Tom Burke Of "Ours", Volume I

My change of costume was soon effected, and my wound, which turned out to be a trifling one, looked after. I took a farewell look at the old walls, and stepped after my companion down the boreen.

“If we make haste,” said Darby, “we’ll be beyond Shannon Harbor before day; and then, when we ‘re on the canal, we ‘ll easy get a lift in some of the boats going to Dublin.”

“And are you for Dublin?” inquired I, eagerly.

“Yes. I’m to be there on the twenty-fourth of this month, please God. There ‘s a meeting of the friends of Ireland to be then, and some resolutions will be taken about what ‘s to be done. There ‘s bad work going on in the Parliament.”

“Indeed, Darby! What is it?”

“Oh! you couldn’t understand it well. But it’s just as if we war n’t to have anything to say to governing ourselves; only to be made slaves of, and sent abroad to fight for the English, that always hate us and abuse us.”

“And are we going to bear with this?” cried I, passionately.

“No,” said Darby, laying his hand on my shoulder, – “no; not at least if we had twenty thousand like you, my brave boy. But you’ll hear everything yourself soon. And now, let me attend to your education a bit, for we’re not out of the enemy’s country.”

Darby now commenced his code of instruction to me, by which I learned that I was to perform a species of second to him in all minstrelsy; not exactly on the truest principles of harmony, but merely alternating with him in the verses of his songs. These, which were entirely of his own composition, were all to be learned, – and orally, too, for Mister M’Keown was too jealous of his copyright ever to commit them to writing, and especially charged me never to repeat any lyric in the same neighborhood.

“It’s not only the robbery I care for,” quoth Darby, “but the varmints desthroys my poethry completely; some’ times changing the words, injuring the sentiments, and even altering the tune. Now, it’s only last Tuesday I heerd ‘Behave politely,’ to the tune of ‘Look how he sarved me!’”

Besides the musical portion of my education, there was another scarcely less difficult to be attended to: this was, the skilful adaptation of our melodies, not only to the prevailing tastes of the company, but to their political and party bearings; Darby supplying me with various hints how I was to discover at a moment the peculiar bias of any stranger’s politics.

“The boys,” said Darby, thereby meaning his own party, “does be always sly and careful, and begin by asking, maybe, for ‘Do you incline?’ or ‘Crows in the barley,’ or the like. Then they ‘ll say, ‘Have you anything new, Mister M’Keown, from up the country?’ ‘Something sweet, is it?’ says I. ‘Ay, or sour, av ye have it,’ they ‘ll ‘say. ‘Maybe ye’d like “Vinegar-hill,” then,’ says I. Arrah, you’d see their faces redden up with delight; and how they ‘ll beat time to every stroke of the tune, it ‘s a pleasure to play for them. But the yeos (meaning the yeomen) will call out mightily, – ‘Piper! halloo there! piper, I say, rise The Boyne water, or Croppies lie down.’”

“And of course you refuse, Darby?”

“Refuse! Refuse, is it? and get a bayonet in me? Devil a bit, my dear. I ‘ll play it up with all the spirit I can; and nod my head to the tune, and beat the time with my heel and toe; and maybe, if I see need of it, I fasten this to the end of the chanter, and that does the business entirely.”

Here Darby took from the lining of his hat a bunch of orange ribbon, whose faded glories showed it had done long and active service in the cause of loyalty.

I confess Darby’s influence over me did not gain any accession of power by this honest avowal of his political expediency; and the bold assertion of a nation’s wrongs, by which at first he won over my enthusiasm, seemed sadly at variance with this truckling policy. He was quicksighted enough to perceive what was passing in my mind, and at once remarked, —

“‘Tis a hard part we’re obliged to play, Master Tom; but one comfort we have, – it ‘s only a short time we ‘ll need it. You know the song? “Here he broke into the popular tune of the day: —

“‘And the French will come again,Says the Shan van vaugh;And they ‘ll bring ten thousand men.Says the Shan van vaugh;And with powder and with ball,For our rights we ‘ll loudly call:Don’t you think they ‘ll hear us then!Says the Shan van vaugh.’

