Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

I tottered back as he spoke. The horrible thought of murder, – the frightful sense of crime, the heaviest, the blackest that can stain the heart of man, – stunned me. My senses reeled; and as I looked on that corpse stretched at my feet, I would have suffered my every bone to be broken on the rack, to see one quiver of life animate its rigid members.

Meanwhile Darby was kneeling down, and seemed to search for something beside the body. “Ah! right! Come now,” said he; “we must be far from this before daybreak. And it ‘s lucky if we We the means to do it.”

I moved onward like one walking ib a dream when horrible images surround him and dreadful thoughts are ever crowding fast; but where, amid all, some glimmering sense of hope sustains him, and he half feels that the terrors will pass away, and his soul be calm and tranquil once more. What is it? what has happened? was the ever-rising question, as I heard Darby groping his way along the dark gallery and the darker stairs.

“Be steady, now,” said he, in a whisper; “we ‘re at the gate.”

“Who comes there?” cried the sentry.

“A friend!” said Darby, in a feigned voice, answering for me, while he dropped behind me.

The heavy bolts were withdrawn, and I felt the cold air of the streets on my cheek.

“Where to, now?” said I, with a dreamy oonsciousness that some place of safety must be sought, without well knowing why or wherefore.

“Lean on me, and don’t speak,” said Darby. “If you can walk as far as the end of the quay, we ‘re all safe.”

I walked on without further questioning, and almost without thought; and though, from time to time, Darby spoke to several persons as we passed, I heard not what they said, nor took any notice of them.

CHAPTER XX. THE FLIGHT

“Are ye getting weak?” said Darby, as I staggered heavily against him, and gasped twice or thrice for breath. “Are ye bleeding still?” was his next question, while he passed his hand gently within the sash, and felt my wound. I endeavored to mutter something in reply, to which he paid no attention; but stooping down, he threw me across his shoulder, and darting off at a more rapid pace than before, he left the more frequented thoroughfare, and entered a narrow and gloomy alley, unlighted by a single lamp. As he hurried onward, he stopped more than once, as if in quest of some particular spot, but which in the darkness he was unable to detect.

“Oh, Holy Mother!” he muttered, “the blood is soaking through me! Master Tom, dear! Master Tom, my darlin’ speak to me, – speak to me, acushla!” But though I heard each word distinctly, I could not utter one; a dreamy stupor was over me, and I only wished to be left quiet. “This must be it; ay, here it is,” said Darby, as he laid me gently down on the stone sill of the door, and knocked loudly with his knuckles.

The summons, though repeated three or four times, was unheeded; and although he knocked loudly enough to have alarmed the neighborhood, and called out at the top of his voice, no one came; and the only sounds we could hear were the distant cadences of a drinking song, mingled with wild shouts of laughter, and still wilder cries of agony and woe.

“Here they are, at last!” said Darby, as he almost staved in the door with a heavy stone.

“Who’s there?” cried a harsh and feeble voice from within.

“‘Tis me, Molly; ‘tis Darby M’Keown, Open quick, for the love of Heaven! here ‘s a young gentleman bleedin’ to death on the steps.”

“Ugh! there ‘s as good as ever he was, and going as fast, too, here within,” said the crone. “Ye must take him away; he would n’t mind him now for a king’s ransom.”

“I ‘ll break open the door this minit,” said Darby, with a horrible oath, “av ye don’t open it.”

“Ha, ha, ha!” laughed the hag. “If ye wor Darby M’Keown, ye ‘d know well how easy that is. Try it, – try it, acushla! oak timber and nails is able to bear all you’ll do!”

“See now,” said Darby, dropping his voice to a whisper; “see, Molly, here ‘s five goold guineas for ye, av ye ‘ll let us in. ‘T is a man’s life ‘s on it, and one I ‘d give my own for twice over.”

“Av ye offered me forty,” replied she, “I dar’n’t do it. Ye don’t know the sorrow that ‘s here this night; ‘t is Dan Fortescue is going. I ‘m coming, I ‘m coming!” muttered she to some call from within. And then, without waiting to hear more, she shuffled back along the passage, and left us once more alone.

“There’s nothing for it but this now,” said Darby, as, retiring a few paces, he dashed his shoulder against the door with all his force; but though a powerful man, and though every window rattled and trembled with the tremendous shock, the strong panels withstood the stroke, and never yielded in the least. “‘T is no use firing through the lock,” said he, in a tone of despair. “Blessed Joseph! what ‘s to be done?”

