Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 62
Again, a little apart from them, and still as a waxen mask, might be seen, under the shadow of her red hood, the yellow shrivelled features of the old nurse, who, seated upon a rude armchair by the expiring embers of the fire, with closed eyes and trembling fingers, fast and fervently told the beads of her rosary; and thus did even this chamber send forth its contingent of noise, its weeping, and wailing, and gnashing of teeth, to mingle in the infernal chorus that scared the sober night.
The rapparees had lost not a few of their men, killed by the fire from the castle, whose bodies lay crushed and mangled under the feet of the enraged survivors, and about thirty or forty, besides, more or less wounded, when, disappointed by the obstinacy with which the gate had resisted the formidable force brought to bear upon it, Ryan, whose carbine had been employed as fast as he could load it, in marking every embrasure and loophole in the walls — now with a savage imprecation, resolved on abandoning this plan of attack, and trying another, which as he believed could hardly fail of success; sharp and shrilly he whistled again and again, and as the summons reached his followers, the wild hurly burly subsided, and they retreated, like the stormy scud hurrying before the blast, from the castle front.
Ignorant of the cause of this movement, those who occupied the point of attack, cheered fiercely as they discharged their pieces upon the rear of the retiring groups, and then shook hands, and almost wept for joy, in the delusive hope that the attack was now finally abandoned in despair — and the danger which had but a moment or two before so appalingly and overpoweringly menaced them, indeed safely and triumphantly overpast.
Not a shot had been fired from any side of the castle but the one, the immense masses which beset the building on the other aspects lying inactive, excepting in so far as they joined in the fearful war cry, which sounded as though twelve legions of yelling demons hovered in the overhanging air, making every echo vocal with their hellish revelry of hate and frenzy. It would seem as though these Multitudinous reserves were designed, not for actual attack, but only to prevent the possibility of the escape of a single human being from the desperately defended fortress; and now, in strange and almost awful contrast with the recent stirring tumult, all alike, without and within, sank into hushed and still repose, leaving no sounds save the rush of the waters and the melancholy soughing of the wind to fill the listening ear.
The gallant gentlemen and hardy yeomen, reeking from their recent exertions, their haggard faces smirched with powder, and some among them bleeding, half choked with smoke, and holding their hot muskets in their grimed hands, looked forth into the void space so recently occupied by their terrific assailants, lost in wonder as to the cause of their sudden disappearance, and scarcely crediting the evidence of their senses, which assured them that the Irish had really withdrawn. Some laughed in their excitement, others almost shed tears, some lifted up their voices in solemn and fervent thanksgivings; and there were also some who, smarting from their recent hurts, bitterly cursed “the murderous savages,” as they wiped away the trickling blood, muttering many a sanguinary and ferocious imprecation, and swearing many a vow of vengeance.
“By my faith,” said Percy Neville, answering a vehement tirade of Stepney’s, “call them cowards and savages if you will, but as far as I may pronounce from my own poor personal experiences, their flesh wounds smart as much as those of the politest and most valorous people upon earth; and thus much too I will aver, that in this skirmish they have borne themselves as prettily as any men need do.”
“I fear that we have seen but the beginning of this night’s work,” said old Sir Hugh, as leaning upon the muzzle of his piece, he looked anxiously into the increasing darkness, in the vain search for some decisive manifestation to determine the doubtful problem of the enemy’s designs. “I would rather than a thousand pounds,” he continued, gloomily, “that I had thrown all the corn and hay into the river this morning — but that cannot now be cured; and praised be Heaven, these walls are strong, and have been proved by fire before; nevertheless, I would fain that this wind went down.”
“It blows a fresh breeze,” said old Stepney.
“I wish the gentlemen outside would make up their minds at once,” said Neville, with a shiver; it’s odds, if they don’t, but we shall all take cold. Here stand we all cooling, like new candles in a row, while the bar barians are supping comfortably on old Tisdal. I’ faith, if they deliberate much longer, I shall, for one, go peaceably to bed — but ha! they are at it again.”
