Home > Authors Index > William Carleton > Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine > This page
The Black Prophet: A Tale Of Irish Famine, a novel by William Carleton |
||
Chapter 29. A Picture Of The Present--Sarah Breaks Her Word |
||
| < Previous |
Table of content |
Next > |
|
________________________________________________
_ CHAPTER XXIX. A Picture of the Present--Sarah Breaks her Word The gray of a cold frosty morning had begun to dawn, and the angry red of the eastern sky gradually to change into that dim but darkening aspect which marks a coming tempest of snow, when the parish priest, the Rev. Father Hanratty, accompanied by Nelly M'Gowan, passed along the Ballynafail road, on their way to the Grange, for the purpose of having a communication with Charley Hanlon. It would, indeed, be impossible to describe a morning more strongly marked than the one in question, by that cold and shivering impression of utter misery which it is calculated to leave on any mind, especially when associated with the sufferings of our people. The breeze was keen and so cutting, that one felt as if that part of the person exposed to it had undergone the process of excoriation, and when a stronger blast than usual swept over the naked and desolate-looking fields, its influence actually benumbed the joints, and penetrated the whole system with a sensation that made one imagine the very marrow within the bones was frozen. They had not proceeded far beyond the miserable shed where Sarah, in the rapid prostration of typhus, had been forced to take shelter, when, in passing a wretched cabin by the roadside, which, from its open door and ruinous windows, had all the appearance of being uninhabited, they heard the moans of some unhappy individual within, accompanied, as it were, with something like the low feeble wail of an infant. "Ah," said the worthy priest, "this, I fear, is another of those awful cases of desertion and death that are too common in this terrible and scourging visitation. We must not pass here without seeing what is the matther, and rendering such assistance as we can." "Wid the help o' God, my foot won't cross the threshel," replied Nelly--"I know it's the sickness--God keep it from us!--an' I won't put myself in the way o' it." "Don't profain the name of the Almighty, you wretched woman," replied the priest, alighting from his horse; "it is always His will and wish, that in such trials as these you should do whatever you can for your suffering fellow-creatures." "But if I should catch it," the other replied, "what 'ud become o' me? mightn't I be as bad as they are in there; an' maybe in the same place, too; an' God knows I'm not fit to die." "Stay where you are," said the priest, "until I enter the house, and if your assistance should be necessary, I shall command you to come in." "Well, if you ordher me," replied the superstitious creature, "that changes the case. I'll be then undher obadience to my clargy." "If you had better observed the precepts of your religion, and the injunctions of your clergy, wretched woman, you would not be the vile creature you are to-day," he replied, as he hooked his horse's bridle upon a staple in the door-post, and entered the cabin. "Oh, merciful father, support me!" he exclaimed, "what a sight is here! Come in at once," he added, addressing himself to Nelly; "and if you have a woman's heart within you, aid me in trying what can be done." Awed by his words, but with timidity and reluctance, she approached the scene of appalling misery which there lay before them. But how shall we describe it? The cabin in which they stood had been evidently for some time deserted, a proof that its former humble inmates had been all swept off by typhus; for in these peculiar and not uncommon cases, no other family would occupy the house thus left desolate, so that the cause of its desertion was easily understood. The floor was strewed in some places with little stopples of rotten thatch, evidently blown in by the wind of the previous night; the cheerless fire-place was covered with clots of soot, and the floor was all spattered over with the black shining moisture called soot-drops, which want of heat and habitation caused to fall from the roof. The cold, strong blast, too, from time to time, rushed in with wild moans of desolation, that rose and fell in almost supernatural tones, and swept the dead ashes and soot from the fireplace, and the rotten thatch from the floor, in little eddies that spun about until they had got into some nook or corner where the fiercer strength of the blast could not reach them. Stretched out in this wretched and abandoned hut, lay before the good priest and his companion, a group of misery, consisting of both the dying and the dead--to wit, a mother and her three children. Over in the corner, on the right hand side of the fire-place, the unhappy and perishing creature lay, divided, or rather torn asunder, as it were, by the rival claims of affection. Lying close to her cold and shivering breast was an infant of about six months