All this, it is needless to say, kept the inhabitants of the town in a constant flutter of excitement and alarm. But who can describe the agony of suspense in which poor Grace awaited some tidings of her lover. Trusting in the confusion and darkness of the hour to escape remark, the old knight himself resolved, if possible, to procure some accurate information, which might relieve his child and himself from an uncertainty which was becoming all but insupportable. Without communicating his design to her, he was speedily in the midst of the scene of uproar and confusion which he had for so long witnessed from the window of his lodging. He had not to go far for the information which he coveted; for at the door of the Carbrie he saw an officer dismount, wearing the uniform of Torlogh O’Brien’s regiment. Pushing his way through a crowd of gloomy faces, and heedless of the loud and eager conversation that arose on every side of him, Sir Hugh Willoughby followed the object of his pursuit through the mob of frightened and inquisitive civilians and dusty soldiers, who filled the public room of the old inn; and with the courtesy which the usages of the time allowed, took his seat at the table where the officer had already established himself; and after a brief introductory greeting, invited him to drink a pint of sack, at his expense. Spite of the sullenness of fatigue and defeat, some considerations — among which, perchance, a lamentable scarcity of coin was not the least — induced a prompt, if not very gracious acquiescence on the part of the stranger.
“It has fared amiss with you, to-day,” said Sir Hugh, after a few preliminary remarks, “unless report speak false.”
The soldier replied with a glance, half sullen, half defiant; then throwing his hat, with a reckless air, upon the table, he said, with a careless bitterness —
“It has fared with us, precisely as it ever must, sir, with men commanded by one who has neither conduct nor courage. We have had to retreat before superior numbers, but our retreat was as orderly’ and as steady as a movement on parade. Had my Lord Tyrconnell, and our colonel, and Sarsfield been duly seconded, by —— we would have won the country this day; as it was, they have left more men upon the field than we: I pistoled two with my own hand, myself. The battle was as well fought as ever was field — I care not where. That French fellow, Lauzun, is enough to ruin fifty campaigns himself — the king, too, marred and mismanaged everything; almost all our artillery was last night sent off the ground, for Dublin, here — as if expressly to dishearten our men; and then, when the fight began, the old — ; but no matter, he’ll pay dearly for it all, himself — it was a cursed day for Ireland when he first set his foot on her shores.”
Having thus delivered himself, he quaffed off his wine, and filled another glass.
“And your colonel,” said Sir Hugh, his heart sinking with anxiety as he approached the question, which he almost dreaded to put— “your colonel — Torlogh O’Brien — a friend, I may say a very near and dear friend of mine; how has it fared with him?”
“As with a brave soldier,” answered the officer, sternly, but sadly withal, as he glanced through the window by the table-side, upward at the silvery summer clouds; “he lies on the field where he fought so well; and no braver soldier sleeps in the light of that moon tonight.”
“Good God, sir, dead!” ejaculated Sir Hugh, in extreme agitation; “is he — is he really and certainly dead?”
“‘Ifaith, sir — I fear me it is but too sure. I saw it, myself, in the last gallant charge — a d — d Dutch fellow did it — shot him in the sword-arm; and he was sabred down the next moment, and tumbled among the horses. If there is any life left in him still, he must have had as many as a cat. The Dutch rascal was one of the birds I bagged — that’s one comfort. Before the smoke was out of his pistol, I shot him as dead as that board and he slapped his hand on the table.
“Yet it is possible — ay, clearly possible, after all, that he may still be living,” cried Sir Hugh, while a faint hope gleamed on his mind, though he scarcely dared himself to trust it; “there was my own uncle, in Cromwell’s time — and — ay, ay, it well may be — many a man has outlived a worse mauling than that. Sir, sir, we must not despond — we will not despair — we’ll drink to his health, sir, and his speedy recovery; fill, sir, fill — I pledge you to the health of Colonel Torlogh O’Brien.”.