“And now — God guard and save us; for what I feared is indeed come at last,” echoed Sir Hugh, with despairing vehemence. “Were it not for this accursed storm, I would still fearlessly defy them — but — but — we must not despair.”
As the old man thus spoke, several lights, like red meteoric fires, came dancing and running in serpentine and wavy lines up the road, and shedding long streams of sparkles in the blast.
“What, in wonder’s name are these?” whispered the young man, as he watched the strange phenomenon— “squibs — fireworks!”
“No such thing,” replied Sir Hugh, sternly, as he rammed home the wadding of his piece— “lighted turfs to fire the corn and hay stacks — and all the store of turf, and to burn us out if possible.”
So saying, the old knight resting his carbine on the sill of the loophole, fired — and, with a yell, they saw the dark form of the foremost runner, roll to the earth, while the lighted coal bounded onward in the blast, till it spent itself along the road in showers of sparks — the moon being now set, the darkness had so increased, that it was impossible any longer to discern the forms of objects, except when very near, so that the will-o’-the-wisp vagaries of these gliding stars alone guided the aim of the marksmen within the castle, and now once more began to swell and peal the same wild war-cry from every side, and the musketry from the walls to flash and clang with sharper echo from without.
“I fear we can scarce stand here much longer,” said Percy Neville, for the first time exhibiting something like dismay— “the smoke begins to thicken so, that the place is all but stifling.”
Still, however, the shots fell fast, and as he stood by the window and levelled his piece, through the rolling masses of dense white smoke, he suddenly staggered backward, exclaiming with an oath, “I’m hit at the same moment his right arm dropped powerlessly by his side, and his weapon falling on the floor, exploded.
“Don’t mind me,” said the young man, “it’s nothing — nothing — it has unstrung my arm for the present, that’s all.” And so saying, dizzy and faint with pain, he staggered down the steps.
And now the cloud of smoke, white, dense, rolling and eddying in the rushing breeze, and huge enough to hide a mountain in its mighty folds, came streaked with streams of glittering sparks, flying high and low in its rolling tide. And now again, this awful cloud of smoke that tumbles and whirls till every corner, nook, and crevice of the great yard is lost in thickening vapour, begins to glow with a broad hue of deep fierce crimson, now reflected and now fading, anon coming and again lost, and then returning with increasing, widening, deepening glare; while the air grows hot, and the wild yell of the assailants swells and soars from every side, until it seems as it were to overarch the devoted structure in one huge dome of ringing and roaring iron. And now it is done, the flame bursts clear, magnificent appalling — in one vast, surging, living sheet of red, with a sound like the rattle and roar of thunder through the dense shroud of rolling smoke, and over the front wall of the castle, towering high and wide, and spreading and pealing, while hill and wood and sky, glare like a furnace in its terrific illumination. Well was it for all within the castle walls, that the buildings most exposed, were roofed with vaulted stone, and for the most part floored with the same — else all within must have been speedily destroyed — the iron stanchions of the windows, heated to whiteness in the torrent of flame, bent and warped like bars of wax, and the lead trickled down the old walls in streams like tears along the furrowed cheeks of age. The whole front of the building was of course abandoned, and those who had manned its towers and embrasures, were forced by the scorching glare, to fly for safety to the further side of the yard, and shelter within the buildings, where resolutely they took their stand, resolved, whenever the flames should abate, to dispute the entrance of the marauders, to the death. Meanwhile, between the hostile parties there roared a surging gulf of fire; within was wild panic, or sullen despair — the black and deadly determination of men who feel that their hour is come, and have resolved to sell their lives as dearly as they can. Had there lain a passage through the door which opened upon the garden at the side, no threats, arguments, or entreaty, could have prevented the little garrison, though the attempt were the veriest madness and certain destruction — from sallying forth and plunging furiously into the thick of their elated enemies — but that door had been secured both on the outside and within by solid masonry, and now there remained for them nothing but the horrors of suspense, the resolution of despair.
Without — what a spectacle — what a wide sea of upturned grinning faces — long elf-locks, bearded chins, wild gleaming eyes — what rushing and pressing and swaying hither and thither of the dense living mass — what flashing of skeans and pike heads, in the broad red effulgence of the towering conflagration.
