The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

The hopes such calculations suggested were higher, because Mark had himself often avowed, that the French would only consent to the enterprize, on the strict understanding of being seconded by the almost unanimous voice of the nation. Their expression was, “We are ready and willing to meet England in arms, provided not one Irishman be in the ranks.” Should Father Rourke, then, either from motives of policy or prudence, think unfavourably of the scheme, his influence, unbounded over the people, would throw a damper on the rising, and either deter the French from any forward movement, or at least delay it, and afford time for the Government to take measures of defence. This alone might have its effect on Mark, and perhaps be the means of saving him.

Whether because he caught at this one chance of succour, when all around seemed hopeless, or that the mind: fertilizes the fields of its own discovery, Herbert grew more confident each moment that this plan would prove successful, and turned with an eager heart towards the valley where the priest lived. In his eagerness to press forward, however, he diverged from the path, and at last reached a part of the mountain where a tremendous precipice intervened, and stopped all further progress. The storm increasing every minute made the way slow and perilous, for around the different peaks the wind swept with a force that carried all before it. Vexed at his mistake, he resolved, if possible, to discover some new way down the mountain; but in the endeavour he only wandered still further from his course, and finally found himself in front of the sea once more.

The heavy rain and the dense drift shut out for some minutes the view; but when at last he saw the Bay what was his surprise to perceive that the French fleet was no longer there; he turned his eyes on every side, but the storm-lashed water bore no vessel on its surface, and save some fishing craft at anchor in the little nooks and bays of the coast, not a mast could be seen.

Scarcely able to credit the evidence of his senses, he knelt down on the cliff, and bent his gaze steadily on the Bay; and when at length re-assured and certain that no deception existed, he began to doubt whether the whole had not been unreal, and that the excitement of his interview with Mark had conjured the images his wishes suggested, The faint flickering embers of an almost extinguished fire on the Smuggler’s Rock decided the question, and he knew at once that all had actually happened.

He did not wait long to speculate on the reasons of this sudden flight – enough for him that the most pressing danger was past, and time afforded to rescue Mark from peril; and without a thought upon that armament, whose menace had already filled him with apprehension, he sped down the mountain in reckless haste, and never halted till he reached the glen beneath. The violence of the storm – the beating rain, seemed to excite him to higher efforts of strength and endurance, and his courage appeared to rise as difficulties thickened around him. It was late in the day, however, before he came in sight of the priest’s cottage, and where, as the gloom was falling, a twinkliug light now shone.

It was with a last effort of strength, almost exhausted by fatigue and hunger, that Herbert gained the door; this lay, as usual, wide open, and entering, he fell overcome upon a seat. The energy that had sustained him hitherto seemed suddenly to have given way, and he lay back scarcely conscious, and unable to stir. The confusion of sense, so general after severe fatigue, prevented him for some time from hearing voices in the little parlour beside him; but after a brief space he became aware of this vicinity, when suddenly the well-known accents of Mark struck upon his ear; he was speaking louder than was his wont, and evidently with an effort to control his rising temper, while the priest, in a low, calm voice, seemed endeavouring to dissuade and turn him from some purpose.

A brief silence ensued, during which Mark paced the room with slow and heavy steps, then ceasing suddenly he said —

“Why was it, then, that we never heard of these scruples before, sir? – why were we not told that unbelieving France was no fitting ally for saintly Ireland? But why do I ask: had the whole fleet arrived in safety – were there not thirteen missing vessels, we should hear less of such Christian doubts.”

“You are unjust, Mark,” said the priest, calmly; “you know me too well and too long, to put any faith in your reproaches. I refuse to address the people, because I would not see them fall, or even conquer, in an unjust cause. Raise the banner of the Church – ”

“The banner of the Church!” said Mark, with a mocking laugh.

“What does he say?” whispered a third voice, in French, as a new speaker mingled in the dialogue.

“He talks of the banner of the Church!” said Mark, scoffingly.

“‘Oui, parbleu,’ if he likes it,” replied the Frenchman, laughing; “it smacks somewhat of the middle ages; but the old proverb is right, ‘a bad etiquette never spoiled good wine.’”

