The Chain of Gold. A tale of adventure on the West Coast of Ireland

Front matter

'BY THE SAME oAUTHO'K FINN AND HIS COMPANIONS Fancy cloth binding, 2S. 6d. SOME PRESS NOTICES. "This series of Ossianic tales is in all ways excellent. . . . The stories are most effectively told, and in a style admirably adapted to arouse and interest all imaginative persons, whether children or older folk." — TJie Saturday Review. " Singularly fitting language, simple, poetic, and dignified. . . . Healthier provender for the youthful mind it would be hard to name." — Thc Speaker, "These stories of Finn will be dear to all little people. . . . The volume is scholarly as well as entertaining, and forms a valuable addition to the translated store of Ossian literature." — The Athenæum. " The tales are good, and tell of the genuine spirit of the literature to which they belong." — The Spectator.

"Far the most delightful of the children's stories that I have yet seen is Mr. Standish O'Gradv's ' Finn and his Companions. '" — Truth. "... May well serve to reveal to young readers the wealth of fascinating legend to be found in Celtic tradition." — St. James' Gazette. "Allegorical as well as heroic, and appear well adapted to captivate the imagination of the young." — The Morning Post. "There will be little difference of opinion among the young folks as to the reality of the heroes, none as to the wonderful fascination of the legends." — The Scotsman. ** AH round the best book of the season— the most original, the most strength ening and refining, and the most enjoyable, whether to old or young. Mr. O'Grady is a bom story-teller. . . . Mr. O'Grady has produced something which is really literature." — Sunday Sun.

"The whole book is alluring, and should succeed with the public." — The Mancltester Guardian. " No child can fail to have its imagination awakened by reading these tales ot great courage, great nobility, great strength, and great purity of heart."— The Daily Chronicle. " A remarkably successful endeavour to popularise some of the oldest of Irish legends of heroes, warriors, and mighty hunters of pre-Christian times. . . . People of older years will read it with interest, and ask for more." — The Bir mingham Post. "Has a distinct interest and value, for it introduces the reader to a field hitherto almost untrodden. Both children and grown-up people will be fascinated by the stories." — Methodist Recorder. "A piece of archaic fancy, admirably conceived, poetically consistent, restrained and vigorous in expression, with a charming simplicity. . . .

Chapter I. An Ocean Waif

By Frank Furbisher. In the autumn of '59, I being then fifteen years of age, was residing with my aunt near a little fishing village on the coast of Brittany. I was an invalid — sick, indeed, both in mind and body. About an arrow-shot from the cottage which my aunt rented there was a very pretty strand, a favourite haunt of mine, it was so quiet and solitary, like myself, — for I too was very quiet and solitary. It was only a few yards in length, and was girt by rocks on each side, which formed a charming little bay when the tide was in. I have said that I was an invalid. I was A indeed, a prey to that most distressing of all mental and nervous maladies, insomnia. Though a most keen and ardent student, I had been com pelled by my medical advisers not only to leave school, but to intermit altogether everything in the nature of study.

They enjoined in all ways the most perfect rest and quiet. In consequence, my aunt, who had been once very happy here herself, brought me to this remote little Breton village. My physicians had also recommended that I should endeavour to snatch a little sleep at any time, under any circumstances, no matter how broken that sleep might be. So I used to wander forth with my rug and drowse a little when the fit came on. One beautiful morning in the late autumn I sought my little haven as usual. The tide was almost full in, the ripples breaking upon the white pebbles, and pushing before them weeds of many colours, chips, straws, and all manner of flotsam and jetsam, and sending out little showers of spray like glittering diamonds. Beyond, the sea lay calm and gray aud gently heaving. I laid my rug upon the strand close to AN OCEAN WAIF. the water and sat down there, leaning against a boulder, and for a while watched languidly the breaking ripples, and languidly listened to their music.

Presently I was aware of a sharper sound, as of something metallic clinking against stones. I looked to my right, saw a dels jar there, half afloat, knocking gently against the stones, cease lessly pushed upon by the wavelets, and clinking faintly at each fresh impulse. It came slowly towards me, moving from right to left. When it reached my feet, I leaned forward and took it. It was not corked, but was stopped with a little timber plug. So weak were my hands that I had some difficulty in removing the stopper. The jar was empty save for a little salt water, which I let drip out. I flung it from me into the water, and after watching it as it dipped and rose for a few minutes, leaned back again, closed my eyes and forsot it. I had a book with me — Edgar Allan Poe's strange stories — but was too languid to read, and indeed felt a little drowsy, and presently fell asleep, or rather half asleep, for at this time I never rightly slept, and never without dreams, dreams usually of an unwelcome nature.

