Out ran Sergeant Dobson from the guard-house, and looked through the dark towards the point from which he supposed the muskets had been fired.
“They are at it, sure enough,” said he—“Pop!—there they go. Is that a house o’ fire?”
“I think it is, sir,” replied the sentry.
The Sergeant now ran to a rising ground, behind the guard-house to satisfy himself, by taking an observation. It was a dark, cold, windy night, and the flames from a burning house upon a hill, about half a mile in front of the spot where the sergeant stood, spread a glare of red and white light upon the objects immediately around it, which had a sublime effect. The sergeant could plainly distinguish the figures of soldiers, between him and the flames, running until they disappeared in the darkness of the valley over which the flames waved; and he was now convinced that a desperate resistance must have been made to the party, that was sent to support the excise-officers, in taking possession of a private still, which had long been at work in the house now burning in sight of the sergeant.
The house where the illicit still produced its periodical flow of potyeen, was an old strong stone building, of three stories high, and partly in ruin. The lands upon which it was situated, and of which it had been once the manor-house, were “in chancery,” and the only inhabitants it possessed, were a sort of steward and his family, who received no pay for his services, except his house-room and firing, with leave to grow potatoes in the garden, and feed a cow on the estate—sometimes, perhaps, a pig or two. The agent of the estate seldom visited the ruin, unless when he took a shooting excursion; and then he did not trouble himself much with the old steward’s means of living. To make up for all deficiencies in salary, the occupier of the house, in conjunction with others, set up “a bit of a still,” as he termed it, and supplied thereby a considerable part of the neighbouring people, with potyeen and broken heads for several years, under the very noses of the excise-officers, who were either too wise, or too blind to take notice of the matter. The rumour was not without foundation, which hinted that several mugs and canteens of the old steward’s best, found their way into Ballycraggen guard-house. This, however, was only rumoured, and never happened to arrive at the ears of the officers then quartered in the town; for had that been the case, Corporal O’Callaghan, Private Mulligan, Jack Andrews, and even Sergeant M’Fadgen himself, would have got into a bit of a hobble, as sure as potyeen is good whiskey. But not a word more about that—let the officers find such things out—I’ll never “peach,” upon good soldiers. If they did take a drop while on guard, it was only to keep the frost out of their stomachs—(and as Mulligan says,) nobody ever saw them “a bit the worse o’ dthrink.”
The burning of the house was going on rapidly—the flames encreasing in strength, and streaming along the hill, over high pines and thick bush wood. The whole of the guard were at the front of the guard-house, observing the progress of the fire, when the glistening of the firelocks with fixed bayonets caught their attention, rising from the valley below them; and, through the faint and red light, they could perceive they were some of their own regiment who approached.
The guard immediately got under arms, to receive them. The challenge was given—the watch word passed—and the party commanded by Ensign Morris, halted in front of the guard-house, and delivered to the sergeant of the guard (Dobson) two prisoners—one slightly wounded by a shot in the arm.
The Ensign gave orders that they should be kept in the guard-house until morning, and left Corporal Callaghan with two men, to strengthen the guard: after which, he gave the word to his party, “Right face,”—“March;” and proceeded to the head-quarters of the regiment.
The prisoners were two labourers who belonged to the still, and the only two of its defenders who were taken.
“Well, my gay fellows, you gave us a purty bit o’ business to-night—eh?” growled Corporal O’Callaghan, when all were seated in the guard-house. “Look at that,” continued he, taking off his cap, and showing them a hole made by a bullet; “look at that, ye spalpeens. Which o’ ye did that?”