Kitabı oku: «Bits of Blarney», sayfa 8
The stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and who – on the principle that "silence gives consent" – had even been supposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the hilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed – "Is it thus, and always thus, that I am to find you? – the slaves and victims of your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the man to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be kept? – it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the man who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to sleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the truest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand – the rich hope of vengeance near fulfilment – there is not a man among you, bound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not surrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to drink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless brute. Give me that liquor."
His command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the minds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the vessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop of its contents – the "fire-water" of the American aborigines – was spilled. "There," he cried, "who serves with me, must obey me. When a deed is to be done, I will have obedience. When the deed is done – drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be performed, you shall be sober."
Not a syllable of dissent – not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips of those who heard him. Not a gesture – not a look – indicated anger at what he had done.
"Mark me, my lads," he added. "I have arranged all beyond the chance of defeat. I have contrived to turn the main strength of the soldiers on a wrong scent four miles on the other side of Charleville. I have laid my plans so that we cannot be disappointed, except through some fault of our own. Let us on to Churchtown Barracks. The sergeant, by whose rash and ready hand our friend has died, remains there with a handful of his comrades. He was sent thither to escape us. Fools! as if, for those who have a wrong to avenge, any spot can be too remote. Let us seize him, and give him the doom he gave the innocent. If they resist, we can fire the barracks, and burn them in their nest. But they will never be so mad as to offer resistance to such a force as ours, when we tell that we want only that one man. If they do – their blood be upon their own heads. Who joins me? Who will follow to the cry of 'On to Churchtown?' Now is the long-desired hour of revenge. Will any lag behind?"
Every man present repeated the cry – "On to Churchtown!" Some of the women also joined in it.
The Whiteboys and their leader left the cabin. An ancient crone, almost a reputed witch, and certainly known to be by far the oldest woman in the district, hobbled after them as far as the door, and threw her shoe after them – "for luck!"
Many a "God speed them" was breathed after that company of avengers by young and fair women. What Lord Bacon has called "the wild justice of revenge," and what America recognizes in the unseen but omnipotent incarnation of Judge Lynch, was necessarily the rule of action when injured Right took arms against tyrannic Might. Is it surprising that such should be the case? If wrongdoers cannot always be rewarded, "each according unto his works," within and by the law, why should not their impunity be broken down by the rational sense of justice which abides in the minds of men?
Forth on their mission, therefore, did the Whiteboys speed. Hurrying across the bog, they reached a farm which was almost isolated amid the black waste from which it had been indifferently reclaimed. They drew muskets, pistols, and pikes from the turf-rick in which they had been concealed. Some of them brought old swords, and scythe-blades attached to pike-handles (very formidable weapons in the hands of strong, angry men), from hiding-places in the bog itself. Stealthily, and across by paths unknown to and inaccessible to the military, that wild gang, "with whom Revenge was virtue," pushed forward for the attack on Churchtown Barracks.
CHAPTER II. – THE LEADER
Stealthily and in silence the Whiteboys proceeded to the scene of intended operation. Not a word was spoken – not a sound heard, except the noise of their footsteps whenever they got on the high road. As much as possible they avoided the highway, the course which would the soonest bring them to the appointed place. It would seem as if their leader had bound them together, by some spell peculiarly their own, to yield implicit and unquestioned obedience to his imperious will. It strongly illustrated the aphorism —
"Those who think must govern those who toil."
Whoever knows how lively and mercurial is the natural temperament of the peasantry in the South of Ireland, must be aware of the difficulty of restraining them from loud-voiced talking in the open air; but now not one of that large and excited gathering spoke above his breath. Their leader commanded them to be silent, and to them his will was law.
Who was that leader? The question involves some mystery which it may be as well to unveil before proceeding with the action of this narrative.
