The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“And is your dream of Irish independence brought so low as this, Mark – that the freedom you speak of must be won by an alien’s valour?”

“They are no aliens, whose hearts beat alike for liberty. Language, country, seas may divide us, but we are brothers in the glorious cause of humanity. Their swords are with us now, as would be ours for them, did the occasion demand them. Besides, we must teach the traitors, boy, that we can do without them – that if her own sons are false, Ireland has friends as true; and then, woe to them who have betrayed her. Oh, my brother, the brother of my heart, how would I kneel in thankfulness to heaven, if the same hopes that stirred within me were yours also. If the genius you possess were enlisted in the dear cause of your own country – if we could go forth together, hand in hand, and meet danger side by side, as now we stand.”

“My love for you would make the sacrifice, Mark,” said Herbert, as the tears rolled heavily along his cheek; “but my convictions, my reason, my religion, alike forbid it.”

“Your religion, Herbert? – did I hear you aright?”

“You did. I am a Protestant.”

Mark fell back as his brother spoke; a cold leaden tinge spread over his features, and he seemed like one labouring against the sickness of an ague.

“Oh, is it not time!” cried he, as he clasped his hands above his head, and shook them in an agony of emotion – “is it not time to strike the blow, ere every tie that bound us to the land should be rent asunder; rank, place, wealth, and power they have despoiled us of; our faith degraded, our lineage scoffed, and now the very links of blood divided – We have not brothers left us!”

Herbert bent down his head upon his knees, and wept bitterly.

“Who will tell me I have not been tried, now?” continued Mark, in a strain of impassioned sorrow – “deceived on every hand – robbed of my heritage – my friends all false – my father” – he stopped short, for at the moment Herbert looked up, and their eyes met.

“What of our father, Mark?”

“My brain was wandering then,” said Mark, in a broken voice. “Once more I ask forgiveness: we are brothers still; if we be but true of heart to Him who knows all hearts, He will not suffer us to be divided. Can you remain a while with me, Herbert? – I know you don’t mind a rough bivouac.”

“Yes, Mark, I’ll not leave you. All is well at home, and they will guess what cause detained me.” So saying, the two brothers sat down side by side, and with hands clasped firmly in each other, remained sunk in silent thought.

The whole night through they talked together. It was the first moment, for many a long year, since they had unburdened their hearts like brothers, and in the fulness of their affection the most secret thoughts were revealed, save one topic only, of which neither dared to speak, and while each incident of the past was recalled, and friends were mentioned, Mark never once alluded to Kate, nor did Herbert utter the name of Sybella Travers.

Of his plans for the future, Mark made no secret; he had accepted a commission in the French army, on the understanding that an invasion of Ireland was determined on, in the event of which, his services would be of some value. He hoped to reach France by the schooner, which, after landing her cargo near the mouth of the Shannon, was to return at once to Cherbourg; once there, he was to enter the service, and learn its discipline.

“I have made my bargain with them; my face is never to turn from England, till Ireland be free; after that I am theirs, to march on the Rhine or the Danube – where they will. Personal ambition I have none! – to serve as a simple grenadier in the ranks of that army, that shall first plant the standard of liberty here; such is my only compact. Speak to me of defeat or disaster, if you will; but do not endeavour to persuade me against an enterprise I have resolved to go through with, nor try to argue with me, where my impulses are stronger than my reason.”

In this strain Mark spoke, and while Herbert listened in sorrow, he knew too well his brother’s nature, to offer a word of remonstrance in opposition to his determination.

Mark, on his side, led his brother to talk of many of his own plans for the future, where another and a very different ambition was displayed.

Herbert had entered the lists where intellect and genius are the weapons, and in his early triumphs had conceived that passion for success, which once indulged, only dies with life itself. The day broke upon them, thus conversing, and already the sunlight was streaming over the western ocean, as they lay down side by side, and slept.

