CHAPTER IV.
ESCAPE FROM CAPTIVITY.
Nothing in Ireland is supposed to test a man’s honesty so severely as a bog lying contiguous to his own land. “If a man escape with honor as a trustee, try him with a bit of bog,” is an Irish proverb. This temptation had come in Welsh’s way when a sub-agent. He had robbed the Brontës of their farm, why should he hesitate to add a slice of bog to it? The owner was known as an objectionable tenant who had dared to vote contrary to his landlord, and there was not likely to be any trouble, for the bog was of little use to anybody, all of the turf having been removed, leaving only a swamp covered with star-grass, and tenanted by water-hen, coots and snipe.
The agent agreed to let Welsh have his neighbor’s bog for a consideration. Welsh paid the sum demanded, but the tenant, being a cantankerous person, did not fall in pleasantly with this arrangement. Difficulties were raised. The plundering of the Brontës had been watched by their neighbors with sullen indignation, but, when it became known that the sub-agent was about to grasp the property of another farmer, the smouldering fire burst into a conflagration. At this crisis, the agent was murdered, and Welsh’s house was burnt to the ground.
The ownership of the bog now remained for a long time in a doubtful condition. Welsh lost his official position, and for years the new agent gave promises to both claimants, and accepted presents from both. The landlord would of course decide the matter upon his return to Ireland, but, in the meantime, both paid rent for the bog and then fought for the useless star-grass.
Welsh maintained his claim until one day, after many hot words with the owner, blows ensued, and the trespasser was badly beaten. He called on Hugh, who was then a large boy of fifteen, for help; but he called in vain, for Hugh had overhead a full recital of his uncle’s crimes before the battle began. He heard him accused to his teeth of murdering old Brontë for his money, and of betraying his daughter in order to rob the family of the estate. The misery he had brought to many homes was comprehensively set forth; and Hugh believed his uncle to be absolutely in the wrong in his attempt to take possession of his neighbor’s property, and deserving of the beating he received. Besides, this neighbor had always treated Hugh kindly, and had frequently shared with him his collation of bread and milk in the fields in the afternoon.
This battle led to important issues. Welsh was carried home bleeding by Gallagher and Hugh, and put to bed. On the following morning he sent for Hugh, and in a choking passion demanded why he had not helped him in the fight. Hugh replied that he considered his uncle in the wrong and any assistance unfair. Inasmuch as Welsh could not get out of bed to chastise him, the boy seized his long-deferred opportunity, and pleaded his case with a courage that surprised himself. He told his uncle that he was a false and cruel bully, who thoroughly merited a beating at the hands of the man he had tried to rob, and, carried away by his rising passion, he informed him that he knew he was not a true Brontë, but a gutter-monster, who had stolen the name, defiantly adding that he hoped before long to avenge his ancestors for the desecration of their name by thrashing him himself.
Having delivered this speech Hugh realized that another crisis in his life had arrived. Even the chaff bed in the half-roofed barn would now cease for him. His uncle’s house was no longer childless. A son and heir had appeared upon the scene a twelve-month before, and Hugh knew that he had nothing except harsh treatment to expect in the future. He could not even hope, in the event of his uncle’s death, to inherit the old Brontë home and restore its fallen fortunes, for a legal heir was now in full possession. His uncle had declared his intention to punish him once 287 for all, as soon as he got well, and a severe beating was his immediate prospect.
In a few days Welsh was out of bed and able to move about, his head wrapped in bandages and his two eyes in mourning. Hugh saw that the time had now come for him to shift for himself. He first resolved to fight his uncle, but wisely concluded that, even if victorious, this would only make his position in the house more unendurable. Then he resolved on flight, but how could he fly? If followed and brought back, his state with his uncle would be worse than ever. Besides, he was almost naked, for the few rags that hung around him left his body visible at many points.
Hugh was now in a state of rebellion, and in his desperation he went to his uncle’s enemy. He told this chastiser the full tale of his sorrows, and found him a sympathizing and resourceful ally.
The day on which Hugh was to get his great beating arrived. Everybody except Gallagher awaited it in gloomy silence. Even Keeper seemed to know what was coming. Welsh had provided himself with a stout hazel rod which he playfully called “the tickler.” Aunt Mary’s eyes were, as usual, red with weeping. The chastisement was to be administered when the cattle were brought home at midday.
Hugh and Gallagher spent that morning weeding in a field of oats in a remote corner of the farm. Hugh was silent, but Gallagher passed the whole morning in jeers, and taunts, and mockery.
