The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Continuing for a brief space in this strain, the letter went on to mention that the sudden return of Mark had left the writer no alternative but to venture on this correspondence, whatever the consequences – consequences which, the writer palpably inferred, might prove of the last moment to himself. The explanation – and, for the reader’s sake, it is better to spare him Hemsworth’s involved narrative, and merely give its substance – was chiefly, that information of Mark O’Donoghue’s complicity in the plot of the United Irish party had been tendered to Government, and supported by such evidence that a Judge’s warrant was issued for his apprehension and the seizure of all his papers; partly from friendly interference – this was dubiously and delicately put by Hemsworth – and partly from the fact that his extreme youth and ignorance of the real views of the insurgents were pleaded in his favour, the execution of this warrant was delayed, and the young man suffered to go at large. So long as he withdrew himself from the company of the other conspirators, and avoided publicity, the Government was willing to wink at the past. It had been, however, determined on, that should he either be found mixed up with any of the leaders of the movement in future, or should he venture to return to Glenflesk, where his influence amongst the peasantry was well known to, and apprehended by the Government, then there should no longer be any hesitation in the line to be followed. He was immediately to be apprehended and sent up under a sufficient escort to Dublin, to take his trial, with five others, for high treason. The proofs of his guilt were unquestionable, consisting of letters written and received, conversations to which witnesses could depose, as well as an intimacy for months long with Barrington, whose active participation in the schemes of rebellion was as well known, as the notorious fact of his being a convicted felon. To found a hope upon his innocence was thus shown to be perfectly impossible. His most trusted associates were the evidence against him; documents in his hand-writing were also in the hands of the law-officers of the Crown, and, in fact, far more than enough to bring him to the scaffold.

Hemsworth, who gently hinted all through, how far his interference had been beneficial, was one of those entrusted with Mark’s arrest, should he ever dare to re-appear in his native country. The orders of the Privy Council on this score were positive and clear, and admitted of no possible misconception.

“You may judge, then,” continued he, “what were my feelings on seeing him suddenly enter the house last night – to think that, while I was enjoying the pleasure of your society, and the hospitable attentions of your home, I had actually in my pocket at the moment the official order to apprehend the eldest son of my entertainer – the friend and companion of your childhood – to bring grief and mourning beneath the roof where I had passed so many happy hours – to dispel all the dreams I had begun to nourish of a neighbourhood connected by ties of kindness and good will. I had to choose between the alternative of this, or else, by a palpable avoidance of my duty, criminate myself, and leave my conduct open to the most dangerous comments of my enemies. The latter involved only myself. I have adopted it, and before this letter reaches your hands, I shall be on my way up to Dublin, nominally to attend the Council, but in reality to escape the necessity my onerous position would impose. None save those beneath your roof know that I have met Mr. Mark O’Donoghue, and I shall be half-way to Dublin before his arrival in the country is suspected. So much, in brief, for the past and the present. Now for the future. There are two courses open to this young gentleman, or to those who would serve and befriend him. One is, by a free and unlimited confession to the Government of all the circumstances of the plot, so far as they have come to his knowledge, the parties interested, their several shares in the undertaking, with every detail of date and time, to sue for a pardon for himself – a grace which, I need scarcely say, I will use all my influence to obtain. The other mode is, by a temporary exile; to withdraw himself from the notice of the Government, until the danger having perfectly passed over, political acrimony will have abated, and the necessity for making severe examples of guilt be no longer urgent. This latter course I opine to be preferable, on many grounds. It demands no sacrifice of private feeling – no surrender of honour. It merely provides for safety, reserving the future untrammelled by any pledge. Neither need the absence be long; a year or two at farthest; the probabilities are, that with their present knowledge of the schemes of the insurgents, the Government can either precipitate events, or retard and protract them at will. Their policy, in this respect, depending on the rank and importance of those who, by either line of procedure, would be delivered into their hands. Arguing from what they have already done, I should pronounce it likely that their game will be to wait, to weaken the hopes and break the spirit of the United party, by frequent defections; to sow distrust and suspicion amongst them, and thus, while avoiding the necessity of bloodshed, to wear out rebellion by a long and lingering fear. If, then, others, whose age and position involved a greater prominence in these schemes, would require a longer banishment to erase the memory of the acts, your young relative, who has both youth and its rashness to plead for him, need not reckon on so lengthened an absence from his native land.

