Part 3 (1/2)
Poor Major Jones, however, had no such solace, and the canker-worm eat daily deeper and deeper into his pining heart. During the three or four weeks of their intimacy with his regiment, his martyrdom was awful. His figure wasted, and his colour became a deeper tinge of orange, and all around averred that there would soon be a ”move up” in the corps, for the major had evidently ”got his notice to quit” this world, and its pomps and vanities. He felt ”that he was dying,” to use Haines Bayley's beautiful and apposite words, and meditated an exchange, but that, from circ.u.mstances, was out of the question. At last, subdued by grief, and probably his spirit having chafed itself smooth by such constant attrition, he became, to all seeming, calmer; but it was only the calm of a broken and weary heart. Such was Major Jones at the time, when, ”suadente diabolo,” it seemed meet to Fathers Mooney and D'Array to make him the b.u.t.t of their raillery. At first, he could not believe it; the thing was incredible--impossible; but when he looked around the table, when he heard the roars of laughter, long, loud, and vociferous; when he heard his name bandied from one to the other across the table, with some vile jest tacked to it ”like a tin kettle to a dog's tail,” he awoke to the full measure of his misery--the cup was full. Fate had done her worst, and he might have exclaimed with Lear, ”spit, fire-spout, rain,” there was nothing in store for him of further misfortune.
A drum-head court-martial--a hint ”to sell out”--ay, a sentence of ”dismissed the service,” had been mortal calamities, and, like a man, he would have borne them; but that he, Major John Jones, D.G.S. C.P.B., &c. &c, who had drank the ”pious, glorious, and immortal,” sitting astride of ”the great gun of Athlone,” should come to this! Alas, and alas! He retired that night to his chamber a ”sadder if not a wiser man;” he dreamed that the ”statue” had given place to the unshapely figure of Leo X., and that ”Lundy now stood where Walker stood before.” He humped from his bed in a moment of enthusiasm, he vowed his revenge, and he kept his vow.
That day the major was ”acting field officer.” The various patroles, sentries, picquets, and out-posts, were all under his especial control; and it was remarked that he took peculiar pains in selecting the men for night duty, which, in the prevailing quietness and peace of that time, seemed scarcely warrantable.
Evening drew near, and Major Jones, summoned by the ”oft-heard beat,” wended his way to the mess. The officers were dropping in, and true as ”the needle to the pole,” came Father Mooney and the Abbe. They were welcomed with the usual warmth, and strange to say, by none more than the major himself, whose hilarity knew no bounds.
How the evening pa.s.sed, I shall not stop to relate: suffice it to say, that a more brilliant feast of wit and jollification, not even the North Cork ever enjoyed. Father Luke's drollest stories, his very quaintest humour shone forth, and the Abbe sang a new ”Chanson a Boire,” that Beranger might hav envied.
”What are you about, my dear Father D'Array?” said the Colonel; ”you are surely not rising yet; here's a fresh cooper of port just come in; sit down, I entreat.”
”I say it with grief, my dear colonel, we must away; the half-hour has just chimed, and we must be within 'the gates' before twelve. The truth is, the superior has been making himself very troublesome about our 'carnal amus.e.m.e.nts' as he calls our innocent mirth, and we must therefore be upon our guard.”
”Well, if it must be so, we shall not risk losing your society altogether, for an hour or so now; so, one b.u.mper to our next meeting --to-morrow, mind, and now, M. D'Abbe, au revoir.”
The worthy fathers finished their gla.s.ses, and taking a most affectionate leave of their kind entertainers, sallied forth under the guidance of Major Jones, who insisted upon accompanying them part of the way, as, ”from information he had received, the sentries were doubled in some places, and the usual precautions against surprise all taken.” Much as this polite attention surprised the objects of it, his brother officers wondered still more, and no sooner did they perceive the major and his companions issue forth, than they set out in a body to watch where this most novel and unexpected complaisance would terminate.
When the priests reached the door of the barrack-yard, they again turned to utter their thanks to the major, and entreat him once more, ”not to come a step farther. There now, major, we know the path well, so just give us the pa.s.s, and don't stay out in the night air.”
”Ah oui, Monsieur Jones,” said the Abbe, ”retournez, je vous prie. We are, I must say, chez nous. Ces braves gens, les North Cork know us by this time.”
The major smiled, while he still pressed his services to see them past the picquets, but they were resolved and would not be denied.
”With the word for the night, we want nothing more,” said Father Luke.
”Well, then,” said the major, in the gravest tone, and he was naturally grave, ”you shall have your way, but remember to call out loud, for the first sentry is a little deaf, and a very pa.s.sionate, ill--tempered fellow to boot.”
”Never fear,” said Father Mooney, laughing; ”I'll go bail he'll hear me.”
”Well--the word for the night is--'b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope,'--don't forget, now, 'b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope,'” and with these words he banged the door between him and the unfortunate priests; and, as bolt was fastened after bolt, they heard him laughing to himself like a fiend over his vengeance.
”And big bad luck to ye, Major Jones, for the same, every day ye see a paving stone,” was the faint sub-audible e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of Father Luke, when he was recovered enough to speak.
”Sacristi! Que nous sommes attrappes,” said the Abbe, scarcely able to avoid laughing at the situation in which they were placed.
