Owen’s first impulse was to rush forward at any hazard, and if not wounded, to grapple with his adversary; but he reflected for a second that some great change must have occurred in his absence, which, in all likelihood, no act of daring on his part could avert or alter. “I’ll wait for morning, anyhow,” thought he; and without another word, or deigning any answer to the other, he slowly turned, and retraced his steps down the mountain.
There was a small mud hovel at the foot of the mountain, where Owen determined to pass the night. The old man who lived there, had been a herd formerly, but age and rheumatism had left him a cripple, and he now lived on the charity of the neighbours.
“Poor Larry! I don’t half like disturbing ye,” said Owen, as he arrived at the miserable contrivance of wattles that served for a door; but the chill night air, and his weary feet decided the difficulty, and he called out, “Larry – Larry Daly! open the door for me – Owen Connor. ‘Tis me!”
The old man slept with the light slumber of age, and despite the consequences of his malady, managed to hobble to the door in a few seconds. “Oh! wirra, wirra! Owen, my son!” cried he, in Irish; “I hoped I’d never see ye here again – my own darlin’.”
“That’s a dhroll welcome, anyhow, Larry, for a man coming back among his own people.”
“‘‘Tis a thrue one, as sure as I live in sin. The Lord help us, this is bad fortune.”
“What do you mean, Larry? What did I ever do to disgrace my name, that I wouldn’t come back here?”
“‘Tisn’t what ye done, honey, but what’s done upon ye. Oh, wirra, wirra; ‘tis a black day that led ye home here.”
It was some time before Owen could induce the old man to moderate his sorrows, and relate the events which had occurred in his absence. I will not weary my reader by retailing the old man’s prolixity, but tell them in the fewest words I am able, premising, that I must accompany the narrative by such explanations as I may feel necessary.
Soon after Owen’s departure for England, certain disturbances occurred through the country. The houses of the gentry were broken open at night and searched for arms by men with blackened faces and in various disguises to escape recognition. Threatening notices were served on many of the resident families, menacing them with the worst if they did not speedily comply with certain conditions, either in the discharge of some obnoxious individuals from their employment, or the restoration of some plot of ground to its former holder. Awful denunciations were uttered against any who should dare to occupy land from which a former tenant was ejected; and so terrible was the vengeance exacted, and so sudden its execution, that few dared to transgress the orders of these savage denunciators. The law of the land seemed to stand still, justice appeared appalled and affrighted, by acts which bespoke deep and wide-spread conspiracy. The magistrates assembled to deliberate on what was to be done; and the only one who ventured to propose a bold and vigorous course of acting was murdered on his way homeward. Meanwhile, Mr. Lucas, whose stern exactions had given great discontent, seemed determined to carry through his measures at any risk. By influence with the government he succeeded in obtaining a considerable police-force, and, under cover of these, he issued his distress-warrants and executions, distrained and sold, probably with a severity increased by the very opposition he met with.
The measures undertaken by government to suppress outrage failed most signally. The difficulty of arresting a suspected individual was great in a country where a large force was always necessary. The difficulty of procuring evidence against him was still greater; for even such as were not banded in the conspiracy, had a greater dread of the reproach of informer, than of any other imputation; and when these two conditions were overcome, the last and greatest of all difficulties remained behind, – no jury could be found to convict, when their own lives might pay the penalty of their honesty. While thus, on one side, went the agent, with his cumbrous accompaniments of law-officers and parchments, police constables and bailiffs, to effect a distress or an ejectment; the midnight party with arms patrolled the country, firing the haggards and the farmhouses, setting all law at defiance, and asserting in their own bloody vengeance the supremacy of massacre.
Not a day went over without its chronicle of crime; the very calendar was red with murder. Friends parted with a fervour of feeling, that shewed none knew if they would meet on the morrow; and a dark, gloomy suspicion prevailed through the land, each dreading his neighbour, and deeming his isolation more secure than all the ties of friendship. All the bonds of former love, all the relations of kindred and affection, were severed by this terrible league. Brothers, fathers, and sons were arrayed against each other. A despotism was thus set up, which even they who detested dared not oppose. The very defiance it hurled at superior power, awed and terrified themselves. Nor was this feeling lessened when they saw that these dreadful acts – acts so horrible as to make men shudder at the name of Ireland when heard in the farthest corner of Europe – that these had their apologists in the press, that even a designation was invented for them, and murder could be spoken of patriotically as the “Wild Justice” of the people.
