O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief an Irish historical tale of 1798 |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. | CHAP. XIV. |
| 15. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
 | CHAP. XIV. O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief |  |
14. CHAP. XIV.
And fair the form that set him free;
The trembling whispers of her tongue,
Sweeter than Seraph's melody.
Hogg.
The rancour and hatred which Monsieur Monier
bore towards Edward, broke out in several instances
of spleen and ill nature, and tended not a little,
to make his imprisonment become daily more and
more irksome. He publicly declared his hatred
to the chiefs of the conspiracy, and insisted that
such an enemy to the rights of man, and the liberties
of his country, should not be permitted to live.
“If he were in France,” said he, “our sans-culottes
would soon have him to the guillotine; for
there we know how to get rid of the enemies of
the people.”
O'Halloran, and the other leaders, however, resisted
all his importunities, and he could procure none
of the lower orders to assassinate his rival, as their
chiefs were so averse to it. He, at length, fell upon
another scheme of getting him out of the way. A
brig freighted and cleared out of Belfast as if
bound for London, but in reality intended for some
French port, with dispatches from the United Irish
Directory, to the Republican Government, lay in
the adjoining harbour.
The insidious Frenchman meditated on having
Edward carried on board of her, and despatched
as a prisoner to France, where he could more
easily controul his fate. But even this, he could
not effect without the consent of the leaders. He,
resided in the cave. This gentleman, conceiving
that the principal intention of Edward's imprisonment
would be answered by this means, and
his life at the same time secured from any sudden
impulse of resentment among his enemies, a circumstance
which, while he was in their custody,
could never be certain, consented, and, at last, prevailed
on O'Halloran also to consent.
The Frenchman having thus far succeeded, immediately
had the night fixed and the men selected
for carrying him on board. It happened, however,
that M`Nelvin, the poet, became accidentally acquainted
with this plot. It was on an afternoon,
towards the latter end of October, that he had
thrown himself down amidst a thicket, a few paces
from his arbour on the hill, with a small volume of
Shakspeare's plays in his hand. His mind was
absorbed in the romantic adventures of the Mid-Summer's
Night's Dream, when he was startled by
the sounds of voices approaching him. On looking
from his thicket, he perceived the Frenchman, and
Darragh, the man who had attempted Tom Mullin's
life, advancing slowly. He lay quiet. When
only a few yards from him, they stopped; but he
was closely concealed from their view.
“They have consented at last,” said the Frenchman,
“to let that fair-faced orangeman be sent
to France; but I wish to Jupiter, that he could be
put out of the way before he arrives there; for I
understand that one cannot now get whomsoever
one hates sent to the guillotine for the good of the
people, as it was in the glorious days of Robespierre,
when the Mountain party ruled. Our directors
are now become so puny-hearted, and so full
of sentiment, that they too make some fuss about a
man's life, although he should be denounced in the
name of the people. I am, when I think of it,
might get exchanged, come home, and then disclose
all. We must be more cautious than to let
him off alive, say what they will about it. I have
a purse of twenty guineas, and a captain's commission,
to bestow on the brave man who will kill this
damned heretic and lover of crowned heads.”
“Jack Lafferty, and I,” replied Darragh, “will
do it. But not for your money. We'll do it for the
good of the cause. When is he to go on board?”
“There are six men appointed to convey him on
board to-morrow night,” answered the Frenchman.
“To-morrow all the country will gather to dig
Robbin M`Brim's potatoes,” said Darragh. “Robbin
has been in jail these three months. He is a
true fellow. He would not tell who put him up,
all that they could do with him, although they
swore they would hang him, like Orr. Long life
to him! say I. We have shorn his corn already,
and will dig his potatoes in rank and file to-morrow,
in spite of either orangemen or government. I'll
see Lafferty at the digging, and I will take care to
get the king's man snug from telling before the brig
sails. Who guards the cave to-morrow?”
