CHAPTER III. THE DEPARTURE
The violent beating of the rain against the glass, and the loud crash ofthe storm as it shook the window-frames or snapped the sturdy branchesof the old trees, awoke me. I got up, and opening the shutters,endeavored to look out; but the darkness was impenetrable, and I couldsee nothing but the gnarled and grotesque forms of the leafless treesdimly marked against the sky, as they moved to and fro like the armsof some mighty giant. Masses of heavy snow melted by the rain fell atintervals from the steep roof, and struck the ground beneath with alow sumph like thunder. A grayish, leaden tinge that marked the horizonshowed it was near daybreak; but there was nought of promise in thisharbinger of morning. Like my own career, it opened gloomily andin sadness: so felt I at least; and as I sat beside the window, andstrained my eyes to pierce the darkening storm, I thought that evenwatching the wild hurricane without was better than brooding over thesorrows within my own bosom.
How long I remained thus I know not; but already the faint streak thatannounces sunrise marked the dull-colored sky, when the cheerful soundsof a voice singing in the room underneath attracted me. I listened, andin a moment recognized the piper. Darby M'Keown. He moved quickly about,and by his motions I could collect that he was making preparations forhis journey.
If I could venture to pronounce, from the merry tones of his voice andthe light elastic step with which he trod the floor, I certainly wouldnot suppose that the dreary weather had any terror for him. He spoke soloud that I could catch a great deal of the dialogue he maintained withhimself, and some odd verses of the song with which from time to time hegarnished his reflections.
"Marry, indeed! Catch me at it--nabocklish--with the countrysidebefore me, and the hoith of good eating and drinking for a blast of thechantre. Well, well! women 's quare craytures anyway.
'Ho, ho! Mister Ramey, No more of your blarney, I 'd have yoa not make so free; You may go where you plaze. And make love at your ease. But the devil may have you for me.'
Very well, ma'am. Mister M'Keown is your most obedient,--never say ittwice, honey; and isn't there as good fish, eh?--whoop!
'Oh! my heart is unazy. My brain is run crazy, Sure it 's often I wish I was dead; 'Tis your smile now so sweet! Now your ankles and feet. That 's walked into my heart, Molly Spread! Tol de rol, de rol, oh!'
Whew! thttt 's rain, anyhow. I would n't mind it, bad as it is, if Ihadn't the side of a mountain before me; but sure it comes to the samein the end. Catty Delany is a good warrant for a pleasant evening; and,please God, I 'll be playing 'Baltiorum' beside the fire there beforethis time to-night.
'She 'd a pig and boneens. And a bed and a dresser. And a nate little room For the father confessor; With a cupboard and curtains, and something, I 'm towld. That his riv'rance liked when the weather was cowld. And it 's hurroo, hurroo! Biddy O'Rafferty!'
After all, aix, the priest bates us out. There 's eight o'clock now, andI'm not off; devil a one's stirring in the house either. Well, I believeI may take my leave of it; sorrow many tunes of the pipes it's likely tohear, with Tony Basset over it. And my heart 's low when I think of thatchild there. Poor Tom! and it was you liked fun when you could have it."
I wanted but the compassionate tone in which these few words were spokento decide me in a resolution that I had been for some time ponderingover. I knew that ere many hours Basset would come in search of me;I felt that, once in his power, I had nothing to expect but thelong-promised payment of his old debt of hatred to me. In a few secondsI ran over with myself the prospect of misery before me, and determinedat once, at every hazard, to make my escape. Darby seemed to afford methe best possible opportunity for this purpose; and I dressed myself,therefore, in the greatest haste, and throwing whatever I could find ofmy wardrobe into my carpet-bag, I pocketed my little purse, with allmy worldly wealth,--some twelve or thirteen shillings,--and noiselesslyslipped downstairs to the room beneath. I reached the door at the verymoment Darby opened it to issue forth. He started back with fear, andcrossed himself twice.
"Don't be afraid. Darby," said I, uneasy lest he should make anynoise that would alarm the others; "I want to know which road you aretravelling this morning."
"The saints be about us, but you frightened me. Master Tommy; though,intermediately, I may obsarve, I 'm by no ways timorous. I 'm goingwithin two miles of Athlone."
"That's exactly where I want to go. Darby; will you take me with you?"for at the instant Captain Bubbleton's address flashed on my mind, and Iresolved to seek him out and ask his advice in my difficulties.
