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Willy Reilly, a novel by William Carleton |
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Chapter 20. The Rapparee Secured |
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_ CHAPTER XX. The Rapparee Secured --Reilly and the Cooleen Bawn Escape, and are Captured. Cummiskey had a private and comfortable room of his own, to which he and the cannie Scotchman proceeded, after having ordered from the butler a tankard of strong ale. There was a cheerful fire in the grate, and when the tankard and glasses were placed upon the table the Scotchman observed: "De'il be frae my saul, maisther Cummiskey, but ye're vera comfortable here." "Why, in troth, I can't complain, Mr. Malcomson; here's your health, sir, and after that we must drink another." "Mony thanks, Andrew." "Hang it, I'm not Andrew: that sounds like Scotch; I'm Andy, man alive." "Wfiel mony thanks, Andy; but for the maitter o' that, what the de'il waur wad it be gin it were Scotch?" "Bekaise I wouldn't like to be considered a Scotchman, somehow." "Weel, Andrew--Andy--I do just suppose as muckle; gin ye war considered Scotch, muckle more might be expeck' frae you than, being an Irisher as you are, you could be prepared to answer to; whereas--" "Why, hang it, man alive, we can give three answers for your one." "Weel, but how is that now, Andy? Here's to ye in the meantime; and 'am no savin' but this yill is just richt gude drink; it warms the pit o' the stamach, man." "You mane by that the pit o' the stomach, I suppose." "Ay, just that." "Troth, Mr. Malcomson, you Scotchers bring everything to the pit o' the stomach--no, begad, I ax your pardon, for although you take care of the pratie bag, you don't forget the pocket." "And what for no, Andy? why the de'il war pockets made, gin they wanna to be filled? but how hae ye Irishers three answers for our ane?" "Why, first with our tongue; and even with that we bate ye--flog you hollow. You Scotchmen take so much time in givin' an answer that an Irishman could say his pattherin aves before you spake. You think first and spake aftherwards, and come out in sich a way that one would suppose you say grace for every word you do spake; but it isn't 'for what we are to receive' you ought to say 'may the Lord make us thankful, but for what we are to lose'--that is, your Scotch nonsense; and, in troth, we ought to be thankful for losin' it." "Weel, man, here's to ye, Andy--ou, man, but this yill is extraordinar' gude." "Why," replied Andy, who, by the way, seldom went sober to bed, and who was even now nearly three sheets in the wind, "it is. Mr. Malcomson, the right stuff. But, as I was sayin', you Scotchmen think first and spake afther--one of the most unlucky practices that ever anybody had. Now, don't you see the advantage that the Irishman has over you; he spakes first and thinks aftherwards, and then, you know, it gives him plenty of time to think--here's God bless us all, anyhow--but that's the way an Irishman bates a Scotchman in givin' an answer; for if he fails by word o' mouth, why, whatever he's deficient in he makes up by the fist or cudgel; and there's our three Irish answers for one Scotch." "Weel, man, a' richt--a' richt--we winna quarrel aboot it; but I thocht ye promised to gie us another toast--de'il be frae my; saul, man, but I'll drink as mony as you like wisiccan liquor as this." "Ay, troth, I did say so, and devil a thing but your Scotch nonsense put it out o' my head. And now, Mr. Malcomson, let me advise you, as a friend, never to attempt to have the whole conversation to yourself; it I isn't daicent. "Weel, but the toast, man?" "Oh, ay; troth, your nonsense would put any thing out of a man's head. Well, you see this comfortable room?" "Ou, ay; an vara comfortable it is; ma faith, I wuss I had ane like it. The auld squire, however, talks o' buildin' a new gertlen-hoose." "Well, then, fill your bumper. Here's to her that got me this room, and had it furnished as you see, in order that I might be at my aise in it for the remaindher o' my life--I mane the Cooleen Bawn--the Lily of the Plains of Boyle. Come, now, off with it; and if you take it from your lantern jaws! till it's finished, divil a wet lip ever I'll give you." The Scotchman was not indisposed to honor the toast; first, because the ale was both strong and mellow, and secondly, because the Cooleen Bawn was a great favorite of his, in consequence of the deference she paid to him as a botanist. "Eh, sirs," he exclaimed, after finishing | his bumper, "but she's a bonnie lassie that, and as gude as she's bonnie--and de'il a higher compliment she could get, I think. But, Andy, man, don't they talk some clash and havers anent her predilection for that weel-farrant callan, Reilly?" "All, my poor girl," replied Cummiskey, shaking his head sorrowfully; "I pity her there; but the thing's impossible--they can't be married--the law is against them." "Weel, Andy, they must e'en thole it; but 'am thinkin' they'll just break bounds at last, an' tak' the law, as you Irish do, into their am hands." "What do you mane by that?" asked Andy, whose temper began to get warm by the observation. "Ah, man," replied the Scotchman, "dinna let your birses rise at that gate. Noo, there's the filbert trees, ma friend, of whilk ane is male and