The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“I did, sir, and he set off the moment I gave the letter.”

“Then the fellow, Mark, cannot escape me,” said Hemsworth. “If he leave the castle before I come, he falls into the hands of the others. Still, I would rather be judge and jury myself and you shall be the hangman, Sam. There’s little love between you: it is an office you’ll like well.”

“If I don’t do it nate,” said Wylie, “the young gentleman must forgive me, as it is my first time;” and they both laughed heartily at the ruffian jest.

“But what are we staying for?” said Hemsworth, while he drained his glass. “Let us get up the dragoons, and make sure of him at once. I am strong now, and ready for any exertion.”

“‘Tis a pity to burn the little place, captain,” said one of the fellows of the party. “There’s many a dacent boy would think himself well off, to get the likes of it for his reward.”

“Make yourself at home,” said Hemsworth, “for I’ll give you a lease for three lives of it – yours, Wylie’s, and mine own – will that satisfy you?”

The fellow stared at the speaker, and then looked at Wylie, as if not knowing whether to place any faith in the words he heard.

“I didn’t say you were to get the premises in good repair, however,” said Hemsworth, with a bitter laugh, “I didn’t boast much about the roof,” and at the same moment he took a lighted turf from the hearth, and thrust it into the thatch, while Wylie, to curry favour with his patron, imitated his example.

“Where does that door lead to?” said Hemsworth, pointing to the small portal, which led into the rock towards the stable.

“That’s the way to the stable,” said Wylie, as he opened it, and looked down the passage; “and here’s another door, that I never saw before.”

“That’s where she do keep the spirits, sir,” said one of the men; “‘tis there she do have all the liquor.”

“There’s nothing like whiskey for a blaze,” said Hemsworth, with a half drunken laugh. “Burst open that door!” – but all their efforts were vain: it was made with every precaution of strength, and studded over with strong nails.

“Stop!” said Hemsworth, as he pushed the others rudely away, “there’s a readier plan than yours to force it. I’ll blow the lock to pieces!” and, so saying, he took the pistol from Wylie’s hand, and, having leisurely examined the priming and the flint, placed the muzzle in the lock.

“Be quick, sir, be quick!” said Wylie; “the place is filling with smoke!”

And so it was: the crackling of the thatch, and the dense masses of black smoke that filled the cabin, showed that the work of destruction was begun.

“Here, then: this is to put the seal to your lease, Peter,” said Hemsworth, as he pulled the trigger.

A quick report followed, and then a crashing sound, as of splintered timber, and, sudden as the lightning flash itself, a noise burst forth louder than thunder, and at the same moment the house, and all that were in it, were blown into the air, while the massive rock was shattered from its base, full fifty feet up above the road. Report after report followed, each accompanied by some new and fearful explosion, until at length a great portion of the cliff was rent asunder, and scattered in huge fragments across the road, where, amid the crumbling masonry and the charred rafters, lay four black and lifeless bodies, without a trait which should distinguish one from the other.

All was silent on the spot, but through every glen in the mountains the echoing sounds sent back in redoubled peals the thunder of that dreadful explosion, and through many a far-off valley rung out that last requiem over the dead.

For some time the timbers and the thatch continued to burn, emitting at intervals lurid bursts of flame, as more combustible matter met the fire, while now and then a great report, and a sudden explosion, would announce that some hitherto untouched store of powder became ignited, until, as day was breaking, the flames waned and died out, leaving the rent rocks and the ruined cabin the sad memorials of the event.

Nor were these the only occurrences of which the glen was that night the witness. Mark, his brain burning for the moment when the fray should commence, rode on amid the storm, the crashing branches and the loud brawling torrents seeming to arouse the wild spirit within him, and lash his enthusiasm even to madness. The deafening clamour of the hurricane increased, as he came nearer the Bay, where the sea, storm-lashed and swollen, beat on the rocks with a din like artillery.

But louder far than all other sounds were the minute peals of cannon from the Bay, making the deep valleys ring with their clangour, and sending their solemn din into many a far-off glen.

“They are coming! they are coming!” cried Mark, as he bounded madly in his saddle. “What glorious music have they for their march!”

