Complete Works of Sheridan Le Fanu (Illustrated), page 93
With such directions, Garrett stimulated his men, sooth to say, nothing loath themselves to extreme severity, in pinioning the prisoner s arms, and drawing the cords to their utmost tension; and thus, in a few seconds more, Torlogh O’Brien, bareheaded, his long hair matted and tangled in the struggle, his hands and his face smeared with blood — pale and faint from exhaustion — stood once more, pinioned and securely guarded by two soldiers, before his now entirely triumphant enemy.
CHAPTER LI.
THE RIDE BY MOONLIGHT.
“WELL, sir, methinks you have at last got yourself fairly into pound; and egad you will scarce get out Scot free,” exclaimed Garrett, as he seated himself opposite to his prisoner, and eyed him with a smile and a scowl, grim enough to behold. “You don’t care, I presume, to give any information — dogged, of course; corporal, search him.”
To attempt resistance under the circumstances would have been as undignified as futile. Torlogh, therefore, submitted in sullen silence.
“Ha! his commission,” said Garrett, glancing at the parchment document, as he placed it in his pocket. “And what’s this? — a letter,” he continued, roughly opening the next paper handed to him.
“Do not read that — I charge you as you would be held a gentleman — read it not,” interrupted Torlogh, indignantly.
With provoking coolness, Garrett proceeded to read it, nevertheless; and, as he did so, bit his lip, and turned deadly pale — then, tearing it slowly into strips and across and across, he flung it back into the grate, with a sneer, observing —
“You’re not like to read such amorous memorials long, I promise you, master pedlar, though, sooth to say, it were a pity to spoil so promising a romance — but spies are spies, though never so deep in love, and must to the gallows as often as they are caught. Corporal,” he continued, “look out a stout piece of rope in the stables there. We’ll swing the traitor from one of the old orchard boughs — would every branch bore fruit as good. Meanwhile march him into one of the buildings, where he may say his prayers, and commend himself to his mistress, before all’s over. Away with him — march.”
The concluding order was spoken in a loud and peremptory tone, for he obviously did not care to hear his victim speak — and saw, or thought he saw, a disposition on his part to do so. Avoiding his very glance, Garrett turned abruptly on his heel, and strode to the window, through which he continued to look, whistling in affected carelessness, until the prisoner and his guard had passed forth.
He then became silent, glanced quickly through the room in dark abstraction, and again looked forth in gloomy silence.
“Cangley,” said he, addressing an officer, “I and Mr. Strong (here he glanced at the chaplain), will return this evening to headquarters; you take the command of the detachment in my absence — have your in at Ballinasloe by noon tomorrow — there you will at least hear of our position, and join the regiment forthwith; keep a sharp look out all night — do you mind — and hang and shoot any of the rapparees you may chance to light upon; don’t let the dogs escape. Parson, come hither,” he added, addressing the chaplain, and leading that perplexed official forth. They walked, arm in arm, in the little enclosure, to and fro, in earnest conference.
“Promise him, then,” said Garrett, in conclusion, “that you will contrive his escape, or procure his pardon; say anything, in short, so that you lead him to tell you all about that old woman’s papers and jewels; first, is Lady Willoughby actually dead — and then, what has become of her valuable jewels, and all the rest. I have a claim for some six or eight years’ maintenance upon them — I can’t afford to be swindled out of this.”
“I’ll see what may be honestly done,” he replied; “I’ll do all I fairly may.”
“Here you, sir,” said Garrett, striking one of the soldiers with the cane he carried, as he might an ill-favoured dog; “here you, sir — you, Hartley — go in yonder to the prisoner — tell him from me to collect his wits, and prepare for an interview, and see that the cord is well secured about his arms — be quick, sirrah,” he added, menacing him with a repetition of the blow; “and make no blunders — or by the mass, you shall walk the gauntlet, as you did before.”
In surly silence the fellow obeyed; and it was not till he had reached the door of the stable where the prisoner was confined, that he muttered bitterly —
“Walk the gauntlet again — I believe you would flay me alive, if you dare. Well, I’ll put a spoke in your wheel for all that — I will — and now’s the time.”
