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Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick

by G. A. Henty · English · Gutenberg #18356 · 541,835 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Orange and Green: A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick

Author: G. A. Henty


        
Release date: May 8, 2006 [eBook #18356]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/18356

Credits: E-text prepared by Martin Robb


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ORANGE AND GREEN: A TALE OF THE BOYNE AND LIMERICK ***


E-text prepared by Martin Robb



ORANGE AND GREEN:

A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick

by

G. A. Henty.







Contents

   Preface.
   Chapter  1: A Shipwreck.
   Chapter  2: For James Or William.
   Chapter  3: The King In Ireland.
   Chapter  4: The Siege Of Derry.
   Chapter  5: The Relief Of Derry.
   Chapter  6: Dundalk.
   Chapter  7: The Coming Battle.
   Chapter  8: Boyne Water.
   Chapter  9: Pleasant Quarters.
   Chapter 10: A Cavalry Raid.
   Chapter 11: The First Siege Of Limerick.
   Chapter 12: Winter Quarters.
   Chapter 13: A Dangerous Mission.
   Chapter 14: Athlone.
   Chapter 15: A Fortunate Recognition.
   Chapter 16: Peace.



Preface.


The subject of Ireland is one which has, for some years, been a very
prominent one, and is likely, I fear, for some time yet to occupy a large
share of public attention. The discontent, manifested in the troubles of
recent years, has had its root in an old sense of grievance, for which
there was, unhappily, only too abundant reason. The great proportion of
the soil of Ireland was taken from the original owners, and handed over
to Cromwell's followers, and for years the land that still remained in
the hands of Irishmen was subject to the covetousness of a party of
greedy intriguers, who had sufficient influence to sway the proceedings
of government. The result was the rising of Ireland, nominally in defence
of the rights of King James, but really as an effort of despair on the
part of those who deemed their religion, their property, and even their
lives threatened, by the absolute ascendency of the Protestant party in
the government of the country. I have taken my information from a variety
of sources; but, as I wished you to see the matter from the Irish point
of view, I have drawn most largely from the history of those events by
Mr. O'Driscol, published sixty years ago. There is, however, but little
difference of opinion between Irish and English authors, as to the
general course of the war, or as to the atrocious conduct of William's
army of foreign mercenaries towards the people of Ireland.

G. A. Henty.



Chapter 1: A Shipwreck.


A few miles to the south of Bray Head, on the crest of a hill falling
sharply down to the sea, stood Castle Davenant, a conspicuous landmark to
mariners skirting the coast on their way from Cork or Waterford to Dublin
Bay. Castle Davenant it was called, although it had long since ceased to
be defensible; but when it was built by Sir Godfrey Davenant, who came
over with Strongbow, it was a place of strength. Strongbow's followers
did well for themselves. They had reckoned on hard fighting, but the
Irish were too much divided among themselves to oppose any serious
resistance to the invaders. Strongbow had married the daughter of Dermid,
Prince of Leinster, and at the death of that prince succeeded him, and
the greater portion of Leinster was soon divided among the knights and
men-at-arms who had followed his standard. Godfrey Davenant, who was a
favourite of the earl, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his share,
which consisted of a domain including many square miles of fertile land,
stretching back from the seacoast.

Here for many generations his descendants lived, for the most part taking
an active share in the wars and disturbances which, with scarcely an
interval of rest, agitated the country.

The castle had continued to deserve its name until forty years before the
time this story commences, when Cromwell's gunners had battered a breach
in it, and left it a heap of smoking ruins. Walter Davenant had died,
fighting to the last, in his own hall. At that time, the greater part of
his estate was bestowed upon officers and soldiers in Cromwell's army,
among whom no less than four million acres of Irish land were divided.

Had it not been that Walter Davenant's widow was an Englishwoman, and a
relation of General Ireton, the whole of the estate would have gone; but
his influence was sufficient to secure for her the possession of the
ruins of her home, and a few hundred acres surrounding it. Fortunately,
the dowry which Mrs. Davenant had brought her husband was untouched, and
a new house was reared within the ruins of the castle, the new work being
dovetailed with the old.

The family now consisted of Mrs. Davenant, a lady sixty-eight years old;
her son Fergus, who was, when Cromwell devastated the land, a child of
five years; his wife Katherine, daughter of Lawrence McCarthy, a large
landowner near Cork; and their two sons, Walter, a lad of sixteen, and
Godfrey, twelve years old.

Two miles west of the castle stood a square-built stone house, surrounded
by solidly-constructed barns and outbuildings. This was the abode of old
Zephaniah Whitefoot, the man upon whom had been bestowed the broad lands
of Walter Davenant. Zephaniah had fought stoutly, as lieutenant in one of
Cromwell's regiments of horse, and had always considered himself an
ill-treated man, because, although he had obtained all the most fertile
portion of the Davenant estate, the old family were permitted to retain
the castle, and a few hundred acres by the sea.

He was one of those who contended that the Amalekites should be utterly
destroyed by the sword, and he considered that the retention of the
corner of their domains, by the Davenants, was a direct flying in the
face of the providence who had given them into the hands of the faithful.
Not that, had he obtained possession of the ruined castle, Zephaniah
Whitefoot would have repaired it or set up his abode there. The followers
of Cromwell had no eyes for the beautiful. They were too much in earnest
to care aught for the amenities of life, and despised, as almost sinful,
anything approximating to beauty, either in dress, person, or
surroundings. The houses that they reared, in this land of which they had
taken possession, were bare to the point of ugliness, and their interior
was as cold and hard as was the exterior. Everything was for use, nothing
for ornament. Scarce a flower was to be seen in their gardens, and
laughter was a sign of levity, to be sternly repressed.

Their isolation, in the midst of a hostile population, caused them no
concern whatever. They cared for no society or companionship, save that
of their own households, which they ruled with a rod of iron; and an
occasional gathering, for religious purposes, with the other settlers of
their own faith. They regarded the Irish as Papists, doomed to
everlasting perdition, and indeed consigned to that fate all outside
their own narrow sect. Such a people could no more mix with the
surrounding population than oil with water. As a rule, they tilled as
much ground in the immediate vicinity of their houses as they and their
families could manage, and the rest of the land which had fallen into
their possession they let, either for a money payment, or, more often,
for a portion of the crops raised upon it, to such natives as were
willing to hold it on these terms.

The next generation had fallen away somewhat from their fathers'
standards. It is not in human nature to stand such a strain as their
families had been subjected to. There is an innate yearning for joy and
happiness, and even the sternest discipline cannot keep man forever in
the gloomy bonds of fanaticism. In most cases, the immediate descendants
of Cromwell's soldiers would gladly have made some sort of compromise,
would have surrendered much of their outlying land to obtain secure and
peaceful possession of the rest, and would have emerged from the life of
gloomy seclusion, in which they found themselves; but no whisper of any
such feeling as this would be heard in the household of Zephaniah
Whitefoot, so long as he lived.

He was an old man now, but as hard, as gloomy, and as unlovable as he had
been when in his prime. His wife had died very many years before, of no
disease that Zephaniah or the doctor he called in could discover, but, in
fact, of utter weariness at the dull life of repression and gloom which
crushed her down. Of a naturally meek and docile disposition, she had
submitted without murmuring to her husband's commands, and had, during
her whole married life, never shocked him so much as she did the day
before her death, when, for the first time, she exhibited the possession
of an opinion of her own, by saying earnestly:

"You may say what you like, Zephaniah, but I do think we were meant to
have some happiness and pleasure on earth. If we were intended to go
through life without laughing, why should we be able to laugh? Oh, how I
should like to hear one hearty, natural laugh again before I die, such as
I used to hear when I was a girl!"

Jabez Whitefoot inherited his mother's docility of disposition, and, even
when he grew to middle age, never dreamt of disputing his father's
absolute rule, and remained strictly neutral when his wife, the daughter
of an old comrade of his father, settled a few miles away, fought stoutly
at times against his tyranny.

"You are less than a man, Jabez," she would say to him, indignantly, "to
put up, at your age, with being lectured as if you were a child. Parental
obedience is all very well, and I hope I was always obedient to my
father; but when it comes to a body not being permitted to have a soul of
his own, it is going too far. If you had told me that, when I became your
wife, I was to become the inmate of a dungeon for the rest of my
existence, I wouldn't have had you, not if you had been master of all the
broad lands of Leinster."

But, though unable to rouse her husband into making an effort for some
sort of freedom, Hannah Whitefoot had battled more successfully in behalf
of her son, John.

"You have had the management of your son, sir, and I will manage mine,"
she said. "I will see that he does not grow up a reprobate or a Papist,
but at least he shall grow up a man, and his life shall not be as hateful
as mine is, if I can help it."

Many battles had already been fought on this point, but in the end Hannah
Whitefoot triumphed. Although her husband never, himself, opposed his
father's authority, he refused absolutely to use his own to compel his
wife to submission.

"You know, sir," he said, "you had your own way with my mother and me,
and I say nothing for or against it. Hannah has other ideas. No one can
say that she is not a good woman, or that she fails in her duty to me.
All people do not see life from the same point of view. She is just as
conscientious, in her way, as you are in yours. She reads her Bible and
draws her own conclusions from it, just as you do; and as she is the
mother of the child, and as I know she will do her best for it, I shall
not interfere with her way of doing it."

And so Hannah won at last, and although, according to modern ideas, the
boy's training would have been considered strict in the extreme, it
differed very widely from that which his father had had before him.
Sounds of laughter, such as never had been heard within the walls of the
house, since Zephaniah laid stone upon stone, sometimes issued from the
room where Hannah and the child were together alone, and Zephaniah was
out with Jabez about the farm; and Hannah herself benefited, as much as
did the child, by her rebellion against the authorities. Jabez, too, was
conscious that home was brighter and pleasanter than it had been, and
when Zephaniah burst into a torrent of indignation, when he discovered
that the child had absolutely heard some fairy stories from its mother,
Jabez said quietly:

"Father, I wish no dispute. I have been an obedient son to you, and will
continue so to my life's end; but if you are not satisfied with the
doings of my wife, I will depart with her. There are plenty who will be
glad to let me a piece of land; and if I only work there as hard as I
work here, I shall assuredly be able to support her and my boy. So let
this be the last word between us."

This threat put an end to the struggle. Zephaniah had, like most of his
class, a keen eye to the main chance, and could ill spare the services of
Jabez and his thrifty and hard-working wife; and henceforth, except by
pointed references, in the lengthy morning and evening prayers, to the
backsliding in his household, he held his peace.

Between the Castle and Zephaniah Whitefoot there had never been any
intercourse. The dowager Mrs. Davenant hated the Cromwellite occupier of
her estate, not only as a usurper, but as the representative of the man
who had slain her husband. She never alluded to his existence, and had
always contrived, in her rides and walks, to avoid any point from which
she could obtain so much as a distant view of the square, ugly house
which formed a blot on the fair landscape. She still spoke of the estate
as if it extended to its original boundaries, and ignored absolutely the
very existence of Zephaniah Whitefoot, and all that belonged to him. But
when her son and Jabez grew to man's estate, at about the same period,
they necessarily at times crossed each other's paths; and as in them the
prejudices and enmities of their elders were somewhat softened, they
would, when they met on the road, exchange a passing nod or a brief "Good
morning."

Another generation still, and the boys of the two houses met as friends.
Thanks to his mother's successful rebellion, John Whitefoot grew up a
hearty, healthy boy, with a bright eye, a merry laugh, and a frank, open
bearing.

"One would think," his grandfather remarked angrily one day, as the boy
went out, whistling gaily, to fetch in a young colt Jabez was about to
break, "that John was the son of a malignant, or one of the men of
Charles Stuart, rather than of a God-fearing tiller of the soil."

"So long as he fears God, and walks in the right way, he is none the
worse for that, father," Jabez said stoutly; "and even you would hardly
say that his mother has failed in her teachings in that respect. I do not
know that, so long as one has the words of Scripture in his heart, he is
any the better for having them always on his lips; in other respects, I
regret not that the boy should have a spirit and a fire which I know I
lack myself. Who can say what may yet take place here! The Stuarts are
again upon the throne, and, with James's leaning towards Papacy, there is
no saying whether, some day, all the lands which Cromwell divided among
his soldiers may not be restored to their original possessors, and in
that case our sons may have to make their way in other paths of life than
ours; and, if it be so, John will assuredly be more likely to make his
way than I should have done."

"We would never surrender, save with our lives, what our swords have won.
We will hold the inheritance which the Lord has given us," the old man
said fiercely.

"Yes, father; and so said those whose lands we have inherited. So said
Walter Davenant, of whose lands we are possessed. It will be as God wills
it. He has given to us the lands of others, and it may be that he will
take them away again. The times have changed, father, and the manners;
and I am well pleased to see that John, while I am sure he is as true to
the faith as I am myself, will take broader and, perhaps, happier views
of life than I have done."

Zephaniah gave a snort of displeasure. He grieved continually at the
influence which his daughter-in-law exercised over her son, and which now
extended clearly to her husband; but Jabez was now a man of
five-and-forty, and had lately shown that, in some respects at least, he
intended to have his way, while Zephaniah himself, though still erect and
strong, was well-nigh eighty.

"Remember, Jabez," he said, "that it goes hard with those who, having set
their hands to the plough, turn aside."

"I shall not turn aside, father," Jabez said quietly. "I have gone too
long along a straight furrow to change now; but I am not ill pleased that
my son should have a wider scope. I trust and believe that he will drive
his furrow as straight as we have done, although it may not be exactly in
the same line."

But neither Zephaniah nor old Mrs. Davenant knew that their respective
grandsons had made friends, although both the boys' fathers knew, and
approved of it, although for somewhat different reasons.

"The Whitefoot boy," Mr. Davenant had said to his wife, "is, I fancy from
what I have seen of him, of a different type to his father and
grandfather. I met him the other day when I was out, and he spoke as
naturally and outspokenly as Walter himself. He seems to have got rid of
the Puritanical twang altogether. At any rate, he will do Walter no harm;
and, indeed, I should say that there was a solid good sense about him,
which will do Master Walter, who is somewhat disposed to be a madcap,
much good. Anyhow, he is a better companion for the boy than the lads
down in the village; and there is no saying, wife, how matters may go in
this unhappy country. It may be that we may come to our own again. It may
be that we may lose what is left to us. Anyhow, it can do no harm to
Walter that he should have, as a friend, one in the opposite camp."

Somewhat similar was the talk between Hannah and Jabez, although, in
their case, the wife was the speaker.

"John has told me, Jabez, that he has several times met young Davenant,
and that the boy is disposed to be friendly with him; and he has asked me
to speak with you, to know whether you have any objection to his making a
friend of him."

"What do you say, Hannah?" Jabez asked cautiously. "My father, I fear,
would not approve of it."

"Your father need know nothing about it, Jabez. He is an old man and a
good man, but he clings to the ways of his youth, and deems that things
are still as they were when he rode behind Cromwell. I would not deceive
him did he ask; but I do not see that the matter need be mentioned in his
presence. It seems to me that it will be good for John to be friends with
this boy. He is almost without companionship. We have acquaintance, it is
true, among the other settlers of our faith, but such companionship as he
has there will not open his mind or broaden his views. We are dull people
here for a lad. Had we had other children it might have been different.

"I have heard my mother speak of her life as a girl, in England, and
assuredly it was brighter and more varied than ours; and it seems not to
me that the pleasures which they had were sinful, although I have been
taught otherwise; but, as I read my Bible, I cannot see that innocent
pleasures are in any way denied to the Lord's people; and such pleasure
as the companionship of the young Davenant can give John will, I think,
be altogether for his good."

"But the lad is a Papist, Hannah."

"He is, Jabez; but boys, methinks, do not argue among themselves upon
points of doctrine; and I have no fear that John will ever be led from
the right path, nor indeed, though it is presumption for a woman to say
so, do I feel so sure as our ministers that ours is the only path to
heaven. We believe firmly that it is the best path, but others believe as
firmly in their paths; and I cannot think, Jabez, that all mankind, save
those who are within the fold of our church, can be condemned by the good
Lord to perdition."

"Your words are bold, Hannah, and I know not what my father and the
elders of the church would say, were they to hear them. As to that I will
not argue, but methinks that you are right in saying that the
companionship of the young Davenant will do our boy no harm.

"But the lad must have his father's consent. Though I reckon that we
could count pounds where they could count shillings, yet, in the opinion
of the world, they assuredly stand above us. Moreover, as it is only in
human nature that they should regard us as those who have despoiled them,
John must have no dealings with their son without their consent. If that
be given, I have nought to say against it."

And so John told Walter, next time they met, and learned in reply that
Walter had already obtained his father's consent to going out rambles
with him; so the boys became companions and friends, and each benefited
by it. To John, the bright, careless ease and gaiety of Walter's talk and
manner were, at first, strange indeed, after the restraint and gloom of
his home; but in time he caught something of his companion's tone, until,
as has been said, his altered manner and bearing struck and annoyed his
grandfather.

On the other hand, the earnestness and solidity of John's character was of
benefit to Walter; and his simple truthfulness, the straightforwardness of
his principles, and his blunt frankness in saying exactly what he thought,
influenced Walter to quite as large an extent as he had influenced John.

So the companionship between the lads had gone on for two years. In fine
weather they had met once or twice a week, and had taken long rambles
together, or, throwing themselves down on the slopes facing the sea, had
talked over subjects of mutual interest. Walter's education was far in
advance of that of his companion, whose reading, indeed, had been
confined to the Scriptures, and the works of divines and
controversialists of his own church, and whose acquirements did not
extend beyond the most elementary subjects.

To him, everything that Walter knew was novel and strange; and he eagerly
devoured, after receiving permission from his mother, the books which
Walter lent him, principally histories, travels, and the works of Milton
and Shakespeare. As to the latter, Hannah had at first some scruples; and
it was only after setting herself, with great misgivings as to the
lawfulness of the act, to peruse the book, that she suffered her son to
read it. The volume only contained some ten of Shakespeare's plays; and
Hannah, on handing the book to her son, said:

"I do not pretend, John, to understand all that is written there, but I
cannot see that there is evil in it. There are assuredly many noble
thoughts, and much worldly wisdom. Did I think that your life would be
passed here, I should say that it were better for you not to read a book
which gives a picture of a life so different from what yours would be;
but none can say what your lot may be. And, although I have heard much
about the wickedness of the stage, I can see no line in this book which
could do harm to you. I do not see it can do you much good, John, but
neither do I see that it can do you any harm; therefore, if you have set
your mind on it, read it, my boy."

It was a stormy evening in the first week of November, 1688. The wind was
blowing in fierce gusts, making every door and casement quiver in
Davenant Castle, while, between the gusts, the sound of the deep roar of
the sea on the rocks far below could be plainly heard. Mrs. Davenant was
sitting in a high-backed chair, on one side of the great fireplace, in
which a pile of logs was blazing. Her son had just laid down a book,
which he could no longer see to read, while her daughter-in-law was
industriously knitting. Walter was wandering restlessly between the fire
and the window, looking out at the flying clouds, through which the moon
occasionally struggled.

"Do sit down, Walter," his mother said at last. "You certainly are the
most restless creature I ever saw."

"Not always, mother; but I cannot help wondering about that ship we saw
down the coast, making for the bay. She was about ten miles out, and
seemed to be keeping her course when I saw her last, half an hour ago;
but I can see, by the clouds, that the wind has drawn round more to the
north, and I doubt much whether she will be able to gain the bay."

"In that case, Walter," his father said, "if her captain knows his
business, he will wear round and run down for Waterford.

"I agree with you," he continued, after walking to the window and
watching the clouds, "that a vessel coming from the south will hardly
weather Bray Head, with this wind."

He had scarcely spoken when the door opened, and one of the servants
entered.

"Your honour, a boy has just come up from the village. He says that John
Considine sent him to tell you that a large ship is driving in to shore,
and that he thinks she will strike not far from the village."

"Why, on earth," Mr. Davenant exclaimed, "doesn't he tack and stand out
to sea!"

