“Oh, sorra one of me knows anythin’ except what I’ve heerd from me father. But I oft heerd him say that he was tould, that it was said, that in the Frinch invasion that didn’t come off undher Gineral Humbert, whin the attimpt was over an’ all hope was gone, the English sodgers made sure of great prize-money whin they should git hould of the threasure chist. For it was known that there was much money goin’ an’ that they had brought a lot more than iver they wanted for pay and expinses in ordher to help to bribe some of the people that was houldin’ off to be bought by wan side or the other—if they couldn’t manage to git bought be both. But sure enough they wor all sould, bad cess to thim! and the divil a bit of money could they lay their hands on at all.”
Here the old man took a pull at his jug of punch, with so transparent a wish to be further interrogated that a smile flashed round the company. One of the old crones remarked, in an audible sotto voce:—
“Musha! But Bat is the cute story-teller intirely. Ye have to dhrag it out iv him! Go on, Bat! Go on! Tell us what become iv the money.”
“Oh, what become iv the money? So ye would like to hear! Well, I’ll tell ye.—Just one more fill of the jug, Mrs. Kelligan, as the gintleman wishes to know all about it.—Well! they did say that the officer what had charge of the money got well away with some five or six others. The chist was a heavy wan—an iron chist bang full up iv goold! Oh, my! but it was fine! A big chist—that high, an’ as long as the table, an’ full up to the led wid goolden money an’ paper money, an’ divil a piece of white money in it at all! All goold, every pound note iv it.”
He paused, and glanced anxiously at Mrs. Kelligan, who was engaged in the new brew.
“Not too much wather if ye love me, Katty. You know me wakeness!—Well, they do say that it tuk hard work to lift the chist into the boat; an’ thin they put in a gun carriage to carry it on, an’ tuk out two horses, an’ whin the shmoke was all round an’ the darkness of night was on they got on shore, an’ made away down South from where the landin’ was made at Killala. But, anyhow, they say that none of them was ever heerd of agin. But they was thraced through Ardnaree an’ Lough Conn, an’ through Castlebar Lake an’ Lough Carra, an’ through Lough Mask an’ Lough Corrib. But they niver kem out through Galway, for the river was watched for thim day an’ night be the sodgers; and how they got along God knows! for ’twas said they suffered quare hardships. They tuk the chist an’ the gun carriage an’ the horses in the boat, an’ whin they couldn’t go no further they dhragged the boat over the land to the next lake, an’ so on. Sure one dhry sayson, when the wathers iv Corrib was down feet lower nor they was iver known afore, a boat was found up at the Bealanabrack end that had lay there for years; but the min nor the horses nor the treasure was never heerd of from that day to this—so they say,” he added, in a mysterious way, and he renewed his attention to the punch, as if his tale was ended.
“But, man alive!” said McGlown, “that’s only a part. Go on, man dear! an’ fenesh the punch after.”
“Oh, oh! Yes, of course, you want to know the end. Well! no wan knows the end. But they used to say that whin the min lift the boat they wint due west, till one night they sthruck the mountain beyant; an’ that there they buried the chist an’ killed the horses, or rode away on them. But anyhow, they wor niver seen again; an’ as sure as you’re alive, the money is there in the hill! For luk at the name iv it! Why did any wan iver call it ‘Knockcalltore’—an’ that’s Irish for ‘the Hill of the Lost Gold’—if the money isn’t there?”
“Thrue for ye!” murmured an old woman with a cutty pipe. “For why, indeed? There’s some people what won’t believe nothin’ altho’ it’s undher their eyes!” and she puffed away in silent rebuke to the spirit of scepticism—which, by the way, had not been manifested by any person present.
There was a long pause, broken only by one of the old women, who occasionally gave a sort of half-grunt, half-sigh, as though unconsciously to fill up the hiatus in the talk. She was a ‘keener’ by profession, and was evidently well fitted to, and well drilled in, her work. Presently old Moynahan broke the silence:—