Chapter 8

“_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.

This spirit grew hourly stronger in him; offended pride worked within his heart during the tedious days he spent alone, and he could scarcely refrain from demanding what lack of courage and daring they saw in him, that he should be thus forgotten and neglected.

In this frame of mind, irresolute as to whether he should not propose himself for some hazardous scheme, or still remain a mere spectator of others, he arrived one evening in the old churchyard. Of late, “the boys,” from preconcerted arrangements among themselves, had rather made a show of cold and careless indifference in their manner to Owen--conduct which deeply wounded him.

As he approached now the little crypt, he perceived that a greater number than usual were assembled through the churchyard, and many were gathered in little knots and groups, talking eagerly together; a half-nod, a scarcely muttered “Good even,” was all the salutation he met, as he moved towards the little cell, where, by the blaze of a piece of bog-pine, a party were regaling themselves--the custom and privilege of those who had been last out on any marauding expedition. A smoking pot of potatoes and some bottles of whisky formed the entertainment, at which Owen stood a longing and famished spectator.

“Will yez never be done there eatin' and crammin' yerselves?” said a gruff voice from the crowd to the party within; “and ye know well enough there's business to be done to-night.”

“And ain't we doing it?” answered one of the feasters. “Here's your health, Peter!” and so saying, he took a very lengthened draught from the “poteen” bottle.

“'Tis the thrade ye like best, anyhow,” retorted the other. “Come, boys; be quick now!”

The party did not wait a second bidding, but arose from the place, and removing the big pot to make more room, they prepared the little cell for the reception of some other visitors.

“That's it now! We'll not be long about it. Larry, have yez the deck,' my boy?”

“There's the book, darlint,” said a short, little, de-crepid creature, speaking with an asthmatic effort, as he produced a pack of cards, which, if one were to judge from the dirt, made the skill of the game consist as much in deciphering as playing them.

“Where's Sam M'Guire?” called out the first speaker, in a voice loud enough to be heard over the whole space around; and the name was repeated from voice to voice, till it was replied to by one who cried--

“Here, sir; am I wanted?”

“You are, Sam; and 'tis yourself is always to the fore when we need yez.”

“I hope so indeed,” said Sam, as he came forward, a flush of gratified pride on his hardy cheek. He was a young, athletic fellow, with a fine manly countenance, expressive of frankness and candour.

“Luke Heffernan! where's Luke?” said the other.

“I'm here beside ye,” answered a dark-visaged, middle-aged man, with the collar of his frieze coat buttoned high on his face; “ye needn't be shouting my name that way--there may be more bad than good among uz.

“There's not an informer, any way--if that's what ye mean,” said the other quickly. “Gavan Daly! Call Gavan Daly, will ye, out there?” And the words were passed from mouth to mouth in a minute, but no one replied to the summons.

“He's not here--Gavan's not here!” was the murmured answer of the crowd, given in a tone that hoded very little in favour of its absent owner.

“Not here!” said the leader, as he crushed the piece of paper, from which he read, in his hand; “not here! Where is he, then? Does any of yez know where's Gavan Daly?”

But there was no answer.

“Can no body tell?--is he sick?--or is any belonging to him sick and dying, that he isn't here this night, as he swore to be?”

“I saw him wid a new coat on him this morning early in Oughterarde, and he said he was going to see a cousin of his down below Oranmore,” said a young lad from the outside of the crowd, and the speaker was in a moment surrounded by several, anxious to find out some other particulars of the absent man. It was evident that the boy's story was far from being satisfactory, and the circumstance of Daly's wearing a new coat, was one freely commented on by those who well knew how thoroughly they were in the power of any who should betray them.

“He's in the black list this night,” said the leader, as he motioned the rest to be silent; “that's where I put him now; and see, all of yez--mind my words--if any of uz comes to harm, it will go hard but some will be spared; and if there was only one remaining, he wouldn't be the cowardly villain not to see vengeance on Gavan Daly, for what he's done.”

A murmur of indignation at the imputed treachery of the absent man buzzed through the crowd; while one fellow, with a face flushed by drink, and eyes bleared and bloodshot, cried out: “And are ye to stop here all night, calling for the boy that's gone down to bethray yez? Is there none of yez will take his place?”

“I will! I will! I'm ready and willin'!” were uttered by full twenty, in a breath.

“Who will ye have with yez? take your own choice!” said the leader, turning towards M'Quire and Heffernan, who stood whispering eagerly together.

“There's the boy I'd take out of five hundred, av he was the same I knew once,” said M'Guire, laying his hand on Owen's shoulder.

“Begorra then, I wondher what ye seen in him lately to give you a consate out of him,” cried Heffernan, with a rude laugh. “'Tisn't all he's done for the cause anyway.”

Owen started, and fixed his eyes first on one, then on the other of the speakers; but his look was rather the vacant stare of one awakening from a heavy sleep, than the expression of any angry passion--for want and privation had gone far to sap his spirit, as well as his bodily strength.

“There, avich, taste that,” said a man beside him, who was struck by his pale and wasted cheek, and miserable appearance.

Owen almost mechanically took the bottle, and drank freely, though the contents was strong poteen.

“Are ye any betther now?” said Heffernan, with a sneering accent.

“I am,” said Owen, calmly, for he was unconscious of the insolence passed off on him; “I'm a deal better.”

“Come along, ma bouchal!” cried M'Guire; “come into the little place with us, here.”

“What do ye want with me, boys?” asked Owen, looking about him through the crowd.

“'Tis to take a hand at the cards, divil a more,” said an old fellow near, and the speech sent a savage laugh among the rest.

“I'm ready and willin',” said Owen; “but sorra farthen I've left me to play; and if the stakes is high--”

“Faix, that's what they're not,” said Heffernan; “they're the lowest ever ye played for.”

“Tell me what it is, anyway,” cried Owen.

“Just, the meanest thing at all--the life of the blaguard that turned yerself out of yer holdin'--Lucas the agent.”

“To kill Lucas?”

“That same; and if ye don't like the game, turn away and make room for a boy that has more spirit in him.”

“Who says I ever was afeard?” said Owen, on whom now the whisky was working. “Is it Luke Heffernan dares to face me down?--come out here, fair, and see will ye say it again.”

“If you won't join the cause, you mustn't be bringing bad blood among us,” cried the leader, in a determined tone; “there's many a brave boy here to-night would give his right hand to get the offer you did.”

“I'm ready--here I am, ready now,” shouted Owen wildly; “tell me what you want me to do, and see whether I will or no.”

A cheer broke from the crowd at these words, and all within his reach stretched out their hands to grasp Owen's; and commendations were poured on him from every side.