"The boy says her foremast is gone, and they have lost all management of
her."

"In that case, God help them! There is little chance for them on this
rocky coast. However, I will go down at once, and see if anything can be
done.

"Katherine, do you see that there are plenty of hot blankets ready, in
case any of the poor fellows are washed ashore. I shall, of course, send
them up here.

"I suppose, Walter, you will come down with me."

But Walter had already disappeared, having slipped off as soon as he had
heard the message.

"Don't let that boy get into mischief, Fergus," old Mrs. Davenant said.

"I am afraid, mother, he is beyond me," her son said, with a smile. "No
Davenant yet could ever keep out of mischief, and Walter is no exception.
However, fortunately for us, we generally get out of scrapes as easily as
we get into them."

"Not always, Fergus," she said, shaking her head.

"No, not always, mother; but exceptions, you know, prove the rule."

"Well, Godfrey, do you want to go?" he asked the younger boy, who had
risen from the table, and was looking eagerly at him. "Of course you do;
but, mind, you must keep close to me.

"Ah, Father John!" he broke off, as an ecclesiastic, muffled up to the
throat in wrappings, entered the room. "Are you going down, too?"

"Assuredly I am, Fergus. You don't think a trifle of wind would keep me
from doing my duty?"

In another two minutes, the two men and Godfrey sallied out. They
staggered as the wind struck them, and Godfrey clung to his father's arm.
Not a word was spoken as they made their way down the steep descent to
the village, which consisted of about a dozen fishermen's huts. Indeed,
speaking would have been useless, for no word would have been heard above
the howling of the storm.

The vessel was visible to them, as they made their way down the hill. She
was a complete wreck. The light of the moon was sufficient for them to
see that she had, as the boy said, lost her foremast. Her sails were in
ribbons, and she was labouring heavily in the sea, each wave that struck
her breaking over her bows and sweeping along her deck. There was no hope
for her. She could neither tack nor wear, and no anchor would hold for a
moment on that rocky bottom, in such a sea.

On reaching the village, they joined a group of fishermen who were
standing under the shelter of the end of a cottage.

"Can nothing be done, Considine?" Mr. Davenant shouted, in the ear of one
of the fishermen.

"Not a thing, yer honour. She has just let drop one of her anchors."

"But they could not hope it would hold there," Mr. Davenant said.

"Not they, your honour, onless they were mad. They hoped it would hoult
so as to bring her head round; but the cable went, as soon as the strain
came. I saw her head go sharp up to the wind, and then fall off again;
not that it would have made much difference in the end, though it would
have given them half an hour longer of life."

"Could we get a boat off with a line, if she strikes?"

"Look at the sea, yer honour. Mr. Walter has been asking us; but there's
no boat could get through that surf, not if all Ireland dipinded on it."

"Where is Walter?"

"Sure and I can't tell ye, yer honour. He was here a few minutes since;
but what's come of him is more nor I can tell ye."

"He went off with Larry Doolan," a boy, who was standing next to the
fisherman, shouted.

"Then, as sure as fate, they are up to some mischief," Mr. Davenant said.
"Walter is bad enough by himself, but with Larry to help him, it would
take a regiment to look after them."

"They can't be in much mischief tonight, yer honour," the fisherman said.

"Look, sir, she's coming in fast. She draws a power of water, and she
will strike in a minute or two."

"She seems crowded with men. Can nothing be done to help them?" the
priest asked.

"Nothing, your reverence. Praying for them is the only thing that can
help the poor sowls now."

"You are sure it's not possible to launch a boat, Considine?"

"Look for yourself, yer honour. There's not a boat on the coast that
could get through them breakers."

"There she goes."

Even above the noise of the storm, a loud cry was heard, and the crash of
breaking timber as, with the shock, the main and mizzen masts, weakened
by the loss of the foremast, went over the sides. The next great wave
drove the vessel forward two or three fathoms.

"That's her last move," Considine said. "The rocks will be through her
bottom, now."

"They are off," a boy shouted, running up.

"Who are off?" Considine asked.

"The young squire and Larry Doolan."

"Off where?" Mr. Davenant exclaimed.

"Off in the curragh, yer honour. Me and Tim Connolly helped them carry it
round the Nose, and they launched her there. There they are. Sure you can
see them for yourself."

The party rushed out from the shelter, and there, a quarter of a mile
along on the right, a small boat was seen, making its way over the waves.

"Be jabers, yer honour, and they have done it," the boatmen said, as Mr.
Davenant gave a cry of alarm.

"I didn't think of the curragh, and if I had, she could not have been
launched here. Mr. Walter has hit on the only place where there was a
chance. Under the shelter of the Nose it might be done, but nowhere
else."

The Nose was a formidable reef of rocks, running off from a point and
trending to the south. Many a ship had gone ashore on its jagged edge,
but, with the wind from the northeast, it formed somewhat of a shelter,
and it was under its lee that Walter and Larry had launched the curragh.

The curragh is still found on the Irish coast. It is a boat whose
greatest width is at the stern, so much so that it looks like a boat cut
in two. The floor is almost flat, and rises so much to the bow that three
or four feet are entirely out of water. They are roughly built, and by no
means fast, but they are wonderfully good sea boats, for their size, and
can live in seas which would swamp a boat of ordinary build.

Walter had, with the assistance of Larry Doolan, built this boat for
going out fishing. It was extremely light, being a mere framework covered
with tarred canvas. As soon as Walter had reached the village, and found
that the fishermen considered that no boat could possibly be put out, he
had found and held a consultation with Larry.

"Do you think the curragh could go out, Larry?"

"Not she, yer honour. She would just be broke up like an eggshell with
them breakers."

"But she might float, if we got beyond them, Larry."

"She might that," Larry agreed, "seeing how light she is."

"Well, will you go with me, Larry?"

"Sure and I would go anywhere with yer honour, but she could never get
out."

"I am thinking, Larry, that if we carry her along beyond the Nose, we
might find it calmer there."

"Well, we might," Larry agreed. "At any rate, we can try."

So, calling together two or three other boys, they had lifted the light
boat and carried it with its oars along the shore, until they got beyond
the Nose; but even here, it was a formidable business to launch her, for,
although the rocks broke the full force of the seas, throwing the spray
hundreds of feet up in the air, the waves poured through the intervals,
and dashed over the lower rocks in such masses that formidable waves
rolled in to the shore.

After much consultation, the boys agreed that their best plan was to
scramble out on the rocks as far as possible, so as to launch the boat
beyond the break of the surf.

It was a hazardous enterprise, and the whole party were, several times,
nearly washed into the water as they struggled out. At last, they reached
a spot beyond which they could go no farther, as a deep passage was here
broken in the rock. But they were now beyond the line of breakers.

After several vain efforts to launch the boat, in each of which she
narrowly escaped destruction, they agreed that the only plan was, after a
wave passed, to drop her on to a flat rock, which then showed above the
water, and to jump into her.

The two boys on shore were to hold the head rope, to prevent her being
dashed towards the land by the next wave, while Larry worked with the
oars to get her away from the ridge. The moment the wave had passed under
them, the head rope was to be thrown off.

This plan was carried out. The two boys had but just time to jump into
the boat and get out their oars, when the next wave lifted the boat high
on its crest. The lads holding the rope were nearly torn from the rock,
but they held on till the strain ceased, then they threw in the rope, and
Walter and Larry bent to their oars.

"Row easy, Larry," Walter said, as the next wave passed under them, "and
put her head to each wave."

Terrible as was the sea, the curragh floated buoyantly over it, though
several times, as she rose to the steep waves, Walter thought that she
would be thrown right over. The worst part of their task was over, when
they got beyond the end of the Nose, for up to that point they were
forced to row across the course of the waves, and continually to turn the
boat, to face the great masses of water which ran between the rocks. But
once beyond the end of the reef they turned her head north, and rowed
straight towards the ship.

"She has struck, Master Walter," Larry said, glancing over his shoulder,
"and her masts are gone."

"Lay out, then, Larry, there's no time to lose."

But, in spite of their efforts, the boat moved but slowly through the
water, for the wind caught her high bow with such force that, at times,
it needed all their strength and skill to keep her head straight. At last
they were close to the ship, which already showed signs of breaking up.
They ranged up alongside of it.

"Fasten a line to a keg and throw it in," Walter shouted.

In a minute, a keg was thrown overboard with a line attached. As soon as
it drifted a little way from the vessel's side, they hauled it into the
boat.

"Now, back, Larry; these waves would sink us in a moment, if we turn our
stern to them."

The wreck lay within a hundred yards of the shore, and the boat backed
until close to the line where the waves toppled over in a torrent of
foam.

"Now, Larry, keep her steady. We are as near as we dare go."

Then Walter stood up in the boat, took the keg and a foot or two of line
in his hand, and waited till the next wave passed under the boat. He
swung the keg round his head, and hurled it towards the shore. Then he
dropped into his seat, and gave two or three vigorous strokes, and, when
safely beyond the line of breakers, sat quiet and watched the result.

"They have missed it the first time," he said. "Look! They are going to
run into the surf for it."

The group on the shore joined hands, and the next time the keg was borne
forward, in the tumble of foam, Considine ran forward and seized it. The
back rush took him from his feet, but the others held on, and before the
next wave came, the line was safely on the beach. A strong cable was soon
pulled ashore and firmly fixed. A light line was attached to it, and the
sailors at once began to pass along.

"Shall we turn back now, Master Walter?"

"We will keep near the wreck for a few minutes longer, Larry. She can't
hold together long, and maybe we can pick somebody up."

The vessel was indeed breaking up fast. Her stern was burst in, and the
waves, as they poured in at the opening, smashed up the deck. Many of the
crew had been washed overboard, and had instantly disappeared.

As the boat approached the wreck, an officer, who had climbed the
shrouds, shouted out:

"Will your boat hold another?"

"Yes," Walter shouted back. "She will hold two more."

"I will try and swim to you," the officer said.

He threw off the long cloak, in which he was wrapped, and unbuckled his
sword and let it drop, unbuttoned and took off his military coat, and,
with some difficulty, got rid of his high boots.

"Can you come a bit nearer?" he shouted.

"We daren't," Walter said. "A touch from one of those floating timbers
would send us to the bottom."

The officer waved his hand, and then sprang head foremost into the sea.
So long was he in the water, that Walter began to think he must have
struck against something, and was not coming up again; when suddenly he
appeared, within twenty yards of the boat. They rowed towards him,
instantly.

"You must get in over the stern," Walter said.

The officer was perfectly cool, and, placing his hands on the stern, drew
himself partly over it, and Walter, grasping his hand, dragged him in. No
sooner was he in, than Walter again hailed the wreck.

"We can carry one more."

But those who were still on board were huddled up in the bow, waiting
their turn for the rope.

"There is a big un coming now," Larry exclaimed. "That will finish her."

A wave, towering far above its fellows, was indeed approaching. Higher
and higher it rose. There was a wild cry from the wreck as it surged over
it. When it had passed, the sea was covered with floating timbers, but
the vessel was gone.

"We can do nothing now," Walter said. "We daren't go in among that
wreckage, and any who get hold of floating planks will drift ashore.

"Now, Larry, back quietly, and let her drift down round the Nose. We must
keep her head to the waves."

Ten minutes, and they were abreast of the reef. As soon as they were past
it, Walter gave the word, and they rowed along, under its shelter, to the
point where they had embarked.

"Now, sir," Walter said, "we will back her up to that rock. When we are
close enough, you must jump."

This was safely accomplished.

"Now, Larry, row alongside when the next wave comes. We must both
scramble out as well as we can."

But by this time help was at hand. The boat had been anxiously watched
from the shore, and when, on the disappearance of the wreck, she was seen
to be making her way back to the Nose, Mr. Davenant, with Considine and
the priest, and the boys who had assisted in getting her afloat, hurried
along the shore to meet her, the rest of the fishermen remaining behind,
to aid any who might be washed up from the wreck.

As soon as it was seen that they intended to land at the spot where they
had started, Considine and Mr. Davenant made their way along the rock,
and joined the officer just as he leapt ashore. The boat came alongside
on the top of the wave, and as this sank it grazed the rock and capsized,
but Walter and Larry grasped the hands stretched out to them, and were
hauled on to the rock, while the next wave dashed the curragh in
fragments on the beach.



Chapter 2: For James Or William.


"My dear Walter," his father exclaimed as he embraced his son, as he
scrambled on shore, "you have behaved like a hero, indeed, but you
oughtn't to have done it.

"And you too, Larry. You both deserve a sound thrashing for the fright
you have given us."

"They may have frightened you, sir," the officer said; "but assuredly, I
owe my life to these brave lads. I have scarcely thanked them yet, for
indeed, until I felt my foot on the rock, I had but small hopes of
reaching shore safely in that cock boat of theirs. After feeling that
great ship so helpless against the waves, it seemed impossible that a
mere eggshell could float over them.

"My name, sir, is Colonel L'Estrange, at your service."

"My name is Davenant, colonel, and I am truly glad that my son has
rescued you; but the sooner you are up at my place, the better, sir. This
is no weather for standing talking in shirtsleeves."

They now made their way along the rock back to the shore, and then
hurried to the village. There they learned that six men had succeeded in
getting to shore along the rope, before the vessel broke up.

Telling Larry he had best have a glass of hot spirits, and then turn into
bed at once, and that he was to come up to the house the first thing in
the morning, Mr. Davenant, with the priest, Colonel L'Estrange, and
Walter made his way up to the house, to which the men who had reached the
shore had been already taken.

The party were met at the door by Mrs. Davenant, who had been extremely
anxious, for Godfrey had been sent home by his father as soon as the
wreck went to pieces, and had brought the news of Walter's doings, up to
that time.

"He is quite safe, Katherine," Mr. Davenant said, "but you mustn't stop,
either to scold him or praise him, at present.

"Hurry off, Walter, and get between the blankets. I will bring you up
some hot spiced wine directly.

"Katherine, this is Colonel L'Estrange, whom Walter has brought ashore in
his boat. You will excuse him, at present, for he has been for hours
exposed to the storm, and must be half frozen as well as half drowned.

"Now, colonel, if you will come along with me, you will find a bed with
hot blankets ready, and, I doubt not, a blazing fire.

"Ah, here is the spiced wine. Take a draught of that before you go
upstairs. You can have another, after you are in bed."

Three more survivors from the wreck were presently brought up. They had
been washed ashore on planks, as indeed had many others, but the rest had
all been beaten to death against the rocks by the breakers.

Walter slept late the next morning, and, when he came downstairs, found
that the others had already finished breakfast. When he had eaten his
meal, and listened to the gentle scolding which his mother gave him for
risking his life, he joined his father, who was, with Colonel L'Estrange,
pacing backwards and forwards on the terrace in front of the house. The
first fury of the storm was over, but it still blew strongly, and a very
heavy sea was running.

"Ah, my young friend," Colonel L'Estrange said, advancing, "I am glad to
see you, and to be able to thank you more warmly than I was able to do
last night, when the very words seemed frozen on my lips, for having
saved my life. It was a gallant deed, and one which your father may well
be proud of. It showed not only bravery of the highest kind, but coolness
and judgment, which are virtues even more rare. I predict a brilliant
future for you, and if, in any way, my aid may be of use to you, believe
me, it will be at your service."

"It was well you were a good swimmer, sir," Walter said, "for we could
not have helped you, if you had not been able to help yourself, for the
sea was covered with pieces of wreck, and as the boat was only covered
with canvas, the slightest touch from one of the jagged ends would have
made a hole in it. I am very much obliged to you for your kind offer of
assistance; but, at present, we have not made up our minds what I am to
be.

"Have we, father?"

"No, indeed, Walter. You have told me that you would like, at any rate
for a time, to see something of the world before settling down here for
life; but it is no easy matter to say what is best for you to do. Ireland
offers but little field for anyone's ambition. Since King James came to
the throne, and especially since Tyrconnell became governor, things have
been a little more favourable for us; and I have hopes, yet, that justice
will be done to the Catholic population of this unhappy country.

"Is it not monstrous, Colonel L'Estrange, that the very men who had a
hand in the rebellion against King Charles the First, should still be in
possession, during the reign of his son, of the lands which were taken
from my father because he was loyal to his king? And so it is all over
Ireland. The descendants of Cromwell's men lord it in the homes of those
who were faithful to King Charles."

"It certainly seems so, sir," Colonel L'Estrange said; "but I am no
politician. I am simply a soldier, and obey orders; but I own that it
does seem a cruel injustice, that the great portion of the lands of this
country should be held by the descendants of Cromwell's soldiers, while
the lawful owners, whose only fault was that they were loyal to their
king, should still be dispossessed of it."

"But I think better times are coming," Mr. Davenant said. "There can be
no doubt of the king's leaning towards our religion. He has been
restrained from carrying his goodwill towards us into effect, by his
privy councillors and by the English party here, whose interest it is to
prevent any change being made, and who constantly misrepresent the
feelings of this country. From the days when Strongbow first landed, this
island has been the prey of adventurers, whose only object has been to
wrest the land from the native population."

"But you are yourself a descendant of one of the early English settlers,
Mr. Davenant."

"That is true enough," Mr. Davenant said smiling, "and, no doubt, he was
as bad as the rest of them; but, you see, we have held the land for some
centuries now, and, like the other descendants of Strongbow's men, have
come to look at matters from the Irish point of view, rather than the
English. However, I hope for better times."

"You haven't heard the news, then, about the Prince of Orange?"

"No; what is the news?" Mr. Davenant asked. "There have been rumours, for
years, that he intended to make a bid for the English throne; but I have
heard nothing else."

"There was a report, before I left London, that he has already sailed
from Holland," Colonel L'Estrange replied; "and, indeed, I have no doubt
the rumour is well founded."

"But he will never succeed," Mr. Davenant said eagerly. "He will be put
down as easily as Monmouth was."

"I do not know," Colonel L'Estrange said gravely. "The Protestant feeling
in England is very strong. Monmouth was vain and empty headed, and he
wrecked his own cause. The Dutchman is a different sort of man
altogether, and one thing is certain: if King James can make a mess of
matters, he is sure to do so. The Stuarts have always been feeble and
indecisive, and James is the most feeble and indecisive of them. If
William succeeds in effecting a landing, I think his chance of success is
a good one."

"He may reign in England," Mr. Davenant broke in passionately, "but he
will not reign in Ireland.

"But forgive me," he broke off. "I forgot, for a moment, that you are an
Englishman, and my guest."

"You need not apologize, Mr. Davenant. As I said, I am a soldier and no
politician. My ancestors were royalists, and I have no great love for the
Dutch stadtholder, who will be supported in England by the class who rose
against King Charles. At the same time, it is difficult to feel much
enthusiasm for the Stuarts. The first was a pedant. The second threw away
his chances, over and over again, by his duplicity and want of faith. The
third was utterly selfish and unprincipled. The fourth is a gloomy bigot.
Charles was, and James is, a pensioner of France. How can men be ready to
sacrifice everything for such a race as this?"

"That is not the way in which we look at it in Ireland," Mr. Davenant
said. "The wars here are waged under various pretences. Someone is goaded
into rebellion, false charges are preferred wholesale, or there is a
religious pretext; but we all know what is at the bottom of them all,
simply the greed of English adventurers for Irish land; and, not content
with having dispossessed the ancient owners of three-fourths of the
cultivated land of the country, they want the remainder, and under the
pretence that we, the descendants of the early settlers, are in sympathy
with our Irish neighbours, they have marked us out for destruction, and
already a great portion of our estates is in the hands of Cromwell's men.
So gross have been the abuses, that the commission, which the king
appointed to inquire into the seizure of our estates, only ventured to
sit one day, for the proofs brought forward were so overwhelmingly strong
that it was seen at once that, did the inquiry continue, it would be made
manifest to all the world that justice could be satisfied by nothing less
than a clear sweep of all those men who have seized our estates.

