Fitzgerald the Fenian: a novel

Chapter I. In The Chapel Yard

Eleven o'clock mass had concluded in the little country chapel of Rathcarrick, situated four miles or so from the town of Kilmore. The congregation devoutly crossing them selves and resuming their headgear passed out through the open door of the chapel, giving themselves a splash of holy water as they passed the font which contained it. Instead of dispersing at once, the greater part of the assemblage settled themselves to converse in groups in the chapel yard. Father Tom Maguire, the officiating priest, having quickly laid aside his vestments, VOL. I. B passed through the crowd with a kind word for everyone, and made his way to where a gossoon, the envy of all the other little boys, had the honour of holding his reverence's horse. Eather Tom was a florid fresh complexioned man of about thirty, stout, well made, and "the aisiest man the darlin' " at a confession the whole country round.

As he passed, the men raised their hats and the girls curtseyed, and the father bestowed a kindly smile upon them all. " Thank you, Johnny," said the priest to the lad that held his horse, " when I am a parish priest I'll make you my groom. Now we are all right. Get those donkey-carts out of the way, Johnny, my man." The donkey-carts being removed, his reverence galloped aw7ay towards Kilmore with the speed of a man who has earned a good breakfast by a long morning's work in the mountain air. Rathcarrick was attached to the next town, and was served by a curate, not being wealthy or important enough to have a parish priest of its own. The congregation showed no immediate signs of dispersing. Country congregations, whether of church or chapel, show no anxiety to rush off to their homes the minute divine service is over.

People in towns may do so, but in this country Sunday is the one clay of meeting which can be reckoned on with certainty, and people find they have a good deal to say to one another after the lapse of a week. Some settled themselves on the low stone wall surrounding the chapel yard, and dangled their legs to show they were entirely disengaged. Others, more luxurious, balanced themselves on a couple of sods of turf placed on the sunny side of the wall, and prepared to smoke. Some sprawled on the grass, and all seemed to settle down to enjoy a chat before separating to their several homes. It was the noon of a clear bright clay in early spring. The air was fresh and bracing, but a little sharp, with just the slightest touch of frost perceptible. The sky was a deep blue, flecked with scarcely a faint patch of white cloud.

The prettily situated town of Kilmore, its lovely lake, its lofty mountains, its shining rivers, its broad gleaming estuary appeared spread out like a map before b one's eye. The harsh storms with which the month of March opened had given place to joyous sunshine. The earth seemed to be awaking from its long winter sleep, and all nature was rejoicing. Already the little lambs might be seen trying their long slender legs, though as yet they did not venture far from their mother's side. Summer seemed to be advancing " with leaps and bounds." The joyfulness of nature was evidently reflected from the looks of the country people scattered in the neighbourhood of the chapel. They all appeared decently clad, though their garments were more remark able for warmth and durability than for elegance of cut and finish.

The old men wore grey frieze, calculated to last a lifetime. In the case of some who kept to the old fashions of their childhood, the outer gar ment was cut in the shape of a gentleman's dress - coat, and ornamented w7ith bright shining brass buttons. Their lower limbs were encased in knee-breeches and long stockings of grey wool, and on their feet they wore boots or shoes, not polished with the compound which has made the name of Day and Martin famous throughout the world, but thoroughly well rubbed with the grease of a candle-end. Tall hats were their universal wear, in the crown of which each countryman carried a pocket-handkerchief of brilliant colour and ample dimen sions. The older women were likewise dressed in honiesjiun. ~Fev; wore caps, none wore bonnets, the great majority going bareheaded.

They generally wore a long black cloak, the hood of which could be thrown over the head in rainy weather. Almost all wore boots, not for the purpose of protecting the feet whilst walking, but for the sake of " dacency." Though some came as far as three miles to chapel, they carried their boots and stockings in their hands or in their aprons till near the chapel gate. Then they put them on, and very un comfortable they seemed in them. Finally, when about to set off homeward, they took them off again, and trudged home barefooted as they came. The younger portion of the congregation showed more conformity to modern fashion, though the change was hardly for the better. A young rustic dressed in his best hardly looks to advantage. His clothes are too tight for him and too stiff. The motion of his limbs is constrained.