As the hour arrived for Hugh to go for the cows, Gallagher surpassed all previous brutality by telling Hugh that he had once been his mother’s lover. He was proceeding to develop this false and cruel tale when Hugh, stung to the quick, and blind with passion, sprang upon his mother’s defamer like a tiger. There was a short fierce struggle, and Hugh had his tormentor on the ground beating his face into a jelly, while Keeper was engaged in tearing the ruffian’s clothes to shreds.
Hugh’s fury cooled when Gallagher no longer resisted. Throwing his “thistle-hook” on top of the prostrate form, he walked into the house. He bade his aunt, who was baking bread, good-by, kissed the baby, and then left to bring home the cattle to be milked. Keeper, who had laid aside his melancholy during the encounter with Gallagher, responded to his master’s whistle by barking and gambolling as if to keep up his spirits. As Hugh turned for a last look at the old Brontë home, he saw Gallagher approaching Welsh, who was waiting near the cow-shed, evidently enjoying the pleasures of the imagination.
The cattle were grazing on the banks of the Boyne, near the spot where a wing of William’s army crossed on that era-making day in 1690. Hugh proceeded to the river and divested himself of his rags, preparatory to a plunge, as was his wont. He told Keeper to lie down upon his heap of tattered garments; then throwing himself down naked beside his faithful friend, he took him in his arms, kissed him again and again, and, starting up with a sob, plunged headlong into the river.
Keeper could not see his master enter the river, nor mark the direction in which he had gone, owing to a little ridge. It was a swim for life. The current soon carried him opposite the farm of his uncle’s enemy, who awaited his approach in a clump of willows by the water’s edge. He had brought with him an improvised suit of clothes to further the boy’s escape. The pockets of the coat were stuffed with oat-bread, and there were a few pence in the pockets of the trousers. Hugh hurried on these garments, which were much too large for him, and thrust his feet, the first time for seven years, into a pair of boots. With a heart full of gratitude, and a final squeeze of the hand, unaccompanied by words from either, Hugh Brontë started on his race for life and freedom.
With buoyant spirits Hugh sped on the road to Dunleer, where he did not pause, and continuing his flight struck straight for Castlebellingham. He did not know where the road led to, nor whither he was going, but he believed there was a city of refuge ahead, and 288 his pace was quickened by the fear of the avenger at his heels.
As he approached Castlebellingham he heard a car coming behind him, so he hid behind a fence until it had passed. It was filled with policemen, but Welsh was not on the car. He reached Dundalk at an early hour, and after a short sleep in a hay-rick, continued his journey, not by the public road, but eastward through level fields where now runs the Dundalk and Greenore railway. He spent his last copper in a small public house for a little food, and then started for Carlingford, which the publican had told him was an important town behind the mountain. After a couple of hours of wandering by the shore, he turned inland, and came upon lime-kilns at a place called Mount Pleasant, or Faquahart. These kilns were known as Swift McNeil’s, and people came great distances to purchase lime for agricultural and building purposes.
When Hugh arrived, there were thirty or forty carts from Down, Armagh, and Louth, waiting for their loads, and there were not enough hands to keep up the supply. Limestone had to be quarried, wheeled to the kilns, then broken, and thrown in at the top with layers of coal. After burning for a time the lime was drawn out from the eye of the kiln into shallow barrels, and emptied into carts, the price being so much per barrel.
Here Hugh Brontë found his first job, and regular remuneration for his free labor. In a short time he had earned enough money to provide himself with a complete suit of clothes. His wages more than supplied his wants, and he had a great deal to spare for personal adornment. Being steady, and better dressed than the other workers, he was soon advanced to the responsible position of overseer.
Hugh became a favorite with purchasers and employers. Among the regular customers were the Todds and McAllisters of Ballynaskeagh and Glascar, in County Down. Their servants were often accompanied by a youth named McGlory, who drove his own cart.
McGlory and Brontë, who were about the same age, resembled each other in the fiery color of their hair. They became great friends, and it was arranged that Brontë should visit McGlory in County Down during the Christmas holidays. This visit was fraught with important consequences for Hugh, and marked an epoch in his eventful career.
Editor’s Announcement.—In the September number of McClure’s Magazine will be told the romantic story of Hugh Brontë’s courtship, and his elopement with Alice McGlory upon the very day appointed by her family for her marriage with Joe Burns.
Transcribers Note
Table of Contents and Illustration List added.