“Stop! – pull in! – hould hard, Master Mark!” screamed a voice from the side of the road, as a fellow jumped from a cliff, and made towards the rider.

“Don’t delay me now, Terry; I cannot stay,” said Mark, as he recognised the youth, “the French are landing!”

“They are not!” cried Terry, with a yell of despair; “they are going off, leaving us for ever, and the glen is full of soldiers. The dragoons is there; ay, not half a mile from you,” as he pointed through the gloom in the direction of the glen.

“The dragoons there! – what treachery is this?”

“I saw them coming round the head of the lake this evening, and I thought it was after me they were coming; but they never turned off the road, but went on to the gap of the glen, and there they are now, waiting, I suppose, for the French to go.”

“The French are not going, fool! – they are landing! Don’t you hear the guns – there! and there again! There is but one way now, but a bold heart needs no more. Let go the bridle, Terry.”

“I can’t, I won’t let go. ‘Tis cut to pieces you’ll be. I seen them looking at their swords a while ago. Och, don’t twist my hand that way!”

“Leave me free! There is no such armour of proof as recklessness!”

As he spake, he reined in his horse, and, dashing the spurs into his flanks, sprang beyond Terry, and the next moment was out of sight. A very few minutes showed that Terry was but too accurate. Around a blazing fire, beneath the rock, a party of dragoons were dismounted, vainly seeking to dry their soaked clothes, while in front two mounted men could be seen with their carbines unslung, ready for action.

A bold dash to force his way through was the only chance remaining. To depend on his horse’s speed, and his own dexterous hand to guide him, was all his hope. He resolved, therefore, neither to draw sword nor pistol, but attempt to pass by sheer horsemanship. Few men were either better suited for a venture so daring, or better equipped at the moment. The animal he rode was a powerful thoroughbred, trained and managed to perfection.

Without the slightest noise Mark dismounted, and, ungirthing his saddle, re-adjusted and fastened it further back. He then looked carefully to his bridle, to see all was safe there, and loosened the curb, to give the horse free play of his head. This done, and with his cap pressed firmly down upon his brow, he sprang into his saddle once more.

The bright blaze enabled him to see the party in front, and, while he himself escaped all observation, to devise his plans at leisure. He advanced, therefore, at a slow walk, keeping the horse’s feet in the deep ground, where no noise was made. He counted seven figures around the fire, and two as sentinels, and suspected at once that the whole party was not there. Still there was no other chance. To attempt the mountain would delay him a day at least, and a day now was a life-time. Creeping noiselessly forward, he came within a few yards of the outposts, and could distinctly hear the voices as they talked together. He halted for a second or two, and looked back down the glen. It was an involuntary action, for even had all not been dark around him, his home, to which he wished to bid a last adieu, was out of sight.

A cannon-shot rung out at the instant, and, taking it for a signal, Mark reined in his horse sharply, and then, dashing the spurs to his sides, made him plunge madly forward, and, with the bound, shot through the space between the two sentinels, each of whom presented, but feared to fire, lest he should injure his comrade.

“Come on – follow me!” cried Mark, waving his hand as if encouraging others on, and the action turned every look down the glen, in the direction from whence he came, and whence now came a wild, shrill yell, the most savage and appalling.

“Fire! – down with him! – fire!” shouted the soldiers to one another, as Mark, leaning fiat on his horse’s main, rode on; and the balls whistled quick, above and around, but not one struck him. “After him, Jack – after him!” cried one of the sentinels, who, perceiving that Mark was not followed, turned his horse to the pursuit; but another yell, wilder than the first, arrested him, and he heard a voice screaming, “This way, boys, this way – we have them here!” and Terry, waving his cap, bounded forward, and called out unceasingly for others to come on. In an instant the whole attention was turned to the front, while with the stroke of a sabre poor Terry was stretched upon the ground, bleeding and senseless.

“It is only that cursed fool we used to see at Macroom, about the barrack gates,” said one of the dragoons, as he held a piece of lighted wood beside his face, “and the other fellow cannot have had much more sense, or he would never have tried to ride through a squadron of horse. But there! – he’s down now! Did you hear that crash? – that was a horse that fell!”

