his face within a few inches of Owen's. “There's a hundred pounds
blood-money for ye, now, if ye give the information! A hundred pounds,”
muttered he to himself; “musha, I never thought they'd give ten
shillings for my own four bones before!”
Owen scorned to reply to the insinuation of his turning informer, and
sat moodily thinking over the event.
“Well, I'll be going, anyhow,” said he rising, for his abhorrence of
his companion made him feel the storm and the hurricane a far preferable
alternative.
“The divil a one foot ye'll leave this, my boy,” said Miles, grasping
him with the grip of his gigantic hand; “no, no, ma bouchai, 'tisn't so
easy airned as ye think; a hundred pounds, naboclish!
“Leave me free! let go my arm!” said Owen, whose anger now rose at the
insolence of this taunt.
“I'll break it across my knee, first,” said the infuriated ruffian, as
he half imitated by a gesture his horrid threat.
There was no comparison in point of bodily strength between them; for
although Owen was not half the other's age, and had the advantage of
being perfectly sober, the smith was a man of enormous power, and held
him, as though he were a child in his grasp.
“So that's what you'd be at, my boy, is it?” said Miles, scoffing; “it's
the fine thrade you choose! but maybe it's not so pleasant, after all.
Stay still there--be quiet, I say--by----,” and here he uttered a most
awful oath--“if you rouse me, I'll paste your brains against that
wall;” and as he spoke, he dashed his closed fist against the rude and
crumbling masonry, with a force that shook several large stones from
their places, and left his knuckles one indistinguishable mass of blood
and gore.
“That's brave, anyhow,” said Owen, with a bitter mockery, for his own
danger, at the moment, could not repress his contempt for the savage
conduct of the other.
Fortunately, the besotted intellect of the smith made him accept the
speech in a very different sense, and he said, “There never was the man
yet, I wouldn't give him two blows at me, for one at him, and mine to be
the last.”
“I often heard of that before,” said Owen, who saw that any attempt
to escape by main force was completely out of the question, and that
stratagem alone could present a chance.
“Did ye ever hear of Dan Lenahan?” said Miles, with a grin; “what I did
to Dan: I was to fight him wid one hand, and the other tied behind my
back; and when he came up to shake hands wid me before the fight, I just
put my thumb in my hand, that way, and I smashed his four fingers over
it.”
“There was no fight that day, anyhow, Miles.”
“Thrue for ye, boy; the sport was soon over--raich me over the bottle,”
and with that, Miles finished the poteen at a draught, and then lay
back against the wall, as if to sleep. Still, he never relinquished his
grasp, but, as he fell off asleep, held him as in a vice.
As Owen sat thus a prisoner, turning over in his mind every possible
chance of escape, he heard the sound of feet and men's voices rapidly
approaching; and, in a few moments, several men turned into the
churchyard, and came towards the crypt. They were conversing in a low
but hurried voice, which was quickly hushed as they came nearer.
“What's this,” cried one, as he entered the cell; “Miles has a prisoner
here!”
“Faix, he has so, Mickey;” answered Owen, for he recognised in the
speaker an old friend and schoolfellow. The rest came hurriedly forward
at the words, and soon Owen found himself among a number of his former
companions. Two or three of the party were namesakes and relations.
The explanation of his capture was speedily given, and they all laughed
heartily at Owen's account of his ingenious efforts at flattery.
“Av the poteen held out, Owen dear, ye wouldn't have had much trouble;
but he can drink two quarts before he loses his strength.”
In return for his narrative, they freely and frankly told their own
story. They had been out arms-hunting--unsuccessfully, however--their
only exploit being the burning of a haggard belonging to a farmer who
refused to join the “rising.”
Owen felt greatly relieved to discover, that his old friends regarded
the smith with a horror fully as great as his own. But they excused
themselves for the companionship by saying, “What are we to do with
the crayture? Ye wouldn't have us let him be taken?” And thus they were
compelled to practise every measure for the security of one they had no
love for, and whose own excesses increased the hazard tenfold.