As I dreamed now, the jar which I had been handling just before continued to appear and re appear in my dreams, greatly increased in size. Then it seemed to me that there were people imprisoned in it, who passionately cried to me to liberate them. The voices that cried out seemed to me to be the voices of boys. I awoke with a start and sprang to my feet, trembling violently. But for this apparently grotesque and foolish vision the present story would never have been written. This fantastic dream was for me the beginning of a new life, the first link in a chain of events which have formed for me the strangest experience which I have ever met with. All was serene, still, and beautiful as before. The calm sea stretched out before me, gray, glimmering, and undulating gently ; there too, heeled on one side and rocking, floated the little brown-white jar which had so strangely affected my mind in sleep.

It was now in the very entrance of the little harbour, and as if retreating into the deep sea. Dressed as I was, I dashed into the water. I could not swim, and feared that the jar might get AN OCEAN WAIF. 5 beyond my depth were I to delay even a moment. I was but just able to reach it, standing up to my chin in the water. I waded ashore with my treasure, and, turning the mouth towards the now-risen sun, perceived within something that looked like paper or parchment. Then I hastened home, and rushed past an astonished French maid into my bedroom, locked the door, and flung myself down into a chair, giddy and trembling with excitement. The echoes of the voices which cried in my dream were still ringing in my ears, so singularly vivid had the vision been. Dripping as I was, I sat quiet for some five minutes, holding the precious flotsam in my hand, and endeavouring to still the agitation of my mind.

So certain was I that I held in my hand the clue to some strange story, I felt I could afford to wait. Eventually I changed my clothes, and having first thought of extracting the paper, finally broke the jar, fearing that the document, already injured by the water, might be further injured by endeavours to extract it through the narrow opening. I may mention that' the lip at one point had been broken, no doubt by striking upon rocks. Here the water had found entrance. I took care, however, to keep the sherds. The document was wound up in a roll and quite wet. I did not dare to touch it till I had kindled my bedroom fire, which chanced to be set. Then handling the paper with the utmost care, I dried it thoroughly before the blaze, and not till then attempted to unroll it. The writing was on the inner side, and was in red characters — red ink, or more probably blood.

They were almost illegible, but after long and intense poring I was able to make out with certainty the following words and letters : — "We are here . . . well . . . Rohar" — evidently a proper name, for it began with a capital letter. " July hurricane . . .August." After this, and below the body of the writing, were what seemed to be two Christian names reduced to blotches but bracketed, and one surname, of which the only legible letter was the first. It was "F." AN OCEAN WAIF. 7 So intense was my preoccuption while studying the document that though my aunt had tapped more than once at the door, I had not heard her. Eventually I heard her, and having answered reassuringly was allowed to be at peace. At this time my mind was strangely affected by Poe's weird tales of wonder and mystery. I longed to meet with some such adventure, some rare and curious experience like those which form the theme of his fascinating stories ; to light upon and follow some clue leading to hidden treasures or great discoveries.

Now by the rarest chance, if the thought of providential interposition were to be excluded — and I was not inclined to exclude it — some such experience was about to be mine. Some such clue was cast, as it were, from the deep into my hands. The combination of fortuitous events by which I had arrived at the possession of this precious bit of writing struck me much — my illness, the selection by my aunt of this remote spot, the accident of my coming to the beach just when I did, the strange dream which caused me to recover the waif, the million chances and changes, and countless intricate influences of wind and wave which had driven that little flotsam to my particular haven. The dream, too, surprised me more than anything else, it was so astonishingly vivid.

Chapter II. Rohar

— WHERE ? By Frank. Furbisher. Before I left my room I vowed never to rest till I had found and rescued those lost ones, whoever they might be, and fulfilled the task which had been so marvellously entrusted to me alone in the wide world. For the pursuit of such a purpose I had means and ways which might not have fallen to many other boys. The lady who was my guardian, for I was an orphan, tenderly loved me, and could deny me nothing in reason. From the Court of wdiich I was the ward she was allowed a thousand a year for my maintenance, and she was herself affluent. Moreover, she was tender-hearted and sympathetic in the extreme, ever alert to answer any call made upon her purse or her time by suffering humanity, and singularly intelligent, and, what was more remarkable, as romantic as a school girl.