"I see it all," replied Darby, as he placed the tip of his finger on hisnose. "I conceive your embarrassments,--you're afraid of Basset;and small blame to you. But don't do it. Master Tommy,--don't do it,alannah! that 's the hardest life at all."
"What?" said I, in amazement.
"To 'list! Sure I know what you're after. Faix, it would sarve youbetter to larn the pipes."
I hastened to assure Darby of his error; and in a few words informed himof what I had overheard of Basset's intentions respecting me.
"Make you an attorney!" said Darby, interrupting me abruptly; "anattorney! There's nothing so mean as an attorney. The police isgentlemen compared to them,--they fight it out fair like men; but theother chaps sit in a house planning and contriving mischief all daylong, inventing every kind of wickedness, and then getting people todo it. See, now, I believe in my conscience the devil was the firstattorney, and it was just to serve his own ends that he bred a ructionbetween Adam and Eve. But whisht! there's somebody stirring. Are you forthe road?"
"Yes, Darby; my mind's made up."
Indeed, his own elegant eulogium on legal pursuits assisted myresolution, and filled my heart with renewed disgust at the thought ofsuch a guardian as Tony Basset.
We walked stealthily along the gloomy passages, traversed the oldhall, and noiselessly withdrew the heavy bolts and the great chain thatfastened the door. The rain was sweeping along the ground in torrents,and the wind dashed it against the window panes in fitful gusts. Itneeded all our strength to close the door after us against the storm,and it was only after several trials that we succeeded in doing so. Thehollow sound of the oak door smote upon my heart as it closed behind me;in an instant the sense of banishment, of utter destitution, was presentto my mind. I turned my eyes to gaze upon the old house,--to take mylast farewell of it forever! Gloomy as my prospect was, my sorrow wasless for the sad future than for the misery of the moment.
"No, Master Tom! no, you must go back," said Darby, who watched witha tender interest the sickly paleness of my cheek, and the totteringuncertainty of my walk.
"No, Darby," said I, with an effort at firmness; "I'll not look roundany more." And bending my head against the storm, I stepped out boldlybeside my companion. We walked on without speaking, and soon left theneglected avenue and ruined gate lodge behind us, as we reached thehighroad that led to Athlone.
Darby, who only waited to let my first burst of sorrow find its naturalvent, no sooner perceived from my step and the renewed color of my cheekthat I had rallied my courage once more, than he opened all his storesof agreeability, which, to my inexperience in such matters, were byno means inconsiderable. Abandoning at once all high-flownphraseology,--which Mr. M'Keown, I afterwards remarked, only retained asa kind of gala suit for great occasions,--he spoke freely and naturally.Lightening the way with many a story,--now grave, now gay,--he seemedto care little for the inclemency of the weather, and looked pleasantlyforward to a happy evening as an ample reward for the present hardship.
"And the captain, Master Tom; you say he's an agreeable man?" saidDarby, alluding to my late companion on the coach, whose merits I wasnever tired of recapitulating.
"Oh, delightful! He has travelled everywhere, and seems to knoweverybody and everything. He 's very rich, too; I forget how many houseshe has in England, and elepha
nts without number in India."
"Faix, you were in luck to fall in with him!" observed Darby.
"Yes, that I was I I 'm sure he 'll do something for me; and for youtoo, Darby, when he knows you have been so kind to me."
"Me! What did I do, darling? and what could I do, a poor piper like me?Wouldn't it be honor enough for me if a gentleman's son would travel theroad with me? Darby M'Keown's a proud man this day to have you besidehim."
A ruined cabin in the road, whose blackened walls and charred timbersdenoted its fate, here attracted my companion's attention. He stoppedfor a second or two to look on it; and then, kneeling down, he muttereda short prayer for the eternal rest of some one departed, and takingup a stone, he threw it on a heap of similar ones which lay near thedoorside.
"What happened there, Darby?" said I, as he resumed his way.
"They wor out in the thrubles!" was his only reply, as he cast a glancebehind, to perceive if any one had remarked him.