The marauding exploits they told of, were, to Owen's ears, not devoid of
a strange interest, the danger alone had its fascination for him; and,
artfully interwoven as their stories were with sentiments of affected
patriotism and noble aspirations for the cause of their country, they
affected him strongly.
For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country--a mistaken sense of
national honour--prompted many to these lawless courses. Vague notions
of confiscated lands to be restored to their rightful possessors;
ancient privileges reconferred; their church once more endowed with
its long-lost wealth and power: such were the motives of the more
high-spirited and independent. Others sought redress for personal
grievances; some real or imaginary hardship they laboured under; or,
perhaps, as was not unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge
or malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of requiting.
Many were there, who, like the weak-minded in all popular commotions,
float with the strong tide, whichever way it may run. They knew not the
objects aimed at; they were ignorant of the intentions of their leaders;
but would not be under the stain of cowardice among their companions,
nor shrink from any cause where there was danger, if only for that very
reason. Thus was the mass made up, of men differing in various ways; but
all held together by the common tie of a Church and a Country. It might
be supposed that the leaders in such a movement would be those who,
having suffered some grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure
on any course that promised vengeance;--very far from this. The
principal promoters of the insurrection were of the class of
farmers--men well to do, and reputed, in many cases wealthy. The
instruments by which they worked were indeed of the very poorer
class--the cottier, whose want and misery had eat into his nature, and
who had as little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some
injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice denied him; his
ejection from his tenement; a chance word, perhaps, spoken to him in
anger by his landlord or the agent, were the springs which moved a man
like this, and brought him into confederacy with those who promised him
a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into the belief
that his individual case had all the weight and importance of a national
question. Many insurrectionary movements have grown into the magnitude
of systematic rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others,
that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self-importance
suggested by a bold opposition to the law, is a strong agent in arming
men against its terrors. The mock martyrdom of Ireland is in this way,
perhaps, her greatest and least curable evil.
Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for amongst them.
Independent of his personal courage and daring, he was regarded as one
fruitful in expedients, and never deterred by difficulties. This mingled
character of cool determination and headlong impulse, made him exactly
suited to become a leader; and many a plot was thought of, to draw
him into their snares, when the circumstances of his fortune thus
anticipated their intentions.
It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell upon the life
he now led. It was indeed an existence full of misery and suffering. To
exaggerate the danger of his position, his companions asserted that the
greatest efforts were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies
scattered far and wide through the country; and while they agreed with
him that nothing could be laid to his charge, they still insisted, that
were he once taken, false-swearing and perjury would bring him to the
gallows, “as it did many a brave boy before him.”
Half-starved, and harassed by incessant change of place; tortured by the
fevered agony of a mind halting between a deep purpose of vengeance and
a conscious sense of innocence, his own daily sufferings soon brought
down his mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation, in which the
very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and blunted. “I cannot
be worse!” was his constant expression, as he wandered alone by some
unfrequented mountain-path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine.
“I cannot be worse!” It is an evil moment that suggests a thought like
this!
Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old churchyard, where some
of the “boys,” as they called themselves, assembled to deliberate on
future measures, or talk over the past. It was less in sympathy
with their plans that Owen came, than for the very want of human
companionship. His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their
voices, and see their faces; while in their recitals of outrage, he
felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies, at any tale of
sorrow and suffering.
At these meetings the whisky-bottle was never forgotten; and while some
were under a pledge not to take more than a certain quantity--a vow they
kept most religiously--others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The
few moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the coveted
minutes of his long dreary day, and he wished for night to come as the
last solace that was left him.
His companions knew him too well, to endeavour by any active influence
to implicate him in their proceedings. They cunningly left the work to
time and his own gloomy thoughts; watching, however, with eager anxiety,
how, gradually he became more and more interested in all their doings;
how, by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against some deed
of unnecessary cruelty; and listened with animation where before he but
heard with apathy, if not repugnance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in
the rich soil of a heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted
and debased. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from disliking the
theme of violence and outrage, became half-angry with his comrades,
that they neither proposed any undertaking to him, nor even asked his
assistance amongst them.