Ye must larn that air, Master Tom. And see, now, the yeos is as fond of it as the boys; only remember to put their own words to it, – and devil a harm in that same when one ‘s not in earnest. See, now, I believe it ‘s a natural pleasure for an Irishman to be humbugging somebody; and faix, when there ‘s nobody by he ‘d rather be taking a rise out of himself than doing nothing. It ‘s the way that ‘s in us, God help us! Sure it ‘s that same makes us sich favorites with the ladies, and gives us a kind of native janius for coortin’:

“‘'T is the look of his eye,And a way he can sigh,Makes Paddy a darlin’ wherever he goes;With a sugary brogue.Ye ‘d hear the rogueCheat the girls before their nose.’

And why not? Don’t they like to be chated, when they ‘re sure to win after all, – to win a warm heart and a stout arm to fight for them?”

This species of logic I give as a specimen of Mister M’Keown’s power of, if not explaining away a difficulty, at least getting out of all reach of it, – an attribute almost as Irish as the cause it was ‘employed to defend.

As we journeyed along, Darby maintained a strict reserve as to the event which had required his presence in Athlone; nor did he allude to the mayor but passingly, observing that he did n’t know how it happened that a Dublin magistrate should have come up to these parts, – “though, to be sure, he ‘s a great friend of the Right Honorable.”

“And who is he?” asked I.

“The Right Honorable! Don’t you know, then? Why, I did n’t think there was a child in the county could n’t tell that. Sure, it ‘s Denis Browne himself.”

The name seemed at once to suggest a whole flood of recollections; and Darby expatiated for hours long on the terrible power of a man by whose hands life and death were distributed, without any aid from judge or jury, – thus opening to me another chapter of the lawless tyranny to which he was directing my attention, and by which he already saw my mind was greatly influenced.

About an hour after daybreak we arrived at a small cabin; which served as a lockhouse on the canal side. It needed not the cold, murky sky, nor the ceaseless pattering of the rain, to make this place look more comfortless and miserable than anything I had ever beheld. Around, for miles in extent, the country was one unbroken flat, without any trace of wood, or even a single thorn hedge, to relieve the eye. Low, marshy meadows, where the rank flaggers and reedy grass grew tall and luxuriant, with here and there some stray patches of tillage, were girt round by vast plains of bog, cut up into every variety of trench and pit. The cabin itself, though slated and built of stone, was in bad repair; the roof broken in many places, and the window mended with pieces of board, and even straw. As we came close. Darby remarked that there was no smoke from the chimney, and that the door was fastened on the outside.

“That looks bad,” said he, as he stopped short about a dozen paces from the hovel, and looked steadily at it; “they’ve taken him too!”

“Who is it, Darby?” said I; “what did he do?”

M’Keown paid no attention to my question, but unfastening the hasp, which attached the door without any padlock, entered. The fire was yet alive on the hearth, and a small stool drawn close to it showed where some one had been sitting. There was nothing unusual in the appearance of the cabin; the same humble furniture and cooking utensils lying about as were seen in any other. Darby, however, scrutinized everything most carefully, looking everywhere and into everything; till at last, reaching his hand above the door, he pulled out from the straw of the thatch a small piece of dirty and crumpled paper, which he opened with the greatest care and attention, and then flattening it out with his hand, began to read it over to himself, his eye flashing and his cheek growing redder as he pored over it. At last he broke silence with, —

“‘T is myself never doubted ye, Tim, my boy. Look at that, Master Tom. But sure, you wouldn’t understand it, after all. The yeos took him up last night. ‘T is something about cutting the canal and attacking the boat that ‘s again’ him; and he left that there – that bit of paper – to give the boys courage that he wouldn’t betray them’ That ‘s the way the cause will prosper, – if we ‘ll only stick by one another. For many a time, when they take a man up, they spread it about that he’s turned informer against the rest; and then the others gets careless, and don’t mind whether they’re taken or not.”

Darby replaced the piece of paper carefully; and then, listening for a moment, exclaimed, – “I hear the boat coming; let’s wait for it outside.”

While he employed himself in getting his pipes into readiness, I could not help ruminating on the strength of loyalty to one another the poor people observed amid every temptation and every seduction; how, in the midst of such misery as theirs, neither threats nor bribery seemed to influence them, was a strong testimony in favor of their truth, and, to such a reasoner as I was, a no less cogent argument for the goodness of the cause that elicited such virtues.

