E-text prepared by Martin Robb

Orange and Green:

A Tale of the Boyne and Limerick

By G. A. Henty.

[Preface.]

The subject of Ireland is one which has, for some years, been a very prominent one, and is likely, I fear, for some time yet to occupy a large share of public attention. The discontent, manifested in the troubles of recent years, has had its root in an old sense of grievance, for which there was, unhappily, only too abundant reason. The great proportion of the soil of Ireland was taken from the original owners, and handed over to Cromwell's followers, and for years the land that still remained in the hands of Irishmen was subject to the covetousness of a party of greedy intriguers, who had sufficient influence to sway the proceedings of government. The result was the rising of Ireland, nominally in defence of the rights of King James, but really as an effort of despair on the part of those who deemed their religion, their property, and even their lives threatened, by the absolute ascendency of the Protestant party in the government of the country. I have taken my information from a variety of sources; but, as I wished you to see the matter from the Irish point of view, I have drawn most largely from the history of those events by Mr. O'Driscol, published sixty years ago. There is, however, but little difference of opinion between Irish and English authors, as to the general course of the war, or as to the atrocious conduct of William's army of foreign mercenaries towards the people of Ireland.

G. A. Henty.

[Chapter 1]: A Shipwreck.

A few miles to the south of Bray Head, on the crest of a hill falling sharply down to the sea, stood Castle Davenant, a conspicuous landmark to mariners skirting the coast on their way from Cork or Waterford to Dublin Bay. Castle Davenant it was called, although it had long since ceased to be defensible; but when it was built by Sir Godfrey Davenant, who came over with Strongbow, it was a place of strength. Strongbow's followers did well for themselves. They had reckoned on hard fighting, but the Irish were too much divided among themselves to oppose any serious resistance to the invaders. Strongbow had married the daughter of Dermid, Prince of Leinster, and at the death of that prince succeeded him, and the greater portion of Leinster was soon divided among the knights and men-at-arms who had followed his standard. Godfrey Davenant, who was a favourite of the earl, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his share, which consisted of a domain including many square miles of fertile land, stretching back from the seacoast.

Here for many generations his descendants lived, for the most part taking an active share in the wars and disturbances which, with scarcely an interval of rest, agitated the country.

The castle had continued to deserve its name until forty years before the time this story commences, when Cromwell's gunners had battered a breach in it, and left it a heap of smoking ruins. Walter Davenant had died, fighting to the last, in his own hall. At that time, the greater part of his estate was bestowed upon officers and soldiers in Cromwell's army, among whom no less than four million acres of Irish land were divided.

Had it not been that Walter Davenant's widow was an Englishwoman, and a relation of General Ireton, the whole of the estate would have gone; but his influence was sufficient to secure for her the possession of the ruins of her home, and a few hundred acres surrounding it. Fortunately, the dowry which Mrs. Davenant had brought her husband was untouched, and a new house was reared within the ruins of the castle, the new work being dovetailed with the old.

The family now consisted of Mrs. Davenant, a lady sixty-eight years old; her son Fergus, who was, when Cromwell devastated the land, a child of five years; his wife Katherine, daughter of Lawrence McCarthy, a large landowner near Cork; and their two sons, Walter, a lad of sixteen, and Godfrey, twelve years old.

Two miles west of the castle stood a square-built stone house, surrounded by solidly-constructed barns and outbuildings. This was the abode of old Zephaniah Whitefoot, the man upon whom had been bestowed the broad lands of Walter Davenant. Zephaniah had fought stoutly, as lieutenant in one of Cromwell's regiments of horse, and had always considered himself an ill-treated man, because, although he had obtained all the most fertile portion of the Davenant estate, the old family were permitted to retain the castle, and a few hundred acres by the sea.

He was one of those who contended that the Amalekites should be utterly destroyed by the sword, and he considered that the retention of the corner of their domains, by the Davenants, was a direct flying in the face of the providence who had given them into the hands of the faithful. Not that, had he obtained possession of the ruined castle, Zephaniah Whitefoot would have repaired it or set up his abode there. The followers of Cromwell had no eyes for the beautiful. They were too much in earnest to care aught for the amenities of life, and despised, as almost sinful, anything approximating to beauty, either in dress, person, or surroundings. The houses that they reared, in this land of which they had taken possession, were bare to the point of ugliness, and their interior was as cold and hard as was the exterior. Everything was for use, nothing for ornament. Scarce a flower was to be seen in their gardens, and laughter was a sign of levity, to be sternly repressed.

Their isolation, in the midst of a hostile population, caused them no concern whatever. They cared for no society or companionship, save that of their own households, which they ruled with a rod of iron; and an occasional gathering, for religious purposes, with the other settlers of their own faith. They regarded the Irish as Papists, doomed to everlasting perdition, and indeed consigned to that fate all outside their own narrow sect. Such a people could no more mix with the surrounding population than oil with water. As a rule, they tilled as much ground in the immediate vicinity of their houses as they and their families could manage, and the rest of the land which had fallen into their possession they let, either for a money payment, or, more often, for a portion of the crops raised upon it, to such natives as were willing to hold it on these terms.

The next generation had fallen away somewhat from their fathers' standards. It is not in human nature to stand such a strain as their families had been subjected to. There is an innate yearning for joy and happiness, and even the sternest discipline cannot keep man forever in the gloomy bonds of fanaticism. In most cases, the immediate descendants of Cromwell's soldiers would gladly have made some sort of compromise, would have surrendered much of their outlying land to obtain secure and peaceful possession of the rest, and would have emerged from the life of gloomy seclusion, in which they found themselves; but no whisper of any such feeling as this would be heard in the household of Zephaniah Whitefoot, so long as he lived.

He was an old man now, but as hard, as gloomy, and as unlovable as he had been when in his prime. His wife had died very many years before, of no disease that Zephaniah or the doctor he called in could discover, but, in fact, of utter weariness at the dull life of repression and gloom which crushed her down. Of a naturally meek and docile disposition, she had submitted without murmuring to her husband's commands, and had, during her whole married life, never shocked him so much as she did the day before her death, when, for the first time, she exhibited the possession of an opinion of her own, by saying earnestly:

"You may say what you like, Zephaniah, but I do think we were meant to have some happiness and pleasure on earth. If we were intended to go through life without laughing, why should we be able to laugh? Oh, how I should like to hear one hearty, natural laugh again before I die, such as I used to hear when I was a girl!"

Jabez Whitefoot inherited his mother's docility of disposition, and, even when he grew to middle age, never dreamt of disputing his father's absolute rule, and remained strictly neutral when his wife, the daughter of an old comrade of his father, settled a few miles away, fought stoutly at times against his tyranny.

"You are less than a man, Jabez," she would say to him, indignantly, "to put up, at your age, with being lectured as if you were a child. Parental obedience is all very well, and I hope I was always obedient to my father; but when it comes to a body not being permitted to have a soul of his own, it is going too far. If you had told me that, when I became your wife, I was to become the inmate of a dungeon for the rest of my existence, I wouldn't have had you, not if you had been master of all the broad lands of Leinster."

But, though unable to rouse her husband into making an effort for some sort of freedom, Hannah Whitefoot had battled more successfully in behalf of her son, John.

"You have had the management of your son, sir, and I will manage mine," she said. "I will see that he does not grow up a reprobate or a Papist, but at least he shall grow up a man, and his life shall not be as hateful as mine is, if I can help it."

Many battles had already been fought on this point, but in the end Hannah Whitefoot triumphed. Although her husband never, himself, opposed his father's authority, he refused absolutely to use his own to compel his wife to submission.

"You know, sir," he said, "you had your own way with my mother and me, and I say nothing for or against it. Hannah has other ideas. No one can say that she is not a good woman, or that she fails in her duty to me. All people do not see life from the same point of view. She is just as conscientious, in her way, as you are in yours. She reads her Bible and draws her own conclusions from it, just as you do; and as she is the mother of the child, and as I know she will do her best for it, I shall not interfere with her way of doing it."

And so Hannah won at last, and although, according to modern ideas, the boy's training would have been considered strict in the extreme, it differed very widely from that which his father had had before him. Sounds of laughter, such as never had been heard within the walls of the house, since Zephaniah laid stone upon stone, sometimes issued from the room where Hannah and the child were together alone, and Zephaniah was out with Jabez about the farm; and Hannah herself benefited, as much as did the child, by her rebellion against the authorities. Jabez, too, was conscious that home was brighter and pleasanter than it had been, and when Zephaniah burst into a torrent of indignation, when he discovered that the child had absolutely heard some fairy stories from its mother, Jabez said quietly:

"Father, I wish no dispute. I have been an obedient son to you, and will continue so to my life's end; but if you are not satisfied with the doings of my wife, I will depart with her. There are plenty who will be glad to let me a piece of land; and if I only work there as hard as I work here, I shall assuredly be able to support her and my boy. So let this be the last word between us."

This threat put an end to the struggle. Zephaniah had, like most of his class, a keen eye to the main chance, and could ill spare the services of Jabez and his thrifty and hard-working wife; and henceforth, except by pointed references, in the lengthy morning and evening prayers, to the backsliding in his household, he held his peace.

Between the Castle and Zephaniah Whitefoot there had never been any intercourse. The dowager Mrs. Davenant hated the Cromwellite occupier of her estate, not only as a usurper, but as the representative of the man who had slain her husband. She never alluded to his existence, and had always contrived, in her rides and walks, to avoid any point from which she could obtain so much as a distant view of the square, ugly house which formed a blot on the fair landscape. She still spoke of the estate as if it extended to its original boundaries, and ignored absolutely the very existence of Zephaniah Whitefoot, and all that belonged to him. But when her son and Jabez grew to man's estate, at about the same period, they necessarily at times crossed each other's paths; and as in them the prejudices and enmities of their elders were somewhat softened, they would, when they met on the road, exchange a passing nod or a brief "Good morning."

Another generation still, and the boys of the two houses met as friends. Thanks to his mother's successful rebellion, John Whitefoot grew up a hearty, healthy boy, with a bright eye, a merry laugh, and a frank, open bearing.

"One would think," his grandfather remarked angrily one day, as the boy went out, whistling gaily, to fetch in a young colt Jabez was about to break, "that John was the son of a malignant, or one of the men of Charles Stuart, rather than of a God-fearing tiller of the soil."

"So long as he fears God, and walks in the right way, he is none the worse for that, father," Jabez said stoutly; "and even you would hardly say that his mother has failed in her teachings in that respect. I do not know that, so long as one has the words of Scripture in his heart, he is any the better for having them always on his lips; in other respects, I regret not that the boy should have a spirit and a fire which I know I lack myself. Who can say what may yet take place here! The Stuarts are again upon the throne, and, with James's leaning towards Papacy, there is no saying whether, some day, all the lands which Cromwell divided among his soldiers may not be restored to their original possessors, and in that case our sons may have to make their way in other paths of life than ours; and, if it be so, John will assuredly be more likely to make his way than I should have done."

"We would never surrender, save with our lives, what our swords have won. We will hold the inheritance which the Lord has given us," the old man said fiercely.

"Yes, father; and so said those whose lands we have inherited. So said Walter Davenant, of whose lands we are possessed. It will be as God wills it. He has given to us the lands of others, and it may be that he will take them away again. The times have changed, father, and the manners; and I am well pleased to see that John, while I am sure he is as true to the faith as I am myself, will take broader and, perhaps, happier views of life than I have done."

Zephaniah gave a snort of displeasure. He grieved continually at the influence which his daughter-in-law exercised over her son, and which now extended clearly to her husband; but Jabez was now a man of five-and-forty, and had lately shown that, in some respects at least, he intended to have his way, while Zephaniah himself, though still erect and strong, was well-nigh eighty.

"Remember, Jabez," he said, "that it goes hard with those who, having set their hands to the plough, turn aside."

"I shall not turn aside, father," Jabez said quietly. "I have gone too long along a straight furrow to change now; but I am not ill pleased that my son should have a wider scope. I trust and believe that he will drive his furrow as straight as we have done, although it may not be exactly in the same line."

But neither Zephaniah nor old Mrs. Davenant knew that their respective grandsons had made friends, although both the boys' fathers knew, and approved of it, although for somewhat different reasons.

"The Whitefoot boy," Mr. Davenant had said to his wife, "is, I fancy from what I have seen of him, of a different type to his father and grandfather. I met him the other day when I was out, and he spoke as naturally and outspokenly as Walter himself. He seems to have got rid of the Puritanical twang altogether. At any rate, he will do Walter no harm; and, indeed, I should say that there was a solid good sense about him, which will do Master Walter, who is somewhat disposed to be a madcap, much good. Anyhow, he is a better companion for the boy than the lads down in the village; and there is no saying, wife, how matters may go in this unhappy country. It may be that we may come to our own again. It may be that we may lose what is left to us. Anyhow, it can do no harm to Walter that he should have, as a friend, one in the opposite camp."

Somewhat similar was the talk between Hannah and Jabez, although, in their case, the wife was the speaker.

"John has told me, Jabez, that he has several times met young Davenant, and that the boy is disposed to be friendly with him; and he has asked me to speak with you, to know whether you have any objection to his making a friend of him."

"What do you say, Hannah?" Jabez asked cautiously. "My father, I fear, would not approve of it."

"Your father need know nothing about it, Jabez. He is an old man and a good man, but he clings to the ways of his youth, and deems that things are still as they were when he rode behind Cromwell. I would not deceive him did he ask; but I do not see that the matter need be mentioned in his presence. It seems to me that it will be good for John to be friends with this boy. He is almost without companionship. We have acquaintance, it is true, among the other settlers of our faith, but such companionship as he has there will not open his mind or broaden his views. We are dull people here for a lad. Had we had other children it might have been different.

"I have heard my mother speak of her life as a girl, in England, and assuredly it was brighter and more varied than ours; and it seems not to me that the pleasures which they had were sinful, although I have been taught otherwise; but, as I read my Bible, I cannot see that innocent pleasures are in any way denied to the Lord's people; and such pleasure as the companionship of the young Davenant can give John will, I think, be altogether for his good."

"But the lad is a Papist, Hannah."

"He is, Jabez; but boys, methinks, do not argue among themselves upon points of doctrine; and I have no fear that John will ever be led from the right path, nor indeed, though it is presumption for a woman to say so, do I feel so sure as our ministers that ours is the only path to heaven. We believe firmly that it is the best path, but others believe as firmly in their paths; and I cannot think, Jabez, that all mankind, save those who are within the fold of our church, can be condemned by the good Lord to perdition."

"Your words are bold, Hannah, and I know not what my father and the elders of the church would say, were they to hear them. As to that I will not argue, but methinks that you are right in saying that the companionship of the young Davenant will do our boy no harm.

"But the lad must have his father's consent. Though I reckon that we could count pounds where they could count shillings, yet, in the opinion of the world, they assuredly stand above us. Moreover, as it is only in human nature that they should regard us as those who have despoiled them, John must have no dealings with their son without their consent. If that be given, I have nought to say against it."

And so John told Walter, next time they met, and learned in reply that Walter had already obtained his father's consent to going out rambles with him; so the boys became companions and friends, and each benefited by it. To John, the bright, careless ease and gaiety of Walter's talk and manner were, at first, strange indeed, after the restraint and gloom of his home; but in time he caught something of his companion's tone, until, as has been said, his altered manner and bearing struck and annoyed his grandfather.

On the other hand, the earnestness and solidity of John's character was of benefit to Walter; and his simple truthfulness, the straightforwardness of his principles, and his blunt frankness in saying exactly what he thought, influenced Walter to quite as large an extent as he had influenced John.

So the companionship between the lads had gone on for two years. In fine weather they had met once or twice a week, and had taken long rambles together, or, throwing themselves down on the slopes facing the sea, had talked over subjects of mutual interest. Walter's education was far in advance of that of his companion, whose reading, indeed, had been confined to the Scriptures, and the works of divines and controversialists of his own church, and whose acquirements did not extend beyond the most elementary subjects.

To him, everything that Walter knew was novel and strange; and he eagerly devoured, after receiving permission from his mother, the books which Walter lent him, principally histories, travels, and the works of Milton and Shakespeare. As to the latter, Hannah had at first some scruples; and it was only after setting herself, with great misgivings as to the lawfulness of the act, to peruse the book, that she suffered her son to read it. The volume only contained some ten of Shakespeare's plays; and Hannah, on handing the book to her son, said:

"I do not pretend, John, to understand all that is written there, but I cannot see that there is evil in it. There are assuredly many noble thoughts, and much worldly wisdom. Did I think that your life would be passed here, I should say that it were better for you not to read a book which gives a picture of a life so different from what yours would be; but none can say what your lot may be. And, although I have heard much about the wickedness of the stage, I can see no line in this book which could do harm to you. I do not see it can do you much good, John, but neither do I see that it can do you any harm; therefore, if you have set your mind on it, read it, my boy."

It was a stormy evening in the first week of November, 1688. The wind was blowing in fierce gusts, making every door and casement quiver in Davenant Castle, while, between the gusts, the sound of the deep roar of the sea on the rocks far below could be plainly heard. Mrs. Davenant was sitting in a high-backed chair, on one side of the great fireplace, in which a pile of logs was blazing. Her son had just laid down a book, which he could no longer see to read, while her daughter-in-law was industriously knitting. Walter was wandering restlessly between the fire and the window, looking out at the flying clouds, through which the moon occasionally struggled.

"Do sit down, Walter," his mother said at last. "You certainly are the most restless creature I ever saw."

"Not always, mother; but I cannot help wondering about that ship we saw down the coast, making for the bay. She was about ten miles out, and seemed to be keeping her course when I saw her last, half an hour ago; but I can see, by the clouds, that the wind has drawn round more to the north, and I doubt much whether she will be able to gain the bay."

"In that case, Walter," his father said, "if her captain knows his business, he will wear round and run down for Waterford.

"I agree with you," he continued, after walking to the window and watching the clouds, "that a vessel coming from the south will hardly weather Bray Head, with this wind."

He had scarcely spoken when the door opened, and one of the servants entered.

"Your honour, a boy has just come up from the village. He says that John Considine sent him to tell you that a large ship is driving in to shore, and that he thinks she will strike not far from the village."

"Why, on earth," Mr. Davenant exclaimed, "doesn't he tack and stand out to sea!"

"The boy says her foremast is gone, and they have lost all management of her."

"In that case, God help them! There is little chance for them on this rocky coast. However, I will go down at once, and see if anything can be done.

"Katherine, do you see that there are plenty of hot blankets ready, in case any of the poor fellows are washed ashore. I shall, of course, send them up here.

"I suppose, Walter, you will come down with me."

But Walter had already disappeared, having slipped off as soon as he had heard the message.

"Don't let that boy get into mischief, Fergus," old Mrs. Davenant said.

"I am afraid, mother, he is beyond me," her son said, with a smile. "No Davenant yet could ever keep out of mischief, and Walter is no exception. However, fortunately for us, we generally get out of scrapes as easily as we get into them."

"Not always, Fergus," she said, shaking her head.

"No, not always, mother; but exceptions, you know, prove the rule."

"Well, Godfrey, do you want to go?" he asked the younger boy, who had risen from the table, and was looking eagerly at him. "Of course you do; but, mind, you must keep close to me.

"Ah, Father John!" he broke off, as an ecclesiastic, muffled up to the throat in wrappings, entered the room. "Are you going down, too?"

"Assuredly I am, Fergus. You don't think a trifle of wind would keep me from doing my duty?"

In another two minutes, the two men and Godfrey sallied out. They staggered as the wind struck them, and Godfrey clung to his father's arm. Not a word was spoken as they made their way down the steep descent to the village, which consisted of about a dozen fishermen's huts. Indeed, speaking would have been useless, for no word would have been heard above the howling of the storm.

The vessel was visible to them, as they made their way down the hill. She was a complete wreck. The light of the moon was sufficient for them to see that she had, as the boy said, lost her foremast. Her sails were in ribbons, and she was labouring heavily in the sea, each wave that struck her breaking over her bows and sweeping along her deck. There was no hope for her. She could neither tack nor wear, and no anchor would hold for a moment on that rocky bottom, in such a sea.

On reaching the village, they joined a group of fishermen who were standing under the shelter of the end of a cottage.

"Can nothing be done, Considine?" Mr. Davenant shouted, in the ear of one of the fishermen.

"Not a thing, yer honour. She has just let drop one of her anchors."

"But they could not hope it would hold there," Mr. Davenant said.

"Not they, your honour, onless they were mad. They hoped it would hoult so as to bring her head round; but the cable went, as soon as the strain came. I saw her head go sharp up to the wind, and then fall off again; not that it would have made much difference in the end, though it would have given them half an hour longer of life."

"Could we get a boat off with a line, if she strikes?"

"Look at the sea, yer honour. Mr. Walter has been asking us; but there's no boat could get through that surf, not if all Ireland dipinded on it."

"Where is Walter?"

"Sure and I can't tell ye, yer honour. He was here a few minutes since; but what's come of him is more nor I can tell ye."

"He went off with Larry Doolan," a boy, who was standing next to the fisherman, shouted.

"Then, as sure as fate, they are up to some mischief," Mr. Davenant said. "Walter is bad enough by himself, but with Larry to help him, it would take a regiment to look after them."

"They can't be in much mischief tonight, yer honour," the fisherman said.

"Look, sir, she's coming in fast. She draws a power of water, and she will strike in a minute or two."

"She seems crowded with men. Can nothing be done to help them?" the priest asked.

"Nothing, your reverence. Praying for them is the only thing that can help the poor sowls now."

"You are sure it's not possible to launch a boat, Considine?"

"Look for yourself, yer honour. There's not a boat on the coast that could get through them breakers."

"There she goes."

Even above the noise of the storm, a loud cry was heard, and the crash of breaking timber as, with the shock, the main and mizzen masts, weakened by the loss of the foremast, went over the sides. The next great wave drove the vessel forward two or three fathoms.

"That's her last move," Considine said. "The rocks will be through her bottom, now."

"They are off," a boy shouted, running up.

"Who are off?" Considine asked.

"The young squire and Larry Doolan."

"Off where?" Mr. Davenant exclaimed.

"Off in the curragh, yer honour. Me and Tim Connolly helped them carry it round the Nose, and they launched her there. There they are. Sure you can see them for yourself."

The party rushed out from the shelter, and there, a quarter of a mile along on the right, a small boat was seen, making its way over the waves.

"Be jabers, yer honour, and they have done it," the boatmen said, as Mr. Davenant gave a cry of alarm.

"I didn't think of the curragh, and if I had, she could not have been launched here. Mr. Walter has hit on the only place where there was a chance. Under the shelter of the Nose it might be done, but nowhere else."

The Nose was a formidable reef of rocks, running off from a point and trending to the south. Many a ship had gone ashore on its jagged edge, but, with the wind from the northeast, it formed somewhat of a shelter, and it was under its lee that Walter and Larry had launched the curragh.

The curragh is still found on the Irish coast. It is a boat whose greatest width is at the stern, so much so that it looks like a boat cut in two. The floor is almost flat, and rises so much to the bow that three or four feet are entirely out of water. They are roughly built, and by no means fast, but they are wonderfully good sea boats, for their size, and can live in seas which would swamp a boat of ordinary build.

Walter had, with the assistance of Larry Doolan, built this boat for going out fishing. It was extremely light, being a mere framework covered with tarred canvas. As soon as Walter had reached the village, and found that the fishermen considered that no boat could possibly be put out, he had found and held a consultation with Larry.

"Do you think the curragh could go out, Larry?"

"Not she, yer honour. She would just be broke up like an eggshell with them breakers."

"But she might float, if we got beyond them, Larry."

"She might that," Larry agreed, "seeing how light she is."

"Well, will you go with me, Larry?"

"Sure and I would go anywhere with yer honour, but she could never get out."

"I am thinking, Larry, that if we carry her along beyond the Nose, we might find it calmer there."

"Well, we might," Larry agreed. "At any rate, we can try."

So, calling together two or three other boys, they had lifted the light boat and carried it with its oars along the shore, until they got beyond the Nose; but even here, it was a formidable business to launch her, for, although the rocks broke the full force of the seas, throwing the spray hundreds of feet up in the air, the waves poured through the intervals, and dashed over the lower rocks in such masses that formidable waves rolled in to the shore.

After much consultation, the boys agreed that their best plan was to scramble out on the rocks as far as possible, so as to launch the boat beyond the break of the surf.

It was a hazardous enterprise, and the whole party were, several times, nearly washed into the water as they struggled out. At last, they reached a spot beyond which they could go no farther, as a deep passage was here broken in the rock. But they were now beyond the line of breakers.

After several vain efforts to launch the boat, in each of which she narrowly escaped destruction, they agreed that the only plan was, after a wave passed, to drop her on to a flat rock, which then showed above the water, and to jump into her.

The two boys on shore were to hold the head rope, to prevent her being dashed towards the land by the next wave, while Larry worked with the oars to get her away from the ridge. The moment the wave had passed under them, the head rope was to be thrown off.

This plan was carried out. The two boys had but just time to jump into the boat and get out their oars, when the next wave lifted the boat high on its crest. The lads holding the rope were nearly torn from the rock, but they held on till the strain ceased, then they threw in the rope, and Walter and Larry bent to their oars.

"Row easy, Larry," Walter said, as the next wave passed under them, "and put her head to each wave."

Terrible as was the sea, the curragh floated buoyantly over it, though several times, as she rose to the steep waves, Walter thought that she would be thrown right over. The worst part of their task was over, when they got beyond the end of the Nose, for up to that point they were forced to row across the course of the waves, and continually to turn the boat, to face the great masses of water which ran between the rocks. But once beyond the end of the reef they turned her head north, and rowed straight towards the ship.

"She has struck, Master Walter," Larry said, glancing over his shoulder, "and her masts are gone."

"Lay out, then, Larry, there's no time to lose."

But, in spite of their efforts, the boat moved but slowly through the water, for the wind caught her high bow with such force that, at times, it needed all their strength and skill to keep her head straight. At last they were close to the ship, which already showed signs of breaking up. They ranged up alongside of it.

"Fasten a line to a keg and throw it in," Walter shouted.

In a minute, a keg was thrown overboard with a line attached. As soon as it drifted a little way from the vessel's side, they hauled it into the boat.

"Now, back, Larry; these waves would sink us in a moment, if we turn our stern to them."

The wreck lay within a hundred yards of the shore, and the boat backed until close to the line where the waves toppled over in a torrent of foam.

"Now, Larry, keep her steady. We are as near as we dare go."

Then Walter stood up in the boat, took the keg and a foot or two of line in his hand, and waited till the next wave passed under the boat. He swung the keg round his head, and hurled it towards the shore. Then he dropped into his seat, and gave two or three vigorous strokes, and, when safely beyond the line of breakers, sat quiet and watched the result.

"They have missed it the first time," he said. "Look! They are going to run into the surf for it."

The group on the shore joined hands, and the next time the keg was borne forward, in the tumble of foam, Considine ran forward and seized it. The back rush took him from his feet, but the others held on, and before the next wave came, the line was safely on the beach. A strong cable was soon pulled ashore and firmly fixed. A light line was attached to it, and the sailors at once began to pass along.

"Shall we turn back now, Master Walter?"

"We will keep near the wreck for a few minutes longer, Larry. She can't hold together long, and maybe we can pick somebody up."

The vessel was indeed breaking up fast. Her stern was burst in, and the waves, as they poured in at the opening, smashed up the deck. Many of the crew had been washed overboard, and had instantly disappeared.

As the boat approached the wreck, an officer, who had climbed the shrouds, shouted out:

"Will your boat hold another?"

"Yes," Walter shouted back. "She will hold two more."

"I will try and swim to you," the officer said.

He threw off the long cloak, in which he was wrapped, and unbuckled his sword and let it drop, unbuttoned and took off his military coat, and, with some difficulty, got rid of his high boots.

"Can you come a bit nearer?" he shouted.

