Chapter 9

Meanwhile Heffernan and his companion had cleared the little crypt of its former occupants, and having heaped fresh wood upon the fire, sat down before the blaze, and called out for Owen to join them. Owen took another draught from one of the many bottles offered by the bystanders, and hastened to obey the summons.

“Stand back now, and don't speak a word,” cried the leader, keeping off the anxious crowd that pressed eagerly forward to witness the game; the hushed murmuring of the voices shewing how deeply interested they felt.

The three players bent their heads forward as they sat, while Heffernan spoke some words in a low whisper, to which the others responded by a muttered assent. “Well, here's success to the undhertakin' anyhow,” cried he aloud, and filling out a glass of whisky, drank it off; then passing the liquor to the two others, they followed his example.

“Will ye like to deal, Owen?” said M'Guire; “you're the new-comer, and we'll give ye the choice.”

“No, thank ye, boys,” said Owen; “do it yerselves, one of ye; I'm sure of fair play.”

Heffernan then took the cards, and wetting his thumb for the convenience of better distributing them, slowly laid five cards before each player; he paused for a second before he turned the trump, and in a low voice said: “If any man's faint-hearted, let him say it now--”

“Turn the card round, and don't be bothering us,” cried M'Guire; “one 'ud think we never played a game before.”

“Come, be alive,” said Owen, in whom the liquor had stimulated the passion for play.

“What's the thrump--is it a diamond? look over and tell us,” murmured the crowd nearest the entrance.

“'Tis a spade!--I lay fourpence 'tis a spade!”

“Why wouldn't it be?” said another; “it's the same spade will dig Lucas's grave this night!”

“Look! see!” whispered another, “Owen Connor's won the first thrick! Watch him now! Mind the way he lays the card down, with a stroke of his fist!”

“I wish he wouldn't be drinking so fast!” said another.

“Who won that? who took that thrick?” “Ould Heffernan, divil fear him! I never see him lose yet.”

“There's another; that's Owen's!” “No; by Jonas! 'tis Luke again has it.” “That's Sam M'Quire's! See how aizy he takes them up.”

“Now for it, boys! whisht! here's the last round!” and at this moment, a breathless silence prevailed among the crowd; for while such as were nearest were eagerly bent on observing the progress of the game, the more distant bent their heads to catch every sound that might indicate its fortune.

“See how Luke grins! watch his face!” whispered a low voice. “He doesn't care how it goes, now, he's out of it!” and so it was. Heffernan had already won two of the five tricks, and was safe whatever the result of the last one. The trial lay between M'Guire and Owen.

“Come, Owen, my hearty!” said M'Guire, as he held a card ready to play, “you or I for it now; we'll soon see which the devil's fondest of. There's the two of clubs for ye!”

“There's the three, then!” said Owen, with a crash of his hand, as he placed the card over the other.

“And there's the four!” said Heffernan, “and the thrick is Sam M'Guire's.”

“Owen Connor's lost!” “Owen's lost!” murmured the crowd; and, whether in half-compassion for his defeat, or grief that so hazardous a deed should be entrusted to a doubtful hand, the sensation created was evidently of gloom and dissatisfaction.

“You've a right to take either of us wid ye, Owen,” said M'Guire, slapping him on the shoulder. “Luke or myself must go, if ye want us.”

“No; I'll do it myself,” said Owen, in a low hollow voice.

“There's the tool, then!” said Heffernan, producing from the breast of his frieze coat a long horse-pistol, the stock of which was mended by a clasp of iron belted round it; “and if it doesn't do its work, 'tis the first time it ever failed. Ould Miles Cregan, of Gurtane, was the last that heard it spake.”

Owen took the weapon, and examined it leisurely, opening the pan and settling the priming, with a finger that never trembled. As he drew forth the ramrod to try the barrel, Heffernan said, with a half-grin, “There's two bullets in it, avich!--enough's as good as a feast.”

