Fortescue became suspected by his party. Hints were circulated, and rumors reached him, that he was watched; that it was no time for hanging back. He who sacrificed everything for the cause to be thus accused! He consulted Mulcahy; and to his utter discomfiture discovered that even his old ally and adviser was not devoid of doubt regarding him. Something must be done, and that speedily,—he cared not what. Life had long ceased to interest him either by hope or fear. The only tie that bound him to existence was the strange desire to be respected by those his heart sickened at the thought of.
An attack was at that time planned against the house and family of a Wexford gentleman, whose determined opposition to the rebel movement had excited all their hatred. Fortescue demanded to be the leader of that expedition; and was immediately named to the post by those who were glad to have the opportunity of testing his conduct by such an emergency.
The attack took place at night,—a scene of the most fearful and appalling cruelty, such as the historian yet records among the most dreadful of that dreadful period. The house was burned to the ground, and its inmates butchered, regardless of age or sex. In the effort to save a female from the flames, Fortescue was struck down by one of his party; while another nearly cleft his chest across with a cut of a large knife. He fell, covered with blood, and lay seemingly dead. When his party retreated, however, he summoned strength to creep under shelter of a ditch, and lay there till near daybreak, when he was found by another gang of the rebel faction, who knew nothing of the circumstances of his wound, and carried him away to a place of safety.
For some months he lay dangerously ill. Hectic fever, consequent on long suffering, brought him to the very brink of the grave; and at last he managed by stealth to reach Dublin, where a doctor well known to the party resided, and under whose care he ultimately recovered, and succeeded at last in taking a passage to America. Meanwhile his death was currently believed, and Crofts was everywhere recognized as the heir to the fortune.
Mulcahy, of whom it is necessary to speak a few words, was soon after apprehended on a charge of rebellion, and sentenced to transportation. He appealed to many who had known him, as he said, in better times, to speak to his character. Among others, Captain Crofts—so he then was—was summoned. His evidence, however, was rather injurious than favorable to the prisoner; and although not in any way influencing the sentence, was believed by the populace to have mainly contributed to its severity.
Such was, in substance, the singular story which was now told before the court,—told without any effort at concealment or reserve; and to the proof of which M'Keown was willing to proceed at once.
“This, my lord,” said Darby, as he concluded, “is a good time and place to give back to Mr. Crofts a trifling article I took from him the night at the barracks. I thought it was the bank-notes I was getting; but it turned out better, after all.”
With that he produced a strong black leather pocket-book, fastened by a steel clasp. No sooner did Crofts behold it, than, with the spring of a tiger, he leaped forward and endeavored to clutch it. But Darby was on his guard, and immediately drew back his hand, calling out,—
“No, no, sir! I didn't keep it by me eight long years to give it up that way. There, my lords,” said he, as he handed it to the bench, “there's his pocket-book, with plenty of notes in it from many a one well known,—Maurice Mulcahy among the rest,—and you'll soon see who it was first tempted Fortescue to ruin, and who paid the money for doing it.”
A burst of horror and astonishment broke from the assembled crowd as Darby spoke.