Though he made no further allusion to the fate of those who onceinhabited the cabin, he spoke freely of his own share in the eventfulyear of 'Ninety-eight' justifying, as it then seemed to me, every stepof the patriotic party, and explaining the causes of their unsuccess sonaturally and so clearly that I could not help following with interestevery detail of his narrative, and joining in his regrets for theunexpected and adverse strokes fortune dealt upon them. As he warmedwith his subject, he spoke of France with an enthusiasm that I soonfound contagious. He told me of the glorious career of the French armiesin Italy and Austria; and of that wonderful man, of whom I thenheard for the first time, as spreading a halo of victory over hisnation,--contrasting, as he went on, the rewards which awaited heroismand bravery in that service with the purchased promotion in ours,artfully illustrating his position by a reference to myself, and whatmy fortunes would have been if born under that happier sky. "No elderbrother there," said he, "to live in affluence, while the younger onesare turned out to wander on the wide world, houseless and penniless. Andall these things we might have done, had we been but true to ourselves."I drank in all he said with avidity. The bearing of his arguments on myown fortunes gave them an interest and an apparent truth my young mindeagerly devoured; and when he ceased to speak, I pondered over all hetold me in a spirit that left its impress on my whole future life.
It was a new notion to me to connect my own fortunes with anything inthe political condition of the country; and while it gave my young hearta kind of martyred courage, it set my brain a-thinking on a class ofsubjects which never before possessed any interest for me. There was aflattery, too, in the thought that I owed my straitened circumstancesless to any demerits of my own, than to political disabilities. The timewas well chosen by my companion to instil his doctrines into my heart.I was young, ardent, enthusiastic; my own wrongs had taught me tohate injustice and oppression; my condition had made me feel, and feelbitterly, the humiliation of dependence; and if I listened with eagercuriosity to every story and every incident of the bygone Rebellion, itwas because the contest was represented to me as one between tyranny onone side and struggling liberty on the other. I heard the names of thosewho sided with the insurgent party extolled as the great and good men oftheir country; their ancient families and hereditary claims furnishinga contrast to many of the opposite party, whose recent settlement in theisland and new-born aristocracy were held up in scoff and derision. Ina word, I learned to believe that the one side was characterized bycruelty, oppression, and injustice; the other, conspicuous only forendurance, courage, patriotism, and truth. What a picture was this to amind like mine! and at a moment, too, when I seemed to realize in my owndesolation an example of the very sufferings I heard of!
If the portrait McKeown drew of Ireland was sad and gloomy, he paintedFrance in colors the brightest and most seductive. Dwelling less on thepolitical advantages which the Revolution had won for the popular party,he directed my entire attention to the brilliant career of glorythe French army had followed; the triumphant success of the Italiancampaign; the war in Germany; and the splendor of Paris, which herepresented as a very paradise on earth; but above all, he dwelt onthe character and achievements of the First Consul, recounting manyanecdotes of his early life, from the period when he was a schoolboyat Brienne to the hour when he dictated the conditions of peace to theoldest monarchies of Europe, and proclaimed war with the voice of onewho came as an avenger.
I drank in every word he spoke with avidity. The very enthusiasm of hismanner was contagious; I felt my heart bound with rapturous delightat some hardy deed of soldierlike daring, and conceived a kind ofwild idolatry for the man who seemed to have infused his own glorioustemperament into the mighty thousands around him, and converted a wholenation into heroes.
Darby's information on all these matters--which seemed to me somethingmiraculous--had been obtained at different periods from Frenchemissaries who were scattered through Ireland; many of them old soldierswho had served in the campaigns of Egypt and Italy.
"But sure, if you 'd come with me, Master Tom, I could bring you whereyou'll see them yourself; and you could talk to them of the battles andskirmishes, for I suppose you spake French."
"Very little. Darby. How sorry I am now that I don't know it well."
"No matter; they'll soon teach you, and many a thing besides. There 'sa captain I know of, not far from where we are this minute, could learnyou the small sword,--in style, he could. I wish you saw him in hisgreen uniform with white facings, and three elegant crosses upon itthat General Bonaparte gave him with his own hands; he had them on oneSunday, and I never see'd anything equal to it."
"And are there many French officers hereabouts?"
"Not now; no, they're almost all gone. After the rising they went backto France, except a few. Well, there'll be call for them again, pleaseGod."
"Will there be another Rebellion, then, Darby?"
As I put this question fearlessly, and in a voice loud enough to beheard at some distance, a horseman, wrapped up in a loose cloth cloak,was passing. He suddenly pulled up short, and turning his horseround, stood exactly opposite to the piper. Darby saluted the strangerrespectfully, and seemed desirous to pass on; but the other, turninground in his saddle, fixed a stern look on him, and he cried out,--
"What! at the old trade, M'Keown. Is there no curing you, eh?"