From her I knew I should have all possible furtherance in my quest, except worldly wisdom, for of that she had a small share. She hoped greatly that I would pursue the occupation of letters. Alas ! she passed away before I had given more than a promise of what I have been since able to achieve. That night I told her all. She was keenly excited and sympathetic, even beyond my expec tations. Together we pored over the strange scripture. "It is strange," "Strange," "Most strange," she kept repeating at intervals. She was subject to an impediment in her speech, and stammered more than usual when excited. To night she stammered a great deal. She agreed with me that "Rohar" was the name of a place, and that there evidently the writers of the manuscript had been cast away. They were on a rock in the sea, she said, on some very remote and unvisited part of the French coast.

" But, Frank," she said suddenly, " you were ROHAR — WHERE ? 11 sleepless before. Now this wonderful thing will quite rob you of sleep." " I sleep so little now," I said, " that that does not greatly matter. But if you help me, dear aunt, I shall see this task through, with sleep or without it." She continued to pace up and down the drawing-room, with her hands behind her, murmuring, " Strange, strange, most strange and interesting ! " What struck her as most remarkable was the harmony which she discovered between my dream and the facts as disclosed by the writing, for the voices which cried out in the dream were the voices of boys, and the handwriting of the MS. so far as decipherable certainly showed signs of immaturity. It was she who first noticed that feature of the MS. By her advice I went first to our village Cure.

He was a student and antiquarian, and a corre spondent of various learned Societies. I wras such a miser wdth regard to this wonderful secret, and so determined to follow up the clue as far as possible by my own exertions, that the only point which I asked him to solve was whether there was a place named Rohar any where on the French coast, or whether, among the insular groups of the Channel, there was any rock or islet of that name. The Cure very good-naturedly undertook the enquiry. There was now a tedious delay of more than a fortnight, while the Cure was conduct ing a wide correspondence with regard to that question. In the meantime I pored unceasingly over my precious MS., and indeed my aunt and myself seldom talked of anything else- We concluded that the boys were either upon a rock in the sea, quite out of the track of passing ships, or that they had been flung upon some strand quite surrounded by unscaleable cliffs, a position from which they could not escape by climbing, and that, being unable to swim, they could not escape by sea.

I had once seen a picture of a poor sailor marooned in such a spot, a picture into which the artist had introduced by an unexpected stroke of genius a very singular suggestion of despair. On one side was the calm sea ; on all the others steep, impending cliffs. Upon a boulder in the middle of the strand sat ROHAR — WHERE ? 13 the sailor supporting his head with his hands, an elbow on either knee, and staring out before him. Opposite to the sailor, and quite close to him upon another boulder, sat Death, also in the self-same attitude. He stared at the sailor and the sailor at him. I believed that the lost boys were in some such situation. My aunt did so too. Con sequently the fortnight which now elapsed before the Cure could give me a definite answer to my question was one of much suffering to both of us, though relieved by the word "'well," which was clearly decipherable, as the reader is aware, in one part of the MS.

And yet the blotched and illegible text might be, " We are well, but food is nearly unprocurable," or "We are well, but fresh water is failing." At the end of a fortnight all but one day, the Cure announced to me that on all the French coast there was no such place as Rohar, nor yet in the insular groups of the channel. That evening we started for London.

Chapter III. Rohar Discovered

By Frank Furbisher. Had I been older and wiser I would at once have sought out a clever detective and put the whole affair into his hands. Of this I never thought, as I would have done had I ever come across detective literature, which did not flourish in those times. I went to an advertising agent, and bade him advertise in all the newspapers of the maritime counties and shires for two boys lost in the hurricane which blew in July, boys whose name began with an " F." I only advertised in English and Scotch and Welsh papers, for I said that if the boys were Irish, the writing would be in the Irish language. Though I knew a good deal then for a boy, in some respects I was singularly ROHAR DISCOVERED. ignorant. At the same time I had a case made for my precious MS., lest it should be injured.

The case wTas like a daguerrotype case ; we called photographs daguerrotypes then. To these advertisements, which wTere continued for weeks, I got many replies, one and all asking for money as the price of information. This I would have gladly given, but my aunt, though anything but worldly wise, perceived the true motive of these communications. My dis appointment, as may be imagined, was extreme. Curiously enough, however, this mystery, which my guardian feared would quite rob me of sleep, had exactly the contrary effect. On the night of the day on which I got the letter I slept well, and every night after that slept well. From day to day my health, both physical and mental, improved. Disappointed in this clue, I turned to the other — the proper name of the place. I called on our family solicitor, and put to him shortly, for I did not much like him, the question, " If I know the name of a place, and do not know where it is, what steps should I take to discover it ?