As he spoke, the light tread of a barefooted child was heard coming up the lane, and the same moment a little girl approached the door. She carried a cup in her hand, and held it carefully, as if fearful of spilling its contents. As she neared the door, she seemed uncertain how to proceed, and at last, as if gaining courage, tapped twice at it with her knuckles.

“Don’t ye know me, Nora?” said Darby; “don’t ye know Darby the Blast?”

“Ah, Mister M’Keown, is this you? Ah, I’m afeard it ‘s little use there is in coming here to-night; Mr. Fortescue’s dying within, and Doctor Kenagh can’t leave him, I ‘m bringing him this to take, but – ”

“Nora, dear,” said Darby, “I ‘ve a secret for Mr. Fortescue, and must see him before he dies. Here ‘s a crown, my darlin’, and don’t tell any one I gave it to ye.” Here he stooped down, and whispered rapidly some words in her ear.

“Who ‘s there?” broke in the hag ‘s voice from within. “‘T is me; Nora,” said the child, boldly. “Are ye alone, there? do ye see any one about the door?”

“Sorra one. Can’t you let me in out of the cowld?” “Come in quick, then,” said the crone, as she opened the door carefully, and only wide enough to let the child pass; but the same instant Darby dashed forward his foot, and flinging the door full wide, seized me by the collar, and dragged me in after him, closing the door at once behind him.

The screams of the hag, though loud and vehement, were as unheeded as were Darby’s own efforts to attract notice half an hour before.

“Be quiet, I say; hush yer crying, or be the sowl o’ the man that ‘s dyin’ I ‘ll dhrive a ball through ye.” The sight of a pistol barrel seemed at last to have its effect, and she contented herself with a low wailing kind of noise, as she tottered after us along the passage.

The cold air of the street and the rest combined had given me strength, and I was able to follow Darby as he led the way through many a passage and up more than one stair.

“Here it is,” said the child, in a whisper, as she stopped at the door of a room which lay half ajar.

We halted in silence, and listened to the breathings of a man whose short, sobbing respiration, broken by hiccup, denoted the near approach of death.

“Go on,” cried a deep, low voice, in a tone of eagerness; “ye ‘ll not have the cough now for some time.”

The sick man made no reply, but his hurried breathing seemed to show that he was making some unwonted effort.

At last he spoke, but in a voice so faint and husky, we could not hear the words. The other, however, appeared to listen, and by a stray monosyllable, dropped at intervals, to follow the tenor of his speech. At last the sound ceased, and all was still.

“Go in now,” said Darby, in a whisper, to the child; “I ‘ll follow you.”

The little girl gently pushed the door and entered, followed by M’Keown, who, however, only advanced one foot within the room, as if doubting what reception he should meet with.

By the uncertain light of a wood fire, which threw in fitful flashes its glare around, I perceived that a sick man lay on a mean-looking, miserable bed in one corner of a dark room; beside him, seated on a low stool, sat another, his head bent down to catch the low breathings which the dying man gave forth from time to time. The heavy snoring sound of others asleep directed my eyes to a distant part of the chamber, where I saw three fellows lying on the floor, partly covered by a blanket. I had barely time to see this much, when the figure beside the bed sprang forward, and in a low but menacing tone, addressed M’Keown.

The last words only could I catch, as he said, “And if he wakes up, he may know you still.”

“And if he does,” said Darby, doggedly, “who cares? Isn’t there as good blood as his shed for the cause? Look here!”

He dragged me forward as he spoke, and, tearing open my coat, pointed to the sash that was now saturated with the blood that flowed at every stir from my wound. The other looked fixedly at me for a second or two, took my hand within his, and letting it fall heavily, he whispered a word to M’Keown, and turned away.

“No, no!” cried Darby, violently. “By the holy Mass! ye ‘ll not trate me that way. Sit down, Master Tom,” said he, as he forced me into an old armchair beside the fire. “Here, take a drink of water. Come here, doctor; come here, now; stop the bleeding. Stand by me this wonst, and by this – ”

Here he crossed his fingers before him, and looked fervently upwards. But at this instant the sick man sprang up in his bed, and looked wildly about him.

