The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 19 August 1915, Page 3

The Storyteller

AN EYE FOR AN EVE Charles MacMahon, sub-lieutenant of the Dragoons of Clare, in the service of his Majesty of France, and presently engaged as recruiting-officer on his native heath, sighed deeply into the fold of the collar of his riding-coat. W it a year ago or a hundred or a thousand, thought he, since he left Dunkirk with its camp bustle and stir, and the gay jests and laughter of his gallant comrades In faith so it seemed. And it was but a score of short days. Yet was he young and lone; the whistle of the curlews as they ran down the wind was not joyful in the darkness overhead; and the thin soft drip of the Irish rain did not help to cheer him, as he sat on. Father Tom’s good cob, in the shadow of the fir trees at the cross-roads of Killard, this chill March dawn of 1709. And God knows there was small cause for joy in the heart of a young MacMahon of Clare in the reign of Anno the dutiful daughter. And so he sighed. Down the wind there came, swift and sharp, a woman’ shriek. With a touch of his knee MacMahon sent the cob into the middle of the road, and waited, alert, grim, the soldier. His life was in his hands. Death, he knew well —it might be shameful death—could be the only end of capture and conviction through the horde of spies who watched for such as he. Yet he did not pause to think. Death had no terror for an Irishman of the Brigade, in any case ; but when a woman shrieked on a lone road in the dim dawn of a March morning oh, well what would you? He had not long to wait. From the east there came a murmur; then a rumble; then, with a rattle and a clatter there was the swift rush of the thundering hoofs of mad fright. Through the dusk, two bright eyes of carriage-lamps swayed and swung towards him at break -neck speed. MacMahon wheeled the cob and cantered along the near lockspit away from the runaway pair; then, he shook the reins, and the gallant animal spread herself. Faith, for a moment he enjoyed it. But that shriek I and the long hill of Moreen a hundred yards ahead ! Now was the time for brain of ice and heart of fire and arm of steel. And now they were on him. One skilful touch of the left hand and he was alongside the near horse. One swift swing to the right to grip the rein — but no rein was there. Neck and neck, neck and neck, peck and neck— then the pace told on the cob. They were gaining, and death was certain for the girl. But these dragoons of Clare were horsemen—and they were Irishmen, quick of brain and quick of hand. One little check on the cob's neck, as delicate as a child’s caress, and then —to stoop and wrench, open the carriage door was the work of an instant. He leaned over and hooked his arm. The maiden understood. ‘Now!’ he shouted. She slipped into the hollow of his arm ; with the ease of lifting a dainty trinket he swung her across his saddle. At once ho dismounted and assisted her to the ground. ‘ Oh, good sir!’ she half whispered in a voice that trembled, ‘how am I to thank you? You have saved my life.’ ‘ It is nothing, madam, I pray you do not mention the matter,’ and MacMahon swept the toe of his right boot with his hat in that magnificent gesture which ho had learned from his friend, Viscount O’Grady of the King’s Guard. ‘ I trust you are not hurt. No? Then permit me.’ He took off- his riding-coat and gently placed it on the shoulder of the trembling maid. - Her protests he laughed off.with a jest; ‘ but,’ she said, ‘ my poor father, he will think me dead.’ ‘ Let me bring you to your father,’ he said gravely. But even as he spoke, down, the road came the thunder of hoofs, and two horsemen appeared from the shadows. At sight of the lady they pulled up and dis-