" He stretched a ruler across his" forehead and proceeded to " pump me." But I would not submit to this, and put to him again my question, and in a manner showed that I would not be trifled with. Under the influence of this quest, and the demands it made upon me, I had grown bold and strong, and was delighted to find that I could speak with firmness and decision to this inquisitive person, and bring him so soon to a sense of his place and mine. Finally, he advised me to call at the offices of the Geograph ical Society. This I did, and after a good deal of trouble found myself closeted with a very amiable and no doubt wdse old gentleman, who, after turn ing over divers books and maps, assured me that there was no such place in the United Kingdom. " Not even in Ireland ?" I said. " Not even in Ireland," he replied.

" The people of Ireland talk Irish, of course ? " I said. He smiled. " Well, a good many of the common people do," he answered ; " but the language of the educated classes is exclusively English. And now that you mention it," he added, " the name ROHAR DISCOVERED. 17 Rohar has a very Irish or West Scotch look about it. But may I ask, why are you so anxious, for anxious I perceive you are ? " I evaded this question as well as I could. The in fluence of Edgar Allen Poe was strong in my mind, and I wished to work out the problem by myself. Nowt a sudden thought struck me. " Might there be local names of places," I said, " which in the maps and geographies are entered under different designations ? " When I said this he became very lively and communicative, and mentioned a great number of divergencies between the local and the geo graphical names.

Thanking this amiable old gentleman for his assistance, I went straight to Willing, and bade him advertise in all the newspapers of the Irish and Scotch maritime counties for information about the topical name Rohar, believed to be the local designation of an island, cliff, or headland. I added that the matter was one of life or death. To this I received after a few days a reply to the following effect : — B " Dear Sir, — Rohar is the local designation of a promontory on the west coast of Ireland. It runs westward from the little posting town of Aghascrah. Of this you may be assured, for I know the place well. " Hoping that this information will be of ser vice to you, I remain, yours truly, "Thomas Freeman, Clerk." The delight of my aunt and myself when we read this letter can be easier imagined than described.

My months of searching, meditation, and enquiry had at last been crowned with success. It seemed to me now that nothing remained but to go straight to this town of Aghascrah, which I soon discovered and located both in the Irish railway book and on the map, organise there a search expedition, explore all the coast line and the rocks and islets of that pro montory, discover the lost ones, and bear them to their home, wherever that might be. Already I had feasted my imagination on the joy of their parents, brothers, and sisters when I should appear leading with me the lost ones ROHAR DISCOVERED. 19 recovered as from the grave. I tried to imagine what those lost boys might be like, and what the nature of their home and of the bereaved ones there. Not for a moment did the thought cross my mind that there might be something misleading in the word "Rohar."

How I fared now, and the curious adventures and experiences which met me in Ireland, I shall relate presently. Curiously enough, though I did not suspect it at the time, Thomas Freeman, clerk, writer of the letter just quoted, was the father of the boys of whom I was in search. The capital F in the MS. was the first letter of the name "Freeman." [In my capacity of editor, I now suspend my own narrative in order to introduce to the reader the Freeman family, and acquaint him with the circumstances under which the lads were lost, and the nature of the home from which they had been so tragically taken away, uncertain yet whether only to privation, solitude, suffering, and ultimate recovery, or to solitude and suffering, which was to terminate in death. The following chapters have been excerpted from much larger narratives, kindly written at my instance by two junior members of the Freeman family, Sam and Charley, good friends of mine now, and both at the present time doing conspicuously wrell in their respective walks in life.— F. B.]

Chapter IV. At The Hearth-side

By Charles Freeman. The irony of things ! Yes ; things can be very ironical sometimes. Scenes the serenest are often charged with meanings the most terrible. We sat at home together one evening, all of us but two, of whose loud and turbulent arrival we were in momentary expectation. They had been from home the whole day shooting, as we thought, for they had brought the gun with them. The tempest was howling without, but its mighty roar in the woods which surrounded the Parsonage only made the peace which prevailed within all the sweeter. A bright fire fed with turf and bogwood blazed in the big old fashioned grate. Burnished and glittering, the tall silver candlesticks stood on the table, and between them the equally bright snuffers and snuff-dish. My father was composing his sermon, my mother sewing by the fire.