the tither female; and the upshot e'en is, Andy, that de'il a pickle o' fruit ever the female produces until there's a braw halesome male tree planted in the same gerden. But, ou, man, Andy, wasna yon she and that bonnie jaud, Connor, that we met the noo? De'il be frae my laul, but I jalouse she's aff wi' him this vara nicht." "Oh, dear, no!" replied Cummiskey, starting; "that would kill her father; and yet there must be something in it, or what would bring them there at such an hour? He and she may love one another as much as they like, but I must think of my mas-ther." "In that case, then, our best plan is to gie the alarm." "Hould," replied Andy; "let us be cautious. They wouldn't go on foot, I think; and before we rise a ruction in the house, let us find out whether she has made off or not. Sit you here, and I'll try to see Connor, her maid." "Ah, but, Andy, man, it's no just that pleasant to sit hei-e dry-lipped; the tankard's, oot, ye ken." "Divil tankard the Scotch sowl o'you--who do you suppose could think of a tankard, or any thing else, if what we suspect has happened? It will kill him." He then proceeded to look for Connor, whom he met in tears, which she was utterly unable to conceal. "Well, Miss Connor," he asked, "what's the matther? You're cryin', I persave." "All, Cummiskey, my mistress is unwell." "Unwell! why she wasn't unwell a while ago, when the gardener and I met her and you on your way to the back o' the garden." "Oh, yes," replied Connor; "I forced her to come out, to try what a little cool air-might do for her." "Ay, but, Connor, did you force her to come in again?" "Force! there was no force necessary, Cummiskey. She's now in her own room, quite ill." "Oh, then, if she's quite ill, it's right that her father should know it, in ordher that a docther may be sent for." "Ah, but she's now asleep, Cummiskey--that sleep may set her to rights; she may waken quite recovered; but you know it might be dangerous to disturb her." "Ah, I believe you," he replied, dissembling; for he saw at once, by Connor's agitated manner, that every word she uttered was a lie; "the sleep will be good for her, the darlin'; but take care of her, Connor, for the masther's sake; for what would become of him if any thing happened her? You know that if she died he wouldn't live a week." "That's true, indeed," she replied; "and if she get's worse, Cummiskey, I'll let the master know." "That's a good girl; ma gragal that you! war--good-by, acushla," and he immediately! returned to his own room, after having observed that Connor went down to the kitchen. "Now, Mr. Malcomson," said he, "there is a good fire before you. I ax your pardon--just sit in the light of it for a minute or so; I want this candle." "'Am sayin', Andy, gin ye haud awa to the kitchen, it wadna be a crime to send up anither tankard o' that yill." To this the other made no reply, but walked out of the room, and very deliberately proceeded to that of Helen. The door was open, the bed unslept upon, the window-curtains undrawn; in fact, the room was tenantless, Connor a liar and an accomplice, and the suspicions of himself and Malcomson well founded. He then followed Connor to the kitchen; but she too had disappeared, or at least hid herself from him. He then desired the other female servants to ascertain whether Miss Folliard was within or not, giving it as his opinion that she had eloped with Willy Reilly. The uproar then commenced, the house was searched, but no Cooleen Bawn was found. Cummiskey himself remained comparatively tranquil, but his tranquillity was neither more nor less than an inexpressible sorrow for what he knew the affectionate old man must suffer for the idol of his heart, upon whom he doted with such unexampled tenderness and affection. On ascertaining that she was not in the house, he went upstairs to his master's bedroom, having the candlestick in his hand, and tapped at the door. There was no reply from within, and on his entering he found the old man asleep. The case, however, was one that admitted of no delay; but he felt that to communicate the melancholy tidings was a fearful task, and he scarcely knew in what words to shape the event which had occurred. At length he stirred him gently, and the old man, half asleep, exclaimed: "Good-night, Helen--good-night, darling! I am not well; I had something to tell you about the discovery of--but I will let you know it to-morrow at breakfast. For your sake I shall let him escape: there now, go to bed, my love." "Sir," said Cummiskey, "I hope you'll excuse me for disturbing you." "What? who? who's there? I thought it was my daughter." "No, sir, I wish it was; I'm come to tell you that Miss Folliard can't be found: we have searched every nook and corner of the house to no purpose: wherever she is, she's not undher this roof. I came to tell you, and to bid you get up, that we may see what's to be done." "What," he exclaimed, starting up, "my child!--my child--my child gone! God of heaven! God of heaven, support me!--my darling! my treasure! my delight!--Oh, Cummiskey!--but it can't be--to desert me!--to leave me in misery and sorrow, brokenhearted, distracted!--she that was the prop of my age, that loved me as never child loved a, father! Begone, Cummiskey, it is not so, it can't be, I say: search again; she is somewhere in the house; you don't know, sirra, how she loved me: why, it was only this night that, on taking her good-night kiss, she--ha--what? what?