"We daren't," Walter said. "A touch from one of those floating timbers would send us to the bottom."

The officer waved his hand, and then sprang head foremost into the sea. So long was he in the water, that Walter began to think he must have struck against something, and was not coming up again; when suddenly he appeared, within twenty yards of the boat. They rowed towards him, instantly.

"You must get in over the stern," Walter said.

The officer was perfectly cool, and, placing his hands on the stern, drew himself partly over it, and Walter, grasping his hand, dragged him in. No sooner was he in, than Walter again hailed the wreck.

"We can carry one more."

But those who were still on board were huddled up in the bow, waiting their turn for the rope.

"There is a big un coming now," Larry exclaimed. "That will finish her."

A wave, towering far above its fellows, was indeed approaching. Higher and higher it rose. There was a wild cry from the wreck as it surged over it. When it had passed, the sea was covered with floating timbers, but the vessel was gone.

"We can do nothing now," Walter said. "We daren't go in among that wreckage, and any who get hold of floating planks will drift ashore.

"Now, Larry, back quietly, and let her drift down round the Nose. We must keep her head to the waves."

Ten minutes, and they were abreast of the reef. As soon as they were past it, Walter gave the word, and they rowed along, under its shelter, to the point where they had embarked.

"Now, sir," Walter said, "we will back her up to that rock. When we are close enough, you must jump."

This was safely accomplished.

"Now, Larry, row alongside when the next wave comes. We must both scramble out as well as we can."

But by this time help was at hand. The boat had been anxiously watched from the shore, and when, on the disappearance of the wreck, she was seen to be making her way back to the Nose, Mr. Davenant, with Considine and the priest, and the boys who had assisted in getting her afloat, hurried along the shore to meet her, the rest of the fishermen remaining behind, to aid any who might be washed up from the wreck.

As soon as it was seen that they intended to land at the spot where they had started, Considine and Mr. Davenant made their way along the rock, and joined the officer just as he leapt ashore. The boat came alongside on the top of the wave, and as this sank it grazed the rock and capsized, but Walter and Larry grasped the hands stretched out to them, and were hauled on to the rock, while the next wave dashed the curragh in fragments on the beach.

[Chapter 2]: For James Or William.

"My dear Walter," his father exclaimed as he embraced his son, as he scrambled on shore, "you have behaved like a hero, indeed, but you oughtn't to have done it.

"And you too, Larry. You both deserve a sound thrashing for the fright you have given us."

"They may have frightened you, sir," the officer said; "but assuredly, I owe my life to these brave lads. I have scarcely thanked them yet, for indeed, until I felt my foot on the rock, I had but small hopes of reaching shore safely in that cock boat of theirs. After feeling that great ship so helpless against the waves, it seemed impossible that a mere eggshell could float over them.

"My name, sir, is Colonel L'Estrange, at your service."

"My name is Davenant, colonel, and I am truly glad that my son has rescued you; but the sooner you are up at my place, the better, sir. This is no weather for standing talking in shirtsleeves."

They now made their way along the rock back to the shore, and then hurried to the village. There they learned that six men had succeeded in getting to shore along the rope, before the vessel broke up.

Telling Larry he had best have a glass of hot spirits, and then turn into bed at once, and that he was to come up to the house the first thing in the morning, Mr. Davenant, with the priest, Colonel L'Estrange, and Walter made his way up to the house, to which the men who had reached the shore had been already taken.

The party were met at the door by Mrs. Davenant, who had been extremely anxious, for Godfrey had been sent home by his father as soon as the wreck went to pieces, and had brought the news of Walter's doings, up to that time.

"He is quite safe, Katherine," Mr. Davenant said, "but you mustn't stop, either to scold him or praise him, at present.

"Hurry off, Walter, and get between the blankets. I will bring you up some hot spiced wine directly.

"Katherine, this is Colonel L'Estrange, whom Walter has brought ashore in his boat. You will excuse him, at present, for he has been for hours exposed to the storm, and must be half frozen as well as half drowned.

"Now, colonel, if you will come along with me, you will find a bed with hot blankets ready, and, I doubt not, a blazing fire.

"Ah, here is the spiced wine. Take a draught of that before you go upstairs. You can have another, after you are in bed."

Three more survivors from the wreck were presently brought up. They had been washed ashore on planks, as indeed had many others, but the rest had all been beaten to death against the rocks by the breakers.

Walter slept late the next morning, and, when he came downstairs, found that the others had already finished breakfast. When he had eaten his meal, and listened to the gentle scolding which his mother gave him for risking his life, he joined his father, who was, with Colonel L'Estrange, pacing backwards and forwards on the terrace in front of the house. The first fury of the storm was over, but it still blew strongly, and a very heavy sea was running.

"Ah, my young friend," Colonel L'Estrange said, advancing, "I am glad to see you, and to be able to thank you more warmly than I was able to do last night, when the very words seemed frozen on my lips, for having saved my life. It was a gallant deed, and one which your father may well be proud of. It showed not only bravery of the highest kind, but coolness and judgment, which are virtues even more rare. I predict a brilliant future for you, and if, in any way, my aid may be of use to you, believe me, it will be at your service."

"It was well you were a good swimmer, sir," Walter said, "for we could not have helped you, if you had not been able to help yourself, for the sea was covered with pieces of wreck, and as the boat was only covered with canvas, the slightest touch from one of the jagged ends would have made a hole in it. I am very much obliged to you for your kind offer of assistance; but, at present, we have not made up our minds what I am to be.

"Have we, father?"

"No, indeed, Walter. You have told me that you would like, at any rate for a time, to see something of the world before settling down here for life; but it is no easy matter to say what is best for you to do. Ireland offers but little field for anyone's ambition. Since King James came to the throne, and especially since Tyrconnell became governor, things have been a little more favourable for us; and I have hopes, yet, that justice will be done to the Catholic population of this unhappy country.

"Is it not monstrous, Colonel L'Estrange, that the very men who had a hand in the rebellion against King Charles the First, should still be in possession, during the reign of his son, of the lands which were taken from my father because he was loyal to his king? And so it is all over Ireland. The descendants of Cromwell's men lord it in the homes of those who were faithful to King Charles."

"It certainly seems so, sir," Colonel L'Estrange said; "but I am no politician. I am simply a soldier, and obey orders; but I own that it does seem a cruel injustice, that the great portion of the lands of this country should be held by the descendants of Cromwell's soldiers, while the lawful owners, whose only fault was that they were loyal to their king, should still be dispossessed of it."

"But I think better times are coming," Mr. Davenant said. "There can be no doubt of the king's leaning towards our religion. He has been restrained from carrying his goodwill towards us into effect, by his privy councillors and by the English party here, whose interest it is to prevent any change being made, and who constantly misrepresent the feelings of this country. From the days when Strongbow first landed, this island has been the prey of adventurers, whose only object has been to wrest the land from the native population."

"But you are yourself a descendant of one of the early English settlers, Mr. Davenant."

"That is true enough," Mr. Davenant said smiling, "and, no doubt, he was as bad as the rest of them; but, you see, we have held the land for some centuries now, and, like the other descendants of Strongbow's men, have come to look at matters from the Irish point of view, rather than the English. However, I hope for better times."

"You haven't heard the news, then, about the Prince of Orange?"

"No; what is the news?" Mr. Davenant asked. "There have been rumours, for years, that he intended to make a bid for the English throne; but I have heard nothing else."

"There was a report, before I left London, that he has already sailed from Holland," Colonel L'Estrange replied; "and, indeed, I have no doubt the rumour is well founded."

"But he will never succeed," Mr. Davenant said eagerly. "He will be put down as easily as Monmouth was."

"I do not know," Colonel L'Estrange said gravely. "The Protestant feeling in England is very strong. Monmouth was vain and empty headed, and he wrecked his own cause. The Dutchman is a different sort of man altogether, and one thing is certain: if King James can make a mess of matters, he is sure to do so. The Stuarts have always been feeble and indecisive, and James is the most feeble and indecisive of them. If William succeeds in effecting a landing, I think his chance of success is a good one."

"He may reign in England," Mr. Davenant broke in passionately, "but he will not reign in Ireland.

"But forgive me," he broke off. "I forgot, for a moment, that you are an Englishman, and my guest."

"You need not apologize, Mr. Davenant. As I said, I am a soldier and no politician. My ancestors were royalists, and I have no great love for the Dutch stadtholder, who will be supported in England by the class who rose against King Charles. At the same time, it is difficult to feel much enthusiasm for the Stuarts. The first was a pedant. The second threw away his chances, over and over again, by his duplicity and want of faith. The third was utterly selfish and unprincipled. The fourth is a gloomy bigot. Charles was, and James is, a pensioner of France. How can men be ready to sacrifice everything for such a race as this?"

"That is not the way in which we look at it in Ireland," Mr. Davenant said. "The wars here are waged under various pretences. Someone is goaded into rebellion, false charges are preferred wholesale, or there is a religious pretext; but we all know what is at the bottom of them all, simply the greed of English adventurers for Irish land; and, not content with having dispossessed the ancient owners of three-fourths of the cultivated land of the country, they want the remainder, and under the pretence that we, the descendants of the early settlers, are in sympathy with our Irish neighbours, they have marked us out for destruction, and already a great portion of our estates is in the hands of Cromwell's men. So gross have been the abuses, that the commission, which the king appointed to inquire into the seizure of our estates, only ventured to sit one day, for the proofs brought forward were so overwhelmingly strong that it was seen at once that, did the inquiry continue, it would be made manifest to all the world that justice could be satisfied by nothing less than a clear sweep of all those men who have seized our estates.

"If Ireland rises in favour of King James, it will not be for any love for the Stuarts; but it will be to recover the land which has been illegally wrested from us, and which, if Dutch William and his Whig adherents gain the upper hand, will be taken from us forever. The religious element will, of course, count for much. Already we have suffered persecution for our religion; and, if the Whigs could have their way, they would stamp it out utterly, with fire and sword. Things have looked better, during the last five or six years, than they have done since Cromwell first put foot in Ireland. We have begun to hope for justice. Tyrconnell has stood up for us, and, with the goodwill of James, has gained many concessions. We have now what we never had before, an Irish army. The land thieves have been fairly alarmed, for they have seen that the long delayed justice will be done us at last. Many have sold back their lands to the original owners, and have left the country. Others are only holding out for better terms. Another ten years of James's reign, and things would have righted themselves; but, if the Dutchman ascends the throne of England, there is no hope for Ireland, save in the sword."

"Well, we must hope it will not come to that," Colonel L'Estrange said. "I am ready to fight the battles of England on the Continent, but civil war, with all its horrors, sickens me; and civil war here is not like our civil war in England. There were no race animosities there, no memory of cruel wrongs on one side or the other. Men fought for a principle, but there were no atrocities committed, on either side, like those which have devastated Germany. The peasant ploughed the land, and the trader kept open his shop unmolested. It is true that, towards the end, there were confiscations of the property of those who still continued the strife, and a few executions of individuals; but, taking it as a whole, no war has ever caused so little suffering, to the people at large, as did the civil war in England; but assuredly, a war in Ireland now, like those which have gone before, would be marked by the foulest atrocities, massacres, and destruction on both sides."

"Yes," Mr. Davenant said, "I must own that, for downright brutal and bloody ferocity, the wars in Ireland rival those of the Huns."

Walter had listened in silence to this conversation. His father now turned to him.

"Have you heard whether Larry has recovered from his adventure of yesterday as well as you have?"

"No, father, I have not heard anything about it. I came out here directly I finished my breakfast. How are the people who were brought up here?"

"They are going on well, Walter, but they were all so bruised, as they were being drawn up through the surf, that it will be some days before any of them can leave their beds.

"How many had you on board, colonel?"

"I did not see the list of passengers, but there were twelve or fourteen aft, and, from what I saw, I should think as many more forward. There were twenty-three men in the crew. I suppose, altogether, there were some fifty on board."

"Are you going to make a long stay in Ireland?"

"No; I shall only remain here a week or two. I am the bearer of some letters from the king to Tyrconnell; and that reminds me that I must be making my way on to Dublin."

"I will ride in with you," Mr. Davenant said. "I must tell my friends this news that you bring. It seems to me to be most serious. I will have a horse round for you here, in half an hour, if that will suit you."

"Perfectly," Colonel L'Estrange replied. "That will just give me time to walk round to the village, to see the lad you call Larry, for I could not go without thanking him for the share he had in preserving my life.

"Perhaps you will go down with me, Walter, and show me his house?"

When they reached the shore, they found the whole population of the village engaged in dragging up the spars, planks, and pieces of timber with which the rocks were strewn.

"There is Larry," Walter said. "It is evident that there's nothing the matter with him."

Larry was, indeed, just coming up, dragging a piece of timber behind him; while, in his left hand, he held a large bundle of fragments of wood, of different sizes, which, as well as the timber, he was taking home for firing.

"Larry, come here. The English gentleman wants to speak to you."

The boy dropped his wood, and came up.

"My lad," Colonel L'Estrange said, "I am greatly indebted to you for your work of last night. Take this," and he placed a purse of ten guineas in Larry's hand.

"And remember that I am still greatly your debtor, and that if, at any future time, you should be in a position in which my aid may be useful, you have only to let me know, and I will stand your friend."

The sum appeared to Larry to be enormous.

"Long life to yer honour, and it's proud I am to have been of service to such a grand gentleman. It's thankful I am for your kindness, and if ever you want a boy to do a job for you, it's myself that will be proud to do it. As to yesterday, I just came because the young squire tould me to, and thankful I am that he got back safe to shore, for, if we had been drowned, I don't know whatever I should have said to the squire."

Two days after the shipwreck, Walter and John Whitefoot met at the place which they had agreed on, when they last saw each other four days before.

"I heard of your brave deed on the night of the storm, Walter. Everyone is talking of it; and even my grandfather, who has seldom a good word for any of you at the Castle, said that it was a noble deed. It was as much as I could do not to say, 'Yes, he is a friend of mine;' for I felt proud of you, I can tell you."

"It is all nonsense, John. I have often been out in a curragh in bad weather, though never in quite such a storm as that; but, once launched, she rode lightly enough, and scarce shipped a spoonful of water."

"I should like to have been there," John said; "but I should have been no use. My people have always been against my going down to the sea, deeming it a pure waste of time, except that they let me go down to swim. I can do that well, you know; but they have always forbidden my going out in boats. Now, you see, it is proved that it is not a waste of time, for you have been able to save many lives. The thought must make you very happy."

"Well, I don't know that it does, particularly," Walter said carelessly. "Of course, I was glad at the time, but I have not thought much about it one way or the other, since. You see, the news that has come has driven everything else out of our heads."

"Is it true, then, the report that we heard yesterday, that William of Orange has set out for England?"

"Yes, it is true enough; and I am afraid, by what I hear, that it is likely to cause all sorts of troubles."

"I suppose," John said gravely; "and of course, in this matter my people think differently from yours. You know we agreed that we would never talk on these subjects, but I am afraid the time is coming when there will be nothing else to be talked of."

"I am afraid so, too, John. My father thinks that there will be civil war again."

"Of course my grandfather is delighted," John said quietly. "He has been greatly disturbed in his mind, for some months, owing to the leanings of King James towards the Irish, which seem to point to his having to give up no small portion of the lands."

"We thought so too, John; and although it is your father who would lose, and mine who would gain, I don't think that even you can deny that it would be reasonable. Your grandfather got the land from mine because he fought for Cromwell against the king, and Cromwell got the best of it. Well, it seems only reasonable that, when the king again came to the throne, those who fought for him should get their own again."

"It does seem so, Walter, I must own; and I am sure I should not have cared, for myself, if the land was given back again to your father tomorrow. Then I suppose we should go back to England; and, as I know my grandfather has done well, and has laid by a good deal of money, they could take a farm there; and there would be more chance of their letting me enter upon some handicraft. I would rather that, by a great deal, than farming. All these books you have lent me, Walter, have shown me what great and noble deeds there are to be done in the world--I don't mean in fighting, you know, but in other ways. And they make the life here, toiling on the farm from sunrise to sunset, with no object save that of laying by every year more money, seem terribly empty and worthless.

"By the way, my grandfather was, yesterday evening, rating my father because, instead of always keeping me hard at work, he allowed me once or twice a week to be away for hours wasting my time--which means, though he didn't know it, going about with you. My father said stoutly that he did not think the time was altogether wasted, for that, in the last two years, I had made a notable advance in learning, and he was satisfied that I had benefited much by these intervals of recreation. Thereupon my grandfather grumbled that I was too fond of reading, and that I was filling my mind with all sorts of nonsense, whereas true wisdom was to be found in one book only.

"My father said that was true of religious wisdom, but that, for the advancement of the world, it was needed that men should learn other things. Of course, my grandfather had three or four texts ready at hand; but my father had him by saying: 'You see, father, all the commands issued to the Jews are not strictly applicable to us--for example, they were ordered not to use horses; and I do not remember that Cromwell felt that he was doing wrong, when he raised his ironsides.' That was a poser, and so the matter dropped."

Ten days later, when the boys met, John said:

"This is the last time we shall meet for some time, Walter, for I am going up to Derry to stay with a cousin of my father, who is settled there and exercises the trade of a currier. I said, some months ago, that I should like to learn a trade, but everyone was against it, then. They seemed to think that, as I should some day have the land, it was flying in the face of Providence to think of anything else. But I suppose the fact that everything is so unsettled now, and that there is no saying what may come of these events in England, may have made them think differently.

"At any rate, my father said to me yesterday: 'We have been talking over what you said, about wishing to learn a trade. If all goes on well, there is no occasion for you to learn any business save that of farming; but none can say what the Lord may not have in store for us, or what troubles may come upon us. In any case, it will do you no harm to see a little of the world outside our farm; and, therefore, your grandfather and I have settled that you shall go for a few months to my cousin, who, as you know, is a currier in Derry. He has often written, asking you to go and stay with him, seeing that he has no children of his own. Learn what you can of his business; and if it should be that you find it more to your liking than farming, I should not be one to hold you back from following the bent of your inclinations.

"'But this is between ourselves. My father's ideas on these subjects you know, and it would cause much trouble, did he think that you had any idea of not following in the path in which he and I have trod. But to me it seems better that each should go on the path towards which his mind is turned--that is, when he has made quite sure, after long reflection and prayer, that it is no idle whim but a settled earnest desire. If, then, after your visit to your uncle, you feel that you are truly called to follow a life other than that you would lead here, I shall not oppose you. The Lord has blessed our labours. The land is fertile, and I can well provide the moneys that will be needful to start you, either in business with my cousin, or in such way as may appear best.'

"I thanked him gravely, but indeed, Walter, I had difficulty in restraining myself from shouting with joy, for a life like that of my father and grandfather here would be very grievous to me. I have no desire to gain greater wealth than we have, but I long for a higher life than this."

"I don't know, John," Walter said doubtfully. "Unless, as you say, these troubles make a difference, you will be a large landowner some day; and these bitternesses will die out in time, and you will take a very different position from that which your grandfather holds. Of course, we regard him as a usurper, but you know, in the third generation the grandson of a usurper becomes a legitimate monarch. My ancestors usurped the land from the native Irish by the sword, just as your grandfather did from us; but we came, in time, to be regarded as the natural lords of the soil, and so will you. But to be a currier! That strikes me as a tremendous come down!"

"I care nothing about coming up or coming down," John said simply. "I long only for an honest mode of life, in which, instead of dwelling solitary, and seeing no one from year to year save at our Sabbath meetings, I may mix with others and take part in a more active and busy life. In itself, I do not suppose that the trade of a currier is a very pleasant one; but that matters little if, when work is done, one has leisure for some sort of communication with others, and for improving one's mind. It will be to me something like what going to court in London would be to you, Walter. I am most grieved about my mother. She will miss me sorely.

"She said to me last night, 'I fear somewhat, John, that the course I have taken with you has greatly unfitted you for settling down here, as we have done before you; but although I shall miss you sadly, I do not blame myself for what I have done. I think myself, my son, that there are higher lives than that spent in tilling the soil from boyhood to old age. It is true the soil must be tilled. There must be ever hewers of wood and drawers of water; but God has appointed for each his place, and I think, my son, that you have that within you which would render the life with which your father and grandfather have been well contented an irksome one for you.

"'I have no fear that we shall be always separated. Your grandfather is an old man, and when the Lord pleases to take him, your father and I will be free to do as we choose, and can, if we like, dispose of this land and quit this troubled country, and settle in England or elsewhere, near where you may be. It is true that we shall get little for the land; for, broad as are its acres, who will give much for a doubtful title? But there is ample laid by for our old age, and I see not the sense of labouring incessantly, as does your grandfather, merely to lay up stores which you will never enjoy. Did I see any signs of a decrease in the bitter animosity which parties feel towards each other here, I might think differently; but there is no prospect of peace and goodwill returning in your time, and therefore, no object in your father and I toiling on for the rest of our lives, when the return of our labour will be of little worth to you. Such being so, I do not regret that your thoughts turn to the world of which you have read in books. The world is but a secondary consideration to us, 'tis true, but I can see no special goodness in a life of dull monotony.'"

"I wonder where your mother got hold of her ideas, John. She is so different from most of your people."

"She is indeed," John agreed. "It was from her mother that she received her teaching. I know she was not happy with her husband, who was as gloomy and fanatical as is my grandfather, and she ever looked back to the happy days of her girlhood in England. I think she did for my mother just what my mother has done for me, only the difference is that she never had sufficient influence with her husband to enable her to carry out her views for her daughter, while my mother--"

"Has managed to have her own way," Walter laughed.

"I suppose so, and that in spite of my grandfather. Certainly I owe everything to her, for I am sure, if it hadn't been for her, my father would never have ventured to oppose the old man, even so far as to let me know you. It makes one sad to think, Walter, that religion should sometimes make those who think most of it tyrants in their families. My grandfather is terribly earnest in his religion. There is no pretence or mistake about it; but, for all that, or rather because of it, he would, if he could, allow no one else to have a will or opinion of his own."

"I don't think it's the religion, John, but the manner of the religion. My mother and grandmother are both as religious as anyone could be; but I don't think I ever heard either of them say a hard word of a soul. Their religion is a pleasure to them, and not a task, and I know that some years ago, when we had a priest who was always denouncing the Protestants, they very soon managed to get him changed for another.

"What a funny thing it is, to be sure, that people should quarrel about their religion! After all, we believe all the same important things; and as to others, what does it matter, provided we all do our best in the way that seems right to us?"

But this was too liberal for John. He had been brought up in too strait a sect to subscribe to such an opinion as this.

"I do think it makes a difference, Walter," he said slowly.

"I don't," Walter said. "It's just a matter of bringing up. If you had been born in the Castle, and I had been born in your place, you would have thought as I do, and I should have thought as you do; and of course, still more if you had been born in a Catholic country like Italy, where you would never have heard of Protestantism, and I had been born in a Protestant country like Holland, where I should never have had a chance of becoming a Catholic. Very few people ever change their religion. They just live and die as they have been born and educated."

"It seems so," John said after a pause; "but the question is too deep for us."

"Quite so," Walter laughed, "and I don't want to argue it.

"Well, when are you going to start?"

"I am off tomorrow morning. My father has an acquaintance in Dublin who is starting for Derry, and I am to go in his charge."

For another hour the boys chatted together, and then, with mutual promises of writing regularly, whenever they had the chance, they said goodbye; and the following morning John started with his father to Dublin, and next day journeyed north towards Derry.

[Chapter 3]: The King In Ireland.

On the 12th of November, a vessel arrived in Dublin with the news that William of Orange had landed at Torbay on the 5th. The news created the wildest excitement. The Protestants, who had been deeply depressed, by the apparent intention of James to hand back, to their original owners, the land which had been wrested from them, now took heart and began openly to arm. Upon the other hand, the Catholics felt that, if William and the Whigs succeeded to the chief power in England, their faith, their remaining property, and their lives were alike menaced, and they, too, prepared to fight to the last for all they held dear.

Walter rode several times with his father into Dublin. The streets presented a strange spectacle. They were crowded with Protestant fugitives from the country districts. These had forsaken all, and flocked into Dublin, fearing that the Irish would retaliate for past grievances by a general massacre. The banks of the Liffey were crowded by these fugitives, who, with tears and cries, besought the captains of the vessels lying there to give them passage to England. All sorts of rumours of bloodshed, massacre, and destruction circulated through the city. The Protestants in the north were said to have fallen upon the Catholic population, and to have put them to the sword, while in the south and west it was said the Catholics had taken the same measures against the Protestants. Both reports were equally false, but they were generally believed, and added to the panic and dismay.

In fact, however, both parties were waiting. The Protestants dared not commence hostilities until assured that William was firmly seated on the English throne, and ready to come to their assistance. The Catholics were equally desirous to maintain the peace, until assured that no hope remained save the sword.

A month after John Whitefoot had left, Walter received a letter from him:

Dear Friend Walter:

You will have heard, no doubt, of the troubles that have arisen here. My father sent me here to learn a trade, but at present, all men's minds are so agitated that there is no talk save of arms and of fighting. My kinsman is as bad as the others. He spends the day going hither and thither among the townsfolk, and has been made an officer in one of the six companies which have been raised here, and pays no further heed to business. The town is mightily divided: the younger and more zealous spirits are all for fighting, while almost all the older and wealthier citizens are opposed to this.

"This is how the trouble began. The Earl of Tyrconnell sent, as you know, three thousand soldiers to help King James, at the first news of the landing of the prince, and to do so he withdrew the regiment which was in garrison in this town. On the 7th of this month of December, the people here heard that the regiment of the Earl of Antrim was approaching the town to take the place of those troops. When the news arrived, there was a sort of panic in the town, and the news was spread that this regiment was intended to massacre the people.

"Why this should be I do not know, and I cannot but think that the alarm was a false one. However, the regiment arrived on the river bank, and some of its officers crossed and entered the city. When they were in council with some of the leading citizens, a party of apprentices, with some of the rabble, shut the gates. For some time there was great debate. The older citizens were mostly in favour of admitting the earl's regiment. Why, they asked, should Derry alone defy the power of Tyrconnell and King James? If King William made his cause good, and came over to Ireland to aid the Protestants, it would be time enough for the men of Derry to join him, and to fight for their faith; but if they now stood alone, they could do no good to the cause of King William, and would bring destruction on themselves and their city.

"But these arguments were of no avail. The apprentices and all the young men of the town, and the fugitives who had come in from the country round, were all for fighting, and so the gates were kept shut; and Lord Antrim, seeing that he could do nothing against such a strong place as Derry, marched away with his regiment. This seems to me a fair account of what has happened. What will come of it I know not; but, being a Protestant, my feelings would incline me to the side of William. Yet it seems to me that his friends here have acted hastily, in thus adventuring themselves against all the forces of King James, and that sore trouble is like to come upon the town. However, it is not for me to judge. I am as warm as any of them in defence of our religion, and shall try to do my best in case of need. I am sorry, dear Walter, that we have to take different sides in this quarrel, but of course we are each of the opinion of our elders, and must not blame each other for what is indeed not of our own choosing.

"This is a fair city, standing on rising ground by a stately river, and with strong walls; and at any other time life would be very pleasant here, although living among so many people seems strange to me, after my life on the farm. I hear all sorts of tales about fighting in other parts, and of the slaughter of Protestants by rapparees, but know not whether they are true. As my cousin, who is an earnest man, is wholly taken up with the present affairs, and all business is at a stand, I have little to do, and spend much of my time by the river side, and have taken to fishing, which I like mightily, and yesterday I caught a fish weighing three pounds, and we had him for dinner. I often wish you were with me. Write me a long letter, and tell me all that you are doing.

"Your affectionate friend,

"John Whitefoot."

