The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“I will do so, Mark, and with no failing spirit either,” said Herbert, as he turned away, sad and sorrow-struck.

“You would not betray us,” cried Mark, as he saw his brother preparing to descend the mountain.

“Oh, Mark, you should not have said this.”

And in a torrent of tears he threw himself upon his brother’s bosom. For some minutes they remained close locked in each other’s arms, and then Herbert, tearing himself away, clasped Mark’s hand in both of his, and kissed it. The last “Good-bye” broke from each lip together, and they parted.

Mark remained on the spot where his brother had left him, his eyes fixedly directed towards the Bay, where already a second ship had arrived – a large three-decker, with an admiral’s pennon flying from the mast-head. The first burst of wild enthusiasm over, he began to reflect on what was next to be done. Of course he should lose no time in presenting himself to the officers in command of the expedition, and making known to them his name, and the place he occupied in the confidence of his countrymen. His great doubt was, whether he should not precede this act by measures for assembling and rallying the people, who evidently would be as much taken by surprise as himself at the sudden arrival of the French.

The embarrassment of the position was great; for although deeply implicated in the danger of the plot, he never had enjoyed either intimacy or intercourse with its leaders. How then should he satisfy the French that his position was such as entitled him to their confidence? The only possible escape to this difficulty was by marshalling around him a considerable body of the peasantry, ready and willing to join the arms and follow the fortunes of the invaders.

“They cannot long distrust me with a force of three hundred men at my back,” exclaimed Mark aloud, as he descended the mountain with rapid strides. “I know every road through these valleys – every place where a stand could be made, or an escape effected. We will surprise the party of soldiers at Mary M’Kelly’s, and there, there are arms enough for all the peasantry of the country.”

Thus saying, and repeating to himself the names of the different farmers whom he remembered as true to the cause, and on whose courage and readiness he depended at this moment, he hastened on.

“Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed with fire-locks. M’Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows they are, every man of them ready. Then, there are the O’Learys, but there’s a split amongst them – confound their petty feuds, this is no time to indulge them. They shall come out, and they must – ah! hand in hand, too, though they have been enemies this twelvemonth. Black O’Sullivan numbers nigh eighty – pike-men every one of them. Our French friends may smile at their ragged garments, but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Carrig-na-curra must be occupied, it is the key of the glen. ‘The Lodge’ we’ll burn to the ground: but no, we must not visit the sin of the servant on the master. Young Travers behaved nobly to me there is a wild time coming, and let us, at least, begin our work in a better spirit, for bloodshed soon teaches cruelty.”

Now, muttering these short and broken sentences, now, wondering what strength the French force might be – how armed – how disposed for the enterprise – what spirit prevailed among the officers, and what hopes of success animated the chiefs – Mark moved along, eager for the hour to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the war-cry of Ireland ring in her native valleys.

CHAPTER XLV. THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY

Leaving, for the present, Mark O’Donoghue to the duties he imposed on himself of rallying the people around the French standard, we shall turn to the old Castle of Carrig-na-curra, where life seemed to move on in the same unbroken tranquillity. For several days past, Hemsworth, still weak from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and although professing that the great object of his solicitude was the safety of young O’Donoghue, he found time and opportunity to suggest to Kate, that a more tender feeling influenced him: so artfully had he played his part, and so blended were his attentions with traits of deference and respect, that however little she might be disposed to encourage his addresses, the difficulty of repelling them without offence was great indeed. This delicacy on her part was either mistaken by Hemsworth, or taken as a ground of advantage. All his experiences in life pointed to the fact, that success is ever attainable by him who plays well his game; that the accidents of fortune, instead of being obstacles and interruptions, are in reality, to one of quick intelligence, but so many aids and allies. His illness alone had disconcerted his plans; but now once more well, and able to conduct his schemes, he had no fears for the result. Up to this moment, every thing promised success. It was more than doubtful that the Travers’ would ever return to Ireland. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the neighbourhood where his affections had met so severe a shock. The disturbed state of the country, and the events which Hemsworth well knew must soon occur, would in all likelihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish to revisit his Irish property. This was one step gained: already he was in possession of a large portion of the Glenflesk estate, of which he was well aware the title was defective, for he had made it a ground of considerable abatement in the purchase money to the O’Donoghue, that his son was in reality under age at the time of sale. Mark’s fate was, however, in his hands, and he had little fear that the secret was known by any other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the accomplishment of his wishes, except his views regarding Kate. Were she to become his wife, the small remnant of the property that pertained to them would fall into his hands, and he become the lord of the soil. His ambitions were higher than this. Through the instrumentality of Lanty Lawler, he had made himself master of the conspiracy in all its details. He knew the names of the several chiefs, the parts assigned them, the places of rendezvous, their hopes, their fears, and their difficulties. He was aware of the views of France, and had in his possession copies of several letters which passed between members of the French executive and the leaders of the United party in Ireland. Far from communicating this information to the Government, he treasured it as the source of his own future elevation. From time to time, it is true, he made known certain facts regarding individuals whom he either dreaded for their power, or suspected that they might themselves prove false to their party and betray the plot; but, save in these few instances, he revealed nothing of what he knew, determining, at the proper moment, to make this knowledge the ground-work of his fortune.

