“The mother called out to us, ‘I’m going wi’ his living funeral,’ says she; ‘but I’ll gie him the same advice I did yesterday,’ says she.
“When we reached Limavady he was tied up, an’ we were watching for the lash to fall, when there was a great shout an’ we seen a man galloping up the street as hard as his horse could go, waving something white over his head. It was a pardon come from Dublin for Jack McSparron.”
“I am glad the pardon came, for he was an heroic youth, rebel though he was.”
“Ay,” cried the old man, “he wouldna’ be an informer. There’s few o’ his sort left in Ireland now, more’s the pity—more’s the pity!”
The fire in his voice told us plainly where his sympathies really were. Not, certainly, with murdered landlords, bailiffs, or non-land-league farmers!
“Did Jack live to be an old man?”
“Ay, did he. He died it’ll be sixteen year past next Candlemas. There’s a daughter o’ his married on a farmer not very far from this. The McSparrons in this parish is all proud o’ being his friends. When ane o’ them shows himsel’ a gude comrade or neighbor, the people says, ‘Ay, he’s o’ the blood of Jack McSparron.’”
Tragedies at Maghera.
Mrs. Majilton was in a state of much excitement one day in the summer of ’98 because parties of soldiers were passing her house one after another. Her house was close to the high-road, half-way between Feeny and Dungiven, and stood in a comfortable little farmyard. She was a Church Protestant, dreadfully afraid of the rebels, and consequently very glad to see the red-coats in the country. They had been marching past her house all morning, and she had stood at the door with the baby in her arms, wishing them “God speed.”
The men had exchanged a cheerful greeting with her now and then, and as they went by she caught some of their conversation; the word Maghera was repeated over and over again. They were marching to Maghera; no time must be lost; they could not delay for refreshment or rest. The day wore on, and a party of stragglers stopped at her door, young lads, mere recruits, who had lagged behind the main body, not being able to endure the hardships of their forced march from Londonderry as well as the older men. Their sergeant, a bronzed veteran, asked the good woman to give them a drink of water, for the love of God.