CHAPTER XVII. THE ROBBERY OF TIM MALEY.
“My father, the deacon, wrought him his first hose. Odd, I’m thinking deacon Threeplie, the rape-spinner, will twist him his last cravat. Ay, ay, puir Robin is in a fair way o’ being hanged.”—Rob Roy.
After the “sweet sorrow” of parting with the cantatrice, the fosterer and his companion, as if striving to leave care behind, pushed forward vigorously on the road; and at sunset, the steeple of the village where they had determined to remain for the night, was visible from the high ground they were crossing. Never were fellow-travellers in more opposite moods; Mark Antony, melancholy as “a lover’s lute”—the ratcatcher,
“Brisk as a bee, light as a fairy.”
And yet the matter might have been easily accounted for—the one had parted with a mistress—no wonder, therefore, that he, poor fellow, was sad enough; the other was levanting from a wife—consequently he was merry, “and small blame to him,” as they say in Ireland.
“Well, upon my conscience, Mark, astore,” * said Shemus Rhua, breaking a silence of five minutes, “ye’re a pleasant companion this evening, if a man didn’t care what he said.”
* Anglice—darling.
The fosterer answered with a sigh.
“Why,” continued the ratcatcher, “were you married, like myself, you couldn’t be much more miserable. Arrah! what the plague has come over ye, man? Can’t ye take things asy like me? Hav’n’t I left an affectionate wife behind?—and ye see I bear it like a Christian. I was once in love myself, and, as the sergeant’s song goes, found nothing for it but whisky. So, there’s a bridge, and here’s the cruiskeeine; we’ll sit down upon the wall for a while, take a drop to kill grief, and just inquire afterwards, where the devil we are going to.”
As he spoke, the worthy captain unclosed his goat-skin knapsack—produced a flask and capacious drinking-cup, supplied the latter sparingly from the stream, completing it amply from the cruiskeeine—and after swallowing the larger moiety himself, he transferred “love’s panacea” to his desponding comrade.
“That’s the thing,” exclaimed Shemus Rhua, as the fosterer emptied the horn; “and now, Mr. O’Toole, will you tell me where I’m bound for?”
“Upon my soul,” returned the fosterer, “I don’t know where I’m going to myself—nor do I care.”
“There’s two of us so,” observed the captain.
“I think I’ll head towards England,” said the fosterer.
“Well,” returned the captain, “I’ll go there too.”
“Push on to London afterwards, and try an Irishman’s luck.5,
“Right,” exclaimed the ratcatcher; “and I’ll stick to you like a bur.”
“But what could you do there, copteeine?’
“Ask me rather what could I not do! Are there any brats, rats, pointers, or old women to be found?”
“Enough of all, no doubt, Master Shemus.”
“Then leave Shemus Rhua alone to make out life.”
“‘Well, captain, if you will venture, we’ll share the purse while it holds a shilling—and when the last is gone—why, it’s only mounting the cockade.”
“For a gentleman like me,” returned the ratcatcher with a smile, “who had the honour to hold a commission, it would be beneath him to enlist; but, mona-sin-dhoul! wherever you go, Mark, I’ll follow like your shadow.”
“Come along,” said the fosterer, “night is falling, and the road, they say, is unsafe after dark. They robbed the mail last week.”
“They’ll not rob us,” returned the ratcatcher. “‘Where hard blows and light purses are only to be got, people who understand their business, never trouble themselves with such customers.”
“Well, Shemus, you know best; for you’re foully belied, if there was a handier gentleman out in ninety-eight.”
“I never robbed, if robbing you can call it,” returned the captain, “but twice; and if every thing I did besides sate as light upon my conscience, the devil a knee I need crook to Father McShane.”
“And who did you rob?” inquired the ratcatcher’s companion.
“A miser, and the king-God bless his majesty! I should have spared him-for he’s a daeent ould gentleman, or my head would have been on a spike at Castlebar!” *
“Well, Shemus, let us hear both exploits.”
