THE BANSHEE ON THE BATTLE-FIELD
Although the Banshee haunting referred to in my last chapter occurred
during a war, the manifestations did not take place on the battle-field;
nor were they actually due to the fighting. At the same time it cannot be
denied that they were the outcome of it, for had our two lieutenants not
been fighting desperately in a skirmish and got separated from the main
body of the Army, in all probability they never would have visited the
wayside inn, and the Banshee manifestations there would never have
occurred.
There are, however, many instances on record of Banshee manifestations
occurring on the battle-field, either immediately before or after, or even
whilst the fighting was actually taking place. Mr McAnnaly, in his "Irish
Wonders," p. 117, says:
"Before the Battle of the Boyne, Banshees were heard singing in the
air over the Irish camp, the truth of the prophecy being verified by
the death roll of the next morning."
Now several of my own immediate ancestors took part in the Battle of the
Boyne,[10] and according to a family tradition one of them both saw and
heard the Banshee. He was sitting in the camp, the night prior to the
fighting, conversing with several other officers, including his brother
Daniel, when, feeling an icy wind coming from behind and blowing down his
back, he turned round to look for his cloak which he had discarded a short
time before, owing to the heat from a fire close beside them. The cloak
was not there, and, as he turned round still further to look for it, he
perceived to his astonishment the figure of a woman, swathed from head to
foot in a mantle of some dark flowing material, standing a few feet behind
him. Wondering who on earth she could be, but supposing she must be a
relative or friend of one of the officers, for her mantle looked costly,
and her hair--of a marvellous golden hue--though hanging loose on her
shoulders, was evidently well cared for, he continued to gaze at her with
curiosity. Then he gradually perceived that she was shaking--shaking all
over, with what he at first imagined must be laughter; but from the
constant clenching of her hands and heaving of her bosom, he finally
realised that she was weeping, and he was further assured on this point,
when a sudden gust of wind, blowing back her mantle, he caught a full view
of her face.
Its beauty electrified him. Her cheeks were as white as marble, but her
features were perfect, and her eyes the most lovely he had ever seen. He
was about to address her, to inquire if he could be of any service to her,
when, someone calling out and asking him what on earth he was doing, she
at once began to melt away, and, amalgamating with the soft background of
grey mist that was creeping towards them from the river, finally
disappeared.
He thought of her, however, some hours later, when they were all lying
down, endeavouring to snatch a few hours' sleep, and presently fancied he
saw, in dim, shadowy outline, her fair face and figure, her big, sorrowful
eyes, gazing pitifully first at one and then at another of his companions,
but particularly at one, a mere boy, who was lying wrapped in his military
cloak, close beside the smouldering embers of the fire. He fancied that
she approached this youths and, bending over him, stroked his short, curly
hair with her delicate fingers.
Thinking that possibly he might be asleep and dreaming, he rubbed his eyes
vigorously, but the outlines were still there, momentarily becoming
stronger and stronger, more and more distinct, until he realised with a
great thrill that she actually was there, just as certainly as she had
been when he had first seen her.
He was so intent watching her and wishing she would leave the youth and
come to him, that he did not notice that one of his comrades had seen her,
too, until the latter, who had raised himself into a half-sitting posture,
spoke; then, just as before, the figure of the girl melted away, and
seemed to become absorbed in the dark and shadowy background.
A moment later, he heard, just over his head, a loud moaning and wailing
that lasted for several seconds and then died away in one long, protracted
sob that suggested mental anguish of an indescribably forlorn and hopeless
nature.
The deaths of most of his companions of the night, including that of the
curly haired boy, occurred on the following day.
But the Banshee, although of course appearing to soldiers of Irish birth
only, does not confine its attentions to those who are fighting on their
native soil; it has been stated that she frequently manifested herself to
Irishmen engaged on active service abroad during the Napoleonic Wars, and
also to those serving in America during the Civil War.