“Above all things, however, remember that not an hour is to be lost. Any moment may disclose to the Crown some new feature of the plot, and may call forth measures of stringent severity, The proclamation offering a reward for the apprehension of four persons, of whom your cousin is one, is already printed, and in the office of the Secretary.

An hour would see it all over the walls of the capital, in a day or two more, it would reach every remote corner, of the land. Then, all efforts on my part would be ineffectual, were they even possible. Reflect on this. It is not a mere question of fine or even imprisonment. It is life itself is on the issue, and life which, in surrendering, will blast a great name with dishonour, and a great house with obloquy and shame; for there has been no struggle, no effort, no bold and generous exposure to danger, to palliate treason, and gloss over its faults. All has been plotting and contriving for alien assistance and foreign help; no selfreliance, no patriotism, which, if mistaken, was still sincere and manly. Reflect on all this, and think that a life offered up in such a cause has no martyrdom to throw lustre on the grave shared with the felon and the highwayman. Forgive me if, in the warmth of my zeal, I have said one word which may offend. If I had not spoken thus forcibly, I should be a traitor to my own heart.

“I have written hurriedly, and I doubt not, in some respects, unadvisedly; but the sincerity of my purpose will plead for me, should the indiscretion of my zeal require apology. You will, perhaps, ask why I should have imposed a task difficult as this upon you – why I should have loaded you with a responsibility so weighty? My answer is simply, I dared not write to the O’Donoghue on the subject of his son’s indiscretion – to impugn the acts of the young man, would be to forfeit all influence with the old one. You will then say, why not address Sir Archibald? For the simple reason, that the prejudices of his country are too strong in him to make due allowances for those who err from excitable or impetuous natures; not only would he judge too harshly of Mark, but he would be anxious to record that judgment as a warning to Herbert, for whom alone he is interested. I therefore make it a strenuous request – nay, more, I esteem it as the term of a compact between us, that you do not show this letter either to the O’Donoghue or to his brother. I have expressed myself openly and candidly to you, but with a tacit assurance that my confidence is not to be extended to others. In the part I have taken, I already incur considerable risk. This is a period when loyalty cannot afford to be even suspected; yet have I jeoparded mine in befriending this youth. I now conclude, dear madam, assuring you that any danger I incur, or any anxiety I feel, will be amply repaid if I only know that you think not unworthily of

“William Hemsworth.”

Sir Archy studied this letter with the patient care a lawyer bestows upon a brief. He thought over each sentence, and weighed the expressions in his mind with deep thought. It had been his fortune, in early life, to have been thrown into situations of no common difficulty, and his mind had, in consequence, acquired a habit of shrewd and piercing investigation, which, though long disused, was not altogether forgotten; by the aid of this faculty, Hemsworth’s letter appeared to him in a very different light from that in which Kate viewed it. The knowledge of every circumstance concerning Mark evinced an anxiety which he was very far from attributing to motives of friendship. Sir Archy well knew the feelings of dislike which subsisted between these two men – how then account for this sudden change on Hemsworth’s part? – to what attribute this wonderful interest concerning him?

“Let us see,” said the old man to himself, “let us see the fruit, and then we may pronounce upon the tree. Where and to what does Hemsworth’s benevolence point, dishonour or banishment? Such are the terms he offers; such are the alternatives his kindness suggests. Might these have no other motive than friendship? – might they not he the offspring of feelings very different indeed? What benefit might he derive from Mark’s expatriation – that is the question? Does he anticipate easier terms with the old man for the little remnant of property that still pertains to him – or is it merely the leaven of the old hate that still rises in his nature? – or” – and here his eye flashed with brilliancy as a new thought crossed his brain – “or does he suspect Mark of occupying a place in his cousin’s affection, and is rivalry the source of this mysterious good nature?”

