The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Mon ami le Dieu vous le rende;”
While even the priest, for a blessing takes pay,
“C’est partout et toujours, Contrabande.”

The good things of life are not equal, I’m sure,
Then, how pleasant to make the “amende;”
To take from the wealthy, and give to the poor,
“Voila! que j’appelle, Contrabande.”

Yet, as matters go, one must not deem it strange,
That even “La France et L’Irlande,”
If good wishes and friendship they simply exchange,
There are folks who call that, “Contrabande.”

“Vive la Contrabande, mes amis,” shouted out Jacques, as he arose glass in hand, and made the room ring with the toast. And every voice repeated the words, in such imitations as they were able.

“‘Tis an elegant song, any way,” said Lanty, “if one only understood it all – and the tune’s mighty like the ‘Cruiskeen Lawn.’”

“Well, Harry,” said Flahault, slapping his friend on the shoulder, “will the song persuade you to turn smuggler? I fear not. You’d rather practise your own ‘Contrabande’ among the bright eyes and dark locks of the capital. Well, there are worse ‘metiers.’ I have had a turn at it these fifteen years, and whether on the waters of Ontario, or Champlain, or scudding along under the fog-banks of the Scheldt, I never grew weary of it. But, now for a little business talk – where is the Padre? where’s Father Luke? was he not to have been here to-night?”

Mary whispered the answer in the captain’s ear.

“Ah! parbleu,” exclaimed he aloud – “is it so? Practising a little ‘Contrebande’ of his own – trying to see a poor fellow safe over the frontier, into the next world.”

“Fie for shame, Captain Jacques,” said Mary, with pious horror. “That’s not the way to talk of the holy offices.”

“I wish I had old Maurice Dulang here, the priest of Trois Rivières, he’s the boy could despatch them without trouble.”

Neither Lanty nor Mary gave any encouragement to Flahault’s new turn of the conversation, and so, addressing himself to Talbot, he went on —

“We were dining together one day, at the little inn at Trois Rivières, when a messenger came from Lachégon, for the Père to administer the last rites to a ‘mourant.’ Maurice promised to be there in half-an-hour, but never stirred – and though three other messengers came for him, the answer was all the same – until, at last came word, ‘Cest trop tard, il est mort.’

“‘Trop tard!’ said Maurice, ‘not a bit of it; give me a pen and ink, and some paper.’ With that he folded a piece, note fashion, and wrote —

“‘Mon cher Pierre – Fais ton petit possible pour cet pauvre diable, qui s’est glissé hors du monde sans mes soins. Apparement il était bien pressé; mais tu l’arrangera pour le mieux.

“‘Ton viel ami.’

“‘Maurice Dulang. “‘St. Pierre, à la Conciergerie au Paradis.’

“‘Put that in his mouth,’ said Maurice, ‘and there’s no fear of him.’”

“‘Twas a blessed gospel he gave him,” said Mary, who did not comprehend the French portion of the story, “and sure it’s as good as any thing.”

“We all thought so, Mary. Poor Maurice related the story at Lyons, when he was led out to the guillotine – but though the Commissaire laughed heartily, and enjoyed it much, they had found a breviary in his portmanteau, and they couldn’t let him off. Pauvre bête! To travel about the world with the ‘pièce de conviction’ in his possession. What, Harry, no more wine?”

“I thank you, no more for me, although that claret is a temptation.”

“A bouquet, every glass of it! What say you, Master Lawler – does it suit your palate?”

“I begin to think it a taste cold, or so, by this time,” said Lanty; “I’m not genteel enough for wine, God help me – but it’s time to turn in, any how – and there’s Mary asleep already.”

“I don’t stir till I finish the flask,” said Jacques, firmly; “and if you won’t drink, you needn’t grudge me your company. It’s hard to say when we meet again. You go northward, Talbot, isn’t that so?

“Yes, and that’s the point I wish to come to – where and how shall I find a mount? – I depended on this priest you spoke of to meet me, but he has not made his appearance.”

“You never fell upon your legs more fortunately – here’s your man for a horse, all Ireland over. Eh, Lanty, what’s to be had now?”

“Devil a thing can be got for love or money,” said Lanty. “If the gentleman only told me yesterday – ”

“Yesterday, Master Lanty, we were riding white horses in the Western Ocean – but that’s gone by – let us talk of to-day.”

“My own hackney is here in the stable. If his honour likes him, I’ll sell him; but he’s a fancy beast, and must have a fancy price.”

“Has he strength and speed for a fast ride,” said Talbot, “and will his condition bear it?”

“I’ll answer for it – you may push on to Cork in a hand gallop, if you give him ten minutes’ rest, and a glass of whiskey at Macroom.”

“That’s enough – what’s his price?”

“Take a look at him first,” replied Lanty, “for if you are judge of a beast, you’ll not refuse what I ask you.” With these words he lighted a candle, and placed it in an old iron lantern, which hung against the wall, and opening a small door at the back of the cabin, proceeded, by a narrow passage cut in the rock, towards the stable, followed by Talbot, Flahault remaining where he was, as if sunk in meditation. Scarcely, however, had the two figures disappeared in the distance, when he shook Mary violently by the shoulder, and whispered in a quick, but collected tone —

“Mary – Mary, I say – is that fellow all safe?”

“Ay is he safe,” said she, resuming her wonted calmness in a second. “Why do you ask now?”

“I’ll tell you why – for myself I care not a sous – I’m here to-day, away to-morrow – but Talbot’s deep in the business – his neck’s in the halter – can we trust Lawler on his account – a man of rank and large fortune as he is, cannot be spared – what say you?”

“You may trust him, Captain,” said Mary, “he knows his life would not be his own two hours if he turned informer – and then this Mr. Talbot, he’s a great man you tell me?”

“He’s a near kinsman of a great peer, and has a heavy stake in the game – that’s all I know, Mary – and, indeed, the present voyage was more to bring him over, than any thing else – but hush, here they come.”

“You shall have your money – you’ve no objection to French gold, I hope – for several years I have seen no other,” said Talbot entering.

“I know it well,” said Lanty, “and would just as soon take it, as if it had King George on it.”

“You said forty pounds, fifty Louis is not far off – will that do?” said the youth, as he emptied a heavily filled purse of gold, upon the table, and pushed fifty pieces towards the horse-dealer.

“As well as the best, sir,” said Lanty, as he stored the money in his long leathern pocket-book, and placed it within his breast pocket.

“Will Mrs. M’Kelly accept this small token, as a keepsake,” said the youth, while he took from around his neck a fine gold chain of Venetian work, and threw it gallantly over Mary’s; “this is the first shelter I have found, after a long exile from my native land; and you, my old comrade, I have left you the pistols you took a fancy too, they are in the lugger – and so, now good-bye, all, I must take to the road at once – I should like to have met the priest, but all chance of that seems over.”

Many and affectionate were the parting salutations between the young man and the others; for, although he had mingled but little in the evening’s conversation, his mild and modest demeanour, added to the charm of his good looks, had won their favourable opinions; besides that he was pledged to a cause which had all their sympathies.

While the last good-bye was being spoken, Lanty had saddled and bridled the hackney, and led him to the door. The storm was still raging fiercely, and the night dark as ever.

“You’d better go a little ways up the glen, Lanty, beside him,” said Mary, as she looked out into the wild and dreary night.

“‘Tis what I mean to do,” said Lanty, “I’ll show him as far as the turn of the road.”