Indeed, throughout all Ireland preparations for war were going on. All over the north, the Protestants were banding themselves in arms; and, under the excuse of some outrages, committed by a few isolated parties of peasants known as rapparees, were everywhere harrying the Catholics, carrying fire and sword into quiet villages, burning, slaying, and carrying off their grain and cattle. Throughout the whole of Ulster, Charlemont and Carrickfergus alone remained in the hands of King James's troops.

England and Scotland had now accepted William as their king, and James had fled to France. With the exception of Ulster, Ireland remained staunch to King James. In the south Lord Inshiquin, and in Connaught Lord Kingston, had each raised corps among the Protestant settlers for William, and were the first to commence hostilities, and the latter, marching north, made an attack on Carrickfergus.

Tyrconnell now issued commissions to several of the Catholic nobility and gentry, to raise troops for the king's service, and as the people responded to the call readily, some fifty regiments of foot and several troops of horse were soon raised. But though men were forthcoming in abundance, there was a great want of arms and all munitions of war. There were, in the government stores, only twenty thousand arms, and most of these were old weapons, that had been returned to store as unserviceable, and only about a thousand muskets were found to be of any use. There was no artillery or ammunition, and no money with which these necessaries could be purchased abroad. The gentry would have willingly contributed, but all had been well-nigh ruined by the confiscation of their property, and could do little towards filling the treasury.

Never did a nation enter upon a war so badly provided with all necessaries as did Ireland, when she resolved to adhere to the cause of her king, and to resist the power of England and Scotland, aided by that of Holland and the Protestant States of Germany.

Mr. Davenant had been one of the first to respond to the invitation of Tyrconnell, and had set about raising a troop of horse. He had no difficulty in getting the number of men in Bray and the surrounding villages, and the difficulty in mounting them was overcome by the patriotism of sundry gentlemen and citizens of Dublin, who willingly contributed their spare horses to the king's service.

Their arms were various. Some had swords, some short pikes, while a few only had pistols; but the smiths everywhere toiled hard converting scythes and reaping hooks into swords and pikes, and before they were ready to take the field, the whole troop were provided with swords.

Walter had eagerly begged his father to appoint him cornet of the troop, and Mr. Davenant might have yielded, had it not been for his wife's entreaties. Even old Mrs. Davenant, intensely loyal as she was to the cause of James, sided with her daughter in law.

"Of course, Fergus, you will do your duty to the king. It would indeed be a shame for a Davenant to hold back; but, at Walter's age there can be no occasion for him, as yet, to take a commission. I am ready to give my son, as I gave my husband, to the king; and when Walter becomes a man, he too must go, if duty demands it; but for the present, assuredly there is no reason why such a boy should mix himself up in this unhappy struggle. Besides, if aught befalls you, it is to him that his mother will have to look in the future. There are hundreds and thousands of strong and active men in Ireland, and the necessity has not yet come for boys to take the field."

So Walter, to his intense disappointment, was refused the cornetcy of the troop, but his father, who fully entered into his feelings, finally told him that, when the troop took the field, he should accompany him.

"You are not to carry arms, Walter, or to mix yourself up in any way with it. You will be a sort of camp follower, you know; but you will see all that goes on, and will be able to prepare yourself to take your place in the ranks, if the war should, unhappily, go on for any time."

With this Walter had to be satisfied; and, indeed, although somewhat disappointed at not being, at once, allowed to join the troop, he felt sure that it would not be very long before his father, once away from the influence of his wife and mother, would allow him to join.

"May I take Larry with me, father? He would look after my horse, and would be useful to you for running messages, and all sorts of things. He wants to go very much. You see, his uncle and two or three of his cousins have joined the troop, and he would have joined, too, if you had not thought him too young."

"The worst of you and Larry is, that you are always getting into some scrape together," Mr. Davenant said, with a smile.

"But I should not get into scrapes on such a business as this," Walter said indignantly. "This is a serious affair, and of course, going with you, I should be very particular."

"Yes, as long as I was close by, Walter. However, I don't mind your taking Larry. He would, as you say, be useful, and you will want somebody to look after your horse and act as your servant. We may be separated, sometimes, for the troop may be sent on detached service, when I could not take you with me."

The permission to take Larry quite reconciled Walter to the downfall of his hopes of going as cornet, and, in high spirits, he hastened down to the village, to tell Larry that his father had consented to his accompanying him.

All through January, Mr. Davenant was busy drilling his troop. Throughout all Ireland, both parties were preparing for the storm which was soon to burst. Lord Mountjoy, a Protestant nobleman, was sent with his regiment, which consisted for the most part of Protestants, to Derry. He held a meeting with the leading townspeople, who agreed to admit the Protestant soldiers, upon the condition that no more troops were sent. Accordingly, the Protestant troops, under Colonel Lundy, entered the town, and Lord Mountjoy assumed the governorship.

Tyrconnell soon perceived that he had made a mistake in sending Mountjoy to Derry, for instead of overawing the inhabitants, his regiment had, in fact, become a part of the rebel garrison. He therefore recalled Mountjoy and sent him over to France, on the pretence of an embassy to King James, but, as soon as he arrived there, he was treacherously thrown into prison.

The people of Derry received quantities of powder and arms from Scotland, and, on the 20th of February, the Prince of Orange was formally proclaimed king in Derry; and this example was followed throughout Ulster. This was, in fact, the beginning of the war. Anxious to save Ireland from the horrors of civil war, Lord Granard, and other Protestant noblemen of the council, joined Tyrconnell in issuing a proclamation, ordering the Protestant corps to lay down their arms; and as they did not obey, Lieutenant General Hamilton was despatched to the north, with a thousand regular troops and a considerable number of irregulars.

These came up with the insurgents at Dromore, and defeated them with great slaughter. They rallied at Hillsborough, but again were defeated and scattered. Hamilton divided his force, and, marching through the north, reduced Ulster to submission, with the exception only of the fortified towns of Enniskillen and Derry. In the south General M'Carty was equally successful in clearing Munster of William's adherents, and defeated Lord Inshiquin in every encounter.

On the 14th of March, Mr. Davenant, who had ridden into Dublin, returned in the evening with the news that the king had landed at Kinsale, two days before, with fifteen hundred Irish troops in the pay of France, and a hundred French officers, intended to aid in drilling the new levies.

"I am glad, indeed, that he has arrived, for had he been met on the seas by the English fleet, all our hopes might have been dashed at a blow. Now that he is with us, it will rouse the enthusiasm of the people to the utmost. If he is wise, he will surely be able to unite all Ireland under him; save of course the fanatics of the north, who, however, can do nothing against the whole strength of the country, since Hamilton's little force, alone, has been sufficient to put down all opposition, save where they remain shut up behind the walls of Derry and Enniskillen.

"It is not with them that we have to cope alone--they would be utterly powerless--it is with the army of England and Scotland we shall have to fight. Unfortunately we have no fleet, and they can land wherever they choose; but now the king is really among us, all who have hitherto wavered will join. Let England and Scotland choose their king as they will, but there is no reason why Ireland should desert its rightful monarch at their bidding."

"When will the king arrive at Dublin, father?"

"He goes first to Cork, Walter. Tyrconnell has set out, and will meet him there. They say he will be here in about ten days' time. The French ambassador, the Marquis d'Avaux, comes with him, and many French nobles."

"Do you think, father, he will at once order that his friends shall receive the land again which was taken from them by Cromwell's soldiers?"

"I hope not, my boy. It is his interest and not our own we must think of now; and if Ireland is to resist, successfully, the English and continental troops of Dutch William, we must be united--we must be Irishmen first, Catholics and Protestants afterwards. I trust that he will issue such proclamations as will allay the alarm of the Protestants, and bind us all together.

"King James is not like his father. In no single case, since he came to the throne, has he broken his royal word once given; therefore, all may feel confidence in any promises he may make. I have, of course, no hope that anything he can say will influence the fanatics of Derry and Enniskillen, but we can afford to disregard them. They are entailing misery and suffering upon themselves, without the slightest benefit to the cause they advocate. If we beat the English, of course those places must finally surrender. If the English beat us, they will get their Dutch William as king, without any effort on their part. I think, myself, that it will be very unwise to attempt anything against those two places. The people there can shut themselves up in their walls, as long as they like, and by so doing can in no way harm us. If we take their towns, it will only add to the bad blood that already exists. Better by far leave them to themselves, until the main battle is fought out."

On the 23rd, the news came that the king was to arrive in Dublin the next day, and Mr. Davenant, or, as he was now called, Captain Davenant, went over, with all the gentry of the neighbourhood, to meet him.

King James was received with enthusiasm. Addresses were presented to him by the several public bodies, and by the clergy of the Established Church. His answer to these addresses gave satisfaction to all. He promised favour and protection to the Established Protestant Church; issued an invitation to the Protestants who had fled the kingdom to return to their homes, and assured them of safety and his particular care; and he commanded that, with the exception of the military, no Catholics should carry arms in Dublin. Finally, he summoned a parliament to meet him in Dublin on the 7th of May.

One day, a messenger arrived with a despatch for Captain Davenant.

"We are to move into Dublin, tomorrow, Walter," he said when he read it. "We are to take the field at once. The king himself is going to march in command of us against Derry. I think his majesty is wrong; and I know that Tyrconnell has argued strongly against his intention. There are three reasons against it. First, as I told you, I think it were better to leave Derry alone, until the main issue is settled. Secondly, King James has no military experience whatever, and if ought goes wrong with the expedition, he will lose prestige. Thirdly, although it were well for him to be with the army when it fights a foreign foe, it were better that he should not lead it against men who are, however much they may rebel against him, his own subjects.

"I know Tyrconnell has set forth these objections to him; but, unhappily, obstinacy is a fault of all the Stuart race, and it generally happens that they are most obstinate when most wrong. However, I trust that when Derry sees so strong a force marching against it, it will open its gates without resistance. A siege can only entail horrible suffering on the town; and that suffering will, in the end, tell against James's cause, for it will excite the sympathy of the Protestants in England and Scotland, and make them all the hotter to conquer Ireland."

The following day, the troop was mustered in front of the castle, and, after a tender farewell to his wife and mother, Captain Davenant placed himself at their head and rode off. A quarter of an hour later Walter, with Larry Doolan on a rough little pony by his side, rode after the troop.

Dublin was reached in the afternoon. The town presented a festive appearance. The principal streets were still draped with the flags which had been hung out at the king's entry, five days before. The streets were thronged with people, for loyalists had come in from all parts of the country to welcome the king.

Large numbers of men, belonging to the newly raised regiments, wandered among the crowd, and with these were mingled the French uniforms of the Irish troops who had come over with James. The troop was loudly cheered by the crowd, as it passed through the town to the spot assigned to it in the camp of the force gathered near the city. Walter and Larry rode a short distance behind the troop, and joined it as soon as it reached the ground allotted to it.

"It was a brave sight, father, was it not, to see the city decked out, and all the people cheering for the king? Dublin is setting a fine example--isn't it?"

"You must not set much weight upon the cheering of a crowd, Walter. I do not say that the people of Dublin may not, at the present moment, be loyal to the king; but if he were defeated, and William were to march in, you would see that they would cheer him just as heartily. The mob of London cheered King James, as he passed through it, a week before he was so ill advised as to fly; and they threw up their hats for joy, a fortnight later, for William. No, my boy--there is no dependence on a mob. They worship success, and the king who is present is sure to be vastly more dear to them than the king who is absent.

"And now you had better help Larry picket your horses. Put them by the side of mine. See how the troopers fasten theirs, and do yours the same. When that is done, send Larry to get hold of some wood, and light a fire. It will be cold when the sun goes down. As for food, we have brought enough with us for tonight. Tomorrow, I suppose, we shall get rations."

Captain Davenant now posted a certain number of men to look after the horses, and the rest set off to cut firewood; and, in an hour, four or five great fires were blazing. Forage was served out for the horses, from the stores which had been collected, and also a truss of straw to every three soldiers, as bedding.

Walter had, in the meantime, strolled away among the other camps, and was greatly amused at the various shifts and contrivances that the men had made to make themselves comfortable. A few only of the officers had tents; for these, as well as all other necessaries of war, were wanting; and the troops who had, for some little time, been in camp there, had raised all sorts of shelter from the weather. Some had constructed little huts of turf, thatched with straw or rushes; others had erected little tents, some of sailcloth obtained from the shipping, others of blankets, coarse linen cloaks, or any other articles on which they could lay hands. All were in high spirits at the prospect of the termination of the monotony of continued drill, and of the commencement of active campaigning. Huge fires blazed everywhere, and the country, for some distance round, had been completely stripped of its wood.

Everywhere was life and bustle. Men were cleaning their arms, preparatory to the march of next day. Others were cooking at the fires. Troopers were grooming their horses. Snatches of song, and loud laughter, rose in the air.

After wandering about for an hour, Walter rejoined his father. Captain Davenant was sitting with the two officers of his troop, Lieutenant O'Driscoll and Cornet Heron, by a fire, the materials for which the three troopers who acted as their servants had collected. There was no cooking to be done, for sufficient cold provisions had been brought with the troop.

"You are just in time, Walter," his father said. "We are going to fall to, at once, at our meal.

"Hand over that cold chicken, Larry; and do you, Tim Donelly, broach that keg of claret. Give me the bread, Fergus--that's right.

"Now, gentlemen, here's a hunk each. Plates are a luxury which we must do without, in the field. Now let us fall to."

Walter seated himself on a truss of straw beside his father, and thought he had never enjoyed a meal so much, in his life, as the bread and cold chicken, eaten as they were in the open air in front of the crackling fire. Each was provided with a horn, and these were filled from the keg.

"Here's to the king, gentlemen. Success to his arms!"

All stood up to drink the toast, and then continued their meal. Three chickens vanished rapidly, and the troopers kept their horns filled with claret.

"If we always do as well as that," Captain Davenant said, as they finished the meal, "we shall have no reason to grumble. But I fear that's too much to expect.

"Bring me my pipe and tobacco, Larry. You will find them in the holsters of my saddle.

"Fergus, do you undo these trusses, and lay the straw out even--that will do.

"Now, lads, you will find plenty more provisions in the wallet. Do you go and get your own suppers, then give an eye to the horses. We shall not want anything more."

For two or three hours, the three officers and Walter sat chatting by the fire, occasionally piling on fresh logs. Gradually the din of voices in the camp died away, and the bright fires burned down.

"I think we had better turn in," Captain Davenant said at last. "We must be astir an hour before daylight, for we march as soon as it's light."

Rolling themselves in their long cloaks, they lay down upon the straw. It was some time before Walter got to sleep. The novelty of the situation, and the strangeness of lying with the night air blowing in his face, made him unusually wakeful. Occasionally, too, a laugh, from some party who were sitting late round their fire, attracted his attention, and the sound of the snorting and pawing of the horses also kept him awake; but at last he, too, went off to sleep.

In spite of his warm cloak, he felt stiff and chilled when the sound of the trumpets and drums roused the camp.

"Well, Walter, how do you like sleeping in the open?" his father said, as he rose to his feet and shook himself.

"I don't mind the sleeping, father, but the waking is not so pleasant. However, I shall soon get accustomed to it, I suppose. But I always did hate getting up in the dark, even when we were going out fishing."

"You won't always get as comfortable a bed as this, Walter; so don't expect it. The time will come, ere long, when you will look back upon this as absolute luxury. We are not likely to get straw another night, I can tell you.

"Now, Fergus, bring that wallet here. We must breakfast before we get in the saddle."

Walter came to the conclusion that breakfast, eaten in the dark, was a very inferior meal to dinner before a great fire. However, he kept his thoughts to himself, and, as soon as he had finished, went to aid Larry in saddling the horses.

"I suppose I can ride with you today, father?" he said, as he mounted.

"Yes; there will not be any military display by the way. Many of the soldiers have got nothing in the way of uniform at present. So you can ride with me. But if any general officer comes along, you must draw off a little, and drop behind with Larry, who will follow in the rear of the troop."

As soon as daylight appeared, the bugles gave the signal, and the force, preceded by its cavalry, started on its march towards the north.

[Chapter 4]: The Siege Of Derry.

There was an air of excitement in the streets of Derry. Knots of people were gathered, talking excitedly. Women stood at the doors of all the houses, while men moved aimlessly and restlessly about between the groups, listened for a time to a speaker, and then moved on again. The work of strengthening the defences, which had gone on incessantly for the last three months, had ceased, while numbers of persons were gathered on the walls, looking anxiously towards the south. A general air of gloom and despondency hung over the place. The storm which Derry had braved was gathering around it at last. King James and his troops were advancing against it.

Opinion was strongly divided in the city. Almost without exception, the older citizens deprecated resistance. The walls, indeed, were strong, and the position formidable. The king had no artillery worth speaking of, and the walls, manned by brave men, might well, for a definite time, resist assault; but the stores of food could not long support the large population now gathered in the town, and there seemed no possibility, whatever, of assistance from England before the horrors of famine would be upon them. To what purpose, then, oppose resistance, which must, even if successful, cause frightful sufferings to the inhabitants, and which, if unsuccessful, would hand over the city to the vengeance of James.

The garrison had been strengthened by two regiments and a vast quantity of supplies. But, including everything, there were but provisions for ten days, and as many weeks might elapse before assistance could come.

The younger and more ardent spirits were for resistance to the last.

"Better," they said, "die of hunger, than surrender the Protestant stronghold to the Papists."

Every hour brought crowds of fugitives, the inhabitants of all the villages deserting their homes at the approach of the royal forces, and flying, with what goods they could carry, to Derry.

Archdeacon Hamilton had arrived with a message from the king, offering that if the city would, within four days, surrender, there should be an amnesty to all for past offences, and that the property of all the inhabitants should be respected. This proposition was now being considered by the governor and his council, together with all the principal officers of the English regiments.

John Whitefoot had been out all day, and had just returned to his cousin's house, which was crowded with fugitives, as the tanner had friends and connections in all the villages, and had opened his doors to all who sought shelter, until every room was filled. It was a pitiful sight to see women, with their babies in their arms and their children gathered round them, sitting forlornly, almost indifferent to the momentous consultation which was going on, and thinking only of their deserted homes, and wondering what had befallen them. The men had, for the most part, been out in the streets gathering news. The tanner's wife, assisted by two or three of the women, was busy at the great fire on the hearth, over which hung some huge pots in which broth and porridge were being prepared.

One by one, the men dropped in. No news had yet been heard as to the decision of the council. It was dark when the tanner himself entered. His face was stern and pale.

"It is settled," he said shortly. "The council have broken up. I have just spoken to one of the members. They and the officers are unanimously in favour of accepting the terms of James."

Exclamations of anger broke from some of the men.

"I cannot say aught against it," the tanner said, "though my heart feels well-nigh broken. Had we only men here, I should say let us fight to the last, but look at all these women and children! Think what thousands and thousands of them are in the town. Truly, I cannot blame the council that they have decided not to bring this terrible suffering upon the city."

"The Lord will provide for his own," a minister, who had come in with his flock, said. "Friend, I had looked for better things from you. I thought that you were steadfast in the cause of the Lord, and now that the time of trouble comes, you fall away at once. Remember how Sennacherib and his host died before Jerusalem. Cannot the Lord protect Londonderry likewise?"

"The age of miracles is past," the tanner said. "Did we not see, in Germany, how Magdeburg and other Protestant cities were destroyed, with their inhabitants, by the Papists? No, Brother Williams, the wicked are suffered to work their will here, when they are stronger than the godly, and we must look for no miracles. I am ready to fight, and, had the council decided otherwise, would have done my share to the last; but my heart sickens, as I look round on the women, the weak, and ailing. Did James demand that we should renounce our religion, I would say let us all die by sword or Famine rather than consent; but he has offered toleration to all, that none shall suffer for what has been done, and that the property as well as the lives of all shall be respected.

"Truly, it seems to me that resistance would be not bravery, but a sort of madness. There are promises of aid from England; but how long may we have to wait for them? And there are but ten days' provisions in the town. If these English officers of King William think that resistance is hopeless, why should I, who know nought of war, set myself against them?"

"Because they have not faith," the minister said, "and you should have faith; because they think only of carnal weapons, and you should trust to the Lord. Remember Leyden, how help came when all seemed lost."

"I do," the tanner replied, "and I remember how the women and children suffered and died, how they dropped in the streets and perished with famine in their houses. I remember this, and I shrink from saying 'let us resist to the end.' I should rejoice if they had decided that Derry should be deserted, that the women and children should be sent away to shelter in the mountains of Donegal, and that every man should march out and do combat with the army of James. We are numerous, and far better armed than the Papists, and victory might be ours; but, were it otherwise, were every man fated to fall on the field, I would still say let us march forward. It is not death that I fear, but seeing these weak and helpless ones suffer. I should not envy the feelings of the men who decided on resistance, when the time came that the women and children were dying of hunger around them. There is a time to fight; and a time to sheath the sword, and to wait until a chance of drawing it successfully again arrives; and methinks that, having such good terms offered, the present is the time for waiting."

The preacher waved his hand impatiently, and, wrapping himself in his cloak, left the house without another word. The next day the capitulation was signed, and the following day the army of James was seen approaching, and presently halted, on a hill within cannon shot of the town.

Londonderry stands in a bend of the river Foyle, and the position which the army took up at once isolated it from the surrounding country. The offer of capitulation had already been sent out to General Hamilton by Captain White, the bearer receiving instructions to stipulate that the army should not advance within four miles of the town, until all was ready to hand over the city. In the meantime, General Rosen, who was in chief command of the army, stationed it so as to extend from one corner of the bend of the river to the other, and so to cut off all communication between the city and the surrounding country; but, in the course of the day, a country gentleman named Murray made his way through their lines, with a body of cavalry, and rode up to the gate of the town.

The governor refused to open it, but, in spite of his orders, some of the townspeople opened the gate, and Murray rode into the town, and, going from point to point, exhorted the people not to surrender but to resist to the last, accusing the governor and council of foul treachery, in thus handing over the city.

The confusion and excitement in the streets was now great, and, while this was going on, the governor sent a trumpeter to the king, requiring one hour's time before the city should surrender.

Rosen took no notice of this, and, believing that all was arranged, rode forward with the king and a portion of the army. But Murray's exhortations and passionate harangues had their effect. A number of the townspeople ran to the walls, and, loading the cannon, opened, with these and their muskets, a heavy fire on the approaching troops. Several of the soldiers were killed, and among them was Captain Troy, who was riding close to the king.

Astonished at this unexpected resistance, the troops drew back, as they were entirely without means of making an assault upon the city. The governor and council at once sent Archdeacon Hamilton to the royal camp, to excuse themselves for what had happened, and to explain that the firing was the action of a turbulent body of men, whom they were unable to restrain, and whom they represented as drunken rebels. The better class of citizens, they said, were all resolved to surrender dutifully, and were doing all they could to persuade the common people to do the same.

As the royal artillery had not yet arrived, James drew off his troops to Saint Johnston. Murray, with a body of horse, went out and skirmished with them, but returned into the town on hearing that the council still intended to surrender, and again harangued the people.

Eight thousand men assembled on the parade, and, after listening to a passionate harangue, declared that they would resist to the last. They at once chose a preacher named Walker, and a Mr. Baker, as joint governors, appointed Murray as general in the field, divided themselves into eight regiments, and took the entire control of the city into their hands. Archdeacon Hamilton, Lundy, and several of the principal citizens at once left the town, in disguise, and were allowed to pass through the besieging army.

John Whitefoot had been present at all the events which had taken place that day, and, although he had quite agreed with his cousin that resistance would do no good to the cause, and would entail fearful sufferings on the besieged, he was carried away by the general enthusiasm, and shouted as loudly as any in reply to the exhortations of Murray. The tanner was also present. John was by his side, and saw that he was deeply moved by the speech, but he did not join in the acclamations. When all was over, he laid his hand on John's shoulder:

"The die is cast, my boy. I am glad that no act or voice of mine has had aught to do with bringing it about, and that the weight of what is to come will not rest upon my conscience. But, now that it is decided, I shall not be one to draw back, but will do my share with what strength the Lord has given me."

"May I join one of the regiments, too?" John asked. "I am young, but I am as strong as many men."

"It were better not, at present, John. Before the end comes, every arm that can bear weapon may be needed, but, at present, there is no reason why you should do so. Doubtless, plenty of work will be found for younger hands, besides absolute fighting, but I think not that there will be much fighting, save against famine. Our walls are strong, and we have well-nigh forty pieces of cannon, while they say that James has but six pieces, and most of these are small.

"Methinks, then, that they will not even attempt to take the city by storm. Why should they waste men in doing so, when they can starve us out? It is famine we have to fight, in this sort of war. I do not think that James has, in all Ireland, cannon sufficient to batter down our walls; but ten days will bring our provisions to an end. It will be with us as with Leyden. We have only to suffer and wait. If it be God's will, succour will come in time. If not, we must even perish."

With his spirits somewhat damped by his cousin's view of the case, John returned with him to the house. He would willingly enough have gone out, to fight against the besiegers, but the thought of the long slow agony of starvation was naturally terrible to a lad of good health and appetite.

The mob of Derry had shown good sense in the choice which they made of their governors. Baker, indeed, who was a military man, was a mere cipher in the matter. Walker was, in reality, the sole governor. He was a man of energy and judgment, as well as enthusiastic and fanatical, and he at once gave evidence of his fitness for the post, and set himself diligently to work to establish order in the town.

He issued orders that all unable to bear arms, who wished to leave the town, could do so, while the able-bodied men, now formed into regiments, were assigned every man his place, and every regiment its quarter, on the walls. No less than thirty thousand fugitives, exclusive of the garrison, were shut up in the walls of Derry, and the army which was besieging the town numbered twenty thousand.

The guns of the besiegers soon opened fire, and those on the walls replied briskly. The besiegers threw up works, but carried on the siege but languidly, feeling sure that famine must, ere long, force the town to surrender; and fearing, perhaps, to engage the fresh and ill-trained levies against a multitude, animated by the desperate resolution and religious fanaticism of the defenders of the town.

Now that the die was once cast, there was no longer any difference of opinion among the inhabitants, and all classes joined enthusiastically in the measures for defence. All provisions in the town were given into one common store, to be doled out in regular rations, and so made to last as long as possible; and, as these rations were, from the first, extremely small, the sufferings of the besieged really began from the first day.

John Whitefoot found that there was but little for him to do, and spent much of his time on the walls, watching the throwing up of works by the besiegers.

A regular cannonade was now kept up on both sides; but, though the shot occasionally fell inside the town, the danger to the inhabitants from this source was but slight; for, of the six guns possessed by the besiegers, five were very small, and one only was large enough to carry shell. All day the various chapels were open, and here the preachers, by their fiery discourses, kept up the spirits and courage of the people who thronged these buildings. The women spent most of their time there, and the men, when off duty from the walls, however fatigued they might be with their labour, flocked at once to the chapels, to pray for strength to resist and for early succour. Never were the whole population of the town more deeply animated by religious excitement, never a whole population more thoroughly and unanimously determined to die, rather than surrender.

When not upon the walls or in chapel, John spent much of his time in amusing the children, of whom there were many in the tanner's house. The change from their country quarters, the crowded town, the privation of milk, and the scantiness and unfitness of their rations, soon began to tell upon the little ones, and John felt thankful, indeed, that his mind had been stored with stories from his varied reading of the last two or three years. With these, he was able to interest and quiet the children, who sat round him with wrapt attention, while the booming of the guns and the occasional rattling of musketry outside passed unheeded.

Scarce a day passed without active fighting, the initiative being always taken by the besieged, for, in the royal army, the policy of blockade rather than assault was steadily adhered to. The besieged, however, continually sallied out, and attacked the parties engaged in throwing up works. There was no settled plan of operations; but the commander on each portion of the walls led out his men against the enemy, whenever he thought he saw a favourable opportunity. The fights which ensued were stoutly contested, and many were killed, but no advantage was gained on either side. If it was the intention of the besieged to incite the Royalists to make an attack upon the city, they failed altogether, and, indeed, would have served their purpose better had they remained quietly within the walls, for the energy and desperation with which they fought were well calculated to deter even the most energetic commander from attacking a town defended by eight or nine thousand men, animated by such fiery energy.