old, striving feebly, from time to time, to draw from that natural source of affection the sustenance which had been dried up by chilling misery and want. Beside her, on the left, lay a boy--a pale, emaciated boy--about eight years old, silent and motionless, with the exception that, ever and anon, he turned round his heavy blue eyes as if to ask some comfort or aid, or even some notice from his unfortunate mother, who, as if conscious of these affectionate supplications, pressed his wan cheek tenderly with her fingers, to intimate to him, that as far as she could, she responded to, and acknowledged these last entreaties of the heart; whilst, again, she felt her affections called upon by the apparently dying struggles of the infant that was, in reality, fast perishing at the now-exhausted fountain of its life. Between these two claimants was the breaking heart of the woeful mother divided, but the alternations of her love seemed now almost wrought up to the last terrible agonies of mere animal instinct, when the sufferings are strong in proportion to that debility of reason which supervenes in such deaths as arise from famine, or under those feelings of indescribable torture which tore her affection, as it were, to pieces, and paralyzed her higher powers of moral suffering. Beyond the infant again, and next the wall, lay a girl, it might be about eleven, stretched, as if in sleep, and apparently in a state of composure that struck one forcibly, when contrasted, from its utter stillness, with the yet living agonies by which she was surrounded. It was evident, from the decency with which the girl's thin scanty covering was arranged, and the emaciated arms placed by her side, that the poor parent had endeavored, as well as she could, to lay her out; and, oh, great God! what a task for a mother, and under what circumstances must it have been performed! There, however, did the corpse of this fair and unhappy child lie; her light and silken locks blown upon her still and death-like features by the ruffian blast, and the complacency which had evidently characterized her countenance when in life, now stamped by death, with the sharp and wan expression of misery and the grave. Thus surrounded lay the dying mother, and it was not until the priest had taken in, at more than one view, the whole terrors of this awful scene, that he had time to let his eyes rest upon her countenance and person. When he did, however, the history, though a fearful one, was, in her case, as indeed in too many, legible at a glance, and may be comprised in one word--starvation. Father Hanratty was a firm minded man, with a somewhat rough manner, but a heart natural and warm. After looking upon her face for a few moments, he clasped, his hands closely together, and turning up his eyes to Heaven, he exclaimed: "Great God, guide and support me in this trying scene!" And, indeed, it is not to be wondered at that he uttered such an exclamation. There lay in the woman's eyes--between her knit and painful eye-brows, over her shrunk upper forehead, upon her sharp cheek-bones, and along the ridge of her thin, wasted nose--there lay upon her skeleton arms, pointed elbows, and long-jointed fingers, a frightful expression, at once uniform and varied, that spoke of gaunt and yellow famine in all its most hideous horrors. Her eyeballs protruded even to sharpness, and as she glared about her with a half conscious and half-instinctive look, there seemed a fierce demand in her eye that would have been painful, were it not that it was occasionally tamed down into something mournful and imploring, by a recollection of the helpless beings that were about her. Stripped, as she then was, of all that civilized society presents to a human being on the bed of death--without friends, aid of any kind, comfort, sympathy, or the consolations of religion--she might be truly said to have sunk to the mere condition of animal life--whose uncontrollable impulses had thus left their startling and savage impress upon her countenance, unless, as we have said, when the faint dawn of consciousness threw a softer and more human light into her wild features. "In the name and in the spirit of God's mercy," asked the priest, "if you have the use of your tongue or voice, tell me what the matter is with you or your children? Is it sickness or starvation?" The sound of a human voice appeared to arrest her attention, and rouse her a little. She paused, as it were, from her sufferings, and looked first at the priest, and then at his companion--but she spoke not. He then repeated the question, and after a little delay he saw that her lips moved. "She is striving to speak," said he, "but cannot. I will stoop to her." He repeated the question a third time, and, stooping, so as to bring his ear near her mouth, he could catch, expressed very feebly and indistinctly, the word--hunger. She then made an effort, and bent down her mouth to the infant which now lay still at her breast. She felt for its little heart, she felt its little lips--but they were now chill and motionless; its