Confessions Of Con Cregan, the Irish Gil Blas

“Well, I don’t know,” muttered the other; “I ‘m a-think-ing it be doubtful, sir. He ha’ n’t got much clink with him, that’s a fact.”

“I have half a mind to send Chico up in the boat to-night, just to dodge him a bit.”

“Well, ye might do it,” yawned the other; “but Chico is such an almighty villain that he’ll make him out a rogue or a swindler, at all events.”

“Chico is smart, that I do confess,” said the other, with a grin.

“And he do look so uncommon like a vagabond, too; Chico, I don’t like him.”

“He can look like anything he pleases, Chico can. I’ve seen him pass for a Pawnee, and no one ever disciver it.”

“He ‘s a rank coward, for all that,” rejoined the skipper; “and he can put no disguise upon that.”

The sound of feet, indicative of leaving, made me hasten from the spot, but in a mood far from comfortable. With the fate of my ingenious predecessor in “Hall’s Court” before me, and the small possibility of escaping the shrewd investigations of “Chico,” I really knew not what course to follow. The more I reflected, however, the less choice was there at my disposal; the bold line, as generally happens, being not a whit more dangerous than the timid path, since, were I to abandon my prize, and not proceed to Houston, the inevitable Chico would only be the more certain to discover me.

My mind was made up; and, stepping into a shop, I expended two of my four dollars in the purchase of a “revolver,” – second-hand, but an excellent weapon, and true as gold. A few cents supplied me with some balls and powder; and, thus provided, I took my way towards the wharf where the steamer lay, already making some indicative signs of readiness.

I took a steerage passage; and, not knowing where or how to dispose of myself in the interval before starting, I clambered into a boat on deck, and, with my bundle for a pillow, fell into a pleasant doze. It was not so much sleep as a semi-waking state that merely dulled and dimmed impressions, – a frame of mind I have often found very favorable to thought. One is often enabled to examine a question in this wise, as they look at the sun through a smoked glass, and observe the glittering object without being blinded by its brilliancy. I suppose the time I passed in this manner was as near an approach to low spirits as I am capable of feeling; for of regular downright depression, I know as little as did Nelson of fear.

I bethought me seriously of the “scrape” in which I found myself, and reflected with considerable misgivings upon the summary principles of justice in vogue around me; and yet the knavery was not of my own seeking. Like Falstaff’s honor, it was “thrust upon me.” I was innocent of all plot or device. “Le diable qui se mêle en tout “ – never was there a truer saying – would have it that I should exchange coats with another, and that this confounded ticket should be the compensation for worn seams and absent buttons.

I have no doubt, thought I, but that “Honesty is the best policy,” pretty much upon the same principle that even a dead calm is better than a hurricane. But to him who desires “progress,” on whose heart the word “onward” is written, the calm is lethargy, while the storm may prove propitious. I then tried to persuade myself that even this adventure could not turn out ill, – not that I could by any ingenuity devise how it should prove otherwise; but I knew that Fortune is as skilful as she is kind, and so I left the whole charge to her.

Is it my fault, I exclaimed, that I am not rich, and wellborn, and great? Show me any one who would have enjoyed such privileges more. Is it my fault that, being poor, ignoble, and lowly in condition, I have tastes and aspirations at war with my situation? These ought rather to be stimulants to exertion than caprices of Fortune. I like the theory better, too; and is it not hard to be condemned for the devices I am reduced to employ to combat such natural evils? If the prisoner severs his fetters with an old nail, it is because he does not possess the luxury of a file or a “cold chisel.” As for me, the employment of small and insignificant means is highly distasteful; instead of following the lone mountain-path on foot, I’d drive “life’s high road” four-in-hand, if I could.

The furious rush of the escape-steam, the quick coming and going of feet, the heavy banging of luggage on the deck, and all the other unmistakable signs of approaching departure, aroused me, as I lay patiently contemplating the bustle of leave-taking, hand-shaking, and embracing, in which I had no share. A lantern at the gangway lit up each face that passed, and I strained my eyes to mark one, the only one in whom I was interested. As I knew not whether the ingenious Chico were young, old, short, slim, fat, or six-foot, – whether brown or fair, smooth-faced or bearded, – my observations were necessarily universal, and I was compelled to let none escape me.