“Is it then in full canonicals, and with the smoke of censers, we are to march against the Saxon?” said Mark, with a taunting sneer.

“Hear me out, Mark,” interrupted the priest; “I didn’t say that we were yet prepared even for this; there is much to be done, far more indeed than you wot of. Every expedition insufficiently planned and badly supported, must be a failure; every failure retards the accomplishment of our hopes; such must this enterprise be, if now – ’

“Now or never,” interposed Mark, as he struck the table violently with his clenched hand – “now, or never, for me at least. You have shown me to these Frenchman, as a fool or worse. One with influence, and yet without a man to back me – with courage, and you tell me to desert them – with the confidence of my countrymen, and I come alone, unaccompanied, unaccredited, to tell my own tale amongst them. What other indignities have you in store for me, or in what other light am I next to figure? But for that, and perhaps you would dare to go further, and say I am not an O’Donoghue;” and in his passion Mark tore open a pocket-book, and held before the old man’s eyes the certificate of his baptism, written in the priest’s hand. “Yes, you have forced me to speak, of what I ever meant to have buried in my own heart. There it is, read it, and bethink you, how it becomes him who helped to rob me of my inheritance, to despoil me of my honour also.”

“You must unsay these words, sir,” said the priest in an accent as stern and commanding as Mark’s own; “I was never a party to any fraud, nor was I in this country when your father sold his estates.”

“I care not how it happened,” cried Mark, passionately. “When my own father could do this thing, it matters little to me who were his accomplices;” and he tore the paper in fragments, and scattered them over the floor. “Another and a very different cause brought me here. The French fleet has arrived.”

The priest here muttered something in a low tone, to which Mark quietly replied —

“And if they have, it is because their anchors were dragging; you would not have the vessels go ashore on the rocks; the next tide they’ll stand up the Bay again. The people that should have been ready to welcome them, hold back. The whole country round is become suddenly craven; of the hundreds that rallied round me a month since, seventeen appeared this morning, and they were wretches more eager for pillage than the field of honourable warfare. It is come then to this, you either come forth, at once, to harangue the people, and recall them to their sworn allegiance, or the expedition goes on without you – go on it shall.”

Here he turned sharply round, and said a few words in French, to which the person addressed replied —

“Certainly; the French Republic does not send a force like this for the benefit of a sea voyage.”

“Desert the cause, then,” continued Mark, in a tone of denunciation; “desert us, and by G – d, your fate will be worse than that of our more open enemies. To-night the force will land; to-morrow we march all day, aye and all night too: the blazing chapels shall light the way.”

“Take care, rash boy, take care; the vengeance of outraged heaven is more terrible than you think of. Whatever be the crime and guilt of others, remember that you are an Irishman; that what the alien may do in recklessness, is sacrilege in him who is the son of the soil.”

“Save me, then, from this guilt – save me from myself,” cried Mark, in an accent of tender emotion. “I cannot desert this cause, and oh, do not make it one of dishonour to me.”

The old man seemed overcome by this sudden appeal to his affections, and made no reply, and the deep breathing of Mark, as his chest heaved in strong emotion, was the only sound in the stillness. Herbert, who had hitherto listened with that vague half consciousness of reality excessive fatigue inflicts, became suddenly aware that the eventful moment was come, when, should the priest falter or hesitate, Mark might succeed in his request, and all hope of rescuing him be lost for ever. With the energy of a desperate resolve he sprang forward, and entered the room just as the priest was about to reply.

“No, Father, no,” cried he, wildly; “be firm, be resolute; if this unhappy land is to be the scene of bloodshed, let not her sons be found in opposing ranks.”

“This from you, Herbert!” said Mark, reproachfully, as he fixed a cold, stern gaze upon his brother.

“And why not from him,” said the priest, hastily. “Is he not an Irishman in heart and spirit? Is not the land as dear to him as to us?”

“I give you joy upon the alliance, Father,” said Mark, with a scornful laugh. “Herbert is a Protestant.”

“What! – did I hear aright?” said the old man, as with a face pale as death, he tottered forwards, and caught the youth by either arm. “Is this true, Herbert? Tell me, boy, this instant, that it is not so.”

