CHAPTER V. THE CABIN.
Before day broke the stir and bustle of the household awoke me, andhad it not been for the half-open door, which permitted a view of theproceedings in the kitchen, I should have been sadly puzzled to rememberwhere I was. The cheerful turf fire, the happy faces, and the pleasantvoices all reminded me of the preceding night, and I lay pondering overmy fortunes, and revolving within myself many a plan for the future.
In all the daydreams of ambition in which youth indulges, there is thisadvantage over the projects of maturer years,--the past never mingleswith the future. In after life our bygone existence is ever tingeing thetime to come; the expectations friends have formed of us, the promiseswe have made to our own hearts, the hopes we have created, seem topledge us to something which, if anattained, sounds like failure. Butin earlier years, the budding consciousness of our ability to reach thegoal doea but stimulate us, and never chills our efforts by the dreadof disappointment; we have, as it were, only bound ourselves inrecognizances with our own hearts,--the world has not gone bail for us,and our falling short involves not the ruin of others, nor the loss ofthat self-respect which is but the reflex of the opinion of society. Ifelt this strongly; and the more I ruminated on it, the more resolutelybent was I to adopt some bold career,--some enterprising path, whereambition should supply to me the pleasures and excitements that othersfound among friends and home.
I now perceived how unsuitable would be to me the quiet monotony ofa peasant's life; how irksome the recurrence of the same dailyoccupations, the routine of ceaseless labor, the intercourse withthose whose views and hopes strayed not beyond their own hedgerows. Asoldier's life appeared to realize all that I looked for; but thenthe conversation of the piper recurred to me, and I remembered how hepainted these men to me as mere hireling bravos, to whom glory or famewas nothing,--merely actuated by the basest of passions, the slaves oftyranny. All the atrocities he mentioned of the military in the pastyear came up before me, and with them the brave resistance of the peoplein their struggle for independence. How my heart glowed with enthusiasmas I thought over the bold stand they had made, and how I panted to bea man, and linked in such a cause! Every gloomy circumstance in my ownfate seemed as the result of that grinding oppression under which mycountry suffered,--even to the curse vented on me by one whose ruinand desolation lay at my own father's door. My temples throbbed, andmy heart beat painfully against my side, as I revolved these thoughtswithin me; and when I rose from my bed that morning, I was a rebel withall my soul.
The day, like the preceding one, was stormy and inclement; the rainpoured down without ceasing, and the dark, lowering sky gave no promiseof better things. The household of the cottage remained all at home, andbetook themselves to such occupations as indoor permitted. The women satdown to their spinning-wheels; some of the men employed themselves inrepairing their tools, and others in making nets for fishing: but allwere engaged. Meanwhile, amid the sounds of labor was mixed the busy humof merry voices, as they chatted away pleasantly, with many a storyand many a song lightening the long hours of the dark day. As for me, Ilonged impatiently for Darby's return: a thousand half-formed plans wereflitting through my mind; and I burned to hear whether Basset was stillin pursuit of me; what course he was adopting to regain me within hiscontrol; if Darby had seen my friend Bubbleton, and whether he showedany disposition to befriend and protect me. These and such like thoughtskept passing through my mind; and as the storm would shake the rudedoor, I would stand up with eagerness, hoping every moment to seehim enter. But the day moved on, and the dusky half-light of a wintryafternoon was falling, and Darby made not his appearance. When I spokeof him to the others, they expressed no surprise at his absence, merelyremarking that he was always uncertain,--no one knew when to expect him;that he rarely came when they looked for him, and constantly dropped inwhen no one anticipated it.
"There he is now, then!" said one of the young men, springing up andopening the door; "I hear his voice in the glen."
"Do you see him, Maurice?" cried Malone. "Is it him?"
The young man stepped back, his face pale as death, and his mouth partlyopen.
He whispered a word in the old man's ear; to which the otherresponded,--"Where?"
The youth pointed with his finger. "How many are they?" was his nextquestion, while his dark eye glanced towards the old musket that hung onthe wall above the fire.