As the boat came alongside, I remarked that the deck was without a passenger. Heaps of trunks and luggage littered it the entire way; but the severity of the weather had driven every one under cover, except the steersman and the captain, who, both of them wrapped up in thick coats of frieze, seemed like huge bears standing on their hindquarters.

“How are you, Darby?” shouted the skipper. “Call out that lazy rascal to open the lock.”

“I don’t think he’s at home, sir,” said Darby, as innocently as though he knew nothing of the reason for his absence.

“Not at home! The scoundrel, where can he be, then? Come, youngster,” cried he, addressing me, “take the key there, and open the lock.”

Until this moment, I forgot the character which my dress and appearance assigned to me. But a look from the piper recalled me at once to recollection; and taking up the iron key, I proceeded, under Darby’s instructions, to do what I was desired, while Darby and the captain amused themselves by wondering what had become of Tim, and speculated on the immediate consequences his absence would bring down on him.

“Are you going with us, Darby?” said the captain.

“Faix, I don’t know, sir,” said he, as if hesitating. “Ar there was any gentleman that liked the pipes – ”

“Yes, yes; come along, man,” rejoined the skipper. “Is the boy with you? Very well; come in, youngster.”

We were soon under way again; and Darby, having arranged his instrument to his satisfaction, commenced a very spirited voluntary to announce his arrival. In an instant the cabin door opened, and a red-faced, coarse-looking fellow, in uniform, called out, —

“Halloo, there! is that a piper?”

“Yes, sir,” said Darby, without turning his face round; while, at the same time, he put a question in Irish to the skipper, who answered it with a single word.

“I say, piper, come down here!” cried the yeoman, for such he was, – “come down here, and let ‘s have a tune!”

“I ‘m coming, sir!” cried Darby, standing up; and holding out his hand to me, he called out, – “Tom, alannah, lead me down stairs.”

I looked up in his face, and to my amazement perceived that he had turned up the white of his eyes to represent blindness, and was groping with his hand like one deprived of sight. As any hesitation on my part might have betrayed him at once, I took his hand, and led him along, step by step, to the cabin door.

I had barely time to perceive that all the passengers were habited in uniform, when one of them called out, – “We don’t want the young fellow; let him go back. Piper, sit down here.”

The motion for my exclusion was passed without a negative; and I closed the door, and sat down by myself among the trunks on deck.

For the remainder of the day I saw nothing of Darby, – the shouts of laughter and clapping of hands below stairs occasionally informing me how successful were his efforts to amuse his company; while I had abundant time to think over my own plans, and make some resolutions for the future.

CHAPTER VII. KEVIN STREET

How this long, melancholy day wore on I cannot say. To me it was as gloomy in revery as in its own dismal aspect; the very sounds of mirth that issued from the cabin beneath grated harshly on my ear; and the merry strains of Darby’s pipes and the clear notes of his rich voice seemed like treachery from one who so lately had spoken in terms of heart-breathing emotion of his countrymen and their wrongs. While, therefore, my estimation for my companion suffered, my sorrow for the cause that demanded such sacrifices deepened at every moment, and I panted with eagerness for the moment when I might take my place among the bold defenders of my country, and openly dare our oppressors to the battle. All that M’Keown had told me of English tyranny and oppression was connected in my mind with the dreadful scene I had so lately been a witness to, and for the cause of which I looked no further than an act of simple hospitality. From this I wandered on to the thought of those brave allies who had deserted their career of Continental glory to share our almost hopeless fortunes here; and how I burned to know them, and learn from them something of a soldier’s ardor.

Night had fallen when the fitful flashing of lamps between the tall elms that lined the banks announced our approach to the capital. There is something dreadfully depressing in the aspect of a large city, to the poor, unfriended youth, who without house or home is starting upon his life’s journey. The stir, the movement, the onward tide of population, intent on pleasure or business, are things in which he has no part. The appearance of wealth humiliates, while the sight of poverty affrights him; and, while every one is animated by some purpose, he alone seems like a waif thrown on the shores of life, unclaimed, unlocked for. Thus did I feel among that busy crowd who now pressed to the deck, gathering together their luggage, and preparing for departure. Some home awaited each of these, – some hearth, some happy faces to greet their coming. But I had none of these. This was a sorrowful thought; and as I brooded over it, my head sank upon my knees, and I saw nothing of what was going forward about me.