So confident, indeed, were the besieged, that the gates were often left open, and taunting invitations to come on and take Derry were shouted to the besiegers. The supply of provisions found to be stored away was vastly greater than had been expected, for many of the fugitives had brought in large stores, and a great number of the inhabitants had been, for weeks, making preparation for the siege, by buying up quantities of grain and storing it in their cellars.

Thus, up to the end of the first month, although the allowance of food was short, no real suffering was undergone by the inhabitants; but, as time went on, the supplies doled out became smaller and smaller, and dysentery and fever broke out in the crowded town.

Fierce disputes arose between those belonging to the Established Church and the Nonconformists, and it was with the greatest difficulty that Governor Walker prevented the two parties from engaging in open strife. Day and night, the besiegers' fire continued, and many were killed by the shells which fell in the city. The fighting men on the walls were far better off than those who had nothing to do but to wait and suffer, and it was among the women and children, chiefly, that disease at first made its victims.

For a time, the children of the families who had taken refuge with the tanner remained healthy. The visitors were lodged for the most part in the cellars, so as to be in shelter from the fire of the enemy's mortar; but John Whitefoot suggested to his cousin that the children would soon pine and sicken, unless they had air. The tanner gave his consent to John's establishing a shelter in the yard. A corner was chosen, and a number of casks were placed along by either wall; on these beams were laid, for it happened that the tanner had intended, shortly before the siege, to build a large shed, and had got the timber together for the purpose.

On the timber, bark from the now disused pits was heaped to a depth of some feet, which would effectually break the fall of any shell which might light upon it, and, along the front of this low triangular building, two lines of sacks filled with tan were placed. These would suffice to prevent any fragment of a shell, which might fall and burst in the courtyard, from entering the shelter; save by the opening, about a foot deep, between the top of the sacks and the beams.

When the whole was completed, John gathered the children there, and made it their headquarters, and established himself as captain of the castle, as he called it.

The elders entered warmly into his plans. It was a great relief, to them, to have the house cleared of the eighteen or twenty children. Their mothers had no longer any anxiety for their safety, and the children themselves looked upon it as great fun. There was plenty of air here, and, in a short time, John persuaded the parents to allow the children to sleep, as well as to pass the day, in the shelter. Here he told them stories, constructed toys for them, and kept them amused and quiet, appointing as his lieutenants three or four of the oldest of the girls, who had the little ones under their special charge. John was rewarded, for his pains, by seeing that the children kept their health far better than did those of their neighbours, and, up to the end of May, not one of them had succumbed, although several of the parents had already fallen victims to dysentery and fever.

Thus the month of May passed. With June, the hardships rapidly increased; but, on the 13th, shouts of joy were heard in the streets. John ran out to ascertain the cause, and learned that a fleet of thirty ships had appeared in Lough Foyle, and was approaching the city. The inhabitants, frantic with joy, ran to the walls, and both sides suspended their fire to watch the approaching fleet.

Suddenly, the ships were seen to turn and sail away. The people could not believe that they were deserted; but, when they saw that the fleet was really making off, curses and cries of lamentation and grief rose from the crowd.

Why Major General Kirk, who commanded the force on board the ships, which were laden with provisions, did not attempt to sail up to Londonderry, which, as was afterwards proved, they could have done without difficulty, was never satisfactorily explained. The besiegers had erected two or three small forts on the banks of the river, but these were quite incapable of arresting the passage of the fleet, had it been commanded by a man of any resolution. Kirk anchored in Lough Swilly, and contented himself with sending messages to the town, to hold out to the last.

A fresh search was now made for provisions, and parties of men entered houses which had been abandoned, or whose inmates had died, and dug up the floors of the cellars. Several considerable deposits of grain were discovered, and many inhabitants, moved by the intensity of the general suffering, voluntarily brought out hoards which they had hitherto kept secret.

Early in the siege, the water in the wells had become turbid and muddy, partly owing, it was thought, to the concussion of the ground by the constant firing, partly by the extra supplies which were drawn from them. As the time went on, many of them dried altogether, and the water in the others became so muddy that it had to be filtered through cloth or sacking, before it could be drunk.

During fishing expeditions, previous to the commencement of the siege, John had more than once had a drink of water from the well of a peasant, living in a little hut near the river bank. This hut lay between the outposts of the two parties, and had, at the commencement of the siege, been deserted by its owner. After the water became bad, John set out every evening with a bucket, leaving the town just before the gates were shut, and making straight down to the river. When it became dark, he crawled along under the shelter of the banks, unperceived by the outposts of either party, until close to the hut. Then he filled his bucket at the well, and returned as he had come, lying down to sleep on the bank, well in the rear of the Protestant outposts, until morning; when, as soon as the gates were opened, he carried home the precious supply.

It was this, as much as the light and air, which kept the children in comparative health; but, on the further diminution of rations which took place after Kirk's fleet retired, they began to fade rapidly.

The horses had now been killed for food. The sufferings of the besieged inhabitants became greater daily, and numbers died from sheer starvation. The little inhabitants of John Whitefoot's castle were mere skeletons. Most of their parents were dead, and a mournful silence pervaded the town, save when the bells of the chapels called to prayer, or the yells of the mob announced that the lower orders were breaking into houses in search of food.

John could stand the sight of the faces of the suffering children no longer. He was himself faint and ill from hunger, for he had, each day, given a portion of his own scanty rations to the weakest of the children, and he determined to try and get them some food, or to die in the attempt.

He set out at his usual hour in the evening. The tide was high, but just running out, and, entering the river, he floated down with the stream. Keeping close under the bank, he passed the batteries which the besiegers had erected there without notice, dived under the great boom which they had constructed across the river, directly Kirk's expedition had retired, and continued to float down to the mouth of the river, where he landed and boldly struck across the country, for he was now beyond the lines of the besiegers. He knew that his friend Walter was in the Royalist army, for one of the last mails which entered the city had told him that he was to accompany his father, and that Captain Davenant's troop would most likely form part of any army that might march for the north.

By the morning, his clothes had dried upon him, and he then boldly entered the Royalist camp, mingling with the peasants who were bringing in provisions for sale. He soon learned where Captain Davenant's troop was stationed, and made his way thither. He stood watching for some time until he saw Walter come out of a tent, and he then approached him. Walter looked up, but did not recognize, in the thin and pallid lad before him, his former companion.

"Do you want anything?" he asked.

"Don't you know me, Walter?" John said.

Walter started, and gazed at him earnestly.

"Good heavens!" he exclaimed at last. "Why, it can't be John!"

"It is what remains of me," John replied, with a faint smile.

"Why, what on earth have you been doing to yourself, John?"

"I have been starving, in there," John said, pointing to the city.

"Come into the tent, John," Walter said, grasping his friend's arm, and then letting it fall again, with an exclamation of horror at its thinness. "You needn't be afraid. My father is out--not that that would make any difference."

John entered the tent, and sat exhausted upon a box. Walter hastened to get some food, which he set before him, and poured out a large cup of wine and water, and then stood, looking on in awed silence, while John devoured his meal.

"I have wondered, a thousand times," he said at last, when John had finished, "what you were doing in there, or whether you left before the siege began. How did you get out?"

"I floated down the river to the mouth, beyond your lines, last night; and then worked round here. I thought I might find you."

"Well, I am glad indeed that you are out," Walter said. "Every time the mortar sent a shell into the town, I was thinking of you, and wishing that I could share meals with you, for, of course, we know that you are suffering horribly in the town."

"Horribly!" John repeated. "You can have no idea what it is, Walter, to see children suffer. As for men, if it is the will of God, they must bear it, but it is awful for children. I have had eighteen of them under my charge through the siege, and to see them getting thinner and weaker, every day, till the bones look as if they would come through the skin, and their eyes get bigger and bigger, and their voices weaker, is awful. At last I could stand it no longer, and I have come out to fetch some food for them."

"To fetch food!" Walter repeated. "Do you mean to say you are thinking of going back again?"

"That I am," John said. "I am going to take some food in to them. You will help me, won't you, Walter? It isn't for the men that fight, but for little children, who know nothing about King James, or King William, or the Protestants, or the Catholics, but who are just God's creatures, and are dying of hunger. No one could grudge food to infants like these."

"I will help you, of course, John," Walter said, "if I can; but now, tell me all about it."

John then gave an account of all he had been doing throughout the siege.

"And now what have you been doing, Walter? Fighting?"

"No. I have not been doing any fighting, except that, once or twice, I was out with the troop, when they had a skirmish with your horsemen, but I kept in the rear. I hope, ere long, my father will let me enter, but he is waiting to see what comes of it. No. I have been idle enough. Well, of course, I know all the officers in the cavalry now, and pretty nearly all the officers in the camp, and then, with these constant skirmishes and attacks by your people and ours, there is always plenty to interest one. General Hamilton has been conducting the siege lately, but General Rosen returned yesterday and took the command; but there's really not much to do. We know you cannot hold out much longer."

"I don't know," John said quietly. "I think that, as long as a man has strength enough to hold his arms, Derry will not surrender. When you march in, it will be to a city of dead people. We had such hopes when the fleet came. If the people could have caught Kirk, they would have torn him in pieces. He had five thousand soldiers on board, and, if he had landed them, we could have sallied out and fought, instead of dying of hunger."

"Yes," Walter agreed, "we should have retired at once. We have only seven or eight thousand men here now, and if five thousand English soldiers had landed, we must have raised the siege at once. I can tell you that, though he is on the other side, I was almost as angry at Kirk's cowardice as you must have been. I shall be glad when this awful business is over. I knew it was bad enough before, but after what you have told me about the women and children, I shall never think of anything else, and I will gladly help you in any way I can. There can't be any treason in trying to prevent children from starving to death. What do you want me to do?"

"What would do the children more good than anything, the women say, would be milk. If I could get a keg that would hold two or three gallons--and a watertight box with about twenty pounds of bread, I could swim back with them just as I came. I would show you the exact spot where I landed, and would come out again in four days. If you could put a supply ready for me, every fourth night, among the bushes at the mouth of the river, with a little lantern to show me the exact spot, I could come down with the tide, get the things, and float back again when the tide turns."

"I could do that, easily enough," Walter said. "The mouth of the river is quite beyond our lines. But it is very risky for you, John. You might get shot, if a sentry were to see you."

"I do not think that there is much fear of that," John said. "Just floating along as I do, without swimming at all, there is only just my face above water, and it would be hardly possible for a sentry to see me; but if I were shot, I could not die in a better cause."

"I think, John, if you don't mind, I should like to tell my father. I am quite sure he would not object, and, in case you should happen to get caught, you could refer at once to him to prove that you were not a spy. They make very short work of spies. But if you were to demand to be brought to Captain Davenant, and say you were acting in accordance with his knowledge, no doubt they would bring you."

"Do as you think best, Walter, but don't tell him, unless you feel almost sure that he will not object."

"There is no fear of that," Walter said. "He is constantly lamenting over the sufferings of the people of Derry, and has, all along, been in favour of attempting to storm the place by force, so as to put a stop to all this useless suffering. Now, John, you had better lie down on that straw bed of mine, and get a sleep. After that, you will be ready for another meal. I will tell Larry to go out among the market people, and buy three gallons of milk and twenty pounds of bread. There are plenty of small spirit kegs about, which will do capitally for the milk, and I don't think that we can have anything better than one of them for the bread. We can head it up, and make it watertight. How do you mean to get into the town? I should have thought that they were likely to be seized."

"So they would be," John said. "I shall hide them in some bushes at the foot of the walls, at the side of the town facing the river. There are only a few sentries there. Then, when it is light, I shall go in and tell my cousin; and get him, after dark, to lower a rope from the wall. I shall of course be below, to tie on the kegs. He can then walk with them boldly through the street to our house, which is only a short distance from that part of the walls. If anyone saw him, they would only suppose he was taking home water from one of the wells."

John was soon fast asleep. Walter sat watching him until, two hours later, his father returned with his troop. John still slept on, while Walter told his father the errand on which he had come.

"He is a brave lad," Captain Davenant said, "and I honour him for his conduct. It is not many men who, at a time like this, would risk their lives for a number of children who are not any relation to them. Certainly, I will gladly assist him. I am sick at heart at all this. My only consolation is, that it is brought on solely by the acts of these men, who, though comparatively a handful, set themselves up against the voice of all Ireland. If they had risen when an English army arrived to their assistance, I should say nothing against it. As it is, without doing any good to their cause, they are entailing this horrible suffering upon thousands of women and children.

"By all means, help the poor lad, and if he should fall into the hands of our people, let him mention my name. Rosen would no doubt disapprove of it, but I cannot help that. All the Irish gentlemen in the army would agree that I had done rightly, and, even if they didn't, my own conscience would be quite sufficient for me to act upon. I am fighting against the king's enemies, not warring against women and children.

"How soundly the poor lad sleeps, and how changed he is! He is a mere skeleton. I should not have known him in the least. If this is the condition into which a strong, healthy lad has fallen, what must the women and children have suffered! I wish Kirk had not turned coward, but had landed his troops. We could then have brought up our scattered forces, and could have fought them in a fair field, with something like equal forces. That would have been vastly more to my taste than starving them, like rats in a hole."

[Chapter 5]: The Relief Of Derry.

It was late in the afternoon before John woke. He started up, as his eyes fell upon Captain Davenant.

"You have had a good sleep, and I hope you are all the better for it," Captain Davenant said, kindly. "My son has been telling me all about your expedition, and I honour you very much, for the courage you have shown in thus risking your life to get food for those starving children. I quite approve of the promise Walter has given to assist you, and if you should, by any chance, be taken prisoner, I will stand your friend."

John expressed his gratitude warmly.

"It is a sad thing, in these civil wars, when friends are arrayed against friends," Captain Davenant said. "Who would have thought, three months ago, that you and Walter would be arrayed on opposite sides? It is true you are neither of you combatants, but I have no doubt you would gladly have joined in some of the sallies, just as Walter is eager to be riding in my troop. If we must fight, I wish, at any rate, that it could be so managed that all the suffering should fall upon the men who are willing to take up the sword, and not upon the women and children. My heart bleeds as I ride across the country. At one time, one comes upon a ruined village, burned by the midnight ruffians who call themselves rapparees, and who are a disgrace to our cause. At another, upon a place sacked and ruined by one of the bands of horsemen from Enniskillen, who are as cruel and merciless as the rapparees. Let the armies fight out their quarrels, I say, but let peaceful people dwell in quiet and safety. But wholesale atrocities have ever been the rule on both sides, in warfare in Ireland, and will, I suppose, remain so to the end.

"And now, we are just going to have dinner, and another hearty meal will do you good. Each night, when my son brings down the supplies for you, he will bring a substantial meal of cold meat and bread, and you must give me your promise, now, that you will eat this at once. You will need it, after being so long in the water, and having another swim before you, besides. Although I approve of sending in milk for the children, I can be no party to the supply of food for the garrison. Do you promise?"

"Yes, sir, I promise," John said, "though I would rather save all but a mouthful or two for the people who are starving at home. Still, of course, if you insist upon it, I will promise."

"I do insist upon it, John. The lives of these children of yours depend on your life, and even one good meal, every four days, will help you to keep enough strength together to carry out the kind work you have undertaken."

Larry now brought in the dinner. He had been told by Walter of John's arrival, but he otherwise would have failed to recognize, in him, the boy who had sometimes come down to the village with Walter.

"Are you quite well, Larry?" John asked him.

"I am," Larry replied; "but I need not ask the same question of yourself, for you are nothing but skin and bone, entirely. Dear, dear, I wouldn't have known you at all, at all, and such a foine colour as ye used to have."

"I don't think starving would suit you, Larry," Captain Davenant said with a smile.

"Sure an' it wouldn't, yer honour. It's always ready to eat I am, though, as mother says, the victuals don't seem to do me much good, anyway."

"You won't be able to come out and go back again the same night next week, John," Captain Davenant said, presently. "The tide won't suit, so you must come up here, as you have done today. You will always find a hearty welcome, and Walter shall go down and meet you early in the morning, near the mouth of the river, so you can come up with him; and then, if you fall in with any of the other parties, no questions will be asked. I think everyone in camp knows him now.

"I wonder what your grandfather would say, if he saw you sitting here at dinner with Walter and me?"

John laughed.

"I am afraid he would disown me, then and there, without listening to explanations."

"I have no doubt it's a sore grievance to him that he is not in Derry, at present," Captain Davenant said.

"I am sure it is," John replied; "but the fasting would be a great trial to him. My grandfather is a capital trencherman. Still, I am sure he would have borne his part."

"That he would," Captain Davenant agreed. "He and the men of his class are thorough, fanatics as I consider them. Hard and pitiless as they proved themselves, to those against whom they fought, one cannot but admire them, for they were heart and soul in their cause. There was no flinching, no half measures, no concessions for the sake of expediency. On the ground on which they took their stand, they conquered or died. Would that a like spirit animated all my countrymen!"

After nightfall, Larry brought round Walter's horse, saddled, and his own rough pony. Walter mounted the former, and John the latter. The two kegs were slung across Walter's horse.

"Will you meet me at the clump of trees, half a mile out of camp, Larry?" Walter said. "In the dark, no one will notice the difference between you and John."

Captain Davenant had furnished Walter with a password, and now walked beside the two boys till they were well beyond the camp, and then returned to his tent. The lads made their way, without meeting with anyone, down to the mouth of the river. The kegs were then taken off the horse and placed in the water--they floated just above the surface.

"That is exactly right," John said. "They will not show any more than will my face. When I come down next time, I shall fill them with water, so as to keep them just at this level."

"I am afraid the moon will be up next time, John."

"Yes, it will. I shall lay some boughs of bush across my face and the kegs, so that there will be no fear of my face showing; and if a sentry should happen to catch sight of it, he will suppose that it is merely a bush drifting in the stream."

"Well, goodbye, John, and may you get through without trouble."

"I have no fear, Walter. I am in God's hands, and He will take me safely through, if He thinks fit."

The journey was achieved without detection, the only difficulty being the sinking of the kegs under the boom; this, however, was successfully accomplished, and by midnight, the kegs were safely hidden in some bushes at the foot of the wall, and there John lay down and waited for morning.

As he entered the yard, the children ran out to meet him. There were no loud rejoicings; they had no longer strength or spirit to shout and laugh; but the joy in the thin worn faces was more eloquent than any words could have been.

"We have missed you so, John. We have wanted you so much. Lucy and Kate and Deby were so bad yesterday, and they did cry so for you. We were all so hungry. We don't mind so much, when you are here to talk to us and tell us stories. Why did you stop away, John, when we wanted you so?"

"I went away to see if I could manage to get you something to eat."

"And did you?" was the anxious cry.

"I have got a little; but you must wait till evening, and then you will each have--" and he stopped.

"What, John? Oh, do tell us!"

"You will each have some milk and bread.

"Not much, dears," he went on, as there was a cry of gladness, which was pitiful from the intensity of joy it expressed, "but there will be some for tonight, and a little curds and whey and bread for you tomorrow and next day, and I hope always, as long as this lasts. Now go, dears, into your castle. I will come to you presently. I have brought you some water, as usual."

"I am heartily glad to see you back, John," his cousin said, as he entered the house. "The children were in a sad state without you, yesterday. I suppose you can tell me, now, what you have been doing. You told me you would be away two nights, and begged me not to ask any questions; but, although I know you to be discreet and prudent, I have been worrying."

"I will tell you now," John said, and he recounted the details of the expedition which he had accomplished.

"And you have swum the river twice, and been in the camp of the Papists. Truly it is surprising, John, and I know not what to do. Should your visit there be discovered, you will assuredly be accused of treachery."

"They may accuse me of what they like," John said quietly. "I have done it, and I am going to do it again, every fourth night, and there is the milk and bread at the foot of the wall, ready for you to haul up as soon as it gets dark."

"It ought to be fairly divided," the tanner said.

"It will be fairly divided, between our children," John said; "but nobody else will get a drop or a crumb. I have risked my life to get it for them. If other people want to get it, let them do the same. Besides, as I told you, Captain Davenant and his son both procured it for me for the sake of the children, and them only, and I should be breaking faith with them if any others touched it, save those for whom it was given me. It is little enough among eighteen children for four days--a pound of bread and a little over a pint of milk, each. They must each have a quarter of a pint, when you bring it in tonight, and the rest had better be curdled. That way it will keep, and they can have a portion each day of curds and whey, and a fourth share of their bread. It is little enough; but I trust that it may keep life in them."

"Well, John, I will do as you say," the tanner said, after a pause. "It goes somewhat against my conscience; but, as you say, it will make but a meagre portion for each of them, and would be nothing were it fairly divided; besides, you have brought it with the risk of your life, and I know not that any save you have a right to a voice in its partition."

Before the gates were closed, John went out, and presently had the satisfaction of hearing a small stone drop from the wall above him, followed presently by the end of a rope. He sent up the kegs, and then lay down among the bushes, and enjoyed the satisfaction of thinking of the joy of the little ones, when the milk and bread were served out to them. As soon as the gates were open in the morning, he went in.

"Thank you, oh, so much, for the milk and bread last night. We heard how you had swum so far, and gone into danger to get it for us, and we're going to have some more for breakfast."

"It was not much, dears," John said.

"Oh, no, it was not much; but it was so nice, and we did all sleep so well last night--even little Lucy didn't waken and cry once--and Ruth Hardy said we ought to call you the Raven; but we don't like that name for you."

"The Raven, Ruth!" John said, mystified. "Why did you want to call me the Raven?"

"I wouldn't do it if you didn't like it, dear John; but you know that chapter that Master Williams read us, the other day, about the ravens that fed somebody in a cave, and we have been wishing the ravens would feed us; and so you see, when you sent us the milk last night, I thought you ought to be called the Raven. I did not mean any harm."

"No, my dear, of course not, and you can all call me the Raven, if you like."

"No, no, John. You are John, and that's much better than the Raven. They brought the man food, but they didn't nurse him and tell him stories, as you do."

"Now, run inside the castle," John said, "and I will go in and get your breakfasts."

John soon returned, with a great bowl of curds and whey, a platter piled up with slices of bread and a score of little mugs, and the feast began. Scarce a word was said while the children were eating. Their hunger was too keen, and their enjoyment too intense, to admit of speech. When each had finished their portion, there was a general exclamation.

"Oh, John, you haven't had any. Why didn't you have some, too?"

"Because there is only enough for you," he said. "If I were to have some, and Cousin Josiah, and all the others, there would be a very little share for you; besides, when I went out the day before yesterday, I had as much as I could eat."

"Oh, dear, that must have been nice," one of the boys said. "Only think, having as much as one can eat. Oh, how much I could eat, if I had it!"

"And yet I daresay, Tom," John said, "that sometimes, before you came here, when you had as much as you could eat, you used to grumble if it wasn't quite what you fancied."

"I shall never grumble again," the boy said positively. "I shall be quite, quite content with potatoes, if I can but get enough of them."

"The good times will come again," John said cheerily. "Now we will have a story. Which shall it be?"

As the children sat round him, John was delighted to see that even the two scanty meals they had had, had done wonders for them. The listless, hopeless look of the last few days had disappeared, and occasionally something like a hearty laugh broke out among them, and an hour later the tanner came to the entrance.

"Come to the walls with me, John."

"What is it? What is the matter?" John said, as he saw the look of anger and indignation on the wasted features of his cousin.

"Come and see for yourself," the latter said.

When they reached the walls, they found them crowded with the inhabitants. Outside were a multitude of women, children, and old men. These General Rosen, with a refinement of cruelty, had swept in from the country round and driven under the walls, where they were left to starve, unless the garrison would take them in, and divide their scanty supply of food with them.

"It is monstrous," John cried, when he understood the meaning of the sight. "What are we to do?"

"We can do nothing," the tanner replied. "The council have met, and have determined to keep the gates closed. We are dying for the cause. They must do so too; and they will not die in vain, for all Europe will cry out when they hear of this dastardly act of cruelty."

The people outside were animated by a spirit as stern as that of the besieged, and the women cried out, to those on the walls, to keep the gates shut and to resist to the last, and not to heed them.

The ministers went out through the gates, and held services among the crowd, and the people on the walls joined in the hymns that were sung below. So, for three days and nights, the people within and without fasted and prayed. On the third day, a messenger arrived from King James at Dublin, ordering General Rosen at once to let the people depart.

The indignation, among the Irish gentlemen in the camp, at Rosen's brutal order had been unbounded, and messenger after messenger had been sent to Dublin, where the news excited a burst of indignation, and James at once countermanded the order of the general. The gates were opened now, and the people flocked out and exchanged greetings with their friends. A few able-bodied men in the crowd entered the town, to share in its defence, while a considerable number of the women and children from within mingled with them, and moved away through the lines of the besiegers.

John had, the day before, gone out when the gates were opened for the preachers, and at night had again safely made the passage to the mouth of the river and back. He found the lantern burning among the bushes, and two kegs placed beside it, with a bountiful meal of bread and meat for himself.

So the days went on, each day lessening the number of the inhabitants of the town. Fever and famine were making terrible ravages, and the survivors moved about the streets like living skeletons, so feeble and weak, now, that they could scarce bear the weight of their arms.

On the 30th of July, three ships were seen approaching the mouth of the river. They were part of Kirk's squadron, which had all this time been lying idle, almost within sight of the town. The news of his conduct had excited such anger and indignation in England that, at last, in obedience to peremptory orders from London, he prepared to make the attempt; although, by sending only two store ships and one frigate, it would almost seem as if he had determined that it should be a failure.

The besiegers as well as the besieged saw the three ships advancing, and the former moved down to the shore, to repel the attempt. The batteries on either side of the boom were manned, and from them, and from the infantry gathered on the banks, a heavy fire was opened as the ships approached.

So innocuous was the fire of the artillery, that it has been supposed that Kirk had previously bribed the officers commanding the forts. At any rate, the ships suffered no material damage, and, returning the fire, advanced against the boom. The leading store ship dashed against it and broke it, but the ship swerved from her course with the shock, and struck the ground. A shout of dismay burst from those on the walls, and one of exultation from the besiegers, who rushed down to board the vessel.

Her captain, however, pointed all his guns forward, and discharged them all at the same moment, and the recoil shook the vessel from her hold on the ground, and she floated off, and pursued her way up the river, followed by her consorts.

The delay of Kirk had cost the defenders of Londonderry more than half their number. The fighting men had, either by disease, famine, or in the field, lost some five thousand, while of the non-combatants seven thousand had died. The joy and exultation in the city, as the two store ships ranged up under its walls, were unbounded. Provisions were speedily conveyed on shore, and abundance took the place of famine.

Five days later, General Rosen raised the siege and marched away with his army, which had, in the various operations of the siege, and from the effect of disease, lost upwards of three thousand men.

"This has been a bad beginning, Walter," Captain Davenant said, as they rode away from the grounds on which they had been so long encamped. "If the whole force of Ireland does not suffice to take a single town, the prospect of our waging war successfully against England is not hopeful."

"It seems to me that it would have been much better to have left Derry alone, father," Walter said.

"It would have been better, as it has turned out, Walter; but had the king taken the place, as he expected, without difficulty, he would have crossed with a portion of the army to Scotland, where a considerable part of the population would at once have joined him. The defence of Derry has entirely thwarted that plan, and I fear now that it will never be carried out.

"However, it has had the advantage of making soldiers out of an army of peasants. When we came here, officers and men were alike ignorant of everything relating to war. Now we have, at any rate, learned a certain amount of drill and discipline, and I think we shall give a much better account of ourselves, in the open field, than we have done in front of a strong town which we had no means whatever of storming. Still, it has been a frightful waste of life on both sides, and with no result, beyond horribly embittering the feeling of hatred, which unfortunately prevailed before, between the Catholic and Protestant populations."