With regard to the Banshee demonstrations in connection with the
Napoleonic campaigns, I have not been able to acquire any written record;
but as the result of numerous letters sent out by me broadcast in quest of
information, I was asked by several people to call either at their houses
or clubs, and, gladly accepting their invitations, I learned from them the
incidents which, with their permission, I am now about to relate.
Miss O'Higgins, an aged lady, residing, prior to the late war, close to
Fifth Avenue, New York, and visiting, when I met her, a friend in the Rue
Campagne Premiere, Paris, told me that she well remembered her grandfather
telling her when she was a child that he heard the Banshee at Talavera, a
day or two prior to the great battle. He was serving with the Spanish
Army, having married the daughter of a Spanish officer, and had no idea at
the time that there were any men of Irish extraction in his corps.
Bivouacking with about a hundred other soldiers in a valley, and happening
to awake in the night with an ungovernable thirst, he made his way down to
the banks of the river that flowed near by, drank his fill, and was in the
act of returning, when he was startled to hear a most agonising scream,
quickly followed by another, and then another, all proceeding apparently
from the camp, whither he was wending his steps. Wondering what on earth
could have happened, and inclining to the belief that it must be in some
way connected with one of those women thieves who prowled about everywhere
at night, robbing and murdering, with equal impunity, wherever they saw a
chance, he quickened his pace, only to find, on his arrival at the camp,
no sign whatever of the presence of any woman, although the screaming was
going on as vigorously as ever. The sounds seemed to come first from one
part of the camp, and then from another, but to be always overhead, as if
uttered by invisible beings, hovering at a height of some six or seven
feet, or, perhaps, more, above the ground, and although Lieutenant
O'Higgins had at first attributed these sounds to one person only, on
listening attentively he fancied he could detect several different
voices--all women's--and he eventually came to the conclusion that at
least three or four phantasms must have been present. As he stood there
listening, not knowing what else to do, the wailing and sobbing seemed to
grow more and more harrowing, until it affected him so much that, hardened
as he had become to all kinds of misery and violence, he, too, felt like
weeping, out of sheer sympathy. However, this state of affairs did not
last long, for at the sound of a musket shot (that of a sentry, as
Lieutenant O'Higgins afterwards ascertained, giving a false alarm in some
distant part of the camp) the wailing and sobbing abruptly and completely
ceased, and was never, the Lieutenant declared, heard by him again.
On mentioning the matter to one of his brother officers in the morning,
the latter, no little interested and surprised, at once said: "You have
undoubtedly heard the Banshee. Poor D----, who fell at Corunna, often used
to tell me about it, and, you may depend upon it, there are some Irishmen
in camp now, and it was their funeral dirge that you listened to."
What he said proved to be quite correct, for, on inquiring, Lieutenant
O'Higgins discovered three of the soldiers who had been sleeping around
him that evening had Irish names, and were, unquestionably, of ancient
Irish origin; and all of them perished on the bloody field of Talavera,
twenty-four hours later.
A story relating to an O'Farrell, who was with the Spanish in the same
war, was also told me by Miss O'Higgins; but whether this O'Farrell was
the famous general of that name or not I do not know. The story ran as
follows:[11]
It was the day prior to the fall of Badajoz, and O'Farrell, who was in
Badajoz at the time, a prisoner of the French, was invited to partake of
supper with some Spanish-Irish friends of his of the name of McMahon. The
French, it may be observed, were, as a rule, rather more lenient to their
Irish prisoners than to their English, and O'Farrell was allowed to ramble
about Badajoz in perfect freedom, a mere pledge being extracted from him
that he wouldn't stroll outside the boundaries of the town without special
permission. On the night in question O'Farrell left his quarters in high
spirits. He liked the McMahons, especially the youngest daughter
Katherine, with whom he was very much in love. He deemed his case
hopeless, however, as Mr McMahon, who was poor, had often said none of his
daughters should marry, unless it were someone who was wealthy enough to
ensure them being well provided for, should they be left a widow; and as
O'Farrell had nothing but his pay, which was meagre enough in all
conscience, he saw no prospect of his ever being able to propose to the
object of his affections. Had he been strong-minded enough, he told
himself, he would have at once said good-bye to Katherine, and never have
allowed himself to see or even think of her again; but, poor weakling that
he was, he could not bear the idea of taking a final peep into her
eyes--the eyes that he had idealised into his heaven and everything that
made life worth living for--and so he kept accepting invitations to their
house and throwing himself across her path, whenever the slightest
opportunity presented itself.
