Part 8 (1/2)
Poor Tom's spirits were rather below their usual pitch; and although he made many efforts to rally and appear gay, he could not accomplish it. However, we chatted away over old times and old friends, and forgetting all else but the topics we talked of, the time-piece over the chimney first apprised me that two whole hours had gone by, and that it was now seven o'clock, the very hour the coach was to start. I started up at once, and notwithstanding all Tom's representations of the impossibility of my being in time, had despatched waiters in different directions for a jarvey, more than ever determined upon going; so often is it that when real reasons for our conduct are wanting, any casual or chance opposition confirms us in an intention which before was but uncertain. Seeing me so resolved, Tom, at length, gave way, and advised my pursuing the mail, which must be now gone at least ten minutes, and which, with smart driving, I should probably overtake before getting free of the city, as they have usually many delays in so doing. I at once ordered out the ”yellow post-chaise,” and before many minutes had elapsed, what, with imprecation and bribery, I started in pursuit of his Majesty's Cork and Kilkenny mail coach, then patiently waiting in the court-yard of the Post Office.
”Which way now, your honor?” said a shrill voice from the dark--for such the night had already become, and threatened with a few heavy drops of straight rain, the fall of a tremendous shower.
”The Naas road,” said I; ”and, harkye, my fine fellow, if you overtake the coach in half an hour, I'll double your fare.”
”Be gorra, I'll do my endayvour,” said the youth; at the same time instant das.h.i.+ng in both spurs, we rattled down Na.s.sau-street at a very respectable pace for harriers. Street after street we pa.s.sed, and at last I perceived we had got clear of the city, and were leaving the long line of lamp-lights behind us. The night was now pitch dark. I could not see any thing whatever. The quick clattering of the wheels, the sharp crack of the postillion's whip, or the still sharper tone of his ”gee hup,” showed me we were going at a tremendous pace, had I not even had the experience afforded by the frequent visits my head paid to the roof of the chaise, so often as we bounded over a stone, or splashed through a hollow. Dark and gloomy as it was, I constantly let down the window, and with half my body protruded, endeavores to catch a glimpse of the ”Chase;” but nothing could I see. The rain now fell in actual torrents; and a more miserable night it is impossible to conceive.
After about an hour so spent, he at last came to a check, so sudden and unexpected on my part, that I was nearly precipitated, harlequin fas.h.i.+on, through the front window. Perceiving that we no longer moved, and suspecting that some part of our tackle had given way, I let down the sash, and cried out--”Well now, my lad, any thing wrong?” My questions was, however, unheard; and although, amid the steam arising from the wet and smoking horses, I could perceive several figures indistinctly moving about, I could not distinguish what they were doing, nor what they said. A laugh I certainly did hear, and heartily cursed the unfeeling wretch, as I supposed him to be, who was enjoying himself at my disappointment. I again endeavoured to find out what had happened, and called out still louder than before.
”We are at Ra'coole, your honor,” said the boy, approaching the door of the chaise, ”and she's only beat us by hafe a mile.”
”Who the devil is she?” said I.
”The mail, your honor, is always a female in Ireland.”
”Then why do you stop now? You're not going to feed I suppose?”
”Of course not, your honor, it's little feeding troubles these bastes, any how, but they tell me the road is so heavy we'll never take the chaise over the next stage without leaders.”
”Without leaders!” said I. ”Pooh! my good fellow, no humbugging, four horses for a light post-chaise and no luggage; come get up, and no nonsense.” At this moment a man approached the window with a lantern in his hand, and so strongly represented the dreadful state of the roads from the late rains--the length of the stage--the frequency of accidents latterly from under-horsing, &c. &c. that I yielded, a reluctant a.s.sent, and ordered out the leaders, comforting myself the while, that considering the inside fare of the coach, I made such efforts to overtake, was under a pound, and that time was no object to me, I certainly was paying somewhat dearly for my character for resolution.
At last we got under way once more, and set off cheered by a tremendous shout from at least a dozen persons, doubtless denizens of that interesting locality, amid which I once again heard the laugh that had so much annoyed me already. The rain was falling, if possible, more heavily than before, and had evidently set in for the entire night. Throwing myself back into a corner of the ”leathern convenience,” I gave myself up to the full enjoyment of the Rouchefoucauld maxim, that there is always a pleasure felt in the misfortunes of even our best friends, and certainly experienced no small comfort in my distress, by contrasting my present position with that of my two friends in the saddle, as they sweltered on through mud and mire, rain and storm. On we went, splas.h.i.+ng, b.u.mping, rocking, and jolting, till I began at last to have serious thoughts of abdicating the seat and betaking myself to the bottom of the chaise, for safety and protection. Mile after mile succeeded, and as after many a short and fitful slumber, which my dreams gave an apparent length to, I woke only to find myself still in pursuit--the time seemed so enormously protracted that I began to fancy my whole life was to be pa.s.sed in the dark, in chase of the Kilkenny mail, as we read in the true history of the flying Dutchman, who, for his sins of impatience--like mine--spent centuries vainly endeavouring to double the Cape, or the Indian mariner in Moore's beautiful ballad, of whom we are told as-- ”Many a day to night gave way, And many a morn succeeded, Yet still his flight, by day and night, That restless mariner speeded.”
This might have been all very well in the tropics, with a smart craft and doubtless plenty of sea store--but in a chaise, at night, and on the Naas road, I humbly suggest I had all the worse of the parallel.