The soldier filled carelessly, as one who goes through some lifeless form, and gloomily dashed the liquor off; and Sir Hugh himself, resolved to tell the best tale he could to his poor child — hastily took leave of his new acquaintance, having placed upon the board a gold piece to defray the expense of their entertainment — a politeness which, even at a later period, one gentleman might tender to another, without offending the rules of etiquette.
Thus did old Sir Hugh, with a forced confidence and cheerfulness in his look and accents, but with a heart laden with the direst misgivings, return to his lodgings, and to his daughter’s presence.
It was at five o’clock in the morning, after the memorable battle of the Boyne, that the Roman Catholic Lord mayor, two or three of the judges, and some few of the principal citizens, who had espoused the cause of King James, stood in a motley group, awaiting the appearance of their royal master, in the presence-chamber. The king’s summons had called them from uneasy slumbers thus early to the castle; and in the cold grey of the morning’s light, it were hard to imagine a drearier or less inviting spectacle, than this group of loyalists presented. While they were waiting thus, James, a man of punctuality to the last, was employed in paying and discharging his menial servants, previously to taking his final leave of the Irish capital. At last, however, the dispirited expectants in the presence-chamber were relieved — the door opened, and James, followed by two or three gentlemen and officers, including Colonel Lutterel, who kept garrison as governor of the city, entered the apartment.
The king was plainly dressed in a travelling suit, and a certain expression of bitterness overcast, with additional gloom, his usually sombre countenance — as with grave moroseness he returned the salute of the group who awaited him. There was that, in the fallen condition of the king — in the very magnitude of his misfortunes, which lent a kind of mournful dignity to his presence, and which, spite of the petulance that occasionally broke from him, impressed the few disappointed and well nigh ruined followers of his cause, who stood before him, with feelings of melancholy respect.
“Gentlemen,” said the king, after a brief pause, “it hath pleased the almighty Disposer of events to give the victory to our enemies; you have, doubtless, heard already, all that it concerns you most nearly to know. Our army hath been defeated, and the enemy will be in possession of this city, at latest, before many days have passed. It hath been our fate — we speak it in no bitterness, for your case is one with ours — to be everywhere ill-served. In England, we had an army who could have fought for us, if they would — here it is contrariwise: we have an army who are loyal enough, but who will not stand by us; the issue is, in either case, for us, one and the same. Matters, therefore, being so, we must needs shift for ourselves as best we may; above all, we do command you — we do implore of you, gentlemen, in your several stations — and principally you, Colonel Lutterel, as governor of this our city — to prevent all undue severities, all angry reprisals, all violences, which some may be disposed — while the city remains still in the hands of our friends — to inflict upon the suspected within its walls. We do earnestly entreat of you all to remember that this is our city, and they our subjects; protect it and;hem so long as it shall seem wise to occupy this town for us. This is our last command — our parting request.”
Here the king paused for a second or two, while he glanced round again upon his dejected auditory, and a general murmur of acquiescence indicated the respectful attention with which he was listened to.
“Our personal safety,” pursued James, in a changed voice, “renders it needful that we stay no longer within our kingdom of Ireland — your services and fidelity, gentlemen, we shall ever bear in affectionate remembrance. Make for yourselves such terms as
prudence dictates: as for us, the sad fortune which hath turned even our own children— “
The king’s voice faltered and broke; and spite of all his efforts, two or three heavy tears rolled slowly, one by one, down his face, and fell sullenly upon his rich lace collar. Mastering the weakness of his wounded heart, with a strong effort, James, after a few moments, resumed.
“The sad fortune which hath pursued us through all our troubles — dissolving those natural ties dearest to the human heart — and ranking among our enemies even those most cherished and beloved, hath left us but little to hope from the humanity of strangers. What clemency may we expect from them, seeing that our own kindred — our own children, have drawn the sword against us? We shall, therefore, quit this kingdom, trusting to the loyalty of those we leave behind, to guard our interests as to them seems best: we take our departure — it may be to meet soon under happier fortunes again; it may be to meet no more — but, at all events, bearing with us a sweet and consolatory remembrance of your most loyal faith and constancy: and so, gentlemen, we bid you farewell — all lovingly farewell — farewell.”