“It is true, sir, most true; and if I have hitherto spared you the pain it might occasion you, believe me it was not from any shame the avowal might cost me.”

The priest staggered back, and fell heavily into a chair; a livid hue spread itself over his features, and his eyes grew glassy and lustreless.

“We may well be wretched and miserable,” exclaimed he with a faint sigh, “when false to heaven, who is to wonder that we are traitors to each other.”

The French officer – for such he was – muttered some words into Mark’s ear, who replied – “I cannot blame you for feeing impatient; this is no time for fooling. Now for the glen. Farewell, Father. Herbert, we’ll meet again soon;” and without waiting to hear more, he hastened from the room with his companion.

Herbert stood for a second or two undecided. He wished to say something, yet knew not what, or how. At last approaching the old man’s chair, he said —

“There is yet time to avert the danger; the people are irresolute – many actually averse to the rising; my brother will fall by his rashness.”

“Better to do so than survive in dishonour,” said the priest, snatching rudely away his hand from Herbert’s grasp. “Leave me, young man – go; this is a poor and an humble roof; but never till now has it sheltered the apostate.”

“I never thought I should hear these words, here,” said Herbert, mildly; “but I cannot part from you in anger.”

“There was a time when you never left me without my blessing, Herbert,” said the priest, his eyes swimming in tears as he spoke; “kneel now, my child.”

Herbert knelt at the priest’s feet, when placing his hand on the young man’s head, he muttered a fervent prayer over him, saying, as he concluded —

“And may He who knows all hearts, direct and guide yours, and bring you back from your wanderings, if you have strayed from truth.”

He kissed the young man’s forehead, and then covering his eyes with his hands, sat lost in his own sorrowful thoughts.

At this moment Herbert heard his name whispered by a voice without; he stole silently from the room, and on reaching the little porch, found Kerry O’Leary, who, wet through and wearied, had reached the cottage, after several hours’ endeavour to cross the watercourses, swollen into torrents by the rain.

“A letter from Carrig-na-curra, sir,” said Kerry; for heartily sick of his excursion, he adopted the expedient of pretending to mistake to which brother the letter was addressed, and thus at once terminate his unpleasant mission.

The note began, “My dear son;” and, without the mention of a name, simply entreated his immediate return home. Thither Herbert felt both duty and inclination called him, and without a moment’s delay left the cottage, and, accompanied by Kerry, set out for Carrig-na-curra.

The night was dark and starless, as they plodded onward, and as the rain ceased, the wind grew stronger, while for miles inland the roaring of the sea could be heard like deep continuous thunder. Herbert, too much occupied with his own thoughts, seldom spoke, nor did Kerry, exhausted as he felt himself, often break silence as they went. As they drew near the castle, however, a figure crossed the road, and advancing towards them said —

“Good night.”

“Who could that be, Kerry?” said Herbert, as the stranger passed on.

“I know the voice well,” said Kerry, “though he thought to disguise it. That’s Sam Wylie, and it’s not for any thing good he’s here.”

Scarcely were the words spoken, when four fellows sprang down upon and seized them.

“This is our man,” said one of the party, as he held Herbert by the collar, with a grasp there was no resisting; “but secure the other also.”

Herbert’s resistance was vain, although spiritedly made, and stifling his cries for aid, they carried him along for some little distance to a spot, where a chaise was standing with four mounted dragoons on either side. Into this he was forced, and seated between two men in plain clothes, the word was given to start.

“You know your orders if a rescue be attempted,” said a voice, Herbert at once knew to be Hemsworth’s.

The answer was lost in the noise of the wheels; for already the horses were away at the top of their speed, giving the escort all they could do to keep up beside them.

CHAPTER XLVII. THE DAY OF RECKONING

Never had the O’Donoghue and Kate passed a day of more painful anxiety, walking from window to window, whenever a view of the glen might be obtained, or listening to catch among the sounds of the storm for something that should announce Mark’s return; their fears increased as the hours stole by, and yet no sign of his coming appeared.

