M'Carthy on that night had not gone far, after having separated from the
friendly Whiteboy, when he was met by a powerfully-formed man, who, he
thought, bore a considerable resemblance in shape and size to the fellow
who had been invested with authority not long before in Finnerty's. On
seeing that it was M'Carthy, the stranger, whose face was blackened,
and who also wore the white shirt outside, approached him coolly but
determinedly, and laying his hand upon his shoulder, said--: “Your name
is Francis M'Carthy'?” and as he spoke, M'Carthy could perceive the ends
of a case of pistols projecting from his breast within the shirt, which
was open at the neck.
“As I have never knowingly done anything that should occasion me to deny
my name, I acknowledge it--you know me, of course.”
“I know you well. I meek it a point to know everyone who is worth
knowing. In the meantime, M'Carthy, you'll come along with me, if you
pleese.”
“It is not at all clear that I will,” replied M'Carthy; “you are a
perfect stranger to me--at least your disguise makes you so. You are out
on illegal business, as is evident from that disguise, and you are armed
with a case of pistols. Now, under these circumstances, happen what may,
until I know more about you, and who you are, I will not walk one inch
in your society, except as a free agent.”
“Hear me,” replied the other; “you were singled out for murdher this
night, and you only escaped by a miracle--by the assistance of a man who
is a warm friend to you, and who got information of the danger you wor
in from another friend who suspected that you were in that danger. Two
pistols wor loaded to settle you, as they say. Well, the person that
saved your life damped the powder in these pistols--both wor snapped at
you, and they didn't go off--am I right?”
“You are right for so far, certainly.”
“Well, then, the other two who followed you--one of them with a long,
sharp dagger--were shot down--d--n your friend that didn't send the
bullets through their brains instead of their hams and limbs; however,
they fell and you escaped--am I right?”
“Perfectly correct,” replied M'Carthy; “and you must have had your
information only from the person who befriended me.”
“Well, then, have you-any objection to come with me now?”
“Every objection; I wish to go either to Mr. O'Driscol's or Mr.
Purcel's.”
“Listen. I say if you attempt this night to go to either one house or
the other, you will never carry your life to them. If I was your enemy,
and wished to put a bullet into you, what is there to prevent me now, I
ask you?”
“All, my good friend,” replied M'Carthy, “that argument won't pass with
me. Many. a man there is--and I dare say you know it well--who feels
a strong scruple against committing murder with his own hands, who,
notwithstanding, will not scruple to employ others to commit it for
him.”
“Do you refuse to come with me, then? because if you do to-morrow
mornin' will rise upon your corpse. Even I couldn't save you if you were
known. There's a desperate and a dreadful game goin' to be played soon,
and as you stand in the way of a man that possesses great power, and has
a perticular end in view--the consequence is that you are doomed. Even
if you do come with me, I must blacken your face, in ordher to prevint
you from being known.”
“Will you answer me one question candidly,” said M'Carthy--“if it's a
fair one? Did I see you to-night before?”
“Ask me no question,” replied the man; “for I won't answer any I don't
like, and that happens to be one o' them. Whether you saw me this night
before, or whether you didn't, there is no occasion for me to say so,
and I won't say it.”
“I think I know him now,” said M'Carthy; “and if I judge correctly, he
is anything but a safe guide.”
“Come,” said the huge Whiteboy, “make up your mind; I won't weet another
minute.”
M'Carthy paused and deliberately reconsidered as coolly as possible all
the circumstances of the night. It was obvious that this man must have
had his information with respect to the recent events from his friendly
preserver--a man who would not be likely to betray him into danger after
having actually saved his life, by running the risk of committing two
murders. On the other band it was almost clear, from the manner in which
the person before him pronounced certain words, as well as from his
figure, that he was the celebrated and mysterious Buck English of whose
means of living every one was ignorant, and who, as he himself had
heard, expressed a strong dislike to him.
“Before I make up my mind,” said M'Carthy, “may I ask another question?”
“Fifty if you like, but I won't promise to answer any one o' them.”