little hands ceased to gather any longer around her breast; it was cold--it was breathless--it was dead! Her countenance now underwent a singular and touching change--a kind of solemn joy--a sorrowful serenity was diffused over it. She seemed to remember their position, and was in the act, after having raised her eyes to heaven, of putting round her hand to feel for the boy who lay on the other side, when she was seized with a short and rather feeble spasm, and laying down her head in its original position between her children, she was at last freed from life and all the sufferings which its gloomy lot had inflicted upon her and those whom she loved. The priest, seeing that she was dead, offered up a short but earnest prayer for the repose of her soul, after which he turned his attention to the boy. "The question now is," he observed to his companion, "can we save this poor, but interesting child?" "I hardly think it possible," she replied; "doesn't your reverence see that death's workin' at him--and an' aisey job he'll have of the poor thing now." "Hunger and cold have here done awful work," said Father Hanratty, "as they have and will in many other conditions similar to this. I shall mount my horse, and if you lift the poor child up, I will wrap him as well as I can in my great coat,"--which, by the way, he stripped off him as he spoke. He then folded it round the boy, and putting him into Nelly's arms, was about to leave the cabin, when the child, looking round him for a moment, and then upon his mother, made a faint struggle to get back. "What is it, asthore?" asked the woman; "what is it you want?" "Lave me wid my mother," he said; "let me go to her; my poor father's dead, an' left us--oh! let me stay with her." The poor boy's voice was so low and feeble, that it was with difficulty she heard the words, which she repeated to the priest. "Dear child," said the latter, "we are bringing you to where you will get food and drink, and a warm bed to go to, and you will get better, I hope." And as he took the helpless and innocent sufferer into his arms, after having fixed himself in the saddle, the tears of strong compassion ran down his cheeks. "He is as light as a feather, poor thing," exclaimed the kind-hearted man; "but I trust in heaven we may save him yet." And they immediately hurried onward to the next house, which happened to be that of our friend Jerry Sullivan, to the care of whose humane and. affectionate family they consigned him. We cannot dwell here upon that which every reader can anticipate; it is enough to say that the boy with care recovered, and that his unfortunate mother with her two children received an humble grave in the nearest churchyard, beyond the reach of the storms and miseries of life forever. On reaching the Grange, or rather the house now occupied by widow Hanlon, the priest having sent for Charley, into whose confidence he had for some time been admitted, had a private conference, of considerable length, with him and the pedlar; after which, Nelly was called in, as it would seem, to make some disclosure connected with the subject they were discussing. A deep gloom, however, rested upon both Hanlon and the pedlar; and it was sufficiently evident that whatever the import of Nelly M'Gowan's communication may have been, it was not of so cheering a nature as to compensate for the absence of widow Hanlon, and the party for which she had been sent. Father Hanratty having left them, they took an early breakfast, and proceeded to Ballynafail--which we choose to designate as the assize town--in order to watch, with disappointed and heavy hearts, the trial of Condy Dalton, in whose fate they felt a deeper interest than the reader might suppose. All the parties attended, the Prophet among the rest; and it might have been observed, that his countenance was marked by an expression of peculiar determination. His brow was, if possible, darker than usual; his eye was quicker and more circumspect, but his complexion, notwithstanding this, was not merely pale, but absolutely white as ashes. The morning came, however, and the assies were opened with the usual formalities. The judge's charge to the grand jury, in consequence of the famine outrages which had taken place to such an extent, was unusually long; nor was the "King against Dalton," for the murder of Sullivan, left without due advice and comment. In this way a considerable portion of the day passed. At length a trial for horse-stealing came on, but closed too late to allow them to think of commencing any other case during that day; and, as a natural consequence, that of Condy Dalton was postponed until the next morning. It is an impressive thing; and fills the mind with a reverend sense of the wisdom manifested by an over-ruling Providence, to reflect upon the wondrous manner in which the influence of slight incidents is made to frustrate the subtlest designs of human ingenuity, and vindicate the justice of the Almighty in the eyes of his creatures, sometimes for the reward of the just, and as often for the punishment