The Frenchman answered, that he understood
that Porter intended to go in disguise with the
other leaders to the potato digging; and that a
man, called Anthony Allen, was selected to guard
the cave during their absence.
This discovery concerned the peace of Ellen
Hamilton too much to be neglected by M`Nelvin.
To save Edward, therefore, from impending danger,
became now the great object of his solicitude.
At first he knew not how to act; but, as he had, for
several years past, been accustomed in all his perplexities
to seek advice from one whose counsel
had never deceived him, namely, the Recluse, he
was a case which justified a disregard of the punctilios
of custom, or the fastidiousness of delicacy,
they should, at once, make the affair known to her
whom it most nearly concerned. Accordingly
M`Nelvin hastened to the castle, from whence he
brought Ellen, without loss of time, to the glen.
The Recluse with as much caution and tenderness
as possible, disclosed to her Edward's danger. For
some minutes she remained the picture of surprise
and horror, but said nothing; and so much did her
emotions seem to have overcome her, that her
friends began to repent having made the disclosure.
At length tears came to her relief; and she
found utterance.
“I feared, I feared that it would come to this at
last!” she exclaimed. “Unfortunate young man!
O my friends, what can be done for him? He must
not, surely he must not die!”
“Can we with any prospect of success inform
your grandfather of what is meditated against
him?” inquired the Recluse.
“I fear not,” she replied, “he is so much devoted
to the will, and what he conceives to be the
interest, of these conspirators, that to save his own
life, he would scarcely risk a contention with them.
—But he must be saved. Oh! Father of mercies,
assist me! I shall deliver him out of that den of
tygers, or I shall perish with him. It is no time
now to act the woman. Pardon me, my friends, I
am resolved. I shall penetrate into their inmost
recesses. I shall find him. If they have even hearts
of stone, I shall melt them, or if they be too obdurate,
my hands shall give him weapons; we shall
clear the way, or we shall die together.”
Her frenzy startled, and confounded her auditors;
but it suggested an idea to M`Nelvin, which
he immediately communicated; and which by infusing
agitation.
“To-morrow,” said he, “I have learned, that
the cave will be deserted by its usual inmates who
are to attend the potato digging; and that Anthony
Allen is appointed to remain sentinel over Mr.
Middleton. He will not refuse Miss O'Halloran
admittance. She may then inform the prisoner of
his danger, and if we can contrive to draw Allen's
attention for sometime, from the door of the cave,
he may escape disguised in apparel similar to her's,
which she can provide for the occasion.”
“I shall try it,” said Ellen. “The case is desperate—I
must bring my mind to make a desperate
effort. Timidity, delicacy, shame, must give way
to his safety.”
After some deliberation, the Recluse approved
of the project, as the only plausible means of rescuing
his friend from the destruction that threatened
him. How to manage Allen, so as to prevent
him from recognising the prisoner, when he should
pass from the cave, was now the difficulty. Neither
the Recluse nor M`Nelvin were much trusted by
the United Irishmen. They had both refused to
take the oaths of fidelity to their party. But this
was ascribed to a scrupulosity of conscience, with
regard to swearing, and not to any disapprobation
of the cause. On the contrary, they were considered
well disposed to it; but as neither of them
could give much efficient aid in a military view,
the one being decrepid from age, and the other
from accident, they were not much pressed on the
subject. Still, as they did not belong to the body,
they were not trusted by it.
In this dilemma, they directed their views to
Jemmy Hunter, who had served Edward so efficiently
on a former occasion. Ellen now returned
home to prepare the dress which was to be Edward's
gate, and went in search of Hunter. This young
man, had been, for some weeks, a bridegroom, and
as merry as a lark in a May morning; for his
Peggy, who had long charmed him with her smiles
and her blushes, had, at length, blessed him with
her hand and her heart, and a happier couple
could not have been found in the whole province.
