Kitabı oku: «My Lords of Strogue. Volume 3 of 3», sayfa 13

CHAPTER XI.
ATÉ

Robert (or Mr. Hewitt, for so was he enrolled among the chalked-up inmates of the lodging where he dwelt) betrayed no less emotion than the rest of Dublin citizens when the word flew from mouth to mouth that as an independent nation Ireland was extinguished. He and a few trusty followers were waiting for the official announcement of Ireland's disgrace in their depot-a shambling set of outhouses situated near Merchant's Quay. Sirr's raid, whereby he captured so much material, was annoying no doubt; but Robert was full of his star and the mantle that Theobald had thrown to him.

Of course when the Castle was captured, Dublin would surrender without a blow. He had his scheme prepared, which was instilled into the minds of the Wicklow banditti. They were to creep to their posts at nightfall and await his signal-a rocket; then to rush from different points upon the Castle, choosing the narrowest streets in order that if attacked their peculiar style of warfare might prove effective. In a narrow passage, he argued, the pike-a weapon nine feet long-is more telling than a musket with its bayonet. The people in the houses might of course be expected to take part against the military, and give them a warm reception from the housetops with a galling fire of bricks and coping-stones. If necessary they might be employed in dragging up the pavement in the rear of the King's troops, to expose the new-made drains as pitfalls. In any case the regulars, thrown into confusion, would roll over each other, and, helpless in a choked thoroughfare, might be piked and stoned to a man. At prearranged turnings, barriers were to be thrown up, constructed of carts, doors, hogsheads. This would be done in a few seconds by the willing help of surrounding inhabitants. In all cases the pikemen were bidden to advance at a brisk trot that weight might counterbalance defective discipline; intrepid men being stationed at the ends of every rank to keep the masses compact and prevent wavering.

Robert's own position (and the rallying-point in case of retreat) was to be the watch-house which stood on the Old Bridge, and which commanded the narrow entry by which troops would come, if sent for, from Chapelizod. From the tower which crowned the watch-house he would send up his rocket; then, allowing time for the marching of the different divisions to their respective posts, he would leave a sufficient body there to hold the bridge, and hurry to the Castle gates, lest some one might steal the envied privilege of dragging down the detested flag. Elaborate were his arrangements in theory with regard to barricades. Beams had been left lying about with prearranged carelessness, ready to be picked up and slung at a moment's notice. As he donned his uniform-scarlet coat with gold epaulettes, white vest, pantaloons of tender grey-his first-lieutenant (one Quigley, a baker, who rejoiced exceedingly in a huge green plume) remarked with regret that perhaps their object would have been best achieved by taking a hint from Fawkes. 'Nothing could have been easier, and if successful more complete. Sure, it was the want of a reform in the senate that had brought Erin to this plight. The senate destroyed, she might begin again on the basis of '82, with hope refreshed and a clean slate.'

Robert looked with displeasure at his truculent lieutenant.

'What! There were women in the galleries. Destroy the innocent with the guilty, by the hundred?'

'Haven't they kilt thousands-women and children galore-bad luck to 'em!' retorted the bellicose baker. 'After all, there was no fear of the escape of the guilty now. The hand of the avenger should seek out the recreants and put them to the edge of the sword-stem, root, and branch; their houses should be heaps of stones; their homes be made desolate. The world would applaud the vengeance of the downtrodden!'

Robert was displeased by his lieutenant's views. He who by constitutional instinct so dreaded bloodshed, had battled with his fears and girded on the sword of Joshua, carried above physical antipathies by the sacred cause of the oppressed. Yet was it with a secret terror that he listened to such language as that of the gentleman with the green plume. It filled him with loathing. Thank Heaven that he, the chief, was there to keep the men in order, and temper justice with mercy! The goddess of justice, he believed, should appear white and shining, not dabbled with the gore of those who had done no wrong. So he tried to reason with himself. The work of Joshua, if the legend was to be believed, had been a bloody one, which ascended with a sweet savour of sacrifice in the nostrils of a vengeful Deity. If it was the will of stern Justice that the sinful brethren should be slaughtered, and with them the innocent, why, then responsibility was taken from his hands, and it would be presumption to attempt to dictate.

