The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

“Yes, and are you sure this confinement will not drive me mad?” cried he, passionately; “will you engage that my brain will hold out against the agonizing thoughts that will not cease to torture me all this while? – or can you promise that events shall stand still for the moment when I can resume my place once more among men?”

The hurried and excited tone in which he spoke was only a more certain evidence of the truth of the medical fears; and, without venturing on any direct reply, the doctor gave some directions for his treatment, and withdrew.

The physician’s apprehensions were well founded. The first few hours after the accident seemed to threaten nothing serious, but as night fell, violent headache and fever set in, and before day-break, he was quite delirious.

No sooner did the news reach Carrig-na-curra, than Kerry was dispatched to bring back tidings of his state; for, however different the estimation in which he was held by each, one universal feeling pervaded all – of sorrow for his disaster, Day after day, Sir Archy or Herbert went over to inquire after him; but some chronic feature of his malady seemed to have succeeded, and he lay in one unvarying condition of lethargic unconsciousness.

In this way, week after week glided over, and the condition of the country seemed like that of the sick man – one of slumbering apathy. The pursuit of Mark, so eagerly begun, had, as it were, died out. The proclamations of reward, torn down by the country people on their first appearance, were never renewed, and the military party, after an ineffectual search through Killarney, directed their steps northwards towards Tralee, and soon after returned to head-quarters. Still, with all these signs of security, Mark, whose short experience of life, had taught him caution, rarely ventured near Carrig-na-curra, and never passed more than a few moments beneath his father’s roof.

While each had a foreboding that this calm was but the lull that preludes a storm, their apprehensions took very different and opposing courses, Kate’s anxieties increased with each day of Hemsworth’s illness; she saw the time gliding past in which escape seemed practicable, and yet knew not how to profit by the opportunity. Sir Archy, coupling the activity with which Mark’s pursuit was first undertaken, with the sudden visit of Hemsworth to the country, and the abandonment of all endeavours to capture him, which followed on Hemsworth’s accident, felt strong suspicion that the agent was the prime mover in the whole affair, and that his former doubts, were well founded regarding him; while Herbert, less informed than either on the true state of matters, formed opinions, which changed and vacillated with each day’s experience.

In this condition of events, Sir Archy had gone over one morning alone, to inquire after Hemsworth, whose case, for some days preceding, was more than usually threatening – symptoms of violent delirium having succeeded to the dead lethargy in which he was sunk. Buried deeply in his conjectures as to the real nature of the part he was acting, and how far his motives tallied with honourable intentions, the old man plodded wearily on, weighing every word he could remember that bore upon events, and carefully endeavouring to divest his mind of every thing like a prejudice. Musing thus, he accidentally diverged from the regular approach, and turned off into a narrow path, which led to the back of “the Lodge;” nor was he aware of his mistake, till he saw, at the end of the walk, the large window of a room he remembered as belonging to the former building.. The sash was open, but the curtains, were drawn closely, so as to intercept any view from within or without. He observed these things, as fatigued by an unaccustomed exertion, he seated himself, for some moments’ rest, on a bench beneath the trees.

A continuous, low, moaning sound soon caught his ear; he listened, and could distinctly hear the heavy breathing of a sick man, accompanied as it was by long-drawn sighs. There were voices, also, of persons speaking cautiously together, and the words, “He is asleep at last,” were plainly audible, after which the door closed, and all was still.

The solemn awe which great illness inspires was felt in all its force by the old man, as he sat like one spell-bound, and unable to depart. The labouring respiration that seemed to bode the ebb of life, made his own strong heart tremble, for he thought how, in his last hours, he might have wronged him. “Oh! if I have been unjust – if I have followed him to the last with ungenerous doubt – forgive me, Heaven; even now my own heart is half my accuser;” and his lips murmured a deep and fervent prayer, for that merciful benevolence, which, in his frail nature, he denied to another. He arose from his knees with a spirit calmed, and a courage stronger, and was about to retire, when a sudden cry from the sick room arrested his steps. It was followed by another more shrill and piercing still, and then a horrid burst of frantic laughter: dreadful as the anguish-wrung notes of suffering – how little do they seem in comparison, with the sounds of mirth from the lips of madness!

