Jack Hinton: The Guardsman

CHAPTER XXVIII. THE INN FIRE

How I escaped from that room, and by what means I found myself in the street, I know not. My first impulse was to tear off my cravat, that I might breathe more freely; still a sense of suffocation oppressed me, and I felt stunned and stupefied.

‘Come along, Hinton – rouse yourself, my boy! See, your coat is drenched with rain,’ said a friendly voice behind me; while, grasping me forcibly by the arm, the Major led me forward.

‘What have I done?’ cried I, struggling to get free. ‘Tell me – oh, tell me, have I done wrong? Have I committed any dreadful thing? There is an aching pain here – here in my forehead, as though – I dare not speak my shame.’

‘Nothing of the kind, my boy,’ said Mahon: ‘you’ve conducted yourself admirably. Matt Keane saw it all, and he says he never witnessed anything finer; and he’s no bad judge, let me tell you. So, there now, be satisfied, and take off your wet clothes.’

There was something imperative in the tone in which he spoke; besides, the Major was one of those people who somehow or other always contrive to have their own way in the world; so that I yielded at once, feeling, too, that any opposition would only defer my chance of an explanation.

While I was thus occupied in my inner room, I could overhear my friend without engaged in the preparation of a little supper, mingling an occasional soliloquy with the simmering of the grilled bone that browned upon the fire – the clink of glasses and plates, and all the evidences of punch-making, breaking every now and then amid such reflections as these: —

‘A mighty ugly business! nothing for it but meeting him. Poor lad, they’ll say we murdered him among us! Och, he’s far too young for Galway. Holloa, Hinton, are you ready? Now you look something reasonable; and when we’ve eaten a bit, well talk this matter over coolly and sensibly. And to make your mind easy, I may tell you at once, I have arranged a meeting for you with Burke at five to-morrow morning.’

I grasped his hand convulsively within mine, as a gleam of savage satisfaction shot through me.

‘Yes, yes,’ said he, as if replying to my look, ‘it’s all as it ought to be. Even his own friends are indignant at his conduct; and indeed I may say it’s the first time a stranger has met with such in our country.’

‘I can well believe it,’ Major,’ said I; ‘for, unless from the individual in question, I have met with nothing but kindness and good feeling amongst you. He indeed would seem an exception to his countrymen.’

‘Therefore the sooner you shoot him the better. But I wish I could Father Tom.’

‘Adest, domine,’ cried the priest, at the same moment, as he entered the room, throwing his wet greatcoat into a corner and giving himself a shake a Newfoundland dog might have envied. ‘Isn’t this pretty work, Bob?’ said he, turning to his cousin with a look of indignant reproach: ‘he is not twenty-four hours in the town, and you’ve got him into a fight already! And sure it’s my own fault that ever brought you together. Nec fortunam nec gratiam habes– no indeed, you have neither luck nor grace. Mauvaise tête, as the French say – always in trouble. Arrah, don’t be talking to me at all, at all! reach me over the spirits. Sorra better I ever saw you! – disturbing me out of my virtuous dreams at two in the morning. True enough, dic mihi societatem tuam; but little I thought he’d be getting you shot before you left the place.’

I endeavoured to pacify the good priest as well as I was able; the Major too made every explanation; but what between his being called out of bed, his anger at getting wet, and his cousin’s well-known character for affairs of this nature, it was not before he had swallowed his second tumbler of punch that he would ‘listen to rayson.’

‘Well, well, if it is so, God’s will be done,’ said he with a sigh. ‘Un bon coup d‘épee, as we used to say formerly, is beautiful treatment for bad blood; but maybe you’re going to fight with pistols? Oh, murther, them’s dreadful things!’

‘I begin to suspect,’ said the Major slyly, ‘that Father Tom’s afraid if you shoot Ulick he’ll never get that fifty pounds he won. Hinc illo lacrymo– eh, Tom?’

‘Ah, the spalpeen,’ said the priest, with a deep groan, ‘didn’t he do me out of that money already?’

‘How so, father?’ said I, scarce able to repress my laughter at the expression of his face.

‘I was coming down the main street yesterday evening with Doctor Plunkett, the bishop, beside me, discoursing a little theology, and looking as pious and respectable as may be, when that villain Burke came running out of a shop, and pulling out his pocket-book, cried —

‘“Wait a bit, Father Tom, you know I’m a little in your debt about that race; and as you’re a sporting character, it’s only fair to book up at once.”

‘“What is this I hear, Father Loftus?” says the bishop.

‘“Oh, my lord,” say I, “he’s a jocosus puer– a humbugging bla-guard; a farceur, your reverence, and that’s the way he is always cutting his jokes upon the people.”