“Was I brought to Finnerty's house with an evil purpose?”
“No: the poor, pious fool that brought you--there--but I'm wrong in
sayin' so--for it was the mist that done it. No, the poor fool that came
there with you is a crature that nobody would trust. He thinks you're
lyin' sound asleep in Finnerty's this minute. He's fit for nothing but
prayin' and thinking the girls in love with him.”
“Well,” replied M'Carthy, “at all events you are a brother Irishman, and
I will put confidence in you; come, I am ready to accompany you.”
“In that case, then, you must suffer me to blacken your face, and for
fear your shoot-in' jacket might betray you, I'll put this shirt over
it.”
He then pulled out an old piece of crumpled paper that contained a
mixture of lampblack and grease, with which he besmeared his whole face,
from his neck to the roots of his hair, after which he stripped the
shirt he wore outside his clothes, and in about two or three minutes
completely metamorphosed our friend M'Carthy into a thorough-looking
Whiteboy.
“Come along now,” said he, “and folly me; but even as it is, and in
spite of your disguise, we must take the lonesomest way to the only
place I think you'll be safe in.”
“I am altogether in your hands,” replied M'Carthy, “and shall act as you
wish.”
They then proceeded across the country for about two miles, keeping
up towards the mountainous district, after which they made a turn and
entered a deep valley, in whose lowest extremity stood a long, low
house.
“Now,” said the stranger, “before we go in here, remember what I'm goin'
to say to' you. If any one--I mean a Whiteboy,”--here M'Carthy started,
struck by the peculiarity of the pronunciation--a circumstance which
by no means strengthened his sense, of security--“if any of them should
come across you and ask you for the pass, here it is. _What's the hour?_
Answer--_Very near the right one. Isn't it come yet?_ Answer--_The hour
is come, but not the man. When will he come?_ Answer--_He is within
sight_.” He repeated these words three or four times, after which he and
M'Carthy entered the house.
“God save all here!” said the guide.
“God save you kindly, boys.”
“Mrs. Cassidy,” he continued, “here's poor fellow on his keepin' for
tithe business and although you don't know me, I know you well enough
to be sartin that you'll give this daicent boy a toss in a bed till
daybreak--an' a mouthful to ate if he should want it.”
“Troth an' I will, sir; isn't one o' my poor boys in Lisnagola goal
for the same tithes--bad luck to them--that is for batin' one of the
vagabonds that came to collect them. Troth he'll have the best bed in my
house.”
“And listen, Mrs. Cassidy; if any of us should happen to come here
to-night--although I don't think it's likely they will, still it's hard
to say, for the country's alive with with them--if any of them should
come here, don't let them know that this poor boy is in the house--do
you mind?”
“Ah, then, it would be a bad day or night either I wouldn't.”
“Will you have anything to ate or dhrink,” asked the guide of M'Carthy..
“Nothing,” replied the other; “I only wish to get to bed.”
“Come, then,” said the colossal Whiteboy, “I'll show you where you're to
lie.”
They accordingly left the kitchen, passed through a tolerably large
room, with two or three tables and several chairs in it, and entered
another, which was also of a good size. Here there was a bed, and
in this M'Carthy was to rest--if rest he could under a series of
circumstances so extraordinary and exciting.
“Now,” said his guide, for such we must call him--“observe this,” and
he brought him to a low window which opened at the back of the house,
“press that spot where you see the frame is sunk a little--you can feel
it, too, aisily enough in the dark--very well, press that with your
thumb and the windy will open by being pushed outwards. If you feel or
find that there's any danger you can slip out of it; however, don't be
alarmed bekase you may hear voices. There's only one set that you may be
afraid of--they're on the look-out for yourself--but I don't think it's
likely they'll come here. If they do, however, and that you hear them
talkin' about you, there's your way to get off. Come, now, I must try
you again before I go. What's the hour?”
“Very near the right one.”
“Isn't it come yet?”
“The hour is come but not the man.”
“When will he come?”
“He is within sight.”