"If Ireland rises in favour of King James, it will not be for any love
for the Stuarts; but it will be to recover the land which has been
illegally wrested from us, and which, if Dutch William and his Whig
adherents gain the upper hand, will be taken from us forever. The
religious element will, of course, count for much. Already we have
suffered persecution for our religion; and, if the Whigs could have their
way, they would stamp it out utterly, with fire and sword. Things have
looked better, during the last five or six years, than they have done
since Cromwell first put foot in Ireland. We have begun to hope for
justice. Tyrconnell has stood up for us, and, with the goodwill of James,
has gained many concessions. We have now what we never had before, an
Irish army. The land thieves have been fairly alarmed, for they have seen
that the long delayed justice will be done us at last. Many have sold
back their lands to the original owners, and have left the country.
Others are only holding out for better terms. Another ten years of
James's reign, and things would have righted themselves; but, if the
Dutchman ascends the throne of England, there is no hope for Ireland,
save in the sword."

"Well, we must hope it will not come to that," Colonel L'Estrange said.
"I am ready to fight the battles of England on the Continent, but civil
war, with all its horrors, sickens me; and civil war here is not like our
civil war in England. There were no race animosities there, no memory of
cruel wrongs on one side or the other. Men fought for a principle, but
there were no atrocities committed, on either side, like those which have
devastated Germany. The peasant ploughed the land, and the trader kept
open his shop unmolested. It is true that, towards the end, there were
confiscations of the property of those who still continued the strife,
and a few executions of individuals; but, taking it as a whole, no war
has ever caused so little suffering, to the people at large, as did the
civil war in England; but assuredly, a war in Ireland now, like those
which have gone before, would be marked by the foulest atrocities,
massacres, and destruction on both sides."

"Yes," Mr. Davenant said, "I must own that, for downright brutal and
bloody ferocity, the wars in Ireland rival those of the Huns."

Walter had listened in silence to this conversation. His father now
turned to him.

"Have you heard whether Larry has recovered from his adventure of
yesterday as well as you have?"

"No, father, I have not heard anything about it. I came out here directly
I finished my breakfast. How are the people who were brought up here?"

"They are going on well, Walter, but they were all so bruised, as they
were being drawn up through the surf, that it will be some days before
any of them can leave their beds.

"How many had you on board, colonel?"

"I did not see the list of passengers, but there were twelve or fourteen
aft, and, from what I saw, I should think as many more forward. There
were twenty-three men in the crew. I suppose, altogether, there were some
fifty on board."

"Are you going to make a long stay in Ireland?"

"No; I shall only remain here a week or two. I am the bearer of some
letters from the king to Tyrconnell; and that reminds me that I must be
making my way on to Dublin."

"I will ride in with you," Mr. Davenant said. "I must tell my friends
this news that you bring. It seems to me to be most serious. I will have
a horse round for you here, in half an hour, if that will suit you."

"Perfectly," Colonel L'Estrange replied. "That will just give me time to
walk round to the village, to see the lad you call Larry, for I could not
go without thanking him for the share he had in preserving my life.

"Perhaps you will go down with me, Walter, and show me his house?"

When they reached the shore, they found the whole population of the
village engaged in dragging up the spars, planks, and pieces of timber
with which the rocks were strewn.

"There is Larry," Walter said. "It is evident that there's nothing the
matter with him."

Larry was, indeed, just coming up, dragging a piece of timber behind him;
while, in his left hand, he held a large bundle of fragments of wood, of
different sizes, which, as well as the timber, he was taking home for
firing.

"Larry, come here. The English gentleman wants to speak to you."

The boy dropped his wood, and came up.

"My lad," Colonel L'Estrange said, "I am greatly indebted to you for your
work of last night. Take this," and he placed a purse of ten guineas in
Larry's hand.

"And remember that I am still greatly your debtor, and that if, at any
future time, you should be in a position in which my aid may be useful,
you have only to let me know, and I will stand your friend."

The sum appeared to Larry to be enormous.

"Long life to yer honour, and it's proud I am to have been of service to
such a grand gentleman. It's thankful I am for your kindness, and if ever
you want a boy to do a job for you, it's myself that will be proud to do
it. As to yesterday, I just came because the young squire tould me to,
and thankful I am that he got back safe to shore, for, if we had been
drowned, I don't know whatever I should have said to the squire."

Two days after the shipwreck, Walter and John Whitefoot met at the place
which they had agreed on, when they last saw each other four days before.

"I heard of your brave deed on the night of the storm, Walter. Everyone
is talking of it; and even my grandfather, who has seldom a good word for
any of you at the Castle, said that it was a noble deed. It was as much
as I could do not to say, 'Yes, he is a friend of mine;' for I felt proud
of you, I can tell you."

"It is all nonsense, John. I have often been out in a curragh in bad
weather, though never in quite such a storm as that; but, once launched,
she rode lightly enough, and scarce shipped a spoonful of water."

"I should like to have been there," John said; "but I should have been no
use. My people have always been against my going down to the sea, deeming
it a pure waste of time, except that they let me go down to swim. I can
do that well, you know; but they have always forbidden my going out in
boats. Now, you see, it is proved that it is not a waste of time, for you
have been able to save many lives. The thought must make you very happy."

"Well, I don't know that it does, particularly," Walter said carelessly.
"Of course, I was glad at the time, but I have not thought much about it
one way or the other, since. You see, the news that has come has driven
everything else out of our heads."

"Is it true, then, the report that we heard yesterday, that William of
Orange has set out for England?"

"Yes, it is true enough; and I am afraid, by what I hear, that it is
likely to cause all sorts of troubles."

"I suppose," John said gravely; "and of course, in this matter my people
think differently from yours. You know we agreed that we would never talk
on these subjects, but I am afraid the time is coming when there will be
nothing else to be talked of."

"I am afraid so, too, John. My father thinks that there will be civil war
again."

"Of course my grandfather is delighted," John said quietly. "He has been
greatly disturbed in his mind, for some months, owing to the leanings of
King James towards the Irish, which seem to point to his having to give
up no small portion of the lands."

"We thought so too, John; and although it is your father who would lose,
and mine who would gain, I don't think that even you can deny that it
would be reasonable. Your grandfather got the land from mine because he
fought for Cromwell against the king, and Cromwell got the best of it.
Well, it seems only reasonable that, when the king again came to the
throne, those who fought for him should get their own again."

"It does seem so, Walter, I must own; and I am sure I should not have
cared, for myself, if the land was given back again to your father
tomorrow. Then I suppose we should go back to England; and, as I know my
grandfather has done well, and has laid by a good deal of money, they
could take a farm there; and there would be more chance of their letting
me enter upon some handicraft. I would rather that, by a great deal, than
farming. All these books you have lent me, Walter, have shown me what
great and noble deeds there are to be done in the world--I don't mean in
fighting, you know, but in other ways. And they make the life here,
toiling on the farm from sunrise to sunset, with no object save that of
laying by every year more money, seem terribly empty and worthless.

"By the way, my grandfather was, yesterday evening, rating my father
because, instead of always keeping me hard at work, he allowed me once or
twice a week to be away for hours wasting my time--which means, though he
didn't know it, going about with you. My father said stoutly that he did
not think the time was altogether wasted, for that, in the last two
years, I had made a notable advance in learning, and he was satisfied
that I had benefited much by these intervals of recreation. Thereupon my
grandfather grumbled that I was too fond of reading, and that I was
filling my mind with all sorts of nonsense, whereas true wisdom was to be
found in one book only.

"My father said that was true of religious wisdom, but that, for the
advancement of the world, it was needed that men should learn other
things. Of course, my grandfather had three or four texts ready at hand;
but my father had him by saying: 'You see, father, all the commands
issued to the Jews are not strictly applicable to us--for example, they
were ordered not to use horses; and I do not remember that Cromwell felt
that he was doing wrong, when he raised his ironsides.' That was a poser,
and so the matter dropped."

Ten days later, when the boys met, John said:

"This is the last time we shall meet for some time, Walter, for I am
going up to Derry to stay with a cousin of my father, who is settled
there and exercises the trade of a currier. I said, some months ago, that
I should like to learn a trade, but everyone was against it, then. They
seemed to think that, as I should some day have the land, it was flying
in the face of Providence to think of anything else. But I suppose the
fact that everything is so unsettled now, and that there is no saying
what may come of these events in England, may have made them think
differently.

"At any rate, my father said to me yesterday: 'We have been talking over
what you said, about wishing to learn a trade. If all goes on well, there
is no occasion for you to learn any business save that of farming; but
none can say what the Lord may not have in store for us, or what troubles
may come upon us. In any case, it will do you no harm to see a little of
the world outside our farm; and, therefore, your grandfather and I have
settled that you shall go for a few months to my cousin, who, as you
know, is a currier in Derry. He has often written, asking you to go and
stay with him, seeing that he has no children of his own. Learn what you
can of his business; and if it should be that you find it more to your
liking than farming, I should not be one to hold you back from following
the bent of your inclinations.

"'But this is between ourselves. My father's ideas on these subjects you
know, and it would cause much trouble, did he think that you had any idea
of not following in the path in which he and I have trod. But to me it
seems better that each should go on the path towards which his mind is
turned--that is, when he has made quite sure, after long reflection and
prayer, that it is no idle whim but a settled earnest desire. If, then,
after your visit to your uncle, you feel that you are truly called to
follow a life other than that you would lead here, I shall not oppose
you. The Lord has blessed our labours. The land is fertile, and I can
well provide the moneys that will be needful to start you, either in
business with my cousin, or in such way as may appear best.'

"I thanked him gravely, but indeed, Walter, I had difficulty in
restraining myself from shouting with joy, for a life like that of my
father and grandfather here would be very grievous to me. I have no
desire to gain greater wealth than we have, but I long for a higher life
than this."

"I don't know, John," Walter said doubtfully. "Unless, as you say, these
troubles make a difference, you will be a large landowner some day; and
these bitternesses will die out in time, and you will take a very
different position from that which your grandfather holds. Of course, we
regard him as a usurper, but you know, in the third generation the
grandson of a usurper becomes a legitimate monarch. My ancestors usurped
the land from the native Irish by the sword, just as your grandfather did
from us; but we came, in time, to be regarded as the natural lords of the
soil, and so will you. But to be a currier! That strikes me as a
tremendous come down!"

"I care nothing about coming up or coming down," John said simply. "I
long only for an honest mode of life, in which, instead of dwelling
solitary, and seeing no one from year to year save at our Sabbath
meetings, I may mix with others and take part in a more active and busy
life. In itself, I do not suppose that the trade of a currier is a very
pleasant one; but that matters little if, when work is done, one has
leisure for some sort of communication with others, and for improving
one's mind. It will be to me something like what going to court in London
would be to you, Walter. I am most grieved about my mother. She will miss
me sorely.

"She said to me last night, 'I fear somewhat, John, that the course I
have taken with you has greatly unfitted you for settling down here, as
we have done before you; but although I shall miss you sadly, I do not
blame myself for what I have done. I think myself, my son, that there are
higher lives than that spent in tilling the soil from boyhood to old age.
It is true the soil must be tilled. There must be ever hewers of wood and
drawers of water; but God has appointed for each his place, and I think,
my son, that you have that within you which would render the life with
which your father and grandfather have been well contented an irksome one
for you.

"'I have no fear that we shall be always separated. Your grandfather is
an old man, and when the Lord pleases to take him, your father and I will
be free to do as we choose, and can, if we like, dispose of this land and
quit this troubled country, and settle in England or elsewhere, near
where you may be. It is true that we shall get little for the land; for,
broad as are its acres, who will give much for a doubtful title? But
there is ample laid by for our old age, and I see not the sense of
labouring incessantly, as does your grandfather, merely to lay up stores
which you will never enjoy. Did I see any signs of a decrease in the
bitter animosity which parties feel towards each other here, I might
think differently; but there is no prospect of peace and goodwill
returning in your time, and therefore, no object in your father and I
toiling on for the rest of our lives, when the return of our labour will
be of little worth to you. Such being so, I do not regret that your
thoughts turn to the world of which you have read in books. The world is
but a secondary consideration to us, 'tis true, but I can see no special
goodness in a life of dull monotony.'"

"I wonder where your mother got hold of her ideas, John. She is so
different from most of your people."

"She is indeed," John agreed. "It was from her mother that she received
her teaching. I know she was not happy with her husband, who was as
gloomy and fanatical as is my grandfather, and she ever looked back to
the happy days of her girlhood in England. I think she did for my mother
just what my mother has done for me, only the difference is that she
never had sufficient influence with her husband to enable her to carry
out her views for her daughter, while my mother--"

"Has managed to have her own way," Walter laughed.

"I suppose so, and that in spite of my grandfather. Certainly I owe
everything to her, for I am sure, if it hadn't been for her, my father
would never have ventured to oppose the old man, even so far as to let me
know you. It makes one sad to think, Walter, that religion should
sometimes make those who think most of it tyrants in their families. My
grandfather is terribly earnest in his religion. There is no pretence or
mistake about it; but, for all that, or rather because of it, he would,
if he could, allow no one else to have a will or opinion of his own."

"I don't think it's the religion, John, but the manner of the religion.
My mother and grandmother are both as religious as anyone could be; but I
don't think I ever heard either of them say a hard word of a soul. Their
religion is a pleasure to them, and not a task, and I know that some
years ago, when we had a priest who was always denouncing the
Protestants, they very soon managed to get him changed for another.

"What a funny thing it is, to be sure, that people should quarrel about
their religion! After all, we believe all the same important things; and
as to others, what does it matter, provided we all do our best in the way
that seems right to us?"

But this was too liberal for John. He had been brought up in too strait a
sect to subscribe to such an opinion as this.

"I do think it makes a difference, Walter," he said slowly.

"I don't," Walter said. "It's just a matter of bringing up. If you had
been born in the Castle, and I had been born in your place, you would
have thought as I do, and I should have thought as you do; and of course,
still more if you had been born in a Catholic country like Italy, where
you would never have heard of Protestantism, and I had been born in a
Protestant country like Holland, where I should never have had a chance
of becoming a Catholic. Very few people ever change their religion. They
just live and die as they have been born and educated."

"It seems so," John said after a pause; "but the question is too deep for
us."

"Quite so," Walter laughed, "and I don't want to argue it.

"Well, when are you going to start?"

"I am off tomorrow morning. My father has an acquaintance in Dublin who
is starting for Derry, and I am to go in his charge."

For another hour the boys chatted together, and then, with mutual
promises of writing regularly, whenever they had the chance, they said
goodbye; and the following morning John started with his father to
Dublin, and next day journeyed north towards Derry.



Chapter 3: The King In Ireland.


On the 12th of November, a vessel arrived in Dublin with the news that
William of Orange had landed at Torbay on the 5th. The news created the
wildest excitement. The Protestants, who had been deeply depressed, by
the apparent intention of James to hand back, to their original owners,
the land which had been wrested from them, now took heart and began
openly to arm. Upon the other hand, the Catholics felt that, if William
and the Whigs succeeded to the chief power in England, their faith, their
remaining property, and their lives were alike menaced, and they, too,
prepared to fight to the last for all they held dear.

Walter rode several times with his father into Dublin. The streets
presented a strange spectacle. They were crowded with Protestant
fugitives from the country districts. These had forsaken all, and flocked
into Dublin, fearing that the Irish would retaliate for past grievances
by a general massacre. The banks of the Liffey were crowded by these
fugitives, who, with tears and cries, besought the captains of the
vessels lying there to give them passage to England. All sorts of rumours
of bloodshed, massacre, and destruction circulated through the city. The
Protestants in the north were said to have fallen upon the Catholic
population, and to have put them to the sword, while in the south and
west it was said the Catholics had taken the same measures against the
Protestants. Both reports were equally false, but they were generally
believed, and added to the panic and dismay.

In fact, however, both parties were waiting. The Protestants dared not
commence hostilities until assured that William was firmly seated on the
English throne, and ready to come to their assistance. The Catholics were
equally desirous to maintain the peace, until assured that no hope
remained save the sword.

A month after John Whitefoot had left, Walter received a letter from him:

Dear Friend Walter:

You will have heard, no doubt, of the troubles that have arisen here. My
father sent me here to learn a trade, but at present, all men's minds are
so agitated that there is no talk save of arms and of fighting. My
kinsman is as bad as the others. He spends the day going hither and
thither among the townsfolk, and has been made an officer in one of the
six companies which have been raised here, and pays no further heed to
business. The town is mightily divided: the younger and more zealous
spirits are all for fighting, while almost all the older and wealthier
citizens are opposed to this.

"This is how the trouble began. The Earl of Tyrconnell sent, as you know,
three thousand soldiers to help King James, at the first news of the
landing of the prince, and to do so he withdrew the regiment which was in
garrison in this town. On the 7th of this month of December, the people
here heard that the regiment of the Earl of Antrim was approaching the
town to take the place of those troops. When the news arrived, there was
a sort of panic in the town, and the news was spread that this regiment
was intended to massacre the people.

"Why this should be I do not know, and I cannot but think that the alarm
was a false one. However, the regiment arrived on the river bank, and
some of its officers crossed and entered the city. When they were in
council with some of the leading citizens, a party of apprentices, with
some of the rabble, shut the gates. For some time there was great debate.
The older citizens were mostly in favour of admitting the earl's
regiment. Why, they asked, should Derry alone defy the power of
Tyrconnell and King James? If King William made his cause good, and came
over to Ireland to aid the Protestants, it would be time enough for the
men of Derry to join him, and to fight for their faith; but if they now
stood alone, they could do no good to the cause of King William, and
would bring destruction on themselves and their city.

"But these arguments were of no avail. The apprentices and all the young
men of the town, and the fugitives who had come in from the country
round, were all for fighting, and so the gates were kept shut; and Lord
Antrim, seeing that he could do nothing against such a strong place as
Derry, marched away with his regiment. This seems to me a fair account of
what has happened. What will come of it I know not; but, being a
Protestant, my feelings would incline me to the side of William. Yet it
seems to me that his friends here have acted hastily, in thus adventuring
themselves against all the forces of King James, and that sore trouble is
like to come upon the town. However, it is not for me to judge. I am as
warm as any of them in defence of our religion, and shall try to do my
best in case of need. I am sorry, dear Walter, that we have to take
different sides in this quarrel, but of course we are each of the opinion
of our elders, and must not blame each other for what is indeed not of
our own choosing.

"This is a fair city, standing on rising ground by a stately river, and
with strong walls; and at any other time life would be very pleasant
here, although living among so many people seems strange to me, after my
life on the farm. I hear all sorts of tales about fighting in other
parts, and of the slaughter of Protestants by rapparees, but know not
whether they are true. As my cousin, who is an earnest man, is wholly
taken up with the present affairs, and all business is at a stand, I have
little to do, and spend much of my time by the river side, and have taken
to fishing, which I like mightily, and yesterday I caught a fish weighing
three pounds, and we had him for dinner. I often wish you were with me.
Write me a long letter, and tell me all that you are doing.

"Your affectionate friend,

"John Whitefoot."

Indeed, throughout all Ireland preparations for war were going on. All
over the north, the Protestants were banding themselves in arms; and,
under the excuse of some outrages, committed by a few isolated parties of
peasants known as rapparees, were everywhere harrying the Catholics,
carrying fire and sword into quiet villages, burning, slaying, and
carrying off their grain and cattle. Throughout the whole of Ulster,
Charlemont and Carrickfergus alone remained in the hands of King James's
troops.

England and Scotland had now accepted William as their king, and James
had fled to France. With the exception of Ulster, Ireland remained
staunch to King James. In the south Lord Inshiquin, and in Connaught Lord
Kingston, had each raised corps among the Protestant settlers for
William, and were the first to commence hostilities, and the latter,
marching north, made an attack on Carrickfergus.

Tyrconnell now issued commissions to several of the Catholic nobility and
gentry, to raise troops for the king's service, and as the people
responded to the call readily, some fifty regiments of foot and several
troops of horse were soon raised. But though men were forthcoming in
abundance, there was a great want of arms and all munitions of war. There
were, in the government stores, only twenty thousand arms, and most of
these were old weapons, that had been returned to store as unserviceable,
and only about a thousand muskets were found to be of any use. There was
no artillery or ammunition, and no money with which these necessaries
could be purchased abroad. The gentry would have willingly contributed,
but all had been well-nigh ruined by the confiscation of their property,
and could do little towards filling the treasury.

