“‘Loyal!’ repeated the hero of Oulard, ‘no, in troth, for it is not in my grain; and faith, I believe if I was paid for it, these stripes on my back would not let me. Oh no, the crows will get white feathers before Denis Howlan will forgive the Orangemen—bad luck to them.’
“‘I recollect,’ returned the Exile, ‘a part of your story, but the apprehensions I was under when I first heard it, prevented me from attending to the whole. Was not your father murdered?’
“‘Murdherd!’ repeated Howlan; ‘ay, murdherd over and over again; and wasn’t I murdherd myself? But,’ he continued, ‘I’ll just tell it all here to you both.’ Then, drawing his stool close to where we sat, he proceeded:—
“‘My father, (Lord be marciful to his sowl in glory!) kept a snug little farm on the righthand side of the road that goes from Gorey to Ferns; and, though I say it, there was not a more sasty man in the county of Wexford. I, myself, was the youngest of three sons and two daughters, and the devil a more genteeler family attended Mass of a Sunday than Paddy Howlan’s. My two brothers were able strapping fellows, and faith, there were worse boys in the parish than myself. You may be sure we were real Crappies, and why but we should for our religion and country?
“‘The winter before the Rebellion, the Yeo’s[[2]] were out every night, and dreadful work they made of it—burning, whipping, and shooting.—A poor Catholic couldn’t live at all at all; and, as we expected that they would give us a call; we hid our pikes and guns in the ditches, and, to be sure, appeared as innocent as lambs. I shall never forget the 15th of November; no, never, while there is a drop of Irish blood in my soul; for, when I think of it, my brain boils, and my very flesh creeps, as if there was a blister all over me. Well, as I was saying, on the 15th of November, I was coming home from Enniscorthy market; and being after taking a glass of the creature with one friend or another, I was pretty merry, and to make the road light, I was singing ‘The Victim of Tyranny,’ and the ould mare a-self was so pleased with the tune, that she kept the track as straight as a die, though the night was as dark as pitch.
“‘Just as I came to the top of the boughareen, that led down to our house, a fellow seized my beast by the halter, and while you’d be looking round you, a score of bayonets was ready to pop into poor Denis. “Hallo!” said I, “what’s this?” “You Popish rebel,” cried the officer, for it was a party of the North Cork, “what song is that you were singing?”
“Och, nothing at all,” said I, “only new words to an ould tune.”
“Ah! then, by ——,” said he, “you shall soon sing another tune, unless you tell us of all the people you know to be United Irishmen.”
“Faith, and that’s what I can soon do,” says I, “for I know nobody.” The word wasn’t well out of my mouth, when he ran his sword into my arm, saying, “That’s a tickler to help your memory.” “Thank your honour,” says I, “but as ye are not Yeo’s, I hope you will act decent, and let a poor boy pass. My name is Howlan, and never did any man an injury.”—“Howlan!” cried the officer, “you are the very man we want. Have you not two brothers?” “Ay, and a father too,” I answered, quite calmly, though I was in a terrible pickle, with the blood streaming down my arm.
“‘I was then bid to drive down to my father’s house, and they all kept quite close to me. The family were all in bed, and I, foolish enough, called up my poor father, then seventy years of age, and my two brothers. They came out into the lawn in their shirts, for they were so frightened they forgot to put on their clothes, and if they hadn’t, they could not, for want of time.