“Isn’t that Darby? isn’t that M’Keown there?” cried he, as he pointed with his finger. “Darby,” he continued, in a low, clear whisper, “Darby, see here, my boy. You often said I ‘d do nothing for the cause. Is this nothing?” He threw back the bedclothes, as he spoke, and disclosed a ghastly wound that divided his chest, exposing the cartilage of the ribs, which stood out amid the welling blood that oozed forth with every respiration he made. “Is it nothing that I gave up rank, and place, and fortune; the broad acres that were in my family for three centuries; all my hopes, all my prospects – ”

“And if you did,” interrupted M’Keown, hastily, “you knew what for.”

“I knew what for!” repeated the sick man, as a deadly smile played upon his livid face and curled his white lip. “I know it now, at least. To leave my inheritance to a bastard; to brand my name with disgrace and dishonor; to go down to the grave a traitor; and, worse still – ”

He shuddered violently here, and though his mouth moved, no sound came forth; he sank back, worn out and exhausted.

“Was he there,” said Darby to the doctor, with a significant emphasis on the word, – “was he there to-night?”

“He was,” replied the other. “He thinks, too, he fired the shot that did it; but, poor fellow! he was down before that. The boys brought him off. That child is going fast,” continued he, as his eye fell upon me.

“Look to him, then, and don’t be losin’ time,” said Darby, fiercely. “Look to him,” he added more mildly, and “the Heavens will bless ye! Here ‘s twenty goolden guineas, – it’s all I’ve saved these eight years, – here they ‘re for you, and save his life.”

The old man knelt down beside me, and slipping a scissors within the scarf that lay fastened to my side with clotted blood, he proceeded to open and expose the situation of my wound. A cold, sick feeling, a kind of half-fainting sensation, followed this, and I could hear nothing of the dialogue that passed so near me. An occasional sting of pain shot through me as the dressing proceeded; but save this, I had little consciousness of anything.

At length, like one awakening from a heavy slumber, with faculties half clouded by the dreamy past, I looked around me. All was still and motionless in the room. The doctor sat beside the sick man’s bed; and Darby, his eyes riveted on me, knelt close to my chair, and held his hand upon the bandage over my wound.

A gentle tap here came to the door, and the child I had seen before entered noiselessly, and approaching the doctor, said, “the car is come, sir.”

The old man nodded in silence, and then, turning towards Darby, he whispered something in his ear. M’Keown sprang to his legs at once, his cheek flushed deeply, and his eyes sparkled with animation.

“I have it! I have it!” cried he, “There never was such luck for us before.”

With that he drew the old man to one side, and speaking to him in a low but rapid tone, evinced by the violence of his gestures and the tremulous eagerness of his voice how deeply he was interested.

“True enough, true enough,” said the old man, after a pause. “Poor Dan has but one more journey before him.”

“Is he able to bear it, doctor?” said Darby, pointing towards me with his finger; “that’s all I ask. Has he the strength in him?”

“He’ll do now,” replied the other, gruffly; “there’s little harm done him this time. Let him taste that whenever you find him growing weak; and keep his head low, and there ‘s no fear of him.”

As he spoke, he took from a cupboard in the wall a small phial, which he handed to M’Keown, who received the precious elixir with as much reverence as though it contained the very wellspring of human existence. “And now,” said Darby, “the less time lost now the better; it will soon be daylight on us. Master Tom, can you rise, acushla? are you able to stand up?”

I made the effort as well as I could, but my limbs seemed chained down, and even my arm felt like lead beside me.

“Take him on your back,” said the old man, hurriedly; “you ‘ll stay here till sunrise. Take him downstairs, on your back, and when you have him in the open air, turn him towards the wind, and keep his head low, – mind that.”

I made another attempt to stand up; but before I could effect it, Darby’s strong arms were round my waist, and I felt myself lifted on his shoulder and borne from the room, A muttered good-by passed between the others, and Darby began to descend the stairs cautiously, while the little child went before with a candle. As the street door was opened, I could perceive that a car and horse stood in waiting, accompanied by two men, who, the moment they saw me, sprang forward to Darby’s assistance, and helped to place me on the car. M’Keown was soon beside me, and supporting my head upon his shoulder, he contrived to hold me in a leaning position, giving me at the same time the full benefit of the cool breeze, which already refreshed and restored me.

The vehicle now moved on in darkness and in silence. At first our pace was slow, but it gradually quickened as we passed along the quay; for as such I recognized it by the dull sound of the river near us. The bright lamps of the greater thoroughfares soon made their appearance; and as we traversed these, I could mark that our pace slackened to a walk, and that we kept the very middle of the wide street, as if to avoid observation. Gradually we emerged from this, and, as I heard by the roll of the wheels, reached the outskirts of the town. We had not been many minutes there when the horse was put to his speed, and the car whirled along at a tremendous rate. Excepting a sense of weight and stiffness in the side, I had no painful feeling from my wound; while the rapidity with which we passed through the air imparted a sensation of drowsiness far from unpleasant.