Never did a nation enter upon a war so badly provided with all
necessaries as did Ireland, when she resolved to adhere to the cause of
her king, and to resist the power of England and Scotland, aided by that
of Holland and the Protestant States of Germany.

Mr. Davenant had been one of the first to respond to the invitation of
Tyrconnell, and had set about raising a troop of horse. He had no
difficulty in getting the number of men in Bray and the surrounding
villages, and the difficulty in mounting them was overcome by the
patriotism of sundry gentlemen and citizens of Dublin, who willingly
contributed their spare horses to the king's service.

Their arms were various. Some had swords, some short pikes, while a few
only had pistols; but the smiths everywhere toiled hard converting
scythes and reaping hooks into swords and pikes, and before they were
ready to take the field, the whole troop were provided with swords.

Walter had eagerly begged his father to appoint him cornet of the troop,
and Mr. Davenant might have yielded, had it not been for his wife's
entreaties. Even old Mrs. Davenant, intensely loyal as she was to the
cause of James, sided with her daughter in law.

"Of course, Fergus, you will do your duty to the king. It would indeed be
a shame for a Davenant to hold back; but, at Walter's age there can be no
occasion for him, as yet, to take a commission. I am ready to give my
son, as I gave my husband, to the king; and when Walter becomes a man, he
too must go, if duty demands it; but for the present, assuredly there is
no reason why such a boy should mix himself up in this unhappy struggle.
Besides, if aught befalls you, it is to him that his mother will have to
look in the future. There are hundreds and thousands of strong and active
men in Ireland, and the necessity has not yet come for boys to take the
field."

So Walter, to his intense disappointment, was refused the cornetcy of the
troop, but his father, who fully entered into his feelings, finally told
him that, when the troop took the field, he should accompany him.

"You are not to carry arms, Walter, or to mix yourself up in any way with
it. You will be a sort of camp follower, you know; but you will see all
that goes on, and will be able to prepare yourself to take your place in
the ranks, if the war should, unhappily, go on for any time."

With this Walter had to be satisfied; and, indeed, although somewhat
disappointed at not being, at once, allowed to join the troop, he felt
sure that it would not be very long before his father, once away from the
influence of his wife and mother, would allow him to join.

"May I take Larry with me, father? He would look after my horse, and
would be useful to you for running messages, and all sorts of things. He
wants to go very much. You see, his uncle and two or three of his cousins
have joined the troop, and he would have joined, too, if you had not
thought him too young."

"The worst of you and Larry is, that you are always getting into some
scrape together," Mr. Davenant said, with a smile.

"But I should not get into scrapes on such a business as this," Walter
said indignantly. "This is a serious affair, and of course, going with
you, I should be very particular."

"Yes, as long as I was close by, Walter. However, I don't mind your
taking Larry. He would, as you say, be useful, and you will want somebody
to look after your horse and act as your servant. We may be separated,
sometimes, for the troop may be sent on detached service, when I could
not take you with me."

The permission to take Larry quite reconciled Walter to the downfall of
his hopes of going as cornet, and, in high spirits, he hastened down to
the village, to tell Larry that his father had consented to his
accompanying him.

All through January, Mr. Davenant was busy drilling his troop. Throughout
all Ireland, both parties were preparing for the storm which was soon to
burst. Lord Mountjoy, a Protestant nobleman, was sent with his regiment,
which consisted for the most part of Protestants, to Derry. He held a
meeting with the leading townspeople, who agreed to admit the Protestant
soldiers, upon the condition that no more troops were sent. Accordingly,
the Protestant troops, under Colonel Lundy, entered the town, and Lord
Mountjoy assumed the governorship.

Tyrconnell soon perceived that he had made a mistake in sending Mountjoy
to Derry, for instead of overawing the inhabitants, his regiment had, in
fact, become a part of the rebel garrison. He therefore recalled Mountjoy
and sent him over to France, on the pretence of an embassy to King James,
but, as soon as he arrived there, he was treacherously thrown into
prison.

The people of Derry received quantities of powder and arms from Scotland,
and, on the 20th of February, the Prince of Orange was formally
proclaimed king in Derry; and this example was followed throughout
Ulster. This was, in fact, the beginning of the war. Anxious to save
Ireland from the horrors of civil war, Lord Granard, and other Protestant
noblemen of the council, joined Tyrconnell in issuing a proclamation,
ordering the Protestant corps to lay down their arms; and as they did not
obey, Lieutenant General Hamilton was despatched to the north, with a
thousand regular troops and a considerable number of irregulars.

These came up with the insurgents at Dromore, and defeated them with
great slaughter. They rallied at Hillsborough, but again were defeated
and scattered. Hamilton divided his force, and, marching through the
north, reduced Ulster to submission, with the exception only of the
fortified towns of Enniskillen and Derry. In the south General M'Carty
was equally successful in clearing Munster of William's adherents, and
defeated Lord Inshiquin in every encounter.

On the 14th of March, Mr. Davenant, who had ridden into Dublin, returned
in the evening with the news that the king had landed at Kinsale, two
days before, with fifteen hundred Irish troops in the pay of France, and
a hundred French officers, intended to aid in drilling the new levies.

"I am glad, indeed, that he has arrived, for had he been met on the seas
by the English fleet, all our hopes might have been dashed at a blow. Now
that he is with us, it will rouse the enthusiasm of the people to the
utmost. If he is wise, he will surely be able to unite all Ireland under
him; save of course the fanatics of the north, who, however, can do
nothing against the whole strength of the country, since Hamilton's
little force, alone, has been sufficient to put down all opposition, save
where they remain shut up behind the walls of Derry and Enniskillen.

"It is not with them that we have to cope alone--they would be utterly
powerless--it is with the army of England and Scotland we shall have to
fight. Unfortunately we have no fleet, and they can land wherever they
choose; but now the king is really among us, all who have hitherto
wavered will join. Let England and Scotland choose their king as they
will, but there is no reason why Ireland should desert its rightful
monarch at their bidding."

"When will the king arrive at Dublin, father?"

"He goes first to Cork, Walter. Tyrconnell has set out, and will meet him
there. They say he will be here in about ten days' time. The French
ambassador, the Marquis d'Avaux, comes with him, and many French nobles."

"Do you think, father, he will at once order that his friends shall
receive the land again which was taken from them by Cromwell's soldiers?"

"I hope not, my boy. It is his interest and not our own we must think of
now; and if Ireland is to resist, successfully, the English and
continental troops of Dutch William, we must be united--we must be
Irishmen first, Catholics and Protestants afterwards. I trust that he
will issue such proclamations as will allay the alarm of the Protestants,
and bind us all together.

"King James is not like his father. In no single case, since he came to
the throne, has he broken his royal word once given; therefore, all may
feel confidence in any promises he may make. I have, of course, no hope
that anything he can say will influence the fanatics of Derry and
Enniskillen, but we can afford to disregard them. They are entailing
misery and suffering upon themselves, without the slightest benefit to
the cause they advocate. If we beat the English, of course those places
must finally surrender. If the English beat us, they will get their Dutch
William as king, without any effort on their part. I think, myself, that
it will be very unwise to attempt anything against those two places. The
people there can shut themselves up in their walls, as long as they like,
and by so doing can in no way harm us. If we take their towns, it will
only add to the bad blood that already exists. Better by far leave them
to themselves, until the main battle is fought out."

On the 23rd, the news came that the king was to arrive in Dublin the next
day, and Mr. Davenant, or, as he was now called, Captain Davenant, went
over, with all the gentry of the neighbourhood, to meet him.

King James was received with enthusiasm. Addresses were presented to him
by the several public bodies, and by the clergy of the Established
Church. His answer to these addresses gave satisfaction to all. He
promised favour and protection to the Established Protestant Church;
issued an invitation to the Protestants who had fled the kingdom to
return to their homes, and assured them of safety and his particular
care; and he commanded that, with the exception of the military, no
Catholics should carry arms in Dublin. Finally, he summoned a parliament
to meet him in Dublin on the 7th of May.

One day, a messenger arrived with a despatch for Captain Davenant.

"We are to move into Dublin, tomorrow, Walter," he said when he read it.
"We are to take the field at once. The king himself is going to march in
command of us against Derry. I think his majesty is wrong; and I know
that Tyrconnell has argued strongly against his intention. There are
three reasons against it. First, as I told you, I think it were better to
leave Derry alone, until the main issue is settled. Secondly, King James
has no military experience whatever, and if ought goes wrong with the
expedition, he will lose prestige. Thirdly, although it were well for him
to be with the army when it fights a foreign foe, it were better that he
should not lead it against men who are, however much they may rebel
against him, his own subjects.

"I know Tyrconnell has set forth these objections to him; but, unhappily,
obstinacy is a fault of all the Stuart race, and it generally happens
that they are most obstinate when most wrong. However, I trust that when
Derry sees so strong a force marching against it, it will open its gates
without resistance. A siege can only entail horrible suffering on the
town; and that suffering will, in the end, tell against James's cause,
for it will excite the sympathy of the Protestants in England and
Scotland, and make them all the hotter to conquer Ireland."

The following day, the troop was mustered in front of the castle, and,
after a tender farewell to his wife and mother, Captain Davenant placed
himself at their head and rode off. A quarter of an hour later Walter,
with Larry Doolan on a rough little pony by his side, rode after the
troop.

Dublin was reached in the afternoon. The town presented a festive
appearance. The principal streets were still draped with the flags which
had been hung out at the king's entry, five days before. The streets were
thronged with people, for loyalists had come in from all parts of the
country to welcome the king.

Large numbers of men, belonging to the newly raised regiments, wandered
among the crowd, and with these were mingled the French uniforms of the
Irish troops who had come over with James. The troop was loudly cheered
by the crowd, as it passed through the town to the spot assigned to it in
the camp of the force gathered near the city. Walter and Larry rode a
short distance behind the troop, and joined it as soon as it reached the
ground allotted to it.

"It was a brave sight, father, was it not, to see the city decked out,
and all the people cheering for the king? Dublin is setting a fine
example--isn't it?"

"You must not set much weight upon the cheering of a crowd, Walter. I do
not say that the people of Dublin may not, at the present moment, be
loyal to the king; but if he were defeated, and William were to march in,
you would see that they would cheer him just as heartily. The mob of
London cheered King James, as he passed through it, a week before he was
so ill advised as to fly; and they threw up their hats for joy, a
fortnight later, for William. No, my boy--there is no dependence on a
mob. They worship success, and the king who is present is sure to be
vastly more dear to them than the king who is absent.

"And now you had better help Larry picket your horses. Put them by the
side of mine. See how the troopers fasten theirs, and do yours the same.
When that is done, send Larry to get hold of some wood, and light a fire.
It will be cold when the sun goes down. As for food, we have brought
enough with us for tonight. Tomorrow, I suppose, we shall get rations."

Captain Davenant now posted a certain number of men to look after the
horses, and the rest set off to cut firewood; and, in an hour, four or
five great fires were blazing. Forage was served out for the horses, from
the stores which had been collected, and also a truss of straw to every
three soldiers, as bedding.

Walter had, in the meantime, strolled away among the other camps, and was
greatly amused at the various shifts and contrivances that the men had
made to make themselves comfortable. A few only of the officers had
tents; for these, as well as all other necessaries of war, were wanting;
and the troops who had, for some little time, been in camp there, had
raised all sorts of shelter from the weather. Some had constructed little
huts of turf, thatched with straw or rushes; others had erected little
tents, some of sailcloth obtained from the shipping, others of blankets,
coarse linen cloaks, or any other articles on which they could lay hands.
All were in high spirits at the prospect of the termination of the
monotony of continued drill, and of the commencement of active
campaigning. Huge fires blazed everywhere, and the country, for some
distance round, had been completely stripped of its wood.

Everywhere was life and bustle. Men were cleaning their arms, preparatory
to the march of next day. Others were cooking at the fires. Troopers were
grooming their horses. Snatches of song, and loud laughter, rose in the
air.

After wandering about for an hour, Walter rejoined his father. Captain
Davenant was sitting with the two officers of his troop, Lieutenant
O'Driscoll and Cornet Heron, by a fire, the materials for which the three
troopers who acted as their servants had collected. There was no cooking
to be done, for sufficient cold provisions had been brought with the
troop.

"You are just in time, Walter," his father said. "We are going to fall
to, at once, at our meal.

"Hand over that cold chicken, Larry; and do you, Tim Donelly, broach that
keg of claret. Give me the bread, Fergus--that's right.

"Now, gentlemen, here's a hunk each. Plates are a luxury which we must do
without, in the field. Now let us fall to."

Walter seated himself on a truss of straw beside his father, and thought
he had never enjoyed a meal so much, in his life, as the bread and cold
chicken, eaten as they were in the open air in front of the crackling
fire. Each was provided with a horn, and these were filled from the keg.

"Here's to the king, gentlemen. Success to his arms!"

All stood up to drink the toast, and then continued their meal. Three
chickens vanished rapidly, and the troopers kept their horns filled with
claret.

"If we always do as well as that," Captain Davenant said, as they
finished the meal, "we shall have no reason to grumble. But I fear that's
too much to expect.

"Bring me my pipe and tobacco, Larry. You will find them in the holsters
of my saddle.

"Fergus, do you undo these trusses, and lay the straw out even--that will
do.

"Now, lads, you will find plenty more provisions in the wallet. Do you go
and get your own suppers, then give an eye to the horses. We shall not
want anything more."

For two or three hours, the three officers and Walter sat chatting by the
fire, occasionally piling on fresh logs. Gradually the din of voices in
the camp died away, and the bright fires burned down.

"I think we had better turn in," Captain Davenant said at last. "We must
be astir an hour before daylight, for we march as soon as it's light."

Rolling themselves in their long cloaks, they lay down upon the straw. It
was some time before Walter got to sleep. The novelty of the situation,
and the strangeness of lying with the night air blowing in his face, made
him unusually wakeful. Occasionally, too, a laugh, from some party who
were sitting late round their fire, attracted his attention, and the
sound of the snorting and pawing of the horses also kept him awake; but
at last he, too, went off to sleep.

In spite of his warm cloak, he felt stiff and chilled when the sound of
the trumpets and drums roused the camp.

"Well, Walter, how do you like sleeping in the open?" his father said, as
he rose to his feet and shook himself.

"I don't mind the sleeping, father, but the waking is not so pleasant.
However, I shall soon get accustomed to it, I suppose. But I always did
hate getting up in the dark, even when we were going out fishing."

"You won't always get as comfortable a bed as this, Walter; so don't
expect it. The time will come, ere long, when you will look back upon
this as absolute luxury. We are not likely to get straw another night, I
can tell you.

"Now, Fergus, bring that wallet here. We must breakfast before we get in
the saddle."

Walter came to the conclusion that breakfast, eaten in the dark, was a
very inferior meal to dinner before a great fire. However, he kept his
thoughts to himself, and, as soon as he had finished, went to aid Larry
in saddling the horses.

"I suppose I can ride with you today, father?" he said, as he mounted.

"Yes; there will not be any military display by the way. Many of the
soldiers have got nothing in the way of uniform at present. So you can
ride with me. But if any general officer comes along, you must draw off a
little, and drop behind with Larry, who will follow in the rear of the
troop."

As soon as daylight appeared, the bugles gave the signal, and the force,
preceded by its cavalry, started on its march towards the north.



Chapter 4: The Siege Of Derry.


There was an air of excitement in the streets of Derry. Knots of people
were gathered, talking excitedly. Women stood at the doors of all the
houses, while men moved aimlessly and restlessly about between the
groups, listened for a time to a speaker, and then moved on again. The
work of strengthening the defences, which had gone on incessantly for the
last three months, had ceased, while numbers of persons were gathered on
the walls, looking anxiously towards the south. A general air of gloom
and despondency hung over the place. The storm which Derry had braved was
gathering around it at last. King James and his troops were advancing
against it.

Opinion was strongly divided in the city. Almost without exception, the
older citizens deprecated resistance. The walls, indeed, were strong, and
the position formidable. The king had no artillery worth speaking of, and
the walls, manned by brave men, might well, for a definite time, resist
assault; but the stores of food could not long support the large
population now gathered in the town, and there seemed no possibility,
whatever, of assistance from England before the horrors of famine would
be upon them. To what purpose, then, oppose resistance, which must, even
if successful, cause frightful sufferings to the inhabitants, and which,
if unsuccessful, would hand over the city to the vengeance of James.

The garrison had been strengthened by two regiments and a vast quantity
of supplies. But, including everything, there were but provisions for ten
days, and as many weeks might elapse before assistance could come.

The younger and more ardent spirits were for resistance to the last.

"Better," they said, "die of hunger, than surrender the Protestant
stronghold to the Papists."

Every hour brought crowds of fugitives, the inhabitants of all the
villages deserting their homes at the approach of the royal forces, and
flying, with what goods they could carry, to Derry.

Archdeacon Hamilton had arrived with a message from the king, offering
that if the city would, within four days, surrender, there should be an
amnesty to all for past offences, and that the property of all the
inhabitants should be respected. This proposition was now being
considered by the governor and his council, together with all the
principal officers of the English regiments.

John Whitefoot had been out all day, and had just returned to his
cousin's house, which was crowded with fugitives, as the tanner had
friends and connections in all the villages, and had opened his doors to
all who sought shelter, until every room was filled. It was a pitiful
sight to see women, with their babies in their arms and their children
gathered round them, sitting forlornly, almost indifferent to the
momentous consultation which was going on, and thinking only of their
deserted homes, and wondering what had befallen them. The men had, for
the most part, been out in the streets gathering news. The tanner's wife,
assisted by two or three of the women, was busy at the great fire on the
hearth, over which hung some huge pots in which broth and porridge were
being prepared.

One by one, the men dropped in. No news had yet been heard as to the
decision of the council. It was dark when the tanner himself entered. His
face was stern and pale.

"It is settled," he said shortly. "The council have broken up. I have
just spoken to one of the members. They and the officers are unanimously
in favour of accepting the terms of James."

Exclamations of anger broke from some of the men.

"I cannot say aught against it," the tanner said, "though my heart feels
well-nigh broken. Had we only men here, I should say let us fight to the
last, but look at all these women and children! Think what thousands and
thousands of them are in the town. Truly, I cannot blame the council that
they have decided not to bring this terrible suffering upon the city."

"The Lord will provide for his own," a minister, who had come in with his
flock, said. "Friend, I had looked for better things from you. I thought
that you were steadfast in the cause of the Lord, and now that the time
of trouble comes, you fall away at once. Remember how Sennacherib and his
host died before Jerusalem. Cannot the Lord protect Londonderry
likewise?"

"The age of miracles is past," the tanner said. "Did we not see, in
Germany, how Magdeburg and other Protestant cities were destroyed, with
their inhabitants, by the Papists? No, Brother Williams, the wicked are
suffered to work their will here, when they are stronger than the godly,
and we must look for no miracles. I am ready to fight, and, had the
council decided otherwise, would have done my share to the last; but my
heart sickens, as I look round on the women, the weak, and ailing. Did
James demand that we should renounce our religion, I would say let us all
die by sword or Famine rather than consent; but he has offered toleration
to all, that none shall suffer for what has been done, and that the
property as well as the lives of all shall be respected.

"Truly, it seems to me that resistance would be not bravery, but a sort
of madness. There are promises of aid from England; but how long may we
have to wait for them? And there are but ten days' provisions in the
town. If these English officers of King William think that resistance is
hopeless, why should I, who know nought of war, set myself against them?"

"Because they have not faith," the minister said, "and you should have
faith; because they think only of carnal weapons, and you should trust to
the Lord. Remember Leyden, how help came when all seemed lost."