“When I robbed the king, it was only taking saddle-bags from an honest tax-gatherer, whom I chanced to meet ‘accidentally on purpose’ one winter’s evening at the deer-park wall of Cloghanteeley—The man was drunk, the horse tired, and I took care of the silver—only that, forgetting the owner’s name, I never knew where to return it afterwards.”
“So much for the king,” observed the fosterer; “and now, gallant captain, for the miser.”
“I’ll tell ye that,” replied the ratcatcher.
“It was late in the winter, the year after the French, ** and Christmas Eve, into the bargain. Well, there was to be a cake *** at Croneeinbeg and as I was then fond of a dance, I set out after dark for the village. Before I got half-way, who should I meet but Mary Connor. She was the natest girl within thirty miles, and had been only married a bare fortnight. I heard her sob as I came up, and when I bid her the time of the day, she couldn’t answer, the poor cratur, for the grief was fairly choking her. ‘Death an’ nous,’ says I, ‘Mary darling, has any thing happened to yourself or the man that owns ye?’
“‘Nothing,’ says she, ‘copteeine avourneeine, **** only we’re both fairly ruined.’ ‘Ruined?’ said I. ‘Och hone! it’s God’s truth,’ says she-and between tears and sobs the poor girl managed to tell me her misfortune.”
* A disgusting penalty then attached to treason.
** In Connaught, for many years after Humbert’s descent upon
the coast of Mayo, events were dated from that occurrence.
*** At village dances, a cake is generally provided by the
owner of the house, which the most liberal gallant
purchases, and presents to his mistress.
**** “Captain darling.”
“‘Copteeine,’ says she, ‘ye know Tim Maley of Ramore?’ ‘Troth, and I do,’ says I, ‘and I know nothing good of the same lad—an infarnal ould skin-flint, who would rob his own father if he could. Whenever I want a sheep, I always give him the preference, and choose one that has his brand upon it.’ ‘May the Lord reward ye,’ says she, ‘for so doing, Well, copteeine, for two years he has been comin’ about our place, and when the times got bad, and my father and my husband were druv’ for rent, they borrowed money at gompeein * from the miser. Well, they thought to pay it, with and with, ** but the crippawn *** seized the cattle, and the grate snow kilt the sheep, and the devil a scurrick could they make up between them for the ould sinner, when their note fell due. Well, ye know that Pat and I were promised for two years, but as the world went hard against us, we were afeard to get married. On Monday come three weeks, we were sittin’ round the fire, heavy-hearted enough, when the latch was lifted softly. I thought it was Pat, but who should it be but ould Maloy. In he comes, coughing, with his “God save all here,” and draws a stool to the fire. “Ye’r kindly weleome,” says my father. “I hope so,” says the miser, “for I am come for at laste a part of the money that you and Pat Grady, (manin’ my husband,) are due me.” My poor father turned pale as a cloth. “Mister Maley,” says he, mistering the ould ruffin, to plase him ye know; “you’ve heard of our loss—may the Lord look down upon us!” The miser gave a cough, “An’ am I,” says he, “to get nather less or more of what I lent ye?” My poor father gave a groan. “Mary,” says the ould divil to me, “put the boult in the door, and come here and sit beside me.” Well, copteeine, my heart grew cold, an’ I don’t know why the fear came over me so, but I did what he desired me, and came and sate down, but with my father betune us. “Well,” says be, “you’re asking time, Phil Connor, an’ may be, I might give it to ye—ay, an’ maybe I’ll do more—for I’ll make Mary my lawful wife, and forgive ye the debt along with it.” The light left my eyes as he said so; and when my poor father looked over at me so heart-broken, I thought I would have dropped. “What do ye say to the offer?” said ould Maley. “Och hone!” says my father, “it’s a grate honour ye do my little girl; but, Mister Maley, dear, ye’r too ould for her.” The miser bit his lip; “An’ do ye refuse me for a son-in-law?” says he, in a rage. “Let me just talk to the gentleman, father darlin’,” says I, for I knew we were in the ould villain’s power, and I thought that I might sofen him. My father left the cabin, ould Maley pulled in his stool, took me by the hand, and begun palaverin’ me, thinkin’ I would consint; “And now, Mary,” says he, “what have ye to say? Take me, or lave me, as ye like it.”
