Book: Handy Andy, Vol. 2

S >> Samuel Lover >> Handy Andy, Vol. 2




VIII

"'And hark! jolly quaker, so rosy and sly,
Have righteousness more than a wench in thine eye,
Don't go again peeping girls' bonnets beneath,
Remember the one that you met on the heath,
_Her_ name's _Jimmy_ Barlow--I tell to your teeth!'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

IX

"'_Friend_ James,' quoth the quaker, 'pray listen to me,
For thou canst confer a great favour, d' ye see;
The gold thou hast taken is not mine, my friend,
But my master's--and on thee I depend
To make it appear I my trust did defend.
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

X

"'So fire a few shots through my clothes, here and there,
To make it appear 't was a desp'rate affair.'
So Jim he popped first through the skirt of his coat,
And then through his collar quite close to his throat.
'Now once through my broad-brim,' quoth Ephraim, 'I vote.
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

XI

"'I have but a brace,' said bold Jim, 'and they 're spent,
And I won't load again for a make-believe rent.'
'Then,' said Ephraim--producing his pistols--'just give
My five hundred pounds back--or, as sure as you live,
I'll make of your body a riddle or sieve.'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee.

XII

"Jim Barlow was diddled, and though he was game,
He saw Ephraim's pistol so deadly in aim,
That he gave up the gold, and he took to his scrapers;
And when the whole story got into the papers,
They said that '_the thieves were no match for the quakers_.'
Heigho! _yea_ thee and _nay_ thee."

"Well, it's a quare thing you should be singin' a song here," said Larry
Hogan, "about Jim Barlow, and it's not over half a mile out of this very
place he was hanged."

"Indeed!" exclaimed all the men at once, looking with great interest at
Larry.

"It's truth I'm telling you. He made a very bowld robbery up by the long
hill there, on _two_ gintlemen, for he was mighty stout."

"Pluck to the back-bone," said Goggins.

"Well, he tuk the purses aff both o' them; and just as he was goin' on
afther doin' the same, what should appear on the road before him, but two
other travellers coming up forninst him. With that the men that was robbed
cried out, 'Stop thief!' and so Jim, seein' himself hemmed in betune the
four o' them, faced his horse to the ditch and took across the counthry;
but the thravellers was well mounted as well as himself, and powdhered
afther him like mad. Well, it was equal to a steeple chase a'most;
and Jim, seein' he could not shake them off, thought the best thing
he could do was to cut out some troublesome work for them; so he
led off where he knew there was the divil's own leap to take, and
he intended to 'pound [Footnote: Impound] them there, and be off
in the mane time; but as ill luck would have it, his own horse, that was
as bowld as himself, and would jump at the moon if he was faced to it,
missed his foot in takin' off, and fell short o' the leap and slipped his
shouldher, and Jim himself had a bad fall of it too, and, av coorse, it
was all over wid him--and up came the four gintlemen. Well, Jim had his
pistols yet, and he pulled them out, and swore he'd shoot the first man
that attempted to take him; but the gintlemen had pistols as well as he,
and were so hot on the chase they determined to have him, and closed on
him. Jim fired and killed one o' them; but he got a ball in the shouldher
himself, from another, and he was taken. Jim sthruv to shoot himself with
his second pistol, but it missed fire. 'The curse o' the road is on me,'
said Jim; 'my pistol missed fire, and my horse slipped his shouldher, and
now I'll be scragged,' says he, 'but it's not for nothing--I've killed one
o' ye,' says he."

"He was all pluck," said Goggins.

"Desperate bowld," said Larry. "Well, he was thried and condimned _av
coorse_, and was hanged, as I tell you, half a mile out o' this very
place, where we are sittin', and his appearance walks, they say, ever
since."

"You don't say so!" said Goggins.

"'Faith, it's thrue!" answered Larry.

"You never saw it," said Goggins.

"The Lord forbid!" returned Larry; "but it's thrue, for all that. For you
see the big house near this barn, that is all in ruin, was desarted
because Jim's ghost used to walk."

"That was foolish," said Goggins; "stir up the fire, Jim, and hand me the
whisky."

"Oh, if it was only walkin', they might have got over that; but at last
one night, as the story goes, when there was a thremendious storm o' wind
and rain--"

"Whisht!" said one of the peasants, "what's that?"

As they listened, they heard the beating of heavy rain against the door,
and the wind howled through its chinks.

"Well," said Goggins, "what are you stopping for?"