“Now, good-bye, you may take a good sleep but don't strip; lie just as
you are--that's twiste your life has been saved this night. In the mane
time, you must give me back that overall shirt--your danger I hope is
past, but I may want it to-night yet; and stay, I was near spoilin'
all--I forgot to give you the right grip--here it is--if any of them
shakes hands wid you, mark this--he presses the point of his thumb on
the first joint of your fore-finger, and you press yours upon the middle
joint of his little finger, this way--you won't forget that now?”
“Certainly not,” replied M'Carthy, “I will remember it accurately.”
“Very well,” he proceeded, “take my advice, get to Dublin without
delay--if you remain here you're a dead man; you may never see me again,
so God bless you.” and with these words he left him.
It is difficult to describe M'Carthy's state of mind on finding himself
alone. The events of the night, fearful as they were, joined to
his singular and to him unaccountable escape--his present state of
uncertainty and the contingent danger that awaited him--the fact that
parties were in search of him for the purpose of taking away his life,
whilst he himself remained utterly unconscious of the cause which
occasioned such, a bitter and unrelenting enmity against him--all
these reflections, coming together upon a mind already distracted
and stupefied by want of rest, and excessive weariness--succeeded in
inducing first a wild sense of confusion--then forgetfulness of his
position, and ultimately sound and dreamless sleep. How long that
sleep had continued he could not even guess, but be that as it may,
on awaking, he heard, medley of several voices in the next room, all
engaged in an earnest conversation, as was evident, not merely from the
disjointed manner of their pronunciation but a strong smell of liquor
which assailed his nose. His first impulse was to arise and escape by
the window, but on reflection, as he saw by the light of their candle
that the door between the two apartments was open, he deemed it safer
to keep quiet for a little, with a hope that they might soon take their
departure. He felt anxious, besides, to ascertain whether the party
in question consisted of those whom the strange guide had mentioned as
being his enemies. In the meantime, the following agreeable dialogue
greeted his ears and banished for the moment every other thought and
consideration.
“It was altogether a bad business this night. He was as well set as man
could be, but hell pursue the pistols, they both missed fire; and thim
that did go off hit the wrong men. The same two--we can't names boys,
won't be the betther of it for some time. We met them, you see, in the
mountains, where we wor goin' on a little business. Here's that we may
never ait worse mait than mutton!”
“More power, Dick--Dick, (hiccup) you're a trojan, an' so was your
father and mother afore you; here's your to--toast, Dick, that we
may ever an' always ait no worse mait than--praties an' point,
hurra!--that's the chat, ha!--ha!--ha!--ah, begad it's we that's the
well-fed boys--ay, but sure our friends the poor parsons has been always
starvin' in the counthry.”
“Always starvin' the counthry!” exclaimed another, playing upon the
word, “be my sowl you're right there, Ned. Well sure they're gettin' a
touch of it now themselves; by japers, some o' them knows what it is to
have the back and belly brought together, or to go hungry to bed, as the
sayin' is; but go on, Dick, an' tell us how it was.”
“Why, you see, we went back when we heard that the house was to be
attacked, and only he escaped the way he did, it wouldn't be attacked;
howaniver, you know it's wid O'Driscol--a short cooser to him, too, and
he'll get it--it's wid O'Driscol he stops. So off we went, and waited in
Barney Broghan's still-house, where we had a trifle to dhrink.”
“Divil resave the bet--bettherer spirits ever came from--a still--il
eye, nor dar-lent Bar--ar--ney Brogh--aghan makes--whisht!--more
power!--won't the counthry soon--be our--our--own--whips!”
“Ned, hould your tongue, an' let him go 'an; well, Dick.”
“Afther waitin' in the still-house till what we thought was the proper
time, we went to O'Driscol's, and first struv to get in quietly, but you
see we had no friends in the camp, for the men-servants all sleep in the
outhouses, barrin' the butler; an' he's not the thing for Ireland. Well
and good, although among ourselves, it was anything but well and good
this night; however, we demanded admittance, an' jist as if they had
been on the watch for us--a windy was raised, and a voice called out to
us to know what we wanted.
