Volume Iii Part 5 (1/2)

After considerable wrangling, it was decided to deny that the Directory had carried out their portion of the agreement. Government was to have been let in to the secrets of the society. The paper which was drawn up was no better than a panegyric of sedition. A piece of hair-splitting this, for which the chancellor took to himself much credit. So the state-trials droned along, while the vagaries of drumhead justice kept the world awake. Several of those at Kilmainham were condemned, despite the compact, and suffered; the rest, giving up all for lost, cared little now what was to be their destiny.

Lord Clare made a great effort on behalf of Terence, but received no encouragement, either from the Viceroy or the English premier. Both said that it would never do to make an exception in favour of one whose sins were the more scarlet on account of his position in society. He must take his trial like the rest. There was no help for it. If his friends could manipulate the jury, that was their own affair.

The chancellor looked grave, for, adept though he was in manipulating juries, he knew of a foe of Terence's who would do what he could to ruin him; and he was more and more mystified at the behaviour of the young man's family. Neither my lady nor Lord Glandore seemed to realise the position of affairs. Would they calmly endure while one of their n.o.ble name was being strung up as a felon? It seemed so. The young lord was a brilliant specimen of the Irish House of Peers. But surely he would not carry his slavish complaisance so far as to sacrifice his only brother to the English dragon? Lord Clare did not know what to make of it. His own influence was terribly on the wane.

He went to see Terence at the provost, and found Curran there, who eyed him with undisguised impertinence, and gibed about gingerbread-nuts. But the chancellor kept his temper this time. He was no longer the all-powerful despot. A new Herod had arisen, who did not choose to recognise Joseph. He found himself thwarted by his new master at every turn. Fortune is a cruel jade! The owner of the golden coach found himself compelled to lower himself to petty plotting like ordinary men. He suggested to Curran that it would be well to push on Councillor Crosbie's trial with all speed. The little lawyer, instead of meeting him half-way, answered bluntly that the young man's wound was not healed; that the vultures were strangely impatient to devour his flesh; that, though the young patrician's life was by no means merry, he would be no party to shortening it.

Lord Clare grew impatient, and retorted with hauteur:

'You can have naught to do with fixing the date of trial. I was merely asking your opinion.'

And Curran, with suspicious looks, inquired the reason of his impatience. That there was a reason was evident. Would the other show his hand? No. The other held his peace, and, sighing fretfully, departed.

Events must shape themselves as Fortune chose to dictate. He could not humiliate himself before his enemy by stating what he knew of Ca.s.sidy, and explaining the wisdom of settling the young man's case during the absence from Dublin of that person. So Curran, unaware of pitfalls dug by jealousy, returned sadly to the cell where Terence lay tossing in his fever, almost wis.h.i.+ng that the wound might prove mortal.

Always fond of him, by reason of his genial nature, the little advocate had been drawn very close to Terence by events. Their mutual friends were peris.h.i.+ng around them; Terence himself was grievously compromised. Now he was to be tried for his life. With what result?

Alas, there could be little doubt. Weak men, who while success was probable might be trusted to cling together, were anxious now to save themselves by making a clean breast of all they knew. Curran's instinct told him that somebody or other would surely stand up to prove the military position which his unlucky junior had arrogated to himself; to babble of his interviews on the sh.o.r.e near the Little House; of his arrangements for the capture of Dublin by surprise; which, but for his own timely taking, would certainly have been carried out.

Of course the advocate who had won such forensic distinction as was his would do his very best for a client who was so dear to his heart as this one; but what he could do was little after all, fighting, as he always was, against packed juries and false-witnesses. His wondrous eloquence and marvellous versatility had indeed more than once torn a doomed man from the gallows by exciting pa.s.sions of such force as to conquer even the violence of fear and greed by which the juries were beset; but such miracles were not to be counted on, and it was with gloomy thoughts that the lawyer looked forward to the contest. What arguments, for instance, could have prevailed in the case of Orr, whose life was juggled away between two b.u.mpers? After all, perhaps the proceedings of courts-martial were less bad than these legal masquerades. For in the purely military tribunal there was no doubt as to how the case would go from the beginning. Was it not better that time and breath should be economised, when cases were so notoriously prejudged? So it came about that Curran, in profound dejection, looked down upon the young man whom he loved, and prayed that he might die of his wound.

But in this case, as in a good many others, prayers received no answer. The yeoman, when he fired at Terence to prevent his escape, broke his arm by the shot. Neglect, and the amenities of Major Sirr, produced fever and inflammation, which the dampness of the provost did not tend to improve.