”Well, there's the quarter chiming now; we've no time to lose--Major Jones! Major, darling! Don't now, ah, don't! sure ye know we'll be ruined entirely--there now, just change it, like a dacent fellow--the devil's luck to him, he's gone. Well, we can't stay here in the rain all night, and be expelled in the morning afterwards--so come along.”
They jogged on for a few minutes in silence, till they came to that part of the ”Duke's” demesne wall, where the first sentry was stationed. By this time the officers, headed by the major, had quietly slipped out of the gate, and were following their steps at a convenient distance.
The fathers had stopped to consult together, what they should do in this trying emergency--when their whisper being overheard, the sentinel called out gruffly, in the genuine dialect of his country, ”who goes that?”
”Father Luke Mooney, and the Abbe D'Array,” said the former, in his most bland and insinuating tone of voice, a quality he most eminently possessed.
”Stand and give the countersign.”
”We are coming from the mess, and going home to the college,” said Father Mooney, evading the question, and gradually advancing as he spoke.
”Stand, or I'll shot ye,” said the North Corkian.
Father Luke halted, while a muttered ”Blessed Virgin” announced his state of fear and trepidation.
”D'Array, I say, what are we to do.”
”The countersign,” said the sentry, whose figure they could perceive in the dim distance of about thirty yards.
”Sure ye'll let us pa.s.s, my good lad, and ye'll have a friend in Father Luke the longest day ye live, and ye might have a worse in time of need; ye understand.”
Whether he did understand or not, he certainly did not heed, for his only reply was the short click of his gun-lock, that bespeaks a preparation to fire.
”There's no help now,” said Father Luke; ”I see he's a haythen; and bad luck to the major, I say again;” and this in the fulness of his heart he uttered aloud.
”That's not the countersign,” said the inexorable sentry, striking the b.u.t.t end of the musket on the ground with a crash that smote terror into the hearts of the priests.
Mumble--mumble--”to the Pope,” said Father Luke, p.r.o.nouncing the last words distinctly, after the approved practice of a Dublin watchman, on being awoke from his dreams of row and riot by the last toll of the Post-office, and not knowing whether it has struck ”twelve” or ”three,” sings out the word ”o'clock,” in a long sonorous drawl, that wakes every sleeping citizen, and yet tells nothing how ”time speeds on his flight.”
”Louder,” said the sentry, in a voice of impatience.
___ ”to the Pope.”
”I don't hear the first part.”
”Oh then,” said the priest, with a sigh that might have melted the heart of anything but a sentry, ”b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope; and may the saints in heaven forgive me for saying it.”
”Again,” called out the soldier; ”and no muttering.”
”b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope,” cried Father Luke in bitter desperation.
”b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope,” echoed the Abbe.
”Pa.s.s b.l.o.o.d.y end to the Pope, and good night,” said the sentry, resuming his rounds, while a loud and uproarious peal of laughter behind, told the unlucky priests they were overheard by others, and that the story would be over the whole town in the morning.
Whether it was that the penance for their heresy took long in accomplis.h.i.+ng, or that they never could summon courage sufficient to face their persecutor, certain it is, the North Cork saw them no more, nor were they ever observed to pa.s.s the precincts of the college, while that regiment occupied Maynooth.
Major Jones himself, and his confederates, could not have more heartily relished this story, than did the party to whom the doctor heartily related it. Much, if not all the amus.e.m.e.nt it afforded, however, resulted from his inimitable mode of telling, and the power of mimicry, with which he conveyed the dialogue with the sentry: and this, alas, must be lost to my readers, at least to that portion of them not fortunate enough to possess Doctor Finucane's acquaintance.
”Fin! Fin! your long story has nearly famished me,” said the padre, as the laugh subsided; ”and there you sit now with the jug at your elbow this half-hour; I never thought you would forget our old friend Martin Hanegan's aunt.”
”Here's to her health,” said Fin; ”and your reverence will get us the chant.”
”Agreed,” said Father Malachi, finis.h.i.+ng a b.u.mper, and after giving a few preparatory hems, he sang the following ”singularly wild and beautiful poem,” as some one calls Christabel:-- ”Here's a health to Martin Hanegan's aunt, And I'll tell ye the reason why! She eats bekase she is hungry, And drinks bekase she is dry.
”And if ever a man, Stopped the course of a can, Martin Hanegan's aunt would cry-- 'Arrah, fill up your gla.s.s, And let the jug pa.s.s; How d'ye know but what your neighbour's dhry?”
”Come, my lord and gentlemen, da capo, if ye please--Fill up your gla.s.s,” and the chanson was chorussed with a strength and vigour that would have astonished the Philharmonic.
The mirth and fun now grew ”fast and furious;” and Father Malachi, rising with the occasion, flung his reckless drollery and fun on every side, sparing none, from his cousin to the coadjutor. It was not that peculiar period in the evening's enjoyment, when an expert and practical chairman gives up all interference or management, and leaves every thing to take its course; this then was the happy moment selected by Father Malachi to propose the little ”contrhibution.” He brought a plate from a side table, and placing it before him, addressed the company in a very brief but sensible speech, detailing the object of the inst.i.tution he was advocating, and concluding with the following words:--”and now ye'll just give whatever ye like, according to your means in life, and what ye can spare.”