“'Neither to hurt or harm any one in the house,' we said, 'or belongin'
to it; but there is a stranger in it that we must have out.'
“'Ay,' said another voice, that several of us knew to be Mr. Alick
Purcel's; 'here I am--you scoundrels, but that's your share of me. If
you don't begone instantly,' says he, swearin' an oath, 'we'll shoot you
like dogs where you stand.'
“'We know you, Mr. Purcel,' says we, 'but it isn't you we want
to-night--your turn's to come yet; time about is fair play. It's
M'Carthy we want.'
“'You must want him, then,' says young O'Driscol, 'for he's not here;
and even if he was, you should fight for him before you'd get him--but
what might your business be wid him?' he asked. 'Why,' says we,
'there's a man among us that has an account to settle wid him.'
“'Ah, you cowardly scoundrels,' says he, 'that's a disgrace to the
counthry, and to the very name of Irishman; it's no wondher for
strangers to talk of you as they do--no wondher for your friends to
have a shamed face for your disgraceful crimes. You would now take an
inoffensive gintleman--one that never harmed a man of you, nor any one
else--you'd take him out, bekaise some blackhearted cowardly villain
among you has a pick (pique) against him, and some of you for
half-a-crown or a bellyful of whisky would murdher him in could blood.
Begone, or by the livin' Farmer, I'll scatter the contents of this
blunderbush among you.' He that wishes to have M'Carthy done for was wid
us himself, and tould us in Irish to fire at the windy, which we did,
and on the instant slop came a shower of bullets among us. A boy from
the Esker got one of them through the brain, and fell stone dead; two
others--we can't mention names--was wounded, and it was well we got
them off safe. So there's our night's work for us. Howaniver, the day's
comin' when we'll pay them for all.”
“I think, boys,” said a person, whose voice was evidently that of a man
advanced in years, “I think you ought to give this procthor Purcel a
cardin'. He lifts the tithes of four parishes, and so far he's a scourge
over four parishes; himself and his blasted citations to the bishop's
court and his blasted decrees--hell purshue him, as it will. Ah, the
Carders wor fine fellows, so were the Sextons.”
“Bravo, Billy Bradly, conshumin' to me but I'm--I'm main proud, and that
we met you com--omin' from the wake to-night; I am, upon my sow--owl.”
“I believe, Billy,” said another voice, “you had your own fun wid
procthors in your day.”
“Before the union--hell bellows it for a union---but it has been a black
sight to the counthry! Amin this night--before the union, it's we that
did handle the procthors in style; it isn't a cowardly threatenin'
notice we'd send them, and end there. No--but I'll tell you what we
done one night, in them days. There was a man, a procthor, an' he was
a Catholic too, for I needn't tell you, boys, that there never was a
Protestant procthor half as hard and cruel as one of our own ralligion,
an' thas well known. Well, there was this procthor I'm tellin' of, his
name was Callaghan; he was a dark-haired I'll-lookin' fellow, with
a squint and a stutther; but for all that, he had a daicent,
quiet, well-behaved family that offended nobody--not like our proud
horsewhippin' neighbors; an', indeed, his daughters did not mount their
side-saddles like some of the same neighbors, but sure we all know the
ould proverb, set a beggar on horseback, and we needn't tell you where
he'll ride to. Well, I'm forgettin' my story in the mane time. At that
time, a party of about sixty of us made up our minds to pay Callaghan a
nightly visit. The man, you see, made no distinction betune the rich
and poor, or rather he made every distinction, for he was all bows and
scrapes to the rich, and all whip and fagot to the poor. Ah, he was
a sore blisther to that part of the counthry he lived in, and many a
widow's an' orphan's curse he had. At any rate, to make a long story
short, we went a set of us, a few nights afore we called upon him--that
is, in a friendly way, for we had no intention of takin' his life,
but merely to tickle him into good humor a bit, and to make him have a
little feelin' for the poor, that he many a time tickled an' got tickled
by the sogar's bagnet to some purpose; we went, I say, to a lonely
place, and we dug sich a grave as we thought might fit him, and havin'
buttoned and lined it well with thorns, we then left it covered over
with scraws for fraid anybody might find it out. So far so good. At last
the appointed night came, and we called upon him.