The dusk had now closed, and the rude chamber which he entered was so dark, that for a moment he could not discern its inmate. In gloomy despair, exhausted by vehement but fruitless efforts to free his hands, he was now sitting sullenly by the wall. The soldier came close up to him without speaking. He then said in a low but distinct tone —
“See, comrade — whoever you be — Captain Garrett means to pay you a visit — he’ll be in this minute, to wheedle something out of you; but never mind: will you fight him and finish him, if you can, provided I loose your arms, and give you this knife?”
“I’ll fight for my life — I’ll fight while I’ve a drop of blood; give nr this chance,” said Torlogh, fiercely.
“You must wait here for him; and never say, if it fails, how you came by the knife,” he pursued; “do you swear this?”
“I swear — as a soldier and a gentleman, I pledge my honour,” said Torlogh, earnestly.
“Then, here goes,” said the fellow, sullenly, as he ripped open the strained cordage; “now use your hands, when he comes — and use this to a purpose,” he added, in a whisper, and placed the sharp knife, whose blade was full six inches long, in his grasp.
This done and said, he vanished — the door was secured outside — and all passed so rapidly, that but for the evidences in which he could not be deceived, he would have almost thought it a dream.
Nearly a quarter of an hour elapsed, which, to the prisoner, seemed to embrace whole hours of suspense, without the appearance of the expected visitant. At length, however, the chaplain entered. Torlogh O’Brien had placed himself in the shadow of the door, and recognized the intruder at a glance. Cautiously the lank gentleman in the mantle and cassock advanced, and our hero’s first impulse was to avail himself of the open door, and relying upon his own strength and activity, to venture all upon one: bold effort; the hazard of attempting to brave his way, single-handed, through an enclosure filled with troopers, was well nigh desperate; and in the momentary hesitation, another, and as it seemed a more hopeful scheme, flashed upon his mind. Upon this latter he resolved to stake all — and with caution and rapidity, he proceeded thus to its execution: —
With tread as noiseless as that of a cat, he lightly followed the stooped and groping figure, which was moving before him toward the dark extremity of the chamber. Had his own urgent and awful danger admitted an emotion of mirth, he might well have smiled at the ludicrous attitudes of the long-legged pastor — who, sweeping his lank arms slowly before him, groped and stumbled cautiously onward, in a stooping posture, ejaculating, as he proceeded —
“Prisoner — I say, prisoner, bestir thyself; prisoner, where’s thy tongue, man? — I’ll not harm thee.”
If his ungainly attitudes and strange intonations were calculated to make our hero smile, what followed, had not his own life hung upon the issue, might well have made him laugh outright.
Collecting his whole strength, and watching his opportunity well — for the formidable proportions of his antagonist were not to be despised — Torlogh O’Brien waited until the cowering figure turned, in its bewildered search, towards himself; and then, with a single spring, clutching him by the throat, he hurled him backward, and with his whole weight, pinned him to the pavement. The violence of his fall — the utter unexpectedness of the assault — and a thousand confused apprehensions, prevented his attempting, for some seconds, to move, or even to speak: of these moments, Torlogh promptly availed himself: —
“I am armed — speak not — make no sound — and I swear you shall have no hurt; but if you attempt to stir, or give the alarm, by — you shall die; I’m armed — once more, beware. Listen to my proposal,” he continued, his hand still griped upon the throat of the prostrate man, with a pressure which just allowed him space to breathe; “listen — and submit with prudence.”