--she wept, she wept bitterly, and bade me farewell! and said--Here, Cummiskey, assist me to dress. Oh, I see it, Cummiskey, I see it! she is gone! she is gone! yes, she bade me farewell; but I was unsteady and unsettled after too much drink, and did not comprehend her meaning." It is impossible to describe the almost frantic distraction of that loving father, who, as he said, had no prop to lean upon but his Cooleen Bawn, for he himself often loved to call her by that appellation. "Cummiskey," he proceeded, "we will pursue them--we must have my darling back: yes, and I will forgive her, for what is she but a child, Cummiskey, not yet twenty. But in the meantime I will shoot him dead--dead--dead--if he had a thousand lives; and from this night out I shall pursue Popery, in all its shapes and disguises; I will imprison it, transport it, hang it--hang it, Cummiskey, as round as a hoop. Ring the bell, and let Lanigan unload, and then reload my pistols; he always does it; his father was my grandfather's gamekeeper, and he understands fire-arms. Here, though, help me on with my boots first, and then I will be dressed immediately. After giving the pistols to Lanigan, desire the grooms and hostlers to saddle all the horses in the stables. We must set out and pursue them. It is possible we may overtake them yet. I will not level a pistol against my child; but, by the great Boyne! if we meet them, come up with them, overtake them, his guilty spirit will stand before the throne of judgment this night. Go now, give the pistols to Lanigan, and tell him to reload them steadily." We leave them now, in order that we may follow the sheriff and his party, who went to secure the body of the Red Rapparee. This worthy person, not at all aware of the friendly office which his patron, Sir Robert, intended to discharge towards him, felt himself quite safe, and consequently took very little pains to secure his concealment. Indeed, it could hardly be expected that he should, inasmuch as Whitecraft had led him to understand, as we have said, that Government had pardoned him his social trangressions, as a per contra for those political ones which they still expected from him. Such was his own view of the case, although he was not altogether free from misgiving, and a certain vague apprehension. Be this as it may, he had yet to learn a lesson which his employer was not disposed to teach him by any other means than handing him over to the authorities on the following day. How matters might have terminated between him and the baronet it is out of our power to detail. The man was at all times desperate and dreadful, where either revenge or anger was excited, especially as he labored under the superstitious impression that he was never to be hanged or perish by a violent death, a sentiment then by no means uncommon among persons of his outrageous and desperate life. It has been observed, and with truth, that the Irish Rapparees seldom indulged in the habit of intoxication or intemperance, and this is not at all to be wondered at. The meshes of authority were always spread for them, and the very consciousness of this fact sharpened their wits, and kept them perpetually on their guard against the possibility of arrest. Nor was this all. The very nature of the lawless and outrageous life they led, and their frequent exposure to danger, rendered habits of caution necessary--and those were altogether incompatible with habits of intemperance. Self-preservation rendered this policy necessary, and we believe there are but few instances on record of a Rapparee having been arrested in a state of intoxication. Their laws, in fact, however barbarous they were in other matters, rendered three cases of drunkenness a cause of expulsion from the gang. O'Donnel, however, had now relaxed from the rigid observation of his own rules, principally for the reasons we have already stated--by which we mean, a conviction of his own impunity, as falsely communicated to him by Sir Robert Whitecraft. The sheriff had not at first intended to be personally present at his capture; but upon second consideration he came to the determination of heading the party who were authorized to secure him. This resolution of Oxley's had, as will presently be seen, a serious effect upon the fate and fortunes of the Cooleen Bawn and her lover. The party, who were guided by Tom Steeple, did not go to Mary Mahon's, but to a neighboring cottage, which was inhabited by a distant relative of O'Donnel. A quarrel had taken place between the fortune-teller and him, arising from his jealousy of Sir Robert, which caused such an estrangement as prevented him for some time from visiting her house. Tom Steeple, however, had haunted him as his shadow, without ever coming in contact with him personally, and on this night he had him set as a soho man has a hare in her form. Guided, therefore, by the intelligent idiot and Fergus, the party readied the cottage in which the Rapparee resided. The house was instantly surrounded and the door knocked at, for the party knew that the man was inside. "Who is there?" asked the old woman who kept the cottage. "Open the door instantly," said the sheriff, "or we