"Too many,--too many for us," said Maurice, bitterly.
The women, who had gathered around the speaker, looked at each otherwith an expression of utter wretchedness, when one of them, breakingfrom the others, rushed into the little inner room off the kitchen, andslammed the door violently behind her. The next instant the sound ofvoices was heard from the room, as if in altercation. Malone turnedround at once, and throwing the door wide open, called out,--
"Be quiet, I say; there's not a moment to be lost. Maurice, put that gunaway; Shamus, take up your net again; sit down, girls."
At the same instant he drew from his bosom a long horse pistol,and having examined the loading and priming, replaced it within hiswaistcoat, and sat down on a chair beside the fire, his strongly markedcountenance fixed on the red blaze, while his lips muttered rapidly somewords to himself.
"Are ye ready there?" he cried, as his eyes were turned towards thesmall door.
"In a minit," said the woman from within.
At the same instant the sounds of voices and the regular tramp of menmarching were heard without.
"Halt! stand at ease!" called out a deep voice; and the clank of themuskets as they fell to the ground was heard through the cabin.
Meanwhile, every one within had resumed his previous place andoccupation, and the buzz of voices resounded through the kitchen asthough no interruption whatever had taken place. The latch was nowlifted, and a sergeant, stooping to permit his tall feather to pass in,entered, followed by a man in plain clothes.
The latter was a short, powerfully-built man, of about fifty; his hair,of a grizzly gray, contrasted with the deep purple of his countenance,which was swollen and bloated; the mouth, its most remarkable feature,was large and thick-lipped, the under-lip, projecting considerablyforward, and having a strange, convulsive motion when he was notspeaking.
"It's a hard day. Mister Barton," said Malone, rising from his seat, andstroking down his hair with one hand; "won't ye come over and take anair at the fire?"
"I will, indeed, Ned," said he, taking the proffered seat, andstretching out his legs to the blaze. "It's a severe season we have. Idon't know how the poor are to get in the turf; the bogs are very wetentirely."
"They are, indeed, sir; and the harvest 'ill be very late getting innow," said one of the young men, with a most obsequious voice. "Won't yesit down, sir?" said he to the sergeant.
A nod from Mister Barton in acquiescence decided the matter, and thesergeant was seated.
"What's here, Mary?" said Barton, striking the large pot that hung overthe fire with his foot.
"It's the boys' dinner, sir," said the girl.
"I think it wouldn't be a bad job if we joined them," replied he,laughingly,--"eh, sergeant?"
"There 'ill be enough for us all," said Malone; "and I'm sure ye'rewelcome to it."
The table was quickly spread, the places next the fire being reservedfor the strangers; while Malone, unlocking a cupboard, took down abottle of whiskey, which he placed before them, remarking, as he didso,--
"Don't be afeard, gentlemen, 'tis Parliament."
"That 's right, Malone. I like a man to be loyal in these bad times;there's nothing like it. (Faith, Mary, you're a good cook; that's assavory a stew as ever I tasted.) Where 's Patsey now? I have n't seenhim for some time."
The girl's face grew dark red, and then became as suddenly pale; when,staggering back, she lifted her apron to her face, and leaned againstthe dresser.
"He's transported for life," said Malone, in a deep, sepulchral voice,while all his efforts to conceal agitation were fruitless.
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sp; "Oh, I remember," said Barton, carelessly; "he was in the dock with theHogans. (I 'll take another bone from you, Ned. Sergeant, that 's a realIrish dish, and no bad one either.)"
"What's doing at the town to-day?" said Malone, affecting an air of easyindifference.
"Nothing remarkable, I believe. They have taken up that rascal. Darbythe Blast, as they call him. The major had him under examination thismorning for two hours; and they say he 'll give evidence against theDillons, (a little more fat, if ye please;) money, you know, Ned, willdo anything these times."