Who, and whence was that leader? His birth would have secured him a "respectable" station in society, if his wild passions, and the strong pressure of Circumstance (that unspiritual god), had not so far
"Profaned his spirit, sank his brow,"
that the ambition which, under better auspices, might have soared to the highest aims, was now directed no farther than to establish an unstable dominion over a few wild, uncultivated peasants, who, like fire and water, might be excellent servants, but with any opportunity of domination would probably prove tyrannic masters. He who would rule the rude peasantry of Ireland, must make up his mind to be governed by them in turn, whenever his wishes and aims and actions fall short of theirs. They will go with him while his desires and designs run together with their own, but they will speedily leave him behind, or forAce him with them, if they find him less eager than themselves. Even under the regular discipline of the army the same may be observed. In battle an Irish regiment cannot, or rather will not, understand any order to retreat. They repudiate all strategy which even appears to withdraw them from
"The triumph and the vanity,
The rapture of the strife,"
and show, by the gallant impetuosity with which they plunge into the attack, that their proper action is assault. If so under the harsh restrictions of military discipline, what must it be when freed from that coercion?
The leader of the Whiteboys in 1822 – the veritable Captain Rock, whom I have introduced at the Wake of the slain John Sheehan – was no common man. His birth had been respectable, his education good, his fortune had been ample, his mind was affluent in varied and vigorous resources; he had formerly won favor and fame from the world's opinion, and few men in any country could compete with him in the personal advantages which spring from manly beauty of form and feature, activity of body, and a strength of frame which literally defied fatigue and over-exertion.
The father of John Cussen was "a gentleman of independent fortune," in Irish parlance; that is, had succeeded to a pretty good estate, and would have been in easy, if not affluent circumstances, could he have realized any thing like the nominal amount of his rent-roll. But there were two difficulties, at least. Irish estates have had a fatal facility in becoming subjected to such things as mortgages, which relentlessly absorb certain annual amounts in the shape of interest, and Irish tenants have been apt to cherish the idea that they perform their duty towards society in general, and themselves in particular, by paying as little rent as possible. Still, though Mr. Cussen's property had gradually come under the pressure of these two causes, it yielded an income sufficient for hAis moderate wants. His children had died, one by one, in the very bloom and promise of their youth, until, out of a numerous family, only one son survived.
This youth, possessing a mind more active and aspirations more ambitious than most of his class, disdained the ordinary routine of every-day life. It was not difficult to persuade his father to permit him to go into the world – the military and naval service, from its danger, being the only profession which that doting parent positively forbade him to think of. The lad, after wavering for some time, determined to become a surgeon, and proceeded to pursue his studies in Dublin.
It would be tedious to narrate into what a circle of extravagance, while thus engaged, the young man became gradually involved; it would be painful to trace his downward lapse from folly to vice. Sufficient to say that, by the time he received his diploma as a surgeon (having passed his examinations with unexpected and even distinguished success), he had contrived to involve himself so deeply that his paternal property had to be additionally mortgaged to relieve him from heavy involvements. His father, who might have repudiated the creditors' claims, admitted them, without a murmur. Eager to snatch him from the haunts and the society by which he had embarrassed his means and injured his health, and looking on the military service as a good school of discipline, even if it were not free from peril, his father overcame all personal scruples, forgave the past, and looking hopefully at the future, successfully employed his influence to obtain for him an appointment as surgeon to one of the regiments which, just then, had been ordered to Belgium, as the re-appearance of Napoleon, and his triumphant progress from Elba to Paris – his eagle "flying from steeple to steeple until it alighted on the tower of Notre Dame" – had awakened the fears and enmity of Europe, bringing once more into action
"All quality,
Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war."
It was John Cussen's fortune to reach the scene of warfare in time to witness the deadly struggle at Waterloo. But it was his hap, also, to do more than witness it. He performed an act of heroism on the field, which not only gained him high and merited praise, but had powerful influence upon his future prospects.
Military discipline very properly provides that the surgeons of a regiment shall not take part in any engagement on the field. The lives of so many may depend upon the skill of even a single surgeon that it would be inconvenient, to say the best of it, if, when his aid were promptly required, during an encounter, it were found that he had allowed his ardor to carry him into the actual peril of the strife.