"Oh, I'm not stoppin'," said Larry; "I was sayin' that it was a bad wild
night, and Jimmy Barlow's appearance came into the house and asked them
for a glass o' sper'ts, and that he'd be obleeged to them if they'd help
him with his horse that slipped his shouldher; and, 'faith, afther
_that_, they'd stay in the place no longer; and signs on it, the
house is gone to rack and ruin, and it's only this barn that is kept up at
all, because it's convaynient for owld Skinflint on the farm."

"That's all nonsense," said Goggins, who wished, nevertheless, that he had
not heard the "nonsense."

"Come, sing another song, Jim."

Jim said he did not remember one.

"Then you sing, Ralph."

Ralph said every one knew he never did more than join a chorus.

"Then join me in a chorus," said Goggins, "for I'll sing, if Jim's
afraid."

"I'm not afraid," said Jim.

"Then why won't you sing?"

"Because I don't like."

"Ah!" exclaimed Goggins.

"Well, maybe you're afraid yourself," said Jim, "if you towld thruth."
"Just to show you how little I'm afeard," said Goggins, with a swaggering
air, "I'll sing another song about Jimmy Barlow."

"You'd better not," said Larry Hogan. "Let him rest in pace!"

"Fudge!" said Goggins. "Will you join chorus, Jim?"

"I will," said Jim, fiercely.

"We'll all join," said the men (except Larry), who felt it would be a sort
of relief to bully away the supernatural terror which hung round their
hearts after the ghost story by the sound of their own voices.

"Then here goes!" said Goggins, who started another long ballad about
Jimmy Barlow, in the opening of which all joined. It ran as follows:--

"My name it is Jimmy Barlow,
I was born in the town of Carlow,
And here I lie in the Maryborough jail,
All for the robbing of the Wicklow mail.
Fol de rol de rol de riddle-ido!"

As it would be tiresome to follow this ballad through all its length,
breadth, and thickness, we shall leave the singers engaged in their
chorus, while we call the reader's attention to a more interesting person
than Mister Goggins or Jimmy Barlow.




CHAPTER XXXVII


When Edward O'Connor had hurried from the burial-place, he threw himself
into his saddle, and urged his horse to speed, anxious to fly the spot
where his feelings had been so harrowed; and as he swept along through the
cold night wind which began to rise in gusty fits, and howled past him,
there was in the violence of his rapid motion something congenial to the
fierce career of painful thoughts which chased each other through his
heated brain. He continued to travel at this rapid pace, so absorbed in
bitter reflection as to be quite insensible to external impressions, and
he knew not how far nor how fast he was going, though the heavy breathing
of his horse at any other time would have been signal sufficient to draw
the rein; but still he pressed onward, and still the storm increased, and
each acclivity was topped but to sweep down the succeeding slope at the
same desperate pace. Hitherto the road over which he pursued his fleet
career lay through an open country, and though the shades of a stormy
night hung above it, the horse could make his way in safety through the
gloom; but now they approached an old road which skirted an ancient
domain, whose venerable trees threw their arms across the old causeway,
and added their shadows to the darkness of the night.

Many and many a time had Edward ridden in the soft summer under the green
shade of these very trees, in company with Fanny Dawson, his guiltless
heart full of hope and love; perhaps it was this very thought crossing
his mind at the moment which made his present circumstances the more
oppressive. He was guiltless no longer--he rode not in happiness with
the woman he adored under the soft shade of summer trees, but heard the
wintry wind howl through their leafless boughs as he hurried in maddened
speed beneath them, and heard in the dismal sound but an echo of the voice
of remorse which was ringing through his heart. The darkness was intense
from the canopy of old oaks which overhung the road, but still the horse
was urged through the dark ravine at speed, though one might not see an
arm's length before. Fearlessly it was performed, though ever and anon, as
the trees swung about their heavy branches in the storm, smaller portions
of the boughs were snapped off and flung in the faces of the horse and the
rider, who still spurred and plashed his headlong way through the heavy
road beneath. Emerging at length from the deep and overshadowed valley, a
steep hill raised its crest in advance, but still up the stony acclivity
the feet of the mettled steed rattled rapidly, and flashed fire from the
flinty path. As they approached the top of the hill, the force of the
storm became more apparent; and on reaching its crest, the fierce pelting
of the mingled rain and hail made the horse impatient of the storm of
which his rider was heedless--almost unconscious. The spent animal with
short snortings betokened his labour, and shook his head passionately as
the fierce hail-shower struck him in the eyes and nostrils. Still,
however, was he urged downward, but he was no longer safe. Quite blown,
and pressed over a rough descent, the generous creature, that would die
rather than refuse, made a false step, and came heavily to the ground.
Edward was stunned by the fall, though not seriously hurt; and, after the
lapse of a few seconds, recovered his feet, but found the horse still
prostrate. Taking the animal by the head, he assisted him to rise, which
he was not enabled to do till after several efforts; and when he
regained his legs, it was manifest he was seriously lamed; and as
he limped along with difficulty beside his master, who led him gently,
it became evident that it was beyond the animal's power to reach
his own stable that night. Edward for the first time was now aware
of how much he had punished his horse; he felt ashamed of using the
noble brute with such severity, and became conscious that he had
been acting under something little short of frenzy. The consciousness
at once tended to restore him somewhat to himself, and he began to
look around on every side in search of some house where he could
find rest and shelter for his disabled horse. As he proceeded thus,
the care necessarily bestowed on his dumb companion partially called off
his thoughts from the painful theme with which they had been exclusively
occupied, and the effect was most beneficial. The first violent burst of
feeling was past, and a calmer train of thought succeeded; he for the
first time remembered the boy had forgiven him, and that was a great
consolation to him; he recalled, too, his own words, pledging to Gustavus
his friendship, and in this pleasing hope of the future he saw much to
redeem what he regretted of the past. Still, however, the wild flare of
the pine-torch over the lone grave of his adversary, and the horrid answer
of the grave-digger, that he was but "finishing _his_ work," would
recur to his memory and awake an internal pang.