CHAPTER XLIII. THE CONFEDERATES

The paroxysm which Sir Archibald had witnessed, formed the crisis of Hemsworth’s malady; and on the evening of the same day, his disease had so far abated of its violence, that his delirium had left him, and excessive debility was now the only symptom of great danger remaining. With the return of his faculties, came back his memory, clear and unclouded, of every incident up to the very moment of his accident; and as he lay, weak and wasted on his bed, his mind reverted to the plans and projects of which his illness had interrupted the accomplishment. The excitement of the theme seemed rather to serve than be hurtful to him; and the consciousness of returning health gave a spring to his recovery; fatigue of thought induced deep sleep, and he awoke on the following day refreshed and recruited.

The lapse of time in illness is, probably, one of the most painful thoughts that await upon recovery. The lethargy in which we have been steeped simulates death; while the march of events around us show how insignificant our existence is, and how independently of us the work of life goes on.

When Wylie was summoned to his master’s bed-side, the first question put to him was, what day of the month it was? and his astonishment was, indeed, great, as he heard it was the 16th of December, and that he had been above two months on a sickbed.

“Two months here!” cried he; “and what has happened since?”

“Scarcely anything, sir,” said Wylie, well knowing the meaning of the question. “The country is quiet – the people tranquil. Too much so, perhaps, to last. The young O’Donoghue has not been seen up the glen for several weeks past; but his brother passes frequently from Carrig-na-curra to the coast, and back again, so that there is little doubt of his still being in his old hiding-place. Talbot – Barrington I mean – has been here again, too.”

“Barrington! – what brings him back? I thought he was in France.”

“The story goes that he landed at Bantry with a French agent. One thing is certain, the fellow had the impudence to call here and leave his card for you, one day I was at Macroom.”

“That piece of boldness bodes us no good,” said Hemsworth. “What of the others? Who has called here from Carrig-na-curra?”

“A messenger every day; sometimes twice in the same day.”

“A messenger! – not one of the family?”

“For several weeks they have had no one to come. Sir Archy and the younger brother are both from home.”

“Where, then, is Sir Archy?” said Hemsworth, anxiously.

“That would seem a secret to every one. He left this one morning at a moment’s notice, taking the chaise that brought the doctor here. The post-boy pretended he was discharged; but I say that the excuse was made up, and that the fellow was bribed. On reaching Macroom, the old man got fresh horses, and started for Cork.”

“And what’s the report in the country, Wylie?”

“There are two stories. One, that he heard some rumours of an accusation against himself, for intriguing with the United people, and thought best to get over to Scotland for a while.”

“That’s folly; what is the other rumour?”

“A more likely one,” said Wylie, as he threw a shrewd glance beneath his half-closed eye-lids. “They say that he determined to go up to Dublin, and see the Lord Lieutenant, and ask him for a free pardon for Mark.”

Hemsworth sprung up in the bed at these words, as if he had been stung.

“And who says this, Wylie?”

“I believe I was the first that said so myself,” said Wylie, affecting modesty; “when Kerry told me, that the old man packed up a court dress and a sword.”

“You’re right, Sam; there’s not a doubt of it. How long is this ago?”

“Five weeks on Tuesday last.”

“Five weeks! – five weeks lost already! And have you heard what has been done by him? – what success he’s met with?”

“No, sir; but you can soon know something about it yourself.”

“How do you mean? – I don’t understand you.”

“These are the only two letters he has written as yet. This, one came on Saturday. I always went down in the mornings to Mary M’Kelly’s, before the bag came in, and as she could not read over well, I sorted the letters for her myself, and slipped in these among your own.”

Hemsworth and his companion exchanged looks. Probably never did glances more rapidly reveal the sentiments of two hearts. Each, well knew the villainy of the ether; but Hemsworth for the first time saw himself in another’s power, and hesitated how far the advantage of the discovery was worth the heavy price he should pay for it; besides that the habits of his life made him regard the breach of confidence, incurred in reading another man’s letter, in a very different light from his underbred associate, and he made no gesture to take them from his hand.

“This has an English post-mark,” said Wylie, purposely occupying himself with the letter, to avoid noticing Hemsworth’s hesitation.

“You have not broken the seals, I hope,” said Hemsworth, faintly.

“No, sir; I knew better than that,” replied Wylie, with well-assumed caution. “I knew your honour had a right to it, if you suspected the correspondence was treasonable, because you’re in the Commission, and it’s your duty; but I could’nt venture it, of myself.”

