen:--tell
the procthor that he has a fearful account to meet, and that soon; let
neither him nor his sons be fool-hardy; say to him, that the wisest
thing he can do is to remove himself and his family into the town of
Lisnagola; or, if he won't do that, to keep his house half-filled with
fire-arms; for I tell you now, the time is not long till he'll need them
all. Tell them not to go out at night at all, or even by day,
unless well armed; and do you yourself take the same advice; and now
good-night. But, listen again: there, you see, is the spot below there,
where the car was to meet you; but there's no car in it, and even if
there was, I wouldn't recommend you to go on it; and if you're goin'
to O'Driscol's don't go up the avenue, but by the back way, behind the
garden, for it's very likely there's another man--and a fearful man, on
the look-out for you, in case you should be missed by us. Farewell, for
the present.”
A few minutes brought this kind-hearted Whiteboy back to the spot where
Hourigan and his companion, who was also his cousin, fell. He was a good
deal surprised, but still highly gratified, at not finding them where
they had fallen, as it was a 'proof to him that his aim at either had
not been fatal, as he certainly had no intention of taking their lives,
or of rendering them any greater injury than the infliction of such
wound as might put an end to their pursuit of M'Carthy. On advancing a
little farther, he saw them proceeding, by a different but shorter
path towards the inland country; and being now satisfied, from their
appearance, that they had not been mortally wounded, he left them
to reach home as best they might, and proceeded himself in another
direction.