Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

by Charles James Lever

'Well, anyhow, ye may understand that this isn't a fine soil for a potato-garden; and yet the devil a other poor Shaun had since they turned him out on the road last Michaelmas Day, himself and his wife and the little gossoon—the only one they had, too—with a fever and ague upon him. The poor child, however, didn't feel it long, for he died in ten days after. Well, well! the way of God there's no saying against it. But, sure, if the little boy didn't die Shaun was off to America; for he tuk his passage, and got a sea-chest of a friend, and was all ready to go. But you see, when the child died, he could not bring himself to leave the grave; and there he used to go and spend half of his days fixing it, and settling the sods about it, and wouldn't take a day's work from any of the neighbours. And at last he went off one night, and we never knew what was become of him, till a pedlar brought word that he and Mary was living in the Cluan Beg, away from everybody, without a friend to say “God save you!” It's deep enough now, Mickey; there's nobody will turn him out of this. And so, sir, he might have lived for many a year; but when he heerd that the boys was up, and going to settle a reckoning with Mr. Tarleton——'

'Come, you,' cried the priest, who joined us at the moment, and who I could perceive was evidently displeased at the old man's communicativeness—'come, you, the sooner you all get back the better. We must look after Mary, too; for God knows where she is wandering. And now let us put the poor boy in the earth.'

With slow and sullen steps the old man entered the house, followed by the others. I did not accompany them, but stood beside the grave, my mind full of all I heard. In a few minutes they returned, carrying the coffin, one corner of which was borne by the priest himself. Their heads were bare, and their features were pale and care-worn. They placed the body in the grave, and gazed down after it for some seconds. The priest spoke a few words in a low, broken voice, the very sounds of which, though their meaning was unknown to me, sank deep into my heart. He whispered for an instant to one of the young men, who went into the cabin and speedily returned, carrying with him some of the clothes of the deceased and the old carbine that lay beneath the bed.

'Throw them in the grave, Mickey—throw them in,' said the priest. 'Where's his coat?'

'It isn't there, sir,' said the man. 'That's everything that has a mark of blood upon it.'

'Give me that gun,' cried the priest; and at the same moment he took the carbine by the end of the barrel, and by one stroke of his strong foot snapped it at the breech. 'My curse be on you!' said he, as he kicked the fragments into the grave; 'there was peace and happiness in the land before men knew ye, and owned ye! Ah, Hugh,' said he, turning his eyes fiercely on the old man, 'I never said ye hadn't griefs and trials, and sore ones too, some of them; but God help you, if you think that an easy conscience and a happy home can be bought by murder.' The old man started at the words, and as his dark brow lowered and his lip trembled, I drew near to the priest, fearful lest an attack might be made on him. 'Ay, murder, boys! that's the word, and no less. Don't tell me about righting yourselves, and blood for blood, and all that. There's a curse upon the land where these things happen, and the earth is not lucky that is moistened with the blood of God's creatures.'

'Cover him up! cover him up!' said the old man, shovelling in the earth so as to drown the priest's words, 'and let us be going. We ought to be back by six o'clock, unless,' added he with a sarcastic bitterness that made him look like a fiend—'unless your reverence is going to set the police on our track.'

'God forgive you, Hugh, and turn your heart,' said the priest, as he shook his outstretched hands at the old man. As the father spoke these words he took me by the arm, and led me within the house. I could feel his hand tremble as it leaned upon me, and the big tears rolled down his cheeks in silence.

We sat down in the little cabin, but neither of us spoke. After some time we heard the noise of the cartwheels and the sound of voices, which grew fainter and fainter as they passed up the glen, and at length all became still.

'And the poor wife,' said I, 'what, think you, has become of her?'