So it was; Mark had but passed the first party to fall on a much more formidable body further on, and his horse, twice wounded, was at last struck in the shoulder, and fell headlong to the ground pinioning the rider beneath him. With a dexterity that seemed magical, Mark disengaged himself from the wounded animal, and drawing his pistols, prepared to sell his life dearly.

“You are a prisoner, sir,” called out the sergeant, as with fearless step he marched towards him.

“Another pace nearer, and I’ll send a bullet through you,” said Mark; “you may have my corpse for your booty, but you’ll never lay hands on me living.”

“Don’t fire, don’t fire, men,” cried a voice, as the officer rode up at the speed of his horse, and then throwing himself from the saddle, commanded the men to fall back. With looks of astonishment and even of anger, the dragoons retired, while the captain sheathing his sword, approached Mark.

“Thank heaven, Mr. O’Donoghue, you have not fired at my men.”

“Am I your prisoner, Captain Travers?” said Mark, replacing his weapon.

“No, far from it; it was to serve you I accepted the command of this party. I knew of the plot by which you were threatened – Hemsworth – ”

“He is gone to his reckoning now,” said Mark, who never gave credit to Kerry’s story.

“Not dead – you do not mean that?”

“Even so, sir, but not as I see you suspect.”

“No matter now,” cried Travers, wildly, for a thousand dreadful fears came crowding on his mind; “you must escape at once; this will be worse than the charge of treason itself. Was there any witness to his death?”

“None,” said Mark, for he remembered that Kate was still fainting during the struggle he believed fatal.

“You must escape at once,” repeated Travers, for without directly attributing guilt to Mark, he feared the consequence of this dreadful event. “Keep in the mountain for some little time, and when this mad enterprise has blown over – ”

“The country then will be in other hands,” interrupted Mark; – “aye, sir, you may look and feel incredulous, but the time is perhaps not distant when I may be able to return your present courtesy. The French are landing – ”

“They are putting out to sea – flying – not advancing,” said Travers, proudly.

“No, no, you mistake them,” said Mark, with a smile of incredulity. “I heard the guns not a quarter of an hour since – would I had never left them.”

“There, take my horse, mount quickly, and make for the Bay, and turn him loose on the shore – reach the fleet if you can – in any case, escape; there is no time to lose.”

“And you – how are you to account for this?” said Mark. “Will your loyalty stand so severe a trial as that of having assisted a rebel’s escape?”

“Leave me to meet my difficulties my own way; turn your thoughts to your own – heaven knows, they are enough.”

The tone he spoke in appealed to Mark’s feelings more strongly than all he said before, and grasping Travers’ hand, he said —

“Oh, if I had but had your friendship once, how different I might be this day; and my father too – what is to become of him?”

“Spare him at least the sorrow of seeing his son arraigned on a charge of treason, if not of worse.”

Fortunately Mark heard not the last few words, which rather fell from Travers inadvertently, and were uttered in a low voice.

“There,” cried Mark, as the loud report of several guns pealed forth – “they have landed – they will soon be here.”

As he spoke, a mounted dragoon rode up to Travers, and whispered a few words in his ear. Frederick motioned the man to fall back, and then approaching Mark, said —

“I was correct, sir – the French fleet is under weigh – the expedition is abandoned; away then before your chance is lost – down to the Bay and get on board; you will at least find a path where there is glory as well as peril; there – away.”

“They cannot have done this,” cried Mark, in an agony of passion; “they would not desert the cause they have fostered, and leave us to our fate here.”

Mark vaulted on Travers’ horse as he said this, all feeling for his own safety merged in his anxiety for the issue of the plot.

“Treachery we have had enough of – we may be well spared the curse of cowardice. Good-bye, farewell – few, either friends or foes, have done me the services that you have. If we are to meet again, Travers – ”

“Farewell, farewell,” cried Travers; “we shall never meet as enemies,” and he hastened from the spot, while Mark bending forward in the saddle, pressed the spurs to his horse, and started.