At first, each passenger appeared to be “him;” and then, after a few minutes, I gave up the hope of detection. There were fellows whose exterior might mean anything, – large, loose-coated figures, with leather overalls and riding-whips, many of them with pistols at their girdles, and one or two wearing swords, parading the deck on every side. It needed not the accompaniment of horse-gear, saddles, holsters, halters, and cavessons to show that they belonged to a fraternity which, in every land of the Old World or the New, has a prescriptive claim to knavery. Although all of them were natives of the United States, neither in their dark-brown complexions, deep mustaches and whiskers, and strange gestures, was there any trace of that land which we persist in deeming so purely Anglo-Saxon. The prairie and the hunting-ground, the life of bivouac and the habit of danger, had imparted its character to their looks; and there was, besides, that air of swagger and braggadocio so essentially the type of your trafficker in horse-flesh.

If my attention had not been turned to another subject, I would willingly have studied a little the sayings and doings of this peculiar class, seeing that it might yet be my lot to form one of “the brotherhood;” but my thoughts were too deeply interested in discovering “Chico,” whose presence in the same ship with me actually weighed on my mind like the terror of a phantom.

“Can this be him?” was the question which arose to my heart as figure after figure passed me near where I lay; but the careless, indolent look of the passenger as regularly negatived the suspicion. We were now under way, steaming along in still water with all the tremendous power of our high-pressure engines, which shook the vessel as though they would rend its strong framework asunder. The night was beautifully calm and mild, and, although without a moon, the sky sparkled with a thousand stars, many of which were of size and brilliancy to throw long columns of light across the bay.

The throb of the great sea monster as she cleared her way through the water, was the only sound heard in the stillness; for although few had “gone below,” the groups seated about the deck either smoked in silence, or talked in low, indistinct tones.

I lay gazing at the heavens, and wondering within myself which of those glittering orbs above me was gracious enough to preside over the life and adventures of Con Cregan. “Some dim, indistinct little spangle it must be,” thought I, – “some forgotten planet of small reputation, I ‘ve no doubt it is. I should n’t wonder if it were that little sly-looking fellow that winks at me from the edge of yonder cloud, and seems to say, ‘Lie still, Con, – keep close, my lad; there’s danger near.’” As I half-muttered this to myself, a dark object intervened between me and the sky, a large black disk, shutting out completely the brilliant fretwork on which I had been gazing. As I looked again, I saw it was the huge broad-brimmed hat of a Padre, – one of those felted coalscuttles which make the most venerable faces grotesque and ridiculous.

Lying down in the bottom of the boat, I was able to take a deliberate survey of the priest’s features, while he could barely detect the dark outline of my figure. He was thick and swarthy, with jet-black eyes and a long-pointed chin. There was something Spanish in the face, and yet more of the Indian; at least, the projecting cheek-bones and the gaunt, hollow cheeks favored that suspicion.

From the length of time he stood peering at me, I could perceive that it was not a passing impulse, but that his curiosity was considerable. This impression was scarcely conceived ere proved, as, taking a small lantern from the binnacle, he approached the boat, and held it over me.

Affecting a heavy slumber, I snored loudly, and lay perfectly still, while he examined my face, bending over me as I lay, and marking each detail of my dress and appearance.

As if turning in my sleep, I contrived to alter my position in such a manner that, covering my face with my arm, I could watch the Padre.

“Came on board alone, said you?” asked he of a little dirty urchin of a cabin-boy, at his side.

“Yes, Father; about two hours before we left the harbor.”

“No luggage of any kind?”

“A bundle, Father; that under his head, and nothing more.”

“Did he speak to you, or ask any questions?”

“Only at what time we should reach Houston, and if the ‘White Hart’ was near the Quay?”

“And then he lay down in the boat here?”

“Just so; I saw no more of him after.”

“That will do,” said the Padre, handing the lantern to the boy.

That will do! thought I also. Master Chico, if you know me, I know you as well!

The game was now begun between us, – at least, so I felt it. I lay watching my adversary, who slowly paced backwards and forwards, stopping now and then to peep into the boat, and doubtless conning over in his own mind his plan of attack.

