“Holt at the cross-roads promised eighteen, all armed with fire-locks. M'Sweeny has six sons, and stout fellows they are, every man of them ready. Then, there are the O'Learys, but there's a split amongst them—confound their petty feuds, this is no time to indulge them. They shall come out, and they must—ah! hand in hand, too, though they have been enemies this twelvemonth. Black O'Sullivan numbers nigh eighty—pike-men every one of them. Our French friends may smile at their ragged garments, but our enemies will scarce join in the laugh. Carrig-na-curra must be occupied, it is the key of the glen. 'The Lodge' we'll burn to the ground: but no, we must not visit the sin of the servant on the master. Young Travers behaved nobly to me there is a wild time coming, and let us, at least, begin our work in a better spirit, for bloodshed soon teaches cruelty.”
Now, muttering these short and broken sentences, now, wondering what strength the French force might be—how armed—how disposed for the enterprise—what spirit prevailed among the officers, and what hopes of success animated the chiefs—Mark moved along, eager for the hour to come when the green flag should be displayed, and the war-cry of Ireland ring in her native valleys.
CHAPTER XLV. THE PROGRESS OF TREACHERY
Leaving, for the present, Mark O'Donoghue to the duties he imposed on himself of rallying the people around the French standard, we shall turn to the old Castle of Carrig-na-curra, where life seemed to move on in the same unbroken tranquillity. For several days past, Hemsworth, still weak from his recent illness, had been a frequent visitor, and although professing that the great object of his solicitude was the safety of young O'Donoghue, he found time and opportunity to suggest to Kate, that a more tender feeling influenced him: so artfully had he played his part, and so blended were his attentions with traits of deference and respect, that however little she might be disposed to encourage his addresses, the difficulty of repelling them without offence was great indeed. This delicacy on her part was either mistaken by Hemsworth, or taken as a ground of advantage. All his experiences in life pointed to the fact, that success is ever attainable by him who plays well his game; that the accidents of fortune, instead of being obstacles and interruptions, are in reality, to one of quick intelligence, but so many aids and allies. His illness alone had disconcerted his plans; but now once more well, and able to conduct his schemes, he had no fears for the result. Up to this moment, every thing promised success. It was more than doubtful that the Travers' would ever return to Ireland. Frederick would be unwilling to visit the neighbourhood where his affections had met so severe a shock. The disturbed state of the country, and the events which Hemsworth well knew must soon occur, would in all likelihood deter Sir Marmaduke from any wish to revisit his Irish property. This was one step gained: already he was in possession of a large portion of the Glenflesk estate, of which he was well aware the title was defective, for he had made it a ground of considerable abatement in the purchase money to the O'Donoghue, that his son was in reality under age at the time of sale. Mark's fate was, however, in his hands, and he had little fear that the secret was known by any other. Nothing, then, remained incomplete to the accomplishment of his wishes, except his views regarding Kate. Were she to become his wife, the small remnant of the property that pertained to them would fall into his hands, and he become the lord of the soil. His ambitions were higher than this. Through the instrumentality of Lanty Lawler, he had made himself master of the conspiracy in all its details. He knew the names of the several chiefs, the parts assigned them, the places of rendezvous, their hopes, their fears, and their difficulties. He was aware of the views of France, and had in his possession copies of several letters which passed between members of the French executive and the leaders of the United party in Ireland. Far from communicating this information to the Government, he treasured it as the source of his own future elevation. From time to time, it is true, he made known certain facts regarding individuals whom he either dreaded for their power, or suspected that they might themselves prove false to their party and betray the plot; but, save in these few instances, he revealed nothing of what he knew, determining, at the proper moment, to make this knowledge the ground-work of his fortune.
“Twenty-four hours of rebellion,” said he, “one day and night of massacre and bloodshed will make me a Peer of the realm. I know well what terror will pervade the land, when the first rumour of a French landing gains currency. I can picture to myself the affrighted looks of the Council; the alarm depicted in every face, when the post brings the intelligence, that a force is on its march towards the capital; and then—then, when I can lay my hand on each rebel of them all, and say, this man is a traitor, and that, a rebel—when I can show where arms are collected and ammunition stored—when I can tell the plan of their operation, their numbers, their organization, and their means—I have but to name the price of my reward.”
Such were the speculations that occupied the slow hours of his recovery, and such the thoughts which engrossed the first days of his returning health.
The latest letters he had seen from France announced that the expedition would not sail till January, and then, in the event of escaping the English force in the Channel, would proceed to land fifteen thousand men on the banks of the Shannon. The causes which accelerated the sailing of the French fleet before the time originally determined on were unknown to Hemsworth, and on the very morning when the vessels anchored in Bantry Bay, he was himself a visitor beneath the roof of Carrig-na-curra, where he had passed the preceding night, the severity of the weather having detained him there. He, therefore, knew nothing of what had happened, and was calmly deliberating on the progress of his own plans, when events were occurring which were destined to disconcert and destroy them.
The family was seated at breakfast, and Hemsworth, whose letters had been brought over from “the Lodge,” was reading aloud such portions of news as could interest or amuse the O'Donoghue and Kate, when he was informed that Wylie was without, and most anxious to see him for a few minutes. There was no communication which, at the moment, he deemed could be of much importance, and he desired him to wait. Wylie again requested a brief interview—one minute would be enough—that his tidings were of the deepest consequence.
“This is his way ever,” said Hemsworth, rising from the table; “if a tenant has broken down a neighbour's ditch, or a heifer is impounded, he always comes with this same pressing urgency;” and, augry at the interruption, he left the room to hear the intelligence.