Bits of Blarney

CAPTAIN ROCK

CHAPTER I. – THE WAKE

The year 1822 was remarkable for being what in Ireland was called "A Whiteboy Year." Rents were only paid by compulsion. Tithes were not paid at all. Wages were low. The price of food was high. The middleman system had been on the increase, year after year, until the land and people were crushed under it. The priests from the altar, and O'Connell, from the tribune and through the press, earnestly argued the masses not to rebel, no matter how great the aggravation, how intense the despair, and the advice had great weight in most instances. Many causes combined to render the peasantry ripe for revolt. – As, on one side, there were not wanting men able and willing to act as leaders in any popular movement; so, on the other, there was no lack of Government spies to fan the flame, to cajole the peasantry into breaches of the law, and to betray those whom they thus had duped.

The discontented and disaffected were principally concentrated in my native county of Limerick. From time to time, the military force in that county had been augmented, until, at the particular period in question (1822), there were several regiments of infantry, and at least one of cavalry, on harassing duty. What between still-hunting (for the manufacture of mountain-dew was then in full operation) and man-hunting, the military had full occupation day and night. Various pretexts were used, also, to weary the military, by putting them upon a false scent, every now and then, so that the service was particularly severe and fatiguing. Added to the military array was the Constabulary force, introduced by the late Sir Robert (then Mr.) Peel, while Secretary for Ireland, the members of which, after his name, have obtained the sobriquet of "Peelers." An active and efficient body of men these Peelers were, and are, although the force, from its original establishment, has been unpopular in Ireland – probably owing to its very activity and efficiency. Be this as it may, it is undeniable that while the bulk of the Irish people, of all classes, cordially have fraternized with the soldiery, they have ever manifested a strong dislike to the police. This unfriendly feeling, too, has sometimes been fostered by many who, from their station, might be expected to entertain gratitude, and exercise courtesy, towards these protectors of their lives and property.

Whiteboyism continued to increase, notwithstanding the strong military and police force poured into the district. Detachments of infantry were quartered in almost every hamlet – the cavalry, called "here, there, and everywhere," upon true and false alarms, were dreadfully overworked. At last, as a necessary matter of protection, two or three Peelers were quartered in almost every respectable country house in certain disturbed baronies. The whole county was in a dreadful state of alarm, excitement, and activity. The newspapers, of course, were filled with reports and rumors of all kinds, and the Whiteboy doings in the South of Ireland had even the honor of being spoken of, in no very complimentary terms, in both Houses of Parliament.

These Whiteboy movements, although not confined to one part of the county Limerick, were remarked as chiefly occurring on that side which is bordered by the county Cork. In a little time, they might be said to radiate from a particular district, spreading into what, from its extent, has been called "The Yorkshire of Ireland." As they increased, more troops were called in, to subdue insurrection and enforce order. All this was in vain. A regular guerilla warfare began to prevail, chiefly for the purpose of obtaining the arms of the military and police.

It became no uncommon event for a sentry, at a country station, to be quietly picked out by the steady hand and sure aim of a Whiteboy – the shot which gave his death being at once the sole announcement and fatal evidence of the tragic deed. The service thus became so desperate that there arose an evident reluctance, on the part of the military, to continue on such alarming and perilous duty. Desertions became frequent. On the other hand, the police doggedly did their duty. Of a much higher grade than the ordinary rank and file of the army – for no man was allowed to enter or remain in the force without an excellent character and a certain degree of education – they had a high estimate of their duty, and a stubborn determination to perform it. They knew, also, that the peasantry hated them, and that even the thankless gentry, whom they protected, did not bear any affectionate regard for them.