It was not without a certain trepidation that Robert scanned the timepiece, watching its moving hands. The Commons were still sitting-the farce was not quite over. An hour or two might elapse before the hateful flag was run up to its place. He employed the time in exhorting his followers-there were only fifty of them-to behave with continence to the conquered foe.

'Some of us,' he said, 'may be called to join the band of those who have already given their lives on the scaffold, or on the field. Let not that distress you. Right is on our side if we commit no crimes. Eternal fame is worth more than a few years on this sad earth. The reputation of the few who fall in our holy cause will abide after them, a precious legacy to those whom they love and honour, to those whom they have snatched from slavery-for whom they are proud to perish.'

He talked himself into an exalted fervour, which swept away his scruples. His followers, too, were caught by his enthusiasm. They vowed that no evil deed should smirch their banner; that what they fought for was liberty-the hacking off of chains; that they would give to Europe an example of high-minded patriotism,' unblemished by petty license.

Robert was relieved and grateful. It was close on midnight when he drew his sword, and crying, 'Boys, come on!' dashed forth into the street. Though so late, the citizens were not in bed, but standing at their doors and windows discoursing of that which was now an accomplished fact. They looked at the insignificant knot that ran cheering past with consternation.

What manner of men were these who carried sheaves of pikes? What was this youth in martial garb, who waved over his head a sabre? Robert and his lieutenants harangued the citizens, distributed weapons, dragged some who wavered to the depot, where they would find arms and ammunition. They were soon the centre of a delirious crowd, who jumped and sang and danced like maniacs. The lad's hopes beat high, his face beamed with excitement. Heaven had answered promptly; recruits were gathering like sand. Women and children rushed about screaming; wives tugged at their husbands' garments, imploring them to come away, lest peradventure their end should be the gallows. Some one called out that the soldiery were upon them, and then the warriors just now so valiant fled with precipitation up alleys, courts and lanes, dropping their pikes, tearing at those in front who impeded their flight, rolling over and over in the frenzy of their haste to wriggle out of musket-range. Brutality and cowardice are the corollaries of slavery; both made themselves conspicuous on this dreadful night.

Finding that it was a false alarm (for the soldiers were on guard half a mile away, about the Senate-house), those who a moment since were crouching behind their wives, surged out again as if to protest by deeds against involuntary panic, and ran with yells after the youth in scarlet. To the Old Bridge was a few paces. They gave a prolonged howl as they came in sight of it, which echoed and re-echoed along the Liffey banks, and penetrated even to the Castle, where Lord Cornwallis, his mind relieved in that the work was done, was congratulating the smirking chancellor on the final success of the grand measure. Both started and looked at one another. What a strange uproar! Could it be thunder? Lord Clare opened the casement and peered out. A rocket rose into the air and burst; another howl-louder, more prolonged than the first one. Lord Clare closed the window quietly and shrugged his shoulders, muttering, as he secured the hasp:

'Sirr was right, then. I really could scarce credit that they should be such idiots. Yet are they silly enough for anything.' Then turning with a sour smile to the Viceroy, he said: 'Thank goodness, it's well over. This ferment is not worth considering. How can I do otherwise than blush at being an Irishman? My Lord Castlereagh thinks, as I do, that the work we have this day finished is a subject for universal thanksgiving.'

Singularly enough, the sympathy of the Viceroy was not with his colleagues my Lords Clare and Castlereagh, but with those who were by this time brandishing their pikes in Thomas Street, for he pitied the deluded people sorely whose flame of rebellion against the inevitable was making this last melancholy flicker.

The Union was a fact now. It was done; and would ultimately, so soon as sores were healed, be productive of much good, for the people would be protected by a distant but temperate master against the turbulent raging of their own factions. But for all that, this desperate handful who preferred death to slavery, were more worthy of respect than the polished gentleman before him who had sold his own brethren into bondage. So thought the Viceroy; but Lord Cornwallis, bluff soldier though he was, had learned to school his features. He therefore contented himself with observing that nocturnal rioting must be put down, and that the chancellor had better accept a bed in the Castle, considering that if he ventured out among the rioters he would certainly be torn to pieces. Then glancing down into Castle-yard, which was full of soldiers, he bade his guest good-night, and retired to the solitude of his own chamber.

