"Well said, Vainus," exclaimed Sharpe, "and it is not ten days since we were defrauded of Parra Rackan who escaped from us in Jemmy Reilly's coffin--when we thought to nab him in the wakehouse--and when we went away didn't they set him at large, and then go back to bury the man that was dead. Now, how da you know, Vainus, my purty boy, that this fellow's not playin' us a trick o' the same color?"
"Come, come," said another of them who had not yet spoke, "it's aisy to know that. Curse me, Steele, if you don't give him a tickle, I will--that's all--we're losin' the day and I want my breakfast Living or dead, and be hanged to him, I'm starved for want of something to eat--and to drink, too--so be quick I tell you."
"Very well, my buck," said Steele--"that's your sort--here goes--"
He once more advanced with a savage determination to effect his purpose--when the priest gently and in a mild spirit of remonstrance laid his hand upon his shoulder; but he had scarcely done so, when one of them seized him by the collar and flung, or rather attempted to fling, him back with great violence.
"Go on, Steele," shouted the last speaker, whose name was Harpur--"Go on--and be cursed, man, we will support you."
The words, however, were scarcely out of his lips, when Raymond, his eye glaring like that of a tiger with the wildness of untamed resentment, sprang upon him with a bound, and in a moment they once more grappled together. It was, however, only for a moment--for by the heavy blow he received from Raymond, the man staggered and fell, but ere he reached the ground, the gun, which had been ineffectually aimed at the poor fool, went off, and lodged its contents in the heart of the last speaker, who staggered, groaned, and fell lifeless where he stood.
For a minute or so, this fatal and unexpected catastrophe stunned them.
They looked upon each other amazed and apparently stupefied, "What,"
cried Sharpe, "is Harpur dead?" Two of them then placed their arms against the wall in order to ascertain the exact nature of the injury inflicted.
At this moment, Sharpe, who saw at once the man was indeed lifeless, raised his gun about to take aim at Raymond, when a blow from Harman felled him to the earth.
"And here's for your kindness, Mister Harman," shouted Steele; but ere the words were uttered, O'Regan's wife threw herself upon him so effectually, that he felt it impossible to avail himself of his fire-arms.
"Fight now," she shouted in Irish, "it is for your lives--it is for the widow--for the orphan--for the bed of death--and the dead that's upon it--fight now--for God will be with us! May his strength and power be in your arms and your hearts, prays the woeful widow this day!
Villain--villain," she shouted, "I have you powerless now--but it's the strength of God that is in me, and not my own!"
The conflict that ensued now was bitter, savage, deadly. The moment Sharpe was knocked down, Raymond flew to their firearms, handed one to Harman, and kept the other himself. The men who used them were fierce, and powerful, and cruel. In a moment a furious contest took place. The four men immediately grappled, each one attempting to wrest the gun from his antagonist. Raymond, whose passions were now roused so as to resemble the ravenous fury of madness itself, at one time howled like a beast of prey, and shouted, and screamed, and laughed with maniac wildness that was enough to make almost any heart quail. His eyes blazed, his figure dilated, his muscles stood out, his mouth was white with froth, and his eyebrows were knit into a deep and deadly scowl.
Altogether his appearance was frightful and appalling.
Harman was still better matched, and the struggle with his foe was for some time doubtful enough, the latter being one of the strongest and most resolute men in the whole parish. A powerful tug for the gun now took place, each pulling in opposite directions with all his might. At length a thought struck Harman, who all at once let the gun go, when the other having no longer any resisting power to sustain him, fell back upon the floor, and in an instant Harman's knee was on his chest and the gun in his possession. The man ground his teeth, and looking up into his face with a black scowl of hatred, exclaimed--
"It is your turn now, but I will have mine."
"You have had yours too long, villain," replied the other, "but in the mean time I will teach you to respect the bed of death and the afflictions of the widow."
Saying which, he vigorously applied the butt of the gun to his ribs, until he had rendered him anything but disposed for further conflict.