The Rifle Brigade was on duty, in the disturbed district, at the time which I have mentioned. The officer in command was Major Eeles, an English port-drinking officer of the old school, who had fixed his own quarters at The Grove (near Ballingarry,) formerly the seat of Colonel Odell, the member for the county, and remarkable as being the father of about twenty sons, by one wife. The most fatiguing and unpleasant office which the soldiers had to perform was that of night-patrolling. The laws of that time were harsh – indeed, like all other Coercion Acts, they had been expressly framed to put down the disturbances – and provided that the mere fact of a man's being found out of his house, between sunrise and sunset, should be punishable with seven years' transportation. This severe enactment put a great check, of course, upon nocturnal predatory gatherings, but many an innocent man suffered from the harshness of the law. A strong feeling of hostility arose against the Rifle corps, for their activity in apprehending the suspected. This was greatly augmented by what, under any circumstances, might be considered an "untoward event." One of the peasantry had been met on the high road after dark, and challenged by the patrol. Not giving a satisfactory answer, his instant apprehension was ordered by the officer in command. Attempting to escape, he was in the act of jumping across a deep drain which divided the high-road from the bog, when a sergeant drew a pistol from his belt and shot him on the spot.

The unfortunate man was not a Whiteboy. On the contrary, he had steadily resisted the solicitations of many neighbours who were. He had seen better days, and had received rather a good education. Knowing the peril of joining the illegal combinations, and daring the danger of being considered lukewarm in what was called "the cause of his country," he had kept himself aloof from proceedings, which he did not approve of, but scorned to betray. His family had been subjected, for months past, to the severe privations which poverty causes everywhere, but particularly in Ireland. His wife had been extremely ill, and on her sudden change for the worse, his affection had naturally got the worse of his personal fear, and he had ventured out, after dusk, to solicit the aid of the nearest dispensary doctor, when, challenged by the military, he sought safety in flight, and had met with his untimely fate as I have described.

Those who know anything of the peculiar customs of the South of Ireland, must be aware that the peasantry have especial delight in doing honor to the dead. To celebrate a "wake" is, with them, a social duty. They usually take that mode of testifying, in a merry mood, their grief for the departed. The unfortunate victim of military impetuosity was carried to the nearest public-house on the way-side, and when it was related how he had lost his life, "curses not loud, but deep," most unequivocally indicated the popular feeling that he was a murdered man. Nor was this feeling mitigated by the "justifiable homicide" verdict of the Coroner's jury.

Entertaining such opinions, it was not likely that his relatives and friends would solicit as a favor, at the hands of his slayers, "leave to keep the wake." They did not ask it. Perhaps they had little fear that, in the present instance, their ancient and time-honoured custom would be interfered with. Accordingly, they took leave, and a numerous concourse of the people assembled, after dusk, on the day of the inquest, in the cabin of the deceased.

To one who loved the picturesque, the scene would have been interesting, for it contained all variety of countenance, costume, and manner. But it possessed an intenser and far deeper interest for him who had studied the human heart, its passionate throes, its indignant feelings, its wild energies, its strong convulsions, its lacerated affections. There lay the corpse, a crucifix at its head and twelve mould candles on a table at its feet. By the bedside knelt the widow – actually, by an unnatural excitement, rendered temporarily convalescent by the sharp fact that she had lost the husband of her heart. By the corpse, on the opposite side, sat their only child, a lad of few years, apparently unconscious of the extent of the calamity which thus early had orphaned him. A professional Keener (like the "hired wailing women" of Scripture) was ranged on either side of the deceased, awaiting a full audience for the similated grief, and now and then muttering fragments of their intended Lament. Around the humble apartment – for the peasant's cabin consisted of only a single room – were ranges of stools, three deep, and here and there were deal tables, on which were placed tobacco-pipes, and "the materials" for the refreshment and enjoyment which, by a strange contrast with the awful occasion which called them together, were considered indispensable. Such a thing as a dry Wake would indeed have been an anomaly, there and then.

The friends of the dead man dropped in stealthily, and at intervals – for there was some uncertainty whether the military would permit such an assemblage. Before long the room was crowded, all fear of being interfered with gradually vanished, and the party, albeit assembled on a melancholy occasion, soon glided into conversation, smoking, and drink.