From this painful reminiscence he sought to escape, by looking forward to
all he would do for Gustavus, and had become much calmer, when the glimmer
of a light not far ahead attracted him, and he soon was enabled to
perceive it proceeded from some buildings that lay on his right, not far
from the road. He turned up the rough path which formed the approach, and
the light escaped through the chinks of a large door which indicated the
place to be a coach-house, or some such office, belonging to the general
pile which seemed in a ruinous condition.

As he approached, Edward heard rude sounds of merriment, amongst which the
joining of many voices in a "ree-raw" chorus indicated that a carouse was
going forward within.

On reaching the door he could perceive through a wide chink a group of men
sitting round a turf fire piled at the far end of the building, which had
no fire-place, and the smoke, curling upwards to the roof, wreathed the
rafters in smoke; beneath this vapoury canopy the party sat drinking and
singing, and Edward, ere he knocked for admittance, listened to the
following strange refrain:--

_"For my name it is Jimmy Barlow,
I was born in the town of Carlow,
And here I lie in Maryborough jail,
All for the robbing of the Wicklow mail.
Fol de rol de riddle-iddle-ido!"_

Then the principal singer took up the song, which seemed to be one of
robbery, blood, and murder, for it ran thus:--

"Then he cocked his pistol gaily,
And stood before him bravely,
Smoke and fire is my desire,
So blaze away, my game-cock squire.
_For my name it is Jimmy Barlow,
I was born &c._"

Edward O'Connor knocked at the door loudly; the words he had just heard
about "pistols," "blazing away," and, last of all, "_squire_" fell
gratingly on his ear at that moment, and seemed strangely to connect
themselves with the previous adventures of the night and his own sad
thoughts, and he beat against the door with violence.

The chorus ceased; Edward repeated his knocking. Still there was
no answer; but he heard low and hurried muttering inside. Determined,
however, to gain admittance, Edward laid hold of an iron hasp outside
the door, which enabled him to shake the gate with violence, that
there might be no excuse on the part of the inmates that they did not
hear; but in thus making the old door rattle in its frame, it suddenly
yielded to his touch and creaked open on its rusty hinges; for when Larry
Hogan had entered, it had been forgotten to be barred.

As Edward stood in the open doorway, the first object which met his eye
was the coffin--and it is impossible to say how much at that moment the
sight shocked him; he shuddered involuntarily, yet could not withdraw his
eyes from the revolting object; and the pallor with which his previous
mental anxiety had invested his cheek increased as he looked on this last
tenement of mortality. "Am I to see nothing but the evidences of death's
doing this night?" was the mental question which shot through Edward's
over-wrought brain, and he grew livid at the thought. He looked more like
one raised from the grave than a living being, and a wild glare in his
eyes rendered his appearance still more unearthly. He felt that shame
which men always experience in allowing their feelings to overcome them;
and by a great effort he mastered his emotion and spoke, but the voice
partook of the strong nervous excitement under which he laboured, and was
hollow and broken, and seemed more like that which one might fancy to
proceed from the jaws of a sepulchre than one of flesh and blood. Beaten
by the storm, too, his hair hung in wet flakes over his face and added to
his wild appearance, so that the men all started up at the first glimpse
they caught of him, and huddled themselves together in the farthest corner
of the building, from whence they eyed him with evident alarm.

