Nobly, upon every point, were the Irish infantry sustaining the assault; the English centre was absolutely beaten, and thrown into confusion; the pass of Urrachree was maintained with invincible resolution; the infantry who had crossed near Aghrim were driven, under the tremendous fire of their opponents, back again, with fearful loss, to the verge of the bog; and the cavalry were moving slowly along the broken road, in files, and approaching the castle — occupied, as we have said, by nearly two thousand infantry — under whose shot it seemed impossible that a single horseman of the whole force thus fearfully exposed, could escape destruction.
Almost at a glance, the practised eye of the general took in all that we have described.
“What do they mean, there?” said he to Lord Galmoy, who stood next him, and pointing with his glass to the English cavalry.
“They mean to force the pass,” replied he.
“Then we have won the field,” said St. Ruth; “but they are brave fellows; it is a pity they should be so exposed. Order two foot regiments,” he added, promptly, “from the left rear, to move toward Urrachree, at quick time the aide-de-camp dashed away down the slope with the orders; “and the reserved cavalry to mount, and two regiments to move hither,” he continued, addressing a second messenger, who sped away upon the errand; while springing from his jaded and foam-streaked horse, St. Ruth himself mounted the grey charger which the groom held for him close by the battery; the third steed, and the last, as tradition says, which he bestrode that day — and then, in a few brief words, he issued his final orders to the gunner for the direction of his fire.
Now, indeed, the fate of the day seemed wellnigh settled, and many an Irish soldier grasped the hand of his comrade in the enthusiasm of anticipated victory, as they watched the heroic exploits of their resolute brethren in the van.
Fortune, however, on a sudden declared for the English. A fatal blunder was too late discovered. The regiment who occupied the castle and its enclosures, whose fire must have exterminated the cavalry, in their difficult, nay desperate advance, found cannon ball, instead of bullets, in the casks with which they were supplied. Messenger after messenger was despatched in furious haste, to repair this ruinous error — but in vain. The enemy’s cavalry was now advancing almost under the walls of the Castle. Pebbles, buttons — every thing that the moment could supply — was in requisition; but shotted with such missiles, their fire was ineffectual. Under this shower of gravel, and ramrods, and buttons, the cavalry, but partially disturbed, pressed onward, passed the castle, and formed upon the left flank of the Irish infantry. At the same ‘ moment, by a misapprehension of St. Ruth’s orders, two columns from the front, instead of the rear, of the Irish line of infantry, began to march — from the flank now most severely pressed — towards Urrachree. The English infantry, seeing their support thus withdrawn from the musketeers who had hitherto effectually held them in check, now boldly recrossed the bog; and a cry of treachery began to spread along the Irish line. The cavalry whom St. Ruth had ordered in advance were, however, now formed upon the hillside. The general, confident of their resolution, and having seen their prowess proved already, in full assurance of sweeping the English horse, with ease, from their present lodgment, rode to the head of the magnificent column who awaited his orders. “They are beaten,” said he, with stern exultation, “let us beat them to the purpose.” Everything depended on the promptitude of the movement; and at this critical moment, when the fortunes of kings and kingdoms hung trembling in the scale, a round shot from one of the English batteries shattered the head of St. Ruth to atoms. The white plumed hat rolled down the hill before the breeze. Wildly plunged the maddened charger. The lifeless body swayed for a minute in the deep saddle, with all its resplendent trappings, and tumbled to the ground. The cavalry halted; some of the French guard dismounted, and threw a cloak over the headless trunk, which was thus carried to the rear. The guard themselves followed; and now a general panic began to spread throughout the Irish army. The cavalry, thus left without orders or general, fell back in uncertainty. The infantry, first at the left flank, then at the centre, and finally at the right began to give ground, at first slowly, and soon in confusion, running pellmell toward the camp. The Irish cavalry, abandoned by the foot, retreated by the road to Loughrea; and in one huge mob, the now routed infantry ran toward the bog which extended in the rear. Among this broken and wide-spread mass the infuriated English cavalry plunged and hewed, and trampled with merciless slaughter — a giddy, frightful scene of rage and terror, confusion, and butchery, on every side. Instead of the stern huzzas which had filled the air not half an hour before, now rose, wild and appalling, one fearful chorus of wailing, terror, and despair.
