Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated)

by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

  He knew the ground which he now trod, and remembered that a little village lay in the lap of the hill, just beyond the brow which he was now about to pass. Hunger and fatigue conspired to hasten his efforts to reach this humble resting-place, at which he proposed halting for the night. Accordingly, it was with a feeling of the extremest satisfaction that he found himself at last descending the ill-defined bridle-track which tended directly into the humble village; and now through the mist the outlines of the clustering gables and tufted bushes became apparent; but no note or sign of life, no baying of dogs, no sound of human voices, no twinkling light, met eye or ear, as he approached: all was dark and still. He now stood in the street (if so it might be called) of the desolated village; blackened walls, and gables, and charred roof-trees, and mounds of ashes spread drearily around him; and both the silence and desertion of the hour inspired a feeling almost akin to fear.

  “What!” said he, as he halted in indecision, amid this bleak, unsightly wreck: “could they not spare this poor cluster of wretched hovels!” He looked around him, and involuntarily ejaculated, “Woe to that poor land within whose fields and towns the strife of war maintains itself! — all smitten, the poor and the rich alike — the high and the lowly! How many an humble home is roofless here! — how many a hearth is quenched and black! and heaven only knows, beside, how many a poor peasant heart lies mouldering beneath these ashes! Alas! for this stricken country! — woe! woe!”

  As he said this, standing among the trees that had once sheltered the little groups of villagers, now scattered heaven knew whither, he was startled by a shrill and prolonged whistle, as it seemed scarce a hundred yards away, and which rang through the blackened ruins like the shriek of some ill-omened bird responding to his desolate apostrophe. Glad, however, of anything that intimated the vicinity of human life, Torlogh O’Brien shouted lustily in reply; and thus, sustaining a continued interchange of signals, he and the unknown were soon confronted. The latter, however, was not unaccompanied; two other men followed him closely; and all three halted within little more than a yard of our hero, a strange looking group enough. The foremost had on a tattered militia coat, overlaid with dirty white lace. He wore a rough cap of black sheepskin, and a pair of trooper’s jack-boots; and as he came up he unslung a musket, and handled it as if for instant use. His companions were bearded, shock-haired, bare-legged, and bareheaded creatures — one of them wrapped in the ancient crescent-shaped mantle, which Spenser has celebrated, and the other with nothing but his rags about him, and a stout half pike in his hand. All this was clearly visible enough under the bright moonlight.

  “Who is she?” said the fellow in the shaggy cap, which presented the appearance of a preternaturally enormous head of shaggy hair: “Who is she?” he repeated, with a threatening oath, in Irish, and at the same time cocking his piece.

  “I am a traveller, and have walked not far from forty miles to-day, he answered calmly, and finding my expected resting-place in ashes, am now constrained to pursue my way still further, and expect you to direct me on my course.”

  “Thomnom an dhioul — she’s a shentlemans, ejaculated the same speaker, “I know by hur talk — a shentleman.

  “And what then — suppose I were a gentleman? said Torlogh.

  “Why then — d — n you for a figgish son of a bish,” he retorted promptly, and at the same time he brought the musket to his shoulder.

  “Stop — listen — mark what you do; if you slay me, friend, you kill one of king James’s officers,” said Torlogh, sternly. “I hold the king’s-commission, and am now on my way to join the army, and resume my command.”

  “Shew hur protection,” said the same man, after a pause of indecision, and lowering the butt of his piece.

  “I travel under no protection but my own,” retorted Torlogh; “I have, however, better proof of the truth of my words than any protection, were it from the Duke of Tyrconnel himself, could furnish; I carry my commission with me; and by its production I will prove myself at least as true a friend to Ireland as you are.”

  After a brief altercation, accordingly, Torlogh was conducted by his rude companions out of the town, and diverging from the ill-defined road which he had hitherto followed, they descended into an abrupt hollow, in the centre of which was burning a prodigious fire, round which were congregated a number of figures variously and picturesquely illuminated, partly by the cold moonlight, and partly by the glare of the turf and “brusna.” A little apart was a slaughtered cow, which had probably supplied the greater part of the cheer on which they were feasting.

