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Ebook has 348 lines and 24470 words, and 7 pages

I turned home slowly and thoughtfully, and scarcely heard the blackbirds trolling out their rich notes in the silence of the evening. The sight of a ruined homestead--a sight, alas! so frequent in many parts of Ireland, has always had a deep effect on me, for I cannot help conjuring up the crackling fire upon the hearthstone lighting the faces of happy children, and of speculating on the fate which awaited them when its light was quenched and they were scattered far and wide across the seas. But this desolate cottage whose name was so suggestive of youth and bloom, and love and happiness, was like a ruined tombstone raised over dead hopes--a mockery of their vanity.

That evening I questioned my friend as to its history. He knew nothing of it, though he had lived twenty years not far from it, and he rallied me on my sentimental mood, and suggested that its former inhabitants had got tired of it, that probably they had found some thorns amongst its roses.

"They were sentimental people like yourself," he said. "Probably town bred, and that's what made them give it such an absurd name, and they soon tired of love in a cottage."

My friend was an extremely good-hearted, generous fellow, ever ready to help another in distress; but he was prone to regard any one who would sorrow over what he called imaginary woes as little better than a simpleton. I saw there was no information to be gained from him, and I could hardly look for any sympathy from him with my desire to procure it. But the desire, instead of abating, increased, and I found myself again and again taking the direction of the lonely cottage. But day after day I saw only the sheep browsing on the lawn, and heard only the murmur of the stream; and I was about giving up all hope of learning its history, when it chanced that one evening I fell in with an old shepherd, who, as I was crossing the stile on to the road, was coming towards it. He saluted me in the friendly way so common until recently with people of his class. I acknowledged his salute with equal friendliness. He remarked on the fineness of the weather, and seeing that he was inclined to be communicative, I resolved to continue the conversation. I thought he was about to cross the stile, but instead he pursued the road leading to my friends' house.

"That's a lonely cottage over there," said I tentatively.

"Oh, then, you may well call it lonely," said he, "but I mind the time when it was one of the brightest cottages ye'd see in a day's walk in the whole of the county Wicklow."

"That must have been a long time ago," I rejoined.

"Ay, thin, it is. It's fifty years ago or more. 'Twas about the time that poor Boney was bet at Waterloo. Sure I mind it well. I was only a gorsoon then, yer honour, but 'twas often and often I did a hand's turn for the lady, and sure 'twas the rale illegant lady she was, yer honour, with her eyes that wor as blue as the sky above us this blessed and holy evenin', and her smile was as light and as bright as the sunbeams, and her voice was sweeter nor the blackbird that's singin' this minit in the elm beyant there, only twice as low."

"And how long was she living there, and was she married?"

"Troth thin, she was married, or at laste the poor crater thought she was, and her husband was an illegant man, too. He was taller nor yer honour, but twice as dark. He was a foreigner of some kind, but his name was English, or sounded like it. It was Duran. And sure 'twas happy enough they seemed to be, although there were no childre, and they wor livin' there more nor three years, your honour, and you couldn't tell which of thim was fonder of the other. And the cottage, yer honour, t'was all covered with roses, and sure, 'tis myself that many a time trimmed the rosebushes that ye might see up by the strame at the back of the cottage, where the summer-house was. And did ye mind the pond in front of it, yer honour?"

"I did," I replied.

"Well then 'twasn't a pond at all, yer honour but a quarry hole, and nothing would do the young mistress but that a lake should be made out of it, and didn't myself help to dam up the strame to let the water run into the hollow ye see in the field, and a purty little lake it made, to be sure. Ay, sure, 'tis I mind it well, for a few days after 'twas finished, the news kem in that Boney was bet."

"And did they live there long after that?" I asked.

"Little more nor two years, yer honour, for the lake was made the first year they wor there. But sure, 'tis the quare story it was, but no one minds it about here now but myself. The neighbours' childre, that wor childre wud me are all dead and gone, and sure they were foreigners, and they didn't mix nor make with anyone outside their own two selves, and till the cross kem they were as happy as the day's long."

"And what was the cross?"

"Oh, then, meself doesn't rightly know the ins and outs of it, yer honour; but ye see the way it was--one day when the master was away in Dublin, there drove up to the door a dark woman, that was more like a gipsy than anything else, and with big goold rings in her ears, and myself chanced to be in the garden behind the house trimmin' them same rose bushes, an' I only heard an odd word or two. But as far as I could hear, the dark woman, she was saying that the poor darlin' lady had no right to call herself Mrs. Duran at all, for that he was ayther promised to marry her, or was married to her, meself didn't rightly know till after, for I was only a gorsoon then, yer honour, and didn't know much about it; but when the strange woman went away, and I went into the cottage to ask the mistress if she had any more for me to do, she was as white as a ghost, she, that used always to be bloomin' like one of the roses ye'd see in them hedges there in the month of June. Well, yer honour, she told me she wouldn't want anythin' till mornin', and sure meself never set eyes on her alive again."