"You ought to know that, sir," said Maurice, with such an air of assumedinnocence as actually made Barton look ashamed. In an instant, however,he recovered himself, and pretended to laugh at the remark. "Yourhealth, sergeant; Ned Malone, your health; ladies, yours; and boys,the same." A shower of "thank ye, sir's," followed this piece ofunlooked-for courtesy. "Who's that boy there, Ned?" said he, pointing tome as I sat with my eyes riveted upon him.
"He's from this side of Banagher, sir," said Malone, evading thequestion.
"Come over here, younker. What 's his name?"
"Tom, sir."
"Come over, Tom, till I teach you a toast. Here's a glass, my lad;hold it steady, till I fill you a bumper. Did you ever hear tell of thecroppies?"
"No, never!"
"Never heard of the croppies! Well, you're not long in Ned Malone'scompany anyhow, eh? ha! ha! ha! Well, my man, the croppies is anothername for the rebels, and the toast I 'm going to give you is about them.So mind you finish it at one pull. Here now, are you ready?"
"Yes, quite ready," said I, as I held the brimming glass straight beforeme.
"Here 's it, then,--
"'May every croppy taste the rope. And find some man to hang them; May Bagnal Harvey and the Pope Have Heppenstal to hang them!'"
I knew enough of the meaning of his words to catch the allusion, anddashing the glass with all my force against the wall, I smashed itinto a hundred pieces. Barton sprang from his chair, his face dark withpassion. Clutching me by the collar with both hands, he cried out,--
"Halloo! there without, bring in the handcuffs here! As sure as my name's Sandy Barton, we 'll teach you that toast practically, and that erelong."
"Take care what you do there," said Malone, fiercely. "That younggentleman is a son of Matthew Burke of Cremore; his relatives are notthe kind of people to figure in your riding-house."
"Are you a son of Matthew Burke?"
"I am."
"What brings you here then? why are you not at home?"
"By what right do you dare to ask me? I have yet to learn how far I amresponsible for where I go to a thief-catcher."
"You hear that, sergeant? you heard him use a word to bring me intocontempt before the people, and excite them to use acts of violencetowards me?"
"No such thing. Mister Barton!" said Malone, coolly; "nobody here hasany thought of molesting you. I told you that young gentleman's nameand condition, to prevent you making any mistake concerning him; for hisfriends are not the people to trifle with."
This artfully-put menace had its effect. Barton sat down again, andappeared to reflect for a few minuted; then taking a roll of paper fromhis pocket, he began leisurely to peruse it. The silence at this momentwas something horribly oppressive.
"This is a search-warrant, Mr. Malone," said Barton, laying down thepaper on the table, "empowering me to seek for the body of a certainFrench officer, said to be concealed in these parts. Informations onoath state that he passed at least one night under your roof. As hehas not accepted the amnesty granted to the other officers in the latefamous attempt against the peace of this country, the law will dealwith him as strict justice may demand; at the same time, it is right youshould know that harboring or sheltering him, under these circumstances,involves the person or persons so doing in his guilt. Mr. Malone'swell-known and tried loyalty," continued Barton, with a half grinof most malicious meaning, "would certainly exculpate him from anysuspicion of this nature; but sworn informations are stubborn things,and it is possible, that in ignorance of the danger such a proceedingwould involve--"
"I thought the thrubbles was over, sir," interrupted Malone, wiping hisforehead with the back of his hand, "and that an honest, industriousman, that minded his own business, had nothing to fear from any one."
"And you thought right," said Barton, slowly and deliberately, whilehe scanned the other's features with a searching look; "and that is thevery fact I'm come to ascertain. And now, with your leave, we'll firstsearch the house and offices, and then I 'll put a little interrogatoryto such persons as I think fit, touching this affair."
"You're welcome to go over the cabin whenever you like," said Malone,rising, and evidently laboring to repress his passionate indignation atBarton's coolness.
Barton stood up at the same moment, and giving a wink at the sergeant tofollow, walked towards the small door I've already mentioned. Malone'swife at this started forward, and catching Barton's arm, whispered a fewwords in his ear.
"She must be a very old woman by this time," said Barton, fixing hissharp eyes on the speaker.