At last the altered sound of the wheels gave notice of our approach to a town, and after about twenty minutes; rattling over the pavement we entered what I supposed, correctly, to be Naas. Here I had long since determined my pursuit should cease. I had done enough, and more than enough, to vindicate my fame against any charge of irresolution as to leaving Dublin, and was bethinking me of the various modes of prosecuting my journey on the morrow, when we drew up suddenly at the door of the Swan. The arrival of a chaise and four at a small country town inn, suggests to the various employees therein, any thing rather than the traveller in pursuit of the mail, and so the moment I arrived, I was a.s.sailed with innumerable proffers of horses, supper, bed, &c. My anxious query was thrice repeated in vain, ”When did the coach pa.s.s?”
”The mail,” replied the landlord at length. ”Is it the down mail?”
Not understanding the technical, I answered, ”Of course not the Down--the Kilkenny and Cork mail.”
”From Dublin, sir?”
”Yes, from Dublin.”
”Not arrived yet, sir, nor will it for three quarters of an hour; they never leave Dublin till a quarter past seven; that is, in fact, half past, and their time here is twenty minutes to eleven.”
”Why, you stupid son of a boot-top, we have been posting on all night like the devil, and all this time the coach has been ten miles behind us.”
”Well, we've cotch them any how,” said the urchin, as he disengaged himself from his wet saddle, and stood upon the ground; ”and it is not my fault that the coach is not before us.”
With a satisfactory anathema upon all innkeepers, waiters, hostlers, and post-boys, with a codicil including coach-proprietors, I followed the smirking landlord into a well-lighted room, with a blazing fire, when having ordered supper, I soon regained my equanimity.
My rasher and poached eggs, all Naas could afford me, were speedily despatched, and as my last gla.s.s, from my one pint of sherry, was poured out, the long expected coach drew up. A minute after the coachman entered to take his dram, followed by the guard; a more lamentable spectacle of condensed moisture cannot be conceived; the rain fell from the entire circ.u.mference of his broad-brimmed hat, like the ever-flowing drop from the edge of an antique fountain; his drab-coat had become a deep orange hue, while his huge figure loomed still larger, as he stood amid a nebula of damp, that would have made an atmosphere for the Georgium Sidus.
”Going on to-night, sir?” said he, addressing me; ”severe weather, and no chance of its clearing, but of course you're inside.”
”Why, there is very little doubt of that,” said I. ”Are you nearly full inside?”
”Only one, sir; but he seems a real queer chap; made fifty inquiries at the office if he could not have the whole inside to himself, and when he heard that one place had been taken--your's, I believe, sir--he seemed like a scalded bear.”
”You don't know his name then?”
”No, sir, he never gave a name at the office, and his only luggage is two brown paper parcels, without any ticket, and he has them inside; indeed he never lets them from him even for a second.”
Here the guard's horn, announcing all ready, interrupted our colloquy, and prevented my learning any thing further of my fellow-traveller, whom, however, I at once set down in my own mind for some confounded old churl that made himself comfortable every where, without ever thinking of any one else's convenience.
As I pa.s.sed from the inn door to the coach, I once more congratulated myself that I was about to be housed from the terrific storm of wind and rain that railed about.
”Here's the step, sir,” said the guard, ”get in, sir, two minutes late already.”
”I beg your pardon, sir,” said I, as I half fell over the legs of my unseen companion. ”May I request leave to pa.s.s you?” While he made way for me for this purpose, I perceived that he stooped down towards the guard, and said something, who from his answer had evidently been questioned as to who I was. ”And how did he get here, if he took his place in Dublin?” asked the unknown.
”Came half an hour since, sir, in a chaise and four,” said the guard, as he banged the door behind him, and closed the interview.
Whatever might have been the reasons for my fellow-traveller's anxiety about my name and occupation, I knew not, yet could not help feeling gratified at thinking that as I had not given my name at the coach office, I was a great a puzzle to him as he to me.
”A severe night, sir,” said I, endeavouring to break ground in conversation.
”Mighty severe,” briefly and half crustily replied the unknown, with a richness of brogue, that might have stood for a certificate of baptism in Cork or its vicinity.
”And a bad road too, sir,” said I, remembering my lately accomplished stage.
”That's the reason I always go armed,” said the unknown, clinking at the same moment something like the barrel of a pistol.
Wondering somewhat at his readiness to mistake my meaning, I felt disposed to drop any further effort to draw him out, and was about to address myself to sleep, as comfortably as I could.
”I'll jist trouble ye to lean aff that little parcel there, sir,” said he, as he displaced from its position beneath my elbow, one of the paper packages the guard had already alluded to.
In complying with this rather gruff demand, one of my pocket pistols, which I carried in my breast pocket, fell out upon his knee, upon which he immediately started, and asked hurriedly--”and are you armed too?”
”Why, yes,” said I, laughingly; ”men of my trade seldom go without something of this kind.”
”Be gorra, I was just thinking that same,” said the traveller, with a half sigh to himself.
Why he should or should not have thought so, I never troubled myself to canva.s.s, and was once more settling myself in my corner, when I was startled by a very melancholy groan, which seemed to come from the bottom of my companion's heart.
”Are you ill, sir?” said I, in a voice of some anxiety.
”You might say that,” replied he--”if you knew who you were talking to --although maybe you've heard enough of me, though you never saw me till now.”
”Without having that pleasure even yet,” said I, ”it would grieve me to think you should be ill in the coach.”
”May be it might,” briefly replied the unknown, with a species of meaning in his words I could not then understand. ”Did ye never hear tell of Barney Doyle?” said he.
”Not to my recollection.”