“Mister Maley,” I said, “maybe I may offind ye; but if I don’t spake the truth, I’ll be guilty before God. I love another dearly, and niver could like you; and think of the sin, and shame, and sorrow, it would cause, if I desarted him because he’s poor, and married you because ye’r rich. Look out for some woman of your own years, for ye’ll niver be happy with a girl.” He hardly waited to the end, but jumped upon his legs, and swarin’ he would lave us without a cloot, **** and beggar us root and branch, he flung out of the cabin like a madman.
* An Irish term for usurious interest.
** Anglicè—by instalments.
*** A fatal disease to which the black cattle of mountain
districts are frequently exposed
**** Anglicè—a head of cattle.
“‘Well, copteeine, when Pat came afterwards, and heard the story, he cursed, and I cried, till, in sheer despair, we determined to marry at once—and, the Lord forgive us! we done it out of the face, and ran away next morning.
“‘Well, we thought that God would stand our friend, and that, bad as the ould miser was, sure he wouldn’t ruin, out and out, two poor craturs that had just got married; but a week showed that Maley—bad luck attind him!—was bent on our destruction. One night, and unknownst to us, every four-footed baste my father or my husband owned, was driven to the pound, and yesterday they were canted for anything they would bring. Poor Pat returned three hours ago almost broken-hearted, and all I had to offer my weary husband was a dry potatoe.’ Poor girl! she burst into a flood of tears, and every sob she gave, I laid it heavy on my soul, ather to right her, or revenge her.
“‘Well, copteeine,’ she went on, ‘every cloot was sould but one milch-cow that fell lame upon the road: I looked at my husband’s sorry dinner—and, for his sake, I determined to humble myself to that wicked ould man, and beg from him the lame cow. Off I set, unknownst to Pat, took the short cut across the fields, and in an hour reached Maley’s. He looked at me as I entered the cabin, and the grin of hell was on his face. Well, he spoke me fairly at first; “Come in, astore,” he said, ladin’ me into the inside room. Feaks, I thought he was going to be kind at last; but och! copteeine, it was only mockery he meant after all. “An’ so ye want the lame cow?” says he, beginnin’ the conversation. “Yis, Mister Maley,” says I, “if it’s agreeable to ye; I would ask it as a favour.”
“Humph!” says he, pullin’ out a big key that was fastened to his waistcoat with a string, and opening a black oak chest that was standin’ at the foot of the bed. “Do you see that bag, Mary?” says he, pointin’ to a blue one. “I do, sir,” says I. “Well, in that I brought home the price of the cattle. Do ye see that other striped one?” says he. I told him that I did. “Well, that’s the interest of what I lent the squire,” and three or four other gentlemen he named. “Now, Mary Connor,” says he, shuttin’ down the lid and lockin’ the chest again, “if sixpence would save you from starvin’, and Pat Grady from a jail, be this book,” and he kissed the key, “I wouldn’t give it if you were on the gallows.” I rushed out from the ould villain’s sight. “Stop,” he cried, shoutin’ from the windy; “as soon as the lame cow can walk, she’ll go where the others went yesterday. There’s a cake, I hear, the night at Croneeinbeg.—You’ll be dancin’ there, I think—ye know the heel’s light, where the heart’s merry—isn’t it, Mary Connor?” and till I was out of bearin’, that fiend’s laugh pierced me to the soul.’
“Well, Mark, I had made up my mind, before the poor girl had done speakin.’ ‘Mary,’ says I ‘the ould monster shall tell truth for once. Go home—dress yourself in your best—you’ll be my partner to-night at Croneeinbeg—ay, and, by Heaven! there sha’n’t be a lighter foot upon the floor, nor a merrier heart lavin’ the dance-house than your own, Mary Connor!’
“She stared—but I pressed lier to do what I wished, and she promised it. I waited till she was out of sight, and then jogged quietly on towards the place wore Maley lived.
