The Felon's Track Part 12

Before proceeding further with the details of my own wanderings, I wish to follow out to its conclusion the fate of those whom we parted with at Ballingarry, and were destined to see no more, though, in doing so, I must antic.i.p.ate the order of time, in which the events took place. My task here is more difficult and painful than any detail of facts, however gloomy. There are always in the reverses of the brave, some glimpses of glory to reconcile us to the dark disasters on our way; but when calumny pursues their path, gnawing, with ceaseless tooth, the priceless jewel of their character, the historian must shudder to find his labour beset by the filth and rubbish the viper has left behind. In this instance, that lesson of Mr. O'Connell's which was the most fatal in its influence, found many believers. It was said, and said unscrupulously, that Mr. O'Brien and his followers were actual agents of the British Government, suborned to precipitate the country into revolution, for which they were to receive large possessions and lucrative employment beyond the sea. It was the constant habit of Mr.

O'Connell, when any one proposed a course bolder than his own, to suggest that he was doing the business of the enemy. He may have adopted this course in his self-a.s.sumed character of Dictator, as the surest and speediest means of clearing all obstructions out of his way.

Whatever his motive, it was an unworthy resource; for it supplied the meanest minds with an example and a pretext for the gratification of their own vile propensities. Their voice was heard, amid the silence of mourning and death, when in an hour of universal dismay, John Mitchel was borne from his loved fatherland; and still more audibly when the dungeon closed on Smith O'Brien and his ill.u.s.trious comrades. In the latter instance, slander availed itself of an incident connected with their arrest to justify its infamous conclusions. "If," it croaked, "they were in earnest, why suffer themselves to be arrested so easily?--Why come to the railway terminus?--Why parade on the high road in front of a police barrack? In effect, why surrender?" But in Ireland this was little heeded; nor should I deem it worthy of the least notice, if it were not revived in the new world, under circ.u.mstances calculated to give it credence and durability. At one time it is insinuated that they "surrendered," such as "it was said they gave themselves up," and immediately afterwards, in reference to the period or the fact, is to be found "at the time of Mr. O'Brien's surrender." And again, in the same breath, it is positively stated as a mere matter of course.

The propagator of this malignity knows it to be false. He knows also that it serves the purpose of those who would charge the country's truest and bravest with vilest treachery.

I shall pursue the theme no further. The truth is, Mr. O'Brien remained among a people who were sorely stricken by terror. Their friends were dead or scattered; and rumour, with a thousand tongues, multiplied the most awful horrors which were said to be approaching them. Although they received and sheltered Mr. O'Brien, he evidently saw that their generosity cost them dearly, and that they were in the utmost alarm. His own privations he could endure; but not the fear and suffering his presence caused to others. This, and this only, determined him in the first instance. He might also have hoped that if he could reach the neighbourhood of his own home, he would be defended with desperate fidelity. He was aware that Mr. Richard O'Gorman was in that district, and he had been informed that he was followed by thousands. That he did not seek to reach the county Limerick by some other means of conveyance--by a car, on foot, or on horseback--may be a mistake of judgment; but none would be free from peril: and had he escaped detection at Thurles, there would not be the least danger, until he reached Cahermoyle, as the rest of the journey would be entirely by night. His sagacity may be questioned, perhaps, but it is extreme villainy to question his purpose. He took that course only and solely because he thought it the safest; and he had no more intention of surrendering than I had when I crossed by the packet to Boulogne.

Mr. Meagher and Mr. O'Donohoe were arrested under circ.u.mstances over which they had still less control. They were utterly unacquainted with the country, and did not know, if they left the high road, but the first house they might approach would be a police barrack. They had made every attempt desperation could suggest to rouse the people, but in vain.

They were opposed by some, shunned by some, and from some they received false counsel. They had exhausted the welcome of all who were inclined to receive them, and they knew not one step of their way. Previously, too, Mr. Meagher had peremptorily refused to avail himself of a mode of escape provided for him and he equally peremptorily refused to listen to any terms from Government, which did not include all his comrades. His object, on the night he was arrested, was to make another trial at Cashel, which he designed to approach by a circuitous route.

The 6th day of August was the date of Mr. O'Brien's arrest; the 13th of August that of Messrs. Meagher and O'Donohoe, and the 7th of September that of Mr. MacMa.n.u.s. Mr. O'Brien was taken at the Thurles railway station; Messrs. Meagher and O'Donohoe, near Rathgannon, on the road between Clonoulty and Holycross, about five miles from Thurles, and Mr.