Mrs. Gillin (who had been enduring purgatory on her own account at the hands of drunken soldiers' wives at free-quarters) stuck st.u.r.dily to her _protege_, however. She hung about the antechambers of the great; worried the judges who in happier days had been her guests; importuned them for leave of free access to the invalid, till they wished they had never seen the claret she had lavished on them; and, as obstinate women generally do, carried her point. She nursed the patient in his fever with untiring devotion; amazed the gaolers almost into civility; even a.s.sailed the terrible major himself in his stronghold, taunting him with ugly words and scathing epithets, till he too wished he had never beheld the dreadful woman. She insisted that an invalid should have a cell to himself, instead of being crowded up with malodorous peasants in a low den deprived of air; arrived three times a week with good things for him in baskets, which Cerberus allowed to pa.s.s without investigation; and dragged him, whom she had sworn to watch over, by main force to convalescence. Once or twice he had begged that his servant Phil might be permitted to keep him company, but on this point the major was obdurate. His calves still bore the cicatrices cut on them by the farrier's knife, and the major was not one to forgive an injury. He bore in mind, too, that but for his coat of mail he would have been left dead upon the road that day. Phil, therefore, was set apart for private torment; was not even handed over to the tender mercies of a court-martial.

Mrs. Gillin, for Terence's sake, commissioned old Jug to discover news of him, who went about her business in mysterious fas.h.i.+on, declining to divulge what she discovered, until one day, some months after his disappearance, she told her protectress, with weird mutterings, that 'the boy was near his end.'

'How's that?' her mistress asked, frowning. 'Ye look as if ye were glad that ill should come to him. How's that?'

”Cause he's a farrier and I'm a collough, as my people have been ever since Ollam Fodlah's day. He's near his end; the curse of Crummell has lit on him. Sure, it's well whipped he's been on the triangles these many times, foreninst the Royal Exchange beyant. The boy's broke, body and sowl; but the young masther'll see him soon enough. I'm tould the two'll be thried togither, for a murderous a.s.sault first on the town-meejor, who was doing his duty, when he skelped 'em up, and then for treason afther. Weren't they always togither, masther and man?

'Twould be quare if they were thried separate.'

Terence was convalescent when summer gave place to autumn. Unlike his former cheery hustling self, he sat at his window for whole mornings, gazing into a world of his own, as he leaned his wan face on his thin hand, smiling a faint smile when his kind nurse attempted to rouse him. She came more seldom by degrees, for indeed the poor lady's own life was thickening with disasters. The drunken soldiers' wives (specially selected by Major Sirr for their virago qualities) made a h.e.l.l of her cosy little home, afflicting her daughter Norah beyond measure. There was no telling whether they might not, in a riotous freak, set the place ablaze if its mistress did not stop at home to watch them. Verily, even my lady's grudge might have been partially effaced, could she have beheld the tribulations which fell upon her ancient rival. Terence, then, lingered on, living a hermit life, whose solitude was broken sometimes by garbled tales of dread, such as his keepers chose to report to him. The world looked black, without a streak of light. He marvelled, in the vague dizzy way of an invalid recovering from illness, whether it would not be best to make an end of it at once. He felt the indifference as to death which distinguishes the faith of Buddha; longed to join the ranks of those who, more blest than he, were marched past his door never to return; envied even the victims of the Foxhunters on the Gibbet-Rath; looked forward to his own trial as a release.

With a bare bodkin who shall fardels carry? His was bare indeed. Worn through, and through--the stuffing gone. The sharp corners of the fardels were ploughing into his back. He longed to lay them down and be at rest. Sometimes he dreamed of Doreen, but not as of one who might be his in this life. He appreciated now what at one time he had contemned as girlish hysteria. Who might presume to talk of love amid the horrors of carnage, where victims had been done to death by hundreds with scarce an effort at defence? If he might live (his youth would a.s.sert its rights now and again for a brief instant), then perhaps--perhaps----What? No. He was doomed to die, and knew it--and was glad; for life deprived of all illusions and all flower-blossoms is a hideous thing. His turn would come, and shortly. It was merely a matter of days--of a little patience. The 'scrag-boy,' who wore a demon's dress, with a hump and a horned mask that none might guess who did the hangman's work, was a familiar object in the prison-yard below. He had placed the halter over many a gallant head, though not as yet around a n.o.ble's neck. Well! that honour would soon be his--very soon--the sooner the better. With what a bitter laugh did Terence contemplate the honour which awaited the overworked functionary! Now and again he wished it might be given to him to look into Doreen's eyes once more. Their solemn depths would give him courage to face the great _peut-etre_. Courage! With self-upbraiding he spurned the thought, walking round his cell as swiftly as heavy irons would permit. Courage, forsooth! He lacked not courage. 'Twere better that the two should meet no more on this accursed soil. In another world they would wander together in perpetual suns.h.i.+ne, by purling brooks, under softly waving trees--but would they? Was there another world? The spirit of the young man was so bruised that he hoped there might not be; and, his illusion being gone, he yearned for _rest_ only--unceasing--eternal--the long unbroken sleep without a waking. He shrank from the occasional visits of Lord Clare, who had brought his country to this pa.s.s--even deprecated those of his friend Curran with a new-born peevishness; for in the face of his old ally he could trace tell-tale lines of weary watching and despondency, which spoke with eloquent meaning of the darkness outside the prison walls; whispering of the universal sorrow he would so gladly have forgotten.