This spirit grew hourly stronger in him; offended pride worked within
his heart during the tedious days he spent alone, and he could scarcely
refrain from demanding what lack of courage and daring they saw in him,
that he should be thus forgotten and neglected.
In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should not propose
himself for some hazardous scheme, or still remain a mere spectator
of others, he arrived one evening in the old churchyard. Of late, “the
boys,” from preconcerted arrangements among themselves, had rather
made a show of cold and careless indifference in their manner to
Owen--conduct which deeply wounded him.
As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that a greater
number than usual were assembled through the churchyard, and many
were gathered in little knots and groups, talking eagerly together; a
half-nod, a scarcely muttered “Good even,” was all the salutation he
met, as he moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece
of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves--the custom and privilege
of those who had been last out on any marauding expedition. A smoking
pot of potatoes and some bottles of whisky formed the entertainment, at
which Owen stood a longing and famished spectator.
“Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yerselves?” said a
gruff voice from the crowd to the party within; “and ye know well enough
there's business to be done to-night.”
“And ain't we doing it?” answered one of the feasters. “Here's your
health, Peter!” and so saying, he took a very lengthened draught from
the “poteen” bottle.
“'Tis the thrade ye like best, anyhow,” retorted the other. “Come, boys;
be quick now!”
The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from the place, and
removing the big pot to make more room, they prepared the little cell
for the reception of some other visitors.
“That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, have yez the deck,'
my boy?”
“There's the book, darlint,” said a short, little, de-crepid creature,
speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced a pack of cards,
which, if one were to judge from the dirt, made the skill of the game
consist as much in deciphering as playing them.
“Where's Sam M'Guire?” called out the first speaker, in a voice loud
enough to be heard over the whole space around; and the name was
repeated from voice to voice, till it was replied to by one who cried--
“Here, sir; am I wanted?”
“You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself is always to the fore when we need yez.”
“I hope so indeed,” said Sam, as he came forward, a flush of gratified
pride on his hardy cheek. He was a young, athletic fellow, with a fine
manly countenance, expressive of frankness and candour.
“Luke Heffernan! where's Luke?” said the other.
“I'm here beside ye,” answered a dark-visaged, middle-aged man, with
the collar of his frieze coat buttoned high on his face; “ye needn't be
shouting my name that way--there may be more bad than good among uz.
“There's not an informer, any way--if that's what ye mean,” said the
other quickly. “Gavan Daly! Call Gavan Daly, will ye, out there?”
And the words were passed from mouth to mouth in a minute, but no one
replied to the summons.
“He's not here--Gavan's not here!” was the murmured answer of the crowd,
given in a tone that hoded very little in favour of its absent owner.
“Not here!” said the leader, as he crushed the piece of paper, from
which he read, in his hand; “not here! Where is he, then? Does any of
yez know where's Gavan Daly?”
But there was no answer.
“Can no body tell?--is he sick?--or is any belonging to him sick and
dying, that he isn't here this night, as he swore to be?”
“I saw him wid a new coat on him this morning early in Oughterarde, and
he said he was going to see a cousin of his down below Oranmore,” said a
young lad from the outside of the crowd, and the speaker was in a moment
surrounded by several, anxious to find out some other particulars of
the absent man. It was evident that the boy's story was far from being
satisfactory, and the circumstance of Daly's wearing a new coat, was one
freely commented on by those who well knew how thoroughly they were in
the power of any who should betray them.
“He's in the black list this night,” said the leader, as he motioned
the rest to be silent; “that's where I put him now; and see, all of
yez--mind my words--if any of uz comes to harm, it will go hard but some
will be spared; and if there was only one remaining, he wouldn't be
the cowardly villain not to see vengeance on Gavan Daly, for what he's
done.”
A murmur of indignation at the imputed treachery of the absent man
buzzed through the crowd; while one fellow, with a face flushed by
drink, and eyes bleared and bloodshot, cried out: “And are ye to stop
here all night, calling for the boy that's gone down to bethray yez? Is
there none of yez will take his place?”