The old castle shook to its very foundations, as the terrific gale tore along the glen, and the occasional crash of some old fragment of masonry, would be heard high above the roaring wind – while in the road beneath were scattered branches of trees, slates, and tiles, all evidencing the violence of the hurricane. Under shelter of the great rock, a shivering flock of mountain sheep were gathered, with here and there amidst them a heifer or a wild pony, all differences of habit merged in the common instinct of safety. Within doors every thing looked sad and gloomy; the kitchen, where several country people, returning from the market, had assembled, waiting in the vain hope of a favourable moment to proceed homeward, did not present any of its ordinary signs of gaiety. There was no pleasant sound of happy voices; no laughter, no indulgence in the hundred little narratives of personal adventure by which the peasant can beguile the weary time. They all sat around the turf fire, either silent, or conversing in low cautious whispers, while Mrs. Branagan herself smoked her pipe in a state of moody dignity, that added its shade of awe to the solemnity of the scene.

It was a strange feature of the converse, nor would it be worth to mention here, save as typifying the wonderful caution and reserve of the people in times of difficulty; but no one spoke of the “rising,” nor did any allude, except distantly, to the important military preparations going forward at Macroom. The fear of treachery was at the moment universal; the dread that informers were scattered widely through the land, prevailed everywhere, and the appearance of a stranger, or of a man from a distant part of the country, was always enough to silence all free and confidential intercourse. So it was now – none spoke of anything but the dreadful storm – the injury it might do the country – how the floods would carry away a bridge here, or a mill there, what roads would be impassable – what rivers would no longer be ford-able – some had not yet drawn home their turf from the bog, and were now in despair of ever reaching it – another had left his hay in a low callow, and never expected to see it again – while a few, whose speculations took a wider field ventured to expatiate on the terrible consequences of the gale at sea, a topic which when suggested led to many a sorrowful tale of shipwreck on the coast.

It was while they were thus, in low and muttering voices, talking over these sad themes, that Kate, unable any longer to endure the suspense of silent watching, descended the stairs, and entered the kitchen, to try and learn there some tidings of events. The people stood up respectfully as she came forward, and while each made his or her humble obeisance, a muttered sound ran through them, in Irish, of wonder and astonishment at her grace and beauty; for, whatever be the privations of the Irish peasant, however poor and humble his lot in life, two faculties pertain to him like instincts – a relish for drollery, and an admiration for beauty – these are claims that ever find acknowledgment from him, and in his enjoyment of either, he can forget himself, and all the miseries of his condition. The men gazed on her as something more than mortal, the character of her features heightened by costume strange to their eyes, seemed to astonish almost as much as it captivated them – while the women, with more critical discernment, examined her more composedly, but, perhaps, with not less admiration; Mrs. Branagan, at the same time throwing a proud glance around, as though to say, “You didn’t think to see the likes of that, in these parts.”

Kate happened on this occasion to look more than usually handsome. With a coquetry it is not necessary to explain, she had dressed herself most becomingly, and in that style which distinctly marks a French woman – the only time in his life Mark had ever remarked her costume was when she wore this dress, and she had not forgotten the criticism.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” said Kate, with her slightly foreign accent; “pray sit down again – well, then, I must leave you, if you won’t – every one let’s me have my own way – is it not true, Mrs. Branagan?”

Mrs. Branagan’s reply was quite lost in the general chorus of the others, as she said —

“And why wouldn’t you, God bless you for a raal beauty!” while a powerful looking fellow, with dark beard and whiskers, struck his stick violently against the ground, and cried out in his enthusiasm —

“Let me see the man that would say agin it – that’s all.”

Kate smiled at the speaker, not all ungrateful for such rude chivalry, and went on – “I wanted to hear if you have any news from the town – was there any stir among the troops, or anything extraordinary going forward there?”

Each looked at the other as if unwilling to take the reply upon himself, when at last an old man, with a head as white as snow, answered —

“Yes, my lady, the soldiers is all under arms since nine o’clock, then came news that the French was in the Bay, and the army was sent for to Cork.”

“No, ‘tis Limerick I heerd say,” cried another.

“Limerick indeed! sorra bit, ‘tis from Dublin they’re comin wid cannons; but it’s no use, for the French is sailed off again as quick as they come.”

“The French fleet gone! – left the Bay – surely you must mistake,” said Kate, eagerly.