*
Meanwhile a sentinel with loaded musket, paced and repaced the space before the stable-door — dragoons smoked and loitered in the yard — two guards kept the outer gate, and Miles Garrett sate mounted upon his steed, while the brave Roland, never more, as it seemed, to bear his true master to the field, stood saddled beside him; an escort of four dragoons, moreover, stood by their horses, awaiting the order to mount, and close by the cavalcade a rope was swinging from a strong bough, and underneath a cart was placed. Upon these ominous preparations, Garrett looked from time to time with a kind of fascination — it was not pleasure, nor yet fear — a strange and horrible attraction, from which he seemed himself impatient to escape, for he looked often at his watch, and then through the gateway into the yard; at length muttering something which might have been either a curse, or a congratulation, between his teeth, he beheld the chaplain stalk slowly and gloomily forth; the impatient steed neighed shrilly, as his rider approached. The stalworth chaplain gloomily mounted; he seemed, in truth, sorely crestfallen and depressed. The escort also mounted, and this little military cavalcade began to move at a brisk pace along the narrow and shaded road. They had ridden some way ere Garrett spoke.
“Well,” he said, abruptly, “what did the scoundrel tell you?”
The dragoons were riding at a sharp trot, the pace which they had all kept hitherto, in advance of them, and the chaplain drew bridle as if about to make a disclosure more at his ease; he pointed, however, silently down a narrow lane, at the foot of which under a long perspective of stooping bushes, the waters of the glorious Shannon were glittering in the moonbeams.
“Well — what of it?” demanded Garrett, surlily, “you don’t want fa ford the water — do you?”
“Aye, but I do though,” answered he of the cassock, sternly; “look at me, and know me.”
Miles Garrett looked, and aghast beheld Torlogh O’Brien himself; he had dropped the heavy cloak from his shoulders, to disembarrass his movements, and the stern, statue-like features, and fiery eyes, looked full upon the almost cowering villain.
“Miscreant,” he said, in a tone of intense and deadly calmness, “well may you despair — conscience tells you you deserve to die — here — this moment — by my hand— ‘twere but to touch this trigger, and all your villainies are ended; but, murderer as you are, I will not at advantage take your life, unless you force me to it; nay, advance not your hand to the holster; turn not, move not, except as I direct, or by heaven you die upon the spot, even were you innocent, as you are in reality blasted with every crime. Now, sir, we understand each other; I charge you on your life, restore me my commission; nay, no dallying — so there now, sir, follow your troopers at what pace you please.”
Garrett hesitated for a moment, eyed his companion with a look of hideous rage, and perhaps was for a moment upon the point of risking all upon one desperate struggle; he wheeled about, however, and furiously dashing the spurs into his steed, was scarcely a pistol-shot away, when he shouted the alarm at the top of his voice.
“Now for it — now, my good Roland, thy master’s life is in thy keeping — true mettled — fleet of limb — away — away!”
As he spoke, he gave him rein, and spring after spring away they went.’ Soaring like the wind down the steep road — behind them thunders the clatter of pursuit, and the hoarse shouting of the chace lends wings to their headlong speed, and now he plunges into the ford, high sheets the water round him in glittering spray, and down the steep road he has but just descended, his enemies come spurring and shouting like a demon chace, down to the water’s brink they rattle.
Some plunge in, and follow; others spring from their horses and unsling their pieces — see how he plunges through the water close to the opposing bank — two shots, in quick succession — ha! is he down? no it was but a stumble; see, he shouts and waives his hat in defiance — now up the steep bank he plunges and scrambles — another shot — by the mass it has spun his hat off — he turns in the saddle as he clears the brow, and waives his hand with an exulting cheer, and in a moment more the rising bank has interposed, he gains upon them every second.
For a mile or more at reckless speed the chase was maintained. The interval, however, was obviously increasing between the pursued and the pursuers, and Garrett, in rage and despair, reins in his horse at last Hoarse with curses and threats, he railed and stormed at his men, and at the fugitive in turn.
CHAPTER LII.
THE CAMP AND THE FIELD OF AGHRIM.
AFTER little more than an hour’s brisk riding, Torlogh O’Brien found himself traversing the straight and narrow paved road, which in those days formed the immediate approach of the ancient town of Aghrim. The misty moonlight covered the whole landscape; to the left rose the softened outline of the hill of Kilcomedan — a gentle eminence of a mile or so in length, with the little town of Aghrim snugly nestled at its foot, and the white canvas of the Irish camp studding its crest from end to end. Hundreds of ruddy fires were glowing, and around them were visible the gliding forms of soldiery and peasants; a hum and murmur like that of a crowded city, filled the night air. The lowing of cattle, penned for slaughter in the ruined castle which flanked the road, close to its entrance into the town, the distant neighing of horses, and the sullen roll of drums, enhanced, by a thousand martial and thrilling associations, the excitement which made his heart beat thick and fast, as he drew near the destined field of battle.