“We killed,” says Story, “seven thousand of the Irish upon the spot, as was generally believed, and there could not be many tewer, lor looking among the dead three days after, when all our own, and some of theirs were buried, I reckoned in some small enclosures one hundred-and-fifty, in others one hundred-and-twenty, &c., lying, most of them by the ditches where they were shot; and the rest, from the top of;he hill where their camp had been, looked like a great flock of sheep scattered up and down the country, for almost four miles round.”
Thus ended the last battle, in which the Irish nation rallied the fragments of its ancient aristocracy and native people, in military array against the power of England.
In the choir of St. Patrick’s cathedral are suspended what are alleged to be the gloves and spurs of St. Ruth; nay, even the shot that slew him in its flight. His ashes lie, as tradition asserts with clear and circumstantial detail, in the roofless church of Athenry, beside those of Lord Galway, who fell upon the selfsame field of battle.
To this hour, by many a peasant hearth, tradition tells her tales of (hat memorable day — the rustic labourer from time to time turns up the whitened bones of those who fought and fell so bravely upon the tranquil and deserted fields, where once the fate of Ireland was determined; and many a rusted spur and pike-head still is found just where the chances of the battle had flung it so many years ago.
CHAPTER LIV.
OF GLINDARRAGH CASTLE AND ALL WHO MET THERE
THE events which follow are matter of history. — The siege and treaty of Limerick — the death of the Duke of Tyrconnel — and the “flight of the Wild Geese,” as tradition still calls the departure of the Irish regiments for the shores of France, to fill, as they afterwards did, all Europe with the renown of the Irish Brigade — on these events we need not dwell. But one intervening occurrence of a private kind, and of small interest, indeed, to the reader, though of some importance to our tale, it is here necessary to record; this is the death of old Sir Thomas Neville — now past a full month or more — and to which, as an explanatory fact, and as such only (without disrespect to his memory), allusion has now been made.
It was in the month of October, 1691, that the French ship in which Sarsfield was about to embark, floated, with her white canvas spread, on the bosom of the noble Shannon. Standing with one foot on the gunwale of the boat, which was about to row him to the vessel’s side, Lord Lucan (for the last time, wrung the hand of Torlogh O’Brien.
“Had you done otherwise,” he said, in conclusion; “I should never have forgiven you; and what is more, neither would the King. You have redeemed your engagements to his majesty, well and nobly; honour imposes on you now another, and, I trust, a happier allegiance. May she to whom it is due, prove all that rumour says of her: — I can wish you no greater happiness. Remember all I’ve said to you of friends and country; and so, farewell — farewell.”
The boat skimmed the blue waves of the glorious river — a few minutes more, and the tall vessel floated down with wind and tide; the noble exile, as he stood upon the quarter-deck, waving his hat to the friends who watched his departure, under the shadow of that now deserted fortress the ancient town of Limerick — which his energy and daring had so well defended.
Torlogh O’Brien having watched the departing vessel until
the figures upon her deck grew dim and indistinct, mounted his charger, Roland, and was soon far upon his way to Glindarragh castle.
Upon the same day it was, that Sir Hugh’s carriage, in which travelled himself and his daughter, Grace Willoughby, also approached, though by a different route, the castle of Glindarragh.
The last miles of a journey, especially when it is to end with home, are invariably the most irksome. The roads were broken, and the progress of the vehicle in which he sat so intolerably tedious, that the old knight’s impatience could brook it at length no longer. He descended on foot, to cross the fields by a pathway which, traversing the now desolate farm of Drumgunniol, led pretty directly to the bridge of Glindarragh. As the old man strode firmly through the straggling bushes, and marked the blackened ruins of the farmhouse — these striking memorials of the troublous times so lately past suggested irresistibly their corresponding associations of persons and of adventure — associations which haunted Sir Hugh until, as he walked through the shadowy ruins of the old abbey of Glindarragh, he involuntarily exclaimed —
“Unhappy wretch — illfated Tisdal! what chance, I wonder, has befallen him.”
He was startlingly answered by a groan; and looking a little to the left, he saw, at a distance of but a few yards before him, seated upon a fragment of some dislodged and ruined tomb, the identical Tisdal, with whom his imagination even then was busy; his hair grown thin and gray, his lank hands supporting his stooping head, and his dress soiled and tattered — a spectacle, indeed, of wretchedness. Sir Hugh looked fixedly upon him, and perhaps something of pity softened the sternness of his regard. The man — who had, indeed, seen him as he approached — arose, and turning sullenly away, walked some paces slowly into the ruin. He stopped, however — hesitated — returned, and threw himself at his old patron’s feet. Strange and various were the impulses which crossed the mind of old Sir Hugh, as he beheld this spectacle. His generous nature triumphed, however; and in a tone of deep sorrow he called on him to rise. It was long ere that call was answered. A strange conversation ensued: it concluded thus —
“It seems, indeed, the wisest, if not the only course left for you,” said Sir Hugh. “In the new world, with the ocean between you and the’ scenes of all your troubles and remorse, you will have security at least, if not happiness. Of your property here I will become the purchaser. Agree with my attorney in Dublin — you know him well — and for your present necessities take this.”
