FATHER FOGARTY'S FRONT TEETH.

Waikato Times, Volume XXIII, Issue 1944, 20 December 1884, Page 4 (Supplement)

FATHER FOGARTY'S FRONT TEETH.

A MYSTERY, BY KOBEET P. WHITWOBTH.

" Ye don't believe in ghosts at all, then," said host Regan, as we sat round the huge fire in his comfortable hostelrie in Beeehworth, one cold dirty night last June. The day had been a wild and stormy one, as is frequently the case in winter in that elevated locality, and we, a party of five, were glad to be sheltered within the house, listening to the wind that came in shrieking gusts round the corners, and the heavy swish and patter of the rain on the window panes. In accord with the character of the night, the conversation had taken a dismal and dreary tone, about accidents, murders, bushranging and the like, and had at last drifted oil into the subject of disembodied spirits. Some one, I forget whom, had avowed his thorough disbelief in such rubbish, as he called it. Hence Host Regan's question. "I, for one, don't," I said. " I don't believe a word of it, neither in ghosts, nor ghouls, nor kelpies, nor banshees, nor wraiths, nor raw bead and bloody bones, nor any of the crew, any more than I do in Jack the Giant Killer or Little lied Hiding Hood." " Well now,' 1 said Host Itegan, emitting a contemplative whiff, " I'm not so sartain about that. To be sure I never seen a ghost meaelf.but I've known thim as has, or said they had. Father Doolan. of my parish, used to tell us it was all nonsense, but my old granny, rest her sowl, said many's the time she heard the screech of the banshee, and seen her too wanst, a woman in white, wringing her hands, that faded away like the mist. I couldn't say for sartain, but if it wasn't a ghost or a sperrit that was in Father Fogarty 'a front teeth, what was it ? " " Father Fogarty's front teeth," we ejaculated in surprise. " Ah, maybe ye never heerd the story. It was a most mystarious alfair, but I'll tell it ye." And sg Host Began, who was a droll funloving Irishman, ceremoniously re-filled his pipe, and not without a merry twinkle in his bright eyes, solemnly told us the story of Father Fogarty's front teeth. " It was a good many years ago whin I was on the Kocky lliver diggings in New South Wales. Thim was the rough times, and many and many's the divil's own ructions I seen on that same Kocky River. It was about 1856 whin I was working there, and there was maybe about six or seven hundred mm on the field. It was alluvial sinking, shafts and tunnels mostly. Well, some o' the diggers was quiet enough, but some was the divil'a own b'ys entirely. " There was a party of me own counthrymen, barrin they were from Tipperary and I was from Wexford, workin' at a place down the river called Kennedy's Creek, about fifty of them there were, and at another place called Mount Welsh, on the other side of Post Office Gully, was about as many Ulster mm from Donegal. " These had all kern out in the same ship, and had got quarrelling on boord, and if it wasn't that the captain had kep 'em below turn about, there'd ha' been murdher aboord and worse. " Anyhow there they wor, about a couple of miles apart, and kep' up the black blood feud bechune 'em, and if it wasn't for the rest of us who wanted pace and quietness, and kep' 'em down by sheer strenth of numbers, there'd ha' been no livin' there. Even then I doubt if we'd have been able to keep ordher if it wasn't for Father Paul Fogarty. " Oh, Father Fogarty, ye wor a jewel of a praste intirely. Father Fogarty was the clargyman of the disthric', stationed at Armidale, but most of his time he Bpint on the diggings, by rason of havin' to move about from one place to another on the river, about thirty-five miles in all. He was a tall burly man, with the reddest nose I ever seen on mortial man, and two black eyes as bowld as a hawk's. He kern to keep ordher on the field, and, by the hokey, he done it. He prached pace and goodwill amongst ua, and he practised it — wid a horsewhip. He was kind and patient wid us all — till his eyes began to glisten, and his red nose to twitch, and then, tare and ages, but it was look out for squalls. We were all, every man Jack of the seven hundhred of us rough diggers, afeard of him, Irish, English, and Scotch alike. He'd the soft word and the civil word for everybody, ontil he was put out, and then — phillilool He'd a heart as Boft as butther, and a fisht like a horse's hoof. He'd tell us our juty in a way would bring the wather into our eyes, and persuade us to do it with a thick stick. To the sick or the shuck man he was a lamb ; to the idle, the desolute, and the blasphemer, a raging lion. • Shawn Brady avick,' I heard him say one day to a big Galway fellow that was always quarrelling and fighting, ' come here till 1 spake to ye. What's all this I hear about ye ? Ye've not been sober for a week, fightin' and creatin' a rookawn day and night all the time, and the language you use 1 Holy Bridget, it's athrocious. What have ye to say for yourself ? ' Brady stood sheepishly fingering the brim of his caubeen, and mut- j tered something about having ' the dhrop in.' I " ' The dhrop in is it ? The dhrop in ? ' he