shall smash it in." "No, I won't," she replied; "no, I won't, you bosthoon, whoever you are. I never did nothin' agin the laws, bad luck to them, and I won't open my door to any strolling vagabone like you." "Produce the man we want," said the sheriff, "or we shall arrest you for harboring an outlaw and a murderer. Your house is now surrounded by military, acting under the king's orders." "Give me time," said the crone; "I was at my prayers when you came to disturb me, and I'll finish them before I open the door, if you were to burn the house over my head, and myself in it. Up," said she to the Rapparee, "through the roof--get that ould table undher your feet--the thatch is thin--slip out and lie on the roof till they go, and then let them whistle jigs to the larks if they like." The habits of escape peculiar to the Rapparees were well known to Fergus, who cautioned those who surrounded the house to watch the roof. It was well they did so, for in less-time than we have taken to describe it the body of the Rapparee was seen projecting itself upwards through the thin thatch, and in an instant several muskets were levelled at him, accompanied by instant orders to surrender on pain of being shot. Under such circumstances there was no alternative, and in a few minutes he was handcuffed and a prisoner. The party then proceeded along the road on which some of the adventures already recorded in this narrative had taken place, when they were met, at a sharp angle of it, by Reilly and his Cooleen Bawn, both of whom were almost instantly recognized by the sheriff and his party. Their arrest was immediate. "Mr. Reilly," said the sheriff, "I am sorry for this. You must feel aware that I neither am or ever was disposed to be your enemy; but I now find you carrying away a Protestant heiress, the daughter of my friend, contrary to the laws of the land, a fact which in itself gives me the power and authority to take you into custody, which I accordingly do in his Majesty's name. I owe you no ill will, but in the meantime you must return with me to Squire Folliard's house. Miss Folliard, you must, as you know me to be your father's friend, consider that I feel it my duty to restore you to him." "I am not without means of defence," replied Reilly, "but the exercise of such means would be useless. Two of your lives I might take; but yours, Mr. Sheriff, could not be one of them, and that you must feel." "I feel, Mr. Reilly, that you are a man of honor; and, in point of fact, there is ample apology for your conduct in the exquisite beauty of the young lady who accompanies you; but I must also feel for her father, whose bereavement, occasioned by her loss, would most assuredly break his heart." Here a deep panting of the bosom, accompanied by violent sobs, was heard by the party, and Cooleen Bawn whispered to Reilly, in a voice nearly stifled by grief and excitement: "Dear Reilly, I love you; but it was madness in us to take this step; let me return to my father--only let me see him safe?" "But Whitecraft?" "Death sooner. Reilly, I am ill, I am ill; this struggle is too much for me. What shall I do? My head is swimming." [Illustration: PAGE 140--discharged a pistol at our hero] She had scarcely uttered these words when her father, accompanied by his servants, dashed rapidly up, and Cummiskey, the old huntsman, instantly seized Reilly, exclaiming, "Mr. Reilly, we have you now;" and whilst he spoke, his impetuous old master dashed his horse to one side, and discharged a pistol at our hero, and this failing, he discharged another. Thanks to Lanigan, however, they were both harmless, that worthy man having forgotten to put in bullets, or even as much powder as would singe an ordinary whisker. "Forbear, sir," exclaimed the sheriff, addressing Cummiskey; "unhand Mr. Reilly. He is already in custody, and you, Mr. Folliard, may thank God that you are not a murderer this night. As a father, I grant that an apology may be made for your resentment, but not to the shedding of blood." "Lanigan! villain! treacherous and deceitful villain!" shouted the squire, "it was your perfidy that deprived me of my revenge. Begone, you sneaking old profligate, and never let me see your face again. You did not load my pistols as you ought." "No, sir," replied Lanigan, "and I thank God that I did not. It wasn't my intention to see your honor hanged for murder." "Mr. Folliard," observed the sheriff, you ought to bless God that gave you a prudent servant, who had too much conscience to become the instrument of your vengeance. Restrain your resentment for the present, and leave Mr. Reilly to the laws of his country. We shall now proceed to your house, where, as a magistrate, you can commit him to prison, and I will see the warrant executed this night. We have also another prisoner of some celebrity, the Red Rapparee." "By sun and moon, I'll go bail for him," replied the infuriated squire. "I like that fellow because Reilly does not. Sir Robert spoke to me in his favor. Yes, I shall go bail for him, to any amount." "His offence is not a bailable one," said the cool sheriff; "nor, if the thing were possible, would it be creditable in you, as a magistrate, to offer yourself as bail for a common robber, one of the most notorious highwaymen of the day." "Well, but come along," replied the squire; "I