“'Is Mr. Callaghan in?' said one of us, knockin' at the door.
“'What's your business wid him?' said a servant girl, as she opened the
door.
“'Tis to pay some tithe I want,' says the man; and no sooner was the
word out of his mouth than in we boulted betther than a score of us; for
the rest all stayed about the place to act accordin' to circumstances.
“'How do you do, Misther Callaghan?' says our captain, 'I hope you're
well, sir,' says he, 'and in good health.'”
“'I can't say I am, sir,” said Callaghan, 'I haven't been to say at all
well for the last few days, wid a pain down my back.'
“'Ah, indeed no wondher, Mr. Callaghan,' says the other; 'that's the
curse of the widows and orphans, and the poor in general, that you have
oppressed in ordher to keep up a fat an' greedy establishment,' says he,
'but in the mane time, keep a good heart--we're friends of yours, and
wishes you well; and if the curses have come down hot and heavy on your
back, we'll take them off it,' says he, 'so aisily and purtily, that if
you'll only shut your eyes, you'll think yourself in another world--I
mane of coorse the world you'll go to,' says he;--'we have got a few
nice and aisy machines here, for ticklin' sich procthors, in ordher to
laugh them into health again, and we'll now set you to rights' at wanst.
Comes, boys,' says he, turnin' to us, 'tie every sowl in the house,
barrin' the poor sick procthor that we all feel for, bekaise you see,
Misther Callaghan, in ordher to do the thing complate, we intind to have
your own family spectawthers of the cure.'
“'No,' said one of them, a determined man he was, 'that wasn't in our
agreement, nor it isn't in our hearts, to trate the innocent like the
guilty.'”
“'It must be done,' said the captain.
“'No,' said the other back to him, 'the first man that mislists a hair
of one of his family's heads, I'll put the contents of this through
him--if this onmanly act had been mentioned before, you'd a' had few
here tonight along wid you.'
“Well, sure enough, the most of us was wid the last speaker, so, instead
of cardin' the sick procthor before his own family, we tied and gagged
him so as that he neither spoke nor budged, and afther clappin' a guard
upon the family for an hour or two, we put him on horseback and brought
him up to where the grave was made. We then stripped him, and layin' him
across a ditch, we got the implements, of the feadhers as we call them,
to tickle him. Well, now, could you guess, boys, what these feadhers
was? I'll go bail you couldn't, so I may as well tell you at wanst;
divil resave the thing else, but half-a-dozen of the biggest tom-cats we
could get, and this is the way we used them. Two or three of us pitched
our hands well and the tails of the cats into the bargain, we then, as
I said, laid the naked procthor across a ditch, and began to draw the
tom-cats down the flesh of his back. God! how the unfortunate divil
quivered and writhed and turned--until the poor wake crature, that
at first had hardly the strength of a child, got, by the torture he
suffered, the strength of three men; for indeed, afther he broke the
cords that tied him, three, nor three more the back o' that, wasn't
sufficient to hould him. He got the gag out of his mouth, too, and then,
I declare to my Saviour his scrames was so awful that we got frightened,
for we couldn't but think that the voice was unnatural, an sich as no
man ever heard. We set to, however, and gagged and tied him agin, and
then we carded him--first down, then up, then across by one side, and
after that across by the other. * Well, when this was done, we tuk him
as aisily an' as purtily as we could.
“D--n your soul, you ould ras--rascal,” said the person they called Ned,
“you wor--wor 'all a parcel o' bloody, d--n, hell--fi--fire cowardly
villains, to--to--thrat--ate any fellow crature--crature in sich a way.
Why didn't you shoo--shoo--oot him at wanst, an' not put--ut him through
hell's tor--tortures like that, you bloody-minded ould dog!”