The mortification and disgust, caused by the failure of Londonderry, was increased by a severe defeat of a force under General Justin McCarthy, Lord Mountcashel, at Newtown Butler, on the very day that Derry was relieved. General McCarthy had been detached, with a corps of six thousand men, against the Enniskilleners. He came up with them near Newtown Butler. Although but two thousand strong, the Enniskilleners, who were commanded by Colonel Wolseley, an English officer, at once attacked the Irish, only a portion of whom had come upon the ground.

McCarthy, who was a brave and experienced officer, sent orders to the cavalry to face to the right, and march to the support of the wing that was attacked. The officer gave the order "right--about face," and the cavalry turned and trotted towards the rear. The infantry, believing that they were deserted by the horse, at once lost heart and fell into confusion.

McCarthy, while endeavouring to remedy the disorder, was wounded and taken prisoner, and the flight became general. The Enniskilleners pursued with savage fury, and during the evening, the whole of the night, and the greater part of the next day, hunted the fugitives down in the bogs and woods, and slew them in cold blood. Five hundred of the Irish threw themselves into Lough Erne, rather than face death at the hands of their savage enemies, and only one of the number saved himself by swimming.

After leaving Derry, the army returned to Dublin, where the parliament which James had summoned was then sitting. Most of the soldiers were quartered on the citizens; but, as the pressure was very great, Captain Davenant easily obtained leave for his troop to go out to Bray, where they were within a very short distance of his own house.

The day after his return home, Walter went over to give Jabez Whitefoot and his wife news of John, from whom they had heard nothing, since a fortnight before the siege had begun.

"Your son is alive and well," were his first words. "He has been all through the siege of Derry, and has behaved like a hero."

"The Lord be praised!" Jabez said, while his wife burst into tears of relief, for she had gone through terrible anxiety during the long weeks that Derry had been suffering from starvation.

"But how do you know, Master Walter?" Jabez asked. "Seeing that you were on the side of the besiegers, how could you tell what was passing on the inside of the walls? How do you know John is alive?"

"Because I saw him first, a month before the end of the siege, and because he came regularly afterwards, to fetch away some provisions which I had placed for him."

And Walter then gave a full account of John's visit to the camp, in search of food for the children who were sheltered in the tanner's house.

"That is just like John," his mother said. "He was ever thoughtful for others. I am more pleased, a hundred times, that he should have so risked his life to obtain food for the little ones, than if he had taken part in the fighting and proved himself a very champion of Derry."

Parliament had met on the 7th of May. The session had been opened by a speech from the throne, in which the king commended the loyalty of his Irish subjects, declared his intention to make no difference between Catholics and Protestants, and that loyalty and good conduct should be the only passport to his favour. He stated his earnest wish that good and wholesome laws should be enacted, for the encouragement of trade and of the manufactures of the country, and for the relief of such as had suffered injustice by the Act of Settlement; that is, the act by which the lands of the Catholics had been handed over, wholesale, to Cromwell's soldiers and other Protestants.

Bills were speedily passed, abolishing the jurisdiction of English courts of law and of the English parliament in Ireland, and other bills were passed for the regulation of commerce and the promotion of shipbuilding. The bill for the repeal of the Act of Settlement was brought up on the 22d of May. It was opposed only by the Protestant bishops and peers, and became law on the 11th of June. Acts of attainder were speedily passed against some two thousand Protestant landed proprietors, all of whom had obtained their lands by the settlement of Cromwell.

A land tax was voted to the king, of twenty thousand pounds a month, and he proceeded to raise other levies by his private authority. The result was that the resources of Ireland were speedily exhausted, money almost disappeared, and James, being at his wits' end for funds, issued copper money stamped with the value of gold and silver; and a law was passed making this base money legal tender, promising that, at the end of the war, it should be exchanged for sterling money.

This was a measure which inflicted enormous loss and damage. At first, the people raised the prices of goods in proportion to the decrease in the value of the money, but James stopped this, by issuing a proclamation fixing the prices at which all articles were to be sold; and having done this, proceeded to buy up great quantities of hides, butter, corn, wood, and other goods, paying for them all with a few pounds of copper and tin, and then shipping them to France, where they were sold on his own account. It need hardly be said that conduct of this kind speedily excited great dissatisfaction, even among those who were most loyal in his cause.

Captain Davenant was shocked at the state of things he found prevailing in Dublin.

"I regret bitterly," he said, when alone with his wife and mother, "that I have taken up the sword. Success appears to me to be hopeless. The folly of the Stuarts is incredible. They would ruin the best cause in the world. With a spark of wisdom and firmness, James might have united all Ireland in his cause, instead of which he has absolutely forced the Protestants into hostility. His folly is only equalled by his rapacity, and both are stupendous."

This was said, one evening, when he had just returned from a visit to Dublin, depressed and disheartened by all he heard there.

"I am astonished, Fergus," his mother said sharply, "to hear you speak in that way. Who would have thought that it was a Davenant who was speaking! Doubtless there have been mistakes, as was only natural, but everything will come right, in time. I have been longing for you to come home, looking forward with such joy to welcome you as the possessor of the broad lands of the Davenants. Thank God I have lived to see the restoration of my dear husband's lands, and the discomfiture of those Cromwellian knaves, who have so long possessed them. It was a grand day when the act was passed, repealing all Cromwell's grants handing over the best part of Ireland to his soldiers; and I saw in the Gazette, among the two thousand grants specially mentioned as cancelled, was that of the Davenant estate to Zephaniah Whitefoot. I am told that the old man and his son have taken no notice of the act, but go about their work as if they were still the owners of the land; but of course, now that you are back, there will soon be an end of this."

Captain Davenant was silent.

"I shall be in no hurry, mother," he said, after a pause. "It is true that an act of the Irish parliament has cancelled the iniquitous work of Cromwell, and restored the land to its rightful possessors. I do not say that this is not just, but I am quite sure that it is not politic. These men have been planted on the soil for two generations. They have built houses and tilled the fields, and made homes for themselves. It was essentially a case for arrangement, and not for setting right the first act of confiscation by another as sweeping. It has rendered the Protestants desperate. It has enlisted the sympathy of the Protestants of England in their behalf, and has done much to popularize the war there. It would have been vastly wiser, had a commission been ordered to examine into the circumstances of each case.

"In the great proportion of cases, the estates which the Cromwellites took possession of were vastly larger than they were able to till themselves; and, as in the case of Zephaniah Whitefoot, they let out the greater portion to tenants. All these lands I would have restored to their former owners, leaving to the Cromwellites the land they till themselves, and the houses they have built upon it.

"As to turning the Whitefoots out, I shall certainly take no step that way, at present. It will be time enough to do so, when King James is firmly established on the throne. As things go at present, I have but very faint hopes that will ever be. He has utterly failed to conquer the Protestants of the north of Ireland, and we have all the strength of England to cope with, yet. It will be well, mother, if, at the end of this strife, we can keep Davenant Castle over our heads, with the few acres that still remain to us."

Two days afterwards, Captain Davenant mounted his horse and rode over to the Whitefoots. Zephaniah and Jabez came to the door.

"I suppose you have come over to turn us out, Fergus Davenant," the old man said; "but I warn you, that it will not be for long. The triumph of the ungodly is short, and the Lord will care for his own people."

"You are mistaken," Captain Davenant said quietly. "I have come over for no such purpose. I am, of course, aware that parliament has passed a law, reinstating me in my father's lands; but I came over to tell you that, at present, I do not propose to take advantage of that law. I shall do nothing, until this war is at an end. If King William's cause triumphs, the act will remain a dead letter. If King James's wins, and the act is upheld, I wish to tell you that I shall never disturb you in the land which you, yourselves, occupy. Your tenants, on the other hand, will be my tenants; but in the house which you have built, and in the fields which you have tilled, you will remain masters.

"I have thought the matter over, and this appears to me to be a just settlement, and one which I give you my word that I will hold to, should King James triumph in the end. I think that the law turning out the Protestant settlers, from the land which they have held for forty years, is well nigh as unjust as that which gave it to them."

"I will take no gifts at the hands of the wicked," Zephaniah began, but Jabez interrupted him.

"Hush, father!" he said. "It is not thus that kindness should be met."

Then he stepped forward, leaving his father too surprised, at this sudden assumption of command on the part of his son, to interrupt him.

"Captain Davenant," he said, "I thank you most sincerely, on the part of myself, my wife and son, and, I may say, of my father, too, although at present he may not realize the kindness of your offer. I do not think it likely that, if James Stuart prevails, and Ireland is rent from England, we shall avail ourselves of your offer, for we have more than sufficient of this world's goods to remove to England, and there settle ourselves and our son, for assuredly Ireland would be no place where a Protestant could dwell in peace and quietness. Nevertheless, I thank you heartily, and shall ever gratefully bear in mind the promise you have made, and the fact that, although you have the power to turn us from our home, you have stayed from doing so. There has been much wrong done on both sides; and, from a boy, when I have seen you ride into or from your home, I have felt that I and mine wronged you, by being the possessors of your father's lands."

"They were the spoil of battle," Zephaniah broke in fiercely.

"Yes, they were the spoil of battle," his son repeated; "but there are limits, even to the rights of conquerors. I have read history, and I know that nowhere but in Ireland did conquerors ever dispossess whole peoples, and take possession of their lands."

"The Israelites took the land of Canaan," Zephaniah interrupted.

"I am speaking of modern wars, father. For centuries, no such act of wholesale spoliation was ever perpetrated; and considering, as I do, that the act was an iniquitous one, although we have benefited by it, I consider the offer which Captain Davenant has made to us to be a noble one.

"I have to thank you, sir, also, for your kindness to my son--a kindness which doubtless saved his life, as well as that of many others in Londonderry; and believe me that, whatever comes of this horrible war, I and mine will never forget the kindnesses we have received at your hands."

"The affair was my son's, rather than mine," Captain Davenant said; "but I was glad to be able to assist him in aiding your brave boy. He is a noble fellow, and you have every reason to be proud of him."

"I must add my thanks to those of my husband," Hannah said, coming out from the house, having listened to the conversation through an open window. "We had suffered so, until your son brought us news of John, two days since. It is strange, indeed, that your son should have been the means of saving one of a household whom he cannot but have learnt to regard as the usurpers of his father's rights. It was but last night I was reading of Jonathan and David, and it seemed to me that, assuredly, the same spirit that they felt for each other was in our sons."

"The boys are very fond of each other, Mrs. Whitefoot, and I am glad of it. They are both manly fellows, and there is no reason why the feuds of the fathers should descend to the children."

With a cordial goodbye, Captain Davenant rode off.

"Jabez," Zephaniah said, as they turned into the house, "I had not thought to hear a son of mine rise in rebellion against his father."

"Father," Jabez said, "for forty-five years I have been a good son to you; but it is time that I took my stand. It seems to me that the principles upon which the soldiers of Cromwell fought, were the principles which animated the Israelites of old. Exodus, Judges, and Kings were the groundwork of their religion, not the Gospels. It has gradually been borne upon me that such is not the religion of the New Testament, and, while I seek in no way to dispute your right to think as you choose, I say the time has come when I and my wife will act upon our principles."

"It is written, Honour thy father and thy mother," Zephaniah said sternly.

"Ay, father, I have honoured you, and I shall honour you to the end; but a man has no right to give up his conscience to his father; for it is written, also, that a man shall leave father and mother, and wife and home to follow the Lord. I have heard you, father, and the elders of our church, quote abundant texts from Scripture, but never one, that I can recall, from the New Testament. Hitherto, I have been as an Israelite of Joshua's time. Henceforward, I hope to be a Christian. I grieve to anger you, father, and for years I have held my peace rather than do so; but the time has come when the spirit within me will no longer permit me to hold my peace. In all worldly matters, I am still your obedient son, ready to labour to my utmost to gather up wealth which I do not enjoy, to live a life as hard as that of the poorest tenant on our lands; but, as touching higher matters, I and my wife go our own way."

Without a word, Zephaniah took his hat and strode away from the house, and, after much angry communing with himself, went to the minister and deacons of his chapel, and laid the facts of the rebellion before them, and asked their advice.

They were in favour of peace, for two of them were his tenants, and they knew that the time could not be very far off when Jabez would take the old man's place, and it would be a serious matter, indeed, to the chapel, were he to be driven from its fold.

"We cannot expect that all shall see with our eyes, Zephaniah," the minister said, "and, indeed, the offer, which thou sayest the man Davenant made, was a generous one. It would be well, indeed, for our brethren throughout Ireland, did all the original owners of their lands so treat them. Thousands who, but a few months since, were prosperous men, are now without a shelter wherein to lay their heads. The storm is sweeping over us, the elect are everywhere smitten, and, should James Stuart conquer, not a Protestant in Ireland but must leave its shores. Therefore, although I would counsel no giving up of principle, no abandonment of faith, yet I would say that this is no time for the enforcement of our views upon weak vessels. I mourn that your son should, for the time, have fallen away from your high standard, but I say it were best to be patient with him."

At home, there were few words spoken after Zephaniah had gone out. Hannah had thrown her arms round her husband's neck, and had said:

"I thank God for your words, Jabez. Now I am proud of you, as I have never been proud before, that you have boldly spoken out for liberty of conscience. I feel like one who has for many years been a slave, but who is, at last, free."

Jabez kissed her, but was silent. To him, it had been a great trial to rebel. He knew that he was right, and would have done it again, if necessary; but it was a terrible thing to him to have openly withstood the father to whom he had, from childhood, rendered almost implicit obedience.

On his return, Zephaniah did not renew the subject; but from that time, there was a great change in the moral atmosphere of the house. Zephaniah was still master in all matters of daily work; but in other respects, Jabez had completely emancipated himself.

[Chapter 6]: Dundalk.

After the failure before Derry, the utmost confusion prevailed in the military councils, arising chiefly from the jealousies and conflicting authorities of the French and Irish commanders. James was entirely under the control of the French ambassador, who, together with all his countrymen in Ireland, affected to despise the Irish as a rude and uncivilized people; while the Irish, in turn, hated the French for their arrogance and insolence. Many of the Irish gentlemen, who had raised regiments at their private expense, were superseded to make room for Frenchmen, appointed by the influence of the French ambassador. These gentlemen returned home in disgust, and were soon followed by their men, who were equally discontented at being handed over to the command of foreigners, instead of their native leaders.

Every day, the breach widened between the French and Irish, and the discontent caused by the king's exactions was wide and general; and if William, at this time, had offered favourable terms to the Catholics, it is probable that an arrangement could have been arrived at.

But William was busily at work, preparing an army for the conquest of the country. Had Ireland stood alone, it is probable that England would, at any rate for a time, have suffered it to go its own way; but its close alliance with France, and the fact that French influence was all powerful with James, rendered it impossible for England to submit to the establishment of what would be a foreign and hostile power, so close to her shores. Besides, if Ireland remained under the dominion of James, the power of William on the throne of England could never have been consolidated.

Although he had met with no resistance on his assumption of the throne, he had the hearty support of but a mere fraction of the English people, and his accession was the work of a few great Whig families, only. His rule was by no means popular, and his Dutch favourites were as much disliked, in England, as were James' French adherents in Ireland.

In Scotland, the Jacobite party were numerous and powerful, and were in open rebellion to his authority. Thus, then, if William's position on the throne of England was to be consolidated, it was necessary that a blow should be struck in Ireland.

Torn by dissension, without plan or leading, the Irish army remained, for months, inactive; most of the regiments having, after the northern campaign, returned to the districts in which they were raised; and thus, no preparation was made to meet the army which was preparing to invade the country.

This, ten thousand strong, under the command of General Schomberg, who, although eighty years of age, was still an able, active, and spirited commander, embarked on the 8th of August at Chester, and on the 13th landed near Bangor, in Carrickfergus Bay. There was no force there of sufficient strength to oppose him.

Schomberg found Antrim and Belfast deserted; but the garrison at Carrickfergus, consisting of two regiments, prepared vigorously for a siege. Schomberg at once prepared to invest it, and in a short time attacked it by land and sea. The siege was pressed with vigour, but the garrison, under M'Carty Moore, defended themselves with the greatest skill and bravery. As fast as breaches were battered in their walls, they repaired them, and repulsed every attempt of the besiegers to gain a footing in the town. The garrison were badly supplied with ammunition, but they stripped the lead from the roofs of the castle and church to make bullets.

But all this time, no attempt whatever was made to relieve them. The French and Irish generals were disputing as to what was the best plan of campaign. The king was busy making money with his trade with France; and, after holding out until they had burned their last grain of powder, the gallant garrison were forced to capitulate. Schomberg was too glad to get the place to insist on hard terms, and the garrison marched out with all the honours of war--drums beating, and matches alight--and were conveyed, with all their stores, arms, and public and private property, to the nearest Irish post.

The effect of this determined resistance, on the part of the little garrison at Carrickfergus, was to impress Schomberg with the fact that the difficulty of the task he had undertaken was vastly greater than he had supposed. The success with which Londonderry had defended itself against the Irish army had impressed him with the idea that the levies of King James were simply contemptible; but the fighting qualities of the garrison of Carrickfergus had shown him that they were a foe by no means to be despised, and convinced him that the force at his command was altogether inadequate to his necessities.

He therefore moved south with extreme caution. He found the country altogether wasted and deserted. The Protestants had long since fled, and were gathered round Derry and Enniskillen. The Catholics had now deserted their homes, at his approach; and the troops, in their retreat, had burned and wasted everything, so that he had no means of subsistence for his army, and was obliged to rely upon the fleet, which he ordered to follow him down the coast.

Schomberg was soon joined by three regiments of Enniskillen horse. The appearance of these troops astonished the English. They resembled rather a horde of Italian banditti than a body of European cavalry. They observed little order in their military movements, and no uniformity of dress or accoutrement. Each man was armed and clad according to his own fancy, and accompanied by a mounted servant, carrying his baggage. But, like the Cossacks, whom they closely resembled, they were distinguished by an extreme rapidity of movement, and a fierceness and contempt of all difficulty and danger. They calculated neither chances nor numbers, but rushed to the attack of any foe with a ferocity and fanaticism which almost ensured success, and they regarded the slaughter of a Papist as an acceptable service to the Lord. They plundered wherever they went, and were a scourge to the Irish Protestants as well as Catholics.

The troops furnished by Derry were similar in character to those from Enniskillen. They could not endure the restraints of discipline, and were little use in acting with the regular army, and, like the Cossacks, were formidable only when acting by themselves. Schomberg and his successor, and, indeed, the whole of the English officers, soon came to abhor these savage and undisciplined allies.

Still, the Irish army made no move. Report had magnified Schomberg's strength to more than twice its real numbers, and the military leaders could not believe that, after so many months of preparation, William had despatched so small an army for the conquest of Ireland.

Confusion and dismay reigned in Dublin. The French Marshal, De Rosen, advised that Dublin and Drogheda should be abandoned, and that the Irish army should be concentrated at Athlone and Limerick; but Tyrconnell went to Drogheda, where the council of war was sitting, and strenuously opposed this, promising that by the next night twenty thousand men should be assembled there. Expresses were sent out in all directions; and by forced marches, the Irish troops stationed in Munster directed their course to Drogheda, in high spirits and anxious to meet the enemy.

Schomberg, although he had been reinforced by six thousand men from England, fell back at the news of the gathering, and formed an intrenched camp in a strong position between Dundalk and the sea. His approaches were covered by mountains, rivers, and morasses; his communication was open to the sea, and here he resolved to wait for reinforcements.

Captain Davenant became more and more despondent as to the cause in which he had embarked.

"Without the king, and without his French allies," he said bitterly to his wife, "we might hope for success; but these are enough to ruin any cause. Were the king's object to excite discontent and disgust among his subjects, he could not act otherwise than he is now doing. His whole thoughts are devoted to wringing money out of the people, and any time he has to spare is spent upon superintending the building of the nunneries, in which he is so interested. As to the French, they paralyse all military operations. They regard us as an inferior race, and act as if, with their own five or six thousand troops, they could defeat all the power of England. It is heartbreaking seeing our chances so wasted.

"Had advantage been taken of the enthusiasm excited when King James landed; had he himself been wise and prudent, disinterested for himself, and desirous of obtaining the affections of all classes; and had he brought with him none of these French adventurers, he would, long ere this, have been undisputed King of Ireland from end to end, and we should have stood as one people in arms, ready to oppose ourselves to any force that England could send against us. Never were chances so frittered away, never such a succession of blunders and folly. It is enough to break one's heart."

"I do hope, father, that when the troop marches again you will take me as cornet. I am six months older than I was, and have learned a lot in the last campaign. You have not filled up the place of Cornet O'Driscoll. I did think, when he was killed in that last fight you had before Derry, you would have appointed me."

"In some respects I am less inclined than ever, Walter," Captain Davenant said; "for I begin to regard success as hopeless."

"It will make no difference, father, in that way, for if we are beaten they are sure to hand all our land over to the Protestants. Besides, things may turn out better than you think; and whether or no, I should certainly like to do my best for Ireland."

"Well, we will think about it," Captain Davenant said; and Walter was satisfied, for he felt sure that his father would finally accede to his wishes.

It was late at night, when the mounted messenger dashed up to the door of the castle and handed in an order. Captain Davenant opened it.

"We are to march, in half an hour's time, to Drogheda. The whole army is to assemble there."

"Hurray!" Walter shouted. "Something is going to be done, at last."

A man was sent down to the village at once, to order the twenty men quartered there to saddle and mount instantly, and ride up to the castle; while another, on horseback, started for Bray to get the main body under arms. Mrs. Davenant busied herself in packing the wallets of her husband and son. She was very pale, but she said little.

"God bless you both," she said, when all was finished, "and bring you back again safely. I won't ask you to take care of yourselves, because, of course, you must do your duty, and with all my love I should not wish you to draw back from that. When home and religion and country are at stake, even we women could not wish to keep those we love beside us."

There was a last embrace, and then Captain Davenant and his son sprang on their horses, which were waiting at the door, took their place at the head of the party which had come up from the village, and rode away into the darkness, while the two Mrs. Davenants gave free vent to the tears which they had hitherto so bravely restrained.

At Bray, Captain Davenant found the rest of his troop drawn up in readiness, and after a brief inspection, to see that all were present with their proper arms and accoutrements, he started with them for Dublin, and after a few hours' rest there continued his way towards Drogheda.

The army then proceeded north to Dundalk, and bitter was the disappointment of the troops when, on arriving there, they found that Schomberg, instead of advancing to give battle, had shut himself up in the intrenchments he had formed, and could not be induced to sally out.

In vain King James, who accompanied his army, formed it up in order of battle within sight of the invaders' lines. Schomberg was not to be tempted out, and, as the position appeared to be too strong to be attacked, the Irish were forced to endeavour to reduce it by the slow process of starvation. The English army was soon reduced to pitiable straits--not from hunger, for they were able to obtain food from the ships, but from disease. The situation of the camp was low and unhealthy. Fever broke out, and swept away vast numbers of the men.

The Dutch and Enniskilleners suffered comparatively little--both were accustomed to a damp climate. But of the English troops, nearly eight thousand died in the two months that the blockade lasted. Had James maintained his position, the whole of the army of Schomberg must have perished; but, most unfortunately for his cause, he insisted on personally conducting operations, and when complete success was in his grasp he marched his army away, in the middle of November, to winter quarters; thereby allowing Schomberg to move, with the eight thousand men who remained to him, from the pest-stricken camp to healthier quarters.

The disgust, of those of James's officers who understood anything of war, at this termination of the campaign was extreme. The men, indeed, were eager to return to their homes, but would gladly have attempted an assault on the English camp before doing so; and, as the defenders were reduced to half their original strength, while most of the survivors were weakened by disease, the attack would probably have been successful. James himself was several times on the point of ordering an attack, but his own vacillation of character was heightened by the conflicting counsels of his generals, who seemed more bent on thwarting each other than on gaining the cause for which they fought.

The cavalry were not idle, while the blockade of Schomberg's camp continued, frequently making excursions over the country to bring in cattle for the army; for the villagers had, for the most part, deserted their homes, and herds of cattle were grazing without masters. One day, Captain Davenant's troop had ridden some thirty miles out of camp, and had halted for the night in a village. In the morning, they broke up into small parties and scattered round the country. Walter, with fifteen of the troopers, had collected some cattle and stopped for an hour, to feed and rest the horses, in a deserted village. He took the precaution to place two or three men on sentry round it.

The men were sitting on the doorsteps, eating the food they had brought with them, when one of the outposts dashed in at full gallop, shouting that the enemy were upon them; but his warning came too late, for, close behind him, came a body of wild-looking horsemen, shouting and yelling. There was a cry of "The Enniskilleners!" and the men ran to their horses.

They had scarcely time to throw themselves in the saddle, when the Enniskilleners charged down. For a minute or two there was a confused medley, and then three or four of the troopers rode off at full speed, hotly pursued by the Enniskilleners.

Walter had discharged his pistols and drawn his sword, but before he had time to strike a blow, his horse was rolled over by the rush of the enemy, and, as he was falling, he received a blow on the head from a sabre which stretched him insensible on the ground. He was roused by two men turning him over and searching his pockets. A slight groan burst from his lips.

"The fellow is not dead," one of the men said.

"We will soon settle that," the other replied.

"Don't kill him," the first speaker said. "Wait till the captain has spoken to him. We may be able to get some information from him. We can finish him afterwards."

Walter lay with his eyes closed. He well knew that the Enniskilleners took no prisoners, but killed all who fell into their hands, and he determined to show no signs of returning consciousness. Presently, he heard the sound of a party of horsemen returning, and by the exclamations of disappointment which greeted the news they gave, he learned that some, at least, of his men had made their escape.

Some time later, several men came up to him. One leaned over him, and put his hand to his heart.

"He is alive."

"Very well," another voice said. "Then we will take him with us. He is an officer, and will be able to tell us all about their strength.

"Watkins, you have a strong beast, and do not weigh much. Do you mount, and then we will tie him to your back."

A minute later Walter was lifted up, and felt that he was placed on a horse with his back to that of the rider. A rope was wound several times round his body. He remained perfectly passive, with his head hanging down on his breast. Then a word of command was given, and the troop set off.

For a time, there was no need for him to pretend insensibility, for the pain of his wound and the loss of blood overpowered him, and for some time he was unconscious. After two hours' riding, the troop was halted. Walter felt the rope taken off him. Then he was lifted down, dragged a short distance, and thrown down on some straw. Then a door shut, and he heard a key turned. He felt sure that he was alone, but for some time lay perfectly quiet, as it was possible that one of the men might have remained to watch him.

After a quarter of an hour, hearing not the slightest sound, he opened his eyes and looked round. He was, as he supposed, alone. The place in which he was lying was a stable, lighted only by a small opening high up in the wall. Certain, therefore, that he was not overlooked, he made an effort to rise to his feet, but he was so weak and giddy that he was obliged, for some time, to remain leaning against the wall. Seeing a bucket in one corner, he made to it, and found, to his delight, that it was half full of water, for he was parched with a devouring thirst.

After taking a deep draught he felt greatly revived, and then made a thorough survey of his prison. It evidently formed part of the house of a well-to-do man, for it was solidly built of stone, and the door was strong and well fitted.

The opening in the wall was out of his reach. He could, at ordinary times, by standing on the upturned bucket, have reached it with a spring, and pulled himself up to it, but at present he was wholly incapable of such exertion. He thought, however, that after a night's rest he would be able to do it.

The door was so strong that he had no hope of escape in that direction. As he might at any moment be disturbed, he returned to the straw on which he had at first been thrown, laid himself down, and in a very short time dropped off to sleep.

It was dark, before he was awoke by the turning of the key in the lock, and two men entered, one of them bearing a horn lantern.

"Where am I?" Walter asked, in a feeble tone, as they approached him.

"Never mind where you are," one said roughly. "Get up."