"Upwards of ninety, sir, and bedridden for twelve years," said thewoman, wiping a tear away with her apron.
"And how comes it she's so afraid of the soldiers, if she's doting?"
"Arrah! they used to frighten her so much, coming in at night, andfiring shots at the doore, and drinking and singing songs, that shenever got over it; an that's the rayson. I 'll beg of your honor not tobring in the sergeant, and to disturb her only as little as you can, forit sets her raving about battles and murders, and it 's maybe ten daysbefore we 'll get her mind at ease again."
"Well, well, I'll not trouble her," said he, quickly, "Sergeant, stepback for a moment."
With this he entered the room, followed by the woman whose uncertainstep and quiet gesture seemed to suggest caution.
"She 's asleep, sir," said she, approaching the bed. "It 's many a daysince she had as fine a sleep as that. 'T is good luck you brought usthis morning, Mister Barton."
"Draw aside the curtain a little," said Barton, in a low voice, as iffearing to awake the sleeper.
"'Tis rousing her up, you'll be, Mister Barton, she feels the light atwanst."
"She breathes very long for so old a woman," said he somewhat louder,"and has a good broad shoulder, too. T 'd like, if it was only forcuriosity, just to see her face a little closer. I thought so! Come,captain; it 's no use--"
A scream from the woman drowned the remainder of the speech, while atthe same instant one of the young men shut-to the outside door, andbarred it. The sergeant was immediately pinioned with his hands behindhis back, and Malone drew his horse-pistol from his bosom, and holdingup his hand, called out,--
"Not a word,--not a word! If ye spake, it will be the last time everyou 'll do so!" said he to the sergeant
At the same moment, the noise of a scuffle was heard in the inner room,and the door burst suddenly open, and Barton issued forth, dragging inhis strong hands the figure of a young, slightly-formed man. His coatwas off, but its trousers were braided with gold, in military fashion;and his black mustache denoted the officer. The struggle of the youth toget free was utterly fruitless; Barton's grasp was on his collar, and heheld him as though he were a child.
The Struggle 059]
Malone stooped down towards the fire, and, opening the pan of hispistol, examined the priming; then, slapping it down again, he stooderect, "Barton," said he, in a tone of firm determination I heard himuse for the first time,--"Barton, it 's bad to provoke a man with thehalter round his neck. I know what 's before me well enough now. Butsee, let him escape; give him two hours to get away, and here I 'llsurrender myself your prisoner, and follow you where you like."
"Break in the door, there, blast ye!" was the reply to this offer, asBarton shouted to the soldiers at the top of his voice. Two of the youngmen darted forward as he spoke, and threw themselves against it. "Firethrough it!" cried Barton,
stamping with passion.
"You will have it, will you, then?" said Malone, as he ground his teethin anger; then raising his pistol, he sprang forward, and holding itwithin a yard of Barton's face, shouted out, "There!"
The powder flashed in the lock, and quick as its own report. Bartonhurled the Frenchman round to protect him from the ball, but only intime to receive the shot in his right arm as he held it uplifted. Thearm fell powerless to his side; while Malone, springing on him like atiger, grasped him in his powerful grip, and they both rolled upon theground in terrible conflict. The Frenchman stood for an instant like onetransfixed; then, bursting from the spot, dashed through the kitchen tothe small room I had slept in. One of the young men followed him. Thecrash of glass and the sounds of breaking woodwork were heard among theother noises; and at the same moment the door gave way in front, and thesoldiers with fixed bayonets entered at a charge.
"Fire on them I fire on them!" shouted Barton, as he lay struggling onthe ground; and a random volley rang through the cabin, filling it withsmoke.