There is a terrible contagion in crime. The man whose pure heart had never harboured a bad thought cannot live untainted where wickedness is rife. The really base and depraved were probably not many; but there were hardships and sufferings every where; misery abounded in the land – misery too dreadful to contemplate. It was not difficult to connect such sufferings with the oppressions, real or supposed, of the wealthier classes. Some, believed the theory with all the avidity of men who grasp at straws when drowning; others, felt a savage pleasure at the bare thought of reversing the game of sufferance; while many, mixed up their own wrongs with what they regarded as national grievances, and converted their private vengeance into a patriotic daring. Few stood utterly aloof, and even of these, none would betray the rest.
The temporary success of murder, too, became a horrible incentive to its commission. The agent shot, the law he had set in motion stood still, the process fell powerless; the “Wild Justice” superseded the slower footsteps of common law, and the murderer saw himself installed in safety, when he ratified his bond in the blood of his victim.
Habitual poverty involves so much of degradation, that recklessness of life is its almost invariable accompaniment; and thus, many of these men ceased to speculate on the future, and followed the dictates of their leaders in blind and dogged submission. There were many, too, who felt a kind of savage enthusiasm in the career of danger, and actually loved the very hazard of the game. Many more had private wrongs – old debts of injury to wipe out – and grasped at the occasion to acquit them; but even when no direct motives existed, the terror of evil consequences induced great numbers to ally themselves with this terrible conspiracy, and when not active partisans, at least to be faithful and secret confidants.
Among the many dispossessed by the agent was Owen Connor. Scarcely had he left the neighbourhood, than an ejectment was served against him; and the bailiff, by whose representations Owen was made to appear a man of dangerous character, installed in his mountain-farm. This fellow was one of those bold, devil-may-care ruffians, who survive in every contest longer than men of more circumspect courage; and Lucas was not sorry to find that he could establish such an outpost in this wild and dreary region. Well armed, and provided with a sufficiency of ammunition, he promised to maintain his strong-hold against any force – a boast not so unreasonable, as there was only one approach to the cabin, and that, a narrow path on the very verge of a precipice. Owen’s unexpected appearance was in his eyes, therefore, a signal for battle; he supposed that he was come back to assert his ancient right, and in this spirit it was, he menaced him with instant death if he advanced another step. Indeed, he had been more than once threatened that Owen’s return would be a “dark day” for him, and prepared himself for a meeting with him, as an occasion which might prove fatal to either. These threats, not sparingly bandied by those who felt little inclination to do battle on their own account, had become so frequent, that many looked for Owen’s reappearance as for an event of some moment.
Old Larry often heard these reports, and well knowing Owen’s ardent disposition and passionate temper, and how easily he became the tool of others, when any deed of more than ordinary hazard was presented to him, grieved deeply over the consequences such promptings might lead to; and thus it was, that he received him with that outburst of sorrow for which Owen was little prepared.
If Owen was shocked as he listened first to the tale of anarchy and bloodshed the old man revealed, a savage pleasure came over him afterwards, to think, what terror these midnight maraudings were making in the hearts of those who lived in great houses, and had wealth and influence. His own wrongs rankled too deeply in his breast to make him an impartial hearer; and already, many of his sympathies were with the insurgents.
It was almost day-break ere he could close his eyes; for although tired and worn out, the exciting themes he was revolving banished every thought of sleep, and made him restless and fretful. His last words to Larry, as he lay down to rest, were a desire that he might remain for a day or two concealed in his cabin, and that none of the neighbours should learn anything of his arrival. The truth was, he had not courage to face his former friends, nor could he bear to meet the Joyces: what step he purposed to take in the mean while, and how to fashion his future course, it is hard to say: for the present, he only asked time.
The whole of the following day he remained within the little hut; and when night came, at last ventured forth to breathe the fresh air and move his cramped limbs. His first object, then, was to go over to Joyce’s house, with no intention of visiting its inmates – far from it. The poor fellow had conceived a shrinking horror of the avowal he should be compelled to make of his own failure, and did not dare to expose himself to such a test.