MacMa.n.u.s on board the s.h.i.+p _N.D. Chase_, in the bay of Cove, on the 7th of September. They were each conveyed to Kilmainham Jail, in the first instance, where they remained until within a few days of the opening of the special commission at Clonmel. This took place on Thursday, the 21st of Sept., when the bills were found, but six days were allowed to Mr.

O'Brien and the rest of the prisoners to peruse the indictment, with copies of which they were respectively furnished. On Thursday, the 28th, the trial of Mr. O'Brien commenced; that of Mr. MacMa.n.u.s on the 9th of October; that of Mr. O'Donohoe on the 13th, and that of Mr. Meagher on the 16th.

Juries were empanelled in each case, from whose prejudice and bad faith verdicts for high treason were expected, even though the evidence only sustained a charge of common a.s.sault. Roman Catholics were, in the first instance, scrupulously excluded; but after the first two verdicts one or two were admitted, upon whose weakness of character, or genteel aspirations, the Government might safely rely. It is but justice to say that, according to the law expounded by the Bench, and the evidence given on the table, any other verdict was not to be expected. But a jury differently composed, a jury of Englishmen, with their country, their liberties and their lives perilled to the last extremity by misgovernment and maladministration of law, would have spurned the law and the evidence, and relied on the great fundamental rights of humanity so flagrantly outraged by the Government that then appeared as prosecutors.

The scene presented by Clonmel excited much public surprise. Newspaper correspondents magnified the sullen gloom that prevailed into popular apathy or national cowardice, as suited the bent or purpose of their employers. The truth was, the people exhibited during the trial a decent and respectful forbearance. Empty parade or vociferous sorrow would only mock the lofty purpose of the sufferers; and besides, the mortification which rankled in the public heart was too deep for utterance. The hopes of the people had been dashed, and they were stunned and stupefied by their fall. But so far from being apathetic, nightly a.s.semblages were held to consider if, even in that extremity, something was not yet possible to be done.

But, if there were a show of popular indifference on the streets, the courthouse presented a very different spectacle. There everything manifested an intense bitterness of purpose; the court, composed of the two most unscrupulous partisans, Chief Justices Blackbourne and Doherty, and the weakest or falsest political convert, Mr. Justice Moore, simulated the uncontrollable emotions which an overweening loyalty awoke in the bosom of the Catholic Attorney-General. So far were their lords.h.i.+ps swayed by the spirit of imitativeness, that the most polished speakers, mistaking the incoherent jargon of the official for the broken utterance of overwrought zeal and shocked loyalty, mimicked his distempered language as the only befitting medium of expression for disturbed feelings such as theirs. The simplest and most usual facilities accorded to murderers and pickpockets on their trial were rudely denied the counsel for the defence. The principles of law, recognised in England as sacred, were scouted from the bench, and the farce of trial proceeded through its different stages to the final _denouement_ with perfect regularity, every one performing the part a.s.signed him with unerring accuracy.

Of the intrepid ability which struggled against this fearful combination of bigotry, prejudice and pa.s.sion, at the bar, on the bench and in the box, I do not purpose to speak here. But I would be unfaithful to my trust, and unjust to the rarest heroism, if I did not record the fort.i.tude and fidelity of O'Donnell, from whom the menaces of the crown, or the frown of the bench, could not wring one word of evidence. In an ordinary man, this would be singular intrepidity; but circ.u.mstanced as O'Donnell was, it amounted to a Roman virtue. One brother of his, a doctor, was in jail at Liverpool, charged with political felony; another was hunted through the country, and another was in irons, involved in the same charge as the ill.u.s.trious accused; for them all he could command his own terms, for much depended on his testimony; but though doom were upon them, and a word of his could avert it, he refused to speak. Honour be his. His integrity almost cancelled the shame and darkness of those disastrous times.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Widow McCormack's House, near Ballingarry]

I can add nothing to the testimony that established the fort.i.tude, manliness and dignity of the prisoners, as beyond precedent or example.

That their bearing, one and all, was truly n.o.ble, friends and foes took pride in attesting.[11] It was a solemn and a glorious sight; and men, through all time, will turn to that Clonmel dock to learn the inestimable and imperishable value of sincere and lofty convictions and a truly heroic soul.