roared, ' it's the dhrop that'll lade yer sowl to eternal perdition, ye gourmouge, ye omadhawn; and you not done a sthroke of work since last washin' up, and your ould father and mother at Oraumore without the bite or the sup for all you care, ye ondutiful, blackhearted .vagabpne. I know ye. By this and by that I'll put the cross bechune us, and thrash ye till your four bones ache. Down on your knees sir, and promise your praste to conduct yourself like a dacent b'y, or by the mortial, I'll do what I say ; ' and Brady done it, and then snaked away like a whipped hound. Still for all he ruled us, as one might say, at the point of his shillelagh ; it would be a bad day for any one who had laid a finger on him, or insulted him, if we got to hear of it. Not that he couldn't take his own part, and would too, if neoessary. The bully of\the oamp at the time was a great big Lankie, who'd been a collier, and who was a perfect giant in strength and brutality. One day Father Fogarty, hearin' a row in the Pick and Shovel, 'Wint in, and found the divil's own ructions goin on. There was this big fellow had Uill Cross, who kep' the shanty, by the hair, *nd hammerin' Tiim lyid a pewfchei pot

bekase he wouldn't give him dhrink, and two or three others thryin' to pull him away. " ' What's this ? ' says Father Fogarty ; 1 clear out o' this, every mother's son of ye,' pointin' at the same time to the door. The others wint, but the Lankie turned round and faced him, shtill holdin' Cross, a little chap, by the hair. "'Let go the dacent man,' said Father Fogarty, quietly, but his nose twitching dangerously. " ' Aw'll noan do that for thee noather,' said the Lankie, with an oath. " The reply was a stinging cut across the cheek with his horsewhip. 11 The Lankie quitted his holt and rushed at Father Fogarty with the roar of a mad bull. But the praste wasn't to be caught like that. The shock was terrible whin they met, but what the Lankie had in sthrinth, Father Fogarty had in scoience. He gave him the inside crook, and the giant wint down with a crash that shook the rafthers ; thin coolly dhragging out the insinsible form by the heels, he shied it into the muddy gutther. ' Tell that blagyard,' he said to some passers by, ' whin he comes to himself, that if he wants any more to come to Father Fogarty.' But it seemed he didn't want any more, for he carefully avoided the praste for weeks, and was even, after he had left the Kocky, heard to express his admiration for him. ' That theer Father Fogarty,' he would say, ' here summat loike a pa'ason, he wur. By G-ow, here the only mon 'at ever gradely fettlet Lankie Sam, an' chonce it.' "As I've said, every mother's son on the field had a howly terror of Father Paul Fogarty's horsewhip, and it was a soight worth lookin' at to see sometimes on a Monday, for he'd ginerally come from Armidale on a Monday, whin a lot o' the fellows who hadn't turned to would be dhrinkin, an' risin' a rookawn in the camp, would see his bony white horse comin' over the rise. The word was riz in a minute, and you'd die laughin' to see a score or two of big, brawny fellpws rushin' away to their holes like rabbits into their warrens. " How and ever, this has nothing to do wid Father Fogarty's front teeth. As I told ye before, there was a party of about fifty Tips, working at Kennedy's Creek, and about the same number of Donegal men at Mount Welsh, and there was black bitter blood bechune 'em. Well for one thing or another they'd had bits of scrimmages bechune them, but nothin' to hurt, beside a broken head or so, ontil early one Saturday mornin', Misther White, the warden, and a fine dacent man he was, kern to me on the quite, an' siz he ; ' Regan,' sez he, ' I know your'e a quite dacent law abidin' citizen.' ' Its proud lam this day to hear you say so, sir,' siz I. ' Now,' siz he, ' look at here. The escort has gone to Sydney, and I'm left here with only one constable. I'm inforrumed that the Tips beyant are coming in a body, after washin 1 up to-day to attack the Donegal mm, an' I want you to help me to prevint it.' ' But sir,' siz I, ' whai would I do to prevint it, and beside that ii they want to fight it out let 'em, we'll have no pace till they do, and thin again, I wouldn't like to spoil sport.' ' I'm as fond of a bit oi harmless sport as you are Regan,' says he, ' but this means bloodshed, murder, robbery, the camp burned over our heads maybe. Will you help me to prevint it ? ' 'I will, sir,' siz I 'if you'll tell me how.' ' Come up to the police camp,' siz he, ' I'll have a horse saddled foi you on the other side the hill, then ride te Armidale as if the divil was afther ye, and bring Father Fogarty back with ye. Faith he's worth a whole army of throopers. Save yer horses at Uralla and oome in through th< bush to the back of the camp, so that nobodj '11 see ye. An' may be we'll have some fur yet.' ' I'll go bail we will, sir,' siz I, 'faix ] can fancy I see them all ecuttherin' whin hit riverence's red nose is to the fore.' " Well, I wint, and soon covered the twelve miles. I found the praste just sittin' down te his brexwust. " ' Save yer riverence,' siz I. " ' Save ye kindly,' siz