The night was dark and starless: that heavy, clouded darkness which follows a day of rain in our western climate, and makes the atmosphere seem loaded and weighty. To one less accustomed than was Owen, the pathway would have been difficult to discover; but he knew it well in every turning and winding, every dip of the ground, and every rock and streamlet in the course. There was the stillness of death on every side; and although Owen stopped more than once to listen, not the slightest sound could be heard. The gloom and dreariness suited well the “habit of his soul.” His own thoughts were not of the brightest, and his step was slow and his head downcast as he went.
At last the glimmering of light, hazy and indistinct from the foggy atmosphere, came into view, and a few minutes after, he entered the little enclosure of the small garden which flanked one side of the cabin. The quick bark of a dog gave token of his approach, and Owen found some difficulty in making himself recognised by the animal, although an old acquaintance. This done, he crept stealthily to the window from which the gleam of light issued. The shutters were closed, hut between their joinings he obtained a view of all within.
At one side of the fire was Mary – his own Mary, when last he parted with her. She was seated at a spinning-wheel, but seemed less occupied with the work, than hent on listening to some noise without. Phil also stood in the attitude of one inclining his ear to catch a sound, and held a musket in his hand like one ready to resist attack. A farm-servant, a lad of some eighteen, stood at his side, armed with a horse-pistol, his features betraying no very equivocal expression of fear and anxiety. Little Patsy nestled at Mary’s side, and with his tiny hands had grasped her arm closely.
They stood there, as if spell-bound. It was evident they were afraid, by the slightest stir, to lose the chance of hearing any noise without; and when Mary at last lifted up her head, as if to speak, a quick motion of her brother’s hand warned her to be silent. What a history did that group reveal to Owen, as, with a heart throbbing fiercely, he gazed upon it! But a few short months back, and the inmates of that happy home knew not if at night the door was even latched; the thought of attack or danger never crossed their minds. The lordly dwellers in a castle felt less security in their slumbers than did these peasants; now, each night brought a renewal of their terrors. It came no longer the season of mutual greeting around the wintry hearth, the hour of rest and repose; but a time of anxiety and dread, a gloomy period of doubt, harassed by every breeze that stirred, and every branch that moved.
“‘Tis nothing this time,” said Phil, at last. “Thank God for that same!” and he replaced his gun above the chimney, while Mary blessed herself devoutly, and seemed to repeat a prayer to herself. Owen gave one parting look, and retired as noiselessly as he came.
To creep forth with the dark hours, and stand at this window, became with Owen, now, the whole business of life. The weary hours of the day were passed in the expectancy of that brief season – the only respite he enjoyed from the corroding cares of his own hard fortune. The dog, recognising him, no longer barked as he approached; and he could stand unmolested and look at that hearth, beside which he was wont once to sit and feel at home.
Thus was it, as the third week was drawing to a close, when old Larry, who had ventured down to the village to make some little purchase, brought back the news, that information had been sworn by the bailiff against Owen Connor, for threatening him with death, on pain of his not abandoning his farm. The people would none of them give any credit to the oath, as none knew of Owen’s return; and the allegation was only regarded as another instance of the perjury resorted to by their opponents, to crush and oppress them.
“They’ll have the police out to-morrow, I hear, to search after ye; and sure the way ye’ve kept hid will be a bad job, if they find ye after all.”
“If they do, Larry!” said Owen, laughing; “but I think it will puzzle them to do so.” And the very spirit of defiance prevented Owen at once surrendering himself to the charge against him. He knew every cave and hiding-place of the mountain, from childhood upwards, and felt proud to think how he could baffle all pursuit, no matter how persevering his enemies. It was essential, however, that he should leave his present hiding-place at once; and no sooner was it dark, than Owen took leave of old Larry and issued forth. The rain was falling in torrents, accompanied hy a perfect hurricane, as he left the cabin; fierce gusty blasts swept down the bleak mountain-side, and with wild and melancholy cadence poured along the valley; the waters of the lake plashed and beat upon the rocky shore; the rushing torrents, as they forced their way down the mountain, swelled the uproar, in which the sound of crashing branches and even rocks were mingled.