For the hundredth time I was poring over a scrap book filled with military pictures. My next brother, Sam, quite noiselessly was cutting and paring a heap of rods in a remote and dark corner of the room to which the carpet did not extend. He was making a crib for catching birds, and was fearful of being noticed and sent elsewhere with his " litter." " Through the thick night we heard the bugle blow." It was nothing alarming, only a post boy riding in with his mail-bags to the little village. He always blew his bugle as he passed our gate, and again as he entered the village. The bugle-call came between two awful claps of thunder. It was late summer, but night had fallen early. Hours before night was due the maid had brought in the candles, closed the shutters, and drawn the heavy red curtains.

About half an hour after that bugle-call she came in again, bearing my father's own post-bag, which was still wet in spite of friction and dry in or at AT THE HEARTH-SIDE. 23 the kitchen fire. I saw her hand shaking violently. I looked up. Her face was as white as paper. " What a night for the poor sailors ! " said my mother, laying down her sewing, and looking out before her. As she spoke another terrific crash seemed to shake the house, and the roarinp; of the storm redoubled its fury. My father did not answer ; he was too deep in his sermon. I don't think he even knew the night was stormy. He wrote or leaned back in his chair with closed eyes, meditating, and from time to time took a pinch of snuff. A cat and a dog were silently pawing each other on the hearth-rug. Some times, at a sign from my mother, Sam, from the tall wicker basket lined with tin, lifted out a fresh sod of turf or a piece of bogwood, and placed it on the fire.

There was a frequent hissing as heavy drops of rain came straight down the wide chimney and fell upon the glow ing wood and peat. The tempest howled without, but all was peace here. Here there were only the flapping of the flames, the scratch of my father's pen, the faint click of my mother's needle as it met the thimble, and almost fainter the sound of Sam's slicings and cuttings from his corner. My mother rang her little bell. The maid answered the call. She stood half in and half out of the room, with her hand on the door handle. Her face was invisible as she said, " Yes, ma'am," so with a child's quick instinct I felt something was wrong. Also I thought I heard a sob. " Are the young gentlemen returned, Teresa ? " said my mother in her gentle low tones, not caring to reprove Teresa just now.

" No, ma'am," said Teresa. She closed the door as she said this. A sudden motion caused me to look at my mother. Her face was disfigured. Then I heard some where, rising wild and shrill through the hollow roarings of the storm, the Irish caoine, the death cry. My mother started to her feet with quick, short breaths and a low moan. The door was violently flung open. The servant ran in like one mad. She fell upon her knees, and with arms raised above her head, cried out — AT THE HEARTH-SIDE. 25 " 0 ma'am, 0 ma'am ! God be their defence this night ! 0 ma'am, sure they're on the sea. They went out before the dawn, and never came back, and never will come back any more." Of that night, and of the days and weeks and months which followed it, I shall write no more. You must imagine what I feel myself powerless to describe.

That is what, for my part, I remember of the circumstances under which my brothers, John and Edward Freeman, were lost in the great hurricane of July 29, 1851.

Chapter V. The Letter From Yarmouth

By Samuel Freeman. My name is Sam Freeman. I am in the chapter before this, which was written by Charley. It was I who was making the crib. I cannot write like him, for I was always the dunce of the family, and a dunce I suppose I shall always be. But as I have been asked to tell my part of the story, I will do it as well as I can. The storm in which mv eldest brothers, John and Edward, were lost was bad enough, though one would think from the way Charley writes about it that it was the greatest storm that ever blew since the beginning of the world. The house didn't shake at all. It was a very solid house, square, and not tall, and with walls four feet thick. How he remembers all that about the maid's hand shaking, and all those other little things that happened so long ago, I cannot understand.

We thought at first that my brothers might have landed before the storm on some distant part of the coast. A few days finished our hopes this way. Then we thought that they might have been blown out to sea, and been picked up by some passing ship. But it was a poor hope at the best, and when months had passed, and no news came from anywhere, I heard no more about the "passing ship." Then we wore black, because there was no more hope. Now, though I said nothing about it, I did not in my heart — not for a long time — believe that they were lost at all, but were only out on some big lark or spree that I could not quite under stand. I never knew such wild creatures as those big brothers of mine, Jack and Ned. I fancy that they were both a little mad. They were always doing queer, cracked things — staying away for days in islands or caves or wild places in the mountains, where they lived like Robinson Crusoe.