Arrived at the Old Bridge, Robert let off his rocket, while the ever-increasing crowd gibbered and hallooed. The night was very dark. In the transient flare the expectant mob beheld a martial figure that glittered with gold braid, waving a big sword. A grand figure entirely-who was he? no matter. With him they would fall or conquer, they declared, though the majority of the mob were hazy as to the work which there was to do. The word was given and rippled along the ranks: 'To the Castle, to slay the tyrant!' 'To the Castle, to the Castle!' they all yelled and bellowed helter-skelter up Thomas Street, for the object was plain and praiseworthy-to storm the palace of the Viceroy. Robert led the way, brandishing his immense blade; the bellicose baker looked after the rear. Both exhorted as many as were within hearing to steadiness and calm. But those behind pushed those who were in front. It was as much as Robert could do to keep his feet. Vainly he bawled. Nobody heard him any more, for all were chattering like excited monkeys; nobody in the dense blackness could distinguish his uniform. He had let a torrent loose, but could not guide it. Half-way up Thomas Street he became conscious of a diversion-the pressure to the front became weaker-something unexpected was happening at the farther extremity of the thoroughfare. The mob were gesticulating-heaving to and fro. Was it a surprise? Were the military come in from Chapelizod? Had they beaten down the little watch-house garrison, or had they-forewarned-approached the scene of action by another route? The bellicose lieutenant would need assistance and counsel-pray Heaven he was staunch! Their leader buffeted with the mob, but they heeded him not. It was essential that he should see what was passing, that he should fly to the succour of his second in command, who was battling with this human maelstrom. How dark the night was! The moon, which was at the full, was clouded over. Raising himself on the steps of a house, he strained his eyes over the sea of faces and detected little lights-flambeaux apparently, which tossed and floundered, then went out. This could be no military attack. The men must be committing some outrage upon persons who had fallen into their hands-innocent persons possibly, who, according to the tenets of the baker, were to suffer for the transgressions of the guilty. Robert was in an agony, for the monster he had conjured into life refused to hearken to his chiding. He cried that the cause must not be sullied, that pure-souled patriots must not play the night-assassin; but his voice was as the buzzing of an insect. 'Forward!' he shouted till he was hoarse; 'forward to the Castle!' He might as well have shouted to the ocean. Those about him pushed and elbowed, screaming wild oaths and execrations; for, unable to see what was going on, they were half-fearful of treachery, half-anxious to bear their part. Despite his gay accoutrement Robert found himself crushed against a railing, till his ribs threatened to collapse under the pressure. With a supreme effort he shook himself free, and fell backwards through a doorway. He recognised it-how lucky! It led by a narrow alley into the adjoining road, which ran parallel with Thomas Street. Sure, this was another mark of Heaven's approbation; for by following it he could skirt the mob, and, running round, discover the cause of the diversion. The adjoining road was empty; the terrified householders had closed their doors and shutters and, trembling, were peeping through the chinks. Painful experience had taught them caution. As he sped along, his feet pattering strangely in the solitude, Robert could catch the murmur, as of water dashing upon rocks, over the roofs, a house-thickness off. Running with all his speed, he turned the corner and flung himself against the rolling swell; beheld with despair a coach-one whose liveries he knew of old-rocking and swaying in danger of being upset, while the horses plunged wildly and the coachman sat paralysed, with a pistol at his ear. The door had been rent from its hinges; the silken curtains hung in tatters. One of the occupants, a man of fine presence and middle age, had been dragged out, and lay upon the stones surrounded by a crew of savages. The other, a woman, leaned out of the carriage, imploring help in dumb show for the man upon the ground. Convulsed with horror, Robert forced a passage with the flat of his sabre. One light-the single flambeau which had escaped extinguishing-threw a ghastly glare on the surge of scowling ruffians. Blood trickled from the forehead of the man upon the ground; upon his black satin vest and smallclothes, upon his cambric shirt, as he strove to rise. He staggered up, clutching at a wheel, and waved his hand to obtain a hearing. 'Good people,' he panted, but his words reached those only who stood close by, 'I have never done you harm. I am Kilwarden, chief justice of the King's Bench.'

'Justice!' gibed the baker. 'She's gone long since where you shall follow her!'