have changed my mind; we shall hang them both; Sir Robert will assist and support me. I could overlook the offence of a man who only took my purse; yes, I could overlook that, but the man who would rob me of my child--of the solace and prop of my heart and life--of--of--of--" Here the tears came down his cheeks so copiously that his sobs prevented him from proceeding. He recovered himself, however, for indeed he was yet scarcely sober after the evening's indulgence, and the two parties returned to his house, where, after having two or three glasses of Burgundy to make his hand steady, he prepared himself to take the sheriff's informations and sign unfortunate Reilly's committal to Sligo jail. The vindictive tenacity of resentment by which the heart of the ruffian Rapparee was animated against that young man was evinced, on this occasion, by a satanic ingenuity of malice that was completely in keeping with the ruffian's character. It was quite clear, from the circumstances we are about to relate, that the red miscreant had intended to rob Folliard's house on the night of his attack upon it, in addition to the violent abduction of his daughter. We must premise here that Reilly and the Rapparee were each strongly guarded in different rooms, and the first thing the latter did was to get some one to inform Mr. Folliard that he had a matter of importance concerning Reilly to mention to him. This was immediately on their return, and before the informations against Reilly were drawn up. Folliard, who knew not what to think, paused for some time, and at! last, taking the sheriff along with him, went! to hear what O'Donnel had to say. "Is that ruffian safe?" he asked, before entering the room; "have you so secured him that he can't be mischievous?" "Quite safe, your honor, and as harmless as a lamb." He and the sheriff then entered, and found the huge savage champing his teeth and churning with his jaws, until a line of white froth encircled his mouth, rendering him a hideous and fearful object to look at. "What is this you want with me, you misbegotten villain," said the squire. "Stand between the ruffian and me, fellows, in the meantime--what is it, sirra?" "Who's the robber now, Mr. Folliard?" he asked, with something, however, of a doubtful triumph in his red glaring eye. "Your daughter had jewels in a black cabinet, and I'd have secured the same jewels and your daughter along with them, on a certain night, only for Reilly; and it was very natural he should out-general me, which he did; but it was only to get both for himself. Let him be searched at wanst, and, although I don't say he has them, yet I'd give a hundred to one he has; she would never carry them while he was with her." The old squire, who would now, with peculiar pleasure, have acted in the capacity of hangman in Reilly's case, had that unfortunate young man been doomed to undergo the penalty of the law, and that no person in the shape of Jack Ketch was forthcoming--he, we say--the squire--started at once to the room where Reilly was secured, accompanied also by the sheriff, and, after rushing in with a countenance inflamed by passion, shouted out: "Seize and examine that villain; he has robbed me--examine him instantly: he has stolen the family jewels." Reilly's countenance fell, for he knew his Fearful position; but that which weighed heaviest upon his heart was a consciousness of the misinterpretations which the world might put upon the motives of his conduct in this elopement, imputing it to selfishness and a mercenary spirit. When about to be searched, he said: "You need not; I will not submit to the indignity of such an examination. I have and hold the jewels for Miss Folliard, whose individual property I believe they are; nay, I am certain of it, because she told me so, and requested me to keep them For her. Let her be sent for, and I shall hand them back to her at once, but to no other person without violence." "But she is not in a condition to receive them," replied the sheriff (which was a fact); "I pledge my honor she, is not." "Well, then, Mr. Sheriff, I place them in your hands; you can do with them as you wish--that is, either return them to Miss Folliard, the legal owner of them, or to her father." The sheriff received the caske't which contained them, and immediately handed it to Mr. Folliard, who put it in his pocket, exclaiming: "Now, Reilly, if we can hang you for nothing else, we can hang you for this; and we will, sir." "You, sir," said Reilly, with melancholy indignation, "are privileged to insult me; so, alas! is every man now; but I can retire into the integrity of my own heart and find a consolation there of which you cannot deprive me. My life is now a consideration of no importance to myself since I shall die with the consciousness that your daughter loved me. You do not hear this for the first time, for that daughter avowed it to yourself! and if I had been mean and unprincipled enough to have abandoned my religion, and that of my persecuted forefathers, I might ere this have been her husband." "Come," said Folliard, who was not prepared with an answer to this, "come," said he, addressing the sheriff, "come, till we make out his mittimus, and give him the first shove to the gallows." They then left him. _ |
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