“Tom,” whispered a low voice in my ear, – “Master Tom, don’t delay, my dear; let us slip out here. The soldiers want me to go with them to their billets, and I have promised; but I don’t mean to do it.”

I looked up. It was Darby, buttoned up in his coat, his pipes unfastened for the convenience of carriage.

“Slip out after me at the lock here; it ‘s so dark we ‘ll never be seen.”

Keeping my eye on him, I elbowed my way through the crowded deck, and sprang out just as the boat began her forward movement.

“Here we are, all safe!” said Darby, patting me on the shoulder. “And now that I ‘ve time to ask you, did you get your dinner, my child?”

“Oh yes; the captain brought me something to eat.”

“Come, that’s right, anyhow. Glory be to God! I ate heartily of some bacon and greens; though the blackguards – bad luck to them for the same! – made me eat an orange lily whole, afraid the greens, as they said, might injure me.”

“I wonder. Darby,” said I, “that you haven’t more firmness than to change this way at every moment.”

“Firmness, is it? Faix, it’s firm enough I’d be, and Stiff, too, if I did n’t. Sure it ‘s the only way now at all. Wait, my honey, till the time comes round for ourselves, and faix, you ‘ll never accuse me of coorting their favor; but now, at this moment, you perceive, we must do it to learn their plans. What do you think I got to-night? I learned all the signs the yeos have when they ‘re drinking together, and what they say at each sign. Thers ‘s a way they have of gripping the two little fingers together that I’ll not forget soon.”

For some time we walked on at a rapid pace, without exchanging more than an occasional word. At last we entered a narrow, ill-lighted street, which led from the canal harbor to one of the larger and wider thoroughfares.

“I almost forget the way here,” said Darby, stopping and looking about him.

At last, unable to solve the difficulty, he leaned over the half-door of a shop, and called out to a man within, “Can you tell where is Kevin Street?”

“No. 39?” said the man, after looking at him steadily for a moment.

Darby stroked down one side of his face with his hand slowly; a gesture immediately imitated by the other man.

“What do you know?” said Darby.

“I know ‘U,’” replied the man.

“And what more?”

“I know ‘N’”

“That ‘ill do,” said Darby, shaking hands with him cordially. “Now, tell me the way, for I have no time to spare.”

“Begorra! you ‘re in as great haste as if ye were Darby the Blast himself. Ye ‘ll come in and take a glass?”

Darby only laughed, and again excusing himself, he asked the way; which having learned, he wished his newly-made friend good-night, and we proceeded.

“They know you well hereabouts; by name, at least,” said I, when we had walked on a little.

“That they do,” said Darby, proudly. “From Wexford to Belfast there ‘s few does n’t know me; and they ‘ll know more of me, av I ‘m right, before I die.”

This he spoke with more of determination than I ever heard him use previously.

“Here ‘s the street now; there ‘s the lamp, – that one with the two burners there. Faix, we ‘ve made good track since morning, anyhow.”

As he spoke we entered a narrow passage, through which the street lamp threw a dubious half-light. This conducted us to a small paved court, crossing which we arrived at the door of a large house. Darby knocked in a peculiar manner, and the door was speedily opened by a man who whispered something, to which M’Keown made answer in the same low tone.

“I ‘m glad to see you again,” said the man, louder, as he made way for him to pass.

I pushed forward to follow, when suddenly a strong arm was stretched across my breast, and a gruff voice asked, – “Who are you?”

Darby stepped back, and said something in his ear. The other replied, sturdily, in the negative; and although Darby, as it appeared, used every power of persuasion he possessed, the man was inexorable.

At last, when the temper of both appeared nearly giving way. Darby turned to me, and said, – “Wait for me a moment, Tom, where you are, and I ‘ll come for you.”

So saying, he disappeared, and the door closed at the same time, leaving me in darkness on the outside. My patience was not severely taxed; ere five minutes the door opened, and Darby, followed by another person, appeared.

“Mr. Burke,” said this latter, with the tone of voice that at once bespoke a gentleman, “I am proud to know you.” He grasped my hand warmly as he spoke, and shook it affectionately. “I esteem it an honor to be your sponsor here. Can you find your way after me? This place is never lighted; but I trust you ‘ll know it better ere long.”

Muttering some words of acknowledgment, I followed my unseen acquaintance along the dark corridor.

“There’s a step, here,” cried he; “and now mind the stairs.”