Of the speeches that follow, it will be observed that Mr. O'Brien's was delivered before the fate of his comrades was known. No man had ever greater need of vindicating others if not himself. No man ever possessed in a higher degree the capacity and strength to do so. He was satisfied it was the last opportunity he would ever have on earth for explanation. Yet, lest any sentiment of his might injuriously affect those that were then, or might thereafter be on their trial, he forebore to a.s.sert the principles of which he was there the martyr, and of which he was more than ever proud. It was to the same unselfish sentiment he yielded, when consenting to say, "Not guilty," to a charge he would have felt the greatest glory in avowing.

I despair of conveying to my readers an adequate idea of the gloom and horror of the scene in which those immortal words were spoken. Death, near and terrible, was in the future. The recollection of ten days'

infamy peopled the present with ghastly images of evil. Vindictiveness inexorable glared from the bench. The dust around the feet of the speakers was laden with guilt. It would not rise to the briskest breeze, beneath the clearest sky, in light summer air, so heavy had the tread of murder been upon it. And oh, to think when they closed their eyes upon this world, what deeper death they left their country ... Will no day of vengeance come, O G.o.d! . . .

One of those benefits of the British const.i.tution, which excites the mortal envy of benighted "surrounding nations," is this, that the law lies to the face of death, in the usual question addressed to the condemned: "Whether he had anything to say why sentence of death and execution should not be pa.s.sed upon him?" when the most conclusive reasons that ever innocence had to offer would be worse than vain. On the morning of the 9th of October, 1848, this barbarous mockery was addressed to William Smith O'Brien, and he answered thus:--

MR. O'BRIEN.--"My lords, it is not my intention to enter into any vindication of my conduct, however much I might have desired to avail myself of this opportunity of so doing. I am perfectly satisfied with the consciousness that I have performed my duty to my country--that I have done only that which, in my opinion, it was the duty of every Irishman to have done, and I am now prepared to abide the consequences of having performed my duty to my native land. Proceed with your sentence." (Cheers in the gallery.)

On the morning of the 23rd of the same month, the same formula was repeated to Terence Bellew MacMa.n.u.s, Patrick O'Donohoe, and Thomas Francis Meagher, who replied respectively as follows:--

MR. M'Ma.n.u.s.--"My lords, I trust I am enough of a Christian and enough of a man to understand the awful responsibility of the question that has been put to me. My lords, standing on this my native soil--standing in an Irish court of justice, and before the Irish nation--I have much to say why the sentence of death, or the sentence of the law, should not be pa.s.sed upon me. But, my lords, on entering this court, I placed my life, and what is of much more importance to me--my honour--in the hands of two advocates; and, my lords, if I had ten thousand lives, and ten thousand honours, I would be content to place them under the watchful and the glorious genius of the one and the high legal ability of the other. My lords, I am content. In that regard I have nothing to say. But I have a word to say, which no advocate, however anxious, can utter for me. I have this to say, my lords, that whatever part I may have taken through any struggle for my country's independence--whatever part I may have acted in that short career--I stand before your lords.h.i.+ps now with a free heart, and with a light conscience, ready to abide the issue of your sentences. And now, my lords, perhaps this is the fittest time that I might put one sentiment on record, and it is this: Standing as I do between this dock and the scaffold; it may be now, or to-morrow, or it may be never; but whatever the result may be, I have this sentiment to put on record. That in any part I have taken, I have not been actuated by animosity to Englishmen. For I have spent some of the happiest and most prosperous days of my life in England; and in no part of my career have I been actuated by enmity to Englishmen, however much I may have felt the injustice of English rule on this island. My lords, I have nothing more to say. It is not for having loved England less, but for having loved Ireland more, that I stand now before you."

Mr. O'Donohoe confined himself to a few words concerning his trial.

MR. MEAGHER.--"My lords, it is my intention to say a few words only. I desire that the last act of a proceeding which has occupied so much of the public time should be of short duration.

Nor have I the indelicate wish to close the dreary ceremony of a State prosecution with a vain display of words. Did I fear that hereafter when I shall be no more the country I have tried to serve would think ill of me, I might, indeed, avail myself of this solemn moment to vindicate my sentiments and my conduct.

