Kitabı oku: «Maurice Tiernay, Soldier of Fortune», sayfa 21

‘And he was as good as his word, for he started that evening for Vienna, without lave or license, and that’s the way he got dismissed from his situation.’

‘And did he break his promise to the count, or did he really send him any intelligence?’

‘He kept his word, like a gentleman; he promised him something that would surprise him, and so he did. He sent him “The Weddin’ of Ballyporeen” in cipher. It took a week to make out, and I suppose they ‘ve never got to the right understandin’ it yet.’

‘I’m curious to hear how he was received in Vienna, after this,’ said I. ‘I suppose you accompanied him to that city?’

‘Troth I did, and a short life we led there. But here we are now, at the end of our journey. That’s Father Doogan’s down there, that small, low, thatched house in the hollow.’

‘A lonely spot, too. I don’t see another near it for miles on any side.’

‘Nor is there. His chapel is at Murrah, about three miles off. My eyes isn’t over good; but I don’t think there’s any smoke coming out of the chimley.’

‘You are right – there is not.’

‘He’s not at home, then, and that’s a bad job for us, for there’s not another place to stop the night in.’

‘But there will be surely some one in the house.’

‘Most likely not; ‘tis a brat of a boy from Murrah does be with him when he’s at home, and I’m sure he’s not there now.’

This reply was not very cheering, nor was the prospect itself much brighter. The solitary cabin, to which we were approaching, stood in a rugged glen, the sides of which were covered with a low furze, intermixed here and there with the scrub of what once had been an oak forest. A brown, mournful tint was over everything – sky and landscape alike; and even the little stream of clear water that wound its twining course along took the same colour from the gravelly bed it flowed over. Not a cow nor sheep was to be seen, nor even a bird; all was silent and still.

‘There’s few would like to pass their lives down there, then!’ said my companion, as if speaking to himself.

‘I suppose the priest, like a soldier, has no choice in these matters.’

‘Sometimes he has, though. Father Doogan might have had the pick of the county, they say; but he chose this little quiet spot here. He’s a friar of some ordher abroad, and when he came over, two or three years ago, he could only spake a little Irish, and, I believe, less English; but there wasn’t his equal for other tongues in all Europe. They wanted him to stop and be the head of a college somewhere in Spain, but he wouldn’t. “There was work to do in Ireland,” he said, and there he’d go, and to the wildest and laste civilised bit of it besides; and ye see that he was not far ont in his choice when he took Murrah.’

‘Is he much liked here by the people?’

‘They’d worship him, if he’d let them, that’s what it is; for if he has more larnin’ and knowledge in his head than ever a bishop in Ireland, there’s not a child in the barony his equal for simplicity. He that knows the names of the stars, and what they do be doing, and where the world’s going, and what’s comin’ afther her, hasn’t a thought for the wickedness of this life, no more than a sucking infant! He could tell you every crop to put in your ground from this to the day of judgment, and I don’t think he’d know which end of the spade goes into the ground.’

While we were thus talking, we reached the door, which, as well as the windows, was closely barred and fastened. The great padlock, however, on the former, with characteristic acuteness, was looked without being hasped, so that, in a few seconds, my old guide had undone all the fastenings, and we found ourselves under shelter.

A roomy kitchen, with a few cooking utensils, formed the entrance hall; and as a small supply of turf stood in one corner, my companion at once proceeded to make a fire, congratulating me as he went on with the fact of our being housed, for a long-threatening thunderstorm had already burst, and the rain was now swooping along in torrents.

While he was thus busied, I took a ramble through the little cabin, curious to see something of the ‘interior’ of one whose life had already interested me. There were but two small chambers, one at either side of the kitchen. The first I entered was a bedroom, the only furniture being a common bed, or a tressel like that of a hospital, a little coloured print of St. Michael adorning the wall overhead. The bed-covering was cleanly, but patched in many places, and bespeaking much poverty, and the black ‘soutane’ of silk that hung against the wall seemed to show long years of service. The few articles of any pretensions to comfort were found in the sitting-room, where a small book-shelf with some well-thumbed volumes, and a writing-table covered with papers, maps, and a few pencil-drawings, appeared. All seemed as if he had just quitted the spot a few minutes before; the pencil lay across a half-finished sketch; two or three wild plants were laid within, the leaves of a little book on botany; and a chess problem, with an open book beside it, still waited for solution on a little board, whose workmanship clearly enough betrayed it to be by his own hands.