He looks awkward. and feels awkward, and is as little at home in his town's-made tweed as if he were en cased in a suit of the armour of the Middle Ages. At the very first opportunity he takes off his stiff shirt collar and bright green tie, and puts them both carefully into his pocket. The country girls were more at their ease in their Sunday clothing, which was striking from its bright contrasts of vivid hues. All the colours of the spectrum, and many more besides, might be pointed out in the dressing of one of these rustic maidens. In spite of all these errors and bad taste, the observer, however critical, could not help remarking that the greater number were good-looking, and many decidedly pretty, and a few even strikingly handsome. No garish articles of dress could hide the ripeness of the ruddy lip, the creamy whiteness of the skin, the soft rose-colour of the cheek, or dim the coquettish glance of the bright blue eye.

Accustomed to carry weighty articles upon the head, the walk of the country maidens was erect and even stately. Their light joyous laughter resounded in the clear air. IN THE CHAPEL "SARD. Sunday was their one holiday and they were determined to enjoy themselves. But there was one group in the chapel yard that day who seemed to care little for the joyful exhilaration which was all around them. They bore the look of men upon whom some misfortune had fallen, as they conversed in low tones and questioned one who seemed to be the bearer of the evil tidings. This was no other than Matt Fitz simons, the clerk of the chapel. " There now, boys, I have told you the whole story — every word of it— as I heard it last night from a man that ought to know. It is ba news, but that is not my fault. I wish it was better.

I am heartily sorry for what has happened to Dick Eitzgerald. But, sure, it was a good cause." " A noble cause. Though my poor hoy is in prison, and his life likely to pay the forfeit for his want of success, I have two sons more, dear to me as my own life, and I would give them both to serve the cause of Old Ireland." " Spoken like a hero, and the father of a hero. Think of Dick riding alone to bring the General's orders to the boys at Ballynoe, and the road thick with peelers ! Was it not cute of him when he came in sight of the polis drawn up in front of the barracks ? He stops his horse and walks him as quiet and as easy as you like up to the very front of them ; and, then, just as the officer put out his hand to catch the bridle, he hits the officer's arm a rap of his kippeen, puts spurs to the horse, and is away past them with his despatches safe."

" Aye, and think of the escape he had. The polis all w7heel into the road, and every one of them fires his shot at him, as if he was a jack snipe, and not a touch either man or horse got. Glory be to God ! I know the place well, the road is as straight as my whip for two hundred yards." " It was a remarkable escape," said old Fitzgerald. " That only shows he was cou rageous and lucky. But the other part of the business shows him to be a true hero. Tell it again," said the old man with pride, turning to the clerk. " When Dick got to Ballynoe he finds the boys and the polis at it still. The polis were in their barracks firing away out, and the boys were outside firing away in. Three or four of the boys bad been killed, and a dozen or so more or less wounded ; but the polis escaped without a scratch.

Dick walks up to the front, looking for the American General. The devil an American General was to be seen. " ' Where is the General, boys ?' says he, looking round. ' Is he killed ?' " ' Sorra a kill,' said one ; ' there he is •—behind the wall — issuing orders as if he was Bonypart or Julius Cæsar. There is nothing to be seen of him but a white feather.' "Dick went to the place indicated, and, looking over the wall, he saw the General squatted like a hen on a nest. He had on a green coat with goold buttons, a big sword, and a belt all alive with revolvers. A lovely green sash was over his uniform, and he wore a cocked hat with white feathers stuck in the top of it. He was as pale as a ghost, and his teeth chattering with the cowld, I suppose, for sure it was not afraid he was. " ' We are defeated, sir, at Ballydare, and the soldiers are marching on here, and may he expected in twenty minutes.

Draw the men off as quietly as possible, the polis are merely keeping them in play till the infantry are on them.' So says the bowld Dick. " ' The cowardly Irish, of course they ran?' says the General, in very bad humour, and frowning hard at Dick. " ' The less you say, sir, about the cowardly Irish the better. You seem to be aware of the relative values of valour and discretion. Will you draw off the men quietly ? ' " 'Draw them off yourself and be d d,' and he was on the point of rising up in a passion, when he bethought of himself in time, and ducked under the shelter of the wall. So Dick goes in front of the boys and orders them to draw themselves off. He told them to disperse quietly in all direc tions, himself keeping back with a dozen to hold the polis in check should they venture out in pursuit.

In ten minutes' time he retreats, himself and the others, out by the opposite road to the one by which the soldiers were to come. He had gone as far as the railw7ay-bridge when he observed the polis hurrying after them. He stopped, got on the battlements, and began to work his hand and head as if he was given orders to a body of men behind the embankment. The polis were afraid of falling into a trap and did not advance, but stopped two hundred yards or so from the bridge, and began firing at him as he stood on the bridge. Some of the shots went very near, Dick says. Well, when he thought all the boys had got safely away in various directions, he takes off his hat and gives a cheer, finishing off w7ith ' God save Ireland ! ' There he stood for nearly a quarter of an hour, keeping all the fire of the polis and all their attention fixed on himself till the boys got a good start.