“Twenty-four hours of rebellion,” said he, “one day and night of massacre and bloodshed will make me a Peer of the realm. I know well what terror will pervade the land, when the first rumour of a French landing gains currency. I can picture to myself the affrighted looks of the Council; the alarm depicted in every face, when the post brings the intelligence, that a force is on its march towards the capital; and then – then, when I can lay my hand on each rebel of them all, and say, this man is a traitor, and that, a rebel – when I can show where arms are collected and ammunition stored – when I can tell the plan of their operation, their numbers, their organization, and their means – I have but to name the price of my reward.”

Such were the speculations that occupied the slow hours of his recovery, and such the thoughts which engrossed the first days of his returning health.

The latest letters he had seen from France announced that the expedition would not sail till January, and then, in the event of escaping the English force in the Channel, would proceed to land fifteen thousand men on the banks of the Shannon. The causes which accelerated the sailing of the French fleet before the time originally determined on were unknown to Hemsworth, and on the very morning when the vessels anchored in Bantry Bay, he was himself a visitor beneath the roof of Carrig-na-curra, where he had passed the preceding night, the severity of the weather having detained him there. He, therefore, knew nothing of what had happened, and was calmly deliberating on the progress of his own plans, when events were occurring which were destined to disconcert and destroy them.

The family was seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, whose letters had been brought over from “the Lodge,” was reading aloud such portions of news as could interest or amuse the O’Donoghue and Kate, when he was informed that Wylie was without, and most anxious to see him for a few minutes. There was no communication which, at the moment, he deemed could be of much importance, and he desired him to wait. Wylie again requested a brief interview – one minute would be enough – that his tidings were of the deepest consequence.

“This is his way ever,” said Hemsworth, rising from the table; “if a tenant has broken down a neighbour’s ditch, or a heifer is impounded, he always comes with this same pressing urgency;” and, augry at the interruption, he left the room to hear the intelligence.

“Still, no letter from Archy, Kate,” said the O’Donoghue, when they were alone; “once more the post is come, and nothing for us. I am growing more and more uneasy about Mark; these delays will harass the poor boy, and drive him perhaps to some rash step.”

“Mr. Hemsworth is doing everything, however, in his power,” said Kate, far more desirous of offering consolation to her uncle, than satisfied in her own mind as to the state of matters. “He is in constant correspondence with Government; the only difficulty is, they demand disclosures my cousin neither can, nor ought to make. A pardon is no grace, when it commutes death for dishonour. This will, I hope, be got over soon.”

While she was yet speaking, the door softly opened, and Kerry, with a noiseless step, slipped in, and approaching the table unseen and unheard, was beside the O’Donoghue’s chair before he was perceived.

“Whisht, master dear – whisht, Miss Kate,” said he, with a gesture of warning towards the door. “There’s great news without. The French is landed – twenty-eight ships is down in Bantry Bay. Bony himself is with them. I heard it all, as Sam Wylie was telling Hems-worth; I was inside the pantry door.”

