Great Irish Short Stories (5 page)

The bottle was got; and in the meantime the fire blazed up brightly. The storm without, however, did not abate, nor did Meehan and his brother wish that it should. As the elder of them took the glass from the hands of the other, an air of savage pleasure blazed in his eyes, on reflecting that the tempest of the night was favorable to the execution of the villainous deed on which they were bent.

“More power to you!” said Anthony, impiously personifying the storm. “Sure, that’s one proof that God doesn’t throuble His head about what we do, or we would not get such a murtherin’ fine night as is in it, anyhow. That’s it! blow an’ tundher away, an’ keep yourself an’ us as black as hell, sooner than we should fail in what we intind! Anne, your health,
acushla!
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—Yours, Dinny! If you keep your tongue off o’ me, I’ll neither make nor meddle in regard o’ the batin’ o’ you.”

“I hope you’ll stick to that, anyhow,” replied Denis. “For my part, I’m sick and sore o’ you everyday in the year. Many another man would put salt wather between himself and yourself, sooner nor become a batin’-stone for you, as I have been. Few would bear it when they could mend themselves.”

“What’s that you say?” replied Anthony, suddenly laying down his glass, catching his brother by the collar, and looking him, with a murderous scowl, in the face. “Is it thrachery you hint at?—eh? sarpent, is it thrachery you mane?” and as he spoke he compressed Denis’s neck between his powerful hands until the other was black in the face.

Anne flew to her uncle’s assistance, and with much difficulty succeeded in rescuing him from the deadly grip of her father, who exclaimed, as he loosed his hold, “You may thank the girl, or you’d not spake, nor dare to spake, about crossin’ the salt wather or lavin’ me in a desateful way agin. If I ever suspect that a thought of thrachery comes into your heart, I’ll do for you; and you may carry your story to the world I’ll send you to.”

“Father, dear, why are you so suspicious of my uncle?” said Anne. “Sure, he’s a long time livin’ with you, an’ goin’ step for step in all the danger you meet with. If he had a mind to turn out a Judas agin you, he might a done it long agone; not to mintion the throuble it would bring on his own head, seein’ he’s as deep in everything as you are.”

“If that’s all that throubling you,” replied Denis, trembling, “you may make yourself asy on the head of it. But well I know ’tisn’t that that’s on your mind; ’tis your own conscience; but, sure, it’s not fair nor rasonable for you to vent your evil thoughts on me!”

“Well, he won’t,” said Anne; “he’ll quit it; his mind’s throubled, an’, dear knows, it’s no wondher it should. Och, I’d give the world wide that his conscience was lightened of the load that’s upon it! My mother’s lameness is nothing’; but the child, poor thing! An’ it was only widin three days of her lyin’-in. Och, it was a cruel sthroke, father! An’ when I seen its little innocent face, dead, an’ me widout a brother, I thought my heart would break, thinkin’ upon who did it!” The tears fell in showers from her eyes, as she added, “Father, I don’t want to vex you, but I wish you to feel sorry for that at laste. Oh, if you’d bring the priest, an’ give up sich coorses, father dear, how happy we’d be, an’ how happy yourself ud be!”

Conscience for a moment started from her sleep, and uttered a cry of guilt in his spirit; his face became ghastly, and his eyes full of horror; his lips quivered, and he was about to upbraid his daughter with more harshness than usual, when a low whistle, resembling that of a curlew, was heard at a chink of the door. In a moment he gulped down another glass of spirits, and was on his feet: “Go, Denis, an’ get the arms,” said he, “while I let them in.”

On opening the door, three men entered, having their greatcoats muffled about them, and their hats slouched. One of them, named Kenny, was a short villain, but of a thick-set, hairy frame. The other was known as “the Big Mower,” in consequence of his following that employment every season, and of his great skill in performing it. He had a deep-rooted objection against permitting the palm of his hand to be seen; a reluctance which common fame attributed to the fact of his having received on that part the impress of a hot iron, in the shape of the letter T, not forgetting to add that T was the hieroglyphic for Thief. The villain himself affirmed it was simply the mark of a cross, burned into it by a blessed friar, as a charm against St. Vitus’s dance, to which he had been subject. The people, however, were rather sceptical, not of the friar’s power to cure that malady, but of the fact of his ever having moved a limb under it; and they concluded with telling him, good-humoredly enough, that, notwithstanding the charm, he was destined to die “wid the threble of it in his toe.” The third was a noted pedlar called Martin, who, under pretense of selling tape, pins, scissors, &c., was very useful in “setting” such premises as this virtuous fraternity might, without much risk, make a descent upon.

