Charles Lever - The O'Donoghue - Tale of Ireland Fifty Years Ago

Meanwhile Roach proceeded on his way, speculating on all the gain this fortunate meeting might bring to him, and then meditating what reasons he should allege to the O’Donoghue for his speedy return.

“I’ll tell him a lucky thought struck me in the glen,” muttered he; “or, what! if I said I forgot something – a pocket-book, or case of instruments – any thing will do;” and, with this comfortable reflection, he urged his beast onward.

The night was falling as he once more ascended the steep and narrow causeway, which led to the old keep; and here, now, Kerry O’Leary was closing the heavy but time-worn gate, and fastening it with many a bolt and bar, as though aught within could merit so much precaution. The sound of wheels seemed suddenly to have caught the huntsman’s ear, for he hastily shut down the massive hasp that secured the bar of the gate, and as quickly opened a little latched window, which, barred with iron, resembled the grated aperture of a convent door.

“You’re late this time, any how,” cried Kerry. “Tramp back again, friend, the way you came; and be thankful it’s myself seen you; for, by the blessed Father, if it was Master Mark was here, you’d carry away more lead in your skirts than you’d like.”

“What, Kerry? – what’s that you’re saying?” said the astonished doctor; “don’t you know me, man?”

“Kerry’s my name, sure enough; but artful as you are, you’ll just keep the other side of the door. Be off now, in God’s name. ‘Tis a fair warning I give you; and faix if you won’t listen to my son, you might hear worse;” and as he spoke, that ominous sound, the click of a gun-cock, was heard, and the muzzle of a carbine peeped between the iron bars.

“Tear-and-ounds! ye scoundrel! you’re not going to fire a bullet at me?”

“‘Tis slugs they are,” was the reply, as Kerry adjusted the piece, and seemed to take as good an aim as the darkness permitted; “divil a more nor slugs, as you’ll know soon. I’ll count three, now, and may I never wear boots, if I don’t blaze, if you’re not gone before it’s over. Here’s one,” shouted he, in a louder key.

“The saints protect me, but I’ll be murdered,” muttered old Roach, blessing himself, but unable from terror to speak aloud, or stir frozen the spot.

“Here’s two!” cried Kerry, still louder.

“I’m going! – I’m going! give me time to leave this blasted place; bad luck to the day and the hour I ever saw it.”

“It’s too late,” shouted Kerry. “Here’s three!” and as he spoke bang went the piece, and a shower of slugs and duck-shot came peppering over the head and counter of the old pony; for in his fright, Roach had fallen on his knees to pray. The wretched quadruped, thus rudely saluted, gave a plunge and a kick, and then wheeled about with an alacrity long forgotten, and scampered down the causeway with the old gig at his heels, rattling as if it were coming in pieces. Kerry broke into a roar of laughter, and screamed out —

“I’ll give you another yet, begorra! that’s only a true copy; but you’ll get the original now, you ould varmint!”

A heavy groan from the wretched doctor, as he sank in a faint, was the only response; for in his fear he thought the contents of the piece were in his body.

“Musha, I hope he isn’t dead,” said Kerry, as he opened the wicket cautiously, and peeped out with a lantern. “Mister Cassidy – Mister James, get up now – it’s only joking I was. – Holy Joseph! is he kilt?” and overcome by a sudden dread of having committed murder, Kerry stepped out, and approached the motionless figure before him. “By all that’s good, I’ve done for the sheriff,” said he, as he stood over the body. “Oh! wirra, wirra! who’d think a few grains of shot would kill him.”

“What’s the matter here? who fired that shot?” said a deep voice, as Mark O’Donoghue appeared at Kerry’s side, and snatching the lantern, held it down till the light fell upon the pale features of the doctor.

“I’m murdered! I’m murdered!” was the faint exclamation of old Roach. “Hear me, these are my dying words, Kerry O’Leary murdered me.”

“Where are you wounded? where’s the ball?” cried Mark, tearing open the coat and waistcoat in eager anxiety..

“I don’t know, I don’t know; it’s inside bleeding I feel.”

“Nonsense, man, you have neither bruise nor scar about you; you’re frightened, that’s all. Come, Kerry, give a hand, and we’ll help him in.”

But Kerry had fled; the idea of the gallows had just shot across his mind, and he never waited for any further disclosures about his victim; but deep in the recesses of a hay-loft he lay cowering in terror, and endeavouring to pray. Meanwhile Mark had taken the half lifeless body on his shoulder, and with the ease and indifference he would have bestowed upon an inanimate burden, coolly earned him into the parlour, and threw him upon a sofa.

“What have you got there, Mark?” called out the O’Donoghue, as the young man threw the still insensible figure of the Doctor upon the sofa.

“Old Roach, of Killarney,” answered Mark sullenly. “That confounded fool, Kerry, must have been listening at the door there, to what we were saying, and took him for Cassidy, the sub-sheriff; he fired a charge of slugs at him – that’s certain; but I don’t think there’s much mischief done.” As he spoke, he filled a goblet with wine, and without any waste of ceremony, poured it down the Doctor’s throat. “You’re nothing the worse, man,” added he, roughly; “you’ve given many a more dangerous dose yourself, I’ll be bound, and people have survived it too.”

“I’m better now,” said Roach, in a faint voice; “I feel something better; but may I never leave this spot if I don’t prosecute that scoundrel, O’Leary. It was all malice – I can swear to that.”

“Not a bit of it, Roach; Mark says the fellow mistook you for Cassidy.”

“No, no – don’t tell me that: he knew me well; but I foresaw it all. He filled my pony with water; I might as well be rolling a barrel before me, as try to drive him this morning. The rascal had a spite against me for giving him nothing; but he shall hang for it.”

“Come, come, Roach, don’t be angry; it’s all past and over now; the fellow did it for the best.”

“Did it for the best! Fired a loaded blunderbuss into a fellow-creature for the best!”

“To be sure he did,” broke in Mark, with an imperious look and tone. “There’s no harm done, and you need not make such a work about it.”

“Where’s the pony and the gig, then?” called out Roach, suddenly remembering the last sight he had of them.

“I heard the old beast clattering down the glen, as if he had fifty kettles at his tail. They’ll stop him at last; and if they shouldn’t, I don’t suppose it matters much: the whole yoke wasn’t worth a five pound note – no, even giving the owner into the bargain,” muttered he, as he turned away.

The indignity of this speech acted like a charm upon Roach; as if galvanised by the insult, he sat bolt upright on the sofa, and thrust his hands down to the deepest recesses of his breeches pockets, his invariable signal for close action. “What, sir, do you tell me that my conveniency, with the pony, harness and all – ”

“Have patience, Roach,” interposed the old man; “Mark was but jesting. Come over and join us here.” At the same instant the door was flung suddenly wide, and Sir Archy rushed in, with a speed very unlike his ordinary gait. “There’s a change for the better,” cried he, joyfully; “the boy has made a rally, and if we could overtake that d – d auld beestie, Roach, and bring him back again, we might save the lad.”