"I do," the tanner replied, "and I remember how the women and children
suffered and died, how they dropped in the streets and perished with
famine in their houses. I remember this, and I shrink from saying 'let us
resist to the end.' I should rejoice if they had decided that Derry
should be deserted, that the women and children should be sent away to
shelter in the mountains of Donegal, and that every man should march out
and do combat with the army of James. We are numerous, and far better
armed than the Papists, and victory might be ours; but, were it
otherwise, were every man fated to fall on the field, I would still say
let us march forward. It is not death that I fear, but seeing these weak
and helpless ones suffer. I should not envy the feelings of the men who
decided on resistance, when the time came that the women and children
were dying of hunger around them. There is a time to fight; and a time to
sheath the sword, and to wait until a chance of drawing it successfully
again arrives; and methinks that, having such good terms offered, the
present is the time for waiting."

The preacher waved his hand impatiently, and, wrapping himself in his
cloak, left the house without another word. The next day the capitulation
was signed, and the following day the army of James was seen approaching,
and presently halted, on a hill within cannon shot of the town.

Londonderry stands in a bend of the river Foyle, and the position which
the army took up at once isolated it from the surrounding country. The
offer of capitulation had already been sent out to General Hamilton by
Captain White, the bearer receiving instructions to stipulate that the
army should not advance within four miles of the town, until all was
ready to hand over the city. In the meantime, General Rosen, who was in
chief command of the army, stationed it so as to extend from one corner
of the bend of the river to the other, and so to cut off all
communication between the city and the surrounding country; but, in the
course of the day, a country gentleman named Murray made his way through
their lines, with a body of cavalry, and rode up to the gate of the town.

The governor refused to open it, but, in spite of his orders, some of the
townspeople opened the gate, and Murray rode into the town, and, going
from point to point, exhorted the people not to surrender but to resist
to the last, accusing the governor and council of foul treachery, in thus
handing over the city.

The confusion and excitement in the streets was now great, and, while
this was going on, the governor sent a trumpeter to the king, requiring
one hour's time before the city should surrender.

Rosen took no notice of this, and, believing that all was arranged, rode
forward with the king and a portion of the army. But Murray's
exhortations and passionate harangues had their effect. A number of the
townspeople ran to the walls, and, loading the cannon, opened, with these
and their muskets, a heavy fire on the approaching troops. Several of the
soldiers were killed, and among them was Captain Troy, who was riding
close to the king.

Astonished at this unexpected resistance, the troops drew back, as they
were entirely without means of making an assault upon the city. The
governor and council at once sent Archdeacon Hamilton to the royal camp,
to excuse themselves for what had happened, and to explain that the
firing was the action of a turbulent body of men, whom they were unable
to restrain, and whom they represented as drunken rebels. The better
class of citizens, they said, were all resolved to surrender dutifully,
and were doing all they could to persuade the common people to do the
same.

As the royal artillery had not yet arrived, James drew off his troops to
Saint Johnston. Murray, with a body of horse, went out and skirmished
with them, but returned into the town on hearing that the council still
intended to surrender, and again harangued the people.

Eight thousand men assembled on the parade, and, after listening to a
passionate harangue, declared that they would resist to the last. They at
once chose a preacher named Walker, and a Mr. Baker, as joint governors,
appointed Murray as general in the field, divided themselves into eight
regiments, and took the entire control of the city into their hands.
Archdeacon Hamilton, Lundy, and several of the principal citizens at once
left the town, in disguise, and were allowed to pass through the
besieging army.

John Whitefoot had been present at all the events which had taken place
that day, and, although he had quite agreed with his cousin that
resistance would do no good to the cause, and would entail fearful
sufferings on the besieged, he was carried away by the general
enthusiasm, and shouted as loudly as any in reply to the exhortations of
Murray. The tanner was also present. John was by his side, and saw that
he was deeply moved by the speech, but he did not join in the
acclamations. When all was over, he laid his hand on John's shoulder:

"The die is cast, my boy. I am glad that no act or voice of mine has had
aught to do with bringing it about, and that the weight of what is to
come will not rest upon my conscience. But, now that it is decided, I
shall not be one to draw back, but will do my share with what strength
the Lord has given me."

"May I join one of the regiments, too?" John asked. "I am young, but I am
as strong as many men."

"It were better not, at present, John. Before the end comes, every arm
that can bear weapon may be needed, but, at present, there is no reason
why you should do so. Doubtless, plenty of work will be found for younger
hands, besides absolute fighting, but I think not that there will be much
fighting, save against famine. Our walls are strong, and we have
well-nigh forty pieces of cannon, while they say that James has but six
pieces, and most of these are small.

"Methinks, then, that they will not even attempt to take the city by
storm. Why should they waste men in doing so, when they can starve us
out? It is famine we have to fight, in this sort of war. I do not think
that James has, in all Ireland, cannon sufficient to batter down our
walls; but ten days will bring our provisions to an end. It will be with
us as with Leyden. We have only to suffer and wait. If it be God's will,
succour will come in time. If not, we must even perish."

With his spirits somewhat damped by his cousin's view of the case, John
returned with him to the house. He would willingly enough have gone out,
to fight against the besiegers, but the thought of the long slow agony of
starvation was naturally terrible to a lad of good health and appetite.

The mob of Derry had shown good sense in the choice which they made of
their governors. Baker, indeed, who was a military man, was a mere cipher
in the matter. Walker was, in reality, the sole governor. He was a man of
energy and judgment, as well as enthusiastic and fanatical, and he at
once gave evidence of his fitness for the post, and set himself
diligently to work to establish order in the town.

He issued orders that all unable to bear arms, who wished to leave the
town, could do so, while the able-bodied men, now formed into regiments,
were assigned every man his place, and every regiment its quarter, on the
walls. No less than thirty thousand fugitives, exclusive of the garrison,
were shut up in the walls of Derry, and the army which was besieging the
town numbered twenty thousand.

The guns of the besiegers soon opened fire, and those on the walls
replied briskly. The besiegers threw up works, but carried on the siege
but languidly, feeling sure that famine must, ere long, force the town to
surrender; and fearing, perhaps, to engage the fresh and ill-trained
levies against a multitude, animated by the desperate resolution and
religious fanaticism of the defenders of the town.

Now that the die was once cast, there was no longer any difference of
opinion among the inhabitants, and all classes joined enthusiastically in
the measures for defence. All provisions in the town were given into one
common store, to be doled out in regular rations, and so made to last as
long as possible; and, as these rations were, from the first, extremely
small, the sufferings of the besieged really began from the first day.

John Whitefoot found that there was but little for him to do, and spent
much of his time on the walls, watching the throwing up of works by the
besiegers.

A regular cannonade was now kept up on both sides; but, though the shot
occasionally fell inside the town, the danger to the inhabitants from
this source was but slight; for, of the six guns possessed by the
besiegers, five were very small, and one only was large enough to carry
shell. All day the various chapels were open, and here the preachers, by
their fiery discourses, kept up the spirits and courage of the people who
thronged these buildings. The women spent most of their time there, and
the men, when off duty from the walls, however fatigued they might be
with their labour, flocked at once to the chapels, to pray for strength
to resist and for early succour. Never were the whole population of the
town more deeply animated by religious excitement, never a whole
population more thoroughly and unanimously determined to die, rather than
surrender.

When not upon the walls or in chapel, John spent much of his time in
amusing the children, of whom there were many in the tanner's house. The
change from their country quarters, the crowded town, the privation of
milk, and the scantiness and unfitness of their rations, soon began to
tell upon the little ones, and John felt thankful, indeed, that his mind
had been stored with stories from his varied reading of the last two or
three years. With these, he was able to interest and quiet the children,
who sat round him with wrapt attention, while the booming of the guns and
the occasional rattling of musketry outside passed unheeded.

Scarce a day passed without active fighting, the initiative being always
taken by the besieged, for, in the royal army, the policy of blockade
rather than assault was steadily adhered to. The besieged, however,
continually sallied out, and attacked the parties engaged in throwing up
works. There was no settled plan of operations; but the commander on each
portion of the walls led out his men against the enemy, whenever he
thought he saw a favourable opportunity. The fights which ensued were
stoutly contested, and many were killed, but no advantage was gained on
either side. If it was the intention of the besieged to incite the
Royalists to make an attack upon the city, they failed altogether, and,
indeed, would have served their purpose better had they remained quietly
within the walls, for the energy and desperation with which they fought
were well calculated to deter even the most energetic commander from
attacking a town defended by eight or nine thousand men, animated by such
fiery energy.

So confident, indeed, were the besieged, that the gates were often left
open, and taunting invitations to come on and take Derry were shouted to
the besiegers. The supply of provisions found to be stored away was
vastly greater than had been expected, for many of the fugitives had
brought in large stores, and a great number of the inhabitants had been,
for weeks, making preparation for the siege, by buying up quantities of
grain and storing it in their cellars.

Thus, up to the end of the first month, although the allowance of food
was short, no real suffering was undergone by the inhabitants; but, as
time went on, the supplies doled out became smaller and smaller, and
dysentery and fever broke out in the crowded town.

Fierce disputes arose between those belonging to the Established Church
and the Nonconformists, and it was with the greatest difficulty that
Governor Walker prevented the two parties from engaging in open strife.
Day and night, the besiegers' fire continued, and many were killed by the
shells which fell in the city. The fighting men on the walls were far
better off than those who had nothing to do but to wait and suffer, and
it was among the women and children, chiefly, that disease at first made
its victims.

For a time, the children of the families who had taken refuge with the
tanner remained healthy. The visitors were lodged for the most part in
the cellars, so as to be in shelter from the fire of the enemy's mortar;
but John Whitefoot suggested to his cousin that the children would soon
pine and sicken, unless they had air. The tanner gave his consent to
John's establishing a shelter in the yard. A corner was chosen, and a
number of casks were placed along by either wall; on these beams were
laid, for it happened that the tanner had intended, shortly before the
siege, to build a large shed, and had got the timber together for the
purpose.

On the timber, bark from the now disused pits was heaped to a depth of
some feet, which would effectually break the fall of any shell which
might light upon it, and, along the front of this low triangular
building, two lines of sacks filled with tan were placed. These would
suffice to prevent any fragment of a shell, which might fall and burst in
the courtyard, from entering the shelter; save by the opening, about a
foot deep, between the top of the sacks and the beams.

When the whole was completed, John gathered the children there, and made
it their headquarters, and established himself as captain of the castle,
as he called it.

The elders entered warmly into his plans. It was a great relief, to them,
to have the house cleared of the eighteen or twenty children. Their
mothers had no longer any anxiety for their safety, and the children
themselves looked upon it as great fun. There was plenty of air here,
and, in a short time, John persuaded the parents to allow the children to
sleep, as well as to pass the day, in the shelter. Here he told them
stories, constructed toys for them, and kept them amused and quiet,
appointing as his lieutenants three or four of the oldest of the girls,
who had the little ones under their special charge. John was rewarded,
for his pains, by seeing that the children kept their health far better
than did those of their neighbours, and, up to the end of May, not one of
them had succumbed, although several of the parents had already fallen
victims to dysentery and fever.

Thus the month of May passed. With June, the hardships rapidly increased;
but, on the 13th, shouts of joy were heard in the streets. John ran out
to ascertain the cause, and learned that a fleet of thirty ships had
appeared in Lough Foyle, and was approaching the city. The inhabitants,
frantic with joy, ran to the walls, and both sides suspended their fire
to watch the approaching fleet.

Suddenly, the ships were seen to turn and sail away. The people could not
believe that they were deserted; but, when they saw that the fleet was
really making off, curses and cries of lamentation and grief rose from
the crowd.

Why Major General Kirk, who commanded the force on board the ships, which
were laden with provisions, did not attempt to sail up to Londonderry,
which, as was afterwards proved, they could have done without difficulty,
was never satisfactorily explained. The besiegers had erected two or
three small forts on the banks of the river, but these were quite
incapable of arresting the passage of the fleet, had it been commanded by
a man of any resolution. Kirk anchored in Lough Swilly, and contented
himself with sending messages to the town, to hold out to the last.

A fresh search was now made for provisions, and parties of men entered
houses which had been abandoned, or whose inmates had died, and dug up
the floors of the cellars. Several considerable deposits of grain were
discovered, and many inhabitants, moved by the intensity of the general
suffering, voluntarily brought out hoards which they had hitherto kept
secret.

Early in the siege, the water in the wells had become turbid and muddy,
partly owing, it was thought, to the concussion of the ground by the
constant firing, partly by the extra supplies which were drawn from them.
As the time went on, many of them dried altogether, and the water in the
others became so muddy that it had to be filtered through cloth or
sacking, before it could be drunk.

During fishing expeditions, previous to the commencement of the siege,
John had more than once had a drink of water from the well of a peasant,
living in a little hut near the river bank. This hut lay between the
outposts of the two parties, and had, at the commencement of the siege,
been deserted by its owner. After the water became bad, John set out
every evening with a bucket, leaving the town just before the gates were
shut, and making straight down to the river. When it became dark, he
crawled along under the shelter of the banks, unperceived by the outposts
of either party, until close to the hut. Then he filled his bucket at the
well, and returned as he had come, lying down to sleep on the bank, well
in the rear of the Protestant outposts, until morning; when, as soon as
the gates were opened, he carried home the precious supply.

It was this, as much as the light and air, which kept the children in
comparative health; but, on the further diminution of rations which took
place after Kirk's fleet retired, they began to fade rapidly.

The horses had now been killed for food. The sufferings of the besieged
inhabitants became greater daily, and numbers died from sheer starvation.
The little inhabitants of John Whitefoot's castle were mere skeletons.
Most of their parents were dead, and a mournful silence pervaded the
town, save when the bells of the chapels called to prayer, or the yells
of the mob announced that the lower orders were breaking into houses in
search of food.

John could stand the sight of the faces of the suffering children no
longer. He was himself faint and ill from hunger, for he had, each day,
given a portion of his own scanty rations to the weakest of the children,
and he determined to try and get them some food, or to die in the
attempt.

He set out at his usual hour in the evening. The tide was high, but just
running out, and, entering the river, he floated down with the stream.
Keeping close under the bank, he passed the batteries which the besiegers
had erected there without notice, dived under the great boom which they
had constructed across the river, directly Kirk's expedition had retired,
and continued to float down to the mouth of the river, where he landed
and boldly struck across the country, for he was now beyond the lines of
the besiegers. He knew that his friend Walter was in the Royalist army,
for one of the last mails which entered the city had told him that he was
to accompany his father, and that Captain Davenant's troop would most
likely form part of any army that might march for the north.

By the morning, his clothes had dried upon him, and he then boldly
entered the Royalist camp, mingling with the peasants who were bringing
in provisions for sale. He soon learned where Captain Davenant's troop
was stationed, and made his way thither. He stood watching for some time
until he saw Walter come out of a tent, and he then approached him.
Walter looked up, but did not recognize, in the thin and pallid lad
before him, his former companion.

"Do you want anything?" he asked.

"Don't you know me, Walter?" John said.

Walter started, and gazed at him earnestly.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed at last. "Why, it can't be John!"

"It is what remains of me," John replied, with a faint smile.

"Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, John?"

"I have been starving, in there," John said, pointing to the city.

"Come into the tent, John," Walter said, grasping his friend's arm, and
then letting it fall again, with an exclamation of horror at its
thinness. "You needn't be afraid. My father is out--not that that would
make any difference."

John entered the tent, and sat exhausted upon a box. Walter hastened to
get some food, which he set before him, and poured out a large cup of
wine and water, and then stood, looking on in awed silence, while John
devoured his meal.

"I have wondered, a thousand times," he said at last, when John had
finished, "what you were doing in there, or whether you left before the
siege began. How did you get out?"

"I floated down the river to the mouth, beyond your lines, last night;
and then worked round here. I thought I might find you."

"Well, I am glad indeed that you are out," Walter said. "Every time the
mortar sent a shell into the town, I was thinking of you, and wishing
that I could share meals with you, for, of course, we know that you are
suffering horribly in the town."

"Horribly!" John repeated. "You can have no idea what it is, Walter, to
see children suffer. As for men, if it is the will of God, they must bear
it, but it is awful for children. I have had eighteen of them under my
charge through the siege, and to see them getting thinner and weaker,
every day, till the bones look as if they would come through the skin,
and their eyes get bigger and bigger, and their voices weaker, is awful.
At last I could stand it no longer, and I have come out to fetch some
food for them."

"To fetch food!" Walter repeated. "Do you mean to say you are thinking of
going back again?"

"That I am," John said. "I am going to take some food in to them. You
will help me, won't you, Walter? It isn't for the men that fight, but for
little children, who know nothing about King James, or King William, or
the Protestants, or the Catholics, but who are just God's creatures, and
are dying of hunger. No one could grudge food to infants like these."

"I will help you, of course, John," Walter said, "if I can; but now, tell
me all about it."

John then gave an account of all he had been doing throughout the siege.

"And now what have you been doing, Walter? Fighting?"

"No. I have not been doing any fighting, except that, once or twice, I
was out with the troop, when they had a skirmish with your horsemen, but
I kept in the rear. I hope, ere long, my father will let me enter, but he
is waiting to see what comes of it. No. I have been idle enough. Well, of
course, I know all the officers in the cavalry now, and pretty nearly all
the officers in the camp, and then, with these constant skirmishes and
attacks by your people and ours, there is always plenty to interest one.
General Hamilton has been conducting the siege lately, but General Rosen
returned yesterday and took the command; but there's really not much to
do. We know you cannot hold out much longer."

"I don't know," John said quietly. "I think that, as long as a man has
strength enough to hold his arms, Derry will not surrender. When you
march in, it will be to a city of dead people. We had such hopes when the
fleet came. If the people could have caught Kirk, they would have torn
him in pieces. He had five thousand soldiers on board, and, if he had
landed them, we could have sallied out and fought, instead of dying of
hunger."

"Yes," Walter agreed, "we should have retired at once. We have only seven
or eight thousand men here now, and if five thousand English soldiers had
landed, we must have raised the siege at once. I can tell you that,
though he is on the other side, I was almost as angry at Kirk's cowardice
as you must have been. I shall be glad when this awful business is over.
I knew it was bad enough before, but after what you have told me about
the women and children, I shall never think of anything else, and I will
gladly help you in any way I can. There can't be any treason in trying to
prevent children from starving to death. What do you want me to do?"

"What would do the children more good than anything, the women say, would
be milk. If I could get a keg that would hold two or three gallons--and a
watertight box with about twenty pounds of bread, I could swim back with
them just as I came. I would show you the exact spot where I landed, and
would come out again in four days. If you could put a supply ready for
me, every fourth night, among the bushes at the mouth of the river, with
a little lantern to show me the exact spot, I could come down with the
tide, get the things, and float back again when the tide turns."

"I could do that, easily enough," Walter said. "The mouth of the river is
quite beyond our lines. But it is very risky for you, John. You might get
shot, if a sentry were to see you."

"I do not think that there is much fear of that," John said. "Just
floating along as I do, without swimming at all, there is only just my
face above water, and it would be hardly possible for a sentry to see me;
but if I were shot, I could not die in a better cause."

"I think, John, if you don't mind, I should like to tell my father. I am
quite sure he would not object, and, in case you should happen to get
caught, you could refer at once to him to prove that you were not a spy.
They make very short work of spies. But if you were to demand to be
brought to Captain Davenant, and say you were acting in accordance with
his knowledge, no doubt they would bring you."

"Do as you think best, Walter, but don't tell him, unless you feel almost
sure that he will not object."

"There is no fear of that," Walter said. "He is constantly lamenting over
the sufferings of the people of Derry, and has, all along, been in favour
of attempting to storm the place by force, so as to put a stop to all
this useless suffering. Now, John, you had better lie down on that straw
bed of mine, and get a sleep. After that, you will be ready for another
meal. I will tell Larry to go out among the market people, and buy three
gallons of milk and twenty pounds of bread. There are plenty of small
spirit kegs about, which will do capitally for the milk, and I don't
think that we can have anything better than one of them for the bread. We
can head it up, and make it watertight. How do you mean to get into the
town? I should have thought that they were likely to be seized."