“‘And so he does not owe you this money?” said the bishop, looking mighty hard at us both.

‘“Not a farthing of it, my lord.”

‘“That’s comfortable, anyhow,” says Burke, putting up his pocket-book; “and ‘faith, my lord,” said he with a wink, “I wish I had a loan of you for an hour or two every settling day, for troth you ‘re a trump!” And with that he went off laughing, till ye’d have thought he’d split his sides – and I am sure I wish he had.’

I don’t think Mr. Burke himself could have laughed louder or longer at his scheme than did we in hearing it, The priest at length joined in the mirth, and I could perceive, as the punch made more inroads upon him and the evening wore on, that his holy horror of duelling was gradually melting away before the warmth of his Hibernian propensities, like a wet sponge passed across the surface of a dark picture, bringing forth from the gloom many a figure and feature indistinct before, and displaying touches of light not hitherto appreciable, so whisky seems to exercise some strange power of displaying its votaries in all their breadth of character, divesting them of the adventitious clothes in which position or profession has invested them. Thus a tipsy Irishman stands forth in the exuberance of his nationality, Hibernicis Hibernior. Forgetting all his moral declamation on duelling, oblivious of his late indignation against his cousin, he rubbed his hands pleasantly, and related story after story of his own early experiences, some of them not a little amusing.

The Major, however, seemed not fully to enjoy the priest’s anecdotical powers, but sipped his glass with a grave and sententious air. ‘Very true, Tom,’ said he at length, breaking silence; ‘you have seen a fair share of these things for a man of your cloth. But where’s the man living – show him to me, I say – that has had my experience, either as principal or second? Haven’t I had my four men out in the same morning?’

‘Why, I confess,’ said I meekly, ‘that does seem an extravagant allowance.’

‘Clear waste, downright profusion, du luxe, mon cher, nothing else,’ observed Father Tom.

Meanwhile, the Major rolled his eyes fearfully at me, and fidgeted in his chair with impatience to be asked for his story; and as I myself had some curiosity on the subject, I begged him to relate it.

‘Tom, here, doesn’t like a story at supper,’ said the Major pompously; for, perceiving our attitude of attention, he resolved on being a little tyrannical before telling it.

The priest made immediate submission; and, slyly hinting that his objection only lay against stories he had been hearing for the last thirty years, said he could listen to the narration in question with much pleasure.

‘You shall have it, then,’ said the Major, as he squared himself in his chair, and thus began: —

‘You have never been in Castle Connel, Hinton? Well, there is a wide bleak line of country there, that stretches away to the westward, with nothing but large round-backed mountains, low boggy swamps, with here and there a miserable mud hovel, surrounded by, maybe, half an acre of lumpers, or bad oats; a few small streams struggle through this on their way to the Shannon, but they are brown and dirty as the soil they traverse; and the very fish that swim in them are brown and smutty also.

‘In the very heart of this wild country, I took it into my head to build a house. A strange notion it was, for there was no neighbourhood and no sporting; but, somehow, I had taken a dislike to mixed society some time before that, and I found it convenient to live somewhat in retirement; so that, if the partridges were not in abundance about me, neither were the process-servers; and the truth was, I kept a much sharper look-out for the sub-sheriff than I did for the snipe.

‘Of course, as I was over head and ears in debt, my notion was to build something very considerable and imposing; and, to be sure, I had a fine portico, and a flight of steps leading up to it; and there were ten windows in front, and a grand balustrade at the top; and ‘faith, taking it all in all, the building was so strong, the walls so thick, the windows so narrow, and the stones so black, that my cousin Darcy Mahon called it Newgate; and not a bad name either – and the devil another it ever went by. And even that same had its advantages; for when the creditors used to read that at the top of my letters, they’d say, “Poor devil! he has enough on his hands: there’s no use troubling him any more.” Well, big as Newgate looked from without, it had not much accommodation when you got inside. There was, ‘tis true, a fine hall, all flagged; and, out of it, you entered what ought to have been the dinner-room, thirty-eight feet by seven-and-twenty, but which was used for herding sheep in winter. On the right hand, there was a cosy little breakfast-room, just about the size of this we are in. At the back of the hall, but concealed by a pair of folding-doors, there was a grand staircase of old Irish oak, that ought to have led up to a great suite of bedrooms, but it only conducted to one – a little crib I had for myself. The remainder were never plastered nor floored; and, indeed, in one of them, that was over the big drawing-room, the joists were never laid – which was all the better, for it was there we used to keep our hay and straw. Now, at the time I mention, the harvest was not brought in, and instead of its being full, as it used to be, it was mighty low; so that, when you opened the door above the stairs, instead of finding the hay up beside you, it was about fourteen feet down beneath you.