Then down he jumped and off like a deer, and up comes the polis, right mad with rage for being humbugged so easily, for they see no one behind the embankment, nor could Dick be found in any direction." "Now," said the father, "that is some thing to be proud of. He was ready to give his life, not only for his country but for those who trusted him. Self-sacrifice is what Ireland needs. We have had enough of the patriots wdio looked upon their country as something to make money of when the opportunity turned up." "That is so," said the clerk. " They looked upon their country as valuable because it was something they could sell, and a ta high price, too." " The American General was a poor crea ture," said Thady Shea. " If Ireland is to be a nation," said Fitz gerald, "she must trust to her own resources alone.

She must find a man- " The speaker stopped short. " Are you quite sure of the rest of your news ?" he asked again, referring to the clerk, whilst the haggard careworn look deepened on his face. " I told you what I heard, that your son, when he disajipeared from the bridge, made straight for Hurley's, some twenty miles off. He wanted to save the Fenians there, for he suspected something, and if the papers got into the hands of the polis the whole thing would be split on. He made straight for the house, as I told you, and went in. Hur ley was out, but his wife was there, and, getting the chest, he burned the papers one by one in the kitchen fire. He had only just finished them wdien in came the polis to search for the papers, for it appears they got information of where there was a valuable find.

You may imagine their disappoint ment as they saw Dick raking the ashes to consume the last scrap of writing. When the polis came in he quietly gave himself up, for he said his work was done. They say that he could have saved himself if he liked, for Hurley's wife gave him notice in time, but he would not stir till he had made sure of destroying every scrap that had writing on it. And then, when that was done, and he turned to escape, the polis were in the door way, and they clapped the 'darbeys' on him." " It is a wonder," said Thady Shea, " he did not make a fight for it, and sell his life as dear as he could. Had not he a revolver, and could not he have the courage to shoot a couple of them ?" " Courage ! " said Fitzgerald, his eyes flashing fire ; " who dares say that my son had not courage to do all and dare all that may become a man ?

" " I meant no offence," interrupted Thady, rather frightened by the outburst. " I only mean that if I w7as in his place I would sell my life as clear as I could." " Thady," said Fitzgerald, calmed a little, " you would never be in my son's place. As it is, why should he hurt a hair of a polis man's head ? They were doing their duty, as he was doing his. Why should he dis grace a noble cause and a noble name by shooting a poor polisman or two ? What good would it do ? What good could it do ? Fair fight is one thing, but to kill for the sake of killing is a cowardly thing." " He will swing for it, in any case," said the clerk, under his breath. " Hold your tongue ! what do you mean?" said Shea, turning rapidly round and catch ing the speaker by the throat, and shaking him as a cat w7ould a mouse He did not loosen his grip ; and not all the presumed sanctity of his ecclesiastical office would have saved him from rough handling but for an unexpected interruption.

Fitzgerald heard the brutal remark, and, though he endeavoured to preserve an appearance worthy of a Spartan, or a second Brutus, the tears trickled down his hardy and weather beaten cheeks. " Yes," he muttered, plaintively, " my son is doomed. He will not have Ion"- to live. But," he added, brushing away thc tears, and looking proudly around, "he gives his life for his native land, and he goes to join that noble band of martyrs whose blood cemented the foundations of Irish liberty. My son will be united to the lofty patriots . . . ." " Not for a while, if he can help it. Dick Fitzgerald is worth ten dead patriots yet," said Dick Fitzgerald himself, as he vaulted over the low wall, and stood almost in the midst of the little crowd. " Well, father," he said, turning to em brace his parent ; but the old man had fainted away at the sight of the son whom he thought to be at that moment in prison, waiting for his trial on a capital charge, to be, like others, sentenced to death or penal servitude for life.

Never to see him again in this life was what he had made up his mind to endure as best he could ; yet there was the boy at liberty and before his eyes. The revulsion of feeling was too great. The old man fell senseless into the arms of his son.