Owen sat still and spoke not, while the leader and Heffernan explained to him the circumstances of the plot against the life of Mr. Lucas. Information had been obtained by some of the party, that the agent would leave Galway on the following evening, on his way to Westport, passing through Oughterarde and their own village, about midnight. He usually travelled in his gig, with relays of horses ready at different stations of the way, one of which was about two miles distant from the old ruin, on the edge of the lake--a wild and dreary spot, where stood a solitary cabin, inhabited by a poor man who earned his livelihood by fishing. No other house was within a mile of this; and here, it was determined, while in the act of changing horses, the murder should be effected. The bleak common beside the lake was studded with furze and brambles, beneath which it was easy to obtain shelter, though pursuit was not to be apprehended--at least they judged that the servant would not venture to leave his master at such a moment; and as for the fisherman, although not a sworn member of their party, they well knew he would not dare to inform against the meanest amongst them.

Owen listened attentively to all these details, and the accurate directions by which they instructed him on every step he should take. From the moment he should set foot within the cover to the very instant of firing, each little event had its warning.

“Mind!” repeated Heffernan, with a slow, distinct whisper, “he never goes into the house at all; but if the night's cowld--as it's sure to be this sayson--he'll be moving up and down, to keep his feet warm. Cover him as he turns round; but don't fire the first cover, but wait till he comes back to the same place again, and then blaze. Don't stir then, till ye see if he falls: if he does, be off down the common; but if he's only wounded--but sure ye'll do better than that!”

“I'll go bail he will!” said M'Guire. “Sorra fear that Owen Connor's heart would fail him! and sure if he likes me to be wid him--”

“No, no!” said Owen, in the same hollow voice as before, “I'll do it all by myself; I want nobody.”

“'Tis the very words I said when I shot Lambert of Kilclunah!” said M'Guire. “I didn't know him by looks, and the boys wanted me to take some one to point him out. 'Sorra bit!' says I, 'leave that to me;' and so I waited in the gripe of the ditch all day, till, about four in the evening, I seen a stout man wid a white hat coming across the fields, to where the men was planting potatoes. So I ups to him wid a letter in my hand, this way, and my hat off--'Is yer honner Mr. Lambert?' says I. 'Yes,' says he; 'what do ye want with me?' ''Tis a bit of a note I've for yer honner,' says I; and I gav him the paper. He tuck it and opened it; but troth it was little matter there was no writin' in it, for he would'nt have lived to read it through. I sent the ball through his heart, as near as I stand to ye; the wadding was burning his waistcoat when I left him. 'God save you!' says the men, as I went across the potato-field. 'Save you kindly!' says I. 'Was that a shot we heard?' says another. 'Yes,' says I; 'I was fright'ning the crows;' and sorra bit, but that's a saying they have against me ever since.” These last few words were said in a simper of modesty, which, whether real or affected, was a strange sentiment at the conclusion of such a tale.

The party soon after separated, not to meet again for several nights; for the news of Lucas's death would of course be the signal for a general search through the country, and the most active measures to trace the murderer. It behoved them, then, to be more than usually careful not to be absent from their homes and their daily duties for some days at least: after which they could assemble in safety as before.

Grief has been known to change the hair to grey in a single night; the announcement of a sudden misfortune has palsied the hand that held the ill-omened letter; but I question if the hours that are passed before the commission of a great crime, planned and meditated beforehand, do not work more fearful devastation on the human heart, than all the sorrows that ever crushed humanity. Ere night came, Owen Connor seemed to have grown years older. In the tortured doublings of his harassed mind he appeared to have spent almost a lifetime since the sun last rose. He had passed in review before him each phase of his former existence, from childhood--free, careless, and happy childhood--to days of boyish sport and revelry; then came the period of his first manhood, with its new ambitions and hopes. He thought of these, and how, amid the humble circumstances of his lowly fortune, he was happy. What would he have thought of him who should predict such a future as this for him? How could he have believed it? And yet the worst of all remained to come. He tried to rally his courage and steel his heart, by repeating over the phrases so frequent among his companions. “Sure, aint I driven to it? is it my fault if I take to this, or theirs that compelled me?” and such like. But these words came with no persuasive force in the still hour of conscience: they were only effectual amid the excitement and tumult of a multitude, when men's passions were high, and their resolutions daring. “It is too late to go back,” muttered he, as he arose from the spot, where, awaiting nightfall, he had lain hid for several hours; “they mustn't call me a coward, any way.”