Walter seemed to make an effort, and then fell back with a groan.

The man repeated his order, emphasizing it with a kick. Walter again made an effort, and, as before, sank back.

"Here, catch hold of him," the man said, impatiently, "it's no use fooling here with him."

The men took Walter under the arms and lifted him up, and half dragged, half carried him out of the stable and into the house adjoining. He was taken into a room where four or five men were sitting.

"Now, young fellow," one said sharply, "tell us what corps you belong to."

Walter looked stupidly at his questioner, but made no answer.

"Answer my question," the man said, levelling a pistol at him, "or I will blow out your brains at once."

Still Walter stared at him stupidly, and made no reply, except to mutter, "Water."

"It's no use," one of the other men said. "He hasn't got his right senses yet. It's no use shooting him now, after we have had the trouble of bringing him here. In the morning, he will be able to answer you."

"He had better," the other said savagely, "or we will light a fire and roast him over it. There, take him back to the stable, and give him a drink of water. I don't want him to slip through our fingers, after the trouble we have had with him."

Walter was taken back, as before, to the stable, and one of the men brought him a mug of water, and held it to his lips. He drank eagerly, and then the man placed the mug down beside him, the door was again closed and locked, and Walter was alone. He rose at once to his feet, and felt that his sleep had greatly refreshed and strengthened him.

"I will have another sleep, before I try," he said to himself. "It will not be light till six, and it must be eight or nine o'clock now. I must make up my mind, before I doze off, to wake in about three or four hours; but first, I must see what I can find, here."

He felt round the walls, but failed to find anything like a rope.

"I must trust to luck," he said; "I don't suppose they will post many sentries. These fellows are not real soldiers, and no doubt they will all be sound asleep in a couple of hours."

So saying, he again lay down, and was speedily asleep. When he woke, he felt sure that he had not exceeded the time he had given himself. He listened intently. He could hear a low, confused sound, which he knew was made by horses feeding, but he could hear no human voices. He drank the rest of the water in the mug, then he turned up the bucket, placed it under the opening, and mounted on it.

His first spring failed to reach the sill, and he stood for a few minutes, before making another attempt. He knew that it was a matter of life or death, for he had no doubt whatever that, even if he gave the required information, which he was determined not to do, however much he might suffer, he would be shot afterwards. He braced himself to the utmost, took a long breath, and then sprang. His fingers caught on the ledge of stonework, and, with a desperate effort, he drew himself up, aided by his feet. He had, before making the attempt, removed his boots, partly to avoid the scraping noise which these would make, partly to enable him the better to avail himself of the inequalities in the stonework.

It was a desperate struggle; and when he got his shoulders in the opening, which was just wide enough to admit them, he lay for three or four minutes, panting heavily, with the perspiration streaming down his face. The aperture was too small to admit of his turning in any way, and there was nothing for it, as he knew, but to drop head foremost.

Gradually, he drew himself through the opening, lowering himself as much as he could by holding on to the upper edge by his feet. Then, stretching out his arms to save himself, he let go. Fortunately, the ground was soft, for a garden adjoined the stable; but the shock was a heavy one, and he lay for a minute or two without moving, having some doubt whether he had not broken his neck. Then he got up, and listened.

Everything was still and quiet, and, indeed, his fall had been almost noiseless. He rose to his feet, felt along the wall until he encountered a low paling, climbed over it, and was in the road.

He had, when he jumped for the window, tied his boots to his back, and now carried them in his hand. The night was very dark; but his eyes, accustomed to the greater darkness of the stable, had no difficulty in following the road. He walked slowly, for the exertion he had undergone and the shock of the fall had drawn greatly from his small stock of strength.

After going a quarter of a mile, he put on his boots, and, climbing a wall of sods which bordered the road, struck across country. There were no stars to guide him, and a slight mist had begun to fall. There was but little wind, but this was sufficient to give a direction to the rain. Walter noticed this, and at once struck out in a direction which kept the rain falling upon the right side of his face; and he knew that, by so continuing, he was going in a tolerably straight line. As near as he could tell he walked for two hours, and then, utterly exhausted, lay down on the lee side of a turf wall.

There was, as yet, no gleam of light in the sky, and in a very few minutes he was again sound asleep. He woke up with a feeling of bitter cold, and, on rising, found that his limbs were completely stiffened by the wet. It was morning now, the wind had got up, and a driving rain shut out the view on all sides. Walter stamped his feet and swung his arms for some time to restore the circulation.

He had no idea in which direction he had been travelling, for he did not know whether the road from which he had started ran north, south, east, or west. He noticed that the wind had changed; for, whereas he had lain down under the lee of the wall, it was now the weather side. He walked in the same direction as before for two hours, and could then go no farther. He had seen no signs of human habitation, and had not crossed a road or even a footpath. Since starting in the morning he had passed no more walls or fences, and, as far as his eye could reach through the driving rain, nothing was to be seen save a desolate expanse of moor and bog. He was, at any rate, free from pursuit for the time, and he thought more of obtaining food and shelter than of the Enniskilleners.

It was useless pushing further on, even had he been able to do so, while the rain lasted; for he might have passed within a quarter of a mile of a habitation without seeing it. He accordingly threw himself down beside some low bushes, which afforded him some slight protection from the rain.

[Chapter 7]: The Coming Battle.

Some hours passed, and he was on the point of dropping off to sleep again, when he heard a whistle repeated once or twice, followed by the sharp bark of a dog. It was but a short distance away, and, leaping to his feet, he saw a peasant standing at a distance of two or three hundred yards.

Walter hurried towards him at a speed of which, a few minutes before, he would have thought himself incapable. The man continued whistling, at short intervals, and did not notice Walter till he was within twenty yards distant; then he turned sharply round.

"Who are you?" he asked, clubbing a heavy stick which he held in his hand, and standing on the defensive.

The dress and appearance of the man assured Walter that he was a Catholic, and therefore a friend, and he replied at once:

"I belong to one of the Irish troops of horse. The Enniskilleners surprised a party of us, yesterday, and wounded me, as you see. Fortunately, I escaped in the night, or they would have finished me this morning. I have been out all night in the rain, and am weak from loss of blood and hunger. Can you give me shelter?"

"That I can," the man said, "and gladly. Those villains have been killing and destroying all over the country, and there's many a one of us who, like myself, have been driven to take refuge in the bogs."

"Is it far?" Walter asked; "for I don't think I could get more than a mile or two."

"It is not half a mile," the man said. "You do look nearly done for. Here, lean on me, I will help you along; and if you find your strength go, I will make a shift to carry you."

"It is lucky I heard you whistle," Walter said.

"It is, indeed," the man replied, "for it is not likely anyone else would have come along today. My dog went off after a rabbit, and I was whistling to him to come to me again.

"Ah! Here he is. He has got the rabbit, too. Good dog! Well done!"

He took the rabbit and dropped it into the pocket of his coat. Seeing that Walter was too exhausted to talk, he asked no questions, and said nothing till he pointed to a low mound of earth, and said: "Here we are."

He went round by the side; and Walter perceived that there was a sharp dip in the ground, and that the hut was dug out in the face of the slope; so that, if it were approached either from behind or on either side, it would not be noticed, the roof being covered with sods, and closely matching the surrounding ground.

The man went to the low door, and opened it.

"Come in, sir," he said; "you are quite welcome."

The hut contained two other men, who looked up in surprise at the greeting.

"This is a young officer, in one of our horse regiments," the man said. "He has been in the hands of the Enniskilleners, and has got out from them alive--which is more than most can say. He has had a bad wound, has been wet through for hours, and is half starving. Look sharp, lads, and get something hot, as soon as possible.

"Now, sir, if you will take off those wet things of yours, and wrap yourself in that rug, you will find yourself the better for it. When a man is in health, a few hours wet will not do him any harm; but when he is weak from loss of blood, as you are, the cold seems to get into his bones."

Fresh turfs were at once put on the smouldering fire, which one of the men, leaning down before it, proceeded to blow lustily; and, although much of the smoke made its way out through a hole in the roof, enough lingered to render it difficult for Walter to breathe, while his eyes watered with the sharp fumes. A kettle had been placed on the fire, and in a very short time, a jar was produced from the corner of the hut, and a horn of strong spirits and water mixed.

"Here are some cold praties, sir. It's all we have got cooked by us now, but I can promise you a better meal, later on."

Walter ate the potatoes, and drank the warm mixture. The change from the cold damp air outside, to the warm atmosphere of the hut, aided the effects of the spirits; he was first conscious of a warm glow all over him, and then the voices of the men seemed to grow indistinct.

"You had better stretch yourself on that pile of rushes," the man said, as Walter gave a start, being on the point of rolling over. "Two or three hours' sleep will make a man of you, and by that time dinner will be ready, and your clothes dry."

Walter fell almost instantaneously off to sleep, and it was late in the afternoon before he woke.

"I am afraid I must have slept a long time," he said, sitting up.

"You have had a fine sleep, surely," one of the men replied; "and it's dinner and supper, all in one, that you will have."

Walter found his uniform and underclothes neatly folded up by his side, and speedily dressed himself.

"That sleep has done me a world of good," he said. "I feel quite myself again."

"That's right, yer honour. When you've had your food, I will make a shift to dress that wound at the back of yer head. Be jabbers, it's a hard knock you have had, and a mighty lot of blood you must have lost! Yer clothes was just stiff with it; but I washed most of it out.

"And now, lads, off with the pot!"

A large pot was hanging over the fire, and, when the lid was taken off, a smell very pleasant to Walter's nostrils arose. Four flat pieces of wood served the purpose of plates, and, with a large spoon of the same material, the man who had brought Walter to the hut, and who appeared to be the leader of the party, ladled out portions of the contents. These consisted of rabbit and pieces of beef, boiled up with potatoes and onions. A large jug filled with water, and a bottle of spirits were placed in the centre, with the horn which Walter had before used beside it.

"We are short of crockery," the man said with a laugh. "Here are some knives, but as for forks, we just have to do without them."

Walter enjoyed his meal immensely. After it was finished, the wooden platters were removed, and the jug replenished.

"Now, your honour, will you tell us how you got away from the Protestant rebels, and how was it they didn't make short work of you, when they caught you? It's a puzzle to us entirely, for the Enniskilleners spare neither man, woman, nor child."

Walter related the whole circumstances of his capture, imprisonment, and escape.

"You fooled them nicely," the man said, admiringly. "Sure your honour's the one to get out of a scrape--and you little more than a boy."

"And what are you doing here?" Walter asked, in return. "This seems a wild place to live in."

"It's just that," the man said. "We belonged to Kilbally. The Enniskilleners came that way, and burned it to the ground. They murdered my wife and many another one. I was away cutting peat with my wife's brother here. When we came back, everything was gone. A few had escaped to the bogs, where they could not be followed; the rest was, every mother's son of them, killed by those murdering villains. Your honour may guess what we felt, when we got back. Thank God I had no children! We buried the wife in the garden behind the house, and then started away and joined a band of rapparees, and paid some of them back in their own coin. Then, one day, the Enniskilleners fell on us, and most of us were killed. Then we made our way back to the old village, and came up here and built us this hut. It's a wonder to us how you got here; for there are bogs stretching away in all directions, and how you made your way through them bates us entirely."

"Yours is a sad story, but unfortunately a common one. And how have you managed to live here?"

"There are plenty of potatoes, for the digging of 'em," the man said, "for there are a score of ruined villages within a day's walk. As for meat, there are cattle for the taking, wandering all over the country; some have lately strayed away; but among the hills there are herds which have run wild since the days when Cromwell made the country a desert. As for spirits, I brew them myself. Barley as well as potatoes may be had for the taking. Then, sometimes, the dog picks up a rabbit. Sometimes, when we go down for potatoes, we light on a fowl or two; there's many a one of them running wild among the ruins. As far as eating and drinking goes, we never did better; and if I could forget the old cottage, and the sight that met my eyes when I went back to it, I should do well enough, but, night and day I am dreaming of it, and my heart is sore with longing for vengeance."

"Why don't you join the army?" Walter asked. "There's plenty of room for good men, and yesterday's affair has made some vacancies in my own troop.

"What do you say, lads? You would have a chance of crossing swords with the Enniskilleners, and you could always come back here when the war is over."

"What do you say, boys?" the man asked his companions. "I am just wearying for a fight, and I could die contented, if I could but send a few of those murdering villains to their place, before I go."

The other two men at once agreed. They talked well into the night, and Walter heard many tales of the savage butchery of unoffending peasants, by the men who professed to be fighting for religious liberty, which shocked and sickened him.

It was arranged that they should start on the following morning. The men said that they could guide him across country to Dundalk without difficulty, and assured him that he would be little likely to meet with the enemy, for that the whole country had been so wasted, by fire and sword, as to offer but little temptation even to the most insatiable of plunderers.

Accordingly, the next morning they set out, and arrived late that evening at the camp. Walter found that his father and his followers were absent. They had returned, much surprised at not having been rejoined by Walter's party, but on their arrival they had found there the survivors of his command, who had ridden straight for Dundalk.

After a few hours' stay, to rest the horses, Captain Davenant, with his own men and two of the troops of cavalry, had ridden out in search of the Enniskilleners. Larry, who had been almost wild with grief when the news of the surprise, and, as he believed, the death of Walter, had been brought in, had accompanied the cavalry.

It was late on the following afternoon before they rode into camp. Larry was the first to come in, having received permission from Captain Davenant to gallop on ahead. They had met the enemy, and had inflicted a decisive defeat upon them, but the greater part had escaped, by taking to the hills on their wiry little horses, which were able to traverse bogs and quagmires impassable to the heavy troopers.

Captain Davenant had closely questioned two or three wounded men who fell into his hands. These all declared that a young officer had been captured, in the previous fight, that he had been severely wounded, and carried away senseless, but that he had, in some extraordinary manner, managed to escape that night. This story had greatly raised Captain Davenant's hopes that Walter might yet be alive, a hope which he had not before allowed himself, for a moment, to indulge in; and as he neared Dundalk, he had readily granted leave for the impatient Larry to gallop on ahead, and discover if any news had been received of Walter.

Larry's delight, at seeing his young master standing at the door of the tent, was extreme. He gave a wild whoop, threw his cap high up into the air, and then, without a word of greeting, turned his horse's head and galloped away again, at the top of his speed, to carry the good news to Captain Davenant. Half an hour later, the column rode into camp, and Walter was clasped in his father's arms.

That evening, Walter's three companions were enrolled in the troop, and, hearing that there were vacancies for fifteen more, volunteered to return to the hills, and to bring back that number of men from the peasants hiding there. This mission they carried out, and, by the end of the week, Captain Davenant's troop was again made up to its full strength.

The unsuccessful result of the siege of Schomberg's camp greatly damped Walter's enthusiasm. He had been engaged in two long and tedious blockades, and, with the exception of some skirmishes round Derry, had seen nothing whatever of fighting. Neither operation had been attended by any decisive result. Both had inflicted extreme misery and suffering upon the enemy, but in neither was the success aimed at attained. At the same time, the novelty of the life, the companionship of his father and the other officers of the regiment, and, not least, the good humour and fun of his attendant, Larry, had made the time pass far more cheerfully to him than to the majority of those in the army.

As before, when the army arrived at Dublin, Captain Davenant's troop was posted in and around Bray, the greater portion of it being permitted to reside in their own homes, until again wanted for active service. Walter, on his return, was glad to find that his friend John Whitefoot had made his way home from Derry, and their pleasant intercourse was at once renewed.

Schomberg's army, when moved to healthy quarters and bountifully supplied with all kinds of food and necessaries from England, speedily recovered their health and discipline, and, in a very short time, were again in condition to take the field.

Early in February, 1690, Brigadier Wolseley, with a detachment of Enniskilleners and English, marched against Cavan. James had no longer an army with which he could oppose Schomberg's enterprises. While the latter had been recovering from the effects of his heavy losses, nothing had been done to put the Irish army in a condition to take the field again. They lacked almost every necessary for a campaign. No magazines had been formed to supply them, when they should again advance; and so short of forage were they, that it was considered impossible to make any move in force, until the grass should grow sufficiently to enable the horses to get into condition.

Nevertheless, the Duke of Berwick marched with eight hundred men from Dublin, and Brigadier Nugent with a like force from West Meath and Longford, and arrived at Cavan a few hours before the English reached the town. The Irish force was composed entirely of infantry, with the exception of two troops of cavalry. The English force consisted of seven hundred foot, and three hundred cavalry.

As Cavan did not offer any advantages in the way of defence, the Duke of Berwick moved his army out into the open field. The English lined the hedges, and stood on the defensive. The Irish horse commenced the battle with a furious charge on the Enniskilleners and dragoons, and drove them from the field; but the English infantry maintained their position so stoutly that, after a prolonged fight, the Irish retreated into a fort near the town. The English and Enniskilleners entered Cavan, and at once began to plunder the place.

Hearing what was going on, the Duke of Berwick sallied out from his fort to attack them, and gained considerable advantage. Brigadier Wolseley, being unable to restore discipline among the Enniskilleners, who formed the great majority of his force, ordered the town to be set on fire in several places. The troops then collected, and repulsed the Irish with considerable loss.

The Duke of Berwick had two hundred killed, amongst whom were Brigadier Nugent and many officers. As the Irish remained in possession of the fort, and the town was almost entirely destroyed by fire, Brigadier Wolseley returned with his force to Dundalk.

Shortly afterwards, the Fort of Charlemont was invested by a strong detachment of Schomberg's army. Teigue O'Regan, the veteran governor, defended the place with the greatest bravery, and did not capitulate until the 14th of May, when the last ounce of provisions was consumed. The garrison were allowed honourable terms, and the eight hundred men who defended the place, with their arms and baggage, and some two hundred women and children, were allowed to march away. The Enniskilleners treated the Irish soldiers and their families with great brutality, as they passed along, but Schomberg humanely ordered that a loaf of bread should be given to each man at Armagh. The Irish army were not in condition to render any assistance to the hard pressed garrison of Charlemont, until after they had capitulated.

In the meantime, a great army, which was to be led by King William in person, was being collected in England. It consisted of a strange medley, collected from almost every European nation--English, Scotch, Irish Protestants, French Huguenots, Dutch, Swedes, Danes, Brandenburghers, Swiss, Norwegians, and Hessians. More than half, indeed, were foreigners. All were well disciplined, armed, and clothed. In all, including the force under Schomberg, the army amounted to forty-three thousand men, and fifty cannon.

King William landed at Carrickfergus, on the 14th of June, and the combined army at once began their southward march. Against this force, King James collected but twenty thousand men. Of these, six thousand were French. They had arrived, under the command of the Count de Lauzun, in March, but they had not increased the numbers of King James's troops, for he had been obliged to send, in exchange, an equal number of his best-trained soldiers, under Lord Mountcashel, for service in France. Of the fourteen thousand native troops, the Irish horse, which was raised and officered by Irish gentlemen, was excellent, but the infantry was composed for the most part of raw levies, but half armed, and the only artillery consisted of twelve guns, which had arrived with the infantry from France.

It was a sad parting, when Captain Davenant and Walter left home for the front. The former was filled with gloomy forebodings. He could scarcely hope that the ill-trained levies of James could succeed against the vastly superior force, of disciplined troops, with whom they had now to cope; especially as the latter were led by an able and energetic general, while the former were hampered by the incompetence and vacillation of James.

The day before they started, Captain Davenant rode over to the Whitefoots and had a talk with Jabez.

"I know not how the campaign will go," he said. "If we are beaten, we shall probably retire to the west, and maintain the war there. In that case, Dublin will of course fall into the hands of William. Should this be so, I will ask you to reverse our late position, and to extend what assistance you can to my wife and mother. It may be that, if I do not return here, none will disturb them. I have not made myself obnoxious to my Protestant neighbours, and no one may take the trouble to bring it before the notice of the English that I am absent, fighting with the army of King James. If, however, they should do so, and the castle and what remains of the estates be confiscated, will you lend what aid you can to the ladies, and my younger boy, until I or Walter return from the war?"

"That will I do, right gladly," Jabez said, heartily. "Should I hear any talk of what you speak of, I will go up to Dublin with some of our friends and ministers, and we will testify to the good relations which have existed between you and your Protestant neighbours, and entreat that no measures be taken against your estate. Should we not prevail, be assured that I will look after the comfort of the ladies, as if they were of my own family.

"I can well understand that Mrs. Davenant, the elder, would not accept the shelter of our roof, whatever her extremity. She belongs to the generation of my father, and cannot forget the past; but I will see that they are well lodged in Bray, and have every protection from molestation and annoyance there. Should I find, as, alas! may be the case, that the spirit of religious persecution is fiercely abroad, I will consult with them, as to whether they may wish to cross the sea until you can join them, and will make arrangements, as they may direct, for their passage."

"I am truly obliged to you," Captain Davenant said. "It will make me comfortable to know that, whatsoever may befall me, they will have a friend in these stormy times."

"Say nought about it," Jabez replied. "Did not you and your son succour my boy in his extremity? If I do all, and more than all that I can in this matter, I shall not deem that we are quits."

The Irish army moved forward to the Boyne, which William was approaching from the north. James's officers endeavoured to dissuade him from setting everything on the hazard of the battle. They represented that his army, though now quite unequal to the contest, was rapidly improving in skill and confidence in itself; that reinforcements were every day expected from France, which would at least make them equal to the enemy in numbers; that they were in want of arms, artillery, and stores, all which might be expected also from France, in a short period; and that their policy was clearly to protract the war, and wear out the enemy by a contest of posts and sieges.

Unskilled as his troops might be in the field, they had proved themselves steady and resolute in the defence of fortified places. They held all the great fortresses of the kingdom, and it would be easy to provide for the defence of these, and to occupy William's army in small affairs, till the winter, when the climate would do execution upon the invaders, while the Irish would suffer little. Then would be the time to fight.

In the meantime, it was urged, the intrigues the French were actively carrying out in Britain would have produced some effect. The French fleet was, every day, expected on the coast of England, and William would soon be compelled to return to that country, if not to recall the greater part of his army. In Scotland, too, the French were busy; and there were materials in that country for creating a powerful diversion. To fight now would be to forego every advantage, and to meet the views of William, whose obvious interest it was to bring the contest to an immediate decision, now, while every circumstance was in his favour.

But James, who had hitherto shown nothing but timidity and hesitation, was now seized with an impulse of valour. Having acted with unfortunate cowardice before Derry, and Schomberg's camp at Dundalk, he was, as unfortunately, now seized with ardour to fight, when prudence and discretion would have been his best policy. But while James was determining to fight, in the teeth of the opinion and advice of his bravest officers, his true character was shown in his taking every precaution for his personal safety. He sent off his heavy baggage, and engaged a vessel, at Waterford, to convey him to France.

William, on the other hand, was naturally eager for an early engagement. He was still very insecurely seated upon the English throne. The people were either discontented or indifferent. They looked with impatience and indignation at the crowd of Dutch officers and civilians, whom William had brought over with him; while the cold and ungracious manner of the king contrasted, most unfavourably, with the bearing to which they had been accustomed in English monarchs.

In Scotland, the Jacobite spirit was gathering in strength, and William knew that, unless he speedily broke the strength of James's party in Ireland, he would very shortly be confronted with difficulties and dangers on all sides.

The position which the Irish army occupied was a strong one. Its right rested upon Drogheda, a strong town in their possession. In front was the Boyne, with steep banks lined with thick hedges, with cottages scattered here and there, offering an excellent position for light troops. On the left, the Boyne turned almost at a right angle, and formed a defence on this flank. To the rear, the Irish position was covered by high hills and the village of Donore. Further back was the pass of Duleek. The hedges and cottages by the river side were occupied by the Irish infantry, and upon some little hillocks, which ran along the water's edge, they erected some light batteries.

King William reconnoitred the position with great attention, and saw that it had been well chosen, and its advantages turned to account. Notwithstanding the reports of deserters and others, he showed much anxiety to determine the exact strength of the Irish. After examining the position for some time from a height, he rode down towards the river, accompanied by several of his officers. When within musket shot of the bank, near the ford and village of Old Bridge, he perceived that a small island in the Boyne was occupied by a party of the Irish horse. Near the ford some field works had been thrown up. It was at this point that the king determined to cross the river, and he spent some time conversing with his officers, as to the arrangements for the passage.

He then rode slowly along the river bank, until he arrived nearly opposite the left of the Irish line. Here he alighted from his horse, and sat down on rising ground, watching his own battalions, which were marching, with the greatest regularity and order, into the positions assigned to them.

While he was so engaged, some officers of James's army were observed, riding quietly along the opposite bank of the river, and also engaged in watching the movements of the British troops. These were General Sarsfield, the Duke of Berwick, the Marquis of Tyrconnell, the Count de Lauzun, and others. Some of the English dragoons approached the river, and were fired upon by the Irish. They returned the fire, and, while the attention of both sides was engaged by the skirmish, a party of Irish cavalry moved slowly down towards the river and halted behind a low hedge, and then, wheeling about, again retired.

The movements of the king, and the group of officers accompanying him, had been observed in the Irish army, and two field pieces were sent down, concealed in the centre of the cavalry. The guns had been placed behind the hedge when the horsemen withdrew, and, when William rose from the ground and mounted his horse, fire was opened. The first cannon shot killed two horses, and a man by his side. The next grazed the king's right shoulder, tearing away his coat and inflicting a slight flesh wound. Had the aim been slightly more accurate, or had the gunners fired with grape, instead of round shot, it is probable that the whole course of history would have been changed.

The rumour spread through both armies that the king was killed; but the wound was a slight one, and, having had it hastily bound up, the king rode quietly through the camps, in order to show the men that the hurt was not serious. In the evening, he called a council of war. The Duke of Schomberg was strongly opposed to an attack upon the enemy, while posted in so strong a position, and urged that, by making a turning movement and marching straight upon Dublin, the enemy would be obliged to fall back, and fight under less advantageous circumstances. But the king, relying upon his superior numbers and the discipline of his veteran troops, determined to attack at once, knowing that it was all important to bring the matter to a decision, as early as possible.

Schomberg then urged the necessity of occupying the pass of Slane, upon the Boyne, considerably to the west of the Irish line, as he would thus cut off their retreat, and, in the event of victory, render their defeat a decided one; but the king saw that he should require his whole force to dislodge the Irish from their position, and that it was useless to occupy the pass of Slane with a small detachment, as these would be overwhelmed by the retiring Irish.

It was twelve o'clock at night, before the council terminated, and then the king mounted his horse and rode through the camp. He examined into the state and preparation of each regiment, saw that the soldiers were abundantly supplied with food and refreshment for the morning, and that sufficient ammunition for the day's work had been served out. He directed the men to wear green branches in their caps, and gave "Westminster" as the word for the day.

The order of the battle finally determined upon was that the right wing of the army, under General Douglas and Count Schomberg, son of the duke, should pass the river at Slane and endeavour to turn the Irish left, between Slane and Duleek. The left wing were to penetrate between the Irish right and Drogheda; the centre to force the passage of the river, at the ford of Old Bridge.

A council was also held in James's camp, and here also there was difference of opinion. Some of the generals wished to hold the pass of Slane in force, but James decided against this. As the morning approached, the king's newborn courage began to die out. He ordered some movements to the rear, and sent forward more of his baggage. He would probably have declined the combat altogether, had it not been too late. Finally, just as day was breaking over the council, he determined that the army should retreat during the battle, and not commit themselves in a decisive engagement. The French formed the left, and were to lead the retreat, while the Irish held the right and centre.

It is almost certain that, if James had kept to his resolution to fight, imprudent as it appeared to be, and had brought the French battalion into action, instead of leading them out of the field, the result of the battle of the Boyne would have been a very different one.

[Chapter 8]: Boyne Water.