The mob, which had ebbed in a momentary recoil, flowed forward again with a rush. A dozen pikes were poised and fell. Doreen, who could see what passed within the circle, tossed her helpless arms and filled the night air with shrieks; while Robert, distracted, beat his breast and tore his hair.

A sharp ring of hoofs clattered on the road-nearer-nearer-nearer still. A band of horsemen were approaching at a gallop from the quay; behind-in the distance-a host of cavalry; from the opposite direction the tramp of many feet. The Castle-gates had been opened; the infantry were pouring forth; the mob, finding itself hemmed in, smote right and left in a frantic effort to escape.

The smaller band of horsemen, headed by Shane and Cassidy, were the first to reach the coach. They drew their couteaux-de-chasse, and, beating aside the unwieldy pikes, which were too long for such close quarters, trampled the insurgents down.

'The lady, Lord Glandore!' Cassidy shouted. 'Now's your time!'

'Oh, save her!' raved Robert, in remorse. 'My God, what have I done? Save her, Lord Glandore!'

Shane stretched out his hand towards his cousin. Chance was favouring him. Under pretext of protecting her, the project planned by the giant could without difficulty be accomplished now. Doreen shrank back.

'Begone!' she wailed, filled with the anguish of that heap upon the ground. 'What have you done with your brother-bastard!'

Shane winced, as from a whip-cut on the cheek. She, too, then knew the fatal secret; but it mattered not, for she was in his power. The military were closing in upon the mob. In the scurry and the darkness he would bear her far away. He was well known; what more natural than that her cousin should rescue the bereaved Miss Wolfe from such a scene?

Dismounting, he strode over the corpse of Lord Kilwarden, and calling on his friends to rally round the coach, prepared to withdraw it from the melée.

Upon hearing the name, twice repeated, the man who had held the pistol to the coachman's ear turned sharply round.

'You then are Lord Glandore?' he asked. 'The curse of God has found you, murderer! You and a few like you slew my father four years agone in sport on Stephen's Green! Do you recall it? He was only an old man-a shoemaker. Maybe you don't, for you've done many such deeds, and you were drunk!'

Shane thrust the importunate babbler aside, and ordered the coachman to urge on his horses.

'I've waited for my revenge all this while, my lord,' muttered the man, 'and you don't escape me now.'

Raising his pistol with steady aim, he shot Shane through the heart, and, diving, vanished in the crowd.

Cassidy was taken aback. Hitherto everything had moved according to his desire. Were his well-constructed schemes to be disconcerted now? He looked up the street and down the street at the compact bodies of troops advancing, then with a rage of longing at Doreen. Yes! his plan was overthrown; a new one must spring out of its ashes. Shane, by virtue of his cousinship, might have borne the young lady with safety through the ranks. He, Cassidy, could hope for no such privilege. Well, better luck next time. But it would not do to lose his footing at Strogue Abbey. Le roi est mort; vive le roi! He bethought him of a certain prisoner within the provost, kidnapped the other day, whose position was quite changed by that untoward pistol-shot. All things considered, Mr. Cassidy could not have acted with more wisdom than he did. He left Doreen to the tender mercies of the soldiery, and spurred with utmost speed towards the provost.

CHAPTER XII.
MOILEY'S LAST MEAL

Doreen speedily recovered her presence of mind, shaken for an instant by the sudden shock of the predicament in which she found herself. The ringleaders of the riot were, with a few exceptions, netted. The young officers of militia, many of whom had danced at balls with the beautiful Miss Wolfe, were loud in their outcry over the tragedy, vociferous in promises of vengeance. Would she wish the rascals to be lashed, or would pitchcaps please her fancy? The malefactors should swing, every one; that would be a comfort to her, no doubt. Excruciating cats should be manufactured to oblige her. No punishment could be too severe for wretches who had dared to kill two members of the peerage. Where should they take their beautiful charge? Would she go to the Castle, or to her lamented parent's mansion? Wherever Venus liked, there would Mars escort her. Disciplined by sorrow, Doreen could even at this dark hour consider the grief of others before her own. The Countess of Glandore was sick and shattered. Since Terence's vanishing she had returned to the condition of an owl; what would be the effect on her frayed nerves of the sudden death of her favourite son? Doreen decided, postponing the consideration of her own loss, to drive at once to Strogue, lest tidings should reach her aunt more abruptly than her state would warrant.