Curran became nervous about him, fearing lest his mind should give way. Solitude, and such thoughts to brood over as his were, are good for no man. It was with a sense of relief therefore that the little man heard one day that a companion was to be quartered on the councillor. Who that comrade was to be he wist not; any companions.h.i.+p would be better for him than none. When that comrade came, Terence was feeding on his griefs, as usual. The door opened with the clatter and craunch of keys and bolts which no longer vexed him; a slight figure in a full-skirted coat was pushed in without ceremony, who groped his way and stumbled in the half-obscurity as the door clanged-to again.

Terence looked up with the slow glance of one whose faculties are corroded--rough with rust. His eyes met other eyes from which the light of hope had fled. It was Theobald who was to be Terence's new companion.

This unexpected meeting, under auspices so different from those which smiled upon their parting two short years before at Brest, unmanned them both. With sobs they were locked in one another's arms. Then, sitting side by side and hand in hand each told his tale in whispers.

Which of the two stories was the saddest? Both their young lives were equally undone, and for nothing. True sympathy is like the brush of an angel's wing. They communed far on into the night, and the hearts of both were lightened.

From the moment of his capture, Tone felt a conviction that his race was run. On his road to Dublin indignities were heaped on him--he was heavily ironed, as though so frail an unarmed creature could beat down bristling bayonets. He knew that as an _emigre rentre_ he must suffer, and accepted his fate with calmness.

It was a singular cavalcade which journeyed south from Donegal. There was a posse of rollicking yeomen to guard the prisoners, headed by Lord Glandore (in the blue and orange uniform of the Hillsborough club), at whose right hand rode Ca.s.sidy. My lord was not certain whether to be offended with the squireen or not. With regard to Theobald, he had, as usual, followed his mother's cue, who, when she set eyes on him, determined instantly that he should not be betrayed through her. Shane's good impulse bade him follow suit. He had known the fellow when a youth. To jump upon the fallen is at best a dirty trick. But there was no doubt that such voluntary blindness was more romantic than expedient. By the help of the English admiral, Shane fully intended to make capital out of this sea-fight, and win for himself an English peerage, and possibly some convenient sinecures. As it was, he was already rich and great. But the richer we are, the poorer we often believe ourselves to be. Shane fancied himself quite a pauper--a worthy subject for eleemosynary grants. Now, supposing that Tone had left Glas-aitch-e with the other prisoners unrecognised, there were ten chances to one against his so escaping in Dublin. A start of surprise, an involuntary exclamation, would have aroused suspicion and settled his fate; and then what would have been said of the candidate for charity who, knowing the traitor well, had failed to denounce him? There was little doubt that Government would have laughed at my lord's craving for an English peerage--that he would have sighed for a pension in vain. On the whole he was not sorry that Ca.s.sidy should have shown himself a man of the world by exhibiting such laudable presence of mind. Tone had been denounced under his roof (he would make the most of this), but not by him, therefore was his conscience clear. Nothing could be better. On the whole he concluded to be charmed with Ca.s.sidy, chattering with him as he rode, and laughing at the giant's stories with a condescension that filled the latter's soul with joy. The giant took occasion to instil fears into the selfish mind of my lord with reference to Terence. How would his Majesty look on the brother of a rebel? Of course it follows not that one brother should wield the smallest influence over another. But would the King admit this; or would he frown on the elder, despite his grovelling, because of the sins of the audacious junior? The sins of the fathers are to be visited on the children--at least the Jews have said so; but nothing has been said about the enormities of one brother being visited on another. Such a rule would be very inconvenient. Now Shane had never shown any genuine affection for Terence. Under no circ.u.mstances whatever was he prepared to make a personal sacrifice for him. Why should he? Ca.s.sidy's hints therefore fell upon fertile ground. His selfishness took alarm. Indifference turned to indignation. He had languidly regretted that Terence should be making such a fool of himself. He must bear the brunt of his own faults, and so on. Now he was consumed with rage in that his younger brother should show so little proper feeling as, for some silly crotchet, to jeopardise his senior's interests. It was vastly good of Ca.s.sidy to mention the subject, but he had better say nothing about it to my lady, who was hipped and out of sorts--not to say cross. My lord would make a point of a.s.suring His new Excellency, so soon as he should arrive in the metropolis, of his undying devotion to existing Government and his abhorrence of his misguided brother's crimes.

My lady and Doreen in the family coach brought up the rear of the procession. Neither was inclined for talk--the minds of both being busy with netting plans--so each looked out of her own window listlessly.

For several weeks Terence and Theobald occupied the same cell--visited almost daily by Councillor Curran. The latter explained that Miss Wolfe, lately arrived in town, was burning to obtain access to them, but that her father peremptorily forbade her doing so. She sent them tender messages of hope, which both knew were futile, but which they answered verbally with thanks, pens and ink being withheld from them.

Signs were not wanting that they were marked out as chief offenders, for precautions were taken in their case which were neglected in that of others.

Curran's reports of the state-trials were not encouraging. The jury were being skilfully manipulated into a likeness of independence.