There was, in the conclusion of the king’s brief address, something pathetic, and even generous, which touched the hearts of his auditory with a momentary feeling akin to pity and even admiration. Such as were foremost in the little crowd, grouped around him as he departed, with loyal wishes and blessings — and several even kneeled and kissed the feeble hand from which the sceptre had been so lately wrung.
A minute or two more, and King James, accompanied by but two or three attendants, rode at a sharp trot over the castle drawbridge, and thence along the high road to Waterford, where he embarked for France, never more to revisit his hereditary dominions.
*
The day that followed was an anxious one for the Protestants who remained in the city of Dublin; the blackest rage and exasperation pervaded the defeated soldiery, who indemnified themselves for their disappointment (disgrace it could not fairly be called) by terrifying the disaffected and Whiggish residents, still in their power, with continual threats of fire and sack. The militia, who kept guard at the Castle, talked freely and exultingly of the pillage and burning which was to lay the city waste, ere William with his forces could effect an entrance. Thus were the suspected inhabitants kept perpetually upon the rack of frightful anticipation and suspense during the whole of the anxious interval between the departure of James, and the entrance of the victorious William.
Peeping stealthily from their windows, these obnoxious inmates beheld, with anxious and fearful curiosity, the tumultuous confusion which filled the streets; mobs of listless and depressed idlers of all ranks, dusty stragglers from every corps, and in all the varied uniforms of King James’s army; carts and waggons laden with stores and ammunition, mounted lackeys, and the stately carriages of the Jacobite aristocracy, lumbering westward from the town, with their affrighted loads of beauty and refinement; dust and clatter, jostling and gossipping, gloomy citizens, furious and half drunken soldiers, liveried servants, carters, coaches, and horsemen, mingled, and doubled, and crushed and hustled in the mazes of a distempered and distracting dream.
All this hurry-scurry had, however, pretty well subsided by two or three o’clock, and the affrighted Protestants began now, in good earnest, to hope that their terrors had been, after all, but causeless. The arrival of King William’s vanguard was momentarily expected; and the poor Roman Catholic citizens, in this untoward reverse of fortune, began, in turn, to think of securing themselves from the wrath of the invaders, whose whole power was now thought to be approaching within a few hours’ march of the town; and many of them sought shelter, and found it too, by scores, in the shops and houses of the Protestants. Again, however, the tables were destined to be turned, for, at four o’clock, the entire Jacobite army, which was supposed to have been, by this time, far on its march westward, reentered the town — the cavalry foremost, and these followed by the French and Irish foot, with bands playing, and banners displayed, and thundering huzzas. And now, indeed, the panic of the defenceless Protestants was piteous; women screamed — children cried — men barred their doors and windows, and stood in distracted silence, awaiting the overwhelming assault and destruction which all expected — unarmed, unaided, and as they believed, devoted to immediate and frightful ruin and death. Once more, however, their fears were relieved, for the whole army marched through the town without once halting, until they had reached the open country at the other side, where they were formed for the march, and so proceeded westward, astounding many a gaping villager and rustic maiden with the splendour of their long drawn pageant of martial pomp and ringing music.
Still, Lutterell, with some three hundred of the militia, continued to keep garrison for King James, in the city of Dublin, and still the gaols and the provisional prisons, converted to that use for the occasion, remained full — in some cases nearly to suffocation — of the suspected Whigs and Protestants who had been summarily consigned to the rigours of confinement; and still the sentinels kept guard at the doors — sometimes threatening them with immediate execution — sometimes promising to blow them up with gunpowder, said to be stored in the vaults underneath; and, in short, keeping alive their sensibilities by a constant round of such practical pleasantries.
Lutterell, however, a few hours afterwards, followed the army, and withdrew his guards; the prisoners were now at liberty — the militia all gone, and thus the last vestige of James’s supremacy had vanished from the city of Dublin as completely as though the sights and terrors of the last strange year had been but the creations of a dream.