“The French landed!” cried the O’Donoghue, in whom amazement overcame all sensation of joy or sorrow.

“The French here in Ireland!” cried Kate, her eyes sparkling with enthusiastic delight; but before she could add a word, Hemsworth reentered. Whether his efforts to seem calm and unmoved were in reality well-devised, or that, as is more probable, Hemsworth’s own pre-occupation prevented his strict observance of the others, he never remarked that the O’Donoghue and his niece exhibited any traits of anxiety or impatience; while Kerry, after performing a variety of very unnecessary acts and attentions about the table, at last left the room, with a sigh over his inability to protract his departure.

Hemsworth eye wandered to the door to see if it was closed before he spoke; and then leaning forward, said, in a low, cautious voice —

“I have just heard some news that may prove very important. A number of the people have assembled in arms in the glen, your son Mark at their head. What their precise intentions, or whither they are about to direct their steps, I know not; but I see clearly that young Mr. O’Donoghue will fatally compromise himself, if this rash step become known. The Government never could forgive such a proceeding on his part. I need not tell you that this daring must be a mere hopeless exploit; such enterprises have but one termination – the scaffold.”

The old man and his niece exchanged glances – rapid, but full of intelligence. Each seemed to ask the other, “Is this man false? Is he suppressing a part of the truth at this moment, or is this all invention? Why has he not spoken of the great event – the arrival of the French?”

Kate was the first to venture to sound him, as she asked —

“And is the rising some mere sudden ebullition of discontent, or have they concerted any movement with others at a distance?”

“A mere isolated outbreak – the rash folly of hair-brained boys, without plan or project.”

“What is to become of poor Mark?” cried the O’Donoghue, all suspicions of treachery forgotten in the anxiety of his son’s safety.

“I have thought of that,” said Hemsworth, hastily. “The movement must be put down at once. As a magistrate, and in the full confidence of the Government, I have no second course open to me, and therefore I have ordered up the military from Macroom. There are four troops of cavalry and an infantry regiment there. With them in front, this ill-disciplined rabble will never dare to advance, but soon scatter and disband themselves in the mountains – the leaders only will incur any danger. But as regards your son, you have only to write a few lines to him, and dispatch them by some trusty messenger, saying that you are aware of what has happened – know everything – and without wishing to interfere or thwart his designs, you desire to see and speak with him, here, at once. This he will not refuse. Once here safe, and within these walls, I’ll hasten the pursuit of these foolish country fellows; and even should any of them be taken, your son will not be of the number. You must take care, however, when he is here, that he does not leave this until I return.”

“And are these brave fellows, misguided though they be, to be kidnapped thus, and by our contrivance, too?” said Kate, on whom, for the first time, a dread of Hemsworth’s duplicity was fast breaking.

“I did not know Miss O’Donoghue’s interest took so wide a range, or that her sympathies were so Catholic,” said Hemsworth, with a smile of double meaning. “If she would save her cousin, however, she must adopt my plan, or at least suggest a better one.”

“Yes, yes, Kate, Mr. Hemsworth is right,” said the O’Donoghue, in whom selfishness was always predominant; “we must contrive to get Mark here, and to keep him when we have him.”

“And you may rely upon it, Miss O’Donoghue,” said Hemsworth, in a whisper, “that my pursuit of the others will not boast of any excessive zeal in the cause of loyalty. Such fellows may be suffered to escape, and neither King nor Constitution have any ground of complaint for it.”

Kate smiled gratefully in return, and felt angry with herself for even a momentary injustice to the honourable nature of Hemsworth’s motives.

“Mr. Hemsworth’s horses is at the door,” said Kerry, at the same moment.

“It is, then, agreed upon, that you will write this letter at once,” said Hemsworth, leaning over the old man’s chair, as he whispered the words into his ear.

The O’Donoghue nodded an assent.

“Without knowing that,” continued Hemsworth, “I should be uncertain how to proceed. I must not let the Government suppose me either ignorant or lukewarm. Lose no time, therefore; send off the letter, and leave the rest to me.”