To tell the truth, many of them were shocked at the old carder's
narrative, but he only, grinned at them, and replied--
“Ay, shoot--you may talk about shootin,' Ned, avick, but for all that
life's sweet.”
“Get on--out, you ould sinner o' perdition--to blazes wid you; life's
sweet you ould 'shandina--what a purty--urty way you tuk of sweetenin'
it for him. I tell--ell you, Bil--lilly Bradly, that you'll never die on
your bed for that night's wo--ork.”
“And even if I don't, Ned, you won't have my account to answer for.”
“An' mighty glad I am of it: my own--own's bad enough, God knows, an'
for the mat--matther o' that--here's God pardon us all, barrin' that
ould cardin' sinner--amin, acheerna villish, this night! Boys, I'll
sing-yes a song.”
“Aisy, Ned,” said one or two of them, “bad as it was, let us hear Billy
Bradly's story out.”
“Well,” proceeded Billy, “when the ticklin' was over, we took the scraws
off of the grave, lined wid thorns as it was, and laid the procthor,
naked and bleedin'--scarified into gris-kins--”
“Let me at--at him, the ould cardin' mur--urdherer; plain murdher's
daicency compared to that. Don't hould me, Dick; if I was sworn ten
times over, I'll bate the divil's taptoo on his ould carkage.”
“Be aisy, Ned--be aisy now, don't disturb the company--sure you wouldn't
rise your hand to an ould man like Billy Bradly. Be quiet.”
--“Scarified into griskins as he was,” proceeded Bradly looking at Ned
with a grin of contempt--“ay, indeed, snug and cosily we laid him in
his bed of feadhers, and covered him wid thin scraws for fear he'd catch
could--he! he! he! That's the way we treated the procthors in our day. I
think I desarve a drink now!”
Drinking was now resumed with more vigor, and the proceedings of the
night were once more discussed.
“It was a badly-managed business every way,” said one of them,
“especially to let M'Carthy escape; however, we'll see him 'igain,
and if we can jist lay our eyes upon him in some quiet place, it'll
be enough;--what's to be done wid this body till mornin.' It can't be
lyin' upon the chairs here all might.”
M'Carthy, we need scarcely assure our readers, did not suffer all this
time to pass without making an effort to escape. This, however, was a
matter of dreadful danger, as the circumstances of the case stood. In
the first place, as we have already said, the door between the room
in which he lay and that in which the Whiteboys sat, was open, and the
light of the candles shone so strongly into it, that it was next to an
impossibility for him to cross over to the window without being seen; in
the second place, the joints of the beds were so loose and rickety that,
on the slightest motion of its Occupant, it creaked and shrieked so
loud, that any attempt to rise off it must necessarily have discovered
him.
“We must do something with the body of this unlucky boy,” continued the
speaker; “divil resave you, M'Carthy, it was on your account he came to
this fate; blessed man, if we could only catch him!”
“Here, Dick, you and Jemmy there, and Art, come and let us bring him
into the bed' in the next room--it's a fitter and more properer place
for him than lyin' upon chairs here. God be merciful to you, poor Lanty,
it's little you expected this when you came out to-night! Take up the
candles two more of you, and go before us: here--steady now; mother
of heaven, how stiff and heavy he has got in so short a time--and his
family! what will they say? Hell resave you, M'Carthy, I say agin! I'm
but a poor man, and I wouldn't begrudge a five-pound note to get widin
shot of you, wherever you are.”
It would be idle to attempt anything like a description of M'Carthy's
feelings, upon such an occasion as this. It is sufficient to say, that
he almost gave himself up for lost, and began to believe, for the first
time in his life, that there is such a thing as fate. Here had his life
been already saved once to-night, but scarcely had he escaped when he is
met by a person evidently disguised, but by whose language he is all
but made certain that he is a man full of mystery, and who besides has
expressed strong enmity against him. This person, with a case of
pistols in his breast, compels him, as it were, to put himself under his
protection; and he conducts him into a remote isolated shebeen-house,
where, no doubt, there is a meeting of Whiteboys every night in the
week. The M'Carthy spirit is, proverbially, brave and intrepid, but we
are bound to say, that notwithstanding its hereditary intrepidity, our
young friend would have given the wealth of Europe to have found himself
at that moment one single mile away from the bed on which he lay. His
best policy was now to affect sleep, and he did so with an apparent
reality borrowed from desperation.