But I have no such fear. The country will judge of those sentiments and that conduct in a light far different from that in which the jury by which I have been convicted have viewed them; and by the country, the sentence which you, my lords, are about to p.r.o.nounce, will be remembered only as the severe and solemn attestation of my rect.i.tude and truth. Whatever be the language in which that sentence be spoken, I know that my fate will meet with sympathy, and that my memory will be honoured. In speaking thus, accuse me not, my lords, of an indecorous presumption. To the efforts I have made in a just and n.o.ble cause, I ascribe no vain importance--nor do I claim for those efforts any high reward. But it so happens, and it will ever happen so, that they who have tried to serve their country, no matter how weak the effort may have been, are sure to receive the thanks and the blessings of its people. With my country, then, I leave my memory--my sentiments--my acts--proudly feeling that they require no vindication from me this day. A jury of my countrymen, it is true, have found me guilty of the crime of which I stood indicted. For this I entertain not the slightest feeling of resentment toward them. Influenced as they must have been by the charge of the Lord Chief Justice, they could have found no other verdict. What of that charge? Any strong observations on it, I feel sincerely, would ill befit the solemnity of this scene; but I would earnestly beseech of you, my lord--you, who preside on that bench--when the pa.s.sions and the prejudices of this hour have pa.s.sed away to appeal to your conscience, and ask of it was your charge as it ought to have been, impartial and indifferent between the subject and the Crown. My lords, you may deem this language unbecoming in me, and perhaps it may seal my fate. But I am here to speak the truth, whatever it may cost. I am here to regret nothing I have ever done--to retract nothing I have ever said. I am here to crave with no lying-lip the life I consecrate to the liberty of my country. Far from it: even here--here, where the thief, the libertine, the murderer, have left their footprints in the dust; here, on this spot, where the shadows of death surround me, and from which I see my early grave in an unanointed soil opened to receive me--even here, encircled by these terrors, the hope which has beckoned me to the perilous sea upon which I have been wrecked, still consoles, animates, enraptures me. No I do not despair of my poor old country, her peace her liberty, her glory. For that country I can do no more than bid her hope. To lift up this island--to make her a benefactor to humanity, instead of being the meanest beggar in the world--to restore to her her native Powers and her ancient const.i.tution--this has been my ambition, and this ambition has been my crime. Judged by the law of England, I know this crime entails the Penalty of death; but the history of Ireland explains this crime, and justifies it. Judged by that history, I am no criminal--you (addressing Mr. MacMa.n.u.s) are no criminal--you (addressing Mr O'Donohoe) are no criminal--I deserve no punishment--we deserve no punishment. Judged by that history the treason of which I stand convicted loses all its guilt, is sanctified as a duty, will be enn.o.bled as a sacrifice. With these sentiments, my lord I await the sentence of the court. Having done what I felt to be my duty--having spoken what I felt to be the truth, as I have done on every other occasion of my short career, I now bid farewell to the country of my birth, my pa.s.sion and my death--the country whose misfortunes have invoked my sympathies--whose factions I have sought to still--whose intellect I have prompted to a lofty aim--whose freedom has been my fatal dream. I offer to that country, as a proof of the love I bear her, and the sincerity with which I thought, and spoke, and struggled for her freedom--the life of a young heart, and with that life, all the hopes, the honours, the endearments, of a happy and an honourable home. p.r.o.nounce then, my lords, the sentence which the law directs, and I will be prepared to hear it. I trust I shall be prepared to meet its execution. I hope to be able, with a pure heart and perfect composure, to appear before a higher Tribunal--a tribunal where a Judge of infinite goodness, as well as of justice will preside, and where, my lords, many--many of the judgments of this world will be reversed."

The sentence of the court was then p.r.o.nounced, as it had been previously on Mr. O'Brien. It was in the following words:--

"That sentence is, that you Terence Bellew MacMa.n.u.s, you Patrick O'Donohoe, and you Thomas Francis Meagher, be taken hence to the place from whence you came, and be thence drawn on a hurdle to the place of execution; that each of you be there hanged by the neck until you are dead, and that afterward the head of each of you shall be severed from the body, and the body of each divided into four quarters, to be disposed of as her Majesty may think fit. And may Almighty G.o.d have mercy upon your souls."

