Bits of Blarney

by R. Shelton Mackenzie

There was no merriment, however, for the circumstances under which they met forbade it—so early in the night. Their conversation was in a hushed tone. The comparative stillness every now and then became positive when they noticed the voiceless sorrow of the poor widow, as, pale and emaciated by suffering of mind and body, she knelt by the dead, holding his clay-cold hand, and, her eyes fixed upon his comely face, now pallid with the hue of mortality, and placid in repose as that of a sleeping infant. At intervals, there rose the melancholy and eloquent wail of the Keeners' wild poetry, in the native language of the auditors, deeply impassioned, and full of the breathing indignation which stirs men's minds to such a pitch of excitement that they come forth from the listening fitted for almost any deed of daring.

The Keen told how the dead man had won the hearts of all who knew him—how he had excelled his companions in the sports of youth and the athletic exercises of manhood—how, at pattern, fair, or dance, he still maintained his superiority—how his was the open heart and liberal hand—how he had won his first love, the pride of their native village, and married her—how, when a shadow fell upon their fortunes, that loved one lightened, by sharing, the burthen, the struggle, and the grief—how, amid the desolation, her gentle smile ever made a soft sunshine in their home—how, a victim without a crime, he had fallen in the noon of life—how there remained his young boy to remember, and, it might be, one day to avenge his murder—how every man who was present would protect and sustain the widow and the orphan of him whom they had loved so well—and how, come it soon or late, a day would arrive when expiation must be made for the foul deed which had sent an innocent man to an untimely grave.

As the chief Keener chanted this Lament, in the expressive and figurative language of their native Ireland, the hearts of her auditory throbbed with deep and varying emotions—sorrow swelled into the deeper sense of injury—wild indignation flushed the cheek of manhood—and hand was clasped in hand with a fierce pressure, in well-understood pledge of sorrow for the dead, hatred for his slayers, and stern resolve of vengeance.

About ten o'clock, the door slowly opened, and a tall man, apparelled in the loose great-coat, or coat-ca-more, which forms the principal dress of the peasantry in that district, stood for some minutes on the threshold, an interested but unobserved spectator. When he was perceived, many rose to offer him a seat, which he declined, and soon all voices joined in a common cry of "Welcome, Captain! A thousand and a hundred thousand welcomes!"

The stranger returned the salutation cordially and briefly, and advanced gravely and slowly to where the dead man lay. He gazed upon the face for some time, and then, laying his hand on that cold, pallid brow, said, in a tone of deep, concentrated feeling,—"Farewell, John Sheehan! Yours has been a hard fate, but better than remains for us—to be hunted down, like wild beasts, and sent, after the mockery of a trial, from the homes of our fathers, to a far-off land, where even the slavery they doom us to is better than the troubled life we linger in, from which caprice or cruelty may hurry us in a moment. Farewell, then; but, by the bright Heaven above us, and the green fields around, I swear to know no rest until bitter vengeance be taken for this most wanton and barbarous murther."

His cheek flushed—his eyes flashed—his frame trembled with strong emotion as he sternly made this vow, and, when he ceased to speak, a deep "Amen" was murmured all around by the eager-eyed men, who hung upon his slightest word with as trusting and entire a faith as ever did the followers of the Veiled Prophet upon the mystic revelations which promised them glory upon earth, and eternal happiness in heaven! The widow, roused from the abstraction of grief by this solemn and striking incident, looked the thanks which she then had not voice to utter. When the Stranger laid his hand on the orphan's head, and said: "He shall be my care, and as I deal by him may God deal by me!" her long-repressed tears gushed forth, in a strong hysteric agony, which was not subdued until her child was placed within her earnest embrace, and kissed again and again—with the widowed mother's solacing thought, there yet remained one for whom to live.

Turning from the corpse, the Stranger took his seat among the humble but loving people in that lowly cabin. He was of large mould, with a bold, quick glance, and an air of intelligence superior to his apparent station. It was singular that his appearance among them, while it ardently awakened their respectful attention, had chilled and checked the company. After a pause, one of them ventured to hint that the first allowance of liquor had been drank out, so that "there did not remain an eggshellful to drink the health of the Captain." There was a murmur of applause at the remark. Thus encouraged, another ventured to suggest that a fresh supply be provided, at the general expense of the company—the gallantry of the men excepting the fair sex from any share in the payment. The necessary amount was speedily collected, and a supply of whiskey (which had not condescended to acknowledge the reigning dynasty by any contribution to the excise duties) was procured from the next shebeen—an unlicensed dépôt for the sale of "mountain dew,"—and placed upon the table.

The stranger, who had appeared quite unobservant of this proceeding, and who—on the principle that "silence gives consent"—had even been supposed rather to sanction than condemn it, suddenly interrupted the hilarious arrangements thus commenced. He started up and exclaimed—"Is it thus, and always thus, that I am to find you?—the slaves and victims of your besotted senses. Is there anything to be done? I look for the man to do it, and find him sunk in drunkenness. Is a secret to be kept?—it is blabbed on the highway, to the ruin of a good cause, by the man who suffers drink to steal away his reason. When I lie down to sleep, I can dream of ruin only, for this subtle devil can tempt the truest into a traitor. And now, with the hour of triumph at hand—the rich hope of vengeance near fulfilment—there is not a man among you, bound to me as you are, heart and hand, soul and body, who would not surrender the victory and the vengeance, if he were only allowed to drink on until he had reduced himself to a level with the senseless brute. Give me that liquor."

His command was instantly obeyed, for he had rare ascendancy over the minds of those who acknowledged him as their leader. Dashing the vessel violently on the hard earthen floor, he broke it, and every drop of its contents—the "fire-water" of the American aborigines—was spilled. "There," he cried, "who serves with me, must obey me. When a deed is to be done, I will have obedience. When the deed is done—drink, if you will, and when you will. But when service is to be performed, you shall be sober."

Not a syllable of dissent—not a murmur of discontent fell from the lips of those who heard him. Not a gesture—not a look—indicated anger at what he had done.