We were to land some passengers and take in some wood at a little place called Fork Island; and here I was half determined within myself that my voyage should end. That “Chico” had discovered me, was clear, the Padre could be no other than him; and that he would inevitably hunt me down at Austin was no less evident. Now, discovery and “lynching” were but links of the same chain; and I had no fancy to figure as “No. 2” in Hall’s Court!

The silence on the deck soon showed that most of the passengers had gone below, and, so far as I could see in the uncertain light, “Chico” with them. I arose, therefore, from my hard couch to take a little exercise, which my cramped limbs stood in need of. A light drizzling rain had begun to fall, which made the deck slippery and uncomfortable, and so I took my stand at the door of the cook’s galley, into which two or three of the crew had sought refuge.

As the rain fell the fog thickened, so that, standing close in to shore, the skipper slackened our speed, till at last we barely moved through the water. Not aware of the reason, I asked one of the sailors for an explanation.

“It’s the dirty weather, I reckon,” said he, sulky at being questioned.

“Impatient, I suppose, to get the journey over, my young friend?” said a low, silky voice, which at once reminded me of that I had already heard when I lay in the boat. I turned, and it was the Padre, who, with an umbrella over him, was standing beside me.

“I ‘m not much of a sailor, Father,” replied I, saluting him respectfully as I spoke.

“More accustomed to the saddle than the poop-deck?” said he, smiling blandly.

I nodded assent, and he went on with some passing generalities about sea and land life, – mere skirmishing, as I saw, to invite conversation.

Partly weariness, partly a sense of discomfort at the persecution of this man’s presence, made me sigh heavily. I had not perceived it myself, but he remarked it immediately, and said, —

“You are depressed in spirit, my son; something is weighing on your heart!”

I looked up at him, and, guided possibly by my suspicion of his real character, I saw, or thought I saw, a twinkling glitter of his dark eye, as though he was approaching the theme on which he was bent.

“Yes, Father,” replied I, with a voice of well-feigned emotion, “my heart is indeed heavy; but” – here I assumed a more daring tone – “I must not despond, for all that!”

I walked away as I spoke, and, retiring, sat down near the wheel, as if to meditate. I judged that the Padre would soon follow me; nor was I wrong: I was not many minutes seated ere he stood at my side.

“I see,” said he, in a mild voice, – “I see, from the respect of your manner, that you are one of our own people, – a good son of the Church. What is your native country?”

“Ireland, Father,” said I, with a sigh.

“A blessed land indeed!” said he, benignly; “happy in its peaceful inhabitants, – simple-minded and industrious!”

I assented, like a good patriot, but not without misgivings that he might have been just as happy in another selection of our good gifts.

“I have known many of your countrymen,” resumed he, “and they all impressed me with the same esteem. All alike frugal, temperate, and tranquilly disposed.”

“Just so, sir; and the cruelty is, nobody gives them credit for it!”

“Ah, my son, there you are in error. The Old World may be, and indeed I have heard that it is, ungenerous; but its prejudices cannot cross the ocean. Here we estimate men, not by our prejudices, but by their merits. Here we recognize the Irishman as Nature has made him, – docile, confiding, and single-hearted; slow to anger, and ever ready to control his passions!”

“That’s exactly his portrait, Father!” said I, enthusiastically. “Without a double of any kind, – a creature that does not know a wile or a stratagem!”

The priest seemed so captivated by my patriotism and my generous warmth that he sat down beside me, and we continued to make Ireland still our theme, each vying with the other who could say most in praise of that country.

It was at the close of a somewhat long disquisition upon the comparative merits of Ireland and the Garden of Eden, – in which, I am bound to say, the balance inclined to the former, – that the Padre, as if struck by a sudden thought, remarked, —

“You are the very first of your nation I ever met in a frame of mind disposed to melancholy! I have just been running over, to myself, all the Irishmen I ever knew, and I cannot recall one that had a particle of gloom or sorrow about him.”