Both victories were achieved much about the same time; Raymond's opponent being far the more severely punished of the two. "What, however, was their surprise after each had expelled his man from the cabin, to find Steele down, his gun lying on one side. O'Regan's wife fastened on his throat, and himself panting and almost black in the face!
"Here now," she exclaimed, "the battle of the widow was well fought, and God gave us strength. Put this man out with the rest." This was accordingly done, but as in the case of his companions, the gun for the present was retained.
"See now," she proceeded, still in Irish, "what the hand of a weak woman can do, when her heart is strengthened by God, against cruelty and oppression. What made that strong man weak in my grasp? Because he knew that the weakness of the widow was his shame--the touch of her hand took away his strength; and what had he within or about him to depend upon?
could he look in upon his wicked heart, and be strong? could he look upon the darkness of a bad conscience, and be strong? could he look on me--upon my dead husband, and his bed of death, and be strong? No--and above all, could he look up to the Almighty God in heaven, and be strong--no--no--no--but from all these I gained strength--for surely, surely, I had it not in myself!"
She uttered these sentiments with wonderful energy, and indeed, from the fire in her eye, and the flush of her cheek, it was evident she was highly excited. Father Roche, who had been engaged, and indeed, had enough to do in keeping the poor child quiet and aloof from the fray, especially from his mother--now entreated that she would endeavor to compose herself, as she had reason to thank God, he said, that neither she herself nor her resolute defenders had sustained any personal injury. She did not seem to have heard him--for on looking on the body of her husband she almost bounded over to the bed, and kneeling down rapturously, and in a spirit of enthusiastic triumph, kissed his lips.
"Now, my husband," said she, "we have fought and gained the victory--no insult did you get--no dishonor on your lowly bed where you're sleepin'
your last sleep. Hugh, do you know, asthore, how the wife of your heart fought for you? Your own poor, weak, sorrowful, heart-broken, but loving wife, that was as feeble as an infant this mornin'! But who gave her the strength to put down a strong and wicked man'? The God--the good God--and to him be the glory!--in whose bosom you are now happy. Ay, we conquered--ha--ha--ha--we conquered--we conquered--ha--ha--ha!"
The dead body of Harpur in the meantime had been removed by his companions, who it was evident felt as much, if not more bitterness at their own defeat, than they did by the fatal accident which deprived him of life.
Scarcely had the wild triumph of O'Regan's wife time to subside, when it soon became evident that the tragical incidents of this bitter and melancholy morning were not yet completed.
The child alluded to by Harman in his first brief conversation with Father Roche, had been for some time past in a much more dangerous state than his parents suspected, or at least than his unhappy mother did, whose principal care was engrossed by the situation of her husband.
The poor boy, at all times affectionate and uncomplaining, felt loth to obtrude his little wants and sufferings upon her attention, knowing as he did, that, owing to the nursing of his father, she was scarcely permitted three hours sleep out of the twenty-four. If he could have been afforded even the ordinary comforts of a sick-bed, it is possible he might have recovered. The only drink he could call for was "the black water," as it is termed by the people, and his only nutrition a dry potato, which he could not take; the bed he lay upon was damp straw, yet did this patient child never utter a syllable to dishearten his mother, or deepen the gloom which hung over the circumstances of the family, and his father's heart. When asked how he was, he uniformly replied "better," and his large lucid eyes would faintly smile upon his mother, as if to give her hope, after which the desolate boy would amuse himself by handling the bedclothes as invalids often do, or play with the humid straw of his cold and miserable bed, or strive to chat with his mother.
These details are very painful to those whose hearts are so elegantly and fashionably tender that they recoil with humane horror from scenes of humble wretchedness and destitution. It is good, however, that they should be known to exist, for we assure the great and wealthy that they actually do exist, and may be found in all their sharpness and melancholy truth within the evening shadow which falls from many a proud and wealthy dwelling in this our native land.