  “Ha — Ryan!” said Torlogh, the moment his eye lighted upon the group, and in a moment Eaman a knuck was before him.

  CHAPTER L.

  THE OUTPOST.

  TORLOGH O’BRIEN was now a welcome guest at the savage feast, of which, however, he was fain enough to avail himself; and sooth to say, to a hungry and exhausted man worse might possibly have been welcome. As they discussed this cheer, seasoned with many a draft of usquebagh and brandy, Torlogh learned that the party was a kind of rear-guard to another, who being now in safety had proceeded, leading with them fourteen dragoon horses, the fruit of a cleverly-contrived surprise, executed by the rapparees on the night preceding.

  From Ryan he learned further that William’s forces were now in possession of Athlone, and that St. Ruth had withdrawn his army to Aghrim, where it was rumoured he had resolved to give the enemy battle. He also learned that the little town of Aghrim, where they were now in position, was distant some five and twenty miles; and that considerable supplies, arms, ammunition, clothing, and money, but no men, except a handful of troopers who accompanied the general, as a bodyguard, had reached the country along with St. Ruth. Of him the rapparees could say but little; he had arrived but a few weeks since, and Sarsfield and he had already had several angry and bitter altercations.

  Having thus gleaned all the information he could, Torlogh O’Brien stretched himself upon the hearth, near the fire, and was soon fast asleep. With the first gleam of the opening dawn, the bivouac was all astir again; another meal of savage plenty ushered in the day — after which Ryan undertook to conduct his guest a mile or so upon his journey.

  As side by side they walked onward, each felt the cheering influences of the early day. The slanting sunbeams shot ruddily athwart the brown sweeping undulations of the hills they were descending — the dew-drops sparkled in the heath, from among whose purple tufts ever and anon the merry lark soared upward and upward into the sky, until all but his thrilling matin melted into air; the fresh bracing breath of morning, and the lowing of distant kine from the fields beneath them, and the thousand pleasant scents, and sounds, and influences that hail the opening day, inspired with feelings akin to joy and confidence, the breasts of both, as they trod the downward path, and looked abroad ever the ruddy and expansive prospect.

  Having bid his companion farewell, Torlogh O’Brien soon struck into a narrow road, designing to cross the Shannon by the fords, a little below the point now known as Shannon Bridge. Torlogh O’Brien was well aware of the risk he incurred of falling in, accidentally, with some straggling party of William’s army, from whom (were his real character discovered), he might very possibly receive the roughest usage. He was not sorry, therefore, to meet at a sudden turning of the road, a pedlar marching leisurely along toward him, with his pack strapped upon his shoulders, and his measuring staff, studded with brass nails, glittering like a sceptre in his grasp. He, therefore, accosted this “travelling merchant,” and learned from him that the road, as far as he had travelled it, was free from all obstruction.

  “Which army have you seen?” asked Torlogh.

  “Faix, then, I seen both iv them,” he replied; “the likes iv me have no business takin’ part with this side or that side, but just to mind my business, an’ take the world aisy.”

  “Have you been delayed or annoyed by either?” said O’Brien; “have you been allowed to drive your trade without hindrance or molestation?�
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  “An’ why would not I?” he rejoined; “it’s only too glad they’d be to see the likes iv me coming near them; hindherance, indeed, is that all ye know about it?”

  Torlogh O’Brien mused for a moment, and then said —

  “If you be willing to sell your pack and measure, as they are, for a lump sum, you shall have it on the spot. What say you — will you sel them?”

  The offer was promptly acceded to, and after a brief négociation, the purchase was completed — the disembarrassed pedlar pursued his way with the gold pieces, which might have fairly bought his possessions thrice over, stored safely within his waistband; and Torlogh O’Brien, with the staff in his hand, and the burthen slung across his stalworth shoulders, strode onward toward his destination, with renewed confidence — and, indeed, comparatively careless as to whom he might encounter, under his assumed character.