“You are not going to ride, I hope,” said Kate, as she looked out of the window down the glen, where already the rain was falling in torrents, and the wind blowing a perfect hurricane. Hemsworth muttered a few words in a low tone, at which Kate coloured, and looked away.

“Nay, Miss O’Donoghue,” said he, still whispering, “I am not one of those who make a bargain for esteem; if I cannot win regard, I will never buy it.”

There was a sadness in his words, and an air of self-respect about him, as he spoke them, that touched Kate far more than ever she had been before by any expression of his feelings. When she saw him leave the room, her first thought was, “It is downright meanness to suspect him.”

“Is it not strange, Kate,” said the O’Donoghue, as he took her hand in his, “he never mentioned the French landing to us? What can this mean?”

“I believe I can understand it, sir,” said Kate, musingly; for already she had settled in her mind, that while Hemsworth would neglect no measures for the safety of Carrig-na-curra, he scrupled to announce tidings which might overwhelm them with alarm and terror. “But let us think of the letter; Kerry, I suppose, is the best person to send with it.”

“Yes, Kerry can take it; and as the way does not lead past Mary’s door, there’s a chance of his delivering it without a delay of three hours on the road.”

“There, sir, will that do?” said Kate, as she handed him a paper, on which hastily a few lines were written.

“Perfectly – nothing better; only, my sweet Kate, when a note begins ‘my dear son,’ it should scarcely be signed ‘your own affectionate Kate O’Donoghue.’”

Kate blushed deeply, as she tore the paper in fragments, and without A word reseated herself at the table.

“I have done better this time,” said she, as she folded the note and sealed it; while the old man, with an energy quite unusual for him, arose and rung the bell for Kerry.

“Did I ever think I could have done this,” said Kate to herself, as a tear slowly coursed along her cheek and fell on the letter; “that I could dare to recall him, when both honour and country demand his services; that I could plot for life, when all that makes life worth having is in the opposite scale?”

“You must find out master Mark, Kerry,” said the O’Donoghue, “and give him this letter; there is no time to be lost about it.”

“Sorra fear; I’ll put it into his hand this day.”

“This day!” cried Kate, impatiently. “It must reach him within three hours time. Away at once – the foot of Hungry Mountain – the shealing – Bantry Bay – you cannot have any difficulty in finding him now.”

Kerry waited not for further bidding, and though not by any means determined to make any unusual exertion, left the room with such rapidity as augured well for the future.

“Well,” said Mrs. Branagan, whose anxiety for news had led her to the head of the kitchen stairs, an excursion which, at no previous moment of her life, had she been known to take, “well, Kerry, what’s going on now?”

“Faix, then, I’ll tell ye, ma’am,” said he, sighing; “‘tis myself they’re wanting to kill. Here am I setting out wid a letter, and where to, do you think? the top of Hungry Mountain, in the Bay of Bantry, that’s the address – divil a lie in it.”

“And who is it for?” said Mrs. Branagan, who, affecting to bestow a critical examination on the document, was inspecting the superscription wrong side up.

“‘Tis for Master Mark; I heard it all outside the door; they don’t want him to go with the boys, now that the French is landed, and we’re going to have the country to ourselves. ‘Tis a dhroll day when an O’Donoghue would’nt have a fight for his father’s acres.”

“Bad cess to the weak-hearted, wherever they are,” exclaimed Mrs. Branagan; “don’t give him the letter, Kerry avich; lie quiet in the glen till evening, and say you couldn’t find him, by any manner of means. Do that, now, and it will be a good sarvice to your country this day.”

“I was just thinking that same myself,” said Kerry, whose resolution wanted little prompting; “after I cross the river, I’ll turn into the Priests’ Glen, and never stir out till evening.”