Chapter II. Home Again

The sudden and unexpected appearance of Dick Fitzgerald amongst his friends and admirers would, under other circumstances, have produced a warm and enthusiastic wel come. His gallant conduct had just been the theme of their conversation, and his heroism and self-devotion to a lost cause had excited their highest admiration. His deeds shone all the more brightly in con sequence of their being seen projected on a gloomy and dark background. All applause was, however, at once suppressed by a gesture from himself; by their own feeling that, though amongst them, he was in great clanger; and, more particu- HOMI-; AGAIN. 17 larly, by the attention of all being required for old Tom Fitzgerald, who lay senseless and motionless on the ground. The old man could bear up against sorrow7 and mis fortune ; he could contemplate his son being condemned to a dreadful fate on the very threshold of manhood with something like outward equanimity ; but when, instead, he heard that son's voice in his ears, and saw him stand a free man in their midst, the rush of unexpected joy was too great.

Nature gave way, and he fainted. With some difficulty Dick succeeded in keeping the crowd back, so that the clear mountain air fanned his father's cheek un restrainedly. One of the number ran off to where a tiny rill trickled through the bog and fell in a little cascade over the side of a turf-bank hard by. The water was slightly coloured, but cool. Fetching in an instant the full of his hat, Dick took it from the bearer's hand and dashed the refreshing liquid plentifully over his parent's face ; and soon had the satisfaction of seeing the colour return to the cheek and lips. The old man heaved a long sigh, slowly opened his eyes, and looked inquiringly around. He seemed, vol. i. c at first, not to be aware of the circumstances in which he was placed ; but, after his eyes rested for a while on the face of his son, he appeared to be gathering up the shreds of memory, and gradually arriving at an under standing of all that had occurred.

Thady Shea now arrived with some raw w7hiskey in a glass, which he had fetched from the nearest house. The fiery spirit completed Fitzgerald's recovery ; and, after a gasp or two, he sat up, being supported in the arms of his son. "Thank you all," he murmured; "and thank God, who has been so good to me. The surprise was too great. To think that I see Dick here again, a free man amongst us all ! You must not go away again," he mur mured, turning round to get a better look at his son's face. "I am afraid, father,'' said Dick, "it would not be wise to remain here too long. Not, of course," he added hurriedly, " that I distrust one of the neighbours ; or would think in my heart that one of them would be an informer. But," he continued, smiling, " it is easier to get into a gaol than to get out of one ; and one escape is enough for the present.

Not but I am quite ready to face whatever may be necessary when the time comes ; but, at present, I prefer the outside of a gaol to the inside." " Certainly," said Fitzsimons, the parish clerk. " There is not one of us but would rather see you outside thau inside the gaol. But how, in the name of wonders, did you get out once you were within ?" " That would be telling, boys," replied Dick, answering rather the inquiring looks of his friends than the question of Fitz simons. " If there are spies amongst our selves, where we least expect to find them, there is also some compensation ; for we have friends in places where the Government little think they are to be found. Some other time I may tell you all about it ; but the first thing I must see to is to get my father home as quietly as possible.

The less you say about my being here the better." " Not a word will we utter, Dick darling, since you say it. Sure you don't think any of us would split upon you. We will be all as silent as the grave." " I know that ; but I only w7anted to put you on your guard, lest any incautious c remark might give a clue to the police or the soldiers as to where I am. Now, Paddy Green, grip my two hands till we lift the father out to the cart." Dick and Paddy Green grasped one an others hands, thus forming a seat, on which they placed old Fitzgerald. He put an arm around the neck of each, and was carried softly and gently to where his donkey-cart was placed by the roadside. The donkey stood patiently between the shafts, as did a score of others ; the donkey-carts being the usual means of conveyance used by the old and feeble who resided at a distance, to carry them to and from the chapel, or the next market-town.

The rest of Fitzgerald's family had gone on before, without waiting outside the chapel or making any delay, having joined a large party of young men and women who were going in the same direction as themselves. The old man was now able to sit up on the donkey-cart without assistance. His son drove the animal at an easy pace, so that there was no jolting of the springless conveyance. After about a quarter of a mile had been traversed, the donkey turned to the right up a narrow bye-w7ay, sufficient for the passage of only one vehicle at a time. The road, or rather cart-w7ay, led up to a small valley, or, more accurately, table-land, situated between Knocknarea and au off shoot of the mountain, which extended some distance, forming a hill of a few hundred feet in elevation. It was in the valley between the mountain and its spur that the elder Fitzgerald's home was situated.