A writ of error was sued out princ.i.p.ally on the ground that the principles of const.i.tutional law were violated. The House of Lords finally quashed the error and confirmed the judgment. Meantime, the country, or a great portion of the people, took the last step in the direction of debas.e.m.e.nt by praying the Queen and the Lord Lieutenant for a free pardon. The pet.i.tions were spurned; but her Majesty, yielding to the powerful sentiment of abhorrence against the punishment of death for political offences, commuted the sentence into transportation for life.

This final sentence was carried into effect on the 9th day of July, 1849, when the s.h.i.+p of war _Swift_ spread her sails and hoisted her felon flag, bearing out to sea, and having on board the four ill.u.s.trious exiles.

Martin and O'Doherty had been conveyed to Cork on board the _Triton_, on the 16th of June, whence they were sent to herd with common malefactors on board the _Mount Stewart Elphinstone_--at the time infested with the plague. This vessel remained off Spike Island while the cholera was doing its ravages among her pa.s.sengers, and finally put to sea, with the patriots and pestilence, a few days before the departure of the _Swift_.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 11: The following is from the _Freeman's Journal_:--An eminent Queen's counsel, who was present during the awful ordeal, was heard to give utterance to a sentiment so truthfully graphic that we record it in full:--"Well," said he, his eyes full and his countenance flushed with emotion, "never was there such a scene--never such true heroism displayed before. Emmet and Fitzgerald, and all combined did not come up to that--so dignified, so calm, so heroic. HE _is_ a hero."]

CHAPTER IX

CONTINUATION OF PERSONAL WANDERINGS.--DUNGARVAN.--THE COMERAGHS.--MOUNT MELLARY.--KILWORTH.--CROSS. DUNMANWAY.--GOUGANE BARRA.--BANTRY BAY.--THE PRIEST'S LEAP.--KENMARE.--THE REEKS.--KILLARNEY.--TEMPLENOE.-- DEPARTURE.--CORK.--BRISTOL.--LONDON.--PARIS.

After leaving Quinlan's, as detailed in a former chapter, O'Mahony and myself agreed to separate for a few days. No reward had then been offered for him, and my presence only impeded his movements. We crossed the river Suir, and remained most of the day in Coolnamuck wood. Toward evening I was conducted far into the county Waterford, where I was to remain until I heard what progress he was able to make. My host was the chief of one of the fierce factions of county Waterford, and bore many a mark of desperate fray. I do not remember having met any man, before or since, who felt so acutely the fate of the country. He procured the best fare he could, and prepared my bed with his own hands. After I retired to rest, he continued pacing the room for several hours, sometimes sighing deeply, sometimes muttering curses between his clenched teeth, and sometimes suggesting plans which he thought might be even then available and efficient to redeem the past. These plans were all of a character more or less desperate; but some were exceedingly ingenious. A truer type of a Celt could not easily be found; his very caution was stamped with vehemence.

Next day but one I proceeded to meet O'Mahony, to learn his success in his nocturnal interviews. I was unable to meet him; but encountered a faithful follower of Thomas Francis Meagher, who was the bearer of a message to the effect that if he could be prevailed upon to attempt escaping, means could be procured for him. I expressed at once my entire concurrence, and desired the messenger should return to say that on condition the same means would be made available for those who were not yet arrested, we would all gladly accept of them. I ventured into a house, where, in early life, I spent many a happy day. Those of the family whom I had known and loved, had pa.s.sed out of the world. They were a brother and sister, the former educated for the Church, and the latter highly gifted and educated far above her condition. I never knew a woman, in any rank of life, of n.o.bler character or a more heroic nature. She had the richest store of womanly tenderness and kindly affections. She took the veil at the Dungarvan Convent in very early youth, where she died two years afterwards. I asked for some food, and while it was being prepared I wrote the following lines on a blank leaf of a book belonging to my dead friend:--

Bliss to thy spirit, gentlest maid, Fond, faithful and beloved; how oft, Within the circle of this glowing glade, Our mingling souls had soared aloft; And wooed the knowledge of our destiny-- What is it? I a fugitive, and thou on high.

Yet hopeless of the land I'd save, Nay, spurned by those for whom I'd die, Unknown where your fond welcome gave, There's still a throb of ecstasy.

Even though the latest I may feel on earth.

In lingering o'er the scene where thou hadst birth.

Where wrapt by evening's crimson flush, We hoped, and felt, and breathed together, Beside the broad Suir's silent gush, Or resting on yon mountain heather; And dared to look beyond the narrow span, That circ.u.mscribed the hope of man.