‘I can’t help boring you with all these details; first, because they are essential to my story; and next, because, being a young man, and a foreigner to boot, it may lead you to a little better understanding of some of our national customs. Of all the partialities we Irish have, after lush and the ladies, I believe our ruling passion is to build a big house, spend every shilling we have, or that we have not, as the case may be, in getting it half finished, and then live in a corner of it, “just for grandeur,” as a body may say. It’s a droll notion, after all; but show me the county in Ireland that hasn’t at least six specimens of what I mention.

‘Newgate was a beautiful one; and although the she lived in the parlour, and the cows were kept in the blue drawing-room, Darby Whaley slept in the boudoir, and two bull-dogs and a buck goat kept house in the library – ‘faith, upon the outside it looked very imposing; and not one that saw it, from the highroad to Ennis – and you could see it for twelve miles in every direction – didn’t say, “That Mahon must be a snug fellow: look what a beautiful place he has of it there!” Little they knew that it was safer to go up the “Reeks” than my grand staircase, and it was like rope-dancing to pass from one room to the other.

‘Well, it was about four o’clock in the afternoon of a dark lowering day in December that I was treading homewards in no very good-humour; for except a brace and a half of snipe, and a grey plover, I had met with nothing the whole day. The night was falling fast; so I began to hurry on as quickly as I could, when I heard a loud shout behind me, and a voice called out —

‘“It’s Bob Mahon, boys! By the Hill of Scariff, we are in luck!”

‘I turned about, and what should I see but a parcel of fellows in red coats – they were the Blazers. There was Dan Lambert, Tom Burke, Harry Eyre, Joe M’Mahon, and the rest of them – fourteen souls in all. They had come down to draw a cover of Stephen Blake’s about ten miles from me; but, in the strange mountain country, they lost the dogs, they lost their way and their temper; in truth, to all appearance, they lost everything but their appetites. Their horses were dead beat too, and they looked as miserable a crew as ever you set eyes on.

‘“Isn’t it lucky, Bob, that we found you at home?” said Lambert.

‘“They told us you were away,” says Burke.

‘“Some said that you were grown so pious that you never went out except on Sundays,” added old Harry, with a grin.

‘“Begad,” said I, “as to the luck, I won’t say much for it; for here’s all I can give you for your dinner”; and so I pulled out the four birds and shook them at them; “and as to the piety, troth, maybe you’d like to keep a fast with as devoted a son of the Church as myself.”

‘“But isn’t that Newgate up there?” said one.

‘“That same.”

‘“And you don’t mean to say that such a house as that hasn’t a good larder and a fine cellar?”

‘“You’re right,” said I; “and they’re both full at this very moment – the one with seed-potatoes, and the other with Whitehaven coals.”

‘“Have you got any bacon?” said M’Mahon.

‘“Oh yes!” said I, “there’s bacon.”

‘“And eggs?” said another.

‘“For the matter of that, you might swim in batter.”

‘“Come, come,” said Dan Lambert, “we ‘re not so badly off after all.”

‘“Is there whisky?” cried Eyre.

‘“Sixty-three gallons, that never paid the king sixpence!”

‘As I said this, they gave three cheers you’d have heard a mile off.

‘After about twenty minutes’ walking, we got up to the house, and when poor Darby opened the door, I thought he ‘d faint; for, you see, the red coats made him think it was the army, coming to take me away; and he was for running off to raise the country, when I caught him by the neck.

‘“It’s the Blazers, ye old fool!” said I, “The gentlemen are come to dine here.”

‘“Hurroo!” said he, clapping his hands on his knees – “there must be great distress entirely, down about Nenagh, and them parts, or they’d never think of coming up here for a bit to eat.”

‘“Which way lie the stables, Bob?” said Burke.

‘“Leave all that to Darby,” said I; for ye see he had only to whistle and bring up as many people as he liked. And so he did too; and as there was room for a cavalry regiment, the horses were soon bedded down and comfortable; and in ten minutes’ time we were all sitting pleasantly round a big fire, waiting for the rashers and eggs.

‘“Now, if you’d like to wash your hands before dinner, Lambert, come along with me.”

‘“By all means,” said he.

‘The others were standing up too; but I observed that as the house was large, and the ways of it unknown to them, it was better to wait till I’d come back for them.

‘“This was a real piece of good-luck, Bob,” said Dan, as he followed me upstairs. “Capital quarters we’ve fallen into; and what a snug bedroom ye have here.”

‘“Yes,” said I carelessly; “it’s one of the small rooms. There are eight like this, and five large ones, plainly furnished, as you see; but for the present, you know – ”

‘“Oh, begad! I wish for nothing better. Let me sleep here – the other fellows may care for your four-posters with satin hangings.”