"So they would be," John said. "I shall hide them in some bushes at the
foot of the walls, at the side of the town facing the river. There are
only a few sentries there. Then, when it is light, I shall go in and tell
my cousin; and get him, after dark, to lower a rope from the wall. I
shall of course be below, to tie on the kegs. He can then walk with them
boldly through the street to our house, which is only a short distance
from that part of the walls. If anyone saw him, they would only suppose
he was taking home water from one of the wells."

John was soon fast asleep. Walter sat watching him until, two hours
later, his father returned with his troop. John still slept on, while
Walter told his father the errand on which he had come.

"He is a brave lad," Captain Davenant said, "and I honour him for his
conduct. It is not many men who, at a time like this, would risk their
lives for a number of children who are not any relation to them.
Certainly, I will gladly assist him. I am sick at heart at all this. My
only consolation is, that it is brought on solely by the acts of these
men, who, though comparatively a handful, set themselves up against the
voice of all Ireland. If they had risen when an English army arrived to
their assistance, I should say nothing against it. As it is, without
doing any good to their cause, they are entailing this horrible suffering
upon thousands of women and children.

"By all means, help the poor lad, and if he should fall into the hands of
our people, let him mention my name. Rosen would no doubt disapprove of
it, but I cannot help that. All the Irish gentlemen in the army would
agree that I had done rightly, and, even if they didn't, my own
conscience would be quite sufficient for me to act upon. I am fighting
against the king's enemies, not warring against women and children.

"How soundly the poor lad sleeps, and how changed he is! He is a mere
skeleton. I should not have known him in the least. If this is the
condition into which a strong, healthy lad has fallen, what must the
women and children have suffered! I wish Kirk had not turned coward, but
had landed his troops. We could then have brought up our scattered
forces, and could have fought them in a fair field, with something like
equal forces. That would have been vastly more to my taste than starving
them, like rats in a hole."



Chapter 5: The Relief Of Derry.


It was late in the afternoon before John woke. He started up, as his eyes
fell upon Captain Davenant.

"You have had a good sleep, and I hope you are all the better for it,"
Captain Davenant said, kindly. "My son has been telling me all about your
expedition, and I honour you very much, for the courage you have shown in
thus risking your life to get food for those starving children. I quite
approve of the promise Walter has given to assist you, and if you should,
by any chance, be taken prisoner, I will stand your friend."

John expressed his gratitude warmly.

"It is a sad thing, in these civil wars, when friends are arrayed against
friends," Captain Davenant said. "Who would have thought, three months
ago, that you and Walter would be arrayed on opposite sides? It is true
you are neither of you combatants, but I have no doubt you would gladly
have joined in some of the sallies, just as Walter is eager to be riding
in my troop. If we must fight, I wish, at any rate, that it could be so
managed that all the suffering should fall upon the men who are willing
to take up the sword, and not upon the women and children. My heart
bleeds as I ride across the country. At one time, one comes upon a ruined
village, burned by the midnight ruffians who call themselves rapparees,
and who are a disgrace to our cause. At another, upon a place sacked and
ruined by one of the bands of horsemen from Enniskillen, who are as cruel
and merciless as the rapparees. Let the armies fight out their quarrels,
I say, but let peaceful people dwell in quiet and safety. But wholesale
atrocities have ever been the rule on both sides, in warfare in Ireland,
and will, I suppose, remain so to the end.

"And now, we are just going to have dinner, and another hearty meal will
do you good. Each night, when my son brings down the supplies for you, he
will bring a substantial meal of cold meat and bread, and you must give
me your promise, now, that you will eat this at once. You will need it,
after being so long in the water, and having another swim before you,
besides. Although I approve of sending in milk for the children, I can be
no party to the supply of food for the garrison. Do you promise?"

"Yes, sir, I promise," John said, "though I would rather save all but a
mouthful or two for the people who are starving at home. Still, of
course, if you insist upon it, I will promise."

"I do insist upon it, John. The lives of these children of yours depend
on your life, and even one good meal, every four days, will help you to
keep enough strength together to carry out the kind work you have
undertaken."

Larry now brought in the dinner. He had been told by Walter of John's
arrival, but he otherwise would have failed to recognize, in him, the boy
who had sometimes come down to the village with Walter.

"Are you quite well, Larry?" John asked him.

"I am," Larry replied; "but I need not ask the same question of yourself,
for you are nothing but skin and bone, entirely. Dear, dear, I wouldn't
have known you at all, at all, and such a foine colour as ye used to
have."

"I don't think starving would suit you, Larry," Captain Davenant said
with a smile.

"Sure an' it wouldn't, yer honour. It's always ready to eat I am, though,
as mother says, the victuals don't seem to do me much good, anyway."

"You won't be able to come out and go back again the same night next
week, John," Captain Davenant said, presently. "The tide won't suit, so
you must come up here, as you have done today. You will always find a
hearty welcome, and Walter shall go down and meet you early in the
morning, near the mouth of the river, so you can come up with him; and
then, if you fall in with any of the other parties, no questions will be
asked. I think everyone in camp knows him now.

"I wonder what your grandfather would say, if he saw you sitting here at
dinner with Walter and me?"

John laughed.

"I am afraid he would disown me, then and there, without listening to
explanations."

"I have no doubt it's a sore grievance to him that he is not in Derry, at
present," Captain Davenant said.

"I am sure it is," John replied; "but the fasting would be a great trial
to him. My grandfather is a capital trencherman. Still, I am sure he
would have borne his part."

"That he would," Captain Davenant agreed. "He and the men of his class
are thorough, fanatics as I consider them. Hard and pitiless as they
proved themselves, to those against whom they fought, one cannot but
admire them, for they were heart and soul in their cause. There was no
flinching, no half measures, no concessions for the sake of expediency.
On the ground on which they took their stand, they conquered or died.
Would that a like spirit animated all my countrymen!"

After nightfall, Larry brought round Walter's horse, saddled, and his own
rough pony. Walter mounted the former, and John the latter. The two kegs
were slung across Walter's horse.

"Will you meet me at the clump of trees, half a mile out of camp, Larry?"
Walter said. "In the dark, no one will notice the difference between you
and John."

Captain Davenant had furnished Walter with a password, and now walked
beside the two boys till they were well beyond the camp, and then
returned to his tent. The lads made their way, without meeting with
anyone, down to the mouth of the river. The kegs were then taken off the
horse and placed in the water--they floated just above the surface.

"That is exactly right," John said. "They will not show any more than
will my face. When I come down next time, I shall fill them with water,
so as to keep them just at this level."

"I am afraid the moon will be up next time, John."

"Yes, it will. I shall lay some boughs of bush across my face and the
kegs, so that there will be no fear of my face showing; and if a sentry
should happen to catch sight of it, he will suppose that it is merely a
bush drifting in the stream."

"Well, goodbye, John, and may you get through without trouble."

"I have no fear, Walter. I am in God's hands, and He will take me safely
through, if He thinks fit."

The journey was achieved without detection, the only difficulty being the
sinking of the kegs under the boom; this, however, was successfully
accomplished, and by midnight, the kegs were safely hidden in some bushes
at the foot of the wall, and there John lay down and waited for morning.

As he entered the yard, the children ran out to meet him. There were no
loud rejoicings; they had no longer strength or spirit to shout and
laugh; but the joy in the thin worn faces was more eloquent than any
words could have been.

"We have missed you so, John. We have wanted you so much. Lucy and Kate
and Deby were so bad yesterday, and they did cry so for you. We were all
so hungry. We don't mind so much, when you are here to talk to us and
tell us stories. Why did you stop away, John, when we wanted you so?"

"I went away to see if I could manage to get you something to eat."

"And did you?" was the anxious cry.

"I have got a little; but you must wait till evening, and then you will
each have--" and he stopped.

"What, John? Oh, do tell us!"

"You will each have some milk and bread.

"Not much, dears," he went on, as there was a cry of gladness, which was
pitiful from the intensity of joy it expressed, "but there will be some
for tonight, and a little curds and whey and bread for you tomorrow and
next day, and I hope always, as long as this lasts. Now go, dears, into
your castle. I will come to you presently. I have brought you some water,
as usual."

"I am heartily glad to see you back, John," his cousin said, as he
entered the house. "The children were in a sad state without you,
yesterday. I suppose you can tell me, now, what you have been doing. You
told me you would be away two nights, and begged me not to ask any
questions; but, although I know you to be discreet and prudent, I have
been worrying."

"I will tell you now," John said, and he recounted the details of the
expedition which he had accomplished.

"And you have swum the river twice, and been in the camp of the Papists.
Truly it is surprising, John, and I know not what to do. Should your
visit there be discovered, you will assuredly be accused of treachery."

"They may accuse me of what they like," John said quietly. "I have done
it, and I am going to do it again, every fourth night, and there is the
milk and bread at the foot of the wall, ready for you to haul up as soon
as it gets dark."

"It ought to be fairly divided," the tanner said.

"It will be fairly divided, between our children," John said; "but nobody
else will get a drop or a crumb. I have risked my life to get it for
them. If other people want to get it, let them do the same. Besides, as I
told you, Captain Davenant and his son both procured it for me for the
sake of the children, and them only, and I should be breaking faith with
them if any others touched it, save those for whom it was given me. It is
little enough among eighteen children for four days--a pound of bread and
a little over a pint of milk, each. They must each have a quarter of a
pint, when you bring it in tonight, and the rest had better be curdled.
That way it will keep, and they can have a portion each day of curds and
whey, and a fourth share of their bread. It is little enough; but I trust
that it may keep life in them."

"Well, John, I will do as you say," the tanner said, after a pause. "It
goes somewhat against my conscience; but, as you say, it will make but a
meagre portion for each of them, and would be nothing were it fairly
divided; besides, you have brought it with the risk of your life, and I
know not that any save you have a right to a voice in its partition."

Before the gates were closed, John went out, and presently had the
satisfaction of hearing a small stone drop from the wall above him,
followed presently by the end of a rope. He sent up the kegs, and then
lay down among the bushes, and enjoyed the satisfaction of thinking of
the joy of the little ones, when the milk and bread were served out to
them. As soon as the gates were open in the morning, he went in.

"Thank you, oh, so much, for the milk and bread last night. We heard how
you had swum so far, and gone into danger to get it for us, and we're
going to have some more for breakfast."

"It was not much, dears," John said.

"Oh, no, it was not much; but it was so nice, and we did all sleep so
well last night--even little Lucy didn't waken and cry once--and Ruth
Hardy said we ought to call you the Raven; but we don't like that name
for you."

"The Raven, Ruth!" John said, mystified. "Why did you want to call me the
Raven?"

"I wouldn't do it if you didn't like it, dear John; but you know that
chapter that Master Williams read us, the other day, about the ravens
that fed somebody in a cave, and we have been wishing the ravens would
feed us; and so you see, when you sent us the milk last night, I thought
you ought to be called the Raven. I did not mean any harm."

"No, my dear, of course not, and you can all call me the Raven, if you
like."

"No, no, John. You are John, and that's much better than the Raven. They
brought the man food, but they didn't nurse him and tell him stories, as
you do."

"Now, run inside the castle," John said, "and I will go in and get your
breakfasts."

John soon returned, with a great bowl of curds and whey, a platter piled
up with slices of bread and a score of little mugs, and the feast began.
Scarce a word was said while the children were eating. Their hunger was
too keen, and their enjoyment too intense, to admit of speech. When each
had finished their portion, there was a general exclamation.

"Oh, John, you haven't had any. Why didn't you have some, too?"

"Because there is only enough for you," he said. "If I were to have some,
and Cousin Josiah, and all the others, there would be a very little share
for you; besides, when I went out the day before yesterday, I had as much
as I could eat."

"Oh, dear, that must have been nice," one of the boys said. "Only think,
having as much as one can eat. Oh, how much I could eat, if I had it!"

"And yet I daresay, Tom," John said, "that sometimes, before you came
here, when you had as much as you could eat, you used to grumble if it
wasn't quite what you fancied."

"I shall never grumble again," the boy said positively. "I shall be
quite, quite content with potatoes, if I can but get enough of them."

"The good times will come again," John said cheerily. "Now we will have a
story. Which shall it be?"

As the children sat round him, John was delighted to see that even the
two scanty meals they had had, had done wonders for them. The listless,
hopeless look of the last few days had disappeared, and occasionally
something like a hearty laugh broke out among them, and an hour later the
tanner came to the entrance.

"Come to the walls with me, John."

"What is it? What is the matter?" John said, as he saw the look of anger
and indignation on the wasted features of his cousin.

"Come and see for yourself," the latter said.

When they reached the walls, they found them crowded with the
inhabitants. Outside were a multitude of women, children, and old men.
These General Rosen, with a refinement of cruelty, had swept in from the
country round and driven under the walls, where they were left to starve,
unless the garrison would take them in, and divide their scanty supply of
food with them.

"It is monstrous," John cried, when he understood the meaning of the
sight. "What are we to do?"

"We can do nothing," the tanner replied. "The council have met, and have
determined to keep the gates closed. We are dying for the cause. They
must do so too; and they will not die in vain, for all Europe will cry
out when they hear of this dastardly act of cruelty."

The people outside were animated by a spirit as stern as that of the
besieged, and the women cried out, to those on the walls, to keep the
gates shut and to resist to the last, and not to heed them.

The ministers went out through the gates, and held services among the
crowd, and the people on the walls joined in the hymns that were sung
below. So, for three days and nights, the people within and without
fasted and prayed. On the third day, a messenger arrived from King James
at Dublin, ordering General Rosen at once to let the people depart.

The indignation, among the Irish gentlemen in the camp, at Rosen's brutal
order had been unbounded, and messenger after messenger had been sent to
Dublin, where the news excited a burst of indignation, and James at once
countermanded the order of the general. The gates were opened now, and
the people flocked out and exchanged greetings with their friends. A few
able-bodied men in the crowd entered the town, to share in its defence,
while a considerable number of the women and children from within mingled
with them, and moved away through the lines of the besiegers.

John had, the day before, gone out when the gates were opened for the
preachers, and at night had again safely made the passage to the mouth of
the river and back. He found the lantern burning among the bushes, and
two kegs placed beside it, with a bountiful meal of bread and meat for
himself.

So the days went on, each day lessening the number of the inhabitants of
the town. Fever and famine were making terrible ravages, and the
survivors moved about the streets like living skeletons, so feeble and
weak, now, that they could scarce bear the weight of their arms.

On the 30th of July, three ships were seen approaching the mouth of the
river. They were part of Kirk's squadron, which had all this time been
lying idle, almost within sight of the town. The news of his conduct had
excited such anger and indignation in England that, at last, in obedience
to peremptory orders from London, he prepared to make the attempt;
although, by sending only two store ships and one frigate, it would
almost seem as if he had determined that it should be a failure.

The besiegers as well as the besieged saw the three ships advancing, and
the former moved down to the shore, to repel the attempt. The batteries
on either side of the boom were manned, and from them, and from the
infantry gathered on the banks, a heavy fire was opened as the ships
approached.

So innocuous was the fire of the artillery, that it has been supposed
that Kirk had previously bribed the officers commanding the forts. At any
rate, the ships suffered no material damage, and, returning the fire,
advanced against the boom. The leading store ship dashed against it and
broke it, but the ship swerved from her course with the shock, and struck
the ground. A shout of dismay burst from those on the walls, and one of
exultation from the besiegers, who rushed down to board the vessel.

Her captain, however, pointed all his guns forward, and discharged them
all at the same moment, and the recoil shook the vessel from her hold on
the ground, and she floated off, and pursued her way up the river,
followed by her consorts.

The delay of Kirk had cost the defenders of Londonderry more than half
their number. The fighting men had, either by disease, famine, or in the
field, lost some five thousand, while of the non-combatants seven
thousand had died. The joy and exultation in the city, as the two store
ships ranged up under its walls, were unbounded. Provisions were speedily
conveyed on shore, and abundance took the place of famine.

Five days later, General Rosen raised the siege and marched away with his
army, which had, in the various operations of the siege, and from the
effect of disease, lost upwards of three thousand men.

"This has been a bad beginning, Walter," Captain Davenant said, as they
rode away from the grounds on which they had been so long encamped. "If
the whole force of Ireland does not suffice to take a single town, the
prospect of our waging war successfully against England is not hopeful."

"It seems to me that it would have been much better to have left Derry
alone, father," Walter said.

"It would have been better, as it has turned out, Walter; but had the
king taken the place, as he expected, without difficulty, he would have
crossed with a portion of the army to Scotland, where a considerable part
of the population would at once have joined him. The defence of Derry has
entirely thwarted that plan, and I fear now that it will never be carried
out.

"However, it has had the advantage of making soldiers out of an army of
peasants. When we came here, officers and men were alike ignorant of
everything relating to war. Now we have, at any rate, learned a certain
amount of drill and discipline, and I think we shall give a much better
account of ourselves, in the open field, than we have done in front of a
strong town which we had no means whatever of storming. Still, it has
been a frightful waste of life on both sides, and with no result, beyond
horribly embittering the feeling of hatred, which unfortunately prevailed
before, between the Catholic and Protestant populations."

The mortification and disgust, caused by the failure of Londonderry, was
increased by a severe defeat of a force under General Justin McCarthy,
Lord Mountcashel, at Newtown Butler, on the very day that Derry was
relieved. General McCarthy had been detached, with a corps of six
thousand men, against the Enniskilleners. He came up with them near
Newtown Butler. Although but two thousand strong, the Enniskilleners, who
were commanded by Colonel Wolseley, an English officer, at once attacked
the Irish, only a portion of whom had come upon the ground.

McCarthy, who was a brave and experienced officer, sent orders to the
cavalry to face to the right, and march to the support of the wing that
was attacked. The officer gave the order "right--about face," and the
cavalry turned and trotted towards the rear. The infantry, believing that
they were deserted by the horse, at once lost heart and fell into
confusion.

McCarthy, while endeavouring to remedy the disorder, was wounded and
taken prisoner, and the flight became general. The Enniskilleners pursued
with savage fury, and during the evening, the whole of the night, and the
greater part of the next day, hunted the fugitives down in the bogs and
woods, and slew them in cold blood. Five hundred of the Irish threw
themselves into Lough Erne, rather than face death at the hands of their
savage enemies, and only one of the number saved himself by swimming.

After leaving Derry, the army returned to Dublin, where the parliament
which James had summoned was then sitting. Most of the soldiers were
quartered on the citizens; but, as the pressure was very great, Captain
Davenant easily obtained leave for his troop to go out to Bray, where
they were within a very short distance of his own house.

The day after his return home, Walter went over to give Jabez Whitefoot
and his wife news of John, from whom they had heard nothing, since a
fortnight before the siege had begun.

"Your son is alive and well," were his first words. "He has been all
through the siege of Derry, and has behaved like a hero."

"The Lord be praised!" Jabez said, while his wife burst into tears of
relief, for she had gone through terrible anxiety during the long weeks
that Derry had been suffering from starvation.

"But how do you know, Master Walter?" Jabez asked. "Seeing that you were
on the side of the besiegers, how could you tell what was passing on the
inside of the walls? How do you know John is alive?"

"Because I saw him first, a month before the end of the siege, and
because he came regularly afterwards, to fetch away some provisions which
I had placed for him."

And Walter then gave a full account of John's visit to the camp, in
search of food for the children who were sheltered in the tanner's house.

"That is just like John," his mother said. "He was ever thoughtful for
others. I am more pleased, a hundred times, that he should have so risked
his life to obtain food for the little ones, than if he had taken part in
the fighting and proved himself a very champion of Derry."

Parliament had met on the 7th of May. The session had been opened by a
speech from the throne, in which the king commended the loyalty of his
Irish subjects, declared his intention to make no difference between
Catholics and Protestants, and that loyalty and good conduct should be
the only passport to his favour. He stated his earnest wish that good and
wholesome laws should be enacted, for the encouragement of trade and of
the manufactures of the country, and for the relief of such as had
suffered injustice by the Act of Settlement; that is, the act by which
the lands of the Catholics had been handed over, wholesale, to Cromwell's
soldiers and other Protestants.