mounted. The first, a thick-set, middle-aged man -with a strong, kindly face, rushed forward and clasped her in his arms. ‘ Thank God ! thank God !my little :girlie,': Marjorie,’ he cried, as he kissed her forehead and hair, while she clung to him, sobbing. The second man was a groom. One glance at MacMahon was enough for him. They had played as boys together on Doughmore strand; but he made no sign. Squire Stodart wheeled around. Two hats together flourished in the salute courteous of the time. Was there a sudden glint of recognition in the Squire’s eye, or was it but a reflection from the east where now the sky was bright ? ‘ ‘ Sir.’ said he, hand outstretched, 1 I am everlastingly in your* debt. I perceive you are a stranger ' — MacMahon lowed ‘ but let me tell you that 'in these parts the name of Stodart of Carrigmore carries weight. Count me and mine at your service. May I have the pleasure of knowing to whom I owe my daughter’s life My name is MacMahon. lam a dealer, in search of a good horse’ God forgive me ’he thought, ‘ but, sure, cavalry is horse.’ ‘ MacMahon ? MacMahon ? Anything to the MacMahons— ! Yes, yes,’ suddenly producing a snuff-box, and taking a huge supply which produced a violent fit of coughing —then, ‘ to be srire, Mr. MacMahon, I can show you some in my stables that will be hard to beat. By gad ! that reminds me. Lynch, go and look after those poor brutes.’ Tim Lynch leaped into his saddle. When thirty good yards away he said to himself: ‘ Glory be to God ! Is Master Charles mad, or what the mischief is he doing here V Continued the Squire; ‘Faith, sir, ’tis a cold place to welcome a stranger here on this road. ’Tis but a short way to my house. May I have the pleasure of your company to breakfast?’ ‘ I am honored, Squire Stodart, but , believe me, business of the most pressing nature forces me to go to Dunbeg without delay.’ ‘ Well, sir, let me hope we may meet again. You are welcome any time you are passing Carrigmore. Do not forget I am your debtor.’ ' I am proud to be your creditor, sir, for such a cause.’ Two pure grey eyes set iu an aureole of golden hair smiled trustfully into his dark strong face. Wistfully she said, ‘ My life-long, life-long thanks, Mr. MacMahon.' Au revoir, I trust.’ ‘ I hope so, madam, from my heart.’ Two pistol-shots snapped, down the road Tim Lynch rod© up and touched his cap. ‘ Both?’ said the Squire. ‘ Both, sir,’ said Tim. In a moment they were gone. And she waved her hand once as he stood there bare-headed watching them. He sighed again, but not this time into the folds of the collar of his riding-coat, for just then he woke up to the fact that this useful garment was cantering towards Carrigmore on the fair shoulders of Mistress Marjorie Stodart. ‘lnside the cottage there was peace. On the open hearth the turf fire burned dimly. There was no other light, but it was enough. A neat dresser with rows of shining plates that glistened in the firelight; a deal table; a few straw chairs; a clock ; a little bookcase ; a prie-dieu, over'which was a crucifix. That was And by the hearth sat two men, talking. One in peasant dress; the other in the riding costume of the horse-dealers. They talked low ; these were times when one could not, prudently, shout in the market-place if one were recruiting officer of the Brigade or if one were a priest. The fire lit up the fine features and silver hair of Father Tom. Sad memories had this old man, who for fifty years of priesthood had devoted his life to his flock, crushed by the infamous code that held him and them little better than the beasts of the field; but there was no sadness in his voice to-night. They talked of pleasant scenes and memories in the old days before the blight of bigotry had made the land a wilderness, and its people outcasts.