I inspected everything with an interest inspired by all I had been hearing of the poor priest, and turned over the little volumes of his humble library, to trace, if I might, some due to his habits in his readings. They were all, however, of one cast and character – religious tracts and offices, covered with annotations and remarks, and showing by many signs the most careful and frequent perusal. It was easy to see that his taste for drawing or for chess were the only dissipations he permitted himself to indulge. What a strange life of privation, thought I, alone and companionless as he must be! and while speculating on the sense of duty which impelled such a man to accept a post so humble and unpromising, I perceived that on the wall right opposite to me there hung a picture, covered by a little curtain of green silk.

Curious to behold the saintly effigy so carefully enshrined, I drew aside the curtain, and what was my astonishment to find a little coloured sketch of a boy about twelve years old, dressed in the tawdry and much-worn uniform of a drummer. I started. Something flashed suddenly across my mind, that the features, the dress, the air, were not unknown to me. Was I awake, or were my senses misleading me? I took it down and held it to the light, and as well as my trembling hands permitted, I spelled out at the foot of the drawing, the words ‘Le Petit Maurice, as I saw him last.’ Yes, it was my own portrait, and the words were in the writing of my dearest friend in the world, the Père Michel. Scarce knowing what I did, I ransacked books and papers on every side, to confirm my suspicions, and although his name was nowhere to be found, I had no difficulty in recognising his hand, now so forcibly recalled to my memory.

Hastening into the kitchen, I told my guide that I must set out to Murrah at once, that it was, above all, important that I should see the priest immediately. It was in vain that he told me he was unequal to the fatigue of going farther, that the storm was increasing, the mountain torrents were swelling to a formidable size, that the path could not be discovered after dark; I could not brook the thought of delay, and would not listen to the detail of difficulties. ‘I must see him and I will,’ were my answers to every obstacle. If I were resolved on one side, he was no less obstinate on the other; and after explaining with patience all the dangers and hazards of the attempt, and still finding me unconvinced, he boldly declared that I might go alone, if I would, but that he would not leave the shelter of a roof, such a night, for any one.

There was nothing in the shape of argument I did not essay. I tried bribery, I tried menace, flattery, intimidation, all – and all with the like result. ‘Wherever he is to-night, he’ll not leave it, that’s certain,’ was the only satisfaction he would vouchsafe, and I retired beaten from the contest, and disheartened. Twice I left the cottage, resolved to make the journey alone, but the utter darkness of the night, the torrents of rain that beat against my face, soon showed me the impracticability of the attempt, and I retraced my steps crest-fallen and discomfited. The most intense curiosity to know how and by what chances he had come to Ireland mingled with my ardent desire to meet him. What stores of reminiscence had we to interchange! Nor was it without pride that I bethought me of the position I then held – an officer of a hussar regiment, a soldier of more than one campaign, and high on the list for promotion. If I hoped, too, that many of the good father’s prejudices against the career I followed would give way to the records of my own past life, I also felt how, in various respects, I had myself conformed to many of his notions. We should be dearer, closer friends than ever. This I was sure of.

I never slept the whole night through. Tired and weary as the day’s journey had left me, excitement was still too strong for repose, and I walked up and down, lay for half an hour on my bed, rose to look out, and peer for coming dawn. Never did hours lag so lazily. The darkness seemed to last for an eternity, and when at last day did break, it was through the lowering gloom of skies still charged with rain, and an atmosphere loaded with vapour.

‘This is a day for the chimney-corner, and thankful to have it we ought to be,’ said my old guide, as he replenished the turf fire, at which he was preparing our breakfast. ‘Father Doogan will be home here afore night, I’m sure, and as we have nothing better to do, I’ll tell you some of our old adventures when I lived with Mr. Brooke. Twill sarve to pass the time, anyway.’

‘I’m off to Murrah, as soon as I have eaten something,’ replied I.

‘Tis little you know what a road it is,’ said he, smiling dubiously. ‘‘Tis four mountain rivers you ‘d have to cross, two of them, at least, deeper than your head, and there’s the pass of Barnascorney, where you ‘d have to turn the side of a mountain, with a precipice hundreds of feet below you, and a wind blowing that would wreck a seventy-four! There ‘s never a man in the barony would venture over the same path with a storm ragin’ from the nor’-west.’

‘I never heard of a man being blown away off a mountain,’ said I, laughing contemptuously.