In this state I scarcely was conscious of what passed about me. Now and then some occasional halt, some chance interruption, would momentarily arouse me, and I could faintly hear the sound of voices; but of what they spoke I knew nothing. Darby frequently questioned me, but my utmost effort at reply was to press his hand. By times it would seem to me as though all I felt were but the fancies of some sick dream, which the morning should dispel and scatter. Then I thought that we were flying from an enemy, who pressed hotly on us, and gained at every stride; a vague, shadowy sense of some horrible event mingling with all, and weighing heavily on my heart.

As the time wore on, my senses became clearer, and I saw that we were travelling along the seaside. The faint gray light of breaking day shed a cold gleam across the green water, which plashed with a mournful cadence on the low, flat shore. I watched the waves as they beat with a heavy sough amid the scattered weeds, where the wild cry of the curlew mingled with the sound as he skimmed along the gloomy water, and my heart grew heavier. There is something – I know not what – terribly in unison with our saddest thoughts, in the dull plash of the sea at night: the loudest thunders of the storm, when white-crested waves rise high and break in ten thousand eddies on the dark rocks, are not so suggestive of melancholy as the sighing moan of the midnight tide. Long-buried griefs, long-forgotten sorrows, rise up as we listen; and we feel as though that wailing cry were the funeral chant over cherished hopes and treasured aspirations.

From my dark musings I was roused suddenly by Darby’s voice, asking of the men who sat at the opposite side how the wind was.

“Westing by south,” replied one; “as fair as need be, if there was enough of it. But who knows, we may have a capful yet, when the sun gets up.”

“We ‘ll not have long to wait for that,” cried the other; “see there!”

I lifted my eyes as he spoke, and beheld the pink stain of coming day rising above the top of a large mountain.

“That’s Howth,” said Darby, seizing with eagerness the proof of my returning senses.

“Come, press on as fast as you can,” said one of the men; “we must catch the ebb, or we’ll never do it.”

“Where does she lie?” said Darby, in a low whisper.

“Under the cliffs, in Bolskaton Bay,” said the last speaker, whom I now perceived by his dress and language to be a sailor.

My curiosity was now excited to the utmost to know whither we were bound; and with an effort I articulated the one word, “Where?”

Darby’s eyes brightened as I spoke; he pressed my hand firmly within his, but made no reply. Attributing his silence to caution, I pressed him no further; and indeed, already my former indifference came back on me, and I felt listless as before.

“Turn off there to the right,” cried the sailor to the driver. And suddenly we left the highroad, and entered a narrow byway, which seemed to lead along the side of the mountain close to the water’s edge. Before we had proceeded far in this direction, a long, low whistle was heard from a distance.

“Stop there, stop!” said the sailor, as he knelt upon the car, and replied to the signal. “Ay, all right; there they are,” said he, as, pointing to a little creek between the rocks below us, we saw a small rowboat with six men lying on their oars.

“Can’t he walk?” said the sailor, in a half whisper, as he stood beside the car. “Well, let ‘s lose no more time; we ‘ll take him down between us.”

“No, no,” said Darby; “put him on my back; I ‘ll do it myself.”

“The ground’s slippier than you take it,” said the other; “my way ‘s the safest.”

With that he lifted me from the car, and placing me between Darby and himself, they grasped each other’s hands beneath me, and soon began a descent which I saw would have been perfectly impracticable for one man to have accomplished with another on his back.

During the time, my desire to know where they were bringing me again grew stronger than ever; and as I turned to ask Darby, I perceived that the tears were coursing each other fast down his weatherbeaten cheeks, while his lips shook and trembled like one in an ague.

“Mind your footing there, my man, I say,” cried the sailor, “or you’ll have us over the cliff.”

“Round the rock to the left there,” cried a voice from below. “That’s it, that’s it; now you’re all right. Steady there; give me your hand.”

As he spoke, two men advanced from the boat, and assisted us down the sloping beach, where the wet seaweed made every step a matter of difficulty.

“Lay him in the stern there; gently, lads, gently,” said the voice of one who appeared the chief amongst them. “That’s it; throw those jackets under his head. I say, piper, ar’n’t you coming with us?”