With these honest intentions regarding his mission, Kerry set out, and if any apology could be made for his breach of faith, the storm might plead for him; it had now reached its greatest violence; the wind blowing iu short and frequent gusts, snapped the large branches like mere twigs, and covered the road with fragments of timber; the mountain rivulets, too, were swollen, and dashed madly down the rocky cliffs with a deafening clamour, while the rain, swooping past in torrents, concealed the sky, and covered the earth with darkness. Muttering in no favourable spirit over the waywardness of that sex, to whose peculiar interposition he ascribed his present excursion, Kerry plodded along, turning, as he went, a despairing look at the barren and bleak prospect around him. To seek for shelter in the glen, he knew was out of the question, and so he at once determined to gain the priest’s cottage, where a comfortable turf fire and a rasher of bacon were certain to welcome him.

Dreadful as the weather was, Kerry wondered that he met no one on the road. He expected to have seen groups of people, and all the signs of that excitement the arrival of the French might be supposed to call forth; but, on the contrary, everything was desolate as usual, not a human being appeared, nor could he hear a signal nor a sound, that betokened a gathering.

“I wouldn’t wonder now if it was a lie of Sam Wylie’s, and the French wasn’t here at all,” said he to himself; “‘tis often I heerd that Hemsworth could have the rebellion brake out whenever he liked it, and sorra bit but that may be it now, just to pretend the French was here, to get the boys out, and let the army at them.”

This reflection of Kerry’s was scarcely conceived, when it was strengthened by a boy who was coming from Glengariff with a turf-car, and who told him that the ships that came in with the morning’s tide had all weighed anchor, and sailed out of the Bay before twelve o’clock, and that nobody knew anything about them, what they were, and whence from. “We thought they were the French,” said the boy, “till we seen them sailing away; but then we knew it wasn’t them, and some said it was the King’s ships coming in to guard Bantry.”

“And they are not there now?” said Kerry.

“Not one of them; they’re out to say, and out of sight, this hour back.”

Kerry hesitated for a second or two, whether this intelligence might not entitle him to turn homeward; but a second thought – the priest’s kitchen – seemed to have the advantage, and thither he bent his steps accordingly.

CHAPTER XLVI. THE PRIEST’S COTTAGE

When Mark and Herbert separated on the mountain, each took a different path downward. Mark, bent on assembling the people at once, and proclaiming the arrival of their friends, held his course towards Glengariff and the coast, where the fishermen were, to a man, engaged in the plot. Herbert, uncertain how to proceed, was yet equally anxious to lose no time, but could form no definite resolve what course to adopt amid his difficulties To give notice of the French landing, to apprise the magistrates of the approaching outbreak, was, of course, his duty; but in doing this, might he not be the means of Mark’s ruin; – while, on the other hand, to conceal his knowledge would be an act of disloyalty to his sovereign, a forfeiture of the principles he held dear, and the source, perhaps, of the most dreadful evils to his country. Where, too, should he seek for counsel or advice – his father, he well knew, would only regard the means of his brother’s safety, reckless of all other consequences; Kate’s opinions, vague and undefined as they were, would be in direct opposition to his own. Hems-worth he dared not confide in – what then remained! There was but one for miles round, in whose judgment and honour together he had trust; but from him latterly he had kept studiously aloof. This was his old tutor, Father Rourke. Unwilling to inflict pain upon the old man, and still unable to reconcile himself to anything like duplicity in the matter, Herbert had avoided the occasion of meeting him, and of avowing that change in his religious belief, which, although secretly working for many a year, had only reached its accomplishment when absent from home. He was aware how such a disclosure would afflict his old friend – how impossible would be the effort to persuade him that such a change had its origin in conviction, and not in schemes of worldly ambition; and to save himself the indignity of defence from such an accusation, and the pain of an interview, where the matter should be discussed, he had preferred leaving to time and accident, the disclosure, which from his own lips would have been a painful sacrifice to both parties. These considerations, important enough as they regarded his own happiness, had little weight with him now. The graver questions had swallowed up all others – the safety of the country – his brother’s fate. It was true the priest’s sympathies would be exclusively with one party; he would not view with Herbert’s eye the coming struggle; but still might he not regard with him the results? – might he not, and with prescience stronger from his age, anticipate the dreadful miseries of a land devastated by civil war? – was it not possible that he might judge unfavourably of success, and prefer to endure what he regarded as evils, rather than incur the horrors of a rebellion, and the re-enactment of penalties it would call down?