‘Arrah, didn’t ye, then? then maybe ye never lived in parts where the heaviest ploughs and harrows that can be laid in the thatch of a cabin are flung here and there, like straws, and the strongest timbers torn out of the walls, and scattered for miles along the coast, like the spars of a shipwreck.’

‘But so long as a man has hands to grip with – ’

‘How ye talk! sure, when the wind can tear the strongest trees up by the roots; when it rolls big rocks fifty and a hundred feet out of their place; when the very shingle on the mountain-side is flying about like dust and sand, where would your grip be? It is not only on the mountains either, but down in the plains, ay, even in the narrowest glens, that the cattle lies down under shelter of the rocks; and many’s the time a sheep, or even a heifer, is swept away off the cliffs into the sea.’

With many an anecdote of storm and hurricane he seasoned our little meal of potatoes. Some curious enough, as illustrating the precautionary habits of a peasantry, who, on land, experience many of the vicissitudes supposed peculiar to the sea; others too miraculous for easy credence, but yet vouched for by him with every affirmative of truth. He displayed all his powers of agreeability and amusement, but his tales fell on unwilling ears, and when our meal was over I started up and began to prepare for the road.

‘So you will go, will you?’ said he peevishly. ‘‘Tis in your country to be obstinate, so I ‘ll say nothing more; but maybe ‘tis only into throubles you ‘d be running, after all!’

‘I’m determined on it,’ said I, ‘and I only ask you to tell me what road to take.’

‘There is only one, so there is no mistakin’ it; keep to the sheep-path, and never leave it except at the torrents; you must pass them how ye can. And when ye come to four big rocks in the plain, leave them to your left, and keep the side of the mountain for two miles, till ye see the smoke of the village underneath you. Murrah is a small place, and ye’ll have to look out sharp, or maybe ye’ll miss it.’

‘That’s enough,’ said I, putting some silver in his hand as I pressed it. ‘We ‘ll probably meet no more; good-bye, and many thanks for your pleasant company.’

‘No, we’re not like to meet again,’ said he thoughtfully, ‘and that’s the reason I’d like to give you a bit of advice. Hear me, now,’ said he, drawing closer and talking in a whisper; ‘you can’t go far in this country without being known; ‘tisn’t your looks alone, but your voice, and your tongue, will show what ye are. Get away out of it as fast as you can! there’s thraitors in every cause, and there’s chaps in Ireland would rather make money as informers than earn it by honest industry. Get over to the Scotch islands; get to Islay or Barra; get anywhere out of this for the time.’

‘Thanks for the counsel,’ said I, somewhat coldly, ‘I’ll have time to think over it as I go along;’ and with these words I set forth on my journey.

CHAPTER XXVII. THE CRANAGH

I will not weary my reader with a narrative of my mountain walk, nor the dangers and difficulties which beset me on that day of storm and hurricane. Few as were the miles to travel, what with accidents, mistakes of the path, and the halts to take shelter, I only reached Murrah as the day was declining.

The little village, which consisted of some twenty cabins, occupied a narrow gorge between two mountains, and presented an aspect of greater misery than I had ever witnessed before, not affording even the humblest specimen of a house of entertainment. From some peasants that were lounging in the street I learned that ‘Father Doogan’ had passed through two days before in company with a naval officer, whom they believed to be French. At least ‘he came from one of the ships in the lough, and could speak no English.’ Since that the priest had not returned, and many thought that he had gone away for ever. This story varied in a few unimportant particulars. I also learned that a squadron of several sail had, for three or four days, been lying at the entrance of Lough Swilly, with, it was said, large reinforcements for the ‘army of independence.’ There was then no time to be lost; here was the very force which I had been sent to communicate with; there were the troops that should at that moment be disembarking. The success of my mission might all depend now on a little extra exertion, and so I at once engaged a guide to conduct me to the coast; and having fortified myself with a glass of mountain whisky I felt ready for the road.

My guide could only speak a very little English, so that our way was passed in almost unbroken silence; and as, for security, he followed the least frequented paths, we scarcely met a living creature as we went. It was with a strange sense of half pride, half despondency, that I bethought me of my own position there – a Frenchman alone, and separated from his countrymen – in a wild mountain region of Ireland, carrying about him documents that, if detected, might peril his life; involved in a cause that had for its object the independence of a nation, and that against the power of the mightiest kingdom in Europe. An hour earlier or later, an accident by the way, a swollen torrent, a chance impediment of any kind that should delay me – and what a change might that produce in the whole destiny of the world!