It was dawn when Miss Wolfe reached the Abbey-the cold raw dawn of early summer, when nature asserts her right to live despite the tyranny of winter-and she was seized with a new pain on entering the hall; for wan Sara was sitting where she had sank down, to await she knew not what. Alas! for her, too, was she a bearer of evil tidings, and Sara read them on her face, and sighed. The look of deep compassion told but too plainly that her worst forebodings were realised; and that, as a daughter of Erin, she must accept her place in the grim procession of the bereaved. She did not ask for news-preferred, indeed, to hear none, for what news was there that could bring aught but misery? Like a tired child she closed her eyes, and clung to the older maiden in a mute entreaty not to be left alone. This speechless sorrow was painful to witness. The offices of Miss Wolfe were needed elsewhere, for there was another in the stricken household who must be attended to before the sad cortège should arrive. My lady would have to be told that she had lost both a brother and a son. It was with relief then that she heard a creaking on the stairs and perceived Mr. Curran coming down, who, by his appearance, had evidently not been to bed. She, who had learned what loss is, knew the full value of a father's love. Beckoning him to his daughter, she disentangled the cold fingers from about her neck and went away to my lady's bedroom.

Mr. Curran was himself in dolorous mood. Extremely troubled by the rocket which he too had seen, and by hints which, during the past week, had reached him through the proprietress of the Little House, he had been unable to sleep. Groaning in spirit he saw the shambles reopened; the reign of terror recommenced. His country was dead now; Moiley had eaten her up to the last crumb. Might not the sacrifice of her existence bring peace unto her sons? As leaning his cheek upon his hand he sat looking across the tranquil bay at the twinkling lights beyond, his heart became exceeding sorrowful while he reviewed the efforts of his life. Memory stood by in a sable robe. Though he had held himself erect whilst others grovelled; though his courage had remained unshaken whilst others quaked and fawned; how little-how very little-it had been given to him to accomplish! Yet there was nothing he had wittingly left undone. His political honour was so bright that malice could detect no stain on it. He had worked for others-not for himself. Instead of lifting himself as he might have done above the stormy agitation of his time, he had clung to the heaving of the wave-to rise and fall with it-perchance to be dashed with it upon a rock-with how little result-how little-how very little! Yet he saw not how he could have acted otherwise. As dawn began to sparkle on the bay, he took up a book to change the current of his pondering-a volume of the grand Greek poets. It opened at the 'Seven Against Thebes,' and he read thoughts which were a painful echo of his own. 'The happiest destiny is never to have been born; the next best to return quickly to the nothingness from which we came.' Grand old Titan Æschylus! Was that all his genius could discern? Never to have been born! Was that the conviction of the great philosopher? Mr. Curran looked out on the panorama stretched before him, as fair a prospect as man may desire to look upon. The glittering waters were strewn with flakes of silver; the looming hills steeped in a golden haze. The beautiful world! Was its beauty a mockery of human trouble-no more? It seemed so. Those lovely hills were teeming with desperate men, reduced by the branding-iron of oppression to the condition of wild beasts. In the blue shadow of those picturesque ravines were cottages-charred, unroofed, deserted. That fairy city that mirrored its whiteness in the bay-glistering, silver-crowned-had been but t'other day the scene of perhaps the most hideous carnival of human wickedness which ever disgraced humanity. Perchance even at this very instant, while the wizened little man was gazing out so dreamily, fresh horrors were being enacted. Truly, 'twere the happiest of destinies never to have looked on the false sheen of the sepulchre at all. But though we may drag at them, the tough fibres of existence are deeply imbedded in our flesh.