“Hallo!” exclaimed those who bore the candle, on looking at the bed,
“who the devil and Jack Robinson have we got here? Aisy, boys--here's
some blessed clip or other fast asleep: lay down poor Lanty on the
ground till we see who this. Call Molly Cassidy; here, Molly, who the
dickens is this chap asleep?”
Molly immediately made her appearance.
“Troth I dunna who he is,” she replied; “he's some poor boy on his
keepin', about tithes, tha' _He_ brought here to-night.”
“That's a cursed lie, Molly; wid' many respects to you, _He_ couldn't a'
been here to-night.”
“Thank you, sir, whoever you are; but I tell you it's no lie; and he
was here, and left that boy wid me, desirin' me to let him come to no
injury, for that--” and this was an addition of her own, “there was
hundreds offered for the takin' of him.”
“Why, what did he do, did you hear?”
“He whispered to me,” she replied, in a low voice, but loud enough for
M'Carthy to hear, “that he shot a tithe-proctor.”
“We'll see what he's made of, though,” said one of them; “and, at all
events, we'd act very shabbily if we didn't give him a share af what's
goin'; but aisy, boys,” he added, “take care--ay! aisy, I say, safe's
the word; who knows but he's a spy in disguise, and, in that case, we'll
have a different card to play. Hallo! neighbor,” he exclaimed, giving
M'Carthy a shove, who started up and looked about him with admirable
tact.
“What--what--eh--what's this? who are you all? what are you about?”
he asked, and as he spoke, he sprung to his feet. “What's this?” he
exclaimed again. “Sweet Jasus! is this Fagan the tithe-proctor that I
shot? eh--or are you--stay--no--ah, no--not the polis. Oh, Lord, but
I'm relieved; I thought you were polis, but I see by your faces that I'm
safe, at last--I hope so.”
“Ay, to be sure, you're safe--safe--as--as the bank (hiccup). You're a
gintlemen, si--r you're a Con Roe--the ace o' hearts you are. Ay, you
shot--like a ma--an, and didn't card--ard him wid tomcats, and then put
the poo--oo--oor (hiccup) devil into a grave lined wid thorns; ah, you
cowardly ould villain! the devil, in the shape of a to--to--tom-cat
will card you in hell yet; an' moreover, you'll ne--never--ever die in
your bed, you hard-hearted ould scut o' blazes; an' that you may not, I
pray Ja--sa--sus this night--an' God forgive us all--amin, acheema!”
“Hould your drunken tongue, Ned,” said he who seemed to assume authority
over them; “we want to put this poor boy, who died of liquor to-night,
into the bed, and I suppose you'll have no objection.”
“None at all at all,” replied M'Carthy, assuming the brogue, at which,
fortunately for himself, he was an adept; “it's a good man's case, boys;
blood an' turf, give him a warm birth of it--he'll find it snug and
comfortable.”
They then placed the corpse on the bed but changing their mind, they
raised him for a moment, putting him under the bedclothes, pinned a
stocking, about his head to give him a domestic look; after which they
returned to the tap-room of the shebeen-house, for such in fact it
was. The latter change in the position of the corpse was made from an
apprehension lest the police might come in search of the body, and with
the hope that he might pass for a person asleep.
“You'll drink something wid us,” said the principal among them; “but,
before you do, I suppose you are as you ought to be.”
M'Carthy, who really was in a frightful state of thirst, determined at
once to put on the reckless manner of a wild and impetuous Irishman, who
set all law and established institutions at defiance.
“You suppose I am as I ought to be,” he exclaimed, with a look of
contempt; “why, thin, I suppose so too: in the mane time, an' before you
bother me wid more gosther, I'd thank you to give me a drink o' whisky
and wather--for, to tell you the truth, blast me but I think there's a
confligration on a small scale goin' an inwardly; hurry, boys, or I'll
split. Ah, boys, if you but knew what I wint through the last three days
an' three nights.”