Edward thought some whisky might check the feeling of faintness which
overcame him; and though he deemed it probable he had broken in upon
the nocturnal revel of desperate and lawless men, he nevertheless
asked them to give him some; but instead of displaying that alacrity
so universal in Ireland, of sharing the "creature" with a new-comer,
the men only pointed to the bottle which stood beside the fire, and
drew closer together.

Edward's desire for the stimulant was so great, that he scarcely noticed
the singular want of courtesy on the part of the men; and seizing the
bottle (for there was no glass), he put it to his lips, and quaffed a
hearty dram of the spirit before he spoke.

"I must ask for shelter and assistance here," said Edward. "My horse, I
fear, has slipped his shoulder--"

Before he could utter another word, a simultaneous roar of terror burst
from the group; they fancied the ghost of Jimmy Barlow was before them,
and made a simultaneous rush from the barn; and when they saw the horse at
the door, another yell escaped them, as they fled with increased speed and
terror. Edward stood in amazement as the men rushed from his presence; he
followed to the gate to recall them; they were gone; he could only hear
their yells in the distance. The circumstance seemed quite unaccountable;
and as he stood lost in vain surmises as to the cause of the strange
occurrence, a low neigh of recognition from the horse reminded him of the
animal's wants, and he led him into the barn, where, from the plenty of
straw which lay around, he shook down a litter where the maimed animal
might rest.

He then paced up and down the barn, lost in wonder at the conduct
of those whom he found there, and whom his presence had so suddenly
expelled; and ever as he walked towards the fire, the coffin caught
his eye. As a fitful blaze occasionally arose, it flashed upon the
plate, which brightly reflected the flame, and Edward was irresistibly
drawn, despite his original impression of horror at the object, to
approach and read the inscription. The shield bore the name of "O'Grady,"
and Edward recoiled from the coffin with a shudder, and inwardly
asked, was he in his waking senses? He had but an hour ago seen his
adversary laid in his grave, yet here was his coffin again before him,
as if to harrow up his soul anew. Was it real, or a mockery? Was he the
sport of a dream, or was there some dreadful curse fallen upon him that he
should be for ever haunted by the victim of his arm, and the call of
vengeance for blood be ever upon his track? He breathed short and hard,
and the smoky atmosphere in which he was enveloped rendered respiration
still more difficult. As through this oppressive vapour, which seemed only
fit for the nether world, he saw the coffin-plate flash back the flame,
his imagination accumulated horror on horror; and when the blaze sank, and
but the bright red of the fire was reflected, it seemed to him to burn, as
it were, with a spot of blood, and he could support the scene no longer,
but rushed from the barn in a state of mind bordering on frenzy.

It was about an hour afterwards, near midnight, that the old barn was in
flames; most likely some of the straw near the fire, in the confusion of
the breaking up of the party, had been scattered within range of ignition,
and caused the accident. The flames were seen for miles round the country,
and the shattered walls of the ruined mansion-house were illuminated
brightly by the glare of the consuming barn, which in the morning added
its own blackened and reeking ruin to the desolation, and crowds of
persons congregated to the spot for many days after. The charred planks of
the coffin were dragged from amongst the ruin; and as the roof in falling
in had dragged a large portion of the wall along with it, the stones which
had filled the coffin could not be distinguished from those of the fallen
building, therefore much wonder arose that no vestige of the bones
of the corpse it was supposed to contain should be discovered. Wonder
increased to horror as the strange fact was promulgated, and in the
ready credulity of a superstitious people, the terrible belief became
general, that his sable majesty had made off with O'Grady and the
party watching him; for as the Dublin bailiffs never stopped till
they got back to town, and were never seen again in the country,
it was most natural to suppose that the devil had made a haul of
_them_ at the same time. In a few days rumour added the spectral
appearance of Jim Barlow to the tale, which only deepened its mysterious
horror; and though, after some time, the true story was promulgated
by those who knew the real state of the case, yet the truth never
gained ground, and was considered but a clever sham, attempted by
the family to prevent so dreadful a story from attaching to their
house; and tradition perpetuates to this hour the belief that _the
devil flew away with O'Grady._

Lone and shunned as the hill was where the ruined house stood, it became
more lone and shunned than ever, and the boldest heart in the whole
country-side would quail to be in its vicinity, even in the day-time. To
such a pitch the panic rose, that an extensive farm which encircled it,
and belonged to the old usurer who made the seizure, fell into a
profitless state from the impossibility of men being found to work upon
it. It was useless even as pasture, for no one could be found to herd
cattle upon it; altogether it was a serious loss to the money-grubber; and
so far the incident of the burnt barn, and the tradition it gave rise to,
acted beneficially in making the inhuman act of warring with the dead
recoil upon the merciless old usurer.




