The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole. W. H. Maxwell

the cairn—”

      “Proves that their protection was sometimes unavailing.”

      “Could not an armed force restrain vagabonds from plundering?”

      “Wherefore, it is hard to say,” returned the herdsman. “Are you going to B——— to-morrow?”

      “I am.”

      “You are in haste thither?”

      “I must be there by noon.”

      “The special commission sits there the following day. They say it will go hard with the men who killed the gauger?”

      “‘Tis said so; and if the circumstances attendant on the murder be such as are generally believed, they will deserve their fate.”

      The peasant eyed me sharply, and then, with assumed indifference, observed, “The devil is painted always blacker than he is; and something may still come out in the prisoners’ favour. I fear, poor fellows, that they will be prosecuted hard.”

      “That you may be certain of.”

      “Well,” continued my companion, “no doubt Bradley’s death was sudden. But could it be otherwise? Many an aching heart he caused, and the curse of ruined men and houseless children pursued him.”

      As he spoke, we crossed a small hillock, where the mountain-path, which had diverged to the right, once more united itself to the main road. The lake extended itself for more than a mile on one side; and on the other a swamp, impassable alike to man and horse, stretched for a considerable distance between the rugged causeway and the bases of the contiguous high grounds. A deep stream winding through the centre of the morass and creeping lazily beneath a ruined bridge, lost itself in the blue waters of the lake. It was fortunate that my new acquaintance was beside me, or I should have been puzzled where to cross the stream; but, on inquiry, he told me there was a ford, and offered to point it out. For half an hour we jogged on sociably together, chatting on a subject which seemed to occupy my companion’s every thought,—the approaching trial of the murderers. From time to time I observed, however, that he looked anxiously behind him; and suddenly a distant sound like that of coming horsemen made me turn my head. It was not fancy—three persons showed themselves above the ridge; they were the strangers I had encountered at the inn, and from the pace at which they rode, I had no doubt but they were in pursuit of me.

      Indeed, from the first moment they discovered me, their object was perfectly apparent. One of them pointed me out; and, considering the rugged path they had to traverse, they increased their pace to a rapidity that appeared surprising.

      Nor was I insensible to coming clanger. What was to be clone, and how were they to be avoided? Before me, a broken bridge; behind, a pressing enemy; and escape cut off. I could observe, from numerous hoof-marks in the bog, the place where the river was fordable. My mare was fresh, and willingly obeyed a call. I started forward at a rattling pace, and once across the water, had little doubt of effecting an escape.

      Whatever were the herdsman’s original intentions towards me—whether his designs were “wicked or charitable”—the appearance of the strangers made him at once a foe. The instant I spurred my mare, he caught up a stone and flung it with such precision, that it knocked my hat off, but, fortunately, only grazed my head. Then applying his finger to his lips, he uttered a wild and piercing whistle, which echoed through the rocks behind, and was repeated among the distant mountains. The signal was answered promptly. A dozen men, who had been resting in a hollow out of sight, suddenly sprang up; some rushed to the ford—others occupied the road—and all seemed ready and determined to bar my farther progress.

      I had brief time for consideration. To try the ford, guarded as it was, were idle; and to take the bridge, was to select as awkward a leap as ever proved the proverbial courage of a Roscommon rider. The latter only afforded any chance of escape; for I should inevitably be knocked upon the head at the ford, while floundering through the river. Accordingly, I nerved myself’ for the effort—took my mare in hand;—she was the sweetest fencer that ever carried an Irish gentleman!—the spur was answered by a rush at speed,—the bridge cleared at stroke—and we landed in sporting style, a full length beyond the chasm.

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      So far “the work went bravely on.” Although vigorously attacked by several assailants, blows from sticks and stones failed in unhorsing me, and I nearly succeeded in running the gauntlet safely. Two of these brigands were still to be passed, and I charged them at a slashing gallop. They retreated to either side, and avoided the threatened collision; but as I came thundering past, a rope dexterously thrown over the horse’s head, caught me across the chest, and threw me from the saddle on the road with stunning violence. Before I could recover, I was seized, tied hand and foot, a sack thrown over me, lifted on a horse, and an intimation given, that on the slightest effort at outcry or escape, I should be consigned to the deep, sans cérémonie. The better portion of valour is discretion—and I determined to keep quiet—for however loose in keeping ordinary pledges these excellent persons might be, when a drowning match was in the ease, I felt assured that they would redeem their promise to the letter.

CHAPTER V. I AM MISTAKEN FOR A GAUGER IN IRELAND, A GREAT MISTAKE.

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      “It was a wild and strange retreat

      As ere was trod by outlaws’ feet.”—Scott.

      As I hail no ambition to make a Turkish exit, and cause a vacancy in the Twenty-first Fusileers, to use a bull, “even before it was filled,” I submitted with Christian fortitude, and held my peace accordingly. Unresisted, the captors bore me across a shingly beach; for I heard the loose stones rattle as their hurried steps displaced them. In a few minutes they reached a boat, and bundled me in with scanty ceremony, as “honest Jack” was ejected into Datchet Mead. Directly, several men jumped across the thwarts—the keel grated on the gravel—the oars fell rapidly on the water—and away we went, Heaven knew whither!

      On leaving the beach, my captors appeared to consider a longer silence unnecessary; for they laughed and jested with each other, although what seemed marvellous good fun to them, was death to me.

      “Good night, Tom,”—said a pleasant gentleman from the shore,—“God bless the venture! sure it’s the first ye carried of the kind!”

      “Don’t,” observed a second, “make mistakes; men are not malt; and be sure ye don’t give the contents of yonder sack a steeping.”

      “I have done worse however, before now,” returned a rough voice beside me, “and on my poor conscience, I think a few stones in the bottom of the bag would make all right, and save both time and trouble.”

      Supposing it no harm to share a conversation in which I was so essentially concerned, I muttered an indistinct dissent.

      “What’s that he’s mumbling about?” inquired a person in the boat’s bow.

      “And what’s that to you?” was politely responded by my next neighbour, as he applied knuckles, hard as ebony, to my ribs, I presume to enforce his admonition. “Badda-hurst, * or I’ll slip you across the gunnel before you have time to bless yourself. Pull, will ye? Hurry to the island; for before this time I should have been half way to Carrick Beg, instead of ferrying blackguard gaugers to Innisteagles.”

      * Hold your tongue.

      Ferrying blackguard gaugers! “What did the fellow mean? It was a singular observation, and I ventured to remark it.

      “What—muttering again!” replied the voice. “Can you swim, friend?”