After all, it is likely, that had not the fearful occurrences of this morning taken place, their sweet boy might have been spared to them. The shock, however, occasioned by the discharge of the gun, and the noise of the conflict, acting upon a frame so feeble were more than he could bear. Be this as it may, the constables were not many minutes gone, when, to their surprise, he staggered back again out of his little room, where Father Roche had placed him, and tottering across the floor, slipped in the deceased man's blood, and fell. The mother flew to him, but Harman had already raised him up; when on his feet, he looked at the blood and shuddered--a still more deadly paleness settled on his face--his breath came short, and his lips got dry and parched--he could not speak nor stand, had not Harman supported him. He looked again at the blood with horror, and then at his mother, whilst he shrank up, as it were, into himself, and shivered from head to foot.
"Darling of my heart," she exclaimed, "I understand you. Bryan, our treasure, be a man for the sake of your poor heart-broken mother--I will, I will, my darling life, I will wipe it off of you, every stain of it--why should such blood and my innocent son come together?"
She now got a cloth, and in a few moments left not a trace of it upon him. He had not yet spoken, but on finding himself cleansed from it, he stretched out his hands, thereby intimating that he wished to go to her.
"Do you not perceive a bottle on the shelf there?" said Harman, "it contains wine which I brought for his--," he checked himself;--"Alas!
my poor boy," he exclaimed involuntarily, "you are doubly dear to your-mother now. Mix it with water," he proceeded, "and give him a little, it will strengthen and revive him."
"Better," said Father Roche in a low voice, not intended for his, "to put him back into his own bed; he is not now in a state to be made acquainted with his woeful loss." As he spoke the boy glanced at the corpse of his father, and almost at the same moment his mother put wine and water to his lips. He was about to taste it, but on looking into the little tin porringer that contained it, he put it away from him, and shuddered strongly.
"It's mixed with the blood," said he, "and I can't;" and again he put it away from him.
"Bryan, asthore," said his mother, "it's not blood; sure it's wine that Mr. Harman, the blessin' of God be upon him, brought to you."
He turned away again, however, and would not take it. "Bring me to my father," said he, once more stretching out his arms towards his mother, "let me stay a while with him."
"But he's asleep, Bryan," said Harman, "and I'm sure you would not wish to awaken him."
"I would like to kiss him then," he replied, "and to sleep a while with him."
"Och, let him, poor darling," said his mother, as she took him in her arms, "it may ease his little heart, and then he'll feel satisfied."
"Well, if you're allowed to go to him won't you lie very quiet, and not speak so as to disturb him?" said Harman.
"I'm tired," said the child, "and I'd like to sleep in his bed. I used sometimes to do it before, and my father always kept his arms about me."
His mother's features became convulsed, and she looked up in mute affliction to heaven; but still, notwithstanding her misery, she was unable to shed one tear.
"Pulse of my heart" (cushla machree), she said, kissing him, "you must have your innocent and loving wish." She then gently raised the bed-clothes and placed him beside his father.
The poor pale boy sat up in the bed for about a minute, during which he glanced at the still features of the departed, then at his mother, and then at the pool of blood on the floor, and again he shuddered. All at once, however, he started and looked about him; but in a manner that betokened delight rather than alarm--his eyes brightened--and an expression almost of radiance settled upon his face. "Mother," said he, "kiss me, and let Mr. Harman kiss me."
They both did so, and his poor mother felt her heart relieved, by the happiness depicted on his face. "Glory be to God," she exclaimed, "see what a change for the better has come over my blessed child."
Father Roche looked at Harman, and shook his head--"Blessed he will be soon," said he, in a low whisper, "the child is dying."
The boy started again, and the former serenity lit up his pale features.
"Bryan, you are better, darling of my life; you look a thousand pounds better than you did awhile ago."
The boy looked into her face and smiled.---"I am," said he, "but did you not hear it?"
"Hear what, jewel of my heart?"