  Evening was drawing on apace, when from a gradual eminence he beheld some three miles before him the broad Shannon, glowing like burnished gold under the fiery summer sun.

  A few miles more, he thought — a few miles beyond that glorious barrier, and I am again at the head of my brave Irish soldiers. He listened for the distant sound of cannon, in the instinctive anxiety of the brave man who fears lest his part in a grand impending struggle should be denied him. “The breeze favours,” he resumed; “the guns would be audible from hence; thank God, all is still — I am in time.”

  With renewed energy, and something of the deep and stirring excitement of coming battle already upon him, Torlogh O’Brien strode onward upon the narrow and unfrequented road, toward the ford which lay before him.

  The train of busy thought which had followed the reflections we have just mentioned, was interrupted on a sudden by the jingle of a horse’s hoof, and in less than a minute, a tall, rawboned, military chaplain, in a somewhat rusty cassock, a plain, broadleafed hat, and military boots, and a good deal to Torlogh’s uneasiness, attended by two mounted dragoons, rode at a leisurely walk, from a converging road, right into that which he himself was pursuing.

  To have attempted to avoid this unexpected cavalcade, in which his practised eye instantly detected the adherents of the Prince of Orange, could have no other effect than that of exciting suspicion.

  “Hola! halt there, sirrah!” cried the chaplain, for he was a little in the rear; “halt, I say, and right about.”

  As Torlogh saw nothing for it but to sustain his assumed character as best he might, he unhesitatingly obeyed this unceremonious order, and the same grave functionary, fixing a small eye, which owed its overpowering effect, entirely to the fiery purple of the massive face in which it was set, full upon the pedestrian, said, signing to him at the same time to march by his side —

  “What may be your calling, friend — and that upon your back — what’s that, eh? Speak up, man — speak out, I charge you.”

  “As for my calling, sir, I’m a pedlar,” answered Torlogh, with difficulty assuming the outward deference of respect, “and that I carry is my pack.”

  Torlogh paused abruptly, for in his momentary confusion he had failed to perceive what he now observed for the first time, the horse which his interrogator bestrode, was no other than Roland — his own brave charger, lost at the action of the Boyne, and now encountered again under circumstances so altered. Well was it for Torlogh that the grave cavalier mistook the nature of the good steed’s demonstrations — the cocking of his ears — his snortings, and champings.

  “Tush, Captain — go to — go to, I say,” ejaculated his rider, checking him once or twice; “quiet, Isay, we must not bite the poor for being poor — God forbid; nay, nay, honest man, fear him not,” he continued, addressing Torlogh, “he is used to dragoons, and loves not any else; but fear him not, he knows his rider. A pedlar and a pack — so — so — and I dare aver, not sorry to find a market for some of his wares; now, what may you have to sell — eh?”

  The question was somewhat disconcerting, as Torlogh knew just as little as the questioner what might be the contents of the pack; he answered, therefore, promptly and deferentially —

  “If your honour be likely to buy — I can’t do less than unpack and show my wares.”

  “Time enough — time enough,” rejoined the chaplain; “be not too hot after mammon, friend. There’s a time to buy, and a time to sell; and I’ll do neither the one nor the other, I promise you until I get out of the saddle. But come along — come along, and we’ll soon see what may be done.

  Accordingly, very little obliged to his ungainly patron, Torlogh O’Brien continued to walk by his stirrup, answering as briefly as he might the questions which he showered upon him, until, on a sudden, they came upon a large dilapidated farm house, with a stone enclosure, and a cluster of offices about it, peeping out among the tufted timbers of an old overgrown orchard. It was quite evident that this place was occupied by a troop of dragoons; for two dismounted troopers, with their pieces shouldered, kept guard before the gateway upon the road; and some dozen of horses, still saddled, but with the girths loose, were visible in the open shed in the yard.