“Nor had I, Father,” said I, with emotion; “nor did I know what sorrow was, till three days back! I was light-hearted and happy; the world went well with me, and I was content with the world. I will not trouble you with my story; enough when I say that I came abroad to indulge a taste for adventure and enterprise, and that the New World has not disappointed my expectations. If I spent money a little too freely, an odd grumble or so from ‘the governor’ was the darkest cloud that shaded my horizon. An only son, perhaps I pushed that prerogative somewhat too far; but our estate is unencumbered, and my father’s habits are the reverse of extravagant, – for a man of his class, I might call them downright rustic in simplicity. Alas! why do I think of these things? I have done with them forever.”

“Nay, nay, you must not give way thus. It is very unlikely that one young as you are can have any real guilt upon his conscience.”

“Not yet, Father,” said I, with a shudder, – “not yet; but who can tell how it may be with me to-morrow or next day? What a different answer should I have to give your question then!”

“This is some fancy, – some trick of a warm and ill-regulated imagination, my son.”

“It is the language my heart pours from my lips,” said I, grasping his hand as if with irrepressible emotion. “I have a heavy crime here – here!” and I struck my breast violently; “and if it be as yet unaccomplished, the shadow of the guilt is on me already.”

“Sit still, my son, sit still, and listen to me,” said he, restraining me, as I was about to rise. “To whom can you reveal these mysterious terrors more fittingly than to me? Be candid; tell me what weighs upon your heart. It may be that a mere word of mine can give you courage and calm.”

“That cannot be,” said I, firmly; “you speak in kindness, but you know not what you promise. I am under a vow, Father, – I am under a vow.”

“Well, my son, there are many vows meritorious. There are vows of penitence, and of chastity, and of abstinence – ”

“Mine is none of these,” said I, with a low, guttural utterance, as if I was biting each word I spoke.

“Vows of chastisement – ”

“Not that, not that either!” cried I; then, dropping my voice to a low whisper, I said, “I have sworn a solemn oath to commit a murder! I know the full guilt of what is before me, I see all the consequences, both here and hereafter: but my word is pledged, – I have taken the oath with every ceremony that can give it solemnity; and – I ‘ll go through with it!”

“There is a mystery in all this,” said the Padre; “you must recount the circumstances of this singular pledge, ere I can give you either comfort or counsel.”

“I look for neither, – I hope for neither!” said I, wringing my hands; “but you shall hear my story, – you are the last to whom I can ever reveal it! I arrived at New Orleans about a fortnight ago, on a yacht cruise with a friend of mine, of whose name, at least, you may have heard, – Sir Dudley Broughton.”

“The owner of a handsome schooner, the ‘Firefly,’” said the Padre, with an animation on the subject not quite in keeping with his costume.

“The same; you are, then, acquainted with him?”

“Oh, no; I was accidentally standing on the wharf when his yacht came up the river at New Orleans.”

“You did n’t remark a young man on the poop in a foraging-cap, with a gold band round it?”

“I cannot say I did.”

“He carried a key-bugle in his hand.”

“I did not perceive him.”

“That was me; how different was I then! Well, well, I ‘ll hasten on. We arrived at New Orleans, not quite determined whither next we should bend our steps; and hearing by mere accident of this Texan expedition, we took it into our heads we would join it. On inquiring about the matter, we found that a lottery was in progress, the prizes of which were various portions of equipment, horses, mules, baggage, negroes, and so on. For this – just out of caprice – we took several tickets; but as, from one cause or other, the drawing was delayed, we lingered on, going each day to the office, and there making acquaintance with a number of fellows interested in the expedition, but whose manner and style, I need scarcely say, were not good recommendations to intimacy. Broughton, however, always liked that kind of thing; low company, with him, had always the charm of an amusement that he could resign whenever he fancied. Now, as he grew more intimate with these fellows, he obtained admission into a kind of club they held in an obscure part of the town, and thither we generally repaired every evening, when too late for any more correct society. They were all, or at least they affected to be, interested in Texan expeditions; and the conversation never took any other turn than what concerned these objects; and if at first our Old World notions were shocked at their indifference to life, – the reckless disregard of honor and good faith they evinced, – we came by degrees to feel that the moral code of the Prairies permitted many things which were never sanctioned in more cultivated latitudes.