A long and winding flight conducted us to a landing, where a candle was burning in a tin sconce. Here my conductor turned round.

“Your Christian name is Thomas, I believe,” said he. At the same moment, as the light fell on me, he started suddenly back, with an air of mingled astonishment and chagrin. “Why, M’Keown, you told me – ” The rest of the sentence was lost in a whisper.

“It ‘s a disguise I made him wear,” said Darby. “He ‘d no chance of escaping the country without it.”

“I ‘m not speaking of that,” retorted the other, angrily.

“It is his age, I mean; he’s only a boy. How old are you, sir?” continued he, addressing me, but with far less courtesy than before.

“Old enough to live for my country; or die for it either, if need be,” said I, haughtily.

“Bravo, my darling!” cried the piper, slapping me on the shoulder with enthusiasm.

“That’s not exactly my question,” said the stranger, smiling good-naturedly; “I want to know your age.”

“I was fourteen in August,” said I.

“I had rather you could say twenty,” responded he, thoughtfully. “This is a sad mistake of yours, Darby. What dependence can be placed on a child like this? He’s only a child, after all.”

“He’s a child I’ll go bail for with my head,” said Darby.

“Your head has fully as much on it as it is fit to carry,” said the other, in a tone of rebuke. “Have you told him anything of the object and intentions of this Society? But of course you have revealed everything. Well, I ‘ll not be a party to this business. Young gentleman,” continued he, in a voice of earnest and impressive accent, “all I know of you is the few particulars this man has stated respecting your unfriended position, and the cruelty to which you fear to expose yourself in trusting to the guardianship of Mr. Basset. If these reasons have induced you, from recklessness and indifference, to risk your life, by association with men who are actuated by high and noble principles, then, I say, you shall not enter here. If, however, aware of the object and intentions of our Union, you are desirous to aid us, young though you be, I shall not refuse you.”

“That’s it,” interrupted Darby; “if you feel in your heart a friend to your country – ”

“Silence!” said the other, harshly; “let him decide for himself.”

“I neither know your intentions, nor even guess at them,” said I, frankly. “My destitution, and the poor prospect before me, make me, as you suppose, indifferent to what I embark in, provided that it be not dishonorable.

“It is not danger that will deter me, that ‘s all I can promise you.”

“I see,” said the stranger, “this is but another of your pranks, Mr. M’Keown; the young gentleman was to be kidnapped amongst us. One thing,” said he, turning to me, “I feel assured of, that anything you have witnessed here is safe within your keeping; and now we’ll not press the matter further. In a few days you can hear, and make up your mind on all these things; and as you are not otherwise provided, let us make you our guest in the mean while.”

Without giving me time to reply, he led me downstairs again, and unlocking a room on the second floor, passed through several rooms, until he reached one comfortably fitted up like a study.

“You must be satisfied with a sofa here for to-night but to-morrow I will make you more comfortable.”

I threw my eyes over the well-filled bookshelf with delight, and was preparing to thank him for all his kindness to me, when he added, —

“I must leave you now, but we ‘ll meet to-morrow; so good-night. Come along, M’Keown; we shall want you presently.”

I would gladly have detained Darby to interrogate him about my new abode and its inhabitants; but he was obliged to obey, and I heard the door locked as they closed it on the outside, and shortly after the sounds of their feet died away, and I was left in silence.

Determined to con over, and if possible explain to myself, the mystery of my position, I drew my sofa towards the fire and sat down; but fatigue, stronger than all my curiosity, had the mastery, and I was soon sound asleep.

CHAPTER VIII. NO. 39, AND ITS FREQUENTERS

When my eyes opened the following morning, it was quite pardonable in me if I believed I was still dreaming. The room, which I had scarcely time to look at the previous evening, now appeared handsomely, almost richly furnished. Books in handsome bindings covered the shelves, prints in gilded frames occupied the walls, and a large mirror filled the space above the chimney. Various little articles of taste, in bronze and marble, were scattered about, and a silver tea equipage of antique pattern graced a small table near the fire. A pair of splendidly mounted pistols hung at one side of the chimney glass, and a gorgeously gilt sabre occupied the other.

While I took a patient survey of all these, and was deliberately examining myself as to how and when I had first made their acquaintance, a voice from an adjoining room, the door of which lay open, exclaimed, —