“There – there,” cried a voice, he at once knew as Hemsworth’s – “that’s him, that’s your prisoner – make sure of him now; remember your orders, men! – do you hear; if they attempt a rescue, load with ball, and fire low – mind that, fire low. Ah! you are pale enough now;” and again the savage laughter rung out. “Yes, madam,” continued he, in a tone of insolent sarcasm, “every respect shall be shown him – a chair in the dock – a carpet on the gallows. You shall wear mourning for him – all the honeymoon, if you fancy it. Yes,” screamed he, in a wild and frantic voice, “this is like revenge! You struck me once – you called me coarse plebeian, too! We shall be able to see the blood you are proud of – aye, the blood! the blood!” – and then, as if worn out by exhaustion, he heaved a heavy sigh, and fell into deep moaning as before.

Sir Archy, who felt in the scene a direct acknowledgment of his appeal to Heaven, drew closer to the window, and listened. Gradually, and like one awaking from a heavy slumber, the sick man stretched his limbs, and drew a long sigh, whose groaning accent spoke of great debility and then, starting up in his bed, shouted – “It is, it is the King’s warrant – who dares to oppose it. Ride in faster, men – faster; keep together here, the west side of the mountain. There – there, yonder, near the beach. Who was that spoke of pardon? Never; if he resists, cut him down. Ride for it, men, ride;” and in his mad excitement, he arose from his bed, and gained the floor. “There – that’s him yonder; he has taken to the mountains; five hundred guineas to the hand that grasps him first,” and he tottered to the window, and tearing aside the curtain, looked out.

“Worn and wasted, with beard unshaven for weeks long, and eyes glistening with the lustre of insanity, the expression of his features actually chilled the heart’s blood of the old man, as he stood almost at his side, and unable to move away. For a second or two Hemsworth gazed on the other, as if some struggling effort of recognition was labouring in his brain; and then, with a mad struggle he exclaimed —

“They were too late; the Council gave but eight days. I suppressed the proclamation in the south. Eight days – after that, no pardon – in this world at least” – and a fearful grin of malice convulsed his features; then with an altered accent, and a faint smile, from which sickness tore its oft-assumed dissimulation, he said, “I did every thing to persuade him to surrender – to accept the gracious favour of the crown; but he would not – no, he would not!” – and, with another burst of laughter, he staggered back into the room, and fell helpless on the floor. Sir Archy was in no compassionate mood at the moment, and without bestowing a thought on the sufferer, he hastened down the path, and with all the speed of which he was capable, returned to Carrig-na-curra.

CHAPTER XLII. THE SHEALING

Sir Archy’s manner, so precise and measured in every occasion of life, had undergone a very marked change before he arrived at Carrig-na-curra; exclamations broke from him at every moment, mingled with fervently expressed hopes, that he might not be yet too late to rescue Mark from his peril. The agitation of his mind and the fatigue of his exertions completely overcame him; and when he reached the house, he threw himself down upon a seat, utterly exhausted.

“Are you unwell, my dear uncle?” broke from Kate and Herbert together, as they stood at either side of his chair.

“Tired, wearied, heated, my dear children; nothing more. Send me Kerry here; I want to speak to him.”

Kerry soon entered, and Sir Archy, beckoning him to his side, whispered a few words rapidly into his ear. Kerry made no reply, but hastened from the room, and was soon after seen hurrying down the causeway.

“I see, my dear uncle,” whispered Kate, with a tremulous accent – “I see you have bad tidings for us this morning – he is worse.”

“Waur he canna be,” muttered Sir Archy, with a significance that gave the words a very equivocal meaning.

“But there is still hope. They told us yesterday that to-morrow would be the crisis of the malady – the twentieth day since his relapse.”

“Yes, yes!” said the old man, who, not noticing her remark, pursued aloud the track of his own reflections. “Entrapped – ensnared – I see it all now. And only eight days given! – and even of these to be kept in ignorance. Poor fellow, how you have been duped.”