The morning of Tuesday, the 1st of July, 1690, broke calm and bright. At about six o'clock in the morning the English right wing, under General Douglas and Count Schomberg, marched towards Slane. It consisted of twenty-four squadrons of horse, and six battalions of infantry. As they marched along at the back of the river, they discovered several shallows, and crossed without proceeding as far as Slane. No serious resistance was offered to their passage of the Boyne, as the Irish had here only some parties of skirmishers, who fell back as they advanced.

After forming the troops in order, Douglas and Schomberg advanced, but presently perceived the French battalions and a great part of the Irish cavalry, forming the left wing of James's army, drawn up in order at some distance. They consequently halted, and sent for reinforcements. When these arrived, they extended their lines to the right, so as to outflank the enemy, and, supporting their cavalry by alternate battalions of infantry, again moved forward.

The Irish skirmishers fell back before their advance, taking advantage of the banks of the ditches, which divided the ground into small fields, and keeping up a galling fire upon the British as they advanced. With some difficulty, the latter passed over this broken ground and formed in order of battle, on the edge of what appeared to be a plain, but which was in fact a deep bog, which completely covered the Irish left. Here they came to a standstill.

William had waited, until he believed that his right would have had time to fall upon the Irish left, and then ordered his centre to advance and force the passage at Old Bridge. The Dutch guards, whom William relied upon as his best and most trustworthy troops, advanced in splendid order to the river side, with their drums beating the march. When they reached the water's edge the drums ceased, and the soldiers entered the river. The stream rose as the dense column marched in and dammed it up, and the water reached the shoulders of the grenadiers, but they still moved on, in regular order, keeping their arms and ammunition dry by holding them above their heads. On the opposite bank, the hedges near the brink of the river were lined with skirmishers, while in the rear, in a hollow covered by some little hills, seven regiments of Irish infantry, supported by ten troops of horse and Tyrconnell's regiment of cavalry, were drawn up. The hills protected them from the fire of the British batteries, which passed over their heads.

The Dutch troops continued their way unmolested, until they reached the middle of the river, when a hot fire was opened upon them from the Irish skirmishers; but the Dutch moved on, unshaken, and soon gained the opposite bank, where they rapidly formed up, the skirmishers retiring before them. Scarcely had the Dutch formed their squares, when the Irish horse burst down upon them at full speed, and charged them with impetuosity.

They stood the charge unbroken, but again and again the Irish horse charged down upon them, with the greatest gallantry. William pushed two regiments of French Huguenots and one of British across the river, to the assistance of the Dutch guards, and ordered Sir John Hanmars and the Count of Nassau's regiment to cross, lower down the stream, to support them.

As the supports were making a passage, General Hamilton advanced, at the head of a body of Irish infantry, to the water's edge, and, dashing into the river, encountered the French Huguenot regiments in the middle of the stream. A desperate fight ensued, but the French made their way across, and Hamilton, falling back with his infantry, opened to the right and left, permitting the Irish horse to charge through them.

These rushed with fury upon the French regiment of Colonel La Callimot, and cut their way right through them. Then, wheeling, they charged them in flank again, broke them, and drove them into the river. La Callimot himself was killed, and but few of his regiment regained the opposite bank.

In the meantime the Dutch guards, now reinforced, were advancing slowly, the Irish infantry holding fast to the hedges and brushwood, and contesting every inch of the ground, while, wherever the ground permitted it, the Irish horse burst down upon them, evincing a gallantry and determination which would have done honour to the finest cavalry in Europe. The king continued to make repeated efforts to support his Dutch troops, and, after the French were broken, he pushed forward the Danish horse; but no sooner had they crossed the bank than the Irish cavalry burst down upon them, broke them, and drove them back into the river. They fled across the stream in disorder, and dispersed in all directions.

So far, success had rested principally with the Irish; the Dutch guards alone remained unbroken in the centre; the French infantry and Danish horse were broken and destroyed. Old Duke Schomberg exerted himself to the utmost, to restore the battle at this point, and, having rallied the French infantry advanced with them, and a few French cavalry, towards the river, where he was met by some of the Irish horse returning from the pursuit of the Danes. The old duke was cut down and his party again routed, and at the same moment Walker, the clerical commander of Derry, received a mortal wound.

After his successful defence of Derry, this man had gone to London, where he had been feted and made much of, and had then attached himself to King William's army, where he posed as a high military authority, although much discouraged by the king, whom his arrogance and airs of authority displeased.

While in the centre William's forces were getting worsted, and on his right Douglas and Count Schomberg were inactive and powerless, he himself was leading his left wing across the river. The passage was a difficult one, and the king himself was only extricated, with much exertion, from a quicksand into which his horse had plunged.

The Irish did not oppose the crossing, and as soon as his forces were across the stream, William ranged them in order. They consisted of a large body of Danish, Dutch, and Enniskillen horse, and a considerable force of infantry. As soon as all were in order the king, though still suffering from the wound he had received the day before, drew his sword and put himself at the head of his troops.

The Irish right wing, which consisted chiefly of infantry, moved forward to meet them, but perceiving the numerous cavalry, led by the king himself, preparing to take them in flank, they halted, faced about and marched slowly to the little hill of Donore. Having gained this point, they again faced round and charged down upon the British, who had followed them closely.

At this moment the Irish cavalry, who had moved rapidly from the centre to the support of the right, charged down upon the Danish and Dutch horse led by the king, and no sooner had they come in contact than the Danes and Dutch turned and rode off, with the Irish cavalry in pursuit. The king rode towards the Enniskilleners. Colonel Wolseley told his men that it was the king, and asked if they wished to follow him. They replied with a shout, and the king, placing himself at the head, rode towards the Irish infantry; but as they advanced they were met by a well-directed volley, and, being much more fond of plundering and slaughtering than of close fighting, they turned horse and rode away.

Again and again the king rallied his infantry and brought them back to the fight, but the Irish infantry stood their ground with great steadiness, until Hamilton, their general, was wounded and taken in a charge of cavalry. After this, they fell back from Donore upon Duleek in good order, the enemy not wanting to molest them, and the rest of the Irish infantry followed their example.

No more singular battle than that of the Boyne was ever fought. In the morning, at break of day, part of James's army, with most of his artillery, were in march for the pass of Slane, and actually on their retreat. The left wing, composed chiefly of French infantry, supposed to be the best troops in the army, never fired a shot. The centre and right, composed entirely of Irish, most of whom had never before been in battle, were alone engaged. With the exception of his Dutch guards, all William's foreign troops had been repeatedly broken; his cavalry had been driven off the field by the Irish horse, while no division of the Irish was broken or suffered a decided defeat, until the infantry from the hill of Donore were compelled to retreat, which they did in perfect order.

Throughout the day, the Irish cavalry showed a vast superiority to those of the British, and even broke and destroyed regiments of infantry; and when the whole army fell back they closed up the rear, and effectually prevented any attempt at pursuit. Thus, the battle of the Boyne was fought rather to cover a retreat than defend a position. The loss on either side was estimated at about five hundred, and General Hamilton was the only prisoner taken by the British.

The honours of the fight certainly rested with the Irish, who, against a vastly superior force, comprising some of the best troops in Europe, maintained themselves throughout the day, and gained, indeed, in most points, a decided advantage.

King James's valour had entirely evaporated before the first shot was fired. Instead of following William's example, and leading his troops in the conflict which was to decide the fate of his crown, and which he himself had precipitated, he took up his position at a safe distance from danger, on the hill of Donore, and as soon as the battle approached that point he rode off to Duleek, where he placed himself at the head of the French troops, and led their retreat. He soon, however, rode on ahead, and arrived in Dublin in a state of consternation and despair, the first fugitive from the field of battle. In the meantime the army was whole and unbroken, marching in perfect order from the field of battle, while its king and commander was doing his best to ruin the cause by spreading dismay and alarm throughout the country.

The next morning the king sent for the mayor and corporation of Dublin, and told them that he was under the necessity of taking care of himself, and recommended them to do the same, and to make the best terms they could with the enemy. He then at once mounted and made his flight to Waterford, ordering the bridges to be broken down behind him, although the British army had not yet moved from its position on the Boyne. On reaching Waterford James at once embarked on board the ship he had ordered to be in readiness, and sailed for France. His conduct, and his conduct alone, converted the battle of the Boyne, which was in effect a kind of drawn battle, into a great victory for William.

It had, indeed, more than answered the object which the Irish commanders proposed to themselves. Their plan was to accustom the new and badly armed levies to stand firm against the steadiness and experience of William's veteran troops, and then to withdraw without committing themselves to a decisive combat, with a view of protracting the campaign until William should be forced to leave Ireland, and his foreign army should be worn out by winter service in an uncongenial climate. Every day would, they calculated, improve their own army and weaken and reduce that of the enemy.

Their position at the Boyne enabled them to try their plan of partial combat to what extent they chose, without danger of being forced into a more extensive action than they deemed expedient. The Irish troops had greatly surpassed the expectation of their own officers, and had filled William's generals with amazement; and it is probable that, if a large part of the infantry and artillery had not been sent off early in the day, the experiment might have been turned into a brilliant victory. As it was, William was so surprised and alarmed at the resistance he had encountered, that he remained some days at the Boyne without advancing. He had been told by all, except the Duke of Schomberg, that the resistance of the Irish would be contemptible, and the most forward of those who had scoffed at the courage of the Irish had been the Enniskilleners, who had themselves, on the day of battle, shown so unmistakably the white feather. After this the king disliked and despised these troops, and hung them without ceremony, when taken in those acts of plunder and slaughter to which they were so much addicted.

So far from the flight of King James discouraging the army, it caused universal joy. It was his constant vacillation, interference, and cowardly action which had paralysed his troops; and they felt that, now they were free to act without his interference, they would be able to cope with the invaders.

William at once offered favourable terms, if Ireland would submit to his authority; but these were declined, partly owing to the powerful influence of France, partly to the fear that the terms would not be observed, partly to the apprehension of all the gentry, that the lands which they had but just recovered from the hands of Cromwell's settlers would be again taken from them.

At the battle of the Boyne, Walter Davenant, with his father's troop, had taken part in all the desperate charges upon the enemy. During the long hours the battle had lasted, the cavalry had been incessantly engaged. Time after time they had charged down upon the Dutch squares, and no sooner had the ranks been reformed, after recoiling from the line of fixed bayonets, than they were called upon to charge in another direction.

Walter's heart beat high as they dashed into the midst of the French infantry, or shattered and drove before them the Danish horse; but there was little time to think, and, looking back upon the day when all was over, it seemed to him a chaos of excitement and confusion, of which he could hardly recall even the chief incidents.

As the troops halted for the night, they were in no way dispirited at the result of the battle, as the retreat had been begun before a blow was struck. They knew that it was neither intended nor hoped that the ground would be successfully held; and every man felt a pride in the thought that some eighteen thousand newly-raised Irish levies, of whom but a small portion of the infantry were armed with muskets, had sustained, throughout a long summer's day, the attacks of more than double their number of veteran troops, supported by fifty pieces of artillery.

The loss of the Irish horse had been comparatively small. Charging a square, in the days when the bayonet was fixed in the muzzle of the gun, was not the desperate undertaking that it now is, when from the hedge of steel issues a rolling and continuous fire. The French regiment, once broken, had been cut down with scarce any resistance, while the mercenary cavalry had been defeated with the greatest ease. Thus, among the brigade of the Irish horse there were but few fallen friends to mourn, and nothing to mar the pride that every man felt, in the behaviour of the Irish troops against such overwhelming odds. That the king had fled, everyone knew, but the feeling was one of relief.

"His absence is more than a victory to us," Captain Davenant said, as, with a group of officers, he sat by a fire, made of a fence hastily pulled down. "His majesty has his virtues, and, with good counsellors, would make a worthy monarch; but among his virtues military genius is not conspicuous. I should be glad, myself, if Lauzun and the French would also take their departure, and let us have Mountcashel's division back again from France. If we are left to ourselves, with our own generals, Sarsfield and Mountcashel, we can tire out this continental riffraff that William has gathered together. The dissensions caused by French interference have been our ruin, so far; leave us to ourselves, and we shall do. The Irish today have proved their fighting qualities; and, if proper use is made of the resources and difficulties of the country, I defy them to conquer us. I feel more hopeful now than I have done since the first day we took the field."

"Do you think we shall fight another battle before Dublin, father?" Walter asked.

"I have no idea what the generals will decide, Walter, but I should imagine that we shall march to the west. We had a strong position today, but in the open field, at present, we could not hope to cope with William's superior numbers and great artillery train. His guns were little use to him yesterday; but on level ground they would tear our ranks to pieces, without our being able to make any return. Among the rivers and bogs and mountains of the west, we should find scores of places which we could hold against them. Besides, in my opinion we should not fight pitched battles, but should harass them with continuous marches and attacks, leaving them masters only of the ground they stand on, until, at last, we completely wear them out and exhaust them."

"Then you think we shall abandon Dublin altogether?"

"I think so, Walter."

"But will they not persecute the Catholics, when they have them in their power?"

"There may be some disturbance in the city, Walter, before the English troops march in; but William will, no doubt, put an end to this as soon as he arrives. He cannot wish to drive the Catholics of Ireland to desperation. At any rate, I do not think we need feel at all uneasy about those at home. Lying on the coast to the east of the town of Dublin, and altogether out of the track of the movements of troops, there is little fear of trouble there. In our district there is little preponderance, in numbers, of one religion over the other; and unless the presence of troops, or worse, of those savages from Enniskillen or Derry, excite them, there is little fear of the Protestants of that neighbourhood interfering with our people, especially as they have no grounds for complaint in the past. No, I do not think that you need disquiet yourself, in the slightest, about those at home."

As Captain Davenant had thought probable, the Irish army, after marching into Dublin in good order, with flags flying and music playing, left on the following day for the west. They were accompanied by most of the leading Catholic families; and on their departure the corporation at once wrote to William, inviting him to enter the capital. Before his arrival, however, the Protestant mob destroyed a great quantity of property belonging to the Catholics, and carried their excesses to such a point that the town would probably have been destroyed by fire, had not the better classes of Protestants armed themselves, and taken energetic steps to repress the tumult.

As the troops marched into Dublin, Walter said to Captain Davenant:

"Can I ride over to see how they are at home? They will have heard of the battle. Mother and grandmother must be terribly anxious."

"I shall be glad for you to go, Walter, for it would greatly ease their minds at home; but we are to start again, almost immediately, and probably the whole army will have marched off before you get back in the morning. There is no saying what may occur, after we have gone. There may be a general attack upon the Catholics. At any rate, it will be dangerous in the extreme for a single officer, in our uniform, to be riding through the town after we have left. Even in the country villages there must be intense excitement, and anyone in the king's uniform might be fired at, in passing through any of the Protestant settlements."

"Well, father, suppose I do not start until it gets dark, then I can get home without attracting notice. There I can put on a suit of my old clothes, and bring my uniform out in my valise."

"Well, perhaps you might manage in that way, Walter; and I should be very glad to relieve their minds at home, and to know how they are going on. If you like, you can stop there for a day or two. I don't suppose that William will be here with his troops, for a few days. He has learned that our army is not to be despised, and he may hesitate to advance upon Dublin, until he receives certain news that we have moved away, and that he will not have to fight another battle for the possession of the city. Should you hear that William's troops have arrived in the town, you will of course make a detour, so as to avoid it, on your way to rejoin us; and now I will write a letter, at once, for you to take to your mother."

As soon as it was dark, Walter mounted and started for Bray, where he arrived without molestation on the way. His arrival was an immense relief to the ladies, who had been suffering an agony of suspense since the news of the battle had reached them. King James's hurried arrival, and panic flight to Waterford, had caused the most alarming reports as to the battle to circulate throughout the country, and by many it was supposed that his army had been utterly destroyed. Walter's arrival, then, with the news that his father, as well as himself, had passed through the day unhurt, was an immense relief; and they were grateful to learn that, so far from having been routed, the Irish army had accomplished its object, of fighting the battle and then falling back in perfect order and without molestation.

"Father says, mother, that he believes next time, when we shall be no longer hampered by the interference of the king, we shall be able to make even a better fight of it, especially if, as we all hope, the French officers will follow the king's example and take themselves off."

"How long are you going to stay, Walter?"

"I shall stay over tomorrow, mother, and start next morning early. I ought to be able to come up to the army before night, but, if not, I shall overtake them on the march next day."

"I wish I was older," Godfrey, who had been listening to the account of the battle, said. "It is so hard to have to stay at home here, while you and father are having such fun!"

"You would not think it was fun, if you were with us, Godfrey," Walter said. "I used to think it would be fun, but I don't think so now. Just while the fighting is going on, one is so excited that one doesn't think of the danger, but when it is over, it is awful to see the gaps in the ranks, and to know that so many of those who were riding with you have fallen, and that it may be your turn, next time."

"Ah, it's all very well for you to talk, Walter, because you are going through it all, but you would think just the same as I do, if you were in my place."

"That is true enough, Godfrey. Anyhow, I am glad you are not old enough. I don't mean that I should not like to have you with us, but then there would be nobody at home with mother. Now, if anything happens to father and me, she has got you, and as you grow up you will be able to look after her, and take care of her. It is bad enough for her having two of us in the war. It would be worse, still, if there were three."

As, the next evening, Walter heard that there was news that William's troops had not yet moved from the Boyne, he thought that it was safe to take the direct road through Dublin. He had laid aside his uniform, on reaching home, and in the morning started in his civilian clothes, with the uniform in the valise, strapped behind the saddle. He carried his sword, as usual, for almost all gentlemen at that time rode armed, and this would therefore excite neither comment nor attention. He carried also a brace of pistols, in a belt underneath his coat.

On arriving in Dublin, he found the greatest uproar and excitement prevailing. Mobs of men were marching through the streets, smashing the windows of Catholics and sacking the houses. Fortunately, he was warned, before he got into the thick of the tumult, by meeting some women running and crying loudly. He asked what was the matter, and learned that their houses had been sacked, and that any Catholic found in the street was being beaten and ill treated. As Walter was anxious to avoid anything which might arrest his journey westward, he made his way out of the town, as soon as possible, and was heartily glad when he reached the outskirts, and gave rein to his horse.

He passed many groups of people as he rode. Some were Protestants, making their way to Dublin to join in the greeting to William and his army, on their arrival. Others were Catholics, afraid to remain in their abodes now that the army had retired west, and journeying to the capital, where they believed that William would prevent disorder and pillage. It needed no inquiry, as to the religion of the respective groups. The Protestants were for the most part men, and these came along shouting and waving their weapons, wild with exultation over the triumph of their cause. The Catholics were of all ages and both sexes. Many of them had carts, and were carrying with them their most valued possessions. All wore an expression of grief and anxiety.

As Walter rode into one village, a fray was going on. A party of Protestants, riding boisterously along, had knocked down a woman with a child in her arms, and had answered the angry remonstrance of the peasants with jeers and laughter. Stones had begun to fly. The Protestants had drawn their swords; the villagers had caught up hoes, spades, and other weapons, and a fierce fight was going on. The women, with shrill cries, encouraged the peasants, and aided them by hurling stones at the rioters. Walter saw that his interference would be of no avail, and, with a heavy heart at the bitter hatred which the two parties in Ireland exhibited for each other, he turned from the road, made a circuit round the village, and continued his way. After that, he avoided all towns and villages, and slept at night in the cabin of a peasant, lying some little distance from the road. The following day he again pressed on, and before evening overtook the retiring army.

On the arrival of King William with his army in Dublin, a proclamation was issued assuring all, save those who resisted his authority, of his protection, and threatening severity against those who disturbed the peace or committed outrage on personal property. Letters of protection were granted to all who applied for them and, hearing this, Jabez Whitefoot at once went into Dublin, to apply for protection for the family of Captain Davenant. On hearing, however, that no persecution of Catholics would be allowed, and that the army was likely to march west, at once, in pursuit of the Irish, he thought it better to leave the matter alone, as his application would only draw the attention of the authorities to the fact of Captain Davenant and his son being engaged in the hostile army. He felt sure that the ladies need fear no molestation, save from the soldiers or Northerners, as his own influence with the Protestants of his neighbourhood would suffice to prevent these from interfering with the household at the castle.

The Irish army marched towards the Shannon, and were concentrated part in the neighbourhood of Athlone, and part at Limerick. William shortly prepared to follow them. He, too, divided his army into two columns. The main body, under his own command, took the road to Limerick; while the other division, consisting of five regiments of cavalry and twelve of infantry, was despatched, under the command of General Douglas, for the purpose of investing the fortress of Athlone.

As the armies marched west, their path was marked by wholesale outrage and destruction. Although protections were granted to the peasants and inhabitants of the towns and villages through which the armies marched, they were entirely disregarded by the soldiers, who plundered, ill used, and sometimes murdered the defenceless people, carrying away without payment all provisions on which they could lay their hands.

The king sometimes hanged those who were caught in these acts of plunder and slaughter, but this had but little effect. The Dutch soldiers, alone, maintained their order and discipline. The foreign mercenaries, composed for the most part of the sweepings of the great cities, behaved with a brutality and cruelty almost without example, and which was acknowledged by all the historians of the time, Protestant as well as Catholic. Indeed, the Protestant inhabitants suffered even more than the Catholics, for many of the latter fled at the approach of the army, while the Protestants, regarding them as friends and deliverers, remained quietly at home, and suffered every insult and outrage at the hands of this horde of savages, who were perfectly indifferent as to the religion of those they plundered.

Captain Davenant's troop was with the force which had retired to Athlone, and there awaited the approach of the column of General Douglas. The reports of the conduct of the enemy, that were brought in by the flying peasants, filled the Irish troops with indignation and rage, and when, on arriving before the town, General Douglas sent a messenger to demand its surrender, Colonel Grace, who commanded, only replied by firing a pistol towards him.

Athlone stood on either side of the Shannon. The town on the eastern bank of the river was called "the English town," that on the western "the Irish "--a distinction existing in many of the Irish towns, where the early English settlers found it expedient to live apart from the Irish, for mutual protection against attack. Colonel Grace had retired to the west bank of the river, which was strongly fortified, destroying the English town and breaking down part of the bridge across the river.

The garrison consisted of three regiments of foot and nine troops of horse; and when Douglas erected his batteries and opened fire on the castle, they replied briskly, and their guns got the better of those in the batteries. A strong detachment of horse and mounted grenadiers was sent by Douglas to Lanesborough, some miles north of the town, with orders to pass the river at that point, but the post was held by Irish troops, who easily repulsed the attempt.

It was next proposed to pass the river at a ford a short distance from the bridge; but the troops had little heart for the enterprise, as the ford was covered by field works erected by the Irish.

The assailants were already reduced to considerable straits. They had consumed all provisions found in the town, plundering without mercy the Protestant inhabitants, who had been well treated by the Irish troops, while the conduct of the army effectually deterred the country people from bringing in provisions.

The circulation of the report that General Sarsfield, with fifteen thousand men, was on the march to cut off the besiegers of Athlone, determined General Douglas to make a speedy retreat. In his fear of being cut off, he abandoned all his heavy baggage, and, quitting the high road, made his way by unfrequented routes, which added to the hardships of the march. In its retreat, the column was accompanied by the unhappy Protestant inhabitants, who feared to remain behind, lest the Irish should retaliate upon them the sufferings which had been inflicted upon their countrymen.

In the meantime, the main English army had done but little. In Dublin, a commission had been appointed to examine into and forfeit the lands of all Catholics, and adherents of King James, and having set this machine at work, the king proceeded with his army southward through Carlow, Kilkenny, and Waterford, all of which places surrendered, the garrisons being allowed to march out, with their arms and baggage, to join their main army on the Shannon.

At Waterford, the king received such serious news as to the state of things in England, that he determined to return home. On arriving at Dublin, he was overwhelmed with petitions from the inhabitants, as to the shameful conduct of the troops left in garrison there, especially those of Trelawney's, Schomberg's, and some other regiments of horse, who, the people complained, treated them, although Protestants, far worse than James's Catholic soldiers had done. Inquiry showed these complaints to be well founded, and, finding it impossible to restore order and discipline among them, the king at once sent these regiments back to England.

Then, receiving better news from home, he again started to rejoin his army, and marched towards Limerick, being joined on his way by the division under Douglas, which had driven along with them all the cattle and horses of the country through which they had passed.

Limerick was, at that time, the second city in Ireland. The country, for a long distance along the mouth of the Shannon, was much wooded, but in the immediate vicinity of the town it was surrounded by thick inclosures, houses, orchards, gardens, and plantations. The cultivated land was everywhere divided into small fields, inclosed by hedges and intersected by lanes. To the east of the town the Shannon divides itself, forming an island on which part of the city is situated.

This was called the English town, and was connected by a bridge, called Thomond Bridge, with the Clare side of the river on the north; and on the south, by another bridge, with the Irish town on the county of Limerick side. The Thomond Bridge was defended by a strong fort and some field works on the Clare side, and on the city side by a drawbridge, flanked by towers and the city walls. The bridge was very long and narrow.

The position of the English town was, indeed, almost impregnable. It was built upon a rock of considerable extent, and the land outside the walls was low and marshy, and could at any time be flooded. The Shannon was broad and rapid. The Irish town on the Limerick shore was not strong, being defended only by ordinary walls. If this were captured, however, the English town could still hold out.

The king made his approaches to the city slowly, being obliged to level the numerous inclosures as he moved on. These were occupied by the Irish infantry, who, lining every hedge, kept up a galling fire, falling back gradually as heavy bodies of troops were brought up against them, until they reached the cover of the guns of the city and fort. Upon these opening fire, William's army halted and encamped before the Irish town.

Here, as at the Boyne, the king had a narrow escape, a cannonball from the walls striking the ground at his foot as he was passing through a gap in a hedge.

The king had learned that great dissensions existed between the Irish and French, and relied upon this, as much as upon the strength of his arms, to obtain possession of the city. His information was, indeed, correct. King James, in his flight, had left no orders as to who should assume the supreme command. The Duke of Berwick had considerable claims. Lauzun and the French officers declined altogether to receive orders from Tyrconnell, and the Irish officers equally objected to act under the command of a Frenchman. Consequently, during the whole siege, the main Irish army, which, by acting upon William's rear, could speedily have made his position untenable, remained inactive. Monsieur Boileau, a French officer, was governor of the town, but Lauzun, having examined the fortifications, pronounced the place wholly incapable of defence, declaring that the walls could be knocked down with roasted apples, and so ordered the entire French division to march to Galway, and there await an opportunity for embarking for France, leaving the Irish to defend the city if they chose.

Lauzun, in fact, was a courtier, not a soldier. He desired to get back to Versailles at any hazard, and had so inspired his officers and men with his own sentiments that there was a general cry among them to be recalled to France. They had, indeed, no interest in the cause in which they fought. They looked with contempt at their half-armed and half-trained allies, and they grumbled continually at the hardships which they had to undergo. It was indeed an evil day, for King James's cause, when he exchanged Mountcashel's fine division for these useless allies, who, throughout the war, not only did no service, but were the cause of endless dissension and disaster.

As soon as King William had taken up his position in front of Limerick, he sent a summons to Boileau to surrender. The latter consulted with Tyrconnell, Sarsfield, and some other officers, for, even to the last moment, it was a question whether the place should be defended.

At last, however, a decision was made. The reply was addressed to William's secretary, Sir Robert Roultwell, as Boileau could not acknowledge the prince as king, and was too polite to hurt his feelings by a denial of the royal title. He expressed great surprise at the summons he had received, and said that he hoped to merit the good opinion of the Prince of Orange better by a vigorous defence, than by a shameful surrender, of the fortress which had been committed to his charge by his master King James the Second.

The king's camp was now formed in regular order; he himself taking his place on its right, having near him the Horse Guards, and the Blue Dutch Guards, who were always his main reliance. To the left of these were the English and Dutch regiments, further on the French and Danes, while the Brandenburghers and other German regiments formed the extreme left of the line. To their great satisfaction, the post assigned to the Danes was one of the rude circular redoubts called, in Ireland, Danish forts, and probably constructed by their own far-off ancestors.