he, ' sit down and take a snack.' "But whin I tould him my arrant, you should have seen him. His eyes fairly blazed, and his red nose twitched up and down like a jack-jumper. "«Oh! the blackguards, the vagabenes. Mono, mon diavul. Heaven be bechuna us and evil, if I don't break every bone in heir skins. Not a thmneen do I care for the best of them. Oh ! I'll throunce 'em. Oh I the roarin', schamin', thievin' omadhount. Ohl the curse of Cromwell — Holy Bridget grant me patience — the poor benighted hathens — where's my whip ? ' "We were back before noon, having left our horßes at the Uralla Hotel at Dangar's lagoon, and done the remaining two miles through the bush. Father Fogarty was ensconced in the police camp unobserved, where I left him fretting and fuming like a caged tiger, and my absence had not been remarked, save by my mates, to whom I made some thrifling excuse. " I could not help laughing and chuckling to meself, as I pictured to meself the total rout of the contending armies, but wisely said nothin' to my mateß whin they axed me what was I laughin' at, except, ' Wait a bit, maybe yell see some fun soon.' "At about two o'clock we knocked off, and by three the camp was pretty full of diggers from all parts of the river, and I noticed that the Tips had all come armed wid sticks, while in many of their jumpers were bulges that towld tales to me of that fearful weapon, the " stone in a stocking." " At about four o'clock the ruction began. The Tips, who had formed themselves into a body just above the police camp, raised a sudden yell, and rushed forward with a shower of stones to annihilate their unprepared foes, when the gate opened wide, and out marched Father Fogarty, horsewhip in hand. " ' Howly mother,' cried someone, • it's the praste 1 ' " I've heer'd tell that whin Boney lost the battle of Watherloo, he said something in Frinch that manes ' the divil take the hindmost.' * Well, it was just that. Ye never seen such a scatther. Up the hill, and down the road, into the bush, and into the river, they fled, with the victorious praste dhrivin' the vanquished inimy before him, lashin' and slashin' at them for dear life. " ' Ye murtherin' thaves ! ye graceless villains ! ye rapparees 1 I'll tache ye ; I'll excom Howly Bidpup, bot's bat ? ' " Bat, or that, as he meant to say, was an unlucky stone, certainly not aimed at him, but which had sthruck him clane in the mouth, knocking out two of his front teeth, and complately puttin' a full shtop to his eloquence. " He roared, he yelled, he spat out mouth - fuls of blood and teeth, he danced, he tore his hair, he threw down his hat and jumped on it. I niver seen a man in such a tearin' rage, and what made him ten times worse was that he couldn't talk so as to make himself undherstood. "' Oh 1 you burberib poumbibs, be purp of Pombib Oh I oh! ah! " I need hardly say the fun was over for that day. Father Fogarty was led back to the police camp amid respectful silence, the opposing forces were routed, but the haro of the day was disabled. "Ay coorse he couldn't perform mass the next day, as not only was his mouth swollen and his lip cut, but the loss of his teeth rendered him. incapable of articulation. Some of the townspeople laughed when they heard of the accident, but as he was generally well liked, a subscription v was soon riz to send him down to Sydney and get artificial teeth in. But here a new difficulty stood in the way. He positively refused to go. It was bad enough to be laughed at there, but to make himself a laughing stock to the graceless people of Sydney, he csuldn't and he, wouldn't. Besides, as he said, ' Be peppard's plape wab wib hip plop.' "'Fortunately, or unforfunately, just at this time, a dintiat, a poor one, but still a dintist came up to Armidale, and to him wint Father Fogarty lor relief "from his woes. Now in thim days, artificial teeth jvere not 'so common, especially in such oat of the way

places as the Rooky River diggings as they are now, and this dintist's business was more in the way of takin' out teeth than putting them in. But the ca?e was urgent, and prompted by the prospect of good pay, the dintist undertuk to supply the missing inoisors. He had no teeth unless he could get them at second hand from some dead body, and that was hardly practicable, nor had he any ivory to make them of, unless indeed a billiard ball, or, happy thought — yes, he had it. There was a spare pair of dice in the bar of the hotel where he sthayed, and of these he would manufacture the teeth. The landlord gave them up to him willingly enough, remarking at the time that they were all that was left by Jack Adams, who had died on the Rocky three months before, and ripresented a grog score of four pounds three, which Jack left owing. As the grog score was gone the dice might as well go after it, and they were loaded anyhow. "But little use as the dice were as dice, they came in admirably for Father Fogarty's front teeth. They were cut down, polished, fitted nicely on a goold plate, and once more Father Fogarty rejoiced in perfect white and even front teeth, more white and even, to tell the thruth, than the originals had been. The