“But this delirium may pass away, uncle,” said Kate, who, puzzled at his vague expressions, sought to bring him again to the theme of Hemsworth’s illness.

“Then comes the penalty, lassie,” cried he, energetically. “The Government canna forgie a rebel, as parents do naughty children, by the promise of doing better next time. When a daring scheme – but wait a bit, here’s Kerry. Come to the window, man; come over here,” and he called him towards him.

Whatever were the tidings Kerry brought, Sir Archy seemed overjoyed by them; and taking Herbert’s arm, he hurried from the room, leaving the O’Donoghue and Kate in a state of utter bewilderment.

“I’m afraid, my sweet niece, that Hemsworth’s disease is a catching one. Archy has a devilish wild, queer look about him to-day,” said the O’Donoghue, laughing.

“I hope he has heard no bad news, sir. He is seldom so agitated as this. But what can this mean? Here comes a chaise up the road. See, it has stopped at the gate, and there is Kerry hastening down with a portmantua.”

Sir Archy entered as she spoke, dressed for the road, and approaching his brother-in-law’s chair, whispered a few words in his ear.

“Great heaven protect us!” exclaimed the O’Donoghue, falling back, half unconscious, into his seat. While, turning to Kate, Sir Archy took her hand in both of his, and said —

“My ain dear bairn, I have no secrets from you; but time is too short to say much now. Enough, if I tell you Mark is in danger – the greatest and most imminent. I must hasten up to Dublin and see the Secretary, and, if possible, the Lord Lieutenant. It may be necessary, perhaps, for me to proceed to London. Herbert is already off to the mountains, to warn Mark of his peril. If he can escape till I return, all may go well yet. Above all things, however, let no rumour of my journey escape. I’m only going to Macroom, or Cork, mind that, and to be back to-morrow evening, or next day.”

A gesture from Kerry, who stood on the rock above the road, warned him that all was ready; and, with an affectionate but hurried adieu, he left the room, and gaining the high road, was soon proceeding towards Dublin, at the fastest speed of the posters.

“Them’s the bastes can do it,” said Kerry, as he watched them, with the admiration of a connoisseur; “and the little one wid the rat-tail isn’t the worst either.”

“Where did that chaise come from, Kerry?” cried the O’Donoghue, who could not account for the promptitude of Sir Archy’s movements.

“‘Twas with Doctor Dillon from Macroom it came, sir; and it was to bring him back there again; but Sir Archibald told me to give the boy a pound note, to make a mistake, and come over here for himself. That’s the way of it.”

While we leave the O’Donoghue and his niece to the interchange of their fears and conjectures regarding the danger which they both concurred in believing had been communicated to Sir Archy by Hemsworth, we must follow Herbert, who was now on his way to the mountains, to apprize Mark that his place of concealment was already discovered, and that measures for his capture were taken in a spirit that indicated a purpose of personal animosity.

Herbert knew little more than this, for it was no part of Sir Archy’s plan to impart to any one his discovery of Hemsworth’s treachery, lest, in the event of his recovery, their manner towards him would lead him to a change of tactique. Hemsworth was too cunning an adversary to concede any advantage to. Indeed, the only chance of success against him lay in taking the opportunity of his present illness, to anticipate his movements. Sir Archy, therefore, left the family at Carrig-na-curra in ignorance of this man’s villainy, as a means of lulling him into security. The expressions that fell from him, half unconsciously, in the drawing-room, fortunately contributed to this end, and induced both the O’Donoghue and Kate to believe that, whatever the nature of the tidings Sir Archy had learned, their source was no other than Hemsworth himself, of whose good intentions towards Mark no suspicion existed.