“I’m afraid your law is not very correct, Master Wylie,” said Hemsworth, who felt by no means certain as to the sincerity of the opinion.

“It’s good enough for Glenflesk, anyhow,” said the fellow, boldly; for he saw that in Hemsworth’s present nervous condition, audacity might succeed where subserviency would not.

“By which you mean that we have the case in our own hands, Wylie; well, you’re not far wrong in that; still, I cannot break open a letter.

“Well, then, I’m not so scrupulous when my master’s interests are concerned;” and so saying, he tore open each in turn, and threw them on the bed. “There, sir, you can transport me for the offence whenever you like.”

“You are a strange fellow, Sam,” said Hemsworth, whose nerves were too much shaken by illness, to enable him to act with his ordinary decision, and he took up one of the letters, and perused it slowly. “This is merely an announcement of his arrival in Dublin; he has waited upon, but not seen the Secretary – finds it difficult to obtain an audience – press of parliamentary business for the new session – no excitement about the United party. What tidings has the other? Ha! – . what’s this?” – and his thin and haggard face flushed scarlet. “Leave me, Sam; I must have a little time to consider this. Come back to me in an hour.”

Wylie said not a word, but moved towards the door; while in his sallow features a savage smile of malicious triumph shone.

As Hemsworth flattened out the letter before him on the bed, his eyes glistened and sparkled with the fire of aroused intelligence: the faculties which, during his long illness, had lain in abeyance, as if refreshed and invigorated by rest, were once more excited to their accustomed exercise; and over that face, pale and haggard by sickness, a flush of conscious power stole, lighting up every lineament and feature, and displaying the ascendancy of mental effort over mere bodily infirmity.

“And so this Scotchman dares to enter the list with me,” said he, with a smile of contemptuous meaning; “let him try it.”

CHAPTER XLIV. THE MOUNTAIN AT SUNRISE

A little lower down the valley than the post occupied by Terry as his look-out, was a small stream, passable by stepping-stones; this was the usual parting place of the two brothers, whenever Herbert returned home for a day or so, and this limit Mark rarely or never transgressed, regarding it as the frontier of his little dominion. Beside this rivulet, as night was falling, Mark sat, awaiting with some impatience his brother’s coming, for already the third evening had passed in which Herbert promised to be back, and yet he had not come.

Alternately stooping to listen, or straining his eyes to see, he waited anxiously; and while canvassing in his mind every possible casualty he could think of to account for his absence, he half resolved on pushing forward down the glen, and, if necessary, venturing even the whole way to Carrig-na-curra. Just then a sound caught his ear – he listened, and at once recognized Terry’s voice, as, singing some rude verse, he came hastening down the glen at his full speed.

“Ha! I thought you’d be here,” cried he, with delight in his countenance; “I knew you’d be just sitting there on that rock.”

“What has happened, then, Terry, that you wanted me?”

“It was a message a man in sailor’s clothes gave me for your honour this morning, and, somehow, I forgot to tell you of it when you passed, though he charged me not to forget it.”

“What is it, Terry?”

“Ah, then, that’s what I misremember, and I had it all right this morning. Let me think a bit.”

Mark repelled every symptom of impatience, for he well knew how the slightest evidences of dissatisfaction on his part would destroy every chance of the poor fellow regaining his memory, and he waited silently for several minutes. At last, thinking to aid his recollection, he said —

“The man was a smuggler, Terry?”

“He was, but I never saw him before. He came across from Kinsale, over the mountains. Botheration to him, why didn’t he say more, and I wouldn’t forget it now.” “Have patience, you’ll think of it all by-and-by.”

“Maybe so. He was a droll-looking fellow, with a short cutlash at his side, and a hairy cap on his head; and he seemed to know yer honour well, for he said —

“‘How is the O’Donoghues – don’t they live hereabouts?”

“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘a few miles down that way.’

“‘Is the eldest boy at home,” says he.

“‘Maybe he is, and maybe he isn’t,’ says I, for I wouldn’t tell him where you were.

“‘Could you give him a message,’ says he, from a friend?’

“‘Av it was a friend,’ says I.

“‘A real friend,’ says he. ‘Tell him – just tell him – ’

“There it is now – divil a one o’ me knows what he said.”