dintist was happy, for he had been paid his bill. Father Fogarfcy was happy, bekase he could talk and ate once more like a rasonable Christian, and his parishioners were happy, bekase their pasthor was again able to praehe to them, or maybe scowld them. " Now here the shtory as a matter-of-fact shtory inds, but here comes in the mymarious part of it. Father Fogartv, worthy man, was not exactly an ascetic. He had always liked his tumbler of punch going to bed, and maybe his drap of whiskey on a cowld wet day, a draw of the pipe, and maybe a quite rubber of whist, or a hand at spoil five or cribbage with a friend in an evenin'. His language out of the pulpit had occasionally been a little sthrong, but niver such as could well be taken exception to, except by thejvery fastiguous. But now all this was changed. He felt an unaccountable and unconquerable longing which grew sthronger and sthronger on him every day, to visit the billiard rooms at the Wellington or the Freemasons. Perhaps there was no great harrum in that, but whin it kern to betting on sthrokes, makin' one at pool, and talkin' the slang of the game, it grew noticeable. Thin, again, he seemed to fall unconsciously into the habit of shmoking cigars, and even pipes, not only there, but in the public sthreets. He played 100, and once startled the frequenters of a public bar by proposin' a little flutther at hazard for a fiver. Clearly something was wrong, but what was it? He couldn't tell. He was sorely exercised in his moind. He knew quite well what he was doin', and yet for the life of him he couldn't help it. He fought against the infatuation, but it seemed to to overmashter him complately. 11 But matuhers grew worse and worse. One Sunday while servin' mass he shcandalised his congregation by suddenly announcin' that he would ' back the field, bar one.' There was a dead silence, and his hearers looked at each other ominously. He Btopped and wrestled with ths evil spirit, for surely it was an evil spirit that had taken possession of him, but ere long his flock were still more schcandalised by hearing him assever with a terrible oath that he would 'go a level pony on the little chestnut filly Ganymede.' Some of the congregation riz and left at this sacrilege, and the poor praste bowed his head to his pulpit cushions, and wept. Thim who remained looked pityingly on their beloved pastor, who, afther a pause, riz and said — " My children, you are astonished, no doubt, but no more than I am, at my sthrange conduct; but you must see that I am either goin' mad or that I am possessed of a devil, and I'll lay you evens on either single, or five to one on the double evint. Bring in the bones — half-a-crown in, and the winner shouts.' " These last extraordinary words were wrung from him in agony, as the beads of sweat on his brow plainly showed, and after utterin' them he fell into an ecstasy of sobbing and prayer, mingled with lewd and profane ' exolamations. Men turned pale with terror, ! and women shrieked, some fainted, as rising from his knees he shouted in sharp, thrilling tones, ' And now I'll shake any one in the crowd for drinks all round.' " Clearly Father Fogarty was mad — stark, starin', ravin' mad. Or was it possible that the devil still had power on earth to enter into the human frame and utter blasphemies like these. "He was led to his house by some of his sorrowing flock, and a message despatched off to Maitland, where his superior was, informing him of the sad occurrence. "Another clargyman was sint up, but Father Fogarfy grew worse. The language he used was somethin' awful to hear, and the docthor could do nothin' for him. " The heart-felt prayers of his congregation, aye, and of every other congregation, for he was well liked by all, were offered up, but in vain. " He was sinsible enough, and, poor man, knew well, too well, what he was doin'. His heart was bruk. Yes, he was possessed of a devil that would not, and could not be driven out. "But one day, as he was rampagin' as usual, talkin' about horse racin' and cock fightin', and gamblin', and all kinds of spoort, and calling for brandy smashes and gin cocktails, and other murdherin' dhrinks, sure, a sthrange thing happened. Father Fogabty's front teeth fell out. " In a moment there was a change. " Father Fogarty was Father Fogarty again. No longer the foul-mouthed, fiend ridden, gambler, the drinking, tearin', swearin' reprobate, but the humble, pious, earnest servant of God he had been before his sthrange attack. "He knew what it was. He felt what it was. It was the teeth done it. They had been made, the dintist confesses it afther, out of the dice that had belonged to Jack Adams, the most notorious gambler, blasphemer, and evil liver on the diggings, and the black soul of the licentious rowdy had, afther his death, haunted the dice, his familiar spirits during his lifetime. "At laste, if it wasn't that," concluded Host Regan, with an air of conviction, "whatwas it ? " We none of us could solve the problem, and could only confess, with Hamlet that— if the story were true — there are indeed more things in heaven and earth than even we dreamt of in our philosophy.