There was no merriment, however, for the circumstances under which they met forbade it – so early in the night. Their conversation was in a hushed tone. The comparative stillness every now and then became positive when they noticed the voiceless sorrow of the poor widow, as, pale and emaciated by suffering of mind and body, she knelt by the dead, holding his clay-cold hand, and, her eyes fixed upon his comely face, now pallid with the hue of mortality, and placid in repose as that of a sleeping infant. At intervals, there rose the melancholy and eloquent wail of the Keeners' wild poetry, in the native language of the auditors, deeply impassioned, and full of the breathing indignation which stirs men's minds to such a pitch of excitement that they come forth from the listening fitted for almost any deed of daring.

The Keen told how the dead man had won the hearts of all who knew him – how he had excelled his companions in the sports of youth and the athletic exercises of manhood – how, at pattern, fair, or dance, he still maintained his superiority – how his was the open heart and liberal hand – how he had won his first love, the pride of their native village, and married her – how, when a shadow fell upon their fortunes, that loved one lightened, by sharing, the burthen, the struggle, and the grief – how, amid the desolation, her gentle smile ever made a soft sunshine in their home – how, a victim without a crime, he had fallen in the noon of life – how there remained his young boy to remember, and, it might be, one day to avenge his murder – how every man who was present would protect and sustain the widow and the orphan of him whom they had loved so well – and how, come it soon or late, a day would arrive when expiation must be made for the foul deed which had sent an innocent man to an untimely grave.

As the chief Keener chanted this Lament, in the expressive and figurative language of their native Ireland, the hearts of her auditory throbbed with deep and varying emotions – sorrow swelled into the deeper sense of injury – wild indignation flushed the cheek of manhood – and hand was clasped in hand with a fierce pressure, in well-understood pledge of sorrow for the dead, hatred for his slayers, and stern resolve of vengeance.

About ten o'clock, the door slowly opened, and a tall man, apparelled in the loose great-coat, or coat-ca-more, which forms the principal dress of the peasantry in that district, stood for some minutes on the threshold, an interested but unobserved spectator. When he was perceived, many rose to offer him a seat, which he declined, and soon all voices joined in a common cry of "Welcome, Captain! A thousand and a hundred thousand welcomes!"

The stranger returned the salutation cordially and briefly, and advanced gravely and slowly to where the dead man lay. He gazed upon the face for some time, and then, laying his hand on that cold, pallid brow, said, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling, – "Farewell, John Sheehan! Yours has been a hard fate, but better than remains for us – to be hunted down, like wild beasts, and sent, after the mockery of a trial, from the homes of our fathers, to a far-off land, where even the slavery they doom us to is better than the troubled life we linger in, from which caprice or cruelty may hurry us in a moment. Farewell, then; but, by the bright Heaven above us, and the green fields around, I swear to know no rest until bitter vengeance be taken for this most wanton and barbarous murther."

His cheek flushed – his eyes flashed – his frame trembled with strong emotion as he sternly made this vow, and, when he ceased to speak, a deep "Amen" was murmured all around by the eager-eyed men, who hung upon his slightest word with as trusting and entire a faith as ever did the followers of the Veiled Prophet upon the mystic revelations which promised them glory upon earth, and eternal happiness in heaven! The widow, roused from the abstraction of grief by this solemn and striking incident, looked the thanks which she then had not voice to utter. When the Stranger laid his hand on the orphan's head, and said: "He shall be my care, and as I deal by him may God deal by me!" her long-repressed tears gushed forth, in a strong hysteric agony, which was not subdued until her child was placed within her earnest embrace, and kissed again and again – with the widowed mother's solacing thought, there yet remained one for whom to live.