M`Nelvin found the young bridegroom working
in a garden adjoining his dwelling house, with a
heart in a humour to be pleased with every thing,
and at that moment, full of the high delight he anticipated
from marching with the large concourse
of potato-diggers that were to assemble the next
day. He was singing,
And a digging we will hie,
And we'll dig the fields of each brave man,
Who in jail for truth doth lie.”
M`Nelvin informed him that the Recluse had
business with him, which could only be communicated
in the cavern.
“Come in awee, an' tak' a dram,” said Jemmy,
“an' I'll gang wi' you directly. Peggy, my love,
here's the poet come to see you. Gie us a drap o'
the best Innishowen, for its the native, an' pys nae
taxe to support the redcoats, an' the guagers.”
Peggy, with all the graceful gentility of nature,
produced the cheering pitcher, but as the poet was
in haste, he begged Jemmy to go with him without
delay, his business being important. He promised
the fair bride, however, that some evening soon he
would make amends for the shortness of his present
visit.
At Saunders's cave, Hunter was made acquainted
with the whole affair, and was asked if he thought
he could occupy Allen's attention in such a manner,
that when the prisoner would pass out, he
as to endanger detection. He readily undertook
to do so. “And, by heavens, if he does detect
him,” said he, “I'll pinion him wi' sitch a grip that
he'll no' e'en stir, till Mr. Middleton be clear oot
o' his reach. It will be doing mare guid, I think,
to my neighbour than going to dig Rabbin M`Brim's
potatoes. Damn the butchers, but we maun save
the lad. He was a guid frien' to Peggy, and she
aye thinks weel o' him, an' I'll no' forget him in
his pinch.”
The morning rose that ushered in the potato
digging-day, in which numerous throngs of lads
and lasses dressed in their best attire, with light
and merry hearts came from all parts of the adjacent
country, into the town of Larne; the lads to
march to the work of charity and benevolence,
the lasses to witness the procession, and reward
their lovers as they passed them with their smiles.
During this year, frequent assemblages of the
people took place in different parts of the country
to work the land, or gather in the harvest, of those
who for their obnoxious politics had become inmates
of the jails, or were otherwise prevented
from attending to their domestic concerns. On
the occasion to which we now particularly refer,
upwards of five thousand men marched, in rank
and file, carrying no other weapons than spades
and baskets to the scene of their industry, and in
the course of a few hours performed an immense
quantity of labour, in raising and housing the potatoes
of their proscribed confederate.
These assemblages for rural industry, were contrived
by the leaders of the conspiracy, in order
to display the popularity of their cause, and thereby
encourage their friends to perseverance, and
prevent the lukewarm and timid from defection.
Great care was taken that their proceedings should
so that no pretence should be given for magisterial
interference; and, it is astonishing how well they
succeeded, considering the unruly and heterogeneous
multitude they had to manage. But zeal for
the cause, and a general conviction that its character
and success depended on the propriety with
which these public bodies conducted themselves,
had the effect of preventing every kind of tumult,
and these assemblages generally dispersed with as
much sobriety and decorum as a congregation
withdraws from church.
“It was in the afternoon of that day, when all
the conspirators except the sentinel had left the
cave, that, with an agitated and fearful heart, as if
she were approaching some crisis of her fate,
Ellen, in company with Hunter, hastened to the
prison of her lover, with a resolution to effect his
deliverance, or die with him. Often, however, the
feelings of the woman would obtrude upon her,
and for a moment damp the determination of the
lover. But the recollection of Edward's danger
still prevailed, and enabled her to persist.
Without hesitation she and her attendant were
admitted by Allen. The granddaughter of O'Halloran
could not be suspected, and Hunter had been
long the particular friend of Allen. Besides, ever
since his life had been in jeopardy at Antrim, the
particulars of which story were widely circulated,
he had became highly popular with his party. He
remained on the outside, to converse with Allen,
whilst Ellen advanced. She had now, however,
to experience the greatest struggle with her delicacy
that she had yet encountered, as she recollected
that she was thus voluntarily seeking the
presence of a young man in absolute solitude, who
had professed himself her lover. Thrice after admittance,
she hesitated on her step as if to argue
resolution carried her forward, and she appeared
in Edward's presence lovely and blushing, but disconcerted
and speechless with the conflict of terror,
shame and solicitude which agitated her bosom.