Sir Hugh placed some gold in his hand as he spoke. The wretched man was unable to answer. At last he said —
“A wretch like me has no blessing to give; but — but your own heart will bless you for this.”
He turned abruptly, as it seemed, unwilling to trust himself with another word, and walking hurriedly through the mouldering walls, was soon out of sight; but the old knight thought he heard him sobbing as he went.
Oh, how immeasurably happier was Sir Hugh, as he pursued his homeward path, than if he had turned sternly away from the prostrate though guilty suppliant!
*
The happiness of that day, no words of ours can paint. What blessings, what “welcomes back again,” what tears of joy! Old Sir Hugh — simple and eager as a boy in his delight — attended by his favourite dogs — bounding and yelping round him in affectionate ecstacies, and by many a beaming face of humble friendship — revisits his horses and his hawks, handles once more his trusty birding piece, again tries the spring and balance of his pet trout-rod, and, in short, like an emancipated schoolboy, let loose upon the yet untried delights of holiday time, hovers in rapturous uncertainty among the conflicting attractions of a hundred joyous and familiar sports. As thus he whiles whole hours away, which fly almost like minutes, Grace, once more with her old nurse, sits in her quaint, darksome chamber. Those who had not seen her since she went forth, full two years since, might mark some change, though not unpleasing, in the buoyant, impetuous girl who then departed — something subdued, more tender, though not sadder, in the rich nobleness of her beauty: her high and graceful carriage had more of settled dignity; her affections, too, not warmer, but more disciplined; yet was she still simple, true, generous as ever, only she had grown less a girl and more a woman.
‘Well, well, a cushla,” said the old woman, archly, as she held up her tremulous finger, and looked with a puckered smile into the blushing face and laughing eyes of her darling; “did not I say the old song was coming out; if it did not come true one way, it will another. There he stood on Glindarragh bridge, sure enough, an’ the leaf of the shamarogue in the bone of his forehead — as who can deny that same, and the jewel on his arm; it’s well I mind that night, for the jewel was yourself, mavourneen, that hung so beautiful round his arm, that frightful evening. The Lord be thanked that it’s over, and gone for ever and ever; an’ a bright, precious, glorious jewel you were an’ are my colleen beg moe. An’ under the old hall, sure enough, where the cider, an’ the beer, an’ the butter, an’ all the rest, is stored away — for though they call it the store-loft now, the old hall it is — an’ the hall you might hear the old people callin’ it to this day — undher the hall, sure enough, he stabled his horse, an’ into the castle he’s comin’ now for good; an’ so the old song’s come true, an’ all’s out but the endin’ of it. Well, well, ye can finish that between ye; an’ if the castle ever goes away from the O’Briens agin — for the want of an heir, at least — it’s your own fault, you rogue, you, an’ no one else’s — mind my words; for there is not a handsomer or a cleverer gentleman in Ireland’s grounds, than that same Colonel — that same Torlogh Duv O’Brien.”
Ere the blushing and half-laughing girl could chide her old nurse, the clang of horses’ hoofs were heard in the courtyard —
“He’s coming, he’s here,” she cried; and starting up, she threw her arms about the old woman’s neck, and kissed her again and again, and then ran, with a bounding heart and a glowing cheek, down to the stately parlour, with its dark wainscoting and its solemn files of ancestral portraits.
There, among these old family memorials, stood the breathing representative of that new alliance, which was to bury, in love’s oblivion, all the feuds and discords of the past. Yes, Torlogh O’Brien — happy, thrice happy, in the true love of this devoted and beautiful girl, with tumultuous greeting folds her to his heart, and, with the privilege of the betrothed, kisses her burning cheek — nay, kisses her very lips. Oh! joyous meeting; oh! ecstacy unutterable; too wildly happy for tears — too deep for laughter; yet trembling and gushing with the mysterious confluence of both; what raptures of affection in every look; what boundless tenderness in the hushed tones of every word!