of the guilty. Had the trial of Dalton, for instance, gone on, as had been anticipated, during the first day, it is impossible to say how many of the characters in our humble drama might have grievously suffered or escaped in consequence. At all events it is not likely that the following dialogue would have ever taken place, or been made instrumental in working out purposes, and defeating plans, with which the reader, if he is not already, will very soon be made acquainted. Donnel Dhu had returned from the assizes, and was sitting, as usual, poring over the fire, when he asked the old woman who nursed Sarahif there had been any persons inquiring for him since nightfall. "Three or four," she replied; "but I said you hadn't come home yet; an' divil a one o' them but was all on the same tune, an' bid me to tell you that it was a safe night." "Well, I hope it is, Biddy," he replied, "but not so safe," he added to himself, "as I could wish it to be. How is Sarah?" "She's better," replied the woman, "an' was up to-day for an hour or two; but still she's poorly, and I think her brain isn't right yet." "Very likely it isn't," said the Prophet. "But, Biddy, when were you at Shanco?" "Not this week past." "Well, then, if you like to slip over for an hour or so now, you may, an' I'll take care of Sarah till you come back; only don't be longer." "Long life to you, Donnel; throth an' I want to go, if it was only to set the little matthers right for them poor orphans, my grandchildre." "Well, then, go," he replied; "but don't be more than an hour away, mind. I'll take care of Sarah for you till you come back." At this moment a tap came to the door, and Donnel, on hearing it, went out, and in a minute or two returned again, saying-- "Hurry, Biddy; make haste, if you wish to go at all; but remember not to be more than an hour away." The old creature accordingly threw her cloak about her, and made the best of her way to see her grandchildren, both of whose parents had been swept away by the first deadly ravages of the typhus fever. She had not been long gone, when another tap was given, and Donnel, on opening the door, said-- "You may come in now; she's off to Shanco. I didn't think it safe that she should see us together on this night, at all events. Sit down. This girl's illness has nearly spoiled all; however, we must only do the best we can. Thank God the night's dark, that's one comfort." "If we could a' had Dalton found guilty," replied Body, "all would be well over this night, an' we might be on our way out o' this to America; but what 'ud you do wid Sarah if we had? Sure she wouldn't be able to travel, nor she won't, I doubt, as it is." "Sarah," replied the Prophet, who suspected the object of the question, "is well fit to take care of herself. We must only go without her, if she's not able to come the day afther to-morrow. Where are the boys for the Grange? " "Undher shelter of the Grey Stone, waitin' to start." "Well, then, as it it," said Donnel, "they know their business, at any rate. The Grange folk don't expect them this week to come, you think?" Rody looked at the Prophet very keenly, as he thought of the conversation that took place between himself and Charley Hanlon, and which, upon an explanation with Donnel, he had detailed. The fellow, however, as we said, was both cowardly and suspicious, and took it into his head that his friend might feel disposed to play him a trick, by sending him to conduct the burglary, of which Hanlon had spoken with such startling confidence--a piece of cowardice which, indeed, was completely gratuitous and unfounded on his part; the truth being, that it was the Prophet's interest, above all things, to keep Rody out of danger, both for that worthy individual's sake and his own. Rody, We say, looked at him; and of a certainty it must be admitted, that the physiognomy of our friend, the Seer, during that whole day, was one from which no very high opinion of his integrity or good faith could be drawn. "It's a very sthrange thing," replied Rody, in a tone of thought and reflection, "how Charley Hanlon came to know of this matther at all." "He never heard a word of it," replied Donnel, "barrin' from yourself." "From me!" replied Rody, indignantly; "what do you mane by that?" "Why, when you went to sound him," said Donnel, "you let too much out; and Charley was too cute not to see what you wor at." "All feathalagh an' nonsense," replied Eody, who, by the way, entertained a very high opinion of his own sagacity; "no mortal could suspect that there was a plot to rob the house from what I said; but hould," he added, slapping his knee, as if he had made a discovery, "ma chorp an' dioul, but I have it all." "What is it?" said the Prophet, calmly. "You tould the matther to Sarah, an' she, by coorse, tould it to Charley Hanlon, that she tells everything to." "No such thing," replied the other. "Sarah knows nothing about the robbery that's to go on to-night at the Grange, but she did about the plan upon Mave Sullivan, and promised to help us in it, as I tould you before."
