Читать книгу The Fortunes of Hector O'Halloran, and His Man, Mark Antony O'Toole - W. H. Maxwell - Страница 25

Table of Contents

Now, brave boys, we’re bound for marchin’

Both to Portingale and Spain;

Drums are batin’, colours flyin’—

And the divil a-back we’ll come again;

So, Love, farewell!

The colonel cries, “Boys are ye ready?”

“We’re at your back, both firm and steady;

Our pouches filt with balls and powther,

And a clane firelock on each shouther.”

Love, farewell!

The mother cries, “Boys, do not wrong me;

Ye wouldn’t take my daughter from me?

If ye do, I will torment yees,

And after death my ghost will haunt yees.”

Love, farewell!

Och, Judy, dear! ve’r young and tender—

When I’m away, ye’ll not surrender;

But hould out like an ancient Roman,

And I’ll make you an honest woman.

Love, farewell!

Och, Judy! should I die in glory,

In the papers ye’ll read my awful story

But I’m so bother’d by your charms,

I’d rather far die in your arms.

Och! Love, farewell!

Great was the applause which the sergeant’s melody drew down, and, what was probably even more satisfactory to the honest gentleman, a loud demand arose for a fresh supply of “the raw material and the carouse was vigorously resumed. Left to themselves, the young travellers had talked over their meeting on the mountain, and spoke of their journey to the neighbouring town next day where their road-companionship was to terminate. The intended parting was not mentioned with indifference, for the poor girl sighed heavily, her face became sad, and her eyes filled fast. In a faction fight, where skulls were cracked like walnuts, Mark Antony was every inch a hero—but his heart was true Milesian, and a woman’s sorrow rendered it soft as a turnip. He took the wanderer’s hand affectionately, kissed away the tear that trickled down her cheek, and endeavoured to dispel her melancholy.

“Cheer up,” he said; “you have happier days before you, and youth enough to wait for them. How can I serve you, Julia.-’ I know an empty pocket makes a heavy heart—but we’ll share to the last shilling—” and quick as lightning a green silk purse that I had given to the fosterer the night we parted, was transferred from his pocket to the wanderer’s hand. “Come. Julia,” he continued, “will I bring you home?”

The poor girl shook her head, and gratefully returned the purse.

“Take half, at least,” exclaimed Mark Antony; “there’s only five pounds in notes, and three guineas and a half in gold. May’be it may carry ye to your friends—and if it won’t—I’ll list, and that will make up the difference.”

“Friends!” said the girl, bitterly; “I have no friends: I lost my mother when an infant; and the cruel desertion of my father broke the old soldier’s heart. Alas! I feel that I am left alone upon the earth, without one being who would care for me.”

“A sister, by Heaven!” cried the fosterer. “Am I not also a soldier’s orphan?”

“Why, ye thundering villain!” exclaimed Mrs. O’Leary, who had stolen softly up stairs, and caught the Jew with his ear at the key-hole, “Off wid ye, ye blackavised disciple. Bad luck attend ye, night an’ day, you ugly thief! Off, I say—” and, suiting the action to the word, she bestowed a heavy buffet upon the countenance of the Israelite that made him in no way desirous of abiding another visitation from the widow’s fist. “Well, dears!” said the jolly hostess as she bustled into the room: “may’be ye were courtin’ a bit, as young people will at times—and think of that black-muzzled ruffin lis’ning to every word ye sed! I wish he was clane out of the house, for he has the gallows in his faee.”

“I wish, indeed,” observed the girl, “that he was gone—I dread that man.”

“Arrah!” returned the burly widow, “don’t vex ye’rself about him: ye’r safe wid me—the devil a toe he’ll venture to put near my room. Ye’r tired, avourneein; and come away to ye’r-bed: and if you, Mr. O’Toole, will jist step down and take an air of the fire below, I’ll make ye a shake-down here as the house is crowded to the thatch.” Mark Antony accordingly bade his companion a good night, and descended to the kitchen, where, by a sort of common consent, the whole of the guests had united themselves for a general jollification. The whisky now seemed “uppermost,” and most of the party w’ere as it is termed in Ireland “the worse of liquor;” but the hilarity was as yet undisturbed,

“And all went merry as a marriage bell.”

The worthy sergeant who, like Bardolph, was “white-livered and red-faced,” with Pistol’s qualification of having “a killing tongue and quiet sword,” was evidently the lion of the evening; and being a romancer of the first magnitude, no man was better suited to fascinate a company who took delight in listening to deeds of arms. He was graciously pleased to reply to the inquiry of a recruit, who had expressed a strong curiosity touching the personal appearance of Napoleon le grand. Having bolted a dose of alcohol presented to him by a countryman, and deposited the pewter measure on the table, the commander thus modestly continued:—

“An’ so ye would like to know what Boney’s like? Well, the divil a man ye would meet in a day’s walk could tell you that same thing better. He has a regular gunpowder complexion, a look that would frighten a horse, and whiskers you could hang your hat upon. Father Abraham’s in the corner there—and ‘pon my conscience, honest man, ye would be the better of a barber—are but a joke to them.” And he pointed to the Jew.

“And where did you see him?” inquired a countryman.

“Where did I see him? Where—but in Agypt,” returned the commander.

“Before I was pris’ner five minutes, he sends an aidi-camp hot-foot—well, up I comes—for there was no use, you know, resistin’. At first he looked red-pepper at me: ‘Corp’lar Mulrooney,’ says he—and how the dickens he med my name out, I nivir could lam—‘Mulrooney,’ says he, ‘for once in ye’r life, tell truth, and shame the divil.—How many thousand strong are ye?’ ‘Twenty-five thousand,’ says I, strivin’ to dacave him. ‘Bad luck to the liars!’ says he. ‘Amen,’ says I, just givin’ the word back to him. ‘Arrah—come,’ says he, ‘don’t be makin’ a Judy Fitzsummon’s mother of ye’rself, but tell the truth, Mulrooney, and I’ll make a man of ye: an’ if ye don’t’—sw’aring an oath that I now disremimber, because it was in Frinch—‘I’ll blow the contents of this pistol thro’ your scull,’ pulling out one with a barrel like a blunderbuss. Well, I was rather scared; but, thinks I, there’s nothin’ like being bould. ‘Fire away,’ says I, ‘an’ put ye’r information in ye’r pocket afterwards; for it’s all ye’ll get from me.’ Bonypart looked bothered: ‘Be gogstay,” says he, to the aidicamp, ‘that’s cliver of the corp’lar. Let him off,’ says he; ‘an’ if there’s a drain of spirits in the bottle, give it to him, the crature, for the day’s hot.’ Wid that, he pulls out a thirty-shillin’ note. ‘Divil blister the rap I have more, or ye should have it,’ says he, shakes me dacently by the han’, and sends me clane back. ‘Pon me soul! Boney’s not a bad man, after all.”

The sergeant’s interview with Napoleon had been listened to with great attention; and at the production of the pistol of blunderbuss calibre, the recruits actually turned pale. The Israelite alone exhibited symptoms of incredulity, but what could be expected from an unbeliever? As to Mark Antony, he laughed outright;—however, that was an effect which some of the bloodiest exploits of the gallant sergeant frequently produced upon his auditory, and accordingly, he, “good easy man,” passed it by unnoticed. The symposium promised to terminate in harmony and peace, alas! how delusory that promise proved!