“I thought yees would outstay your time,” said the elder Meehan, relapsing into his determined hardihood of character; “we’re ready, hours agone. Dick Rice gave me two curlew an’ two patrich
⁵
calls today. Now pass the glass among yees while Denny brings the arms. I know there’s danger in this business, in regard of the Cassidys livin’ so near us. If I see anybody afut, I’ll use the curlew call; an’ if not, I’ll whistle twice on the patrich one, an’ yees may come an. The horse is worth aighty guineas if he’s worth a shillin’; an’ we’ll make sixty of him ourselves.”

For some time they chatted about the plan at contemplation, and drank freely of the spirits, until at length the impatience of the elder Meehan at the delay of his brother became ungovernable. His voice deepened into tones of savage passion as he uttered a series of blasphemous curses against this unfortunate butt of his indignation and malignity. At length he rushed out furiously to know why he did not return; but on reaching a secret excavation in the mound against which the house was built, he found, to his utter dismay, that Denis had made his escape by an artificial passage scooped out of it to secure themselves a retreat in case of surprise or detection. It opened behind the house among a clump of blackthorn and brushwood, and was covered with green turf in such a manner as to escape the notice of all who were not acquainted with the secret. Meehan’s face, on his return, was worked up into an expression truly awful.

“We’re sold!” said he; “but stop, I’ll tache the thraithur what revinge is!”

In a moment he awoke his brother’s two sons, and dragged them by the neck, one in each hand, to the hearth.

“Your villain of a father’s off,” said he, “to betray us. Go an’ folly him—bring him back, an’ he’ll be safe from me; but let him become a stag agin us, an’ if I should hunt you both into the bowels of the airth, I’ll send yees to a short account. I don’t care that,” and he snapped his fingers—“ha, ha!—no, I don’t care that for the law; I know how to dale with it when it comes! An’ what’s the stuff about the other world but priestcraft and lies!”

“Maybe,” said the Big Mower, “Denis is gone to get the foreway of us, an’ to take the horse himself. Our best plan is to lose no time, at all events; so let us hurry, for fraid the night might happen to clear up.”

“He!” said Meehan, “he go alone! No; the miserable wretch is afeared of his own shadow. I only wondher he stuck to me so long; but, sure, he wouldn’t, only I bate the courage in, and the fear out of him. You’re right, Brian,” said he, upon reflection; “let us lose no time, but be off. Do yees mind?” he added to his nephews; “did yees hear me? If you see him, let him come back, an’ all will be berrid; but if he doesn’t, you know your fate;” saying which, he and his accomplices departed amid the howling of the storm.

The next morning Carnmore, and indeed the whole parish, was in an uproar; a horse, worth eighty guineas, had been stolen in the most daring manner from the Cassidys, and the hue-and-cry was up after the thief or thieves who took him. For several days the search was closely maintained, but without success: not the slightest trace could be found of him or them. The Cassidys could very well bear to lose him; but there were many struggling farmers, on whose property serious depredations had been committed, who could not sustain their loss so easily. It was natural, under these circumstances, that suspicion should attach to many persons, some of whom had but indifferent characters before, as well as to several who certainly had never deserved suspicion. When a fortnight or so had elapsed, and no circumstances transpired that might lead to discovery, the neighbors, including those who had principally suffered by the robberies, determined to assemble upon a certain day at Cassidy’s house, for the purpose of clearing themselves, on oath, of the imputations thrown out against some of them as accomplices in the thefts. In order, however, that the ceremony should be performed as solemnly as possible, they determined to send for Father Farrell and Mr. Nicholson, a magistrate, both of whom they requested to undertake the task of jointly presiding upon this occasion; and that the circumstance should have every publicity, it was announced from the altar by the priest on the preceding Sabbath, and published on the church gate in large legible characters, ingeniously printed with a pen by the village schoolmaster.

In fact, the intended meeting and the object of it were already notorious; and much conversation was held upon its probable result, and the measures which might be taken against those who should refuse to swear. Of the latter description there was but one opinion, which was that their refusal in such a case would be tantamount to guilt. The innocent were anxious to vindicate themselves from suspicion; and as the suspected did not amount to more than a dozen, of course the whole body of the people, including the thieves themselves, who applauded it as loudly as the others, all expressed their satisfaction at the measures about to be adopted. A day was therefore appointed on which the inhabitants of the neighborhood, particularly the suspected persons, should come to assemble at Cassidy’s house, in order to have the characters of the innocent cleared up, and the guilty made known.