How sweet, if from the blessed spheres, Thou didst bestow one look of love, To cheer the hearts and dry the tears Of those whose only hope's above; And win, beloved one, from the throne of light, One saving ray for our long slavery's night.

Or if this may not be, and yet Her old doom clings unto the land; If on her brow the brand be set, And she must bear the chastening hand For longer years, O grant, sweet saint, to me, To die as if my arm had made her free.

GLENN, _August 3, 1848._

I left Glenn next morning, with still some hope remaining, and sought out my friend to learn his success and prospects. He came, according to appointment, to a farmer's house in the direction of Rathgormack, bringing with him James Stephens, who was destined to be thenceforth the companion of my wanderings, privations and dangers. He detailed to us, nearly as I have repeated it, the affair at Ballingarry. When he reached the village of Urlingford, he found some difficulty in escaping from the very men he hoped to lead back to the conflict. After vainly making every effort first to urge them on, and secondly to satisfy them of his own ident.i.ty, he travelled a distance of thirty miles, and took shelter in the house of a private friend, where he hoped he could remain until something definite would be known of his comrades' fate. That his stay was not of long duration, his appearance with us on Thursday, forty miles from the place of his concealment, amply testifies. That distance he travelled on foot on the preceding day, after having slept a night with a drunken man in a brake. He was even more averse than we were to giving up the struggle, and it was agreed on finally that he should be allowed to rest in a place of safety; that the messenger who had come from Mr. Meagher's friend should be despatched with my proposal, and meantime, that I should betake me to the Comeragh mountains in search of Mr. Meagher, while our other comrade should make a final effort to rally the remaining strength of the people. We would then be in a position to determine finally what we should do. Stephens and myself proceeded together as far as my former host's in the mountains, where I left him, and continued my route as far as the Comeraghs, I rested that evening at a place called Sradavalla, and early next day recommenced my search around and over the mountains. After crossing several minor hills, I ascended the summit of the Comeragh, called Cuims.h.i.+nane, which commands a prospect of nearly the whole counties of Waterford and Kilkenny, with a great part of Tipperary. That prospect was at once grand, beautiful and mournful. The corn crop began to be tinged with coming ripeness; but the potato was blighted, and presented a spectacle as black and dismal as the country's hopes. This widespread ruin was the dread work of an hour. On the morning, when Mr. O'Brien appeared in Carrick, that crop was the most abundant, promising and healthy that had been seen for years. Then it appeared from sea to sea one ma.s.s of unvaried rottenness and decay. Notwithstanding this, I spent hours looking down on the landscape, and mourning more over the mental and moral blight, which shed its influence on the public heart, than the plague spot whose dark circ.u.mference embraced the circle of the island. From heat, fatigue and the effects of weak food, I discharged my stomach more than once, while descending the ranges of the Comeraghs. I again took up my station for the night at the village of Sradavalla. It was deemed prudent I should not sleep in the same house as on the previous night, and about eleven o'clock, accompanied by five or six men of the village, I proceeded to a house farther up the mountain. Here the accommodation was not such as we expected, and we were forced to return. On our arrival, I found my sister-in-law who was escorted by two boatmen from Carrick-on-Suir, and who reached this wild sequestered and almost inaccessible mountain village, after a journey of fifty miles. A sad change had come over our circ.u.mstances since last we parted. My hopes were then nearly a conviction, and I went on my way not alone without remonstrance or regret on her part, but with intense encouragement. She had heard of Mr. O'Brien's disaster, and a rumour of his arrest, had witnessed the prostration of the people, had heard I had means of escape proposed for me, and came with what money could be provided. We spent that night together at the house of a woman who had been lately confined. She endeavoured to provide tea and eggs, and we enjoyed our supper with as keen a relish and as high a zest as possible. I learned that Meagher was in the other extremity of the county Tipperary, and she undertook to convey my message to his friend a second time, while his faithful scout would endeavour to discover his retreat, and induce him to join us. She departed on her mission, having to walk ten miles over the mountain roads. I returned to the place where I parted from Stephens, whom I found greatly recovered. We remained that night at the house of his entertainer, where we were joined the following morning by O'Mahony. We spent the three succeeding days in and about the woods at Coolnamuck.

