“I wish to bid you good-bye, Tom,” said Mark, as he grasped the rough hand in his; “you are the last thing I shall see of my country; farewell, then; but remember, that however deeply wrongs may gall, and injuries oppress you, the glory of resistance is too dearly bought at the cost of companionship with the traitor and the coward—goodbye forever.” He pressed the purse into the poor fellow's hand; nor was it without a struggle he could compel him to accept it. A few minutes after the boat was cleaving her way through the dark water, her prow turned to the land which Mark had left for ever.
Seated on the deck, silent and thoughtful, Mark seemed indifferent to the terrible storm, whose violence increased with every moment, and as the vessel tacked beneath the tall cliffs, when every heart beat anxiously, and every eye was fixed on the stern rocks above them, his glance was calm, and his pulse was tranquil; he felt as though fate had done her worst, and that the future had no heavier blow in store for him.
CHAPTER XLIX. THE END.
The storm of that eventful night is treasured among the memories of the peasantry of the south. None living had ever witnessed a gale of such violence—none since have seen a hurricane so dreadful and enduring: for miles along the coast the scattered spars and massive timbers told of shipwreck and disasters, while inland, uptorn trees and fallen rocks attested its power.
The old castle of Carrig-na-curra did not escape the general calamity; the massive walls that had resisted for centuries the assaults of war and time, were shaken to their foundations, and one strong, square tower, the ancient keep, was rent by lightning from the battlements to the base, while far and near might be seen fragments of timber, and even of masonry, hurled from their places by the storm. For whole days after the gale abated, the air resounded with an unceasing din—the sound of the distant sea, and the roar of the mountain torrents, as swollen and impetuous they tore along.
The devastation thus wide spread, seemed not to have been limited to the mere material world, but to have extended its traces over man: the hurricane was recognized as the interposition of heaven, and the disaster of the French fleet looked on as the vengeance of the Almighty. It did not need the superstitious character of the southern peasants' mind to induce this belief: the circumstances in all their detail were too strongly corroborative, not to enforce conviction on sterner imaginations; and the very escape of the French ships from every portion of our channel fleet, which at first was deemed a favour of fortune, was now regarded as pointing out the more signal vengeance of Heaven. Dismay and terror were depicted in every face; the awful signs of the gale which were seen on every side suggested gloom and dread, and each speculated how far the anger of God might fall upon a guilty nation.
There is no reason to doubt the fact, that whatever the ultimata issue of the struggle, the immediate fate of the country was decided on that night. Had the French fleet arrived in full force, and landed the troops, there was neither preparation for resistance, nor means of defence, undertaken by the Government.
How far the peasantry might or might not have associated themselves with a cause to which the Romish clergy were then manifestly averse, may be a matter of uncertainty; but there are a sufficient number in every land, and every age, who will join the ranks of battle with no other prospect than the day of pillage and rapine. Such would have flocked around the tricolor in thousands, and meet companions such would have been to that portion of the invading army called the “Legion des Francs”—a battalion consisting of liberated felons and galley slaves—the murderers and robbers of France, drilled, armed, and disciplined to carry liberty to Ireland! With this force, and a company of the “Artillerie Légère,” Wolfe Tone proposed to land; and as the expedition had manifestly failed, any further loss would be inconsiderable; and as for the “Legion,” he naively remarked, “the Republic would be well rid of them.”
Let us, however, turn from this theme, to the characters of our tale, of which a few words only remain to be told. By Terry, who made his escape after being wounded by the dragoons, was the first news brought to Carrig-na-curra of Mark's rencontre with the dragoons; and while the O'Donoghue and Kate were yet speculating in terror as to the result, a small party of cavalry was seen coming up the causeway at a brisk trot, among whom rode a person in coloured clothes.