Bills were speedily passed, abolishing the jurisdiction of English courts
of law and of the English parliament in Ireland, and other bills were
passed for the regulation of commerce and the promotion of shipbuilding.
The bill for the repeal of the Act of Settlement was brought up on the
22d of May. It was opposed only by the Protestant bishops and peers, and
became law on the 11th of June. Acts of attainder were speedily passed
against some two thousand Protestant landed proprietors, all of whom had
obtained their lands by the settlement of Cromwell.

A land tax was voted to the king, of twenty thousand pounds a month, and
he proceeded to raise other levies by his private authority. The result
was that the resources of Ireland were speedily exhausted, money almost
disappeared, and James, being at his wits' end for funds, issued copper
money stamped with the value of gold and silver; and a law was passed
making this base money legal tender, promising that, at the end of the
war, it should be exchanged for sterling money.

This was a measure which inflicted enormous loss and damage. At first,
the people raised the prices of goods in proportion to the decrease in
the value of the money, but James stopped this, by issuing a proclamation
fixing the prices at which all articles were to be sold; and having done
this, proceeded to buy up great quantities of hides, butter, corn, wood,
and other goods, paying for them all with a few pounds of copper and tin,
and then shipping them to France, where they were sold on his own
account. It need hardly be said that conduct of this kind speedily
excited great dissatisfaction, even among those who were most loyal in
his cause.

Captain Davenant was shocked at the state of things he found prevailing
in Dublin.

"I regret bitterly," he said, when alone with his wife and mother, "that
I have taken up the sword. Success appears to me to be hopeless. The
folly of the Stuarts is incredible. They would ruin the best cause in the
world. With a spark of wisdom and firmness, James might have united all
Ireland in his cause, instead of which he has absolutely forced the
Protestants into hostility. His folly is only equalled by his rapacity,
and both are stupendous."

This was said, one evening, when he had just returned from a visit to
Dublin, depressed and disheartened by all he heard there.

"I am astonished, Fergus," his mother said sharply, "to hear you speak in
that way. Who would have thought that it was a Davenant who was speaking!
Doubtless there have been mistakes, as was only natural, but everything
will come right, in time. I have been longing for you to come home,
looking forward with such joy to welcome you as the possessor of the
broad lands of the Davenants. Thank God I have lived to see the
restoration of my dear husband's lands, and the discomfiture of those
Cromwellian knaves, who have so long possessed them. It was a grand day
when the act was passed, repealing all Cromwell's grants handing over the
best part of Ireland to his soldiers; and I saw in the Gazette, among the
two thousand grants specially mentioned as cancelled, was that of the
Davenant estate to Zephaniah Whitefoot. I am told that the old man and
his son have taken no notice of the act, but go about their work as if
they were still the owners of the land; but of course, now that you are
back, there will soon be an end of this."

Captain Davenant was silent.

"I shall be in no hurry, mother," he said, after a pause. "It is true
that an act of the Irish parliament has cancelled the iniquitous work of
Cromwell, and restored the land to its rightful possessors. I do not say
that this is not just, but I am quite sure that it is not politic. These
men have been planted on the soil for two generations. They have built
houses and tilled the fields, and made homes for themselves. It was
essentially a case for arrangement, and not for setting right the first
act of confiscation by another as sweeping. It has rendered the
Protestants desperate. It has enlisted the sympathy of the Protestants of
England in their behalf, and has done much to popularize the war there.
It would have been vastly wiser, had a commission been ordered to examine
into the circumstances of each case.

"In the great proportion of cases, the estates which the Cromwellites
took possession of were vastly larger than they were able to till
themselves; and, as in the case of Zephaniah Whitefoot, they let out the
greater portion to tenants. All these lands I would have restored to
their former owners, leaving to the Cromwellites the land they till
themselves, and the houses they have built upon it.

"As to turning the Whitefoots out, I shall certainly take no step that
way, at present. It will be time enough to do so, when King James is
firmly established on the throne. As things go at present, I have but
very faint hopes that will ever be. He has utterly failed to conquer the
Protestants of the north of Ireland, and we have all the strength of
England to cope with, yet. It will be well, mother, if, at the end of
this strife, we can keep Davenant Castle over our heads, with the few
acres that still remain to us."

Two days afterwards, Captain Davenant mounted his horse and rode over to
the Whitefoots. Zephaniah and Jabez came to the door.

"I suppose you have come over to turn us out, Fergus Davenant," the old
man said; "but I warn you, that it will not be for long. The triumph of
the ungodly is short, and the Lord will care for his own people."

"You are mistaken," Captain Davenant said quietly. "I have come over for
no such purpose. I am, of course, aware that parliament has passed a law,
reinstating me in my father's lands; but I came over to tell you that, at
present, I do not propose to take advantage of that law. I shall do
nothing, until this war is at an end. If King William's cause triumphs,
the act will remain a dead letter. If King James's wins, and the act is
upheld, I wish to tell you that I shall never disturb you in the land
which you, yourselves, occupy. Your tenants, on the other hand, will be
my tenants; but in the house which you have built, and in the fields
which you have tilled, you will remain masters.

"I have thought the matter over, and this appears to me to be a just
settlement, and one which I give you my word that I will hold to, should
King James triumph in the end. I think that the law turning out the
Protestant settlers, from the land which they have held for forty years,
is well nigh as unjust as that which gave it to them."

"I will take no gifts at the hands of the wicked," Zephaniah began, but
Jabez interrupted him.

"Hush, father!" he said. "It is not thus that kindness should be met."

Then he stepped forward, leaving his father too surprised, at this sudden
assumption of command on the part of his son, to interrupt him.

"Captain Davenant," he said, "I thank you most sincerely, on the part of
myself, my wife and son, and, I may say, of my father, too, although at
present he may not realize the kindness of your offer. I do not think it
likely that, if James Stuart prevails, and Ireland is rent from England,
we shall avail ourselves of your offer, for we have more than sufficient
of this world's goods to remove to England, and there settle ourselves
and our son, for assuredly Ireland would be no place where a Protestant
could dwell in peace and quietness. Nevertheless, I thank you heartily,
and shall ever gratefully bear in mind the promise you have made, and the
fact that, although you have the power to turn us from our home, you have
stayed from doing so. There has been much wrong done on both sides; and,
from a boy, when I have seen you ride into or from your home, I have felt
that I and mine wronged you, by being the possessors of your father's
lands."

"They were the spoil of battle," Zephaniah broke in fiercely.

"Yes, they were the spoil of battle," his son repeated; "but there are
limits, even to the rights of conquerors. I have read history, and I know
that nowhere but in Ireland did conquerors ever dispossess whole peoples,
and take possession of their lands."

"The Israelites took the land of Canaan," Zephaniah interrupted.

"I am speaking of modern wars, father. For centuries, no such act of
wholesale spoliation was ever perpetrated; and considering, as I do, that
the act was an iniquitous one, although we have benefited by it, I
consider the offer which Captain Davenant has made to us to be a noble
one.

"I have to thank you, sir, also, for your kindness to my son--a kindness
which doubtless saved his life, as well as that of many others in
Londonderry; and believe me that, whatever comes of this horrible war, I
and mine will never forget the kindnesses we have received at your
hands."

"The affair was my son's, rather than mine," Captain Davenant said; "but
I was glad to be able to assist him in aiding your brave boy. He is a
noble fellow, and you have every reason to be proud of him."

"I must add my thanks to those of my husband," Hannah said, coming out
from the house, having listened to the conversation through an open
window. "We had suffered so, until your son brought us news of John, two
days since. It is strange, indeed, that your son should have been the
means of saving one of a household whom he cannot but have learnt to
regard as the usurpers of his father's rights. It was but last night I
was reading of Jonathan and David, and it seemed to me that, assuredly,
the same spirit that they felt for each other was in our sons."

"The boys are very fond of each other, Mrs. Whitefoot, and I am glad of
it. They are both manly fellows, and there is no reason why the feuds of
the fathers should descend to the children."

With a cordial goodbye, Captain Davenant rode off.

"Jabez," Zephaniah said, as they turned into the house, "I had not
thought to hear a son of mine rise in rebellion against his father."

"Father," Jabez said, "for forty-five years I have been a good son to
you; but it is time that I took my stand. It seems to me that the
principles upon which the soldiers of Cromwell fought, were the
principles which animated the Israelites of old. Exodus, Judges, and
Kings were the groundwork of their religion, not the Gospels. It has
gradually been borne upon me that such is not the religion of the New
Testament, and, while I seek in no way to dispute your right to think as
you choose, I say the time has come when I and my wife will act upon our
principles."

"It is written, Honour thy father and thy mother," Zephaniah said
sternly.

"Ay, father, I have honoured you, and I shall honour you to the end; but
a man has no right to give up his conscience to his father; for it is
written, also, that a man shall leave father and mother, and wife and
home to follow the Lord. I have heard you, father, and the elders of our
church, quote abundant texts from Scripture, but never one, that I can
recall, from the New Testament. Hitherto, I have been as an Israelite of
Joshua's time. Henceforward, I hope to be a Christian. I grieve to anger
you, father, and for years I have held my peace rather than do so; but
the time has come when the spirit within me will no longer permit me to
hold my peace. In all worldly matters, I am still your obedient son,
ready to labour to my utmost to gather up wealth which I do not enjoy, to
live a life as hard as that of the poorest tenant on our lands; but, as
touching higher matters, I and my wife go our own way."

Without a word, Zephaniah took his hat and strode away from the house,
and, after much angry communing with himself, went to the minister and
deacons of his chapel, and laid the facts of the rebellion before them,
and asked their advice.

They were in favour of peace, for two of them were his tenants, and they
knew that the time could not be very far off when Jabez would take the
old man's place, and it would be a serious matter, indeed, to the chapel,
were he to be driven from its fold.

"We cannot expect that all shall see with our eyes, Zephaniah," the
minister said, "and, indeed, the offer, which thou sayest the man
Davenant made, was a generous one. It would be well, indeed, for our
brethren throughout Ireland, did all the original owners of their lands
so treat them. Thousands who, but a few months since, were prosperous
men, are now without a shelter wherein to lay their heads. The storm is
sweeping over us, the elect are everywhere smitten, and, should James
Stuart conquer, not a Protestant in Ireland but must leave its shores.
Therefore, although I would counsel no giving up of principle, no
abandonment of faith, yet I would say that this is no time for the
enforcement of our views upon weak vessels. I mourn that your son should,
for the time, have fallen away from your high standard, but I say it were
best to be patient with him."

At home, there were few words spoken after Zephaniah had gone out. Hannah
had thrown her arms round her husband's neck, and had said:

"I thank God for your words, Jabez. Now I am proud of you, as I have
never been proud before, that you have boldly spoken out for liberty of
conscience. I feel like one who has for many years been a slave, but who
is, at last, free."

Jabez kissed her, but was silent. To him, it had been a great trial to
rebel. He knew that he was right, and would have done it again, if
necessary; but it was a terrible thing to him to have openly withstood
the father to whom he had, from childhood, rendered almost implicit
obedience.

On his return, Zephaniah did not renew the subject; but from that time,
there was a great change in the moral atmosphere of the house. Zephaniah
was still master in all matters of daily work; but in other respects,
Jabez had completely emancipated himself.



Chapter 6: Dundalk.


After the failure before Derry, the utmost confusion prevailed in the
military councils, arising chiefly from the jealousies and conflicting
authorities of the French and Irish commanders. James was entirely under
the control of the French ambassador, who, together with all his
countrymen in Ireland, affected to despise the Irish as a rude and
uncivilized people; while the Irish, in turn, hated the French for their
arrogance and insolence. Many of the Irish gentlemen, who had raised
regiments at their private expense, were superseded to make room for
Frenchmen, appointed by the influence of the French ambassador. These
gentlemen returned home in disgust, and were soon followed by their men,
who were equally discontented at being handed over to the command of
foreigners, instead of their native leaders.

Every day, the breach widened between the French and Irish, and the
discontent caused by the king's exactions was wide and general; and if
William, at this time, had offered favourable terms to the Catholics, it
is probable that an arrangement could have been arrived at.

But William was busily at work, preparing an army for the conquest of the
country. Had Ireland stood alone, it is probable that England would, at
any rate for a time, have suffered it to go its own way; but its close
alliance with France, and the fact that French influence was all powerful
with James, rendered it impossible for England to submit to the
establishment of what would be a foreign and hostile power, so close to
her shores. Besides, if Ireland remained under the dominion of James, the
power of William on the throne of England could never have been
consolidated.

Although he had met with no resistance on his assumption of the throne,
he had the hearty support of but a mere fraction of the English people,
and his accession was the work of a few great Whig families, only. His
rule was by no means popular, and his Dutch favourites were as much
disliked, in England, as were James' French adherents in Ireland.

In Scotland, the Jacobite party were numerous and powerful, and were in
open rebellion to his authority. Thus, then, if William's position on the
throne of England was to be consolidated, it was necessary that a blow
should be struck in Ireland.

Torn by dissension, without plan or leading, the Irish army remained, for
months, inactive; most of the regiments having, after the northern
campaign, returned to the districts in which they were raised; and thus,
no preparation was made to meet the army which was preparing to invade
the country.

This, ten thousand strong, under the command of General Schomberg, who,
although eighty years of age, was still an able, active, and spirited
commander, embarked on the 8th of August at Chester, and on the 13th
landed near Bangor, in Carrickfergus Bay. There was no force there of
sufficient strength to oppose him.

Schomberg found Antrim and Belfast deserted; but the garrison at
Carrickfergus, consisting of two regiments, prepared vigorously for a
siege. Schomberg at once prepared to invest it, and in a short time
attacked it by land and sea. The siege was pressed with vigour, but the
garrison, under M'Carty Moore, defended themselves with the greatest
skill and bravery. As fast as breaches were battered in their walls, they
repaired them, and repulsed every attempt of the besiegers to gain a
footing in the town. The garrison were badly supplied with ammunition,
but they stripped the lead from the roofs of the castle and church to
make bullets.

But all this time, no attempt whatever was made to relieve them. The
French and Irish generals were disputing as to what was the best plan of
campaign. The king was busy making money with his trade with France; and,
after holding out until they had burned their last grain of powder, the
gallant garrison were forced to capitulate. Schomberg was too glad to get
the place to insist on hard terms, and the garrison marched out with all
the honours of war--drums beating, and matches alight--and were conveyed,
with all their stores, arms, and public and private property, to the
nearest Irish post.

The effect of this determined resistance, on the part of the little
garrison at Carrickfergus, was to impress Schomberg with the fact that
the difficulty of the task he had undertaken was vastly greater than he
had supposed. The success with which Londonderry had defended itself
against the Irish army had impressed him with the idea that the levies of
King James were simply contemptible; but the fighting qualities of the
garrison of Carrickfergus had shown him that they were a foe by no means
to be despised, and convinced him that the force at his command was
altogether inadequate to his necessities.

He therefore moved south with extreme caution. He found the country
altogether wasted and deserted. The Protestants had long since fled, and
were gathered round Derry and Enniskillen. The Catholics had now deserted
their homes, at his approach; and the troops, in their retreat, had
burned and wasted everything, so that he had no means of subsistence for
his army, and was obliged to rely upon the fleet, which he ordered to
follow him down the coast.

Schomberg was soon joined by three regiments of Enniskillen horse. The
appearance of these troops astonished the English. They resembled rather
a horde of Italian banditti than a body of European cavalry. They
observed little order in their military movements, and no uniformity of
dress or accoutrement. Each man was armed and clad according to his own
fancy, and accompanied by a mounted servant, carrying his baggage. But,
like the Cossacks, whom they closely resembled, they were distinguished
by an extreme rapidity of movement, and a fierceness and contempt of all
difficulty and danger. They calculated neither chances nor numbers, but
rushed to the attack of any foe with a ferocity and fanaticism which
almost ensured success, and they regarded the slaughter of a Papist as an
acceptable service to the Lord. They plundered wherever they went, and
were a scourge to the Irish Protestants as well as Catholics.

The troops furnished by Derry were similar in character to those from
Enniskillen. They could not endure the restraints of discipline, and were
little use in acting with the regular army, and, like the Cossacks, were
formidable only when acting by themselves. Schomberg and his successor,
and, indeed, the whole of the English officers, soon came to abhor these
savage and undisciplined allies.

Still, the Irish army made no move. Report had magnified Schomberg's
strength to more than twice its real numbers, and the military leaders
could not believe that, after so many months of preparation, William had
despatched so small an army for the conquest of Ireland.

Confusion and dismay reigned in Dublin. The French Marshal, De Rosen,
advised that Dublin and Drogheda should be abandoned, and that the Irish
army should be concentrated at Athlone and Limerick; but Tyrconnell went
to Drogheda, where the council of war was sitting, and strenuously
opposed this, promising that by the next night twenty thousand men should
be assembled there. Expresses were sent out in all directions; and by
forced marches, the Irish troops stationed in Munster directed their
course to Drogheda, in high spirits and anxious to meet the enemy.

Schomberg, although he had been reinforced by six thousand men from
England, fell back at the news of the gathering, and formed an intrenched
camp in a strong position between Dundalk and the sea. His approaches
were covered by mountains, rivers, and morasses; his communication was
open to the sea, and here he resolved to wait for reinforcements.

Captain Davenant became more and more despondent as to the cause in which
he had embarked.

"Without the king, and without his French allies," he said bitterly to
his wife, "we might hope for success; but these are enough to ruin any
cause. Were the king's object to excite discontent and disgust among his
subjects, he could not act otherwise than he is now doing. His whole
thoughts are devoted to wringing money out of the people, and any time he
has to spare is spent upon superintending the building of the nunneries,
in which he is so interested. As to the French, they paralyse all
military operations. They regard us as an inferior race, and act as if,
with their own five or six thousand troops, they could defeat all the
power of England. It is heartbreaking seeing our chances so wasted.

"Had advantage been taken of the enthusiasm excited when King James
landed; had he himself been wise and prudent, disinterested for himself,
and desirous of obtaining the affections of all classes; and had he
brought with him none of these French adventurers, he would, long ere
this, have been undisputed King of Ireland from end to end, and we should
have stood as one people in arms, ready to oppose ourselves to any force
that England could send against us. Never were chances so frittered away,
never such a succession of blunders and folly. It is enough to break
one's heart."

"I do hope, father, that when the troop marches again you will take me as
cornet. I am six months older than I was, and have learned a lot in the
last campaign. You have not filled up the place of Cornet O'Driscoll. I
did think, when he was killed in that last fight you had before Derry,
you would have appointed me."

"In some respects I am less inclined than ever, Walter," Captain Davenant
said; "for I begin to regard success as hopeless."

"It will make no difference, father, in that way, for if we are beaten
they are sure to hand all our land over to the Protestants. Besides,
things may turn out better than you think; and whether or no, I should
certainly like to do my best for Ireland."

"Well, we will think about it," Captain Davenant said; and Walter was
satisfied, for he felt sure that his father would finally accede to his
wishes.

It was late at night, when the mounted messenger dashed up to the door of
the castle and handed in an order. Captain Davenant opened it.

"We are to march, in half an hour's time, to Drogheda. The whole army is
to assemble there."

"Hurray!" Walter shouted. "Something is going to be done, at last."

A man was sent down to the village at once, to order the twenty men
quartered there to saddle and mount instantly, and ride up to the castle;
while another, on horseback, started for Bray to get the main body under
arms. Mrs. Davenant busied herself in packing the wallets of her husband
and son. She was very pale, but she said little.

"God bless you both," she said, when all was finished, "and bring you
back again safely. I won't ask you to take care of yourselves, because,
of course, you must do your duty, and with all my love I should not wish
you to draw back from that. When home and religion and country are at
stake, even we women could not wish to keep those we love beside us."