He was, at the first view, so struck with
astonishment that he could scarcely believe the
vision to be real.
“What happiness!” he exclaimed, “Has an angel
in the dearest of all created forms, come to visit
me in my prison?”
She sunk upon a chair, and almost fainted. He
ran to support her, but she soon recovered her self-possession
sufficiently to account for her appearance,
by relating the danger she had discovered
him to be in, and the means she had provided for
his escape. It is needless to repeat the expressions
of gratitude and rapture in which Edward
now indulged. She, however, soon reminded him
that there was no time for conversation, and that
if he meant to escape, he must haste and depart.—
She now supplied him with an exact duplicate of
the clothes she then wore, and in a few minutes, he
was disguised.
“Let me,” said he, “before I part from my
guardian angel, kneel with her one precious minute
before the throne of Heaven, that I may implore
blessings upon her head.”
They both kneeled; and he fervently caught
her hand in his while he uttered the following
prayer.
“Almighty Protector of innocence, and searcher
of hearts, on my knees, I implore thee to be a
shield to one of the fairest and purest of thy creatures.
Thou knowest the alarming dangers, in
the midst of which I am about to leave her; but
thou art sufficient to deliver her from them.
Without that assurance, O God, how could I support
O grant, that we may again meet under more
benign circumstances, and that we may then never
part until thy last summons shall call us to immortality.
Preserve her for me in my absence, faithful,
lovely and innocent as she now is; and hear me,
while I vow eternal fidelity to her—May this heart
which now beats for her alone, beat no more, ere
it shall know another earthly love; and may this
hand become enfeebled and withered, ere it shall
grasp in the holy ordinance of wedlock, any hand
but the dear one which it now holds!”
He then imprinted on her hand a fervent kiss,
and bidding her adieu, rushed toward the door.
Allen mistaking him for Miss O'Halloran was for
running to assist him in getting out; but Hunter,
who by this time had enticed him to the bottom of
the rock, desired him to remain where he was, as
he knew the young lady disliked to be disturbed
with such attentions. He added, that though he
had conveyed her here, he knew that she wished
to return home by herself, and as his friend Allen
was alone here to day, he believed he should stay
a few hours to keep him company. “Why, Allen,
man,” said he, “you should think o' gettin' married.
I'm tauld that Jenny Davis is amaist wud
aboot you; an' she's a nice lass; an' her father can
gie her twa hunner pun' ony day. Lord, man, I
was never sae happy, as I hae been these four
weeks past, wi' Peggy. Ye ken I wad tak' naething
wi' her, though her father says we'll fare naething
the war o' that, or a' be owre.”
Allen confessed that he had a hankering after
Jenny; but feared that she liked Tam Mathewson
better than him.
By this time, Edward had ascended the hill that
overlooked his late prison; and in a few minutes
His disguise was soon thrown aside.
“All has succeeded; Heaven be praised!” exclaimed
the old man. “M`Nelvin waits at the top
of the glen with your horse. Haste, fly, leave this
distracted place, for there is no safety here; and
God be with you!”
“I go, Farewell, Father! We shall yet meet
again. Till then, under heaven, I charge you with
the care of the angel who has delivered me.”
“Adieu, my son. No earthly consideration shall
prevent me from attending to that charge. Yonder
is your horse.”
Edward sprang forward, and seized M`Nelvin
by the hand.
“Farewell!” said he. “Be still Miss O'Halloran's
friend; I shall ever be yours.”
He spurred his steed, and in three hours more
found himself at the hospitable gate of Shane's
Castle.
| CHAP. XIV. O'Halloran, or The insurgent chief | |