Turning from the corpse, the Stranger took his seat among the humble but loving people in that lowly cabin. He was of large mould, with a bold, quick glance, and an air of intelligence superior to his apparent station. It was singular that his appearance among them, while it ardently awakened their respectful attention, had chilled and checked the company. After a pause, one of them ventured to hint that the first allowance of liquor had been drank out, so that "there did not remain an eggshellful to drink the health of the Captain." There was a murmur of applause at the remark. Thus encouraged, another ventured to suggest that a fresh supply be provided, at the general expense of the company – the gallantry of the men excepting the fair sex from any share in the payment. The necessary amount was speedily collected, and a supply of whiskey (which had not condescended to acknowledge the reigning dynasty by any contribution to the excise duties) was procured from the next shebeen– an unlicensed dépôt for the sale of "mountain dew," – and placed upon the table.

The stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and who – on the principle that "silence gives consent" – had even been supposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the hilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed – "Is it thus, and always thus, that I am to find you? – the slaves and victims of your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the man to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be kept? – it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the man who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to sleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the truest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand – the rich hope of vengeance near fulfilment – there is not a man among you, bound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not surrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to drink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless brute. Give me that liquor."

His command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the minds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the vessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop of its contents – the "fire-water" of the American aborigines – was spilled. "There," he cried, "who serves with me, must obey me. When a deed is to be done, I will have obedience. When the deed is done – drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be performed, you shall be sober."

Not a syllable of dissent – not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips of those who heard him. Not a gesture – not a look – indicated anger at what he had done.

"Mark me, my lads," he added. "I have arranged all beyond the chance of defeat. I have contrived to turn the main strength of the soldiers on a wrong scent four miles on the other side of Charleville. I have laid my plans so that we cannot be disappointed, except through some fault of our own. Let us on to Churchtown Barracks. The sergeant, by whose rash and ready hand our friend has died, remains there with a handful of his comrades. He was sent thither to escape us. Fools! as if, for those who have a wrong to avenge, any spot can be too remote. Let us seize him, and give him the doom he gave the innocent. If they resist, we can fire the barracks, and burn them in their nest. But they will never be so mad as to offer resistance to such a force as ours, when we tell that we want only that one man. If they do – their blood be upon their own heads. Who joins me? Who will follow to the cry of 'On to Churchtown?' Now is the long-desired hour of revenge. Will any lag behind?"

Every man present repeated the cry – "On to Churchtown!" Some of the women also joined in it.

The Whiteboys and their leader left the cabin. An ancient crone, almost a reputed witch, and certainly known to be by far the oldest woman in the district, hobbled after them as far as the door, and threw her shoe after them – "for luck!"

Many a "God speed them" was breathed after that company of avengers by young and fair women. What Lord Bacon has called "the wild justice of revenge," and what America recognizes in the unseen but omnipotent incarnation of Judge Lynch, was necessarily the rule of action when injured Right took arms against tyrannic Might. Is it surprising that such should be the case? If wrongdoers cannot always be rewarded, "each according unto his works," within and by the law, why should not their impunity be broken down by the rational sense of justice which abides in the minds of men?

Forth on their mission, therefore, did the Whiteboys speed. Hurrying across the bog, they reached a farm which was almost isolated amid the black waste from which it had been indifferently reclaimed. They drew muskets, pistols, and pikes from the turf-rick in which they had been concealed. Some of them brought old swords, and scythe-blades attached to pike-handles (very formidable weapons in the hands of strong, angry men), from hiding-places in the bog itself. Stealthily, and across by paths unknown to and inaccessible to the military, that wild gang, "with whom Revenge was virtue," pushed forward for the attack on Churchtown Barracks.

CHAPTER II. – THE LEADER

Stealthily and in silence the Whiteboys proceeded to the scene of intended operation. Not a word was spoken – not a sound heard, except the noise of their footsteps whenever they got on the high road. As much as possible they avoided the highway, the course which would the soonest bring them to the appointed place. It would seem as if their leader had bound them together, by some spell peculiarly their own, to yield implicit and unquestioned obedience to his imperious will. It strongly illustrated the aphorism —

"Those who think must govern those who toil."