"Just so, major," said Darby, assuming a tone of voice he had notmade use of the entire morning; "I 'm conveying a little instrumentalrecreation."
"None of your damned gibberish with me. Who 's that with you?"
"He 's the son of a neighbor of mine, your honor," said Darby, withan imploring look at me not to betray him. "His father 's aschoolmaster,--a philomath, as one might say."
I was about to contradict this statement bluntly, when the strangercalled out to me,--
"Mark me, young sir, you 're not in the best of company this morning,and I recommend you to part with your friend as soon as may be. Andyou," said he, turning to Darby, "let me see you in Athlone at teno'clock to-morrow. D' ye hear me?"
The piper grew pale as death as he heard this command, to which he onlyresponded by touching his hat in silence; while the horseman, drawinghis cloak around, dashed his spurs into his beast's flanks, and was soonout of sight. Darby stood for a moment or two looking down the road,where the stranger had disappeared; a livid hue colored his cheek, anda tremulous quivering of his under-lip gave him the appearance of one inague.
"I'll be even with ye yet," muttered he between his clenched teeth; "andwhen the hour comes--"
Here he repeated some words in Irish with a vehemence of manner thatactually made my blood tingle; then suddenly recovering himself, heassumed a kind of sickly smile. "That's a hard man, the major."
"I'm thinking," said Darby, after a pause of some minutes,--"I 'mthinking it 's better for you not to go into Athlone with me; for ifBasset wishes to track you out, that 'll be the first place he 'll try.Besides, now that the major has seen you, he'll never forget you."
Having pledged myself to adopt any course my companion recommended, heresumed,--
"Ay, that 's the best way. I 'll lave you at Ned Malone's in the Glen;and when I 've done with the major in the morning, I 'll look after yourfriend the captain, and tell him where you are."
I readily assented to this arrangement; and only asked what distance itmight yet be to Ned Malone's, for already I began to feel fatigue.
"A good ten miles," said Darby,--"no less; but we 'll stop here above,and get something to eat, and then we 'll take a rest for an hour ortwo, and you 'll think nothing of the road after."
I stepped out with increased energy at the cheering prospect; andalthough the violence of the weather was nothing abated, I consoledmyself with thinking of the rest and refreshment before me, and resolvednot to bestow a thought upon the present. Darby, on the other hand,seemed more depressed than before, and betrayed in many ways a state ofdoubt and uncertainty as to his movements,--sometimes pushing on rapidlyfor half a mile or so; then relapsing into a slow and ploddingpace; often looking back too, and more than once coming to a perfectstand-still, talking the whole time to himself in a low muttering voice.
In this way we proceeded for above two miles, when at last I descriedthrough the beating rain the dusky gable of a small cabin in thedistance, and eagerly asked if that were to be our halting place.
"Yes," said Darby, "that 's Peg's cabin; and though it 's not veryremarkable in the way of cookery or the like, it 's the only housewithin seven miles of us."
As we came nearer, the aspect of the building became even less enticing.It was a low mud hovel, with a miserable roof of sods, or scraws, asthey are technically called; a wretched attempt at a chimney occupyingthe gable; and the front to the road containing a small square aperture,with a single pane of glass as a window, and a wicker contrivance inthe shape of a door, which, notwithstanding the severity of the day,lay wide open to permit the exit of the smoke, which rolled more freelythrough this than through the chimney. A filthy pool of stagnant,green-covered water stood before the door, through which a littlecauseway of earth led. Upon this a thin, lank-sided sow was standing tobe rained, on, her long, pointed snout turned meditatively towards theluscious mud beside her. Displacing this Important member of the familywith an unceremonious kick. Darby stooped to enter the low doorway,uttering as he did so the customary "God save all here!" As I followedhim in, I did not catch the usual response to the greeting, and from thethick smoke which filled the cabin, could see nothing whatever aroundme.
"Well, Peg," said Darby, "how is it with you the day?"