Pressing among the burning turf, and heedless of the scorching fire, the foremost of the throng caught up the glowing sods, and hurled them through the arching flame over the castle walls, in a thickening hail-storm of fire. Tumbling, bounding, rolling, hopping, these missiles, speeding like rockets through the pitchy air, burst into fragments upon the pavement, scorching and burning the maddened cattle — who, bellowing, butting, rearing, and bolting in blind fury, broke loose from their pens, and gored each other — rushing hither and thither, and adding new horror and confusion to the frantic scene.
CHAPTER XV.
THE STRUGGLE IS OVER.
THE great oak gate had now given way; and through the arched passage the flame was roaring like a torrent through a mill-sluice; and still downward, through the eddying smoke and sparks, poured faster and thicker the storm of fiery missiles from above: and all, amid the fiercest and wildest tempest of thundering execration, triumph, and fury — in which the occasional discharge of musketry, and the whizzing of the bullets, were wholly lost and swallowed up. And now the air grew too hot almost for respiration or sight — stifling, blinding, and intolerable. Forced into shelter within the buildings at the further end of the yard, the desperate defenders of the place stood by the closed windows, with their loaded weapons in their hands; and with contracted brows and pallid faces, watched the fluctuations of the dazzling and gigantic surf of mounting fire which roared and tumbled before them.
Meanwhile, without, the motley thousands thronged and pressed with fiercer and sterner exultation around the outer ring of the gradually receding fire; and foremost, reeling in the gripe of some dozen of the crowded assailants, with his arms bound and face bleeding, and apparently insensible or lifeless, was thrust and tumbled onwards, amid a storm of jeers and execrations, the helpless form of Jeremiah Tisdal. Anathemas, sarcasms, and terrific menaces, chiefly delivered in the strong emphatic gutturals of the native tongue, rang around him, amid yells and threatening laughter to the full as frightful.
“Ring the tongue out of the dog,” cried one voice; “rip him up,” yelled another; “drive a coal down his throat,” shrieked a third; “sink the pikes in him “roast the black Sassenach “plough him up with the knives “lift him into the bonfire such, and such like were the conflicting suggestions of the multitude.
“Hands off there,” cried Hogan, authoritatively, so as to deter those who seemed most practically disposed; “hands off, ye bliguards, an’ take it aisy. Can’t yez have common patience, an’ not be spoilin’ your own sport. Where’s the good in skiverin’ the prisoner — devil’s cure to him, for a black old heretic scoundrel — in such an unrasonable hurry. See, Mara,” he continued, addressing the most athletic of the party who held Tisdal; “I’m thinkin’ after all, there’s no use waitin’ with him all night; so just take him up to the top of the gallows hillock, and swing him up in sight of the scoundrels in the castle, to comfort them while they’re roastin’.”
The mandate was hardly uttered, when the luckless puritan, torn, breathless, stunned, and helpless, was dragged through the crowd, by the wild lictors, who were to preside at his execution; and borne onward rather than walking, was forced up the steep and abrupt eminence, on which, in former times, used to stand the gallow’s, upon which the lords of Glindarragh were wont to exercise the sternest prerogative of a savage feudalism. A long ladder was speedily upreared, sunk in the ground to the depth of a few feet, inclining forwards towards the castle walls, and propped in front by three or four stout spars. And while this extempore substitute for a gibbet was in process of erection, others of the party were hotly engaged in twisting a strong hay-rope, or sougaun — and now, the preparations all being completed, a wild, half naked boy, with one end of the halter between his teeth, climbed nimbly up the ladder and passed the cord over the topmost round; and as soon as both extremities of it rested upon the ground, the grinning urchin descended with a whoop of savage delight.
Meanwhile, those who were employed below had torn open Tisdal’s shirt at the throat; and the old man’s bull neck, with all its swollen cordage of veins and sinews lay exposed to the gripe of the rope.
“What are you going to murder me for?” growled Tisdal almost inarticulately, as his eye wandered over the tremendous spectacle which lay beneath and about him. “Don’t kill me in cold blood, boys — don’t kill an unarmed man.”
