The O'Donoghue: Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

The men lifted the body without a word, and, preceded by Mark, who carried a lantern, issued from the hut. A few paces brought them to a little grassy mound, where the cliff, descending between the rocks, preserved its rich verdure untrodden and untouched.

“Here, this will do, boys,” said Mark; “this rock will mark the spot.”

The work was soon over, and as the last turf was laid over him, a deafening peal of artillery thundered over the sea, and suddenly, lights shone here and there, through the dark atmosphere.

“He has had a soldier’s burial,” said Mark; “may his rest be tranquil. And now” – and his voice assumed a firm and determined tone at the moment – “and now, who will put me on board of any ship in that fleet? I have neither gold to offer, nor silver to bribe you. I am poor and powerless, but if the broad lands that were once our own, were mine now, I’d give them all for that one service.”

“No boat could live ten minutes in that surf; there’s a sea running there would swamp a schooner,” said an old man, with white hair.

“We’d never get outside the breakers yonder,” said another.

“I think we’ve had enough of it for one night,” muttered a third, with a side-long glance towards the recent grave.

“And you,” said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom M’Carthy, “what words of comfort have you for me?”

“Faix, that I’m ready and willin’ to go with you, divil may care who the other is,” said the stout-hearted fellow. “I seen the day you jumped into a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point there, and I took an oath that night I’d never see you wanting for two hands at an oar as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn’t too high for you is not a bit too big for me either.”

“Well done, Tom,” said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, “and I’ll be the bow oar for you, an’ you’ll take me.”

“And here’s two more of us,” said another, as he held a comrade by the hand, “that will never see his honour at a loss, no matter how it blows.”

The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were at once changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hurried to the beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize.

“If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we’d know which way to bear down,” said Tom, as he stood on the shore, with his eyes turned seaward.

“There – there goes one!” cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth and glittered for a second over the dark water.

“That’s the frigate; she’s holding on still by her anchors.”

“I knew they would not desert us, boys,” cried Mark, with wild enthusiasm, for hope gained on him every moment as peril increased.

“Now for it, and all together,” said Tom, as he bent forward against the whistling storm, and the craft, as if instinct with life, bounded over the wave, and cleft her way through the boiling surf, while the hardy fishermen strained every nerve, and toiled with all their energy. Mark kneeling in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, seemed perfectly delirious in the transport of his joy.

“Luff her, luff her – here comes a large wave – nobly done, lads – how she mounts the sea – here’s another;” but the warning was this time too late, for the wave broke over the boat, and fell in torrents over the crew. With redoubled vigour the stout fellows bent to their work, and once more the boat sped on her course; while Mark cheered them with a shout heard even above the storm, and with a deep, mellow voice chanted out the rude verses of a song —

“The fisherman loves the rippled stream,
And the lover the moon-lit sea,
But the darkening squall
And the sea birds call are dearer far to me.

“To see on the white and crest’d wave
The stormy petrel float,
And then to look back On the stormy track
That glitters behind our boat.”

“Avast there, Master Mark, there’s wind enough without singing for more,” cried one of the fishermen, who, with the superstition of his craft, felt by no means pleased at Mark’s ditty; “and there comes a sea to poop a line of battle-ship,” and as he said the words, a wave mountains high rolled past, and left them labouring in the deep trough of the sea; while the lurid glare of sheet lightning showed all the ships of the fleet, as, with top-sails bent, they stood out to sea.

“There they go,” said one of the fishermen, “and that’s all the good they’ve done us.”

“Pull hard, boys,” cried Mark, passionately, “it may not be yet too late, strain every arm – the fate of our country may rest upon those bending spars – together, men, together; it is not for life now, it is Ireland is on the struggle:” thus cheering the drooping courage of the men, and eagerly bending his glance towards the sea, his own heart glowed with enthusiasm that made every danger forgotten; and at last, after an hour of desperate exertion, with strength all but exhausted, and nearly overcome by fatigue, they beheld the dark hull of a large ship looming above them. By firing his pistol, Mark attracted the notice of the watch on deck; his signal was replied to, and the next moment the boat was alongside, and Mark clambering up the steep side, stood on the quarter-deck.

“Will the troops not land,” said Mark, as the officers crowded eagerly around him – “is the expedition abandoned?”

“Don’t you think the hurricane might answer the question, young man?” said a weather-beaten officer, who appeared in command – “or are you so ignorant in naval matters as to suppose that a force could disembark in a gale like this?”

“It might scare a pleasure party,” said Mark, rudely, “but for men who have come to give and get hard knocks, methinks this need not disconcert them.”

“And who is to aid us if we land?” said the first speaker – “what forces are in arms to join us? – what preparations for ourselves? – have you a musket, have you a horse, or do you yourself, in your own person, represent the alliance we seek for?”

Mark hung down his head abashed and ashamed: too well he knew how treachery had sapped the foundation of the plot; that, betrayed and abandoned by their chiefs, the people had become either apathetic or terror-stricken, and that, if a blow were to be struck for Irish independence, it must be by the arm of the stranger.

“It is needless to waste words, sir,” said the French captain, for such he was; “the admiral has twice made the signal to stand out to sea. The French Republic will have suffered loss enough in some of the finest ships of her navy, without hazarding fifteen thousand brave fellows upon an exploit so hopeless.”

“The Captain says truly,” interposed another; “Ireland is not ripe for such an enterprize; there may be courage enough among your countrymen, but they know not how to act together. There’s no slavery like dissension.”