"Why, what happened?"

"What happened is it, yer honour? Sure there never was a mournfuller story. The master kem home that night, but there was no sign of the poor mistress. I heard long after that she had left a letter, but I never heard tell of what was in it. Well, sure, he was nearly out of his mind, and then when there was no sign of her comin' back he went away to foreign parts, and myself thought he'd never come back ayther, but he came home one mornin' and he went on livin' in the cottage as he did before when they wor together. The only one, barrin' an old woman of a servant, that he ever let about the house, was myself, for ye see, yer honour, he knew the poor young mistress had a likin' for me, and he used to employ me in lookin' after the roses and keepin' the summer house in order, where I often saw himself and herself sitting together, and often it was he sat there lookin' as lonesome as a churchyard in the night, yer honour, and sure 'twas hardly a word he ever spoke. And then I knew that he was as fond as ever of the poor mistress, and that 'twas thinkin' of her all the time he was. And didn't myself see her picture in his bedroom, and ye'd think 'twas smilin' at ye she was out o' the frame, and then I knew the strange woman had wronged her and him."

"And how long did he live there alone?"

"Sure, that's the quarest part of the story, yer honour. Ye see, when the poor mistress was gone he didn't mind the lake, and the water began to sink into the ground, and then there kem one dry summer when all the strames in the country ran dry. It was the driest summer I ever remember, and the grass was as thin and as brown as my old coat, and as little nourishin', and sure one mornin' we noticed somethin' under the shallow water of the lake, and what was it but the body of the poor mistress? And after that when we buried her in the churchyard beyond the hill there, the poor master left the place and the cottage was shut up, for no one would live in it, and the fields around it were tuk by Mr. Toole that had a farm next to it, and 'tis in the hollow where you might see the sheep browsin' this minnit the poor lady was found."

A NIGHT WITH THE RAPPAREES.

It was towards the end of October in the year before the Battle of Fontenoy, and a few months before I joined one of the flocks of "the Wild Geese" in their flight to France, that I fell in with the experience which I am now about to relate. I had been staying for a few days with a friend in the west of the County of Cork, and I had started for home in full time, as I had hoped, to reach it before nightfall. My shortest way, about five miles, lay across the mountains. It was familiar to me since I was a child, and I felt sure I could make it out in dark as well as in daylight. When I started a light wind was blowing. Some dark clouds were in the sky, but the wind was not from a rainy point, and I was confident that the weather would keep up. When, however, I had traversed half the way, the wind changed suddenly and a light rain began to fall. I pushed on more quickly, yet without misgiving, but before I had gone a half-mile further the mountain was suddenly enveloped in mist that became denser at every step. I could scarcely see my hand when I stretched it out before me. The mossy sheep-track beneath my feet was scarcely distinguishable, and now and again I was almost tripped up by the heather and bracken that grew high at either side.

I found it necessary to move cautiously and very slowly; yet, notwithstanding my caution, I frequently got tangled in the heather, but succeeded in regaining the path. I continued on until I judged that I had made another half-mile from the spot in which I was first surrounded by the mist. How long I had been making this progress it was difficult for me to estimate, but I became aware that the night had fallen, and I was no longer able to distinguish anything even at my feet. I began to doubt whether I was on the proper path, for sheep tracks traversed the mountain in all directions. It occurred to me to turn into the bracken and try to make the best shelter I could. The bracken here grew to a height of nearly three feet, and some of the stalks were thick and strong. I had often amused myself when a child twining the stalks together, and making them into a cosy house, and often escaped thereby from a heavy summer shower. The mere recollection of my childish efforts lightened my heart, though I was conscious enough that the experiment I was about to make was not likely to be very successful. But I set to, and tore up some of the bracken, and began to twist it around the standing clumps so as to form a roof, but when I had gone on a few feet from the track I felt the ground slipping from my feet. I caught hold of a clump of bracken only to pull it from the roots, and to find myself sliding down I knew not whither. Stones were rumbling by my side, but fortunately none of them touched me, and quicker than I can tell it I was lying prone on the earth. I stretched out my hands, and found level ground as far as I could reach on either side. I struggled till I regained my feet. I was dazed for a while, but when I fully recovered myself I was utterly perplexed as to what I was to do. After the experience which I had had I was afraid to move either to the right or left. I stood still, and I am not ashamed to say that I could distinctly hear the beating of my heart. The mist still enveloped me, so I was unable to see anything. Suddenly I thought I heard the sound of voices, but set that down to my imagination, for I knew there was no house within miles of me. I listened, however, with the utmost eagerness, and again I heard the voices.

