Old man and grandchild harnessed a horse and car, determined to learn more. The gloaming rested on the plain when they reached the Gibbet-Rath.
Two hundred bodies were turned over before they came upon the one they sought. Its hands moved, in an effort to stanch a wound with a remnant of an old cravat, and in the increasing darkness they chanced to observe the flutter. But for that movement, where so many around were still, they might have passed by their bread-winner. Filled with thankfulness in that he yet lived, they stretched him on the car, for prudence' sake in corpse-like attitude, shaded his eyes with a hat, sprinkled some soiled hay over his prostrate form, and hurried home in haste. But a rumour somehow got wind that 'the Croppies were getting alive again,' and so the military were sent round to scour the adjacent country to make certain that no such untoward circumstance occurred.
Two men belonging to the Ancient Britons approached the hut at midnight where this man lay, snatched by a marvel from the jaws of Death.
'What!' one said, 'that Croppy living still?'
'Yes, your honour,' replied the sick wife, with meekness. 'The Lord has been pleased to grant the boy a longer day.'
'Come, come!' was the jocose retort. 'He'll be best out of misery, for he can't possibly recover. Leastways, his curing will be tedious to an ailing wife like you.' And the wretch pistolled him in cold blood then and there, while the frenzied widow shrieked for mercy, and the daughter strove to shield him with her own body in the ecstasy of her despair.
This carnival on the Gibbet-Rath finally snuffed out Kildare; but Wexford, which was made of different materials, rose up to take her place. The men of Wexford belonged to another caste, had different hair and features, were of a fiercer nature than the Kelts. They rose with one accord, their blood stirred to fever-frenzy by the intelligence which drifted down to them. Kildare had disgraced the emerald flag; it should be the privilege of Wexford to retrieve its tarnished honour. They would set an example to pusillanimous counties that still hesitated about rising. War to the knife! no quarter given! Such should be their watchword. Proudly let the green banner wave. Victory or Death!
These raw but doughty warriors meant business. They set about establishing themselves, therefore, in true military array; and in the first instance collected their strength into two detachments, the first of which, mustering three thousand men, encamped on Killthomas Hill, where three hundred of the yeomanry gave them battle and obtained a bloodless victory. Not quite bloodless though, for one Lieutenant Bookey lost his life, and his indignant comrades offered to his manes (after a massacre on Killthomas Hill which was only business) the sacrifice of several Popish chapels and at least a hundred Catholic dwellings on their next day's march. This had the auspicious effect of infuriating to delirium the second and greater camp, whose leading spirits saw that, for them and theirs, their motto was but too prophetic a one. Unless they were prepared to see their faith stamped out, there was clearly nothing for the men of Wexford but Death or Victory.
Like desperate men as they were, they set about accomplishing the latter straightway. On the rising ground of Oulart, distant eight miles from Wexford town, they rallied round the green at least four thousand strong. With proud defiance and undaunted mien they beheld the enemy's approach--red coats dimmed by dust and mist, and bayonets glimmering. They awaited the onset with stern determination, and--fled helter-skelter on the first attack. The yeomanry pursued with shouts and jeers, following fast over rock and boulder, sweeping the rebels before them as a broom sweeps chaff. But, arrived at the summit of the hill, a hint came to the insurgents that cavalry lay in ambush on the other side to intercept their flight. Cavalry! To their untutored minds a charge of horsemen meant instant annihilation, whilst they were quite resolved to live--for Victory. They rallied, turned on the disordered and breathless pursuers, and charging downward with their pikes, bore all before them. Taken by surprise, out of breath, disorganised, none of the quondam pursuers survived to tell of their defeat, save the lieutenant-colonel, a sergeant, and three privates. Many of the rebels succumbed, but what mattered that? Those who remained alive were masters of the situation. Theirs was the prestige of having beaten the royalist soldiers in the open field. Numbers had vanquished discipline; ignorance had made science of none effect; the spirits of the enemy were lowered in proportion to their own triumph. Hosts of peasants, lukewarm hitherto through fear, flocked to join the victors. Mustering now quite four thousand strong, and burning to add new leaves of laurel to their chaplet, they marched with childish gesture, intoning as they marched the 'Marseillaise,' to storm the town of Enniscorthy.
Those who led them saw that if the God of battles would continue to favour them, their condition might be greatly improved, even to the point of rendering their unwieldy host truly formidable. The capture of Enniscorthy would aid the insurgents much, for that place (twelve miles or so from Wexford) is bisected by the Slaney, whose ebb and flow permits vessels of light tonnage to approach the bridge which unites the two portions of the town. Hence it was certain to be well stocked with useful things, lying there for transmission up the country. It might contain ammunition too--a precious find indeed--for the Wexford men were good shots with a gun, accustomed to earn a modest wage by shooting waterfowl for the markets of Dublin and of Cork, in consequence of which they had obtained exemption from the more vexatious clauses of the Gunpowder Act. If Enniscorthy should fall into their hands they would find themselves provided, too, with a splendid camping-ground called Vinegar Hill, which rose adjacent to the city. At their leisure they might take ship, and, sailing down the Slaney, seize the town of Wexford--a seaport with a magnificent harbour. What a pity the French had been so unfortunate! How gladly they would have welcomed the tricolour as it glided through the narrow entrance which admits into that glorious anchorage!