“I will! I will! I'm ready and willin'!” were uttered by full twenty, in
a breath.
“Who will ye have with yez? take your own choice!” said the leader,
turning towards M'Quire and Heffernan, who stood whispering eagerly
together.
“There's the boy I'd take out of five hundred, av he was the same I knew
once,” said M'Guire, laying his hand on Owen's shoulder.
“Begorra then, I wondher what ye seen in him lately to give you a
consate out of him,” cried Heffernan, with a rude laugh. “'Tisn't all
he's done for the cause anyway.”
Owen started, and fixed his eyes first on one, then on the other of the
speakers; but his look was rather the vacant stare of one awakening from
a heavy sleep, than the expression of any angry passion--for want
and privation had gone far to sap his spirit, as well as his bodily
strength.
“There, avich, taste that,” said a man beside him, who was struck by his
pale and wasted cheek, and miserable appearance.
Owen almost mechanically took the bottle, and drank freely, though the
contents was strong poteen.
“Are ye any betther now?” said Heffernan, with a sneering accent.
“I am,” said Owen, calmly, for he was unconscious of the insolence
passed off on him; “I'm a deal better.”
“Come along, ma bouchal!” cried M'Guire; “come into the little place
with us, here.”
“What do ye want with me, boys?” asked Owen, looking about him through
the crowd.
“'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more,” said an old fellow
near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among the rest.
“I'm ready and willin',” said Owen; “but sorra farthen I've left me to
play; and if the stakes is high--”
“Faix, that's what they're not,” said Heffernan; “they're the lowest
ever ye played for.”
“Tell me what it is, anyway,” cried Owen.
“Just, the meanest thing at all--the life of the blaguard that turned
yerself out of yer holdin'--Lucas the agent.”
“To kill Lucas?”
“That same; and if ye don't like the game, turn away and make room for a
boy that has more spirit in him.”
“Who says I ever was afeard?” said Owen, on whom now the whisky was
working. “Is it Luke Heffernan dares to face me down?--come out here,
fair, and see will ye say it again.”
“If you won't join the cause, you mustn't be bringing bad blood among
us,” cried the leader, in a determined tone; “there's many a brave boy
here to-night would give his right hand to get the offer you did.”
“I'm ready--here I am, ready now,” shouted Owen wildly; “tell me what you
want me to do, and see whether I will or no.”
A cheer broke from the crowd at these words, and all within his reach
stretched out their hands to grasp Owen's; and commendations were poured
on him from every side.
Meanwhile Heffernan and his companion had cleared the little crypt of
its former occupants, and having heaped fresh wood upon the fire, sat
down before the blaze, and called out for Owen to join them. Owen took
another draught from one of the many bottles offered by the bystanders,
and hastened to obey the summons.
“Stand back now, and don't speak a word,” cried the leader, keeping off
the anxious crowd that pressed eagerly forward to witness the game; the
hushed murmuring of the voices shewing how deeply interested they felt.
The three players bent their heads forward as they sat, while Heffernan
spoke some words in a low whisper, to which the others responded by
a muttered assent. “Well, here's success to the undhertakin' anyhow,”
cried he aloud, and filling out a glass of whisky, drank it off; then
passing the liquor to the two others, they followed his example.
“Will ye like to deal, Owen?” said M'Guire; “you're the new-comer, and
we'll give ye the choice.”
“No, thank ye, boys,” said Owen; “do it yerselves, one of ye; I'm sure
of fair play.”
Heffernan then took the cards, and wetting his thumb for the convenience
of better distributing them, slowly laid five cards before each player;
he paused for a second before he turned the trump, and in a low voice
said: “If any man's faint-hearted, let him say it now--”
“Turn the card round, and don't be bothering us,” cried M'Guire; “one
'ud think we never played a game before.”
“Come, be alive,” said Owen, in whom the liquor had stimulated the
passion for play.
“What's the thrump--is it a diamond? look over and tell us,” murmured
the crowd nearest the entrance.
“'Tis a spade!--I lay fourpence 'tis a spade!”