CHAPTER XXXVIII


We left Andy in what may be called a delicate situation, and though Andy's
perceptions of the refined were not very acute, he himself began to wonder
how he should get out of the dilemma into which circumstances had thrown
him; and even to his dull comprehension various terminations to his
adventure suggested themselves, till he became quite confused in the chaos
which his own thoughts created. One good idea, however, Andy contrived to
lay hold of out of the bundle which perplexed him; he felt that to gain
time would be an advantage, and if evil must come of his adventure, the
longer he could keep it off the better; so he kept up his affectation of
timidity, and put in his sobs and lamentations, like so many commas and
colons, as it were, to prevent Bridget from arriving at her climax of
going to bed.

Bridget insisted bed was the finest thing in the world for a young woman
in distress of mind.

Andy protested he never could get a wink of sleep when his mind was
uneasy. Bridget promised the most sisterly tenderness.

Andy answered by a lament for his mother.

"Come to bed, I tell you," said Bridget.

"Are the sheets aired?" sobbed Andy.

"What!" exclaimed Bridget, in amazement.

"If you are not sure of the sheets bein' aired," said Andy, "I'd be afeard
of catchin' cowld."

"Sheets, indeed!" said Bridget; "'faith, it's a dainty lady you are, if
you can't sleep without sheets."

"What!" returned Andy, "no sheets?"

"Divil a sheet."

"Oh, mother, mother!" exclaimed Andy, "what would you say to your innocent
child being tuk away to a place where there was no sheets?"

"Well, I never heerd the like!" says Bridget.

"Oh, the villains! to bring me where I wouldn't have a bit o' clane linen
to lie in!"

"Sure, there's blankets, I tell you."

"Oh, don't talk to me!" roared Andy; "sure, you know, sheets is only
dacent."

"Bother, girl! Isn't a snug woolly blanket a fine thing?"

"Oh, don't brake my heart that-a-way!" sobbed Andy; "sure, there's wool on
any dirty sheep's back, but linen is dacency! Oh, mother, mother, if you
thought your poor girl was without a sheet this night!"

And so Andy went on, spinning his bit of "linen manufacture" as long as he
could, and raising Bridget's wonder that, instead of the lament which
abducted ladies generally raise about their "vartue," this young woman's
principal complaint arose on the scarcity of flax. Bridget appealed to
common sense if blankets were not good enough in these bad times;
insisting, moreover, that, as "love was warmer than friendship, so wool
was warmer than flax," the beauty of which parallel case nevertheless
failed to reconcile the disconsolate abducted. Now Andy had pushed his
plea of the want of linen as far as he thought it would go, and when
Bridget returned to the charge, and reiterated the oft-repeated "Come to
bed, I tell you!" Andy had recourse to twiddling about his toes, and
chattering his teeth, and exclaimed in a tremulous voice, "Oh, I've a
thrimblin' all over me!"

"Loosen the sthrings o' you, then," said Bridget, about to suit the action
to the word. "Ow! ow!" cried Andy, "don't touch me--I'm ticklish."

"Then open the throat o' your gown yourself, dear," said Bridget.

"I've a cowld on my chest, and darn't," said Andy; "but I think a dhrop of
hot punch would do me good if I had it."

"And plenty of it," said Bridget, "if that'll plaze you." She rose as she
spoke, and set about getting "the materials" for making punch.

Andy hoped, by means of this last idea, to drink Bridget into a state of
unconsciousness, and then make his escape; but he had no notion, until he
tried, what a capacity the gentle Bridget had for carrying tumblers of
punch steadily; he proceeded as cunningly as possible, and, on the score
of "the thrimblin' over him," repeated the doses of punch, which,
nevertheless, he protested he couldn't touch, unless Bridget kept him in
countenance, glass for glass; and Bridget--genial soul--was no way both;
for living in a still, and among smugglers, as she did, it was not a
trifle of stingo could bring her to a halt. Andy, even with the advantage
of the stronger organisation of a man, found this mountain lass nearly a
match for him, and before the potations operated as he hoped upon her, his
own senses began to feel the influence of the liquor, and his caution
became considerably undermined.

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