Cussen was sufficiently near to witness the greater part of the contest on the day of Waterloo. It was not without difficulty that his quick Irish spirit could control the almost overwhelming desire to plunge into the middle of the contest – which, on that day, had more single encounters than any since Poictiers and Agincourt. As he stood outside a tent which had been placed for the use of the medical staff, in the rear of the British position, he observed an English officer, on an unmanageable charger (bearing him along with an impetuous speed, which, having received a severe wound in the bridle-arm, he could neither control nor check), followed by a French cuirassier, who had nearly overtaken him. Another moment and the uplifted sabre would have struck the helpless man to the ground. Cussen rushed forward, literally tore the Frenchman from his saddle, by main strength, and, wresting the sword from his hand, gave him a death-wound. Quick as thought, turning from the fallen foe and bounding forward with an agility which he had acquired on his native hills, Cussen followed the swift horse, and succeeded, by a strong and overmastering grasp, in checking its speed. A In its rider, he recognized his own Colonel, whose life he had thus doubly saved, and received a grateful assurance that his service should not be forgotten.
Having dressed the Colonel's wounds, Cussen resumed his position in the rear. – But inaction was terrible to one whose spirit had been awakened to the excitement before him – for "quiet to quick bosoms is a bane." Nearer and nearer became his involuntary approach to that part of the place in which the contest was hotly proceeding. At last, unable any longer to resist the passionate impulse, he mounted on one of the many war-steeds which were wildly galloping over the battle-field, caught the eye of the officer whom he had rescued, rushed forward to join the mêlée, and bravely fought side by side with him, when the "Up, Guards, and at them!" of Wellington urged on the soldiers to that last terrific charge which shook the imperial diadem from the brow of the first Napoleon.
A gallant deed, even though it violate the strict rules of military discipline, is not considered a very heinous offence by any commander. So, while his Colonel hailed John Cussen as preserver, the brief lapse of duty as a surgeon was forgiven, in consideration of his chivalry as a soldier.
CHAPTER III. – THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE
The war ended. Napoleon fell. St. Helena received the imperial exile. On this lonely rock, far out in the Atlantic, the chained Prometheus suffered a punishment worse than death – Sir Hudson Lowe being the vulture which continually struck, to prey upon, his heart.
The conclusion of the war influenced the fortunes of others besides its greatest victim. The battalion in which Cussen had served was reduced, and, with many others, his occupation was gone. While yet uncertain what course to pursue, he received an invitation from his late Colonel, very urgently pressing him to visit the veteran at his country seat in Hampshire; and thither he proceeded.
Cussen, it may here be stated, was what old crones (who are good judges of such things, knowing "a hawk from a hernshaw") would simply and expressively describe as "a very personable man." He was in the spring of early manhood. He had the advantage, whatever that might be, of gentle blood; he had received a good education; he had distinguished himself in the greatest battle of the age; above all, he had saved the life of the gallant officer whose guest he was. What wonder, therefore, if, before he had been quite a month at Walton Hall, the bright eyes of Miss Walton beamed yet more brightly when they met his admiring glances.
The lady was young – not decidedly lovely, perhaps, but that most charming of all charming creatures, a thoroughly English beauty. She might not immediately dazzle, but she was sure always to delight. It was impossible to see and not admire her. Besides, she had been largely endowed with intellect by bounteous nature, and had also been well educated, carefully rather than brilliantly. With an undeniable dash of romance in her character, she was so pure in heart and thought, that the very novelty of such purity threw such a spell of enchAantment upon the fevered passion of John Cussen, that literally, for the first time in his life, his soul was subdued into a tenderness which contrasted strangely, but not unpleasantly, with the wild tumults – rather of sense than soul – which, in former days, he had been wont to dignify with the name of Love.