“‘Tis a dreary time to take to the cowld mountain for a home,” said Owen, as he drew his thick frieze coat around him, and turned his shoulder to the storm. “I hardly think the police, or the king’s throops either, will try a chase after me this night.”
There was more of gratified pride in this muttered reflection than at first sight might appear; for Owen felt a kind of heroism in his own daring at that moment, that supported and actually encouraged him in his course. The old spirit of bold defiance, which for ages has characterised the people; the resolute resistance to authority, or to tyranny, which centuries have not erased, was strong in his hardy nature; and he asked for nothing better, than to pit his own skill, ingenuity, and endurance against his opponents, for the mere pleasure of the encounter.
As there was little question on Owen’s mind that no pursuit of him would take place on such a night, he resolved to pass the time till day-break within the walls of the old churchyard, the only spot he could think of which promised any shelter. There was a little cell or crypt there, where he could safely remain till morning. An hour’s walking brought him to the little gate, the last time he had entered which, was at his poor father’s funeral. His reflection, now, was rather on his own altered condition since that day; but even on that thought he suffered himself not to dwell. In fact, a hardy determination to face the future, in utter forgetfulness of the past, was the part he proposed to himself; and he did his utmost to bend his mind to the effort.
As he drew near the little crypt I have mentioned, he was amazed to see the faint flickering of a fire within it. At first a superstitious fear held him back, and he rapidly repeated some prayers to himself; but the emotion was soon over, and he advanced boldly toward it. “Who’s there? stand! or give the word!” said a gruff voice from within. Owen stood still, but spoke not. The challenge was like that of a sentry, and he half-feared he had unwittingly strayed within the precincts of a patrol. “Give the word at once! or you’ll never spake another,” was the savage speech which, accompanied by a deep curse, now met his ears, while the click of a gun-Cock was distinctly audible.
“I’m a poor man, without a home or a shelter,” said Owen, calmly; “and what’s worse, I’m without arms, or maybe you wouldn’t talk so brave.”
“What’s yer name? Where are ye from?”
“I’m Owen Connor; that’s enough for ye, whoever ye are,” replied he, resolutely; “it’s a name I’m not ashamed nor afraid to say, anywhere.”
The man within the cell threw a handful of dry furze upon the smouldering flame, and while he remained concealed himself, took a deliberate survey of Owen as he stood close to the doorway. “You’re welcome, Owen,” said he, in an altered voice, and one which Owen immediately recognised as that of the old blacksmith, Miles Regan; “you’re welcome, my boy! better late than never, anyhow!”
“What do you mean, Miles? ‘Tisn’t expecting me here ye were, I suppose?”
“‘Tis just that same then, I was expecting this many a day,” said Miles, as with a rugged grasp of both hands he drew Owen within the narrow cell. “And ‘t’aint me only was expecting it, but every one else. Here, avich, taste this – ye’re wet and cowld both; that will put life in ye – and it never ped tha king sixpence.”
And he handed Owen a quart bottle as he spoke, the odour of which was unmistakeable enough, to bear testimony to his words.
“And what brings you here, Miles, in the name of God?” said Owen, for his surprise at the meeting increased every moment.
“‘Tis your own case, only worse,” said the other, with a drunken laugh, for the poteen had already affected his head.
“And what’s that, if I might make bould?” said Owen, rather angrily.
“Just that I got the turn-out, my boy. That new chap, they have over the property, sould me out, root and branch; and as I didn’t go quiet, ye see, they brought the polis down, and there was a bit of a fight, to take the two cows away; and somehow” – here he snatched the bottle rudely from Owen’s hand, and swallowed a copious draught of it – “and, somehow, the corporal was killed, and I thought it better to be away for a while – for, at the inquest, though the boys would take ‘the vestment’ they seen him shot by one of his comrades, there was a bit of a smash in his skull, ye see” – here he gave a low fearful laugh – “that fitted neatly to the top of my eleven-pound hammer; ye comprehend?”
Owen’s blood ran cold as he said, “Ye don’t mean it was you that killed him?”
“I do then,” replied the other, with a savage grin, as he placed his face within a few inches of Owen’s. “There’s a hundred pounds blood-money for ye, now, if ye give the information! A hundred pounds,” muttered he to himself; “musha, I never thought they’d give ten shillings for my own four bones before!”