With the speed of one who cared for nothing less than his own safety, Mark urged his horse onward, and deserting the ordinary road, he directed his course to the shore along the base of the mountain – a rough and dangerous path beset with obstacles, and frequently on the very edge of the cliff; at last he reached the Bay, over which the dark storm was raging in all its violence; the wind blowing with short and sudden gusts sent the great waves thundering against the rocks, and with fearful roar through the caves and crevices of the coast. Riding madly on till the white foam dashed over him, he turned on every side, expecting to see the boats of the fleet making for the land, but all was dreary and desolate; he shouted aloud, but his voice was drowned in the uproar of the elements; and then, but not till then, came over him the afflicting dread of desertion. The vivid lightning shot to and fro over the bleak expanse of sea, but not a sail was there – all, all were gone.

There was a projecting promontory of rock which, running out to a considerable distance in the Bay, shut out all view beyond it; the last hope he cherished was, that they might have sought shelter in the bay beneath this, and plunging into the boiling surf, he urged his horse forward – now madly rearing as the strong sea struck him – now buffeting the white waves with vigorous chest – the noble beast braved the storm-lashed water, and bore him alternately bounding and swimming, as the tide advanced or receded.

The struggle, with all its peril to life, brought back the failing courage to Mark’s heart, and he cheered his horse with a cry of triumphant delight, as each great wave passed over them, and still they went on undaunted. It was a short but desperate achievement to round the point of the promontory, where the sea beat with redoubled fury; but the same daring intrepidity seemed to animate both horse and rider, and after a moment of extreme danger, both gained the beach in safety. At the very same instant that the animal touched the strand, a quick flash broke over the sea, and then came the thundering report of a cannon. This was answered by another further out to sea, and then a blue light burst forth on high, and threw its lurid glare over the spars and canvas of a large ship – every rope and block, every man and every gun were displayed in the spectral light. It was a grand, but still an appalling sight, to see the huge mass labouring in the sea, and then the next moment to strain the eyes through the black canopy of cloud that closed around her; for so it was, as the light went out, no trace of the vessel remained, nor was there aught to mark the spot she had occupied.

From time to time the flash and the report of a gun would show where some ship struggled with the raging sea; but to Mark all was mystery. He knew not what it might portend, and hesitated between hope and despair, whether these might prove the preparations for disembarking, or the last signal before sailing.

In the low hut of a fisherman, not far from where he was, a light still twinkled, and thither he hastened: it belonged to the man who had rowed him on board of the frigate, and with whom Kate had spoken in the kitchen. As Mark reached the door, he heard the sound of several voices talking in a low, half-suppressed tone; pushing open the door, he entered, and found about a dozen fishermen standing over the lifeless body of a man in a French uniform.

“Who is this? What has happened?” said Mark, hurriedly. “It’s one of the French officers, sir,” said Tom McCarthy; “he came ashore with us this morning, and to-night, when it came on to blow, and he saw the signals to sail, he insisted on going on board again, and we did our best for him; we twice put out, and twice were sent back again; but the last time we tried, the craft was upset, and the poor fellow could not swim, and we never saw him more, till we found his body on the strand about an hour ago.”

Mark held the light beside the pale features, and saw that he was a youth of not more than eighteen years; there was no distortion whatever, and the features were calm and tranquil, as if in sleep.

“Let us lay him in the earth, boys,” said Mark, as his voice trembled with emotion; “it is the least we can do to let him sleep in the land he came to save.”

The men lifted the body without a word, and, preceded by Mark, who carried a lantern, issued from the hut. A few paces brought them to a little grassy mound, where the cliff, descending between the rocks, preserved its rich verdure untrodden and untouched.

“Here, this will do, boys,” said Mark; “this rock will mark the spot.”

The work was soon over, and as the last turf was laid over him, a deafening peal of artillery thundered over the sea, and suddenly, lights shone here and there, through the dark atmosphere.

“He has had a soldier’s burial,” said Mark; “may his rest be tranquil. And now” – and his voice assumed a firm and determined tone at the moment – “and now, who will put me on board of any ship in that fleet? I have neither gold to offer, nor silver to bribe you. I am poor and powerless, but if the broad lands that were once our own, were mine now, I’d give them all for that one service.”

“No boat could live ten minutes in that surf; there’s a sea running there would swamp a schooner,” said an old man, with white hair.