Leave we them to talk together, to look on one another — to talk and look, and look and talk again, in fullness of happiness, while hours untold fly by with giddy speed.
Alas! there is one for whom this welcome hour hath brought no joy; who sits lonely and sorrow-stricken in the midst of the general happiness. Near the deserted mill, upon the woody slope, in that quaint cottage, sheltered by tufted thorns and knotted oaks, and wooed and sung to by the wayward stream — sits in the lone casement a pale, faded, but still beautiful creature. Her wan cheek leans upon her little hand. Her deep, dark eye wanders from the waving bramble to the foaming stream, but vacantly, for images unseen by others fill its sad vision, and wet its lashes with glittering tears.
Alas! Poor little Phebe — lonely, lonely watcher — desolate and gentle creature — hoping ever on, in spite of sorrow, and cold neglect, and long delays. Alas! shall joy ever more light up thy pale face with smiles; shall the day ever come, indeed, when he shall fold thee to his heart again — when his voice shall murmur the charmed music of his boundless love into thy longing ear — when his lips shall kiss away thy tears, and bid thee grieve no more — or is the hope, the one hope on which thy very life has hung, after all but an illusion?
Hark! the unwonted clang of a horse’s hoof disturbs the day-dream of the solitary mourner; and now a ste
p upon the stair — a voice — oh I blessed sound! — oh, heaven — and can it be? Like a startled bird, toward that voice she flies, and, with one wild cry of joy, drops senseless into Percy Neville’s arms.
“My wife — my darling — my adored — my own! — and do I see you? — and do I hold you fast, indeed — indeed, once more? Phebe, darling Phebe, speak to me! — look up! — it is I — Percy — your own Percy — who will never, never, while he lives, part from you more!”
Weeping — oh, how bitterly! — with very ecstasy of joy, her thin arms strained about his neck, sobbing and nestling in his bosom she lay.
“And could you, could you think your own Percy would ever, of his own choice, even for an hour leave you? Oh, could you think that all the world would tempt me to forsake you — dearest — my own — my idolized? Yes, darling, smile — smile through your tears; for we are met, indeed — never again — oh, never — while we live, to part!”
Oh, what rapture of affection! what greetings! what tears and blessings! what hopes for long and happy years to come! — hopes, unlike too many of their human kindred, destined to be realized. What confidences! what mingled tears and smiles! — what shall we say? Better to hold our peace, and leave these to the kindly reader’s fancy.
*
Never in the Hall of Glindarragh was wedding feast half so joyous before. The old knight sat again at the head of his board, the very impersonation of gracious hospitality, and cordial welcome. Grace and Torlogh O’Brien, as beseems the brideand bridegoom, at his right, and at his left Percy Neville and his own sweet Phebe; and beyond them good friends and neighbours true, and tenants and dependants. What hilarity — what happiness — what blushing, and quizzing, and laughter, and toasting — what clattering of knives and forks — what a buzzing medley of many voices — what booming and squeaking of a full dozen of bagpipes, at least, straining in preparation for the coming dance, outside in the lobbies — what a jostling, and crossing, and confusion of servants! and not one sour or gloomy, face to be seen among them all. Even Dick Goslin’s sallow countenance glowed faintly in the reflected radiation of the general jollity and good humour, while Tim Dwyer, in good fellowship and agreeability, absolutely outdid himself; and, as he was after heard to remark, despaired of ever coming up to it again, or anything like it, to his dying day. But all this was nothing to Con Donovan — he was a sublimation of himself; his grandeur was never so grand before — his smiles never so luminous — his jokes were irresistible — the very twinkle of his eye bewitching; his portliness seemed to have expanded and rounded; the very whiteness of his hair was whiter, and the redness of his face more rubicund. He was Con Donovan intensified and exaggerated a hundredfold, as he stood, absolutely radiating with a kind of glory around him, behind the chair of his indulgent and beloved old master. This is indeed delightful, when every face you look upon beams with the glow of cordial, kindly merriment — when the tides of sympathy, like springs unlocked in sudden thaws, gush genially and unrestrained; and all the clatter and rude uproar of jolly sound is harmonized by some soft undercurrent of pervading melody, as it were the sweet singing of so many hearts from very joy. Here, then, ere yet one coming cloud has thrown its shadow over the scene, drop we the curtain upon those actors, with whom we have grown familiar, and from whom the writer, at least, now parts for ever, with something like regret.
Delphi Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu Page 95