“And what did you go through it all for?” asked the principal of them,
with something of distrust in his manner.
“What did I go through it fwhor? fwhy, thin, fwhor the sake o' the
trewth--I'm a Gaaulway man, boys, and it isn't in Can-naught you'll
fwhind the man that's afeard to do fwhat's right: here's aaul your
healths, and that everything may soon be as it ought to be.”
“Well,” said the other, “you are a Can-naught man sartainly, that's
clear from your tongue; but I want to axe you a question.'
“Fwhy nat? it's but fair,--it's but fair, I say,--take that wit j'ou,
an' I'm the boy that will answer it, if I can, bekaise you know, or
maybe you don't--but it's a proverb we have in Cannaught wit us--that
a fool may ax a question that a wise man couldn't answer: well, what is
it?”
“Who brought you here to-night?”
“Who brought me here to-night? fwhy, thin, I'll tell you as much of it
as I like--_He_ did.”
“Be japers it's a lie, beggin' your pardon, my worthy Cannaught man.
_He_ couldn't be here to-night. I know where he was the greater part
of the night, and the thing's impossible. I don't know you, but we must
know you--ay, and we will know you.”
“Trath an' I must know you, thin, and that very soon,” replied M'Carthy.
“Come into the next room, then,” said the other.
“Anywhere you like,” he replied, “I'm wit you; but I'm not the boy to be
humbugged, or to bear your thricks upon thravellers.”
“Now,” said the other, when they had got into the room where the corpse
lay, “shake hands.”
They accordingly shook hands, and M'Carthy gave him the genuine grip, as
he had been taught it by the Whiteboy.
“Right,” said the man, “for so far; now, what's the hour?”
“Very near the right one.”
“Isn't it come yet?”
“The hour is come, but not the man.”
“When will he come?”
“He is within sight.”
“It's all right; come in and take another dhrink,” said the man; “but
still, who brought you here? for I know _He_ couldn't.”
M'Carthy replied, winking towards the kitchen, “Troth she'll tell you
that story; give me another drink o' fwhiskey and water. Oh, I'm hardly
able to sit up, I'm getthi' so drowsy. A wink o' sleep, I may say,
didn't crass my eye these three nights; an' I'd wish to stretch myself
beside the poor boy widin. I'm an my keepin', boys, and fwhin you know
that the law was at my heels fwhor the last foive weeks, you'll allow I
want rest: throth I must throw myself somewhere.”
“Go in, then, poor fellow, and lie down,” said the same individual, who
acted as spokesman; “we know how you must feel, wid the hell-hounds of
the law affcher you: here, Jack, hould the candle for him, and help
him to move over poor Lanty to make room for him; and Mrs. Cassidy,” he
called m a louder voice, “bring us another bottle.”
“Faith, to tell you the truth,” replied Jack, “I'd rather not; I don't
like to go near a dead body.”
“Here,” said the person called Dick, “give me the candle: poor fellow!
it is rest you want, and God forbid we wouldn't do everything in our
power for you.”
They then entered the apartment, and M'Carthy was about to lay himself
beside the corpse, when his companion tapped him significantly on
the shoulder, and, his finger on his lips pointed to the window and
immediately whispered in his ear: “I will leave the windy so that it will
open at wanst: three of us knows you, Mr. M'Carthy I will sing a song
when I go in again, which they will chorus; fly then, for it's hard to
say what might happen: the day is now breakin' and you might be known--in
that case I needn't tell you what your fate would be.”
He then returned to his companion having carefully closed the door after
him so as to prevent, as much as possible the motions of M'Carthy from
being seen or heard. On rejoining them he observed “well, if ever a poor
boy was fairly broken down, and he is--throth he was no sooner, on the
bed than he was off; an' among ourselves, the sleep must be heavy on him
when he could close his eyes an' a dead man in the bed wid him.”