The O'Donoghue Part 73

and he hastened from the spot, while Mark bending forward in the saddle, pressed the spurs to his horse, and started.

With the speed of one who cared for nothing less than his own safety, Mark urged his horse onward, and deserting the ordinary road, he directed his course to the sh.o.r.e along the base of the mountain--a rough and dangerous path beset with obstacles, and frequently on the very edge of the cliff; at last he reached the Bay, over which the dark storm was raging in all its violence; the wind blowing with short and sudden gusts sent the great waves thundering against the rocks, and with fearful roar through the caves and crevices of the coast. Riding madly on till the white foam dashed over him, he turned on every side, expecting to see the boats of the fleet making for the land, but all was dreary and desolate; he shouted aloud, but his voice was drowned in the uproar of the elements; and then, but not till then, came over him the afflicting dread of desertion. The vivid lightning shot to and fro over the bleak expanse of sea, but not a sail was there--all, all were gone.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 467]

There was a projecting promontory of rock which, running out to a considerable distance in the Bay, shut out all view beyond it; the last hope he cherished was, that they might have sought shelter in the bay beneath this, and plunging into the boiling surf, he urged his horse forward--now madly rearing as the strong sea struck him--now buffeting the white waves with vigorous chest--the n.o.ble beast braved the storm-lashed water, and bore him alternately bounding and swimming, as the tide advanced or receded.

The struggle, with all its peril to life, brought back the failing courage to Mark's heart, and he cheered his horse with a cry of triumphant delight, as each great wave pa.s.sed over them, and still they went on undaunted. It was a short but desperate achievement to round the point of the promontory, where the sea beat with redoubled fury; but the same daring intrepidity seemed to animate both horse and rider, and after a moment of extreme danger, both gained the beach in safety. At the very same instant that the animal touched the strand, a quick flash broke over the sea, and then came the thundering report of a cannon.

This was answered by another further out to sea, and then a blue light burst forth on high, and threw its lurid glare over the spars and canvas of a large ship--every rope and block, every man and every gun were displayed in the spectral light. It was a grand, but still an appalling sight, to see the huge ma.s.s labouring in the sea, and then the next moment to strain the eyes through the black canopy of cloud that closed around her; for so it was, as the light went out, no trace of the vessel remained, nor was there aught to mark the spot she had occupied.

From time to time the flash and the report of a gun would show where some ship struggled with the raging sea; but to Mark all was mystery. He knew not what it might portend, and hesitated between hope and despair, whether these might prove the preparations for disembarking, or the last signal before sailing.

In the low hut of a fisherman, not far from where he was, a light still twinkled, and thither he hastened: it belonged to the man who had rowed him on board of the frigate, and with whom Kate had spoken in the kitchen. As Mark reached the door, he heard the sound of several voices talking in a low, half-suppressed tone; pushing open the door, he entered, and found about a dozen fishermen standing over the lifeless body of a man in a French uniform.

"Who is this? What has happened?" said Mark, hurriedly. "It's one of the French officers, sir," said Tom McCarthy; "he came ash.o.r.e with us this morning, and to-night, when it came on to blow, and he saw the signals to sail, he insisted on going on board again, and we did our best for him; we twice put out, and twice were sent back again; but the last time we tried, the craft was upset, and the poor fellow could not swim, and we never saw him more, till we found his body on the strand about an hour ago."

Mark held the light beside the pale features, and saw that he was a youth of not more than eighteen years; there was no distortion whatever, and the features were calm and tranquil, as if in sleep.

"Let us lay him in the earth, boys," said Mark, as his voice trembled with emotion; "it is the least we can do to let him sleep in the land he came to save."

The men lifted the body without a word, and, preceded by Mark, who carried a lantern, issued from the hut. A few paces brought them to a little gra.s.sy mound, where the cliff, descending between the rocks, preserved its rich verdure untrodden and untouched.

"Here, this will do, boys," said Mark; "this rock will mark the spot."

The work was soon over, and as the last turf was laid over him, a deafening peal of artillery thundered over the sea, and suddenly, lights shone here and there, through the dark atmosphere.

"He has had a soldier's burial," said Mark; "may his rest be tranquil.

And now"--and his voice a.s.sumed a firm and determined tone at the moment--"and now, who will put me on board of any ship in that fleet?

I have neither gold to offer, nor silver to bribe you. I am poor and powerless, but if the broad lands that were once our own, were mine now, I'd give them all for that one service."

"No boat could live ten minutes in that surf; there's a sea running there would swamp a schooner," said an old man, with white hair.

"We'd never get outside the breakers yonder," said another.

"I think we've had enough of it for one night," muttered a third, with a side-long glance towards the recent grave.

"And you," said Mark, turning fixedly round to Tom M'Carthy, "what words of comfort have you for me?"

"Faix, that I'm ready and willin' to go with you, divil may care who the other is," said the stout-hearted fellow. "I seen the day you jumped into a boat yourself to take the crew off a wreck below the point there, and I took an oath that night I'd never see you wanting for two hands at an oar as long as I could pull one. The waves that isn't too high for you is not a bit too big for me either."

"Well done, Tom," said a powerful looking young fellow beside him, "and I'll be the bow oar for you, an' you'll take me."

"And here's two more of us," said another, as he held a comrade by the hand, "that will never see his honour at a loss, no matter how it blows."

The doubt and hesitation which prevailed but a moment before, were at once changed for confidence and resolution, and eight men now hurried to the beach to launch the boat, and make ready for the enterprize.

"If we could only see a flash, or hear a shot now, we'd know which way to bear down," said Tom, as he stood on the sh.o.r.e, with his eyes turned seaward.