Three more anxious days and nights never darkened the destiny of baffled rebels. Every morning arose upon a new hope which was blasted ere night came on by some sad intelligence. The news that reached us was partly true and partly false: of the former character was the account of our beloved chief's arrest, which took place on the evening of Sunday, the 6th of August. In proportion as it nerved our purpose and urged us to desperation, did that fatal information scatter the agencies on which we were to depend. The most desperate hazards would be readily undertaken in that hour of gloom. One more effort we decided on, and the experiment was to be tried the next night. We heard Mr. Meagher also was arrested, and we resolved, in order to satisfy ourselves of the correctness of this and other reports, to put ourselves in direct communication with some person in the town of Clonmel. We accordingly proceeded to the neighbourhood of that town, within a mile of which, at the Waterford side, we established ourselves, and remained two days. Each day we sent in a messenger who brought us correct intelligence of what occurred; and satisfied us not alone that Mr. O'Brien was then in gaol, but that he was allowed to be torn from the midst of a people for whom he had perilled his life, without a hand being raised in his defence. We then returned to the scene of our former meetings, and met, for the last time, beside a little brook near the Waterford slate-quarries. My amba.s.sadress had also returned, and there were present three or four others. The reunion was gloomy. But one question remained for discussion: Was there any hope left? The message I received as to the means of escape was dark and discouraging. Nothing remained but the hazards of some desperate enterprise. What had chiefly animated our hopes for the few days was the knowledge that disaffection and conspiracy existed in the ranks of the British army. But among other intelligence of evil omen that reached us was this, that the conspiracy had been discovered. Whether this were true or not, our means of communication were suspended; and, unable to learn what had occurred, we naturally concluded it was the worst. It is not quite correct to say, _we_, as far as the proceedings of these days in that neighbourhood were concerned. Neither Stephens nor myself was in communication with more than the one friend, to whose honour and heroism we would commit the liberty of the world. Never yet lived a man of more sanguine hope or intense patriotism. All the vigour of a gigantic intellect, aided by the endurance of great physical strength was tasked to the uttermost in attempting to rouse the broken energies of the country. He generally spent his nights in interviews with the chief men of the surrounding districts, while his duty by day was to communicate the result to us, and secure a place of safety for the ensuing night. Our last conference was of course the longest and most anxious. There was no chance within the range of possibility we did not discuss. Of the intensity of our feelings, some idea may be formed by the fact, that the one woman who was of the party, whose sole stay on this earth I was, as well as the sole stay of her sister and a most helpless little family, never uttered one word of remonstrance against any project, however desperate, which was proposed. We concluded an interview of several hours, by referring the entire question to the sole decision of our friend. After a short silence, during which the agony of his mind was extreme, he solemnly advised and adjured us to provide as best we could for our own safety, while he, who was not so deeply compromised, would maintain his position, and still struggle against our common destiny. If he succeeded, and that we had not left the country, we could return. But to advise us to continue in our then position where an iron circle was closing around us, relying on the slender chances that then presented themselves, involved a responsibility which would be no longer endurable. We then partook of a comfortable dinner which he had provided, and parted with sad hearts.

[Ill.u.s.tration: The Knockmeldown Mountains from Ardfinan]

The place which, as far as we could form an opinion, presented the greatest facilities for escape, was the town and neighbourhood of Dungarvan. Thither we resolved to repair; and about three o'clock, on the 13th day of August, we set off across the nearest range of the Comeraghs--Stephens and myself, accompanied by my sister-in-law, whom we hoped to employ in negotiating for a pa.s.sage to France. A farmer and two women of the place undertook to conduct us the shortest way across the mountains, and provide us an asylum for the night, which we reached after a forced journey of six hours. We there parted from our guides; and the people to whom they recommended us were exceedingly kind, and much more hospitable than their means would permit. On the following day our host became our guide for several miles across the declining Comeraghs, until we came in view of Dungarvan. We purchased some bread, eggs and tea at a village called Tubbernaheena; but while in the village we learned that the military and police were scouring the country far and wide, in search of arms, which compelled us to change our route and take an easterly direction. We crossed several miles of bog, and had to pa.s.s many a ravine; but the worst trial was before us. We applied in several houses for the means of preparing our dinner, having travelled at least twenty miles over moor and mountain. We applied in twenty places in vain. At last, half by force and half by entreaty, we prevailed on a woman, whose circ.u.mstances seemed comfortable. We were, of course, unknown; and though we met many a rebuff, we determined to endure them, rather than reveal our names and character. During the progress of our meal we established ourselves in the good graces of the housewife, but she obstinately refused to allow us to remain for the night. She directed us to a publichouse, where, on our arrival, we found a proclamation menacing any one who entertained, harboured or a.s.sisted us, with the direst punishment. In answer to our inquiry the owner, who was a woman, pointed to the proclamation, as an argument against which all remonstrance was vain. We made three or four other attempts equally fruitless; and when the night had closed around us, on a bleak, desolate road, I determined to call on the Roman Catholic priest, and state who we were; for while, if alone, we would infinitely prefer taking such rest as we could in the nearest brake, or under shelter of a wall, we could not think of submitting our delicate companion to the trials of a night in the open air, during an exceedingly inclement season. With some hesitation and great alarm, he procured a lodging for us at a farmer's house in the neighbourhood. We saw him next morning, and his most earnest injunction was that we should leave the locality, which, according to him, was altogether unsafe. To escape arrest there for twelve hours was, he said, impossible. Similar advice was pressed on us afterwards in many a safer asylum; but we learned to mock at others'