This suspicion no sooner occurred to him than Sir Archy recalled to mind all the circumstances of Hemsworth’s recent behaviour – the endeavours he had made to recommend himself to their favourable notice – all his acts to ingratiate himself with Kate – the ample views he affected in politics – the wide-spread generosity of his plans for the amelioration of the people. That his conduct was unreal, that his principles were but assumed for the occasion, the shrewd Scotchman had long suspected; and this letter, so far from dispelling the doubts, increased them tenfold. Besides this, there seemed some reason to fear that Kate was not quite indifferent to him. The disparity of years was so far in his favour, as she could not but feel flattered by the notice of one so conversant with the world and its ways, who had travelled and seen so much, and might in every respect be deemed a competent judge in matters of taste. Any comparison of him with Mark must redound with great advantage to the former. The accomplished scholar, the agreeable and well-bred man of society, was a severe competitor for the half-educated and slovenly youth, whose awkward and bashful manner seemed rather ill-temper than mere diffidence. Mark was himself conscious of the disadvantages he laboured under, and although Sir Archy had few fears that such an admirer was likely to win favour with the gay and capricious girl, whose foreign habits had taught her to value social qualities at the highest price, still, there was a chance that Hemsworth might have thought differently, and that jealousy was the secret of the whole scheme. Kate, with her ten thousand pounds of a rent-charge, might be a very reasonable object of Hemsworth’s ambition; and when already he had absorbed so large a portion of the family estates, this additional lien would nearly make him master of the entire. It was, then, perfectly possible that this was his game, and that in withdrawing Mark from the scene, he both calculated on the gratitude his generosity would evoke, and more securely provided for his own success. While Sir Archy thus pondered over Hemsworth’s motives, he did not neglect the more pressing consideration of Mark’s danger. It was evident that he had taken an active part in the insurrectionary movement, and without the slightest precautions for his personal safety. The first care, therefore, was to see and learn from him the full extent of his danger, what proofs there existed against him, and what evidence, either in writing or otherwise, might be adduced to his disadvantage.

“Tell me, frankly and freely, Mark,” said he, aloud, as he arose and paced the room; “tell me, openly, how you stand, who are your betrayers, what your dangers, and I’ll answer for it the peril may be averted.”

“I have come to do so, sir,” said a voice behind him – and Mark O’Donoghue was standing at the door.

CHAPTER XXXVIII. TAMPERING AND PLOTTING

While they who meditated the invasion of Ireland were thoroughly informed on the state of parties, and the condition of public opinion in that kingdom, the English Government were satisfied with vague and insufficient rumours of those intentions, derived from sources of questionable accuracy, or communicated by persons in the pay of their opponents. Certain it is, neither the magnitude of the peril was appreciated, nor its nearness suspected. Many, in England, regarded the whole in the light of a menace, and believed that the embarrassments of the French Directory were quite sufficient to withdraw their thoughts from foreign aggression, to troubles nearer home. Their great want of money, arms, and all the munitions of war, was well known and trusted to as a guarantee of security. Others supposed that a rash attempt might be made, but were equally sure of its being defeated by our naval forces before a landing could be effected; and many more believed that the pretence of foreign aid was but a threat of the malcontents at home, to enforce compliance with their demands. The event itself was to show how unfounded were all these calculations, and how little reason we had to regard our security as derived from our own measures of foresight and precaution.

Constituted as the French Government of the day was, nothing would have been easier than to have ample knowledge of all the projects. The men in high situations were newly elevated to power, from positions of very humble pretension, with no habits of public business, no experience of the mode of conducting difficult affairs, and many of them of very questionable character for integrity; and yet, with these opportunities at our disposal, a few scattered facts, ill-authenticated and vague, were all that our Government attained to; and even these were unattended to, save when they implicated the conduct of some suspected character nearer home; then, indeed, party violence assumed an appearance of statesmanlike vigilance, and crown prosecutions and ex-officio informations, seemed the safeguard of the empire.