Whoever knows how lively and mercurial is the natural temperament of the peasantry in the South of Ireland, must be aware of the difficulty of restraining them from loud-voiced talking in the open air; but now not one of that large and excited gathering spoke above his breath. Their leader commanded them to be silent, and to them his will was law.

Who was that leader? The question involves some mystery which it may be as well to unveil before proceeding with the action of this narrative.

Who, and whence was that leader? His birth would have secured him a "respectable" station in society, if his wild passions, and the strong pressure of Circumstance (that unspiritual god), had not so far

"Profaned his spirit, sank his brow,"

that the ambition which, under better auspices, might have soared to the highest aims, was now directed no farther than to establish an unstable dominion over a few wild, uncultivated peasants, who, like fire and water, might be excellent servants, but with any opportunity of domination would probably prove tyrannic masters. He who would rule the rude peasantry of Ireland, must make up his mind to be governed by them in turn, whenever his wishes and aims and actions fall short of theirs. They will go with him while his desires and designs run together with their own, but they will speedily leave him behind, or forAce him with them, if they find him less eager than themselves. Even under the regular discipline of the army the same may be observed. In battle an Irish regiment cannot, or rather will not, understand any order to retreat. They repudiate all strategy which even appears to withdraw them from

"The triumph and the vanity,

The rapture of the strife,"

and show, by the gallant impetuosity with which they plunge into the attack, that their proper action is assault. If so under the harsh restrictions of military discipline, what must it be when freed from that coercion?

The leader of the Whiteboys in 1822 – the veritable Captain Rock, whom I have introduced at the Wake of the slain John Sheehan – was no common man. His birth had been respectable, his education good, his fortune had been ample, his mind was affluent in varied and vigorous resources; he had formerly won favor and fame from the world's opinion, and few men in any country could compete with him in the personal advantages which spring from manly beauty of form and feature, activity of body, and a strength of frame which literally defied fatigue and over-exertion.

The father of John Cussen was "a gentleman of independent fortune," in Irish parlance; that is, had succeeded to a pretty good estate, and would have been in easy, if not affluent circumstances, could he have realized any thing like the nominal amount of his rent-roll. But there were two difficulties, at least. Irish estates have had a fatal facility in becoming subjected to such things as mortgages, which relentlessly absorb certain annual amounts in the shape of interest, and Irish tenants have been apt to cherish the idea that they perform their duty towards society in general, and themselves in particular, by paying as little rent as possible. Still, though Mr. Cussen's property had gradually come under the pressure of these two causes, it yielded an income sufficient for hAis moderate wants. His children had died, one by one, in the very bloom and promise of their youth, until, out of a numerous family, only one son survived.

This youth, possessing a mind more active and aspirations more ambitious than most of his class, disdained the ordinary routine of every-day life. It was not difficult to persuade his father to permit him to go into the world – the military and naval service, from its danger, being the only profession which that doting parent positively forbade him to think of. The lad, after wavering for some time, determined to become a surgeon, and proceeded to pursue his studies in Dublin.

It would be tedious to narrate into what a circle of extravagance, while thus engaged, the young man became gradually involved; it would be painful to trace his downward lapse from folly to vice. Sufficient to say that, by the time he received his diploma as a surgeon (having passed his examinations with unexpected and even distinguished success), he had contrived to involve himself so deeply that his paternal property had to be additionally mortgaged to relieve him from heavy involvements. His father, who might have repudiated the creditors' claims, admitted them, without a murmur. Eager to snatch him from the haunts and the society by which he had embarrassed his means and injured his health, and looking on the military service as a good school of discipline, even if it were not free from peril, his father overcame all personal scruples, forgave the past, and looking hopefully at the future, successfully employed his influence to obtain for him an appointment as surgeon to one of the regiments which, just then, had been ordered to Belgium, as the re-appearance of Napoleon, and his triumphant progress from Elba to Paris – his eagle "flying from steeple to steeple until it alighted on the tower of Notre Dame" – had awakened the fears and enmity of Europe, bringing once more into action