And now he found himself once more speeding to meet her, telling himself
repeatedly that it should be the last time, but at the same time making up
his mind that it should be nothing of the sort. He arrived at the house
far too early, of course--he always did--and was shown into a room to wait
there till the family had finished their evening toilets. Large glass
doors opened out of the room on to a veranda, and O'Farrell, stepping out
on to the latter, leaned over the iron railings, and gazed into the
semi-courtyard, semi-garden below, in the centre of which was a fountain
surmounted by the marble statue of a very beautiful maiden, that his
instinct told him was an exact image of his beloved Katherine. He was
gazing at it, revelling in the delightful anticipation of meeting the
flesh and blood counterpart of it in a very short time, when sounds of
music, of someone playing a very, very sad and plaintive air on the harp,
came to him through the open doorway. Much surprised, for none of the
family as far as he knew were harpists, nor had he, indeed, ever seen a
harp in the house, he turned round; but, to add to his astonishment, no
one was there. The room was apparently just as empty as when he had been
ushered into it, and yet the music unquestionably emanated from it.
Considerably mystified, for every now and then there was a peculiar
far-offness in the sounds which he could liken to nothing he had ever
heard before, he remained on the veranda, prevented by a strange feeling
of awe, and something very akin to dread, from venturing into the room.
He was thus occupied, half standing and half leaning against the framework
of the glass door, when the harping abruptly ceased, and he heard moanings
and sobbings as of a woman suffering from paroxysms of the most intense
and violent grief. Combatting with a great fear that now began to seize
him, he summed up the resolution to peep once more into the room, but
though his eyes took in the whole range of the room, he could perceive no
spot where anyone could possibly be in hiding, and nothing that would in
any way account for the sounds. There was nothing in front of him but
walls, furniture, and--space. Not a living creature. What then caused
those sounds? He was asking himself this question, when the door opened,
and Mr McMahon, followed by Katherine and all of the other girls, came
into the apartment; and, with their entry, the strange sounds at once
ceased.
"Why, what's the matter, Mr O'Farrell," the girls said, laughingly. "You
are as white as a sheet and trembling all over. You haven't seen a ghost,
have you?"
"I haven't seen anything," O'Farrell retorted, a trifle nettled at their
gaiety, "but I've heard some rather extraordinary sounds."
"Extraordinary sounds," Katherine laughed. "What on earth do you mean?"
"Just what I say," O'Farrell remarked. "When I was on the veranda just now
I distinctly heard the sound of a harp in this room, and shortly
afterwards I heard a woman weeping."
"It must have been someone outside in the street," Mr McMahon observed
hastily, at the same time giving O'Farrell a warning glance from his dark
and penetrating eyes. "We do occasionally receive visits from street
musicians. I have something to say to you about the English and their
rumoured new attack on the town," and drawing O'Farrell aside he whispered
to him: "On no account refer to that music again. It was undoubtedly the
Banshee, the ghost that my forefathers brought over from Ireland, and it
is only heard before some very dreadful catastrophe to the family."
The following day Badajoz was stormed and entered by the English, and
in the wild scenes that ensued, scenes in which the drunken English
soldiery got completely out of hands, many Spanish--Spanish men and
women--perished, as well as French, and among the casualties were the
entire McMahon family.