  “Now, then,” ejaculated the cavalier in the cassock, as he dismounted— “now, then, we can see what you have got to sell. No want of customers here, I warrant you; so come along. In with you, pack and all — in — in, I say.”

  Thus encouraged, Torlogh O’Brien had no choice in prudence but to comply; and accordingly, preceded by the chaplain, and followed by the soldiers, leading their horses, he entered the enclosure, where the dragoons were loitering in groups, and thence into the house, whose door stood open, and the little party proceeded directly into a large chamber, dilapidated and damp-stained, and which had once been a cosey kitchen, and was now little better than a wreck. They found here a group of officers, who stood listlessly chatting and looking out of the shattered windows, dusty, and with their hats on, just as they had dismounted. Scarce a moment had elapsed ere the supposed pedlar was established at the head of the only table the room possessed, and his goods displayed before the little group, who clustered about him. While thus engaged, he observed a countenance pass the outside of the window, the sight of which filled him, reasonably enough, with dismay. It was that of Miles Garrett.

  He fortunately had not removed his hat, and he pressed it deeper upon his brows as that personage entered the chamber. Miles Garrett, who was, as it seemed, in command of the detachment, took his place among; the rest at the table, and joined in their careless comments upon the wares displayed before them. The trying scene was now, as Torlogh hoped, drawing rapidly to a close; when, greatly to his uneasiness, he observed Garrett look sharply once or twice at his features, as if desiring to see more than the broad flap of his hat rendered easily visible.

  “Friend pedlar,” he said, at last, abruptly interrupting a bargain, “methinks it were scarce more than courtesy to doff your hat in presence of gentlemen, who are honoured, moreover, with the King’s commission — take it off, sir; take it off, I say.”

  These words — their peremptory tone — the suspicious glance that accompanied them — all showed Torlogh that concealment or evasion was no longer possible. He drew himself up to his full height, returning Garrett’s glance of exulting malignity and recognition with one of proud and reckless defiance, and for a moment they both stood face to face, in breathless silence, amid the wondering soldiers.

  “Ha! he’s netted at last,” said Garrett, under his breath, and as it seemed unconsciously; while he continued to regard him with the same fixed and triumphant smile of malignity.

  “‘Well, Mr. Pedlar,” he exclaimed with chuckling triumph, “so it seems you won’t uncover, eh?”

  “Not to you,” retorted Torlogh, with the intense sternness of hatred and despair. “Cold-blooded, murderous intriguer — betrayer of your friends, of your faith, of your King — wretch and renegade, uncover to you! — steeled as you are in effrontery and crime, and with all your soldiers round you — how dare you, abominable wretch — how dare you ask
an honest man to do you reverence?”

  As Torlogh, with flashing eyes, and a voice hoarse with passion, concluded this furious address, his hand mechanically sought the place where his sword-hilt might have been.

  “Ho, corporal; hola, guards,” shouted Garrett, stamping on the floor, and raising a pistol to the level of Torlogh’s breast, “Move — attempt to escape — move, and I fire. Guards there, hola.”

  A single spring brought Torlogh up to his opponent, but ere he could grapple with him, he was effectually overpowered by numbers, and dragged to the floor.

  “A spy! a rapparee! a deserter; pistol him — brain him — pink him,” such were the ejaculations, accompanied by many an oath and imprecation, which rose and rang in ferocious confusion around the overmatched Jacobite, in this desperate but short-lived struggle. Torlogh O’Brien now lay gasping and overpowered upon the floor, a literal pile of men above him, hauling, throttling, tearing, and tugging at their now over-mastered and breathless victim.

  “Hughes — Berry,” said Garrett, hastily, “order patroles down the road, both ways, this moment. Let the trumpet sound — call in the men — tighten girths — and have all ready. There’s something in this, by — , more than we wot of. Secure the prisoner — bind him,” he continued, addressing himself again to those who were engaged about Torlogh— “bind him, and never spare — bind him as you would a mad beast.”