[Chapter 9]: Pleasant Quarters.

After the termination of the short siege of Athlone, the troop of Captain Davenant were despatched to join the army near Limerick, and, on their arrival there, were ordered to take up their quarters at the house of a Protestant gentleman named Conyers, four miles from the town on the Limerick side of the river.

It was a mansion of considerable size, standing in large grounds, for its proprietor was one of the largest landowners in the county of Limerick, his grandfather having been a colonel in one of Cromwell's regiments. Mr. Conyers himself had gone to Dublin, upon the passing of the act sequestrating the property of all the Protestants by James's parliament, to endeavour to obtain a remission of the decree, so far as it concerned his house and adjoining grounds. As he had influential friends there, he had remained, urging his petition, until the battle of the Boyne and the entry of King William into Dublin entirely changed the position. But he then, owing to the disturbance of the country, and the fact that the Irish army had retired to Limerick, found it impossible to return home. He had, however, travelled with William's army, to which he was able to give much useful information regarding the defences, and details of the country round the town.

As Captain Davenant's troop rode up to the house, a lady, with a girl of some sixteen years old, appeared at the door. Both looked very pale, for they feared that the brutal conduct of which they had heard, of William's army, would be followed by reprisals on the part of the Irish. They were somewhat reassured, however, by Captain Davenant's manner as that officer dismounted, raised his hat, and said:

"Madam, I have received orders to quarter my troop in the house, but I am anxious, I can assure you, to cause as little inconvenience and annoyance as possible, under the circumstances."

"We are only women here, sir," Mrs. Conyers said. "The house is at your disposal. I myself and my daughter will move to the gardener's cottage, and I trust that you will give orders to your men that we shall be free from molestation there."

"I could not think of disturbing you in that manner," Captain Davenant said. "I myself have a wife and mother alone at home, and will gladly treat you with the same courtesy which I trust they will receive. Allow me, in the first place, to introduce to you my lieutenant, Mr. O'Moore, and my cornet, who is also my son, Walter. I see that you have extensive stables and outbuildings. I am sure that my men, who are all good fellows, and many of them the sons of farmers, will make themselves very comfortable in these. I myself, and my two officers, will quarter ourselves in the gardener's cottage you speak of."

"You are good, indeed, sir," Mrs. Conyers said gratefully; "but I could not think of allowing you to do that, and shall indeed be pleased, if you and your officers will take up your residence here as my guests."

"I thank you kindly; but that I could not do. My men will be well content with the outhouses, if they see that we are content with the cottage; but they might not be so, if they saw that we took up our quarters in the house. Therefore, if you will allow me, I will carry out my own plan; but I need not say that we shall be very pleased to visit you in the house, at such times as may be agreeable to you."

After expressing their grateful thanks, Mrs. Conyers and her daughter withdrew into the house. Captain Davenant then addressed a few words to his men.

"The house will not hold you all, lads, and there are only ladies here, and I am sure you would not wish to disturb and annoy them by crowding their house. Therefore, I have arranged that you shall take up your quarters in the outhouses, and that we shall occupy a little cottage on the grounds. I hope, lads, that, for the honour of the country and the cause, all will behave as peacefully and quietly as if in our own homes. It would be a poor excuse that, because William's soldiers are behaving like wild beasts, we should forget the respect due to lonely women."

A fortnight was spent here pleasantly for all. The first alarm past, Mrs. Conyers felt safer than she had done for months. Ever since the troubles had began, she had felt the loneliness of her position as a Protestant, and she would have, long before, made her way with her daughter to Dublin, had it not been that she thought that, so long as she continued in the house, it might be respected by the Catholic peasantry, while, were she to desert it, it would probably be plundered, perhaps burned to the ground. Still, the position was a very trying one, especially since the Jacobite army began to gather in force round Limerick.

She now felt that her troubles were comparatively over. The troops caused no annoyance, and she heard but little of them, while she found in Captain Davenant and his officers pleasant guests. The troops, on their part, were well satisfied. Mrs. Conyers gave instructions that they were to be supplied with all they needed, and their rations of bread and meat were supplemented with many little comforts and luxuries from the house.

While Mrs. Conyers entertained the two elder officers, Walter naturally fell to the share of her daughter, and the two soon became great friends, wandering in the grounds, and sometimes riding together when Walter was not engaged with the troop. The news came daily of the movements of William's army, and when it approached, Captain Davenant's troop went far out to observe its movements, and obtain an accurate idea of its strength.

It was late in the evening when they returned, and Captain Davenant said at supper:

"This is our last meal with you, Mrs. Conyers. We leave at daybreak, and a few hours afterwards William's army will arrive before Limerick. We shall be the losers, but you will be the gainer if, as you suppose, Mr. Conyers is with them."

"I shall be really sorry for your going, Captain Davenant. It seemed a terrible thing having a troop of hostile horse quartered upon one; but in reality it has been a pleasant operation, rather than not, and I have felt safer than I have done for months. I do hope that when these troubles are over we shall renew our acquaintance, and that you will give my husband an opportunity of thanking you for the kindness with which you have treated us."

"The thanks should be on my side," Captain Davenant said. "You have made what promised to be an unpleasant duty a most pleasant one. Our stay here has been like a visit at a friend's, and I regret deeply that it has to come to an end, a regret which I am sure Lieutenant O'Moore and my son share."

"We do, indeed," the lieutenant said.

Walter and Claire Conyers said nothing. They had talked it over early that morning before the troop started, and Walter had expressed his deep regret that their pleasant time was at an end; and, although the girl had said little, she was far less bright and happy than might have been expected, considering that upon the following day she should probably see her father.

Captain Davenant's troop rode off at daybreak, kept down the Shannon to Limerick, and, crossing the bridge, entered the city, and received orders there to take up their quarters in a village some four miles up the river. Thus, they were less than a mile distant from Mrs. Conyers' house, although separated from it by the Shannon; and from an eminence near the village, the roof and chimneys of the mansion could be seen rising above the trees by which it was surrounded.

During the day, the sound of the firing before Limerick could be plainly heard; but little attention was paid to it, for it was certain that no attack could be made in earnest upon the town, until the battering artillery came up, and there was but little hope that the cavalry would be called up for any active service at present.

After dinner, Walter strolled out to the eminence, and looked across towards the house where he had spent so happy a time, and wondered whether Mr. Conyers had by this time arrived, and whether, in the pleasure of his coming, all thought of the late visitors had been forgotten. Presently Larry sauntered up, and took a seat on a wall a few paces away. Larry was a general favourite in the troop. He did not ride in its ranks, but accompanied it in the capacity of special servant of Walter, and as general attendant to the three officers.

"We had a good time of it, yer honour," he said presently.

Walter turned round sharply, for he had not heard him approach.

"We had, Larry," he said, with a smile. "We shall find it rougher work now."

"We shall, yer honour.

"I was thinking to myself," he said, confidentially, "that if you might be wanting to send a bit of a letter, it's meself could easily make a boat, with some osiers and the skin of that bullock we had given us for the rations of the troops today."

"Send a letter, Larry! Who should I be sending a letter to?"

"Sure yer honour knows better than me. I thought maybe you would be liking to let the young lady know how we're getting on now, and to find out whether her father has come home, and how things are going. Yer honour will excuse me, but it just seemed natural that you should be wishing to send a line; and a sweeter young lady never trod the sod."

Walter could not help laughing at the gleam of quiet humour in Larry's face.

"I don't know, lad. You have pretty well guessed my thoughts; but it can't be. The opposite bank will be swarming with William's men--it would be a most dangerous business. No, it's not to be thought of."

"Very well, yer honour, it's just as you like; but you have only got to hand me a bit of paper, and give me a wink of your eye, and I will do it. As to William's sodgers, it's little I fear them; and if all one hears of their doings be true, and I had a pretty young creature a mile away from me, with those blackguards round about her, it's anxious I should be for a line from her hand;" and Larry got down from his seat, and began to walk away towards the village.

Walter stood silent for a moment.

"Wait, Larry," he said.

Larry turned, with a look of surprise upon his face.

"Come here," Walter said impatiently. "Of course I am anxious--though I don't know how you could have guessed it."

"Sure yer honour," Larry said with an innocent look, "when a gentleman like yourself is for ever walking and riding with a purty colleen, it don't need much guessing to suppose that you would be worrying after her, with such creatures as the Northerners and the furreners in her neighbourhood."

"And you seriously think you could take a letter across to her, Larry?"

"Sure and I could, yer honour. The nights are dark, and I could get across the river widout a sowl being the wiser, and make my way to the stables, and give it to one of the boys, who will put it in the hands of Bridget, Miss Claire's own maid; and I could go back, next night, for the answer."

"But if you can do it, I can," Walter said.

"What would be the good, yer honour? It's only the outside of the house you would see, and not the young lady. Besides, there's a lot more risk in your doing it than there is with me. You are an officer of the king's, and if you were caught on that side of the river, it's mighty little trial they'd give you before they run you up to the bough of a tree, or put a bullet into you. With me, it's different. I am just a country boy going to see my cousin Pat Ryan, who works in the stables at the house. Pat would give me a character, no fear."

"Well, I will think of it," Walter said.

"And I will get the boat ready at once, your honour. A few sticks and a green hide will make a boat fit for Dublin Bay, to say nothing of crossing a smooth bit of water like this."

After Larry had left him, Walter walked up and down for some time. He had certainly thought, vaguely, that he should like Claire Conyers to know that he was still within sight of her house; but the possibility of sending her word had not occurred to him, until his follower suggested it. Larry's suggestion of possible danger to her made him uneasy. Even if her father was with the king, and had already returned home, he would frequently be absent in the camp, and who could tell but some band of plunderers might visit the house in his absence! The Protestants had been plundered and ill-used by William's men round Athlone, and might be here. It would certainly be well to know what was going on across the water.

After the kindness they had received, surely it would be only civil to let the Conyers know where they were posted. At any rate, Claire could not be offended at his writing; besides, he might arrange some plan by which he might get news from Larry's friend, Pat Ryan.

As he went down to the village he heard roars of laughter, and, passing a cottage, saw Larry with five or six of the troopers round him. Larry was seated on the ground, making a framework in the shape of a saucer four feet in diameter.

"And what are you wanting a boat for, Larry?"

"Sure, I am mighty fond of fishing," Larry said. "Didn't you know that?"

"I know you are a fisherman at home, Larry; but if it's fishing you want, there are two large boats hauled up on the bank."

"They are too big," Larry said. "I should want half a dozen men to launch them, and then you would want to go with me, and the bare sight of you would be enough to frighten away all the fish in the Shannon. But I will have a look at the boats. The captain might want a party to cross the river, and it's as well to see that they are in good order, and have got the oars and thole pins handy. I will see to them myself, for there are not half a dozen of ye know one end of the boat from the other."

When Walter reached his quarters, he at once sat down to write. After many attempts he finished one as follows:

"Dear Miss Conyers:

"After the kindness shown to us by Mrs. Conyers and yourself, I feel sure that you will like to know where we are posted. We are at Ballygan, just across the Shannon opposite to your house, and I can see your roof from a spot fifty yards from the village. It seems a pleasure to me to be so close, even though we are as much divided as if there were the sea between us.

"I hope that Mr. Conyers has returned, and that you will have no trouble with William's troops, whose reputation for good behaviour is not of the best. I hope that, now that you are among your friends, you have not quite forgotten us, and that you will let me have a line to say how you are, and how things are going on with you. My boy Larry is going to take this across, and will call tomorrow night for an answer, if you are good enough to send one."

"When will your boat be finished, Larry?" he asked his follower, as the latter came in, just as it was getting dusk.

"She will be finished tomorrow. The framework is done, and I could make a shift, if your honour wished, just to fasten the skin on so that it would take me tonight."

"If you could, I would rather, Larry."

"All right, your honour!" Larry said, with a slight smile. "Two hours' work will do it."

"I know where you are making it, Larry, and will come round when I go to inspect sentries, at eleven o'clock. We shall post ten men, a quarter of a mile apart, on the bank, and I will give orders for them to look out for you. The word will be 'Wicklow;' so when you come across they will shout to you, 'Who comes there?' You say, 'Wicklow;' and it will be all right."

At the hour he had named, Walter went round for Larry, who was working by the light of a torch stuck in the ground.

"I have just finished it, yer honour; but I was obliged to stop till the boys got quiet; they were so mighty inquisitive as to what I was in such a hurry about, that I had to leave it alone for a while."

"Look here, Larry, here is the letter, but that's not the principal reason why I am sending you across. You will give it to Pat Ryan, as you suggested, to pass on through Bridget to Miss Conyers; but I want you to arrange with him that he shall, tomorrow, get some dry sticks put together on the bank opposite, with some straw, so that he can make a blaze in a minute. Then do you arrange with him that, if any parties of William's troops come to the house in the absence of Mr. Conyers, and there should seem likely to be trouble, he is to run as hard as he can down to the river. If it is day, he is to wave a white cloth on a stick. If it is night, he is to light the fire. Tell him to arrange with Bridget to run at once to him and tell him, if there is trouble in the house, for, as he is in the stables, he may not know what is going on inside.

"I have been looking at those boats. They will carry fifteen men each at a pinch; and if the signal is made, we shall not be long in getting across. Pat would only have about half a mile to run. We will get the boats down close to the water's edge, and it won't take us many minutes to get across. Anyhow, in twenty minutes from the time he starts, we might be there."

"That will be a moighty good plan, yer honour. Now, if you will go down to the water with me, I will be off at once. I sha'n't be away half an hour; and I can slip up into the loft where Pat sleeps, and not a sowl be the wiser, if there was a regiment of William's troops about the house."

"All right, Larry! I shall wait here for you till you get back."

Larry raised the light craft and put it on his head. He had made a couple of light paddles, by nailing two pieces of wood on to mop sticks.

Walter accompanied him to the water's edge, and told the sentry there that Larry was crossing the river on business, and would return in half an hour's time, and that he was not to challenge loudly when he saw him returning.

The night was dark, and Walter soon lost sight of the little boat. Then he waited anxiously. He had, however, but little fear that the enemy would have posted sentries so far down the river, especially as he would only just have pitched his camp opposite Limerick.

It was three-quarters of an hour before he heard a faint splash in the water. The sentry heard it, too.

"Shall I challenge, sir?"

"No. Wait for a minute. We shall soon see whether it is Larry. Should there be anyone on the opposite bank, he might hear the challenge, and they would keep a sharp lookout in future."

The sound came nearer and nearer.

"Who goes there?" Walter said in a quiet voice.

"'Wicklow!' and it's mighty glad I am to hear your voice, for it's so dark I began to think I had lost myself entirely."

"Is all well, Larry?" Walter asked, as the light boat touched the bank.

"All is well, your honour," Larry said, stepping ashore, and lifting the light boat on to his head.

"You had better stow it away close here, Larry, till the morning. It's so dark that you will be sure to pitch over something, if you go further.

"Now, tell me all about it," he went on, as Larry stowed away the boat among some bushes.

"There is little enough to tell, yer honour. I just rowed across and landed, and made straight for the house. Everything was quiet and still. I went round to the stables, and up into the loft where Pat sleeps.

"'Are you there, Pat Ryan,' says I?

"'Who is it calls Pat Ryan?' says he.

"'It's myself, Larry, Mr. Davenant's boy.'

"'Why, I thought you had gone,' says he. 'Are you sure it's yourself?' says he.

"'And who else should it be, Pat Ryan? Don't yer know my voice?'

"By this time I had got into the corner where he slept, and touched him.

"'I am glad to feel you, Larry,' says he, 'for I wasn't sure that you hadn't fallen in with the troopers, and it wasn't your ghost that come to visit me.'

"'Whist,' says I, 'I have no time to waste upon ye. The master and the troops are stationed just across the river, at Ballygan. Mr. Davenant has given me a letter for Miss Conyers, telling her all about it. I don't exactly know what he said, and maybe she would like it given privately, so do you hand it to Bridget in the morning, and ask her to give it to her mistress, and to hand over to you any answer there may be. I will come across for it tomorrow night. But that's not all, Pat. You know the devil's work that William's men have been carrying on, on the march.'

"'Av course, everyone has heard the tales of the villains' doings, Larry.'

"'Well, the young master is mighty anxious about it, as you may guess. Has Mr. Conyers come?'

"'Yes. He rode in at four this afternoon.'

"'Well, Mr. Davenant says you will all be safe as long as he's here, but maybe that at some time, when he's away, you may have a troop of these villains of the world ride in here, and little they care whether it's Protestants or Catholics that they plunder. So, if they come here and begin their devilries, you run for your life down to the river, opposite Ballygan, with a white cloth or a shirt, if it's daytime, and wave it. You are to have a pile of sticks and straw ready, and, if it's night, ye will just set it in a blaze, and there will be help over before many minutes. You stop there till they come, to tell them how strong the enemy are.

"'The master says you are to tell Bridget about it, so that, if they misbehave themselves inside the house, she can slip out and let you know. You understand that?'

"'I do,' says he; 'and its a comfort to me, for it's fretting I have been over what might happen, if a troop of those murderin' villains were to come here, and not a sowl save me and the other boys to take the part of the mistress and Miss Claire.'

"'Well, you know now, Pat, what's to be done, and see you do it; and now I must go, for the master is waiting for me. I will be with you tomorrow night for the answer.'

"And so I came back, and I lost ten minutes looking about for the boat, for it was so mighty dark that I could not see a fut. I kicked against it and very near fell over it. It's well I didn't, for I should have knocked it into smithereens, entirely!"

"Capital, Larry! you couldn't have done better. Now I shall feel comfortable."

After breakfast, Walter told his father of the mission on which he had sent Larry, and the arrangement he had made with Pat Ryan.

"You ought to have told me at first, Walter. I do not blame you, but you should not do things on your own responsibility."

"But so far, father, it has not been a regimental affair. I simply sent my own boy with a note to Miss Conyers, just to say where we were; but, as it may be an affair in which some of the troop may have to act, I have told you about it, so that you can make what arrangements you like."

"It's rather a fine distinction, Walter," his father said, smiling. "It seems to me that you have engaged us to send a detachment across the river, in case of trouble at Mrs. Conyers'. However, I heartily agree with you that our kind friends should be protected from injury and insult.

"How many will the boats hold?"

"Thirteen or fourteen men each."

"Very well, then. I authorize you, at any time, if I am away with a portion of the troop, to take twenty-five men across if the signal is made. If I am here I shall, of course, go over myself. You can take any measures of preparation you may think necessary."

Walter availed himself of the permission, and at once gave orders to the sentry posted on the river, in front of the village, that if a white flag was waved by day, or a fire lit by night on the opposite bank, he was to shout loudly and fire his pistol, and that these orders were to be passed on to the sentry who succeeded him at the post. Then he picked out twenty-five men, and told them that, at any time in the night or day, if they heard a shot fired by the sentry they were to seize their arms, rush down to the boats, launch them and take their places, and wait for orders. He told them to sleep without removing any of their clothes, so as to be ready for instant action.

The next night, Larry again crossed and brought back a little note from Claire Conyers, thanking Walter for letting her know they were so close, telling him of her father's return, and saying that there was no fear of her mother or herself forgetting their late visitors. It was a prettily written little note, and Walter was delighted at receiving it.

"Well, my boy," Captain Davenant said with a little smile, when Walter told him next morning that he had heard from Miss Conyers, "as you seem specially interested in this affair, I will let you have the honour and glory of being the first to come to the rescue of Miss Conyers and her mother, if they should need it; and therefore, whether I am here or not, I give you permission to cross at once, in the two boats, if you get the signal. But on reaching the other side you are to send the two boats back at once, with two men in each, and I will bring the rest of the troop across as fast as possible. There is no saying what force you may find there. I shall leave it to your discretion to attack at once, or to wait until I come up with reinforcements. You will, of course, be guided partly by the strength of the enemy, partly by the urgency for instant interference for the protection of the ladies."

Four days passed quietly. There was but little for the cavalry to do. Small parties were posted at various spots, for some miles down the river, to give notice should the enemy appear on the opposite bank and show any intention of making a crossing; and, beyond furnishing these guards, the troop had little to do.

Walter spent much of his time watching the opposite bank. He hardly knew whether he wished the signal to be displayed or not--he certainly desired no trouble to befall the ladies; but, on the other hand, the thought of rushing to their rescue was undoubtedly a pleasant one. Larry spent much of his time at the water's edge, fishing--a pursuit in which many of the troopers joined; and they were able to augment the daily rations by a good supply of salmon.

On the fifth day, the officers had just finished supper, when the sound of a pistol shot was heard. Walter leaped from his seat, snatched up his sword and pistols, and ran down to the river. The men were already clustering round the boats. A minute later these were in the water, and the men jumped on board. They too were eager for the work, for Larry had whispered among them that, if the signal was made, it would signify that a band of the enemy's marauders were at Mrs. Conyers'; and all had been so kindly treated there that they were eager to repay the treatment they had received. Besides, there was not a man in the Irish army whose heart had not been fired at the recitals of the brutality of the enemy, and filled with deep longings for vengeance upon the perpetrators of the deeds.

Walter counted the men as they rowed across, and was pleased to find that not one of them was missing. He ordered the two men who were at the oars in each boat to return, the instant the rest had landed, to fetch another detachment across.

As they reached the land, the men sprang out. Pat Ryan was standing at the landing place.

"Well, Pat, what is it?"

"A troop of Hessian horse, your honour. Half an hour ago they rode up to the doors. Mrs. Conyers came out to meet them, and told them that she was a loyal Protestant, and wife of a gentleman high in the king's councils, who was in the camp. The blackguards only laughed. The officers, with some of the men, dismounted and pushed their way past her into the house, and the rest of the troop tied their horses up to the trees on the lawn, and shouted to me, and some of the other boys who were looking on, to bring forage. I suppose we weren't quick enough for them, for one of them drew his pistol and fired at me. Fortunately, he only hit the truss of straw I was carrying. Then I went round to the back door, where I had agreed that Bridget was to come to me, if things were going wrong in the house. A few minutes afterwards she came out, with a white face, and said: 'For the sake of the Holy Virgin, run for your life, Pat, and warn the soldiers!' So I slipped away and ran my hardest."

All this was told as the party were running at full speed towards the house.

"How strong was the troop?" Walter asked.

"About eighty men, yer honour."

"We must trust to a surprise," Walter said. "We can get round to the back of the house without being seen. If we burst in there suddenly, we can clear the house and hold it till my father comes up with the whole troop."

Five minutes after they had left the boat, the party approached the house. Walter halted his men for a moment in the shrubbery behind it.

"Steady, lads, and take breath. You will follow me into the house, and keep together. Give no quarter to the scoundrels."

Scarcely had he spoken than a piercing scream, accompanied by a pistol shot, was heard within.

"Come on, lads!" Walter exclaimed, as he rushed at full speed at the door, the men following close at his heels.

The door was open. In the passage lay one of the maidservants, shot through the head by one of the Hessian troopers, who still held the pistol in his hand. Walter's pistol cracked before the man had time to draw his sword, and he fell dead.

Then he rushed on into the hall, in which were a score of troopers, gathered round a barrel of wine which had just been broached. In an instant, the Irish were upon them. Many were cut down or shot, before they had time to stand on the defensive. The rest were slain after a short and desperate fight.

"Bar the front door!" Walter shouted. "Sergeant Mullins, take six men and hold it against those outside. The rest follow me."

Short as the fight had been, it had given time to the rest of the Hessians, scattered about the house in the act of plundering, to gather on the stair, headed by their officers. Without a moment's hesitation Walter dashed at them. In point of numbers the party were well matched; but the fury of the Irishmen more than counterbalanced the advantage of position on the part of the Hessians.

For five minutes a desperate fight raged. Those in front grappled each other, and fought with clubbed pistols and shortened swords. Those behind struck a blow as they could with sword or musket.

But the Hessians, ignorant of the strength of the force which had suddenly thus attacked them, thought more of securing their safety than of defending the stairs, so several of those behind slipped away and jumped from the windows to the ground. Their desertion disheartened those in front, and, with a shout, Walter and his troopers bore back the Hessians on to the landing, and the latter then broke and fled. Most of them were overtaken and cut down at once. Two or three only gained the windows and leaped out.

The instant resistance had ceased, Walter rushed into the drawing room, bidding the men run down and hold the lower windows. Mrs. Conyers lay in a dead faint on the sofa. Claire, with a face as pale as death, was standing beside her.

"Walter!" she gasped out; "then we are safe!"

She tottered, and would have fallen, had not Walter rushed forward in time to catch her, and place her in a chair:

"Don't faint, my dear Claire," he said urgently. "There is your mother to be looked after, and I must run downstairs, for they are attacking the house."

"I won't faint," Claire said, laughing and crying in a manner which frightened Walter more than her fainting would have done. "I shall be better directly, but it seems almost like a miracle. Oh, those dreadful men!"

"They have all gone now, Claire. We hold the house, and have cleared them out. Pray, calm yourself and attend to your mother. I must go. Don't be frightened at the firing. My father will be here in a few minutes, with aid."

"Oh! I am not frightened, now," Claire said; "and oh! Walter, you are bleeding dreadfully."

"Never mind that now," Walter said; "I will see to it, when it is all over."

Then, leaving her to look after Mrs. Conyers, he ran downstairs. His right arm was disabled, he having received a sweeping blow on the shoulder from one of the Hessians, as he won his way on to the landing; but he had no time to think of this now, for his men were hardly pressed. For a moment, a panic had reigned among the troopers outside, at the outburst of firing, and at the sight of their comrades leaping panic-stricken from the windows; but inquiry soon showed them that they were still greatly superior in numbers to the party who had obtained possession of the hall; and, furious at the loss of all their officers, and of many of their comrades, they attacked on all sides, and tried to force their way in at the doors and lower windows, in spite of the vigorous resistance from within. Walter hurried from point to point, cheering on his men by assurance that help was at hand, and seeing that no point had been left undefended.

[Chapter 10]: A Cavalry Raid.

Staunchly as Walter's troopers maintained the defence, they were sorely pressed, for the enemy still outnumbered them by three to one. Several times the Hessians almost forced their way in, at one or other of the windows, but each time Walter, who kept four men with him as a reserve, rushed to the assistance of the defenders of the windows and drove them back; but this could not last. The defenders were hard pressed at several points, and Walter, feeling sure that his father would be up in a very few minutes, called the men off from their posts and stationed them on the staircase.

With shouts of triumph, the Hessians burst in. The hall was filled with a crowd of furious soldiers, who hurled themselves like a wave at the defenders of the staircase. All the pistols had long since been emptied, and they fought sword to sword. Walter had detached five of his little party to hold the top of the other staircase, should the assailants try to force a passage there; and he had but ten men now, and several of these severely wounded, to hold the staircase.

Great as the advantage that the position gave the defenders, they were forced up step by step, and Walter began to fear that he would be driven to the landing before succour came, when a crowd of figures suddenly burst in at the hall door, and above the cracking of pistols, which at once arose, he heard his father's voice:

"Down with the murdering dogs! No quarter!"

Taken wholly by surprise, ignorant of the force by which they were attacked, and taken between two bodies of enemies, the Hessians turned to fly. Walter and his men at once pressed down upon them, while the newcomers fell upon them with fury.

There was but little resistance, for the Hessians thought only of flight. Some burst through their assailants and gained the door; more fled down the passages, and escaped by the windows through which they had entered; but more than thirty of them fell in the hall.

The instant resistance was over, Captain Davenant ran out with his men to secure the horses. A few of the Hessians, who had escaped from the front door, had jumped on the backs of the nearest animals and ridden off. The rest had fled on foot, and the exulting troopers counted seventy-two horses remaining in their hands. Captain Davenant at once returned to the house.

"Where are you, Walter?" he shouted; but there was no answer. Getting more light, Captain Davenant searched hastily among the