It was not, however, until eight o’clock on the following night that the fearful interregnum which held the city in all the anxiety and agitation of suspense, was finally terminated by the entrance of a single troop of William’s dragoons, who came, with their officer, to take charge of the stores. A contemporary writer, an eye-witness of the scene, describes their reception: “It was impossible,” says the author of the Irish Journal, “the king himself coming after this, could be welcomed with equal joy as this one troop; the Protestants hung about the horses, and were ready to pull the men off them, as they marched up to the Castle.”
Having thus seen the old King fairly out of the island, and the new one established in possession of the Irish capital, leaving William’s army encamped close to Dublin, by the quiet village of Finglas, and that of his illfated rival in active preparation for the defence of Limerick, we shall close this Chapter, designing, in our next, to take up the personal adventures of those whose fortunes we have hitherto followed, under circumstances thus suddenly, and to some of them disastrously, reversed.
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE CATHEDRAL.
THE moon was now high in the heavens, and her blue light fell through the tall arches of a roofless aisle. The hum and buzz of the stirring streets but faintly floated into this solemn and secluded ruin; the bat flitted in his noiseless zig-zag career; the drooping ivy nodded and beckoned from the timeworn buttresses, and thin white mists crept over the grass-grown graves. Through the grey shafts of the Gothic aisle, a little group moves slowly and mysteriously; two men in slouching hats — are carrying in a cloak some heavy, helpless burthen, and stagger and stumble through the undulating graves as they proceed. See, yonder are two others; their coats are thrown aside, and a heavy slab of stone displaced has disclosed a dark, yawning orifice in the wall. See, yet again, another pair of silent figures; side by side they stand beneath the high-arched doorway, under the central tower, guarding, as it seems, the entrance into this melancholy and solemn place. Never did moonlight fall upon two more haggard and resolute faces; swords peep out from the skirts of their short mantles, and pistols gleam in their hands. The faces are fixed as death and all as silent — not even whispers passing. A stranger, looking in through that stone-shafted aisle, might have fancied he beheld the spectres of the guilty dead, re-enacting some of the dark and fearful scenes of the life they had left, in that gho
stly and desolate spot.
About the same time — scarce a stone’s throw away — an earnest colloquy engaged two men in close debate, whose gist and purpose nearly enough affected those silent figures, whom we have just seen in the ruins. There then stood, at this the northern side of the city, among the scattered dwellings of a broad, winding street, a lowly stunted inn, with a thatched roof, and projecting upper story, half barn, half house. Within was a broad, earthen-floored chamber, where dozens of guests, of one kind or another, were talking, singing, eating, and drinking, with small regard either to the criticisms or the convenience of any but their own especial knot of companions. In the rear of this were several deserted stables, the lofts of which had been converted into a sort of common sleeping ward, for the poorer frequenters of this little inn. A few bundles of musty straw supplied the bedding, and a wallet, or saddle, furnished the luxuriously-disposed with bolster and pillow at once. Strewn over the floor of this dreary dormitory, lay some half-dozen tired mortals; some snoring in profound unconsciousness, others kept awake by many an anxious thought for the coming morrow. Among those who slept, was a stout and gloomy-looking old man, rolled in his threadbare cloak, his head supported upon a scanty bundle, tied in a handkerchief, and his deep, stertorous breathing testifying how soundly he slumbered. On a sudden he started up with a look of terror, and gazing into the darkness of the chamber, with a moaning shudder —
“Oh, God! oh, God! what dreams!” he muttered at last; and rising slowly and dejectedly, for he feared to disturb his companions in wretchedness, who were likely to resent such an invasion of their repose with a violence proportionate to the value they set upon this, their solitary luxury, he crept towards the ladder, which led downwards from the loft. Close to this point, however, unfortunately for his peaceable intentions, a recent comer, unseen by our newly-awakened friend, had established himself; and upon this recumbent figure the portly walker set his foot, with a pressure which was any thing but soothing. Up bounced the sleeper from his lair, with a ready oath, and a fist already clenched, to second the imprecation with a blow. A chance ray of moonlight, however, streaming through the broken roof, illuminated the forbidding face of the burly offender, and the assailant stayed his hand; and, after a breathless pause of a few seconds, ejaculated —
Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated) Page 88