“When I got within sight of the house, I thought it rather too early to pay a visit to the miser, and steppin’ into a quarry, sate down to let another hour pass. Maley knew me well; but as I had a crape in my pocket, I determined to disguise myself, pass for Johnny Gibbons, * and give him the credit of the job. Presently I heard footstep on the road, and up came three men. They did not see me, but I heard them talkin’. One of them was Maley’s boy, and he was tellin’ his companions how nicely he had given his master the slip, and stole away without his knowin’ it. ‘If the cows brake loose,’ says he, the ‘divil a man-body’s about the place to tie them.’ Oh, ho! thought I to myself, sorrow a better evening I could have chosen to visit ye, Mister Maley. So when the boys were out of bearin’, I rose up, and reached the miser’s without meetin’ a living soul.
“I peeped quietly through the windy, an’ there was sittin’ the ould villin two-double over a few coals upon the hearth—for he begrudged himself a dacent fire—and two women were spinnin’ in the corner. A dog that came out of the barn knew me to be strange, and set up the bark.—‘What’s that Cusdhu’s ** growlin’ at?’ said ould Maley, sharply—‘Go out, Brideeine, and see.’ I lifts the latch, and quietly steps in. ‘There’s no occasion, Mister Maley,’ says I. ‘It’s an ould friend who was passin’ the road, and dropped in to ask ye how ye were.’ The women gave a squall, and I thought the miser would have dropped out of the chair where he was sittin.’ ‘Girls,’ says I, ‘I’ll stand no nonsense. Ye have heard of Johnny Gibbons, I suppose.’ Both dropt upon their knees, and Maley began to cross himself.—‘Up with ye,’ says I. ‘Go into that room, and if ather you brathe a whisper that would waken the cat, I’ll drive a ball thro’ ach o’ye.”
[Original]
“The divil a delay they made; but away they stole, and closed the door after them. Well, I laid the gun upon the dresser, drew a stool, an’ sits down fornent the miser. ‘Arrah, bad luck attend ye for an ould thief,’ says I; ‘hav’n’t ye the manners to ask a man who has come ten miles to see ye, whether he has a mouth or not?’ ‘Oh! Mister Gibbons, jewel, it was all a forget on my part. There’s a bottle of licker in the cupboard.’ ‘An’ the curse of Cromwell on ye!’ says I; ‘de ye think it’s me that’s goin’ to attend myself?—Brideeine—tell the ould woman to go to bed, an’ come out an’ wait upon your betters,—come out, I say—or maybe yeer waitin’ for me to fetch ye?’ Out she comes, shakin’ like a dog in a wet sack, brings the whisky, and fills a glass. ‘Now, light a dacent candle—keep your rush-light for other company—an’ be off with ye. Here’s yeer health, Mister Maley,’ says I; ‘the divil a better poteeine crossed my lips this twelvemonth. An’ now for bisnis. Step down to the room with me, if ye plase.’ ‘Arrah,’ says he, ‘what de ye want there?’ I niver answered him, but took out a pistol carelessly from my coat pocket, opened the pan, shook the primin’, and looked at the flint. ‘Christ stan’ between us an’ harm! what are ye about?’ says he. ‘Nothing,’ says I; ‘only that I always see if the tools are in proper order before they’r wanted.
* A sanguinary scoundrel, hanged after the Irish
rebellion, whose name is still a terror to the peasantry.
** Cusdhu, literally blackfoot, although many a white-footed
cur is so called—the Irish peasantry considering that name
a lucky one.