“That boat will be swamped,” said the officer of the watch, as he pointed to the fishing-craft, which still held on to the leeward of the ship; “if you are going back to shore, sir, let me advise you, for your own sake, and your comrades’, too, to lose no time about it.”

“Far better to come with us,” said a powerful looking man in the uniform of an infantry regiment; “the young gentleman seems inclined to see service. ‘Ma foi,’ we seldom lack an opportunity of showing it.”

“I’ll never go back,” said Mark; “I have looked at my country for the last time.”

With many a welcome speech the officers pressed round and grasped his hands, and for a moment all their misfortunes were forgotten in the joy with which they received their new comrade.

“Who will be my banker for some gold,” said Mark; “those brave fellows have risked their lives for me, and I have nothing but thanks to give them.”

“Let this go to the expenses of the expedition,’ said the captain, laughing, as he threw his purse to Mark. The young man leaned over the bulwark, and hailed the boat, and, after a moment of great difficulty, one of the fishermen reached the deck.

“I wish to bid you good-bye, Tom,” said Mark, as he grasped the rough hand in his; “you are the last thing I shall see of my country; farewell, then; but remember, that however deeply wrongs may gall, and injuries oppress you, the glory of resistance is too dearly bought at the cost of companionship with the traitor and the coward – goodbye forever.” He pressed the purse into the poor fellow’s hand; nor was it without a struggle he could compel him to accept it. A few minutes after the boat was cleaving her way through the dark water, her prow turned to the land which Mark had left for ever.

Seated on the deck, silent and thoughtful, Mark seemed indifferent to the terrible storm, whose violence increased with every moment, and as the vessel tacked beneath the tall cliffs, when every heart beat anxiously, and every eye was fixed on the stern rocks above them, his glance was calm, and his pulse was tranquil; he felt as though fate had done her worst, and that the future had no heavier blow in store for him.

CHAPTER XLIX. THE END

The storm of that eventful night is treasured among the memories of the peasantry of the south. None living had ever witnessed a gale of such violence – none since have seen a hurricane so dreadful and enduring: for miles along the coast the scattered spars and massive timbers told of shipwreck and disasters, while inland, uptorn trees and fallen rocks attested its power.

The old castle of Carrig-na-curra did not escape the general calamity; the massive walls that had resisted for centuries the assaults of war and time, were shaken to their foundations, and one strong, square tower, the ancient keep, was rent by lightning from the battlements to the base, while far and near might be seen fragments of timber, and even of masonry, hurled from their places by the storm. For whole days after the gale abated, the air resounded with an unceasing din – the sound of the distant sea, and the roar of the mountain torrents, as swollen and impetuous they tore along.

The devastation thus wide spread, seemed not to have been limited to the mere material world, but to have extended its traces over man: the hurricane was recognized as the interposition of heaven, and the disaster of the French fleet looked on as the vengeance of the Almighty. It did not need the superstitious character of the southern peasants’ mind to induce this belief: the circumstances in all their detail were too strongly corroborative, not to enforce conviction on sterner imaginations; and the very escape of the French ships from every portion of our channel fleet, which at first was deemed a favour of fortune, was now regarded as pointing out the more signal vengeance of Heaven. Dismay and terror were depicted in every face; the awful signs of the gale which were seen on every side suggested gloom and dread, and each speculated how far the anger of God might fall upon a guilty nation.

There is no reason to doubt the fact, that whatever the ultimata issue of the struggle, the immediate fate of the country was decided on that night. Had the French fleet arrived in full force, and landed the troops, there was neither preparation for resistance, nor means of defence, undertaken by the Government.

How far the peasantry might or might not have associated themselves with a cause to which the Romish clergy were then manifestly averse, may be a matter of uncertainty; but there are a sufficient number in every land, and every age, who will join the ranks of battle with no other prospect than the day of pillage and rapine. Such would have flocked around the tricolor in thousands, and meet companions such would have been to that portion of the invading army called the “Legion des Francs” – a battalion consisting of liberated felons and galley slaves – the murderers and robbers of France, drilled, armed, and disciplined to carry liberty to Ireland! With this force, and a company of the “Artillerie Légère,” Wolfe Tone proposed to land; and as the expedition had manifestly failed, any further loss would be inconsiderable; and as for the “Legion,” he naively remarked, “the Republic would be well rid of them.”

Let us, however, turn from this theme, to the characters of our tale, of which a few words only remain to be told. By Terry, who made his escape after being wounded by the dragoons, was the first news brought to Carrig-na-curra of Mark’s rencontre with the dragoons; and while the O’Donoghue and Kate were yet speculating in terror as to the result, a small party of cavalry was seen coming up the causeway at a brisk trot, among whom rode a person in coloured clothes.

“It is Mark – my boy is taken!” cried the old man in a burst of agony, and he buried his head in his hands, and sobbed aloud. Kate never spoke, but a sick, cold faintness crept over her, and she stood almost breathless with anxiety. She heard the horses as they drew up at the door, but had not strength to reach the window and look out. The bell was rung violently – every clank sent a pang through her bosom. The door was opened, and now she heard Kerry’s voice, but could not distinguish the words. Then there was a noise as of some one dismounting, and the clatter of a sabre was heard along the flagged hall. This ceased, and she could recognize Kerry’s step as he came up the corridor to the door of the tower.

“Come in,” cried she to his summons, but her utmost effort could not make the words audible. “Come in,” said she again.