Owen scorned to reply to the insinuation of his turning informer, and sat moodily thinking over the event.
“Well, I’ll be going, anyhow,” said he rising, for his abhorrence of his companion made him feel the storm and the hurricane a far preferable alternative.
“The divil a one foot ye’ll leave this, my boy,” said Miles, grasping him with the grip of his gigantic hand; “no, no, ma bouchai, ‘tisn’t so easy airned as ye think; a hundred pounds, naboclish!
“Leave me free! let go my arm!” said Owen, whose anger now rose at the insolence of this taunt.
“I’ll break it across my knee, first,” said the infuriated ruffian, as he half imitated by a gesture his horrid threat.
There was no comparison in point of bodily strength between them; for although Owen was not half the other’s age, and had the advantage of being perfectly sober, the smith was a man of enormous power, and held him, as though he were a child in his grasp.
“So that’s what you’d be at, my boy, is it?” said Miles, scoffing; “it’s the fine thrade you choose! but maybe it’s not so pleasant, after all. Stay still there – be quiet, I say – by – ,” and here he uttered a most awful oath – “if you rouse me, I’ll paste your brains against that wall;” and as he spoke, he dashed his closed fist against the rude and crumbling masonry, with a force that shook several large stones from their places, and left his knuckles one indistinguishable mass of blood and gore.
“That’s brave, anyhow,” said Owen, with a bitter mockery, for his own danger, at the moment, could not repress his contempt for the savage conduct of the other.
Fortunately, the besotted intellect of the smith made him accept the speech in a very different sense, and he said, “There never was the man yet, I wouldn’t give him two blows at me, for one at him, and mine to be the last.”
“I often heard of that before,” said Owen, who saw that any attempt to escape by main force was completely out of the question, and that stratagem alone could present a chance.
“Did ye ever hear of Dan Lenahan?” said Miles, with a grin; “what I did to Dan: I was to fight him wid one hand, and the other tied behind my back; and when he came up to shake hands wid me before the fight, I just put my thumb in my hand, that way, and I smashed his four fingers over it.”
“There was no fight that day, anyhow, Miles.”
“Thrue for ye, boy; the sport was soon over – raich me over the bottle,” and with that, Miles finished the poteen at a draught, and then lay back against the wall, as if to sleep. Still, he never relinquished his grasp, but, as he fell off asleep, held him as in a vice.
As Owen sat thus a prisoner, turning over in his mind every possible chance of escape, he heard the sound of feet and men’s voices rapidly approaching; and, in a few moments, several men turned into the churchyard, and came towards the crypt. They were conversing in a low but hurried voice, which was quickly hushed as they came nearer.
“What’s this,” cried one, as he entered the cell; “Miles has a prisoner here!”
“Faix, he has so, Mickey;” answered Owen, for he recognised in the speaker an old friend and schoolfellow. The rest came hurriedly forward at the words, and soon Owen found himself among a number of his former companions. Two or three of the party were namesakes and relations.
The explanation of his capture was speedily given, and they all laughed heartily at Owen’s account of his ingenious efforts at flattery.
“Av the poteen held out, Owen dear, ye wouldn’t have had much trouble; but he can drink two quarts before he loses his strength.”
In return for his narrative, they freely and frankly told their own story. They had been out arms-hunting – unsuccessfully, however – their only exploit being the burning of a haggard belonging to a farmer who refused to join the “rising.”
Owen felt greatly relieved to discover, that his old friends regarded the smith with a horror fully as great as his own. But they excused themselves for the companionship by saying, “What are we to do with the crayture? Ye wouldn’t have us let him be taken?” And thus they were compelled to practise every measure for the security of one they had no love for, and whose own excesses increased the hazard tenfold.
The marauding exploits they told of, were, to Owen’s ears, not devoid of a strange interest, the danger alone had its fascination for him; and, artfully interwoven as their stories were with sentiments of affected patriotism and noble aspirations for the cause of their country, they affected him strongly.