Mark suffered no sign of anger to escape him, but sat without speaking a word, while Terry recapitulated every sentence in a muttering voice, to assist him in remembering what followed.

“I have it now,” said he at last; and clapping his hands with glee, he cried out, “them’s the very words he said —

“‘Tell Mr. Mark, it’s a fine sight to see the sun rising from the top of Hungry Mountain; and if the wind last, it will be worth seeing tomorrow.’”

“Were those his words?” asked Mark eagerly.

“Them, and no other – I have it all in my head now.”

“Which way did he take when he left you?”

“He turned up the glen, towards Googawn Barra, and I seen him crossing the mountain afterwards; but here comes Master Herbert;” and at the same instant he was seen coming up the valley at a fast pace.

When the first greetings were over, Herbert informed Mark that a certain stir and movement in the glen and its neighbourhood far the last few days had obliged him to greater caution; that several strangers had been seen lurking about Carrig-na-curra; and that in addition to the military posted at Mary’s, a sergeant’s guard had that morning arrived at “the Lodge,” and taken up their quarters there. All these signs of vigilance combined to make Herbert more guarded, and induced him to delay for a day or two his return to the shealing.

“Hemsworth has been twice over at our house,” continued Herbert, “and seems most anxious about you; he cannot understand why we have not heard from my uncle. It appears to me, Mark, as if difficulties were thickening around us; and yet this fear may only be the apprehension which springs from mystery. I cannot see my way through this dark and clouded atmosphere.”

“Never fret about the dangers that come like shadows, Herbert. Come up the mountain with me to-morrow at sunrise, and let us take counsel from the free and bracing air of the peak of old Hungry.”

Herbert was but too happy to find his own gloomy thoughts so well combatted, and in mutual converse they each grew lighter in heart; and when at last, wearied out, they lay down upon the heather of the shealing, they slept without a dream.

It was still dark as midnight when Mark awoke and looked at his watch – it wanted a quarter of four. The night was a wild and gusty one, with occasional showers of thin sleet, and along the shore the sea beat heavily, as though a storm was brewing at a distance off.

The message of the smuggler was his first thought on waking, but could he venture sufficient trust in Terry’s version to draw any inference from it? Still, he resolved to ascend the mountain, little favourable as the weather promised for such an undertaking. It was not without reluctance that Herbert found himself called upon to accompany his brother. The black and dreary night, the swooping wind, the wet spray, drifting up to the very shealing, were but sorry inducements to stir abroad; and he did his utmost to persuade him to defer the excursion to a more favourable moment.

“We shall be wet through, and see nothing for our pains, Mark,” said he, half sulkily, as the other overruled each objection in turn.

“Wet we may possibly be,” said Mark; “but with the wind, northing by west, the mist will clear away, and by sunrise the coast will be glorious; it is a spring-tide, too, and there will be a sea running mountains high.”

“I know well we shall find ourselves in a cloud on the top of the mountain; it is but one day in a whole year any thing can be seen favourably.”

“And who is to say this is not that day? It is my birth-day, Herbert – a most auspicious event, when we talk of fortunate occurrences.”

The tone of sarcasm he spoke these words in, silenced Herbert’s scruples, and without further objection he prepared to follow Mark’s guidance.

The drifting rain, and the spongy heavy ground in which at each moment the feet sank to the very instep, made the way toilsome and weary, and the two brothers seldom spoke as they plodded along the steep ascent.

Mark’s deep pre-occupation of mind took away all thought of the dreary road; but Herbert followed with reluctant steps, half angry with himself for compliance with what he regarded as an absurd caprice. The way was not without its perils, and Mark halted from time to time to warn his brother of the danger of some precipice, or the necessity to guard against the slippery surface of the heather. Except at these times, he rarely spoke, but strode on with firm step, lost in his own reflections.

“We are now twelve hundred feet above the lake, Herbert,” said he, after a long silence on both sides, “and the mountain at this side is like a wall. This same island of ours has noble bulwarks for defence.”