Mr. Curran, from his station, marked the return of Lord Kilwarden's coach-the pallid concern of the servants, who were speaking in hushed tones, as though in the awful presence of the Pilgrim. He went downstairs to learn what had happened. It was worse than he expected. Deluded Robert-insane enthusiast! Alas! The advocate would have to stand forth yet once again and wrestle for a life; would have to rouse himself from his dejection to do all that was possible to save this lad. With the urgent need for action Mr. Curran recovered his mental steadiness. He resolved to seek tidings at once of Robert and of Terence; to raise his voice in their behalf. Were both concerned in the disastrous riot? Were both captured? had both escaped? As he rode past the Little House, Madam Gillin called out that she had something to say. Anxious, on account of Terence's disappearance, the kind lady had sent Jug into town for several days past to ferret out the truth. The hag had discovered that men had been remarked loitering about the Abbey gates; that Terence one evening had been observed by a passing peasant to emerge into the road and go to the water's edge; that there he had been accosted by these self-same suspicious men, who had a boat with them. It was certain that Terence had never been seen in the neighbourhood of young Robert's depôt, or in the mélée of last night. Hence it was clear that he had departed. Where and why? Was it of his own accord? As for Robert, he was not among the captives. Jug examined them every one, as, heavily ironed, they were marched to Kilmainham in detachments. A man in a uniform plastered thick with gold was rowed out to sea by four sturdy rowers an hour or two ago. In all probability that man was Robert, who had provided for his escape by means of one of the many vessels that were cruising in the Channel. Utterly mad in all other ways, he had shown prudence and forethought in this. He was gone. His noble young life would not be thrown away for nothing-he whose sin was too fond a love for unhappy motherland.

Mr. Curran gave a sigh of thankfulness. Small mercies keep us from breaking down at times. This was good news, at any rate. With courage revived, he could go to the Castle now and demand with a high hand that inquiries as to the fate of Terence should be set afoot. If anything unpleasant was said about Emmett, he could snap his fingers in the Viceroy's face-for the boy was gone, thank goodness, out of his clutches. Moiley would grind her gums for her last morsel in vain. The hungry ogress! She had eaten Ireland and quaffed the best blood of Ireland's children. Her appetite was delicate, it seemed, and clamoured for the best. She declined to lunch off the Battalion of Testimony. The flesh of Sirr and Cassidy was bitter, and she spat it out. She absolutely refused even to nibble, much less to swallow, either of these honest gentlemen.

At mention of Cassidy, Gillin, whose cheeks had puckered into dimples at Curran's badinage, grew grave again. She felt, scarcely knowing why, that Cassidy had something to do with the affair of Terence, who was Earl of Glandore, secret or no secret, now. The difficulty had been solved in a quite unexpected manner; and in her heart of hearts the worthy woman was glad, though she would have to abandon her desire of seeing Norah adorning the assembly of the élite. Ah! deary me, she sighed to herself. There were other fish in the sea. Norah was a comely colleen, who would get a good husband somehow-maybe a better one than Shane would ever have made, though he was lord of broad acres and had a coronet to bestow on the girl who touched his fancy. But where was the new Earl of Glandore? Curran trotted off to make it his business to find out.

This last armed attempt to free Ireland was the vulgarest and weakest of riots, which would never have been recorded, or have occupied any place in history at all, but for the unfortunate murder of the Lord Chief Justice and his nephew. Their fate-especially that of Lord Kilwarden, who was a kindhearted gentleman-demanded a scapegoat. Foolish young Robert was the first cause of the disaster. It was essential that he should be held up as an example. Could anything be more provoking than that he should get away? Perhaps he was not gone-perhaps he had landed somewhere. The town-major was commanded to scour the country in all directions. His battalion was well paid and had been very idle of late. It was time that its members should do some service to earn their bread-and-butter. Such were the orders which issued from the Castle, and Curran knew well that they did not emanate from Lord Cornwallis. He was not much surprised, therefore, after crossing Castle-yard, to be ushered into a morning-room, garnished with a huge bureau, at which was sitting, in handsome black velvet trimmed with sable fur, the Chancellor.

Lord Clare beheld with evident pleasure the entrance of his enemy, the man who had been his stumbling-block through his career; for this was the moment of his triumph. He held out his jewelled fingers with a polished bow; rasped out a welcome in his least pleasant voice; and explained that, in the overflow of labour which sprang from the details of yesterday's Great Measure and last night's deplorable catastrophe, both Viceroy and Chief Secretary were so worked off their legs that they had been delighted to accept of his poor services for the transaction of ordinary business.

Lord Clare was rather sorry for Kilwarden, though he had always despised him as a nincumpoop. But this transient cloud of annoyance was dissipated by the sun of yesterday's success and the new vista of power which it opened to his ambition; and Curran looked at him in wonder as he strutted and fussed about, with the comical majesty of a raven.