It was a thatched cottage of two stories, faced so as to look down the valley and over the tract of sterile treeless country wdiish stretched towards the little town of Bally dare. The view comprised the spacious inlet called Ballydare Bay, into which flow7ed a broad rapid river, which tumbled over several huge ledges of rocks, forming cascades of considerable size. On the opposite side of the bay were several well-wooded gentlemen's seats, but between Glenomera — where the Fitzgeralds resided — and the shores of the inlet, scarcely a tree was to be seen. This portion of the country did not possess a single feature of interest. It was dotted over with the whitewashed cottages of tenants and farm-labourers in various stages of prosperity, or rather in various degrees of poverty. The cottage to w7hich old Fitzgerald was brought was rather of the better class.

It possessed a roomy kitchen, which served as drawing-room, dining-room, and parlour, as well as for culinary purposes. A white deal table occupied the centre of the floor. One side of the kitchen was taken up with an enormous dresser, on which the family dishes, plates, cups and saucers, were all displayed to public view. A solitary wooden noggin remained, the sole survivor of these unwieldy drinking-vessels which have dis appeared before the superior attractions of cheap crockery ware. Under the dresser were large shallow wooden dishes, some of which were cracked from age or hard work, the cracks being held together by " stitches" of thick copper or steel wire. The fireplace was of huge capacity, and the sides of it extended some distance into the kitchen. It contained neither ransre nor grate.

The fire, which was of turf from the adjacent bogs, burned on a hearth but slightly raised above the level of the floor. A huge iron bar, revolving on an upright axis of the same metal, supported a large pot by means of a crook, several of wdiich ran along a horizontal bar The pot was sus pended directly over the turf fire which glowed underneath. A stick served to keep the lid from resting entirely upon the rim of the pot, so as to allow the steam to escape freely. Beside the fire stood a smaller pot from which issued forth an appetising odour of excellent bacon. A couple of flitches and two hams were suspended from hooks fastened to the rafters, and strings of onions, flanked by row's of salt herrings spitted on willow rods, kept them company. The seats were two rush-bottomed chairs and several strong three-legged stools.

The walls of the kitchen were profusely decorated with coloured cartoons, the weekly supplement of a newspaper which had till lately a very extensive circulation amongst the peasantry of Ireland. It had recently, however, been seized and suppressed by the Government. There were three bedrooms in the house, the entrance to the larger of which opened from the kitchen. The beds were four posters, with semi-circular roofs rising to the ceiling, and were covered with curtains which almost entirely concealed the bed itself from view. In the larger of the bed rooms, which was old Fitzgerald's, was the family altar. A table placed against the wall was covered with a fair white cloth. On this rested a deal box also covered in a similar manner, and on the centre of the box stood a large plaster cast of the Virgin and Child.

A crown of gilt paper sur mounted the Virgin's head, and from the neck of the figure was suspended a rosary. On each side of the figure, and suspended from the wall, were small cards containing pictures, underneath which were some verses in praise of the Virgin, generally in the French language. On the table and box •stood candlesticks of various sizes containing coloured candles. On each side rose vases filled with gaudy artificial flowers. Tinsel and gilding had not been spared in the decoration, and the whole rested under a canopy of muslin studded all over with golden stars. To the right of the altar, and fastened against the wall, was a large font containing holy water, above which stood a crucifix of black wood showing off clearly a Saviour of brass. A small collection of books filled some shelves in one corner of the room.

The collection contained several works on history and biography, the Spectator, Josephus, a novel or two, and some popular histories of Ireland written from an anti-English point of view. The poets were represented by Moore, Byron, and Milton ; and national poetry by "The Spirit of the Nation." From the well-thumbed appearance of the latter volume it would seem that the poetry of Thomas Osborne Davis was far more appre ciated than the grandeur of Milton, the gloomy splendour of Byron, or the smooth and mellifluous tootliug of Moore. There were also several classical works, but not of a degree beyond well-known school-books. There were Virgil, Horace, Cæsar, and Sal lust, a Eatin grammar and dictionary, a dilectus, and easy reading-book. These, w7ith some devotional w7orks, completed the sum total of the little library.

A chair and table, and a large deal chest painted brown standing on four feet, were the only other articles of furniture in the room. Over the head of the bed w7ere strewn branches of palm, which had been brought home on the previous Palm Sunday from the chapel, and carefully preserved, till they should be replaced by fresh branches on the next return of the festival. In the out-offices were a couple of fine cows, and several large heavy pigs stretched their unsavoury and unwieldy bulk in the yard at the rear. Here were to be seen, also, the lower half of a partly-used haystack, and poition of a rick of turf, which originally had been some thirty feet in length, and from which the winter supply of fuel had been drawn. Fitzgerald was evidently a comfortable farmer. Fitzgerald's family consisted of three sons and two daughters.