“Faix, I won’t be sure, my lady; but here’s Tom McCarthy seen them going away, a little after twelve o’clock.”

The man thus appealed to, seemed in nowise satisfied with the allusions to him, and threw a quick distrustful look around, as though far from feeling content with the party before whom he should explain, a feeling that increased considerably as every eye was now turned towards him.

Kate, with a ready tact that never failed her, saw his difficulty, and approaching close to where he stood, said, in a voice only audible by himself —

“Tell me what you saw in the Bay, do not have any fear of me.”

M’Carthy, who was dressed in the coarse blue jacket of a fisherman! possessed that sharp intelligence so often found among those of his calling, and seemed at once to have his mind relieved by this mark of confidence.

“I was in the boat, my lady,” said he, “that rowed Master Mark out to the French frigate, and waited for him alongside to bring him back. He was more than an hour on board talking with the officers, sometimes down in the cabin, and more times up on the quarter-deck, where there was a fierce-looking man, with a blue uniform, lying on a white skin – a white bear, Master Mark tould me it was. The officer was wounded in the leg before he left France, and the sea voyage made it bad again, but, for all that, he laughed and joked away like the others.”

“And they were laughing then, and in good spirits?” said Kate.

“‘Tis that you may call it. I never heerd such pleasant gentlemen before, and the sailors too was just the same – sorra bit would sarve them, but making us drink a bottle of rum apiece, for luck, I suppose – devil a one had a sorrowful face on him but Master Mark, whatever was the matter with him, he wouldn’ eat anything either, and the only glass of wine he drank, you’d think it was poison, the face he made at it – more by token he flung the glass overboard when he finished it. And to be sure the Frenchmen weren’t in fault, they treated him like a brother – one would be shaking hands wid him – another wid his arm round his shoulders, and” – here Tom blushed and stammered, and at last stopped dead short.

“Well, go on, what were you going to say?”

“Faix, I’m ashamed then – but ‘tis true enough – saving your presence, I saw two of them kiss him.”

Kate could not help laughing at Tom’s astonishment at this specimen of French greeting – while for the first time, perhaps, did the feeling of the peasant occur to herself, and the practice she had often witnessed abroad, without remark, became suddenly repugnant to her delicacy.

“And did Master Mark come back alone,” asked she, after a minute’s hesitation.

“No, my lady, there was a little dark man wid gould epaulettes, and a sword on him, that came too. I heerd them call him, Mr. Morris, but sorra word of English or Irish he had.”

“And where did they land, and which way did they take afterwards?”

“I put them ashore at Glengariff, and they had horses there to take them up the country. I heerd they were going first to Father Rourke’s in the glen.”

“And then, after that?”

“Sorra a one of me knows. I never set eyes on them since – I was trying to get a warp out for one of the French ships, for the anchors was dragging – they came to the wrong side of the island, and got into the north channel, and that was the reason they had to cut their cables and stand out to sea till the gale is over, but there’s not much chance of that for some time.”

Kate did not speak for several minutes, and at length said —

“The people, tell me of them, were they in great numbers along the coast, were there a great many of them with Mr. Mark when he came down to the shore?”

“I’ll tell you no He, my lady; there was not – there was some boys from Castletown, and down thereabouts, but the O’Learys and the Sullivans, the McCarthys – my own people – and the Neals wasn’t there; and sure enough it was no wonder if Master Mark was angry, when he looked about and saw the fellows was following him. ‘Be off,’ says he, ‘away wid ye, ‘tis for pillage and robbery the likes of ye comes down here – if the men that should have heart and courage in the cause won’t come forward, I’ll never head ruffians like you to replace them.’ Them’s the words he said, and hard words they were.”

“Poor fellow,” said Kate, as she wiped away a tear from her eye, “none stand by him, not one, and why is this the case,” asked she, eagerly, “have the people grown faint-hearted – are there cowards amongst them?”

“There’s as bad,” said M’Carthy, in a low, cautious whisper – . “there’s traitors, that would rather earn blood money, than live honestly – there’s many a one among them scheming to catch Master Mark himself, and he is lucky if he escapes at last.”