If he was an Irishman, his voice did not betray him. Indeed, he spoke more like an Englishman, with a touch of the foreigner at the tip of his tongue.
The first part of his speech was about matters I little understood—about some Bill before the Irish Parliament at Dublin, and the efforts of the friends of the people to defeat it. Then he went on to talk of the great events taking place in Paris:—How the whole people were up in arms for liberty; how the king there had been beheaded, and the streets were flowing with the blood of the friends of tyranny. From end to end of France the flag of freedom was floating. Was Ireland to be the only country of slaves in Europe? She had a tyrant worse than any of whom France had rid herself. The English yoke was the one secret of the misery and troubles of Ireland, and so on. “Boys!” cried he, “the soldiers of liberty are looking at you. They’re calling on you to join hands. Are you afraid to strike a blow for your homes? Must I go and tell them that sent me that the Irishman is a coward as well as a slave? There’s fighting to be done, if there’s only men to do it—fighting with the men who wring the life’s blood out of you and your land—fighting with the toadies who are paid by England to grind you down—fighting with the blasphemers who rob your priests and your chapels—fighting with the soldiery who live on you, and tax you, and insult your wives and daughters. It’s no child’s play is wanted of you. We want no poltroons in the cause. We know the people’s friends, and we know their enemies; and it’s little enough quarter will be going on the day we reckon accounts. Arrah, boys!” cried he, letting go his foreign air for a moment and dropping into the native, “it’s no time for talking at all. There’s some of yez armed already; there’s a gun for any mother’s son here that will use it for the people, and swear on the book to leave the world with one tyrant less upon it. Come up, boys, and take the oath, and shame to them that hang back.”
Instantly there was a forward movement in the audience, as with shouts and cheers they pressed towards the speaker.
He held aloft a book and recited the oath in a loud voice. As far as I remember it bound every one to be a loyal member of the society organised in that district to put down the tyrant and free Ireland from the English yoke. It bound him, without question, to obey any command or perform any service demanded of him in the cause. It pledged him to utter secrecy as to the existence and actions of the society. And it doomed him to the penalty of death for any breach of his vow.
In fours, each with a hand on the book, the company advanced and took the vow, each man’s name as he did so being written down and publicly announced. Even the two sentinels were called from their posts and replaced, in order that they might join.
Finally the leader cried,—
“Is that the whole of ye?”
“No,” cried my custodian, pushing me forward with the butt-end of his gun. “There’s a boy here, plaze your honour, captain, that we took this day. It’s him that gave Larry Dugan his death that night we visited Knockowen.”
The leader turned me to the moonlight and scrutinised my face sharply.
“I had forgotten him,” said he; “he should have been left behind.—That was a bad business at Knockowen.”