, .At last the old man rose. *My child, it grows late, and you have an early start for Dunbeg; let us say the Rosary.’ There, in that little cottage, those two men—old priest and the young soldier—knelt, and they raised to heaven their hearts. In the cottage was nought but peace. They were shaking hands, when suddenly there came at the cottage door, a double knock, loud, short, authoritative. The priest waved MacMahon towards the inner room. ‘ Who is there?’ he asked in his mild, mellow voice. ‘ Open at once, in the name of the Queen,’ came a rough voice, followed by a pounding on the door. Father Tom hesitated; then, with a silent prayer, he undid the bolt. In rushed half a dozen soldiers, their muskets at the ready, bayonets fixed. Followed a young officer, sword in hand. A fine young fellow, with the stamp of breeding. His sword came up to the salute, as he gazed on the grand old man standing there, leonine, silent. ‘Pardon, reverend sir,’ he said, pardon this intrusion. My duty compels. We have information that you harbor one, Charles MacMahon, engaged in treasonable practices against our Sovereign lady the Queen. The house is surrounded. Escape is impossible. But, if you give me your word of honor as a gentleman that he is not here, I withdraw my men ’ Don’t do it, don’t do it, sir,’ yelled a cracked voice ; and from the shadows outside there darted forward a cringing, ragged figure, of evil face, hawk eye and nose; one of the famous priest-hunters— * don’t do it, sir, the wicked popish mass-monger will swear anything.’ Leisurely, the young officer stuffed the hilt of his sword full against the mouth of the intruder ; so the creature suddenly sprawled on his back, spitting blood, and curses, and teeth. ‘As I was saying,’ remarked the young officer, ‘ when I was interrupted, if you give me your word of honor ’ ‘ There is no need, 'said a grave voice at the bedroom door; * I am Charles MacMahon. What is your business with me, sir ?’ He stepped forward, head high, and that smile on his face that comes in time of peril to men of blood. The young officer’s face hardened. ‘ Then,’ said he, ‘ I arrest you, Charles MacMahon, in the name of the Queen'; and, turning to Father Tom, ‘it is my duty, reverend sir, to arrest you also.’ The old priest bowed bis head, * God’s will be done,’ said he. ‘ Let us trust in heaven. I am ready.’ ‘ And so am I,’ said MacMahon. A word of command, and fifty musket-butts rang as one on the hard ground ; another, and fifty bayonets, flashing in the cold March sunlight, were sent home with a whirr. The fifty troopers,, staring stolidly at the crowd, formed three sides of a square, of which the fourth was the front of Duubeg courthouse. The tense, anxious crowd waited and watchedand prayed. They could do nothing more, though there in that little court was to be settled that day for their loved priest and for their loved young chief, life—-or, it may be death. The prisoners were brought from the cell, and stood in the dock between armed troopers. Father Tom laid his hand protectingly on MacMahon’s shoulder; and he stood up like a soldier, looking straight in front of him at two magistrates on the bench. After formalities, the clerk read out the long charge and the young officer entered the box. Before he could be sworn there was a hustle at the door and Squire Stodart, looking hot and breathless, entered, and sat on the bench. The young officer gave formal evidence of the arrest. Neither prisoner asked him any question. There was a lull, and the prosecutor looked anxious. There were whisperings amongst his underlings, and shakes of the head, and rustlings of papers—- * Call the .next witness!’ said Squire Stodart, in his clear, strong voice. -

. ‘ V William Monro,’ cried the clerk, No answer. Again-he called, and again Silence. The sergeant bustled to the door, and bellowed over the heads of the soldiers, ‘William Monro but from that crowd,, praying from their hearts, there came no sign. t Up jumped the prosecutor, ‘ Your worships, I must ask for an adjournment. Through some extraordinary reason, my most important witness, Mr. -Monro . is absent.’ • ‘ , K * Does your case depend on— —Mr. Monro V. said Squire Stodart. Yes, your worship he can prove the charges up to the hilt.’ K Do you mean William Monro, the sneaking rascal who has been going about the country for the last year hunting down peaceful men, and holy men, like dogs?’ ‘ Well, if , your worship likes to put it that way, that is the man I mean.’ ;. ‘Then,’ said the Squire, ‘I can tell you that William Monro will never again prove anything up to the hilt this side of doom. With my own eyes I saw him lying dead of a broken neck in the last half hour. By some means he got into the loft above one of my stables. Disturbed by the arrival of my groom, he jumped from the loft, 'fell on his head and, as I said, broke his neck. No doubt the coroner will inquire fully into the matter, and my groom and myself will have great pleasure in giving evidence. Have you any other witnesses? No! Then I see nothing to detain us here.’ A hurried whisper followed amongst the three magistrates, and then the senior announced—- ‘ The prisoners are discharged.’ MacMahon never moved a muscle, but Father Tom raised his hands and muttered a prayer. Maybe that good man included a Pater and Ave for the wretch who was gone. Who knows? Down from the bench came Squire Stodart, and wrung Father Tom’s hand. He did not make any sign of recognition to MacMahon. ‘Come, Father Tom,’ he said, ‘ the carriage is waiting. You and your friend are coming to lunch with me.’ The sergeant stepped forward, and touched MacMahon on the shoulder. * You must remain,’ he said, as a suspected person.’ ‘ Suspected be hanged,’ shouted the Squire—‘l beg your pardon, Father Tom; this gentleman is in my'custody and there he remains.’ The three walked out into the sunshine. For a moment there was a hush : and then—such an Irish cheer rang, such a yell of triumph and joy and courage and hope, as has been heard—aye—hundreds of times all over, the world, from the throats of Ireland’s sons when the fierce gladness of battle has roused them. No horses drew the carriage that day to the Squire’s door. Men and women, and even the little ones, lent willing arms. In front rode the Squire, on his black hunter, the proudest man in Clare. At the door Marjorie was waiting, and her eyes were shining. MacMahon bowed low over her hand, and she did not shrink when he kissed it. Father Tom laid his hand on her head, and she smiled bravely at him. ‘Thank God ! Father Tom,’ said she, * thank God !’ ‘Thank God, my child,’ said he; but his voice was broken; and' in his eyes there was a troubled look. When they entered he faced his host. ‘ Squire Stodart,’ said he, placing both his hands on the other’s shoulders and looking him square in the face, ‘ Squire, did that man die by accident, or ’ ‘I don’t know,’ said the Squire; ‘ask Tim Lynch. He was there. But this I do know that it is not by accident you would die on the gallows of Ennis town if that fiend had reached Dunbeg Courthouse this day—not to mention your friend.’ . Father Tom fell on his knees. He bowed his head in his hands. It was not a merry meal. It could not be : but the two needed refreshment and cheer after what they had gone through; and both they got. ‘ And now,’ said -the Squire at its conclusion.

Father Tom, you are a. free man to-day as you were yesterday, and heaven knows that’s not saying much ; but as for you, my young friend—l told you , one© ther«r were good horses in my stable. I tell you so now again; if you are wise you will take the best of them after dark and make for the north of the county where the faces of the MacMhhons are not so well known. Tim will select the horse for you, and you are welcome to it ’ That night by the light of a stable lantern Tim Lynch led out the grand black hunter. ‘ Tell me,’ said Charles before he mounted, ‘ did you kill Monro?’ No, Master Charles, fate did. We had him bound hand and foot in the loft. The master and myself did it. I came to have a look at him in the morning. The scoundrel had some way cut the cords on his feet. I made a grab at him to tie him again and whatever way it happened the cord hanging from his leg tripped him, and between that and the shove 1 gave him to grab him he fell over backwards off the loft and, begannies, he broke his neckbad luck from him.’ ‘ I see,’ said Charles. ‘ Ayeh wisha, Master Charles, isn’t it worse to think of yourself with your neck stretched. As for him, he has only got his due. Sure ’tis only cheating the hangman.’ Fond was the parting between those two, who as little boys had played together. ‘ God speed you,’ said poor Tim, ‘ and keep you safe, and His Holy Mother,’ and he kissed MacMahon’s hand over and over, while his tears dropped full and hot. Well he realised what he had done to save the two lives. ‘ God speed you!’ And he stood at the gate looking into the darkness long after the last hoof-beats had died away. But over the crest of the hill, where the firs shut out the last view of the house, MacMahon, thinking of the last whispered words of Marjorie, and taking a long, long look at the lighted windowssighed deeply into the folds of the collar of his riding-coat. Catholic Bulletin.