Herbert’s part was limited to the mere warning of Mark, that he should seek some more secure resting-place; but what kind the danger was, from whom or whence it came, the youth knew nothing. He was not, indeed, unaware of Mark’s political feelings, nor did he undervalue the effect his principles might produce upon his actions. He knew him to be intrepid, fearless, and determined; and he also knew how the want of some regular pursuit or object in life had served farther to unsettle his notions and increase the discontent he felt with his condition. If Herbert did not look up to Mark with respect for the superior qualities of mind, there were traits in his nature that inspired the sentiment fully as strongly. The bold rapidity with which he anticipated and met a danger, the fertile resources he evinced at moments when most men stand appalled and terror-struck, the calmness of his spirit when great peril was at hand, showed that the passionate and wayward nature was the struggle which petty events create, and not the real germ of his disposition.

Herbert foresaw that such a character had but to find the fitting sphere for its exercise, to win an upward way; but he was well aware of the risks to which it exposed its possessor. On this theme his thoughts dwelt the entire day, as he trod the solitary path among the mountains; nor did he meet with one human thing along that lonely road. At last, as evening was falling, he drew near the glen which wound along the base of the mountain, and as he was endeavouring to decide on the path, a low whistle attracted him. This, remembering it was the signal, he replied to, and the moment after Terry crept from a thick cover of brushwood, and came towards him.

“I thought I’d make sure of you before I let you pass, Master Herbert,” cried he, “for I couldn’t see your face, the way your head was hanging down. Take the little path to the left, and never turn till you come to the white-thorn tree – then straight up the mountain for a quarter of a mile or so, till you reach three stones, one over another. From that spot you’ll see the shealing down beneath you.”

“My brother is there now?” said Herbert, enquiringly.

“Yes; he never leaves it long now; and he got a bit of a fright the other evening, when the French schooner came into the bay.”

“A French schooner here, in the bay?”

“Ay, just so; but with an English flag flying. She landed ten men at the point, and then got out to sea as fast as she could. She was out of sight before dark.”

“And the men – what became of them?”

“They staid an hour or more with Master Mark. One of them was an old friend, I think; for I never saw such delight as he was in to see your brother. He gave him two books, and some paper, and a bundle – I don’t know what was in it – and then they struck off towards Kenmare Bay, by a road very few know in these parts.”

All these particulars surprised and interested Herbert not a little; – for although far from implicitly believing the correctness of Terry’s tidings, as to the vessel being a French one, yet the event seemed not insignificant as showing that Mark had friends, who were aware of his present place of concealment. Without wasting further time, however, he bade Terry good-bye, and started along the path down the glen.

Following Terry’s directions, Herbert found the path, which, in many places was concealed by loose furze bushes, evidently to prevent detection by strangers, and at last, having gained the ridge of the mountain, perceived the little shealing at a distance of some hundred feet beneath him. It was merely a few young trees, covered over with loose sods, which, abutting against the slope of the hill, opened towards the sea, from whence the view extended along thirty miles of coast on either hand.

At any other moment, the glorious landscape before him would have engrossed Herbert’s entire attention. The calm sea, over which night was slowly stealing – the jutting promontories of rock, over whose sides the white foam was splashing – the tall dark cliffs, pierced by many a’ cave, through which the sea roared like thunder – all these caught his thoughts but for a second, and already with bounding steps he hurried down the steep, where the next moment a scene revealed itself, of far deeper interest to his heart.

Through the roof of the shealing, from which, in many places, the dry sods had fallen, he discovered his brother, stretched upon the earthen floor of the hut, intently gazing on a large map, which lay widespread before him. The figure was indeed Mark’s. The massive head, on either side of which, in flowing waves, the long and locky hair descended, there was no mistaking. But the costume was one Herbert saw for the first time. It was a simple uniform of blue and white, with a single silver epaulette, and a sword, hilted with the same metal. The shako was of dark fur, and ornamented with a large bouquet of tri-colored ribbons, whose gay and flaunting colours streamed with a strange contrast along the dark earthen floor. Amid all his terror for what these emblems might portend, his heart bounded with pride at the martial and handsome figure, as, leaning on one elbow, he traced with the other hand the lines upon the map. Unable to control his impatience longer, he cried out —

“Mark, my brother!” and the next moment they were in each other’s arms.