When he ascertained such to be the state of his own feelings, he became very anxious to learn whether Alice Walton was affected in like manner. Her impressions appeared to be very much as he desired, for, kissing that fair cheek, which
"Blushed at the praise of its own loveliness,"
and whispering hope to her anxious ear, he proceeded to explain to her father all that he felt – to solicit his sanction for the love which, but just confessed to each other, had suddenly been matured by that confession into a passion at once deep and ardent.
Alice Walton was an only child. What other result, then, can be anticipated than the usual one – the favorable reception of the avowal made by Cussen? Affection raises few difficulties where the happiness of the beloved is felt to be deeply involved. It is questionable whether, on that evening, a happier group could have been found anywhere within the limits of "merry England." The old soldier, pleased with the opportunity of keeping his gallant preserver with him while also securing the happiness of his daughter; – the young man exulting in his conquest, proud of the personal and mental endowments of his lady-love, and firmly resolving never to give her any cause to repent having yielded to the trusting affection which her guileless nature had formed for him; – the maiden herself, with the daydream of love making an almost visible atmosphere of joy around her heart, softly yielded to glad and genial anticipations of a happy future. Well is it that Woman's heart can thus luxuriate in imagination, for, in many cases, the romance of their love is far brighter than the reality evAer proves to be.
Some arrangements which were to be made respecting his family property, and a natural desire personally to communicate his favorable prospects to his father, required that Cussen, now an accepted suitor, should proceed to Ireland for a short time.
Imagine the parting. The endearing caresses – the gentle beseechings for full and frequent letters – the soft promises as to faithful remembrances – the whispers of that mutual affection upon which a few brief months would put the seal – and the "Farewell," which, though dewed with tears, had not very much of real sorrow in it, so sweetly did it realize the expressive lines of the poet, of the parting, though sad, which
"Brought the hope that the morrow
Would bring back the blest hour of meeting again!"
Cussen arrived in Ireland just in time to see his father die, and to learn that old involvements, and the early extravagance in which himself had rioted, had reduced their estate to a nominal income. The greater part of its produce had been swallowed up by interest payable to the mortgagees, who, from time to time, had advanced money on the property. In this dilemma, Cussen did, from impulse, what, had he acted simply on calculation only, would have been the very best thing for him. Without loss of time, he frankly communicated with Colonel Walton on this unpromising condition and aspect of his affairs and prospects – assured him that, when he sued for his daughter's hand, he had not the least idea that he was so near the condition of a ruined man – that his father, when discharging the liabilities in which his early extravagance had involved him, had never breathed a syllable of the price at which they were to be swept away – that, almost beggared as he now was, he felt himself, in a worldly point of view, anything but a match for Alice – and that, while, with a breaking heart, he absolved her from the tender vows which she had made, he stilAl cherished a hope that even yet, pass a few years, he might be able to achieve a position, by the exercise of his talents, which, once again, would permit him, on a more equal footing than at present, to solicit a renewal of their betrothal. The Colonel was brief and decisive. He thanked Cussen for his frank and honourable conduct, assuring him that Alice, as well as himself, fully appreciated his motives; declared that for his daughter's sake, as well as his own, he was unwilling to relinquish the intended alliance with his preserver and friend; and liberally gave the kindest promises of such full and immediate assistance as would speedily relieve the estate from its encumbrances – should it indeed be thought expedient to retain it, the reversion of the invaluable Walton Hall property inalienably belonging to Alice.
Before, by the fulfilment of this promise, Cussen's brighter prospects could be realized, "the tenth wave of human misery swept" over his heart. There came a sad reverse. I am acquainted with all the details, but they are too melancholy to be related here. Let it be sufficient to say that Alice Walton and her father met with a sudden and tragic doom. By an accident, the origin of which was suspected, but never ascertained, their residence was consumed by fire – father and daughter perishing in the flames. The estate passed, in due course of law, to the next of kin, with whom Cussen had no acquaintance, and upon whom he had no claim. In due course of law, also, the mortgages on Cussen's own property were foreclosed. He was a ruined man.