I was about to shout when the mist a little in advance of me was brightened, as if a light were thrown on it. Instinctively I advanced in the direction of the luminous haze, when I felt myself caught by the neck by a firm grasp, and I was flung forward. My feet slipped on some projection, and I fell headlong.

When I managed to raise myself I saw I was in a dwelling of some kind, partially lighted by the blaze of a turf fire. Several men were present, and I distinctly saw the flash of firearms. There was at once a confusion of voices, and I was pulled to my feet by one of the men, who presented a horse-pistol at my head.

"Shoot him! He is a Sassenach spy!" came in a hoarse chorus from the men around the fire.

"No Sassenach am I," I answered back, endeavouring to shake myself free from the grip of the man who held me.

"And who are you? And whence come you?" he asked, fiercely.

"Frank O'Mahony," I said, "the son of Shaun O'Mahony, of the Glen."

"Let me look at him," cried an old woman, whom I had not previously noticed, and she shook off the grip of my captor and brought me towards the fire.

With a corner of her shawl she rubbed my face, and then she caught me in her arms.

"Ah, then, 'tis Frank--Frank O'Mahony," said she. "Shure I nursed your mother, avourneen, on my knee. But 'tis no wondher the boys didn't know you, for your own mother wouldn't know you with the wet clay of the mountain plastered over your face, and 'tis you are welcome, Frank avourneen, in daylight or in dark, and shure no true Rapparee need close the doore again your father's son."

When the old woman had done speaking, the man who had seized me clasped my hand.

"Frank, my boy," said he, "you're welcome--welcome as the flowers of May. Make room for him there, comrades; don't you see the boy is cowld and wet."

And they made a place for me, and the old woman brewed a steaming jug of poteen, and she said to the others that I wasn't to be asked a question until I had taken some of her mountain medicine.

Hardly had I taken the medicine when I felt pretty comfortable, and then when I got time to look about me I saw I was in something like a cave of large dimensions, half of which was in shadow owing to the imperfect light.

About half-a-dozen men came in shortly after my arrival, and then the whole force numbered thirty.

When all who had been expected had come, the captain, who was the man who had seized me said--addressing me:--

"Help and comfort we always got from your father, Frank O'Mahony. Ah, and if the truth were known, my boy, he spent many a night on the hills with the Rapparees. May Heaven be his bed to-night. You are over young yet, but still not too young to strike a blow for Ireland. There isn't a man here who wouldn't die for you if necessary."

"I hope to strike a blow for Ireland," I said, "but word has come from my uncle, Colonel O'Mahony, that he wishes me to go to France and join him." "God bless the Colonel, wherever he is," said the captain, "he'll never miss the chance, but would to God he was with us at home. The best--the best and the bravest have gone away from us."

"What are you saying, man," said the old woman, suddenly confronting him. "There's not a colonel nor a general in the whole French army a bit boulder or braver than our own Rapparees."

"We do our best, Moira asthoreen," said the captain, laying his hand on her shoulder, "but the men who are gone away are winning fame for the old land, God bless them all. For sure their thoughts are always with poor Ireland, and every blow they strike they strike for her, and their pride in the hour of victory is because their own old land hears of it."

"Ay, and every blow the Rapparees strike, they strike for her, too," said Moira, "and 'tis no living there would be no living at all at all for poor people here at home if it weren't for the boys, and--come there now, Jem Mullooney, and give us a stave about my bowld Rapparees. Yes, you can do it when you like, and I bet Master Frank here never heard it."

I admitted I never had, and I cordially joined in the chorus which followed, and endorsed Moira's demand.

Moira, apparently delighted to hear me backing up her demand, said:

"Musha, good luck to the mist that brought you here, Master Frank," said she, "and sure that same mist has often proved a great friend to the Rapparees."

The men had seated themselves around the cave as best they could, some on bunches of heather, some on sods of turf, some on roots of trees roughly shaped into a seat. The captain, a few others and myself, were sitting close to the fire.

Jem Mullooney was nearly opposite me. The firelight flashing in his direction, enabled me to catch a full view of his face, and a fine face it was, though a little too long. You knew at a glance you could trust your life with him, but he looked like a pleased boy when he was importuned to give us the song.

Clearing his throat with the least taste of Moira's medicine, he struck out in a rich voice, to a rattling air, accompanying himself occasionally with dramatic gestures, the following song:--

"THE RAPPAREES.

"Thirty troopers in the glen, Thirty, stalwart fearless men; All alert and cool and steady; Sabres loose and carbines ready, But who are moving through the trees? Bang! Bang! they are the Rapparees!

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