A yell of anguish burst forth at the moment; and one of the women laystretched upon the hearth, her bosom bathed in blood. The scene wasnow a terrible one; for although overpowered by numbers, the young menrushed on the soldiers, and regardless of wounds, endeavored to wresttheir arms from them. The bayonets glanced through the blue smoke, andshouts of rage and defiance rose up amid frightful screams of sufferingand woe. A bayonet stab in the side, received I know not how, sentme half fainting into the little room through which the Frenchman hadescaped. The open window being before me, I did nob deliberate a second,but mounting the table, crept through it, and fell heavily on the turfoutside. In a moment after I rallied, and staggering onwards, reached apotato field, where, overcome by pain and weakness, I sank into one ofthe furrows, scarcely conscious of what had occurred.
Weak and exhausted as I was, I could still hear the sounds of theconflict that raged within the cabin. Gradually, however, they grewfainter and fainter, and at last subsided altogether. Yet I feared tostir; and although night was now falling, and the silence continuedunbroken, I lay still, hoping to hear some well-known voice, or eventhe footstep of some one belonging to the house. But all was calm, andnothing stirred; the very air, too, was hushed,--not a leaf moved in thethin, frosty atmosphere. The dread of finding the soldiers in possessionof the cabin made me fearful of quitting my hiding place, and I did notmove. Some hours had passed over ere I gained courage enough to raise myhead and look about me.
My first glance was directed towards the distant highroad, where Iexpected to have seen some of the party who attacked the cabin, butfar as my eye could reach, no living thing was to be seen; my next wastowards the cabin, which, to my horror and amazement, I soon perceivedwas enveloped in a thick, dark smoke, that rolled lazily from thewindows and doorway, and even issued from the thatched roof. As Ilooked, I could hear the crackling of timber and the sound of woodburning. These continued to increase; and then a red, forked flame shotthrough one of the casements, and turning upwards, caught the thatch,where, passing rapidly across the entire roof, it burst into a broadsheet of fire, which died out again as rapidly, and left the gloomysmoke triumphant.
Meanwhile a roaring sound, like that of a furnace, was heard fromwithin; and at last, with an explosion like a mortar, the roof burstopen, and the bright blaze sprang forth. The rafters were soon envelopedin fire, and the heated straw rose into the air, and floated in thinstreaks of flame through the black sky. The door cases and the windowframes were all burning, and marked their outlines against the darkwalls: and as the thatch was consumed, the red rafters were seen likethe ribs of a skeleton; but they fell in one by one, sending up in theirdescent millions of red sparks into the dark air. The black wall of thecabin had given way to the heat, and through its wide fissure I couldsee the interior, now one mass of undistinguishable ruin: nothingremained, save the charred and blackened walls.
I sat gazing at this sad sight like one entranced. Sometimes it seemedto me as a terrible dream; and then the truth would break upon me withfearful force, and my heart felt as though it would burst far beyond mybosom. The last flickering flame died away, the hissing sounds ofthe fire were stilled, and the dark walls stood out against the bleakbackground in all their horrible deformity, as I rose and enteredthe cabin. I stood within the little room where I had slept the nightbefore, and looked out into the kitchen, around whose happy hearththe merry voices were so lately heard. I brought them up before me, inimagination, as they sat there. One by one I marked their places in mymind, and thought of the kindness of their welcome to me, and the wordsof comfort and encouragement they spoke' The hearth was now coldand black; the pale stars looked down between the walls, and a chillmoonlight flickered through the gloomy ruin. My heart had no room forsorrow; but another feeling found a place within it: a savage thirst forvengeance,--vengeance upon those who had desecrated a peaceful home, andbrought blood and death among its inmates! Here was the very realizationbefore my eyes of what M'Keown had been telling me; here the horriblepicture he had drawn of tyranny and outrage. In the humble cottagers Isaw but simpleminded peasants, who had opened their doors to some poorunfriended outcast,--one who, like myself, had neither house nor home.I saw them offering their hospitality to him who sought it, freely andopenly; and at last adventuring all they possessed in the world, ratherthan betray him,--and their reward was this! Oh, how my heart revoltedat such oppression! how my spirit fired at such indignity! I thought alife passed in opposition to such tyranny were too short a vengeance;and I knelt me down beside that blackened hearth, and swore myself itsenemy to the death.
Tom Burke Of Ours, Volume I Page 6