As Owen reached the valley the darkness spread far and near, not a star could be seen; great masses of cloud covered the sky, and hung down heavily, midway upon the mountains. There was no rain; but on the wind came from time to time a drifted mist, which shewed that the air was charged with moisture. The ground was still wet and plashy from recent heavy rain. It was indeed a cheerless night and a cheerless hour; but not more so than the heart of him who now, bent upon his deadly purpose, moved slowly on towards the common.

On descending towards the lake-side, he caught a passing view of the little village, where a few lights yet twinkled, the flickering stars that shone within some humble home. What would he not have given to be but the meanest peasant there, the poorest creature that toiled and sickened on his dreary way! He turned away hurriedly, and with his hand pressed heavily on his swelling heart walked rapidly on. “It will soon be over now,” said Owen; he was about to add, with the accustomed piety of his class, “thank God for it,” but the words stopped in his throat, and the dreadful thought flashed on him, “Is it when I am about to shed His creature's blood, I should say this?”

He sat down upon a large stone beside the lake, at a spot where the road came down to the water's edge, and where none could pass unobserved by him. He had often fished from that very rock when a boy, and eaten his little dinner of potatoes beneath its shelter. Here he sat once more; saying to himself as he did so, “'Tis an ould friend, anyway, and I'll just spend my last night with him;”, for so in his mind he already regarded his condition. The murder effected, he determined to make no effort to escape. Life was of no value to him. The snares of the conspiracy had entangled him, but his heart was not in it.

As the night wore on, the clouds lifted, and the wind, increasing to a storm, bore them hurriedly through the air; the waters of the lake, lashed into waves, beat heavily on the low shore; while the howling blast swept through the mountain-passes, and over the bleak, wide plain, with a rushing sound. The thin crescent of a new moon could be seen from time to time as the clouds rolled past: too faint to shed any light upon the earth, it merely gave form to the dark masses that moved before it.

“I will do it here,” said Owen, as he stood and looked upon the dark water that beat against the foot of the rock; “here, on this spot.”

He sat for some moments with his ear bent to listen, but the storm was loud enough to make all other sounds inaudible; yet, in every noise he thought he heard the sound of wheels, and the rapid tramp of a horse's feet. The motionless attitude, the cold of the night, but more than either, the debility brought on by long fasting and hunger, benumbed his limbs, so that he felt almost unable to make the least exertion, should any such be called for.

He therefore descended from the rock and moved along the road; at first, only thinking of restoring lost animation to his frame, but at length, in a half unconsciousness, he had wandered upwards of two miles beyond the little hovel where the change of horses was to take place. Just as he was on the point of returning, he perceived at a little distance, in front, the walls of a now ruined cabin, once the home of the old smith. Part of the roof had fallen in, the doors and windows were gone, the fragment of an old shutter alone remained, and this banged heavily back and forwards as the storm rushed through the wretched hut.

Almost without knowing it, Owen entered the cabin, and sat down beside the spot where once the forge-fire used to burn. He had been there, too, when a boy many a time--many a story had he listened to in that same corner; but why think of this now? The cold blast seemed to freeze his very blood--he felt his heart as if congealed within him. He sat cowering from the piercing blast for some time; and at last, unable to bear the sensation longer, determined to kindle a fire with the fragments of the old shutter. For this purpose he drew the charge of the pistol, in which there were three bullets, and not merely two, as Heffernan had told him. Laying these carefully down in his handkerchief, he kindled a light with some powder, and, with the dexterity of one not unaccustomed to such operations, soon saw the dry sticks blazing on the hearth. On looking about he discovered a few sods of turf and some dry furze, with which he replenished his fire, till it gradually became a warm and cheering blaze. Owen now reloaded the pistol, just as he had found it. There was a sense of duty in his mind to follow out every instruction he received, and deviate in nothing. This done, he held his numbed fingers over the blaze, and bared his chest to the warm glow of the fire.