The despatches I carried conveyed instructions the most precise and accurate: the places for combined action of the two armies – information as to the actual state of parties, and the condition of the native forces, was contained in them. All that could instruct the newly-come generals, or encourage them to decisive measures, were there; and yet, on what narrow contingencies did their safe arrival depend! It was thus, in exaggerating to myself the part I played – in elevating my humble position into all the importance of a high trust – that I sustained my drooping spirits, and acquired energy to carry me through fatigue and exhaustion. During that night, and the greater part of the following day, we walked on, almost without halt, scarcely eating, and, except by an occasional glass of whisky, totally unrefreshed; and, I am free to own, that my poor guide – a barelegged youth of about seventeen, without any of those high-sustaining illusions which stirred within my heart – suffered far less either from hunger or weariness than I did. So much for motives. A shilling or two were sufficient to equalise the balance against all the weight of my heroism and patriotic ardour together.

A bright sun, and a sharp wind from the north, had succeeded to the lowering sky and heavy atmosphere of the morning, and we travelled along with light hearts and brisk steps, breasting the side of a steep ascent, from the summit of which, my guide told me, I should behold the sea – the sea! not only the great plain on which I expected to see our armament, but the link which bound me to my country! Suddenly, just as I turned the angle of a cliff, it burst upon my sight – one vast mirror of golden splendour – appearing almost at my feet! In the yellow gleams of a setting sun, long columns of azure-coloured light streaked its calm surface, and tinged the atmosphere with a warm and rosy hue. While I was lost in admiration of the picture, I heard the sound of voices close beneath me, and, on looking down, saw two figures who, with telescope in hand, were steadily gazing on a little bay that extended towards the west.

At first, my attention was more occupied by the strangers than by the object of their curiosity, and I remarked that they were dressed and equipped like sportsmen, their guns and game-bags lying against the rock behind them.

‘Do you still think that they are hovering about the coast, Tom?’ said the elder of the two, ‘or are you not convinced, at last, that I am right?’

‘I believe you are,’ replied the other; ‘but it certainly did not look like it yesterday evening, with their boats rowing ashore every half-hour, signals flying, and blue lights burning; all seemed to threaten a landing.’

‘If they ever thought of it they soon changed their minds,’ said the former. ‘The defeat of their comrades in the west, and the apathy of the peasantry here, would have cooled down warmer ardour than theirs. There they go, Tom. I only hope that they’ll fall in with Warren’s squadron, and French insolence receive at sea the lesson we failed to give them on land.’

‘Not so,’ rejoined the younger; ‘Humbert’s capitulation, and the total break up of the expedition, ought to satisfy-even your patriotism.’

‘It fell far short of it, then!’ cried the other. ‘I’d never have treated those fellows other than as bandits and freebooters. I’d have hanged them as highwaymen. Theirs was less war than rapine; but what could you expect? I have been assured that Humbert’s force consisted of little other than liberated felons and galley-slaves – the refuse of the worst population of Europe!’

Distracted with the terrible tidings I had overheard – overwhelmed with the sight of the ships, now glistening like bright specks on the verge of the horizon, I forgot my own position – my safety – everything but the insult thus cast upon my gallant comrades.

‘Whoever said so was a liar, and a base coward, to boot!’ cried I, springing down from the height and confronting them both where they stood. They started back, and, seizing their guns, assumed an attitude of defence, and then, quickly perceiving that I was alone – for the boy had taken to flight as fast as he could – they stood regarding me with faces of intense astonishment.

‘Yes,’ said I, still boiling with passion, ‘you are two to one, on your own soil besides, the odds you are best used to; and yet I repeat it, that he who asperses the character of General Humbert’s force is a liar.’

‘He’s French.’

‘No, he’s Irish,’ muttered the elder.

‘What signifies my country, sirs,’ cried I passionately, ‘if I demand retraction for a falsehood.’

‘It signifies more than you think of, young man,’ said the elder calmly, and without evincing even the slightest irritation in his manner. ‘If you be a Frenchman born, the lenity of our Government accords you the privilege of a prisoner of war. If you be only French by adoption, and a uniform, a harsher destiny awaits you.’

‘And who says I am a prisoner yet?’ asked I, drawing myself up, and staring them steadily in the face.

‘We should be worse men, and poorer patriots than you give us credit for, or we should be able to make you so,’ said he quietly; ‘but this is no time for ill-temper on either side. The expedition has failed. Well, if you will not believe me, read that. There, in that paper, you will see the official account of General Humbert’s surrender at Boyle. The news is already over the length and breadth of the island; even if you only landed last night I cannot conceive how you should be ignorant of it!’ I covered my face with my hands to hide my emotion; and he went on: ‘If you be French you have only to claim and prove your nationality, and you partake the fortunes of your countrymen.’