On occasions of this kind, the activity of the Government was most remarkable, and while the great question of national security was overlooked, no pains were spared to track out the narrow path where some insignificant treason was plodding, and bring the plotter to the scaffold. Large sums of money were spent in obtaining secret information, and the whole science of government was reduced to a system of “espionage.” This little-minded and narrow policy was, in a great measure, the consequence of entrusting so much of the Government to the influence of the lawyers, who, regarding everything through the light of their own profession, placed the safety of the empire on the success of a crown prosecution.

It was at a moment when this favourite policy was in the ascendant, that Hemsworth reached Dublin, little aware, indeed, how far events there, were hastening forward the catastrophe for which he was interested. Lanty Lawler, who for a long time had never communicated, save to Hemsworth, his knowledge of the United Irish movement, had, at length, become alarmed for his own safety; and putting but slight trust in Hemsworth’s good faith, should any calamity befall him, had come forward and revealed to Major Sirr all that he knew of the plot, the names of several parties implicated, and in particular the whole history of Mark O’Donoghue’s complicity. The information came well-timed. The crown lawyers were desirous of exhibiting the parade of a state prosecution, and all the ordinary measures were taken to secure its success. Lanty, now a prisoner in Newgate, but, with the promise of a free pardon and a reward, had been repeatedly examined by the Attorney and Solicitor-general, and his statement found perfectly accurate and consistent. He narrated the various interviews he had been present at among the Delegates in Dublin – the messages he had conveyed from them to different individuals through the country – the depots where pikes and muskets were stored, and the several places of rendezvous agreed upon, whenever the rising should take place. He also revealed many facts of the feeling prevalent among the people, and exemplified the conflicting state of opinion then in the country – how, that many were worn out and discouraged by delay, and believed themselves betrayed by France – while others were full of hope and confidence, eager for the time to come, and ready to incur any peril. While, in all these disclosures he was most candid and explicit, he never once betrayed the name of Mary M’Kelly, nor even alluded, in any way, to her cabin, as the resort of the French spies, and the secret depot of arms and ammunition, It might have been that in the blackness of his treachery to others, this one spark of better feeling survived towards her – that some lurking affection lingered in a heart dead to every other noble sentiment, or perhaps the lesser motive swayed him, that in excepting her from the general ruin, he was securing to himself one, who as a wife, would bring him no small share of worldly wealth. Either may be the explanation of his conduct, for strange as it may seem, the vilest actions are sometimes conceived with a reserve of conscience, that shows what casuistry guilt requires, and how much the spirit of evil lacks of courage, when it has to borrow the energy to act from even the semblance of something good.

It was not without reluctance, at first, that Lanty ventured on the betrayal of Mark O’Donoghue; nor did he even consent to do so, until his own safety had been threatened by Hemsworth, and also a solemn promise given, that he should never be brought forward to give evidence against him, nor exhibited before the world as an informer. This was the character he most dreaded – it was the only reproach that had any terror for his mind. Gradually, however, and by the frequency of his revelations to Hemsworth, this dread diminished, and in proportion, the fears for his own safety increased. Hemsworth’s game was to make him believe that such depended solely on him – that at any moment he could give information of a character sufficient to convict him – and by this tie was he bound to a man he detested with all his hatred. After much vacillation and doubt it was, that Lanty determined, whatever the consequences to his fame, to make a full disclosure to Government, and only bargain for his own life. Hemsworth’s absence from Dublin afforded the opportunity, and he seized it at once. Such, then, was the position of affairs when Hemsworth reached the capital, and learned that his agent, Lanty, was no longer at his disposition, but at that very moment a prisoner in the gaol of Newgate, strict orders being given that nobody was to be admitted to converse with him without the special leave of the law officers of the crown. Now, although Hemsworth had, personally, little to fear from any disclosure Lanty might make, yet his information might thwart all the plans he had so artfully devised regarding the O’Donoghues; the events impending that family being, up to that moment, perfectly at his own direction and disposal, to delay or precipitate which, constituted the essence of his policy. Mark could not be brought to trial, he well knew, without exhibiting himself in the light of an enemy and an accuser, he being the person to whom Lanty originally communicated his informations. This hostile part would form an impassible obstacle to any success with Kate, and consequently to his great plan of obtaining the Glenflesk estate.