The sudden change from the cold night-air to the warmth of the cabin soon made him drowsy. Fatigue and watching aiding the inclination to sleep, he was obliged to move about the hut, and even expose himself to the chill blast, to resist its influence. The very purpose on which he was bent, so far from dispelling sleep, rather induced its approach; for, strange as it may seem, the concentration with which the mind brings its powers to bear on any object will overcome all the interest and anxiety of our natures, and bring on sleep from very weariness.

He slept, at first, calmly and peacefully--exhaustion would have its debt acquitted--and he breathed as softly as an infant. At last, when the extreme of fatigue was passed, his brain began to busy itself with flitting thoughts and fancies,--some long-forgotten day of boyhood, some little scene of childish gaiety, flashed across him, and he dreamed of the old mountain-lake, where so often he watched the wide circles of the leaping trout, or tracked with his eye the foamy path of the wild water-hen, as she skimmed the surface. Then suddenly his chest heaved and fell with a strong motion, for with lightning's speed the current of his thoughts was changed; his heart was in the mad tumult of a faction-fight, loud shouts were ringing in his ears, the crash of sticks, the cries of pain, entreaties for mercy, execrations and threats, rung around him, when one figure moved slowly before his astonished gaze, with a sweet smile upon her lips, and love in her long-lashed eyes. She murmured his name; and now he slept with a low-drawn breath, his quivering lips repeating, “Mary!”

Another and a sadder change was coming. He was on the mountains, in the midst of a large assemblage of wild-looking and haggard men, whose violent speech and savage gestures well suited their reckless air. A loud shout welcomed him as he came amongst them, and a cry of “Here's Owen Connor--Owen at last!” and a hundred hands were stretched out to grasp his, but as suddenly withdrawn, on seeing that his hands were not bloodstained nor gory.

He shuddered as he looked upon their dripping fingers; but he shuddered still more as they called him “Coward!” What he said he knew not; but in a moment they were gathered round him, and clasping him in their arms; and now, his hands, his cheeks, his clothes, were streaked with blood; he tried to wipe the foul stains out, but his fingers grew clotted, and his feet seemed to plash in the red stream, and his savage comrades laughed fiercely at his efforts, and mocked him.

“What am I, that you should clasp me thus?” he cried; and a voice from his inmost heart replied, “A murderer!” The cold sweat rolled in great drops down his brow, while the foam of agony dewed his pallid lips, and his frame trembled in a terrible convulsion. Confused and fearful images of bloodshed and its penalty, the crime and the scaffold, commingled, worked in his maddened brain. He heard the rush of feet, as if thousands were hurrying on, to see him die, and voices that swelled like the sea at midnight. Nor was the vision all unreal: for already two men had entered the hut.

The dreadful torture of his thoughts had now reached its climax, and with a bound Owen sprang from his sleep, and cried in a shriek of heart-wrung anguish, “No, never--I am not a murderer. Owen Connor can meet his death like a man, but not with blood upon him.”

“Owen Connor! Owen Connor, did you say?” repeated one of the two who stood before him; “are you, then, Owen Connor?”

“I am,” replied Owen, whose dreams were still the last impression on his mind. “I give myself up;--do what ye will with me;--hang, imprison, or transport me; I'll never gainsay you.”

“Owen, do you not know me?” said the other, removing his travelling cap, and brushing back the hair from his forehead.

“No, I know nothing of you,” said he, fiercely.

“Not remember your old friend--your landlord's son, Owen?”

Owen stared at him without speaking; his parted lips and fixed gaze evidencing the amazement which came over him.

“You saved my life, Owen,” said the young man, horror-struck by the withered and wasted form of the peasant.

“And you have made me this,” muttered Owen, as he let fall the pistol from his bosom. “Yes,” cried he, with an energy very different from before, “I came out this night, sworn to murder that man beside you--your agent, Lucas; my soul is perjured if my hands are not bloody.”

Lucas instantly took a pistol from the breast of his coat, and cocked it; while the ghastly whiteness of his cheek shewed he did not think the danger was yet over.