‘And if he be not,’ whispered the other, in a voice which, although low, I could still detect, ‘why should we give him up?’

‘Hush, Tom, be quiet,’ replied the elder, ‘let him plead for himself.’

‘Let me see the newspaper,’ said I, endeavouring to seem calm and collected; and, taking it at the place he pointed out, I read the heading in capitals, ‘Capitulation of General Humbert and his whole Force.’ I could see no more. I could not trace the details of so horrible a disaster, nor did I ask to know by what means it occurred. My attitude and air of apparent occupation, however, deceived the other; and the elder, supposing that I was engaged in considering the paragraph, said, ‘You’ll see the Government proclamation on the other side – a general amnesty to all under the rank of officers in the rebel army, who give up their arms within six days. The French to be treated as prisoners of war.’

‘Is he too late to regain the fleet?’ whispered the younger.

‘Of course he is. They are already hull down; besides, who’s to assist his escape, Tom? You forget the position he stands in.’

‘But I do not forget it,’ answered I; ‘and you need not be afraid that I will seek to compromise you, gentlemen. Tell me where to find the nearest justice of the peace, and I will go and surrender myself.’

‘It is your wisest and best policy,’ said the elder. ‘I am not in the commission, but a neighbour of mine is, and lives a few miles off, and, if you like, we ‘ll accompany you to his house.’

I accepted the offer, and soon found myself descending the steep path of the mountain in perfect good-fellowship with the two strangers. It is likely enough, if they had taken any peculiar pains to obliterate the memory of our first meeting, or if they had displayed any extraordinary efforts of conciliation, that I should have been on my guard against them; but their manners, on the contrary, were easy and unaffected in every respect. They spoke of the expedition sensibly and dispassionately, and while acknowledging that there were many things they would like to see altered in the English rule of Ireland, they were very averse from the desire of a foreign intervention to rectify them.

I avowed to them that we had been grossly deceived. That all the representations made to us depicted Ireland as a nation of soldiers, wanting only arms and military stores to rise as a vast army. That the peasantry were animated by one spirit, and the majority of the gentry willing to hazard everything on the issue of a struggle. Our Killala experiences, of which I detailed some, heartily amused them, and it was in a merry interchange of opinions that we now walked along together.

A cluster of houses, too small to be called a village, and known as the ‘Cranagh,’ stood in a little nook of the bay; and here they lived. They were brothers; and the elder held some small appointment in the revenue, which maintained them as bachelors in this cheap country. In a low conversation that passed between them it was agreed that they would detain me as their guest for that evening, and on the morrow accompany me to the magistrate’s house, about five miles distant. I was not sorry to accept their hospitable offer. I longed for a few hours of rest and respite before embarking on another sea of troubles. The failure of the expedition, and the departure of the fleet, had overwhelmed me with grief, and I was in no mood to confront new perils.

If my new acquaintances could have read my inmost thoughts, their manner towards me could not have displayed more kindness or good-breeding. Not pressing me with questions on subjects where the greatest curiosity would have been permissible, they suffered me to tell only so much as I wished of our late plans; and, as if purposely to withdraw my thoughts from the unhappy theme of our defeat, led me to talk of France, and her career in Europe.

It was not without surprise that I saw how conversant the newspapers had made them with European politics, nor how widely different did events appear when viewed from afar off, and by the lights of another and different nationality. Thus all that we were doing on the Continent to propagate liberal notions, and promote the spread of freedom, seemed to their eyes but the efforts of an ambitious power to crush abroad what they had annihilated at home, and extend their own influence in disseminating doctrines, all to revert, one day or other, to some grand despotism, whenever the man arose capable to exercise it. The elder would not even concede to us that we were fit for freedom.

‘You are glorious fellows at destroying an old edifice,’ said he, ‘but sorry architects when comes the question of rebuilding; and as to liberty, your highest notion of it is an occasional anarchy like schoolboys, you will bear any tyranny for ten years, to have ten days of a “barring out” afterward.’

I was not much flattered by these opinions; and, what was worse, I could not get them out of my head all night afterwards. Many things I had never doubted about now kept puzzling and confounding me, and I began, for the first time, to know the misery of the struggle between implicit obedience and conviction.