He soon fell in with the Irish pickets, and having stated his rank, and proved it by producing his commission, was, at his own request, conducted directly to Lord Lucan’s tent. Passing, therefore, through the then excited little town, with its stout, heavy-chimnied, thatched houses, ringing with laughter, and singing, and all kinds of merriment, he pursued, with his escort, the steep road which mounts the crest of the sweeping hill, and entering the entrenched camp, found himself in a few minutes in Sarsfield’s tent. His welcome was frank and cordial.
“You have a keen relish, colonel, for danger,” said he, briskly; “you have just arrived in time — tomorrow we expect hot work enough, and to spare; but it is needful you should see the precious commander-in-chief they have sent us from Paris, before you assume the command of your regiment; so let us to his tent at once, as much is to be done, and little time to do it in.”
“Had I not better first see O’Mara, and get at my trunk mails,” said Torlogh, glancing at his unmilitary attire, “these French generals, they say, are punctilious in matters of the toilet.’
“Pshaw! what care you or I for the coxcomb’s fancies,” said Sarsfield gruffly, at the same time planting his cocked hat carelessly on, and taking Torlogh by the arm; “we don’t want petit maitres, but men of head and action, and the oftener we let him see it, the better he’s like to behave himself; besides, I command the cavalry, and I stand between you and the fellow’s annoyance; if he don t like your dress, we can’t help it — there’s matter more important for tonight, than triming of ruffles and unpapering of gold lace.”
As he thus spoke, he led O’Brien through a portion of the camp, until they reached, near the very summit of the hill, one of these ancient raths which abound in Ireland; this was an unusually large one, with a high embankment hedged with wild bushes and brambles surrounding it; and in the centre of the enclosed area stood the tent of the Marquis de St. Ruth. Passing the sentinels who guarded the levelled way into the fort, and who saluted Lord Lucan, that officer led his companion to the general’s tent.
“Lord Lucan,” said Sarsfield, curtly announcing himself to the starch old military servant who came to the tent door.
“Pray come in, my lord,” answered the grizzled veteran, with a low inclination, and employing the French language, in which the subsequent conversation was also conducted.
General St. Ruth was sitting writing at a table under a strong light. He was a well-built, handsome man, of some fifty years; sharp and masculine of feature; dark complexioned; and with a countenance decidedly bold and energetic; though marred a little in expression by a certain superciliousness, not to say disdain, which had, perhaps, helped to provoke the positive dislike with which Lord Lucan regarded him.
Without raising his head, the French general continued to write in apparent unconsciousness of the presence of his visiters. If this unconsciousness was assumed, it was certainly well acted. Sarsfield, however, abruptly terminated it by intimating his presence in a sharp and peremptory tone.
General St. Ruth rose and recieved Lord Lucan with a formal and distant salutation, and remained standing, it is to be presumed, to void the necessity of asking his visiter to be seated.
“Some business, I presume, my lord?” he said, drily enough.
Sarsfield replied by presenting Torlogh O’Brien, and to him St. Ruth spoke for several minutes with easy courtesy, never addressing one word to his companion, who, much nettled at the foreigner’s studied coolness, constrained his resentment so far as to affect indifference.
“Adieu, colonel,” said St. Ruth at last, still confining his attention to O’Brien, “we much needed cavalry officers, such as I already judge you to be — gentlemen who understand and do their own business, without interfering in that of others.”
“By my faith,” interposed Sarsfield, unceremoniously, and almost savagely — for he knew that the last remark had been pointed at himself; there is, indeed, a sore lack of men who understand their business here a derth by no means mendedby any late arrivals we can toast. It was conspicuously proved at Athlone, and I trust may not be so again tomorrow.”