“Unarmed, you murdherin’ wolf, you,” retorted the fellow next him, dealing him a buffet in the mouth, which, had he not been so closely wedged among the crowd of his eager executioners, as to render prostration impossible, must have felled him to the ground; and which, as it was, bathed his chin and throat in streams of blood; “unarmed, sure enough; for we took it from you, you black-hearted villain, before you could get in to your friends. But look down there — look at them all, where they’re roastin’ in hell before you — look at bloody Willoughby, an’ the rest o’ them.”
“For God’s sake, boys,” Tisdal essayed to plead; “for God’s sake— “
The adjuration was, however, drowned in a yell of curses and derision. “Hell’s gapin’ for you “the devil ‘ill be burnin’ wisps on your sowl before mornin’ “up with the heretic dog “give him a good view of ould Willoughby “hang him like a mad dog.”
Such exclamations, and a perfect hurricane of Irish anathemas, jeers, and denunciations stunned and overwhelmed the wretched man. And now, amid this uproarious jargon, the noose of the rude rope is forced over his head, and drawn tight upon his throat. He tries to struggle, to cry, to pray — the dreadful scene reels and dances before him — and now the cord is strained — tug after tug raises him from the earth — and with every fresh swing, a yell bursts from the surrounding crowd, of fierce exultation and defiance; but to his ear they sink into a stifled hum — before his eyes a pitchy darkness, flashing with balls of fire, is spread — a ringing, as of mighty bells, is in his brain — an intolerable sense of suffocation and bursting, along with the dull throes of maddening terror, supervene — and now, he feels no more.
The clamorous crowd, straining with weight and muscle, had hardly succeeded in raising their convulsed and blackening victim eight feet from the earth, when the hay rope which sustained his body gave way, and breaking, suffered the now unconscious, though still living, burthen to tumble heavily to the ground.
“Knot it “bad luck to it for a sougaun “splice it and a hundred such exclamations followed; while, dragging Tisdal back, they set him, half upright against the foot of the ladder, a hideous effigy of glaring, livid strangulation — and hastily repaired the rude appliances of this savage execution.
While this scene was passing upon the little hillock overlooking the castle, the main body of the aggressive party, more keenly interested in the progress of the fire, and the prospect of speedily forcing an entrance through the passage which it had opened, scarce turned their thoughts or their eyes upon the dreadful spectacle. The fire had now evidently exhausted its fiercest strength, and was beginning perceptibly to wane; and Ned of the Hills and Hogan were already marshalling the best armed and the most reckless and powerful of their men in the van, to enter the castle, in a compact mass, sustained by the momentum of all the others; who, in a wild rabble-rout would drive onward from behind, the moment the subsidence of the now nearly expended conflagration should have rendered advance practicable.
Matters were in this position, when a cry arose among the more distant stragglers of the rapparees, which speedily spread itself onward, till it penetrated the denser body around the castle walls, and gradually hushed the threatening clamours with which, but a moment before, the surrounding echoes were pealing: “the sogers! — the dragoons!” Such were the words which wrought this magic effect.
“This is the devil’s luck,” said Eaman a Knuck, who, with Hogan by his side, was at this moment, with earnest gesture and fiercely rapid orders, reiterating his commands to the shockheaded, bearded, ferocious guerrillas; who, firmly planted, shoulder to shoulder, with their pikes grasped short, or skeans gleaming in their sinewy hands, bare-armed and bareheaded, awaited the moment when the signal for the last tug of conflict should end for ever the protracted struggle. Suddenly pausing, and with his blackened hands throwing back his damp sable tresses, he turned scowlingly in the direction from which were now faintly heard the distant signals of the trumpet, floating onward upon the night wind, with the fiery and fretted eye with which the hawk, wheeling to stoop upon his prey, might first descry, in the dim distance, the sable presence of the soaring eagle who hovers onward to wrest it from his talons. With such a glance did the swarthy rapparee for a minute scowl into the darksome void from whence this martial music came sweeping toward Glindarragh.