There was a last embrace, and then Captain Davenant and his son sprang on
their horses, which were waiting at the door, took their place at the
head of the party which had come up from the village, and rode away into
the darkness, while the two Mrs. Davenants gave free vent to the tears
which they had hitherto so bravely restrained.

At Bray, Captain Davenant found the rest of his troop drawn up in
readiness, and after a brief inspection, to see that all were present
with their proper arms and accoutrements, he started with them for
Dublin, and after a few hours' rest there continued his way towards
Drogheda.

The army then proceeded north to Dundalk, and bitter was the
disappointment of the troops when, on arriving there, they found that
Schomberg, instead of advancing to give battle, had shut himself up in
the intrenchments he had formed, and could not be induced to sally out.

In vain King James, who accompanied his army, formed it up in order of
battle within sight of the invaders' lines. Schomberg was not to be
tempted out, and, as the position appeared to be too strong to be
attacked, the Irish were forced to endeavour to reduce it by the slow
process of starvation. The English army was soon reduced to pitiable
straits--not from hunger, for they were able to obtain food from the
ships, but from disease. The situation of the camp was low and unhealthy.
Fever broke out, and swept away vast numbers of the men.

The Dutch and Enniskilleners suffered comparatively little--both were
accustomed to a damp climate. But of the English troops, nearly eight
thousand died in the two months that the blockade lasted. Had James
maintained his position, the whole of the army of Schomberg must have
perished; but, most unfortunately for his cause, he insisted on
personally conducting operations, and when complete success was in his
grasp he marched his army away, in the middle of November, to winter
quarters; thereby allowing Schomberg to move, with the eight thousand men
who remained to him, from the pest-stricken camp to healthier quarters.

The disgust, of those of James's officers who understood anything of war,
at this termination of the campaign was extreme. The men, indeed, were
eager to return to their homes, but would gladly have attempted an
assault on the English camp before doing so; and, as the defenders were
reduced to half their original strength, while most of the survivors were
weakened by disease, the attack would probably have been successful.
James himself was several times on the point of ordering an attack, but
his own vacillation of character was heightened by the conflicting
counsels of his generals, who seemed more bent on thwarting each other
than on gaining the cause for which they fought.

The cavalry were not idle, while the blockade of Schomberg's camp
continued, frequently making excursions over the country to bring in
cattle for the army; for the villagers had, for the most part, deserted
their homes, and herds of cattle were grazing without masters. One day,
Captain Davenant's troop had ridden some thirty miles out of camp, and
had halted for the night in a village. In the morning, they broke up into
small parties and scattered round the country. Walter, with fifteen of
the troopers, had collected some cattle and stopped for an hour, to feed
and rest the horses, in a deserted village. He took the precaution to
place two or three men on sentry round it.

The men were sitting on the doorsteps, eating the food they had brought
with them, when one of the outposts dashed in at full gallop, shouting
that the enemy were upon them; but his warning came too late, for, close
behind him, came a body of wild-looking horsemen, shouting and yelling.
There was a cry of "The Enniskilleners!" and the men ran to their horses.

They had scarcely time to throw themselves in the saddle, when the
Enniskilleners charged down. For a minute or two there was a confused
medley, and then three or four of the troopers rode off at full speed,
hotly pursued by the Enniskilleners.

Walter had discharged his pistols and drawn his sword, but before he had
time to strike a blow, his horse was rolled over by the rush of the
enemy, and, as he was falling, he received a blow on the head from a
sabre which stretched him insensible on the ground. He was roused by two
men turning him over and searching his pockets. A slight groan burst from
his lips.

"The fellow is not dead," one of the men said.

"We will soon settle that," the other replied.

"Don't kill him," the first speaker said. "Wait till the captain has
spoken to him. We may be able to get some information from him. We can
finish him afterwards."

Walter lay with his eyes closed. He well knew that the Enniskilleners
took no prisoners, but killed all who fell into their hands, and he
determined to show no signs of returning consciousness. Presently, he
heard the sound of a party of horsemen returning, and by the exclamations
of disappointment which greeted the news they gave, he learned that some,
at least, of his men had made their escape.

Some time later, several men came up to him. One leaned over him, and put
his hand to his heart.

"He is alive."

"Very well," another voice said. "Then we will take him with us. He is an
officer, and will be able to tell us all about their strength.

"Watkins, you have a strong beast, and do not weigh much. Do you mount,
and then we will tie him to your back."

A minute later Walter was lifted up, and felt that he was placed on a
horse with his back to that of the rider. A rope was wound several times
round his body. He remained perfectly passive, with his head hanging down
on his breast. Then a word of command was given, and the troop set off.

For a time, there was no need for him to pretend insensibility, for the
pain of his wound and the loss of blood overpowered him, and for some
time he was unconscious. After two hours' riding, the troop was halted.
Walter felt the rope taken off him. Then he was lifted down, dragged a
short distance, and thrown down on some straw. Then a door shut, and he
heard a key turned. He felt sure that he was alone, but for some time lay
perfectly quiet, as it was possible that one of the men might have
remained to watch him.

After a quarter of an hour, hearing not the slightest sound, he opened
his eyes and looked round. He was, as he supposed, alone. The place in
which he was lying was a stable, lighted only by a small opening high up
in the wall. Certain, therefore, that he was not overlooked, he made an
effort to rise to his feet, but he was so weak and giddy that he was
obliged, for some time, to remain leaning against the wall. Seeing a
bucket in one corner, he made to it, and found, to his delight, that it
was half full of water, for he was parched with a devouring thirst.

After taking a deep draught he felt greatly revived, and then made a
thorough survey of his prison. It evidently formed part of the house of a
well-to-do man, for it was solidly built of stone, and the door was
strong and well fitted.

The opening in the wall was out of his reach. He could, at ordinary
times, by standing on the upturned bucket, have reached it with a spring,
and pulled himself up to it, but at present he was wholly incapable of
such exertion. He thought, however, that after a night's rest he would be
able to do it.

The door was so strong that he had no hope of escape in that direction.
As he might at any moment be disturbed, he returned to the straw on which
he had at first been thrown, laid himself down, and in a very short time
dropped off to sleep.

It was dark, before he was awoke by the turning of the key in the lock,
and two men entered, one of them bearing a horn lantern.

"Where am I?" Walter asked, in a feeble tone, as they approached him.

"Never mind where you are," one said roughly. "Get up."

Walter seemed to make an effort, and then fell back with a groan.

The man repeated his order, emphasizing it with a kick. Walter again made
an effort, and, as before, sank back.

"Here, catch hold of him," the man said, impatiently, "it's no use
fooling here with him."

The men took Walter under the arms and lifted him up, and half dragged,
half carried him out of the stable and into the house adjoining. He was
taken into a room where four or five men were sitting.

"Now, young fellow," one said sharply, "tell us what corps you belong
to."

Walter looked stupidly at his questioner, but made no answer.

"Answer my question," the man said, levelling a pistol at him, "or I will
blow out your brains at once."

Still Walter stared at him stupidly, and made no reply, except to mutter,
"Water."

"It's no use," one of the other men said. "He hasn't got his right senses
yet. It's no use shooting him now, after we have had the trouble of
bringing him here. In the morning, he will be able to answer you."

"He had better," the other said savagely, "or we will light a fire and
roast him over it. There, take him back to the stable, and give him a
drink of water. I don't want him to slip through our fingers, after the
trouble we have had with him."

Walter was taken back, as before, to the stable, and one of the men
brought him a mug of water, and held it to his lips. He drank eagerly,
and then the man placed the mug down beside him, the door was again
closed and locked, and Walter was alone. He rose at once to his feet, and
felt that his sleep had greatly refreshed and strengthened him.

"I will have another sleep, before I try," he said to himself. "It will
not be light till six, and it must be eight or nine o'clock now. I must
make up my mind, before I doze off, to wake in about three or four hours;
but first, I must see what I can find, here."

He felt round the walls, but failed to find anything like a rope.

"I must trust to luck," he said; "I don't suppose they will post many
sentries. These fellows are not real soldiers, and no doubt they will all
be sound asleep in a couple of hours."

So saying, he again lay down, and was speedily asleep. When he woke, he
felt sure that he had not exceeded the time he had given himself. He
listened intently. He could hear a low, confused sound, which he knew was
made by horses feeding, but he could hear no human voices. He drank the
rest of the water in the mug, then he turned up the bucket, placed it
under the opening, and mounted on it.

His first spring failed to reach the sill, and he stood for a few
minutes, before making another attempt. He knew that it was a matter of
life or death, for he had no doubt whatever that, even if he gave the
required information, which he was determined not to do, however much he
might suffer, he would be shot afterwards. He braced himself to the
utmost, took a long breath, and then sprang. His fingers caught on the
ledge of stonework, and, with a desperate effort, he drew himself up,
aided by his feet. He had, before making the attempt, removed his boots,
partly to avoid the scraping noise which these would make, partly to
enable him the better to avail himself of the inequalities in the
stonework.

It was a desperate struggle; and when he got his shoulders in the
opening, which was just wide enough to admit them, he lay for three or
four minutes, panting heavily, with the perspiration streaming down his
face. The aperture was too small to admit of his turning in any way, and
there was nothing for it, as he knew, but to drop head foremost.

Gradually, he drew himself through the opening, lowering himself as much
as he could by holding on to the upper edge by his feet. Then, stretching
out his arms to save himself, he let go. Fortunately, the ground was
soft, for a garden adjoined the stable; but the shock was a heavy one,
and he lay for a minute or two without moving, having some doubt whether
he had not broken his neck. Then he got up, and listened.

Everything was still and quiet, and, indeed, his fall had been almost
noiseless. He rose to his feet, felt along the wall until he encountered
a low paling, climbed over it, and was in the road.

He had, when he jumped for the window, tied his boots to his back, and
now carried them in his hand. The night was very dark; but his eyes,
accustomed to the greater darkness of the stable, had no difficulty in
following the road. He walked slowly, for the exertion he had undergone
and the shock of the fall had drawn greatly from his small stock of
strength.

After going a quarter of a mile, he put on his boots, and, climbing a
wall of sods which bordered the road, struck across country. There were
no stars to guide him, and a slight mist had begun to fall. There was but
little wind, but this was sufficient to give a direction to the rain.
Walter noticed this, and at once struck out in a direction which kept the
rain falling upon the right side of his face; and he knew that, by so
continuing, he was going in a tolerably straight line. As near as he
could tell he walked for two hours, and then, utterly exhausted, lay down
on the lee side of a turf wall.

There was, as yet, no gleam of light in the sky, and in a very few
minutes he was again sound asleep. He woke up with a feeling of bitter
cold, and, on rising, found that his limbs were completely stiffened by
the wet. It was morning now, the wind had got up, and a driving rain shut
out the view on all sides. Walter stamped his feet and swung his arms for
some time to restore the circulation.

He had no idea in which direction he had been travelling, for he did not
know whether the road from which he had started ran north, south, east,
or west. He noticed that the wind had changed; for, whereas he had lain
down under the lee of the wall, it was now the weather side. He walked in
the same direction as before for two hours, and could then go no farther.
He had seen no signs of human habitation, and had not crossed a road or
even a footpath. Since starting in the morning he had passed no more
walls or fences, and, as far as his eye could reach through the driving
rain, nothing was to be seen save a desolate expanse of moor and bog. He
was, at any rate, free from pursuit for the time, and he thought more of
obtaining food and shelter than of the Enniskilleners.

It was useless pushing further on, even had he been able to do so, while
the rain lasted; for he might have passed within a quarter of a mile of a
habitation without seeing it. He accordingly threw himself down beside
some low bushes, which afforded him some slight protection from the rain.



Chapter 7: The Coming Battle.


Some hours passed, and he was on the point of dropping off to sleep
again, when he heard a whistle repeated once or twice, followed by the
sharp bark of a dog. It was but a short distance away, and, leaping to
his feet, he saw a peasant standing at a distance of two or three hundred
yards.

Walter hurried towards him at a speed of which, a few minutes before, he
would have thought himself incapable. The man continued whistling, at
short intervals, and did not notice Walter till he was within twenty
yards distant; then he turned sharply round.

"Who are you?" he asked, clubbing a heavy stick which he held in his
hand, and standing on the defensive.

The dress and appearance of the man assured Walter that he was a
Catholic, and therefore a friend, and he replied at once:

"I belong to one of the Irish troops of horse. The Enniskilleners
surprised a party of us, yesterday, and wounded me, as you see.
Fortunately, I escaped in the night, or they would have finished me this
morning. I have been out all night in the rain, and am weak from loss of
blood and hunger. Can you give me shelter?"

"That I can," the man said, "and gladly. Those villains have been killing
and destroying all over the country, and there's many a one of us who,
like myself, have been driven to take refuge in the bogs."

"Is it far?" Walter asked; "for I don't think I could get more than a
mile or two."

"It is not half a mile," the man said. "You do look nearly done for.
Here, lean on me, I will help you along; and if you find your strength
go, I will make a shift to carry you."

"It is lucky I heard you whistle," Walter said.

"It is, indeed," the man replied, "for it is not likely anyone else would
have come along today. My dog went off after a rabbit, and I was
whistling to him to come to me again.

"Ah! Here he is. He has got the rabbit, too. Good dog! Well done!"

He took the rabbit and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. Seeing
that Walter was too exhausted to talk, he asked no questions, and said
nothing till he pointed to a low mound of earth, and said: "Here we are."

He went round by the side; and Walter perceived that there was a sharp
dip in the ground, and that the hut was dug out in the face of the slope;
so that, if it were approached either from behind or on either side, it
would not be noticed, the roof being covered with sods, and closely
matching the surrounding ground.

The man went to the low door, and opened it.

"Come in, sir," he said; "you are quite welcome."

The hut contained two other men, who looked up in surprise at the
greeting.

"This is a young officer, in one of our horse regiments," the man said.
"He has been in the hands of the Enniskilleners, and has got out from
them alive--which is more than most can say. He has had a bad wound, has
been wet through for hours, and is half starving. Look sharp, lads, and
get something hot, as soon as possible.

"Now, sir, if you will take off those wet things of yours, and wrap
yourself in that rug, you will find yourself the better for it. When a
man is in health, a few hours wet will not do him any harm; but when he
is weak from loss of blood, as you are, the cold seems to get into his
bones."

Fresh turfs were at once put on the smouldering fire, which one of the
men, leaning down before it, proceeded to blow lustily; and, although
much of the smoke made its way out through a hole in the roof, enough
lingered to render it difficult for Walter to breathe, while his eyes
watered with the sharp fumes. A kettle had been placed on the fire, and
in a very short time, a jar was produced from the corner of the hut, and
a horn of strong spirits and water mixed.

"Here are some cold praties, sir. It's all we have got cooked by us now,
but I can promise you a better meal, later on."

Walter ate the potatoes, and drank the warm mixture. The change from the
cold damp air outside, to the warm atmosphere of the hut, aided the
effects of the spirits; he was first conscious of a warm glow all over
him, and then the voices of the men seemed to grow indistinct.

"You had better stretch yourself on that pile of rushes," the man said,
as Walter gave a start, being on the point of rolling over. "Two or three
hours' sleep will make a man of you, and by that time dinner will be
ready, and your clothes dry."

Walter fell almost instantaneously off to sleep, and it was late in the
afternoon before he woke.

"I am afraid I must have slept a long time," he said, sitting up.

"You have had a fine sleep, surely," one of the men replied; "and it's
dinner and supper, all in one, that you will have."

Walter found his uniform and underclothes neatly folded up by his side,
and speedily dressed himself.

"That sleep has done me a world of good," he said. "I feel quite myself
again."

"That's right, yer honour. When you've had your food, I will make a shift
to dress that wound at the back of yer head. Be jabbers, it's a hard
knock you have had, and a mighty lot of blood you must have lost! Yer
clothes was just stiff with it; but I washed most of it out.

"And now, lads, off with the pot!"

A large pot was hanging over the fire, and, when the lid was taken off, a
smell very pleasant to Walter's nostrils arose. Four flat pieces of wood
served the purpose of plates, and, with a large spoon of the same
material, the man who had brought Walter to the hut, and who appeared to
be the leader of the party, ladled out portions of the contents. These
consisted of rabbit and pieces of beef, boiled up with potatoes and
onions. A large jug filled with water, and a bottle of spirits were
placed in the centre, with the horn which Walter had before used beside
it.

"We are short of crockery," the man said with a laugh. "Here are some
knives, but as for forks, we just have to do without them."

Walter enjoyed his meal immensely. After it was finished, the wooden
platters were removed, and the jug replenished.

"Now, your honour, will you tell us how you got away from the Protestant
rebels, and how was it they didn't make short work of you, when they
caught you? It's a puzzle to us entirely, for the Enniskilleners spare
neither man, woman, nor child."

Walter related the whole circumstances of his capture, imprisonment, and
escape.

"You fooled them nicely," the man said, admiringly. "Sure your honour's
the one to get out of a scrape--and you little more than a boy."

"And what are you doing here?" Walter asked, in return. "This seems a
wild place to live in."

"It's just that," the man said. "We belonged to Kilbally. The
Enniskilleners came that way, and burned it to the ground. They murdered
my wife and many another one. I was away cutting peat with my wife's
brother here. When we came back, everything was gone. A few had escaped
to the bogs, where they could not be followed; the rest was, every
mother's son of them, killed by those murdering villains. Your honour may
guess what we felt, when we got back. Thank God I had no children! We
buried the wife in the garden behind the house, and then started away and
joined a band of rapparees, and paid some of them back in their own coin.
Then, one day, the Enniskilleners fell on us, and most of us were killed.
Then we made our way back to the old village, and came up here and built
us this hut. It's a wonder to us how you got here; for there are bogs
stretching away in all directions, and how you made your way through them
bates us entirely."

"Yours is a sad story, but unfortunately a common one. And how have you
managed to live here?"

"There are plenty of potatoes, for the digging of 'em," the man said,
"for there are a score of ruined villages within a day's walk. As for
meat, there are cattle for the taking, wandering all over the country;
some have lately strayed away; but among the hills there are herds which
have run wild since the days when Cromwell made the country a desert. As
for spirits, I brew them myself. Barley as well as potatoes may be had
for the taking. Then, sometimes, the dog picks up a rabbit. Sometimes,
when we go down for potatoes, we light on a fowl or two; there's many a
one of them running wild among the ruins. As far as eating and drinking
goes, we never did better; and if I could forget the old cottage, and the
sight that met my eyes when I went back to it, I should do well enough,
but, night and day I am dreaming of it, and my heart is sore with longing
for vengeance."

"Why don't you join the army?" Walter asked. "There's plenty of room for
good men, and yesterday's affair has made some vacancies in my own troop.

"What do you say, lads? You would have a chance of crossing swords with
the Enniskilleners, and you could always come back here when the war is
over."

"What do you say, boys?" the man asked his companions. "I am just
wearying for a fight, and I could die contented, if I could but send a
few of those murdering villains to their place, before I go."

The other two men at once agreed. They talked well into the night, and
Walter heard many tales of the savage butchery of unoffending peasants,
by the men who professed to be fighting for religious liberty, which
shocked and sickened him.

It was arranged that they should start on the following morning. The men
said that they could guide him across country to Dundalk without
difficulty, and assured him that he would be little likely to meet with
the enemy, for that the whole country had been so wasted, by fire and
sword, as to offer but little temptation even to the most insatiable of
plunderers.

Accordingly, the next morning they set out, and arrived late that evening
at the camp. Walter found that his father and his followers were absent.
They had returned, much surprised at not having been rejoined by Walter's
party, but on their arrival they had found there the survivors of his
command, who had ridden straight for Dundalk.

After a few hours' stay, to rest the horses, Captain Davenant, with his
own men and two of the troops of cavalry, had ridden out in search of the
Enniskilleners. Larry, who had been almost wild with grief when the news
of the surprise, and, as he believed, the death of Walter, had been
brought in, had accompanied the cavalry.

It was late on the following afternoon before they rode into camp. Larry
was the first to come in, having received permission from Captain
Davenant to gallop on ahead. They had met

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