“We’d never get outside the breakers yonder,” said another.

“I think we’ve had enough of it for one night,” muttered a third, with a side-long glance towards the recent grave.

“And you,” said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom M’Carthy, “what words of comfort have you for me?”

“Faix, that I’m ready and willin’ to go with you, divil may care who the other is,” said the stout-hearted fellow. “I seen the day you jumped into a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point there, and I took an oath that night I’d never see you wanting for two hands at an oar as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn’t too high for you is not a bit too big for me either.”

“Well done, Tom,” said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, “and I’ll be the bow oar for you, an’ you’ll take me.”

“And here’s two more of us,” said another, as he held a comrade by the hand, “that will never see his honour at a loss, no matter how it blows.”

The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were at once changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hurried to the beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize.

“If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we’d know which way to bear down,” said Tom, as he stood on the shore, with his eyes turned seaward.

“There – there goes one!” cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth and glittered for a second over the dark water.

“That’s the frigate; she’s holding on still by her anchors.”

“I knew they would not desert us, boys,” cried Mark, with wild enthusiasm, for hope gained on him every moment as peril increased.

“Now for it, and all together,” said Tom, as he bent forward against the whistling storm, and the craft, as if instinct with life, bounded over the wave, and cleft her way through the boiling surf, while the hardy fishermen strained every nerve, and toiled with all their energy. Mark kneeling in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, seemed perfectly delirious in the transport of his joy.

“Luff her, luff her – here comes a large wave – nobly done, lads – how she mounts the sea – here’s another;” but the warning was this time too late, for the wave broke over the boat, and fell in torrents over the crew. With redoubled vigour the stout fellows bent to their work, and once more the boat sped on her course; while Mark cheered them with a shout heard even above the storm, and with a deep, mellow voice chanted out the rude verses of a song —

“The fisherman loves the rippled stream,And the lover the moon-lit sea,But the darkening squallAnd the sea birds call are dearer far to me.“To see on the white and crest’d waveThe stormy petrel float,And then to look back On the stormy trackThat glitters behind our boat.”

“Avast there, Master Mark, there’s wind enough without singing for more,” cried one of the fishermen, who, with the superstition of his craft, felt by no means pleased at Mark’s ditty; “and there comes a sea to poop a line of battle-ship,” and as he said the words, a wave mountains high rolled past, and left them labouring in the deep trough of the sea; while the lurid glare of sheet lightning showed all the ships of the fleet, as, with top-sails bent, they stood out to sea.

“There they go,” said one of the fishermen, “and that’s all the good they’ve done us.”

“Pull hard, boys,” cried Mark, passionately, “it may not be yet too late, strain every arm – the fate of our country may rest upon those bending spars – together, men, together; it is not for life now, it is Ireland is on the struggle:” thus cheering the drooping courage of the men, and eagerly bending his glance towards the sea, his own heart glowed with enthusiasm that made every danger forgotten; and at last, after an hour of desperate exertion, with strength all but exhausted, and nearly overcome by fatigue, they beheld the dark hull of a large ship looming above them. By firing his pistol, Mark attracted the notice of the watch on deck; his signal was replied to, and the next moment the boat was alongside, and Mark clambering up the steep side, stood on the quarter-deck.

“Will the troops not land,” said Mark, as the officers crowded eagerly around him – “is the expedition abandoned?”

“Don’t you think the hurricane might answer the question, young man?” said a weather-beaten officer, who appeared in command – “or are you so ignorant in naval matters as to suppose that a force could disembark in a gale like this?”

“It might scare a pleasure party,” said Mark, rudely, “but for men who have come to give and get hard knocks, methinks this need not disconcert them.”

“And who is to aid us if we land?” said the first speaker – “what forces are in arms to join us? – what preparations for ourselves? – have you a musket, have you a horse, or do you yourself, in your own person, represent the alliance we seek for?”

Mark hung down his head abashed and ashamed: too well he knew how treachery had sapped the foundation of the plot; that, betrayed and abandoned by their chiefs, the people had become either apathetic or terror-stricken, and that, if a blow were to be struck for Irish independence, it must be by the arm of the stranger.