‘“Well,” said I, “if you are really not joking, I may tell you that the room is one of the warmest in the house” – and this was telling no lie.

‘“Here I ‘ll sleep,” said he, rubbing his hands with satisfaction, and giving the bed a most affectionate look. “And now let us join the rest.”

‘When I brought Dan down, I took up Burke, and after him M’Mahon, and so on to the last; but every time I entered the parlour, I found them all bestowing immense praises on my house, and each fellow ready to bet he had got the best bedroom.

‘Dinner soon made its appearance; for if the cookery was not very perfect, it was at least wonderfully expeditious. There were two men cutting rashers, two more frying them in the pan, and another did nothing but break the eggs, Darby running from the parlour to the kitchen and back again, as hard as he could trot.

‘Do you know, now, that many a time since, when I have been giving venison, and Burgundy and claret enough to swim a lifeboat in, I often thought it was a cruel waste of money; for the fellows weren’t half as pleasant as they were that evening on bacon and whisky!

‘I’ve a theory on that subject, Hinton, I’ll talk to you more about another time; I’ll only observe now, that I’m sure we all overfeed our company. I’ve tried both plans; and my honest experience is, that as far as regards conviviality, fun, and good-fellowship, it is a great mistake to provide too well for your guests. There is something heroic in eating your mutton-chop, or your leg of a turkey, among jolly fellows; there is a kind of reflective flattering about it that tells you you have been invited for your drollery, and not for your digestion; and that your jokes and not your flattery have been your recommendation. Lord bless you! I ‘ve laughed more over red-herrings and poteen than I ever expect to do again over turtle and toquay.

‘My guests were, to do them justice, a good illustration of my theory. A pleasanter and a merrier party never sat down together. We had good songs, good stories, plenty of laughing, and plenty of drink; until at last poor Darby became so overpowered, by the fumes of the hot water I suppose, that he was obliged to be carried up to bed, and so we were compelled to boil the kettle in the parlour. This, I think, precipitated matters; for, by some mistake, they put punch into it instead of water, and the more you tried to weaken the liquor, it was only the more tipsy you were getting.

‘About two o’clock, five of the party were under the table, three more were nodding backwards and forwards like insane pendulums, and the rest were mighty noisy, and now and then rather disposed to be quarrelsome.

‘“Bob,” said Lambert to me, in a whisper, “if it’s the same thing to you, I’ll slip away and get into bed.”

‘“Of course, if you won’t take anything more. Just make yourself at home; and as you don’t know the way here, follow me.”

‘“I ‘m afraid,” said he, “I ‘d not find my way alone.”

‘“I think,” said I, “it’s very likely. But come along!”

‘I walked upstairs before him; but instead of turning to the left, I went the other way, till I came to the door of the large room that I have told you already was over the big drawing-room. Just as I put my hand on the lock, I contrived to blow out the candle, as if it was the wind.

‘“What a draught there is here,” said I; “but just step in, and I’ll go for a light.”

‘He did as he was bid; but instead of finding himself on my beautiful little carpet, down he went fourteen feet into the hay at the bottom. I looked down after him for a minute or two, and then called out —

“‘As I am doing the honours of Newgate, the least I could do was to show you the drop. Good-night, Dan! but let me advise you to get a little farther from the door, as there are more coming.”

‘Well, sir, when they missed Dan and me out of the room, two or three more stood up, and declared for bed also. The first I took up was Ffrench, of Green Park; for indeed he wasn’t a cute fellow at the best of times; and if it wasn’t that the hay was so low, he’d never have guessed it was not a feather-bed till he woke in the morning. Well, down he went. Then came Eyre; then Joe M’Mahon – two-and-twenty stone – no less! Lord pity them! – this was a great shock entirely! But when I opened the door for Tom Burke, upon my conscience you’d think it was Pandemonium they had down there. They were fighting like devils, and roaring with all their might.

‘“Good-night, Tom,” said I, pushing Burke forward. “It’s the cows you hear underneath.”

‘“Cows!” said he. “If they ‘re cows, begad they must have got at that sixty-three gallons of poteen you talked of; for they’re all drunk.”

‘With that, he snatched the candle out of my hand and looked down into the pit. Never was such a sight seen before or since. Dan was pitching into poor Ffrench, who, thinking he had an enemy before him, was hitting out manfully at an old turf-creel, that rocked and creaked at every blow, as he called out —

‘“I’ll smash you! I’ll ding your ribs for you, you’ infernal scoundrel!”

‘Eyre was struggling in the hay, thinking he was swimming for his life; and poor Joe M’Mahon was patting him on the head, and saying, “Poor fellow! good dog!” for he thought it was Towzer, the bull-terrier, that was prowling round the calves of his legs.