Come along.’ “Well, he followed me like a spaniel—in we goes to the room—and in a moment I spied the black oak chest. ‘Where’s the key of this?’ says I. ‘God sees it’s lost since the fair of Ballyhain, and that’s a fortnight come Saturday,’ said the ould miser. ‘Bad luck to the liars,’ says I. ‘Wouldn’t it be a quare thing, now, if I could find it?’ With that I gives his waistcoat a rug, and out drops the key danglin’ to a bit of twine. The moment I put it in the chest, Maley roared ‘Murder!’ an’ threw himself across the lid. I lifted him by the neck as ye would lift a cur—flung him on the bed—tied him hand an’ foot with a hank of yarn—and stuffed an ould stockin’ in his mouth. ‘Lie quiet there,’ says I. ‘I’ll not detain ye long; for all I want here is a blue bag, an’ a striped one.’ The ould divil struv to shout, but the stockin’ smothered his voice, an’ the noise he made was so droll, that I couldn’t help laughin’ till I was tired again. Well, sure enough there were the bags, just as Mary Connor had tould me. I put them in the pockets of my cota more *—took another hank, tied Maley to the bedpost—bid him a tinder good night—desired the women on peril of their lives to lie still till mornin’—walked quietly out of the house, and locked the door after me.
“Well, off I goes straight to Croneeinbeg—steps into the dance-house, an’ salutes the company with a ‘God save all here.’ Divil a merrier set ye iver looked at, but two—an’ they were sittin’ in the corner. It was poor Grady an’ his wife—an’, pon my soul! there was such sorrow on their pale faces, that an enemy would have pitied them.
“‘I want ye, Pat, says I.’ Up he gets, an’ we stept out together, and walked five or six perches from the house. ‘Pat, what’s the matter with ye, man?’ ‘Ohone, copteeine; ye know I’m ruined,’ says he. I wouldn’t mind it for myself, but—my poor Mary’—an’ he fairly began to cry. ‘Arrah!’ says I, ‘have done, man. De ye remember the night before Garlick Sunday?’ ‘No,’ says he. ‘Then, Pat Grady, I do. Ye hid me, when the highlanmen had run me to a stan’-still—and, with an hundred pound upon my head, saved me when I thought none but God could deliver me from certain death. In that bag you’ll find some money—your debt to Maley is paid—and there’s a trifle to begin the world with. Go off. Hide it ‘till ye want it; burn the bag; an’ now, you and I, Pat, have cleared scores; an’ if ten pound will do it, the cake shall be Mary Connor’s.’ ‘Oh! copteeine, jewel, let me but whisper to Mary our good luck;’ and in the poor fellow run, to spake comfort to the prettiest girl in the province.
“In a few minutes I returned to the dance. I looked at Mary Connor. The rose had come back again to her cheek, and at her bright black eye ye could have lighted a dhudeeine. ‘The floor!’ says I—and in a minute it was clear. I flung a dollar to the fiddler. ‘Now, bad luck to ye, play yir best, an’ up with—Apples for ladies and ladin’ out Mary Connor, the divil a better jig was danced for a month of Sundays.
* Cota more—Anglicè, great coat.
** The name of a favourite contredanse, exceedingly
fashionable in Connemara.
“‘Mary,’ says I, as I pressed her hand at partin, ‘didn’t I tell truth, my darlin’, when I said, that light as yir foot might be, the heart should be lighter still?’ The tears—but they were tears of joy—came stramin’ down her cheeks. I kissed them away—took up my gun—bid the company good night—and before morning dawned, or the ould miser was unbound, I was across the Killeries and into Connemara; an’ the best of it is, that, to this blessed day, that robbery is left on Johnny Gibbons. And now, Mark, I ask you, upon the nick of yir conscience, was there any harm in returnin’ the blue-bag to the right owner, and keepin’ the stripped one myself?’
“Under such circumstances, Shemus Rhua,” replied the fosterer, “I’m ready to turn robber when you like it. But here we are at the Four Alls; and, faith, I hope, like a singed cat, it will prove better than it looks.”
Indeed, in its external appearance, the village inn had nothing to excite the expectations of a traveller. The windows were mostly without glass; the earthen floor broken into ruts, all of which appeared recipients for dirty water; while the ceiling was blackened with soot, and the walls curtained with cobwebs. The landlord, looked a sot—his helpmate, the epitome of every thing unclean. The ratcatcher pronounced it “a place not fit to lodge a dacent dog in,” while Mark Antony, remembering that hostelrie, where he had found “the warmest welcome,” drew a mental contrast between both, and thought with a sigh upon his rejected innamorata—the lady of the Cock and Punchbowl.