Hemsworth lost not a moment, after his arrival in town, in his endeavours to have an interview with Lanty; and, being on terms of old intimacy with the sheriff, at length persuaded him to grant him a brief opportunity of speaking to him; a permission, under the circumstances, most reluctantly acceded. It was near nine o’clock – the latest hour at which a visit to the gaol was practicable – when Hemsworth presented himself, with the sheriff’s order at the gate. A brief delay ensued, for even on such an authority, the goaler scrupled to deviate from the directions given him, and he was admitted. Following the turnkey for some minutes, through passages and across courts, they reached an angle of the building dedicated to the reception of those who were held over by the crown as “approvers” against their former friends and associates. Many of these had been in confinement several months, the time not having arrived when the evidence, which they were to corroborate, was perfected; and not a few preferring the security of a prison, to the dangers the character of an informer would expose them, to without doors. A confused noise of voices and coarse laughter was heard as they came near, and the turnkey, striking his bunch of keys against a heavy door, called, “Be silent there, b – t ye, there’s more trouble with six of ye than we have with the whole condemned ward,” then turning to Hemsworth, he added, in a lower voice, “them chaps is awaitin’ a passage over seas – they’ve given their evidence long ago, and they’re not wanted now. That one with the cracked voice is Cope, the fellow that tracked Parson Jackson – but here, this is your man’s cell – we cannot give you more than a quarter of an hour, and so, don’t lose anymore time.” Hemsworth laid his hand on the gaoler’s arm as he extended it with the key. “One second – just wait one second,” said he, as he pressed his fingers across his brow, and seemed to reflect, then added, “Yes, that will do – open it now, and I shall be ready to retire whenever you please.”

Whether the sound without had drowned the noise, or that his attention was too much engaged to notice it, Lanty never stirred nor looked round, as the heavy door was unbarred, and fastened again behind Hemsworth. Seated in a recess of the window, and with his face pressed against the iron bars, he was watching, with interest, the movement in the street below, where a considerable number of people went past, their eyes directed upwards, to the front of the building, but all view of which was impossible to him. Hemsworth stood and looked at him for some minutes without speaking – he was as if calculating the very thoughts of the other’s brain – then advancing gently, he laid his hand on Lawler’s shoulder, as he said —

“Ay, Lanty, that’s the reward they get. Two of them are to be turned off to-morrow.”

“Two of whom, sir?” asked Lanty, as, starting at the voice, his face became the colour of death.

“I thought you knew!” said he, affecting astonishment; “they are the approvers against Bond. The Government has no use for the rascals now, and it saves expense to hang them; and so, they tried them for a murder at Sallins, in March last. I hear they were not there; but no matter, they’ve enough to answer for, without that.”

“But, sure, Mr. Hemsworth, they’ll never treat their own friends that way?”

“Wouldn’t they, Lanty! You don’t know them as well as I do. They keep little faith with scoundrels, and more fools the scoundrels for being caught; but I mustn’t lose time; it was that very thing brought me here. I heard this evening the scrape you were in.”

“Me, in a scrape!” exclaimed Lanty, his eyes growing wider with terror.

“To be sure it is, and a devilish ugly scrape, too, my friend: havn’t you given information to the Attorney-general against the young O’Donoghue?”

Lanty nodded, and he went on —

“Havn’t you confessed the whole of the plot, and told them everything?”