For, strange as it may seem, a devotion to country – a mistaken sense of national honour – prompted many to these lawless courses. Vague notions of confiscated lands to be restored to their rightful possessors; ancient privileges reconferred; their church once more endowed with its long-lost wealth and power: such were the motives of the more high-spirited and independent. Others sought redress for personal grievances; some real or imaginary hardship they laboured under; or, perhaps, as was not unfrequent, they bore the memory of some old grudge or malice, which they hoped now to have an opportunity of requiting. Many were there, who, like the weak-minded in all popular commotions, float with the strong tide, whichever way it may run. They knew not the objects aimed at; they were ignorant of the intentions of their leaders; but would not be under the stain of cowardice among their companions, nor shrink from any cause where there was danger, if only for that very reason. Thus was the mass made up, of men differing in various ways; but all held together by the common tie of a Church and a Country. It might be supposed that the leaders in such a movement would be those who, having suffered some grievous wrong, were reckless enough to adventure on any course that promised vengeance; – very far from this. The principal promoters of the insurrection were of the class of farmers – men well to do, and reputed, in many cases wealthy. The instruments by which they worked were indeed of the very poorer class – the cottier, whose want and misery had eat into his nature, and who had as little room for fear as for hope in his chilled heart. Some injury sustained by one of these, some piece of justice denied him; his ejection from his tenement; a chance word, perhaps, spoken to him in anger by his landlord or the agent, were the springs which moved a man like this, and brought him into confederacy with those who promised him a speedy repayment of his wrongs, and flattered him into the belief that his individual case had all the weight and importance of a national question. Many insurrectionary movements have grown into the magnitude of systematic rebellion from the mere assumption on the part of others, that they were prearranged and predetermined. The self-importance suggested by a bold opposition to the law, is a strong agent in arming men against its terrors. The mock martyrdom of Ireland is in this way, perhaps, her greatest and least curable evil.
Owen was, of all others, the man they most wished for amongst them. Independent of his personal courage and daring, he was regarded as one fruitful in expedients, and never deterred by difficulties. This mingled character of cool determination and headlong impulse, made him exactly suited to become a leader; and many a plot was thought of, to draw him into their snares, when the circumstances of his fortune thus anticipated their intentions.
It would not forward the object of my little tale to dwell upon the life he now led. It was indeed an existence full of misery and suffering. To exaggerate the danger of his position, his companions asserted that the greatest efforts were making for his capture, rewards offered, and spies scattered far and wide through the country; and while they agreed with him that nothing could be laid to his charge, they still insisted, that were he once taken, false-swearing and perjury would bring him to the gallows, “as it did many a brave boy before him.”
Half-starved, and harassed by incessant change of place; tortured by the fevered agony of a mind halting between a deep purpose of vengeance and a conscious sense of innocence, his own daily sufferings soon brought down his mind to that sluggish state of gloomy desperation, in which the very instincts of our better nature seem dulled and blunted. “I cannot be worse!” was his constant expression, as he wandered alone by some unfrequented mountain-path, or along the verge of some lonely ravine. “I cannot be worse!” It is an evil moment that suggests a thought like this!
Each night he was accustomed to repair to the old churchyard, where some of the “boys,” as they called themselves, assembled to deliberate on future measures, or talk over the past. It was less in sympathy with their plans that Owen came, than for the very want of human companionship. His utter solitude gave him a longing to hear their voices, and see their faces; while in their recitals of outrage, he felt that strange pleasure the sense of injury supplies, at any tale of sorrow and suffering.
At these meetings the whisky-bottle was never forgotten; and while some were under a pledge not to take more than a certain quantity – a vow they kept most religiously – others drank deeply. Among these was Owen. The few moments of reckless forgetfulness he then enjoyed were the coveted minutes of his long dreary day, and he wished for night to come as the last solace that was left him.
His companions knew him too well, to endeavour by any active influence to implicate him in their proceedings. They cunningly left the work to time and his own gloomy thoughts; watching, however, with eager anxiety, how, gradually he became more and more interested in all their doings; how, by degrees he ceased even the half-remonstrance against some deed of unnecessary cruelty; and listened with animation where before he but heard with apathy, if not repugnance. The weeds of evil grow rankest in the rich soil of a heart whose nature, once noble, has been perverted and debased. Ere many weeks passed over, Owen, so far from disliking the theme of violence and outrage, became half-angry with his comrades, that they neither proposed any undertaking to him, nor even asked his assistance amongst them.