The cup of misery overflowed. Very bitter did Cussen find the draught. Hopes blighted – the golden promise of his young manhood wholly destroyed – station utterly lost – Poverty with her feet upon his hearthstone – all that made the value of life swept away at once. Amid the maddening whirl of such contending emotions as this desolation caused, no wonder if even his strong mind and large frame boweAd beneath the shock.
Months passed by, and bodily health was in a measure restored. But the mind did not recover its elastic spring. Sunk in the torpor of despair, John Cussen was a broken man. Then came the reaction, after a time, and then he awoke to the sad reality of life. Better far had he continued unconscious or despairing. He might have been miserable, but he would have been unstained by guilt. Gradually, he found a Lethe for his sad thoughts, by passing "the Rubicon of the cup." At first, while this was being done in secret, the neighboring gentry made many efforts to arrange his affairs, liberate him from his more pressing pecuniary involvements, and give him the opportunity of realizing an adequate income by the practice of his profession. Each proffered kindness was rejected. He sat, another Timon, with his household gods shivered around him.
This could not long continue – for man cannot live without society. By degrees Cussen returned to the haunts and the companionship of man. Had he kept within the pale of his own class, perhaps all might still have been well. But a change had passed over and darkened his mind. He fancied that scorn sat upon the lip and glanced from the eye of every one more wealthy than himself, and thus Pride guided the arrow which Poverty barbed. He shunned the society of those to whom, in all save wealth, he had been equal, at the very least, and he found a consolation in the company of those who, remembering his birth (and in no place is that memory so well retained as in Ireland), would have considered him as their superior, even if, like them, he had to till the earth for a bare subsistence. Thus, by a slow but certain process of deterioration, John Cussen – once the pride of the order of fashion and wealth in his native country – gradually became the associate of the ignorant and excitable peasantry.
Mixing with these poor people, – then, as ever, dissatisfied with their condition, and eagerly anxiousA for any change which seemed to promise better days and brighter fortunes, – Cussen soon became thoroughly identified with their feelings. Hating oppression, believing that the peasantry were greatly wronged by absentee landlords, oppressive middlemen, and an exacting "Church as by law established," he allowed himself to be seduced into the secret and illegal association of the Whiteboys. The homage which they paid to his birth and education, gave him more satisfaction than, at first, he ventured to own, even to himself. His pride was soothed by finding himself yet looked up to by any class. The energy of his character returned (in part), and assuming strong and unquestioned command over the disaffected peasantry, he became one of their most powerful leaders. Quick in mental resources, superior in physical strength, his influence over his followers was very great. Entire obedience was yielded to his commands, and (as in the present instance, when he undertook to lead the attack upon Churchtown Barracks) his presence was deemed sufficient to insure the success of any enterprise, however daring. In all this, however, it is scarcely doubtful that John Cussen's actions were those of a man whose mind had lost its balance. Sorrow and suffering had touched his brain, and perhaps this was the vent which prevented actual insanity.
There was "method in his madness," however, for when he entered upon this wild and secret career, he took care that the movements which he personally guided should be remote from that part of the country in which he was best known. He strictly forbade any of his troops to indulge in drink, whenever their co-operation was required, and on all expeditions which he personally led (chiefly for the purpose of obtaining fire-arms from the houses of country gentlemen) he suited his attire to that of his companions, and so complete was the disguise, that none could recognize John Cussen as the dreaded Captain Rock, who scattered terror wherever he moved.
The remarkable fidelity which the Irish peasantry make it at once a matter of duty and pride to pay to their leaders against the law, was Cussen's chief protection. His secret was well kept. None of the gentry of the county had the slightest suspicion that Cussen, in whom many of them still professed to take an interest, was in any way mixed up – far less as a leader – with the Whiteboy movements which caused them so much alarm.
Such was John Cussen, whom we left leading a goodly company of Whiteboys to the attack on Churchtown Barracks, a military position of much strength and some importance.