A low grunting noise issued from the foot of a little mud wall besidethe fireplace. I turned and beheld the figure of a woman of some seventyyears of age, seated beside the turf embers; her dark eyes, bleared withsmoke and dimmed with age, were still sharp and piercing; and her nose,thin and aquiline, indicated a class of features by no means commonamong the people. Her dress was the blue frieze coat of a laboring man,over the woollen gown usually worn by women. Her feet and legs werebare; and her head was covered with an old straw bonnet, whose fadedribbon and tarnished finery betokened its having once belonged to somericher owner. There was no vestige of any furniture,--neither table norchair, nor dresser, nor even a bed, unless some straw laid against thewall in one corner could be thus called; a pot suspended over the wetand sodden turf by a piece of hay rope, and an earthen pipkin with waterstood beside her. The floor of the hovel, lower in many places than theroad without, was cut up into sloppy mud by the tread of the sow, whoranged at will through the premises. In a word, more dire and wretchedpoverty it was impossible to conceive.
Darby's first movement was to take off the lid and peer into the pot,when the bubbling sound of the boiling potatoes assured him that weshould have at least something to eat; his next, was to turn a littlebasket upside down for a seat, to which he motioned me with his hand;then, approaching the old woman, he placed his hand to his mouth andshouted in her ear,--
"What 's the major after this morning, Peg?"
She shook her head gloomily a couple of times, but gave no answer.
"I 'm thinking there 's bad work going on at the town there," cried he,in the same loud tone as before.
Peg muttered something in Irish, but far too low to be audible.
"Is she mad, poor thing?" said I, in a whisper.
The words were not well uttered when she darted on me her black andpiercing eyes, with a look so steadfast as to make me quail beneaththem.
"Who 's that there?" said the hag, in a croaking, harsh voice.
"He 's a young boy from beyond Loughrea."
"No!" shouted she, in a tone of passionate energy; "don't tell me a lie.I 'd know his brows among a thousand,--he 's a son of Matt Burke's, ofCronmore."
"Begorra, she is a witch; devil a doubt of it!" muttered Darby betweenhis teeth. "You 're right, Peg," continued he, after a moment. "Hisfather's dead, and the poor child's left nothing in the world."
"And so ould Matt's dead?" interrupted she. "When did he die?"
"On Tuesday morning, before day."
"I was driaming of him that morning, and I thought he kem up here to thecabin door on his knees, and said, 'Peggy, Peggy M'Casky! I'm come toax your pardon for all I done to you.' And I sat up in my bed, and criedout, 'Who 's that?' and he said, ''T is me,--'t is Mister Burke; I 'mcome to give you back your lease.' 'I 'll tell you what you 'll giveme back,' says I; 'give me the man whose heart you bruck with badtreatment; give me the two fine boys you transported for life; give meback twenty years of my own, that I spent in sorrow and misery.'"
"Peg, acushla! don't speak of it any more. The poor child here, that's fasting from daybreak, he is n't to blame for what his father did. Ithink the praties is done by this time."
So saying, he lifted the pot from the fire, and carried it to the doorto strain off the water. The action seemed to rouse the old woman, whorose rapidly to her legs, and, hastening to the door, snatched the potfrom his hand and pushed him to one side.
"'Tis two days since I tasted bit or sup; 'tis God himself knows whenand where I may have it again; but if I never broke my fast, I'll not doit with the son of him that left me a lone woman this day, that broughtthe man that loved me to the grave, and my children to shame forever."
As she spoke, she dashed the pot into the road with such force as tobreak it into fifty pieces; and then, sitting down on the outside of thecabin, she wrung her hands and moaned piteously, in the very excess ofher sorrow.
"Let us be going," said Darby, in a whisper. "There 'a no spaking to herwhen she 's one of them fits on her."
We moved silently from the hovel, and gained the road. My heart was fullto bursting; shame and abasement overwhelmed me, and I dated not lookup.
"Good-by, Peg. I hope we 'll be better friends when we meet again," saidDarby, as he passed out.
She made no reply, but entered the cabin, from which, in an instantafter, she emerged, carrying a lighted sod of turf in a rude woodentongs.
The Curse 42]
"Come along quick!" said Darby, with a look of terror; "she's going tocurse you."
I turned round, transfixed and motionless. If my life depended on it, Icould not have stirred a limb. The old woman by this time had knelt downon the road, and was muttering rapidly to herself.
"Gome along, I say I," said Darby, pulling me by the arm.
"And now," cried the hag aloud, "may bad luck be your shadow whereveryou walk, with sorrow behind and bad hopes before you! May you nevertaste happiness nor ease; and, like this turf, may your heart be alwaysburning here, and--"
I heard no more, for Darby, tearing me away by main force, dragged mealong the road, just as the hissing turf embers had fallen at my feetwhere the hag had thrown them.
Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume I Page 4