“Put up your weapon,” said Owen, contemptuously. “What would I care for it, if I wanted to take your life? do you think the likes of me has any hould on the world?” and he laughed a scornful and bitter laugh.

“How is this, then?” cried Leslie; “is murder so light a crime that a man like this does not shrink from it?”

“The country,” whispered Lucas, “is indeed in a fearful state. The rights of property no longer exist among us. That fellow--because he lost his farm--”

“Stop, sir!” cried Owen, fiercely; “I will deny nothing of my guilt--but lay not more to my charge than is true. Want and misery have brought me low--destitution and recklessness still lower--but if I swore to have your life this night, it was not for any vengeance of my own.”

“Ha! then there is a conspiracy!” cried Lucas, hastily. “We must have it out of you--every word of it--or it will go harder with yourself.”

Owen's only reply was a bitter laugh; and from that moment, he never uttered another word. All Lucas's threats, all Leslie's entreaties, were powerless and vain. The very allusion to becoming an informer was too revolting to be forgiven, and he firmly resolved to brave any and every thing, rather than endure the mere proposal.

They returned to Galway as soon as the post-boys had succeeded in repairing the accidental breakage of the harness, which led to the opportune appearance of the landlord and his agent in the hut; Owen accompanying them without a word or a gesture.

So long as Lucas was present, Owen never opened his lips; the dread of committing himself, or in any way implicating one amongst his companions, deterred him; but when Leslie sent for him, alone, and asked him the circumstances which led him to the eve of so great a crime, he confessed all--omitting nothing, save such passages as might involve others--and even to Leslie he was guarded on this topic.

The young landlord listened with astonishment and sorrow to the peasant's story. Never till now did he conceive the mischiefs neglect and abandonment can propagate, nor of how many sins mere poverty can be the parent. He knew not before that the very endurance of want can teach another endurance, and make men hardened against the terrors of the law and its inflictions. He was not aware of the condition of his tenantry; he wished them all well off and happy; he had no self-accusings of a grudging nature, nor an oppressive disposition, and he absolved himself of any hardships that originated with “the agent.”

The cases brought before his notice rather disposed him to regard the people as wily and treacherous, false in their pledges and unmindful of favours; and many, doubtless, were so; but he never inquired how far their experience had taught them, that dishonesty was the best policy, and that trick and subtlety are the only aids to the poor man. He forgot, above all, that they had neither examples to look up to, nor imitate, and that when once a people have become sunk in misery, they are the ready tools of any wicked enough to use them for violence, and false enough to persuade them, that outrage can be their welfare; and, lastly, he overlooked the great fact, that in a corrupt and debased social condition, the evils which, under other circumstances, would be borne with a patient trust in future relief, are resented in a spirit of recklessness; and that men soon cease to shudder at a crime, when frequency has accustomed them to discuss its details.

I must not--I dare not dwell longer on this theme. Leslie felt all the accusations of an awakened conscience. He saw himself the origin of many misfortunes--of evils of whose very existence he never heard before. Ere Owen concluded his sad story, his mind was opened to some of the miseries of Ireland; and when he had ended, he cried, “I will live at home with ye, amongst ye all, Owen! I will try if Irishmen cannot learn to know who is their true friend; and while repairing some of my own faults, mayhap I may remedy some of theirs.”

“Oh! why did you not do this before I came to my ruin?” cried Owen, in a passionate burst of grief; for the poor fellow all along had given himself up for lost, and imagined, that his own plea of guilt must bring him to the gallows. Nor was it till after much persuasion and great trouble, that Leslie could reconcile him to himself, and assure him, that his own fortunate repentance had saved him from destruction.

“You shall go back to your mountain-cabin, Owen; you shall have your own farm again, and be as happy as ever,” said the young man. “The law must deal with those who break it, and no one will go farther than myself to vindicate the law; but I will also try if kindness and fair-dealing will not save many from the promptings of their own hearts, and teach men that, even here, the breach of God's commandments can bring neither peace nor happiness.”