fears, whereas, on this occasion, we yielded to an impression we felt to be sincere.

Before venturing nearer to Dungarvan, we determined to bespeak the services of another clergyman, who lived a distance of six or seven miles in the direction of Waterford. A ridge of the Comeraghs lay between us and his lonely dwelling. Along this ridge lay a winding bridle-road, skirted by patches of green sward, and occasionally crossed by a sparkling mountain rill. Above us, on the hill-side, was a considerable bog, where crowds of country people were collecting to their daily toil. A merry laugh or boisterous joke occasionally rang clear in the morning air. The mirth went heavily to our hearts. The s.n.a.t.c.h of song, the unrestrained laugh, the merry glee, broke upon the ear of the wayfarers like the mocking of demons. The consciousness that they then sped, without a beacon or a guide, over the flinty path of flight, to end perhaps at the gibbet, imparted to the voice of mirth the sound of ingrat.i.tude. However, the day was brilliant; above us the clear, blue, unfathomable sky; around us the bracing mountain air, laden with the breath of hare-bell and heather, and far below the calm sea, sleeping in the morning light; and weariness, hunger and apprehension yielded to the influence of the scene. Many a time, ere pa.s.sed the sunny noon, did we sit down to enjoy the glad prospect, unconscious, for a moment, of the fate that tracked our footsteps. At length we descended the eastern slope of the hill; and after proceeding some distance, through cornfields and meadows, we reached the mansion of the clergyman, wayworn and half-famished. He, whom we sought, had won a character for truth, manliness and courage, and we calculated upon his unrestrained sympathies, if not generous hospitality. He was absent from his house, which is situate in a lonely gorge of the Comeraghs.

We waited his arrival for more than an hour, and, through delicacy for his position, we remained concealed in a grove some distance from the door. He at length appeared, and I proceeded alone to meet him and make known my name. He started involuntarily and retreated a few paces from me. After repeating my name for a few seconds, he said, "Surely you are not so unmanly as to compromise me?" I replied, that so sensible was I of the danger of committing him, that I refused to enter his house, though we all, and particularly my female companion, sadly needed rest and shelter. After some time, he began to pace up and down in front of his door, repeating at every turn that it was indiscreet and dishonourable to compromise him. Among the many trials to which fate had doomed me, through hours of gloom, of peril and disaster, and even during reveries of still darker chances, which fear or fancy often evoked, I never felt a pang so keen as that which those unfeeling words sent through my heart. For a while I was unable to articulate, but at length I said: "You are one of those who urged us to this fate. You gave us every a.s.surance that, in any crisis, you would be at our side. We made the desperate trial which you recommended. We have failed, because we were abandoned by those who were foremost in urging us on; and even now--here, where G.o.d alone sees us--you meet with reproaches one who has sacrificed his all on earth in a cause you pretended to bless. Is not that fate worse than defeat--than flight--than death?" "Tis a sad fate, no doubt," said he. My object, I said, was to escape to France, and I called on him, believing he could a.s.sist me, as he must be acquainted with the boatmen around that part of the coast. He answered it was possible he could, but not then; asked how he could communicate with me; pointed to a shorter route across the mountains than that by which we had descended, and turned in to his dinner, which was just announced.