“Broughton entered into all this with a most extraordinary interest. Nothing seemed too wild, too abandoned, and too outrageous for his notions; and, I shame to say it, he soon made me a convert to his opinions. His constant speech was, ‘Be as virtuous as you please, my dear fellow, among ladies and gentlemen; but pray fight Choctaws, Pawnees, and half-breeds with their own weapons, which are either a trick or a tomahawk.’ I never liked the theory; but partly from daily iteration, partly from a yielding pliancy of disposition, and in great measure from being shamed into it, I gave way, and joined him in all the pledges he gave, to go through with anything the expedition exacted. I must be brief; that light yonder is on Fork Island, where we stop to take in wood; and ere we reach it, I must make up my mind to one course or other.

“As the time for the starting of the expedition drew nigh, the various plans and schemes became the theme of nightly discussion; and we heard of nothing but guides and trails, where grass was to be found for the cattle, and where water could be had, with significant hints about certain places and people who were known or believed to be inimical to these excursions. Thus, on the map, were marked certain villages which might be put under contribution, and certain log-houses which should be made to pay a heavy impost: here, it was a convent to be mulcted; and there, a store or a mill to be burned! In fact, the expedition seemed to have as many vengeances to fulfil as hopes of gain to gratify; for each had a friend who was maltreated, or robbed, or murdered, and whose fate or fortunes required an expiation. – But I weary you, Padre, with all this?”

“Not at all, my son; I recognize perfectly the accuracy of your account. I have heard a good deal about these people.”

“There was one individual, however, so universally detested that you would suppose he must have been a kind of devil incarnate to have incurred such general hate. Every one had a grudge against him, and, in fact, there was a kind of struggle who should be allotted to wreak on him the common vengeance of the company. It was at last decided that his fate should be lotteried, and that whoever won the first prize – this mare of which you may have heard – should also win the right to finish this wretched man. I gained this infamous distinction; and here am I, on my way to claim my prize and commit a murder! Ay, I may as well employ the true word, – it is nothing less than a murder! I have not even the poor excuse of revenge. I cannot pretend that he ever injured me, – nay, I have not even seen him; I never heard of his name till two days ago; nor, even now, could I succeed in finding him out, if I were not provided with certain clews at Houston, and certain guides by whose aid I am to track him. My oath is pledged: I swore it solemnly that, if the lot fell upon me, I ‘d do the deed, and do it I will; yet, I am equally resolved never to survive it.” – Here I produced my revolver. – “If this barrel be for the unlucky Chico, this other is for myself!”

“What name did you say?” cried he, with a faltering voice, while his hand, as he laid it on my arm, shook like ague.

“Chico, the wretch is called,” I said, fixing a cap on my pistol.

“And why call him a wretch, my son? Has he ever injured you? How do you know that he is not some poor, kindly hearted creature, the father of five children, one of them a baby, perhaps? How can you tell the difficulties by which he gains his living, and the hazard to which he exposes his life in doing so? And is it to injure such a man you will go down to your own grave an assassin?”

“I’ll do it,” said I, doggedly; “I’ll keep my oath.”

“Such an oath never bound any man; it is a snare of Satan.”

“So it may, – I ‘ll keep it,” said I, beating the deck with my foot, with the dogged determination of one not to be turned from his purpose.

“Kill in cold blood a man you never saw before?”

“Just so; I am not going to think of him, when I set so little store by myself; I only wish the fellow were here now, and I’d show you whether I’d falter or not.”

“Poor Chico, – I could weep for him!” said he, blubbering.

“Keep your pity for me,” said I, – “I, that am bound by this terrible oath, and must either stamp myself a coward or a murderer. As for Chico, I believe a more worthless wretch never existed, – a poor, mean-spirited creature, whose trade is to be a spy, and by whose cursed machinations many a fine fellow has been ruined.”

“You are all wrong, sir,” said the Padre, warmly. “I know the man myself; he is an amiable, kind-hearted being, that never harmed any one.”

“He’s the fellow to die, then!” said I, roughly.

“He has a small family, unprovided for.”

“They have the inheritance of his virtues,” said I, scoffingly.

“Can you have the heart for such cruelty?” cried he, almost sobbing.

“Come with me when I land at Houston, and see, – that’s all!” said I. “A few minutes back, I was hesitating whether I would not land at this island and abandon my purpose. The weakness is now over; I feel a kind of fiendish spirit growing up within me already; I cannot think of the fellow without a sense of loathing and hatred!”