The Prophet looked at him, fastening his dark piercing eyes-upon his face-- "I see," he proceeded, "you're suspicious or you're cowardly, or maybe both; but to make you feel that I'm neither the one nor the other, and that you have no raison to be so either, I say I'll take you at your word. Do you manage Mave Sullivan's business, and I'll see what can be done with the other. An' listen to me now, it's our business, in case of a discovery of the robbery, to have Masther Dick's neck as far in the noose for Mave's affair as ours may be for the other thing; an' for the same raison you needn't care how far you drive him. He doesn't wish to have violence; but do you take care that there will be violence, an' then maybe we may manage him if there's a discovery in the other affair." "Donnel, you're a great headpiece--the divil's not so deep as you are; but as the most of them all is strangers, an' they say there's two girls in Sullivan's instead o' one, how will the strange boys know the right one?" "If it goes to that," said the Prophet, "you'll know her by the clipped head. The minute they seize upon the girl with the clipped head, let them make sure of her. Poor foolish Tom Dalton, who knows nothing about our scheme, thinks the visit is merely to frighten the Sullivans; but when you get the girl, let her be brought to the crossroads of Tulnavert, where Masther Dick will have a chaise waitin' for her, an' wanst she's with him your care's over. In the meantime, while he's waitin' there, I an' the others will see what can be done at the Grange." "But tell me, Donnel; you don't intend, surely, to leave poor Sarah behind us?" "Eh? Sarah?" returned the Prophet. "Ay; bekaise you said so awhile a-gone." "I know I said so awhile ago; but regardin' Sarah, Rody, she's the only livin' thing on this earth that I care about. I have hardened my heart, thank God, against all the world but herself; an' although I have never much showed it to her, an' although I have neglected her, an' sometimes thought I hated her for her mother's sake--well, no matther--she's the only thing I love or care about for all that. Oh! no--go wid-out Sarah--come weal come woe--we must not." "Bekaise," continued Rody, "when we're all safe, an' out o' the raich o' danger, I have a thing to say to you about Sarah." "Very well, Rody," said the Prophet, with a grim but bitter smile, "it'll be time enough then. Now, go and manage these fellows, an' see you do things as they ought to be done." "She's fond o' Charley Hanlon, to my own knowledge." "Who is?" "Sarah, an' between you an' me, it's not a Brinoge like him that's fit for her. She's a, hasty and an uncertain kind of a girl--:a good dale wild or so--an' it isn't, as I said, the! likes o' that chap that 'id answer her, but a steady, experienced, sober--" "Honest man, Rody. Well, I'm not in a laughin' humor, now; be off, an' see that you do yourself an' us all credit." When he was gone, the Prophet drew a long breath--one, however, from its depth, evidently indicative of anything but ease of mind. He then rose, and was preparing to go out, when Sarah, who had only laid herself on the bed, without undressing, got up, and approaching him, said, in a voice tremulous with weakness: "Father, I have heard every word you and Rody said." "Well," replied her father, looking at her, "I supposed as much. I made no secret of anything; however, keep to your bed--you're--" "Father, I have changed my mind; you have neither my heart nor wish in anything you're bent on this night." "Changed your mind!" replied the Prophet, bitterly. "Oh! you're a real woman, I suppose, like your mother; you'll drive some unfortunate man to hate the world an all that's in it yet?" "Father, I care as little about the world as you do; but still never will I lay myself out to do anything that's wrong." "You promised to assist us then in Mave Sullivan's business, for all that," he replied. "You can break your word, too. Ah! real woman again." "Sooner than keep that promise, father, now, I would willingly let the last dhrop of blood out o' my heart--my unhappy heart--Father, you're provin' yourself to be what I can't name. Listen to me--you're on the brink o' destruction. Stop in time, an' fly, for there's a fate over you. I dremt since I lay down--not more than a couple of hours ago--that I saw the Tobacco Box you were lookin' for, in the hands of--" "Don't bother or vex me with your d--d nonsense about dhrames," he replied, in a loud and excited voice. "The curse o' Heaven on all dhrames, an' every stuff o' the kind. Go to bed." He slapped the door violently after him as he spoke, and left her to her own meditations. _ |
||