But Darby could not speak one word. A livid pallor was over his features, and the tears fell, drop by drop, upon his cheek.

“Master Tom,” said he, at length, as his lips almost touched me, “my child, my heart’s blood, you won’t forget poor Darby. Ye ‘ll be a great man yet; ye ‘ll be all I wish ye. But will you remember a poor man like me?”

“Jump ashore there, my good fellow,” cried the coxswain; “we’ll have enough to do to round the point before the tide ebbs.”

“One minit more, and God love ye for it,” said Darby, in a voice of imploring accent. “Who knows will we ever meet again; ‘t is the last time, maybe, I ‘ll ever look on him.”

I could but press his hand to my heart; for my agitation increased the debility I felt, and every effort to speak was in vain.

“One half minit more, – if it ‘s only that he ‘ll be able to say, ‘God bless you, Darby!’ and I ‘ll be happy.”

“Push off, my lads!” shouted the sailor, sternly; and as he spoke the oars plashed heavily in the sea, and the boat rocked over with the impulse. Twice the strong stroke of the oars sent the craft through the clear water, when the piper clasped his arm wildly around me, and kissing me on the cheek, he sprang over the side. The waves were nearly to his shoulders; but in a few seconds he had buffeted through them, and stood upon the shore.

With a last effort I waved my hand in adieu; and as I sank back exhausted, I heard a wild cry burst from him, half in triumph, half in despair. One glance more I caught of his figure as we stood out to sea; he was kneeling on the beach, bareheaded, and as if in prayer. The tears gushed from my eyes as I beheld him, and the long pent up sorrow at last broke forth, and I sobbed like a child.

“Come, come, my lad! don’t feel downhearted,” said the sailor, laying his hand on my shoulder; “the world can scarce have been over rough to one so young as you are. Lift up your head, and see what a glorious morning we ‘ve got! And there comes the breeze over the water. We hadn’t such weather the last time we made this trip, I assure you.”

I looked up suddenly; and truly never did such a scene of loveliness meet my eyes. The sun had risen in all his glorious brilliancy, and poured a flood of golden light across the bay, tipping with a violet hue the far-off peaks of the Wicklow mountains, and lighting up the wooded valleys at their feet. Close above us rose the rugged sides of Howth in dark shadow; the frowning rocks and gloomy caverns contrasting with the glittering tints of the opposite coast, where every cottage and cliff sparkled in the dancing sunlight.

As we rounded the point, a cheer broke from the men, and was answered at once. I turned my head, and saw beneath the tall cliffs the taper spars of a small vessel, from which the sails hung listlessly, half brailed to the mast.

“There she lies,” said the skipper. “That ‘s the ‘Saucy Sal,’ my master; and if you’re any judge of a craft, I think you ‘ll like her. Give way, lads, – give way; when that rock yonder ‘s covered, the tide is at the flood.”

The boat sprang to the strong jerk of their brawny arms, and in a few minutes glided into the little creek where the “Saucy Sal” lay at anchor.

Lifting me up, they placed me on board the little vessel; while, without losing a moment, they proceeded to ship the anchor and shake out the canvas. In less than five minutes the white sails bent to the breeze, the water rustled at the prow, and we stood out to sea.

“Where to?” said I, in a faint whisper, to the sailor who held the tiller beside me.

“Down Channel, sir.”

“And then?” asked I once more, – “and then?”

“That must depend on the revenue cruisers, I believe,” said he, more gruffly, and evidently indisposed to further questioning.

Alas! I had too little interest in life to care for where, and laying my head upon my arm, fell into a heavy stupor for several hours.

The hot sun, the breeze, the unaccustomed motion, and worse than all, the copious libations of brandy and water I was forced from time to time to take, gradually brought on fever; and before evening, a burning thirst and throbbing headache seized me, and my senses, that hitherto had been but lethargic, became painfully acute, and my reason began to wander. In this state I remained for days, totally unconscious of the flight of time; frightful images of the past pursuing each other through my heated brain, and torturing me with horrors unspeakable.

It was in one of my violent paroxysms I tore the bandage from my side, and reopening my half-healed wound, became in a moment deluged with blood. I have no memory of aught that followed; the debility of almost death itself succeeded, and I lay without sense or motion. To this circumstance I owed my life, for when I next rallied the fever had left me, my senses were unclouded, my cheek no longer burned, nor did my temples throb; and as the sea breeze played across my face, I drank it in with ecstasy, and felt once more the glorious sensations of returning health.