Herbert made no reply; the swooping clouds that hurried past, heavily charged with vapour, shut out every object; and to him the rugged path was a dark and cheerless way. Once more they continued their ascent, which here became steeper and more difficult at every step; and although Mark was familiar with each turn and winding of the narrow track, more than once he was obliged to stop, and consider the course before him. Herbert, to whom these interruptions were fresh sources of irritation, at length exclaimed —

“My dear Mark, have we not gone far enough yet, to convince you that there is no use in going farther. It is dark as midnight this moment – you yourself are scarcely certain of the way – there are precipices and gulleys on every side – and grant that we do reach the top for sunrise, what shall we be able to see amid the immense masses of cloud around us?”

“No, Herbert, that same turning back policy it is, which thwarts success in life. Had you yourself followed such an impulse, you had not gained the honours that are yours. Onward, is the word of hope to all. And what if the day should not break clearly, it is a fine thing to sit on the peak of old Hungry, with the circling clouds wheeling madly below you, to hear the deep thundering of the sea far, far away, and the cry of the curlew mingling with the wailing wind – to feel yourself high above the busy world, in the dreary region of mist and shadow. If at such times as this the eye ranges not over leagues of coast and sea, long winding valleys and wide plains, the prophetic spirit fostered by such agencies looks out on life, and images of the future flit past in cloudy shapes and changing forms. There, see that black mass that slowly moves along, and seems to beckon us with giant arm. You’d not reject an augury so plain.”

“I see nothing, and if I go on much farther this way, I shall feel nothing either, I am so benumbed with cold and rain already.”

“Here, then, taste this – I had determined to give you nothing until we reached the summit.”

Herbert drained the little measure of whiskey, and resumed his way more cheerily.

“There is a bay down here beneath where we stand – a lovely little nook in summer, with a shore like gold, and waves bright as the greenest emerald. It is a wild and stormy spot to-day – no boat could live a moment there; and so steep is the cliff, this stone will find its way to the bottom within a minute.”

And as Mark spoke he detached a fragment of rock from the mountain, and sent it bounding over the edge of the precipice, while Herbert, awe-struck at the nearness of the peril, recoiled instinctively from the brink of the cliff.

“There was a ship of the Spanish Armada wrecked in that little bay – they show you still some mounds of earth upon the shore they call the Spaniards’ graves,” said Mark, as he stood peering through the misty darkness into the depth below. “The peasantry had lighted a fire on this rock, and the vessel, a three-decker, decoyed by the signal, held on her course, in shore, and was lost. Good heavens!” cried he, after a brief pause, “why has this fatality ever been our lot? Why have we welcomed our foes with smiles, and our friends with hatred and destruction? These same Spaniards were our brethren and our kindred, and the bitter enemies of our enslavers; and even yet we can perpetuate the memory of their ruin, as a thing of pride and triumph. Are we for ever to be thus, or is a better day to dawn upon us?”

Herbert, who by experience knew how much more excited Mark became by even the slightest opposition, forbore to speak, and again they pursued their way.

They had continued for some time thus, when Mark, taking Herbert’s arm, pointed to a dark mass which seemed to loom straight above their heads, where, towering to a considerable height, it terminated in a sharp pinnacle.

“Yonder is the summit, Herbert – courage for a quarter of an hour more, and the breach is won.”

The youth heaved a heavy sigh, and muttered —

“Would it were so.”

If Herbert became dispirited and worn out by the dark and dreary way, where no sight nor sound relieved the dull monotony of fatigue, Mark’s spirit seemed to grow lighter with every step he went. As if he had left his load of care with the nether world, his light and bounding movement, and his joyous voice, spoke of a heart which, throwing off its weight of sorrow, revelled once more in youthful ecstasy.

“You who are a poet, Herbert, tell me if you have faith in those instinctive fancies which seem to shadow forth events.”

“If you mean to ask me whether, from my present sensations, I anticipate a heavy cold, or a fit of rheumatism, I say, most certainly,” replied Herbert, half doggedly.

Mark smiled, and continued —

“No, those are among the common course of events. What I asked for was an explanation of my own feelings at this moment. Why, here upon this lone and gloomy mountain, a secret whispering at my heart tells me to hope – that my days and nights of disaster are nigh oyer – and that the turning point of my life is at hand, eyen as that bold peak above us.”