On the evening before this took place were assembled in Meehan’s cottage the elder Meehan and the rest of the gang, including Denis, who had absconded on the night of the theft.

“Well, well, Denny,” said Anthony who forced his rugged nature into an appearance of better temper that he might strengthen the timid spirit of his brother against the scrutiny about to take place on the morrow—perhaps, too, he dreaded him—“Well, well, Denny, I thought, sure enough, that it was some new piece of cowardice came over you. Just think of him,” he added, “shabbin’ off, only because he made, with a bit of a rod, three strokes in the ashes that he thought resembled a coffin!—ha, ha, ha!”

This produced a peal of derision at Denis’s pusillanimous terror.

“Ay!” said the Big Mower, “he was makin’ a coffin, was he? I wondher it wasn’t a rope you drew, Denny. If any here dies in the coil, it will be the greatest coward, an’ that’s yourself.”

“You may all laugh,” replied Denis, “but I know such things to have a manin’. When my mother died, didn’t my father—the heavens be his bed—see a black coach about a week before it? an’ sure, from the first day she tuck ill, the dead-watch was heard in the house every night. And what was more nor that, she kept warm until she went into her grave; an’ accordingly didn’t my sisther Shibby die within a year afther?”

“It’s no matther about thim things,” replied Anthony; “it’s thruth about the dead-watch, my mother keepin’ warm, an’ Shibby’s death, anyway. But on the night we tuck Cassidy’s horse I thought you were goin’ to betray us; I was surely in a murdherin’ passion, an’ would have done harm, only things turned out as they did.”

“Why,” said Denis, “the thruth is, I was afeard some of us would be shot, an’ that the lot would fall on myself; for the coffin, thinks I, was sent as a warnin’. How-and-ever, I spied about Cassidy’s stable till I seen that the coast was clear; so whin I heard the low cry of the patrich that Anthony and I agreed on, I joined yees.”

“Well, about tomorrow,” observed Kenny—“ha, ha, ha!—there’ll be lots o’ swearin’. Why, the whole parish is to switch the primer; many a thumb and coat cuff will be kissed in spite of priest or magistrate. I remimber once, whin I was swearin’ an
alibi
for long Paddy Murray, that suffered for the M’Gees, I kissed my thumb, I thought, so smoothly that no one would notish it; but I had a keen one to dale with, so says he, ‘You know, for the matther o’ that, my good fellow, that you have your thumb to kiss everyday in the week,’ says he; ‘but you might salute the book out o’ dacency and good manners—not,’ says he, ‘that you an’ it are strangers aither; for, if I don’t mistake, you’re an ould hand at swearin’
alibis.
’ At all evints, I had to smack the book itself, and it’s I and Barney Green and Tim Casserly that did swear stiffly for Paddy; but the thing was too clear agin him; so he suffered, poor fellow, an’ died right game, for he said over his dhrop—ha, ha, ha!—that he was as innocent o’ the murdher as a child unborn; and so he was in one sinse, bein’ afther gettin’ absolution.”

“As to thumb-kissin’,” observed the elder Meehan, “let there be none of it among us tomorrow; if we’re caught at it, ’twould be as bad as stayin’ away altogether. For my part, I’ll give it a smack like a pistol shot—ha, ha, ha!”

“I hope they won’t bring the priest’s book,” said Denis. “I haven’t the laste objection agin payin’ my respects to the magistrate’s paper, but somehow I don’t like tastin’ the priest’s in a falsity.”

“Don’t you know,” said the Big Mower, “that whin a magistrate’s present it’s ever an’ always only the Tistament by law that’s used. I myself wouldn’t kiss the mass-book in a falsity.”

“There’s none of us sayin’ we’d do it in a lie,” said the elder Meehan; “an’ it’s well for thousands that the law doesn’t use the priest’s book; though, afther all, aren’t there books that say religion’s all a sham? I think myself it is; for if what they talk about justice an’ Providence is thrue, would Tom Dillon be transported for the robbery we committed at Bantry? Tom, it’s true, was an ould offender; but he was innocent of that, anyway. The world’s all chance, boys, as Sargint Eustace used to say, and whin we die there’s no more about us; so that I don’t see why a man mightn’t was well switch the priest’s book as any other, only that somehow a body can’t shake the terror of it off o’ them.”