“Why wouldn't it be?” said another; “it's the same spade will dig
Lucas's grave this night!”
“Look! see!” whispered another, “Owen Connor's won the first thrick!
Watch him now! Mind the way he lays the card down, with a stroke of his
fist!”
“I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast!” said another.
“Who won that? who took that thrick?” “Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I
never see him lose yet.”
“There's another; that's Owen's!” “No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has
it.” “That's Sam M'Quire's! See how aizy he takes them up.”
“Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round!” and at this moment,
a breathless silence prevailed among the crowd; for while such as were
nearest were eagerly bent on observing the progress of the game, the
more distant bent their heads to catch every sound that might indicate
its fortune.
“See how Luke grins! watch his face!” whispered a low voice. “He doesn't
care how it goes, now, he's out of it!” and so it was. Heffernan had
already won two of the five tricks, and was safe whatever the result of
the last one. The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen.
“Come, Owen, my hearty!” said M'Guire, as he held a card ready to play,
“you or I for it now; we'll soon see which the devil's fondest of.
There's the two of clubs for ye!”
“There's the three, then!” said Owen, with a crash of his hand, as he
placed the card over the other.
“And there's the four!” said Heffernan, “and the thrick is Sam
M'Guire's.”
“Owen Connor's lost!” “Owen's lost!” murmured the crowd; and, whether in
half-compassion for his defeat, or grief that so hazardous a deed should
be entrusted to a doubtful hand, the sensation created was evidently of
gloom and dissatisfaction.
“You've a right to take either of us wid ye, Owen,” said M'Guire,
slapping him on the shoulder. “Luke or myself must go, if ye want us.”
“No; I'll do it myself,” said Owen, in a low hollow voice.
“There's the tool, then!” said Heffernan, producing from the breast of
his frieze coat a long horse-pistol, the stock of which was mended by a
clasp of iron belted round it; “and if it doesn't do its work, 'tis the
first time it ever failed. Ould Miles Cregan, of Gurtane, was the last
that heard it spake.”
Owen took the weapon, and examined it leisurely, opening the pan and
settling the priming, with a finger that never trembled. As he drew
forth the ramrod to try the barrel, Heffernan said, with a half-grin,
“There's two bullets in it, avich!--enough's as good as a feast.”
Owen sat still and spoke not, while the leader and Heffernan explained
to him the circumstances of the plot against the life of Mr. Lucas.
Information had been obtained by some of the party, that the agent would
leave Galway on the following evening, on his way to Westport, passing
through Oughterarde and their own village, about midnight. He usually
travelled in his gig, with relays of horses ready at different stations
of the way, one of which was about two miles distant from the old ruin,
on the edge of the lake--a wild and dreary spot, where stood a solitary
cabin, inhabited by a poor man who earned his livelihood by fishing.
No other house was within a mile of this; and here, it was determined,
while in the act of changing horses, the murder should be effected.
The bleak common beside the lake was studded with furze and brambles,
beneath which it was easy to obtain shelter, though pursuit was not to
be apprehended--at least they judged that the servant would not venture
to leave his master at such a moment; and as for the fisherman, although
not a sworn member of their party, they well knew he would not dare to
inform against the meanest amongst them.
Owen listened attentively to all these details, and the accurate
directions by which they instructed him on every step he should take.
From the moment he should set foot within the cover to the very instant
of firing, each little event had its warning.
“Mind!” repeated Heffernan, with a slow, distinct whisper, “he never
goes into the house at all; but if the night's cowld--as it's sure to be
this sayson--he'll be moving up and down, to keep his feet warm. Cover
him as he turns round; but don't fire the first cover, but wait till
he comes back to the same place again, and then blaze. Don't stir then,
till ye see if he falls: if he does, be off down the common; but if he's
only wounded--but sure ye'll do better than that!”
“I'll go bail he will!” said M'Guire. “Sorra fear that Owen Connor's
heart would fail him! and sure if he likes me to be wid him--”
“No, no!” said Owen, in the same hollow voice as before, “I'll do it all
by myself; I want nobody.”