"There--there goes one!" cried Mark, as a red flame shot forth and glittered for a second over the dark water.

"That's the frigate; she's holding on still by her anchors."

"I knew they would not desert us, boys," cried Mark, with wild enthusiasm, for hope gained on him every moment as peril increased.

"Now for it, and all together," said Tom, as he bent forward against the whistling storm, and the craft, as if instinct with life, bounded over the wave, and cleft her way through the boiling surf, while the hardy fishermen strained every nerve, and toiled with all their energy. Mark kneeling in the bow, his eyes strained to catch any signal, seemed perfectly delirious in the transport of his joy.

"Luff her, luff her--here comes a large wave--n.o.bly done, lads--how she mounts the sea--here's another;" but the warning was this time too late, for the wave broke over the boat, and fell in torrents over the crew.

With redoubled vigour the stout fellows bent to their work, and once more the boat sped on her course; while Mark cheered them with a shout heard even above the storm, and with a deep, mellow voice chanted out the rude verses of a song--

"The fisherman loves the rippled stream, And the lover the moon-lit sea, But the darkening squall And the sea birds call are dearer far to me.

"To see on the white and crest'd wave The stormy petrel float, And then to look back On the stormy track That glitters behind our boat."

"Avast there, Master Mark, there's wind enough without singing for more," cried one of the fishermen, who, with the superst.i.tion of his craft, felt by no means pleased at Mark's ditty; "and there comes a sea to p.o.o.p a line of battle-ship," and as he said the words, a wave mountains high rolled past, and left them labouring in the deep trough of the sea; while the lurid glare of sheet lightning showed all the ships of the fleet, as, with top-sails bent, they stood out to sea.

"There they go," said one of the fishermen, "and that's all the good they've done us."

"Pull hard, boys," cried Mark, pa.s.sionately, "it may not be yet too late, strain every arm--the fate of our country may rest upon those bending spars--together, men, together; it is not for life now, it is Ireland is on the struggle:" thus cheering the drooping courage of the men, and eagerly bending his glance towards the sea, his own heart glowed with enthusiasm that made every danger forgotten; and at last, after an hour of desperate exertion, with strength all but exhausted, and nearly overcome by fatigue, they beheld the dark hull of a large ship looming above them. By firing his pistol, Mark attracted the notice of the watch on deck; his signal was replied to, and the next moment the boat was alongside, and Mark clambering up the steep side, stood on the quarter-deck.

"Will the troops not land," said Mark, as the officers crowded eagerly around him--"is the expedition abandoned?"

"Don't you think the hurricane might answer the question, young man?"

said a weather-beaten officer, who appeared in command--"or are you so ignorant in naval matters as to suppose that a force could disembark in a gale like this?"

"It might scare a pleasure party," said Mark, rudely, "but for men who have come to give and get hard knocks, methinks this need not disconcert them."

"And who is to aid us if we land?" said the first speaker--"what forces are in arms to join us?--what preparations for ourselves?--have you a musket, have you a horse, or do you yourself, in your own person, represent the alliance we seek for?"

Mark hung down his head abashed and ashamed: too well he knew how treachery had sapped the foundation of the plot; that, betrayed and abandoned by their chiefs, the people had become either apathetic or terror-stricken, and that, if a blow were to be struck for Irish independence, it must be by the arm of the stranger.

"It is needless to waste words, sir," said the French captain, for such he was; "the admiral has twice made the signal to stand out to sea. The French Republic will have suffered loss enough in some of the finest ships of her navy, without hazarding fifteen thousand brave fellows upon an exploit so hopeless."

"The Captain says truly," interposed another; "Ireland is not ripe for such an enterprize; there may be courage enough among your countrymen, but they know not how to act together. There's no slavery like dissension."

"That boat will be swamped," said the officer of the watch, as he pointed to the fishing-craft, which still held on to the leeward of the ship; "if you are going back to sh.o.r.e, sir, let me advise you, for your own sake, and your comrades', too, to lose no time about it."

"Far better to come with us," said a powerful looking man in the uniform of an infantry regiment; "the young gentleman seems inclined to see service. 'Ma foi,' we seldom lack an opportunity of showing it."

"I'll never go back," said Mark; "I have looked at my country for the last time."

With many a welcome speech the officers pressed round and grasped his hands, and for a moment all their misfortunes were forgotten in the joy with which they received their new comrade.

"Who will be my banker for some gold," said Mark; "those brave fellows have risked their lives for me, and I have nothing but thanks to give them."

"Let this go to the expenses of the expedition,'' said the captain, laughing, as he threw his purse to Mark. The young man leaned over the bulwark, and hailed the boat, and, after a moment of great difficulty, one of the fishermen reached the deck.

"I wish to bid you good-bye, Tom," said Mark, as he grasped the rough hand in his; "you are the last thing I shall see of my country; farewell, then; but remember, that however deeply wrongs may gall, and injuries oppress you, the glory of resistance is too dearly bought at the cost of companionship with the traitor and the coward--goodbye forever." He pressed the purse into the poor fellow's hand; nor was it without a struggle he could compel him to accept it. A few minutes after the boat was cleaving her way through the dark water, her prow turned to the land which Mark had left for ever.

Seated on the deck, silent and thoughtful, Mark seemed indifferent to the terrible storm, whose violence increased with every moment, and as the vessel tacked beneath the tall cliffs, when every heart beat anxiously, and every eye was fixed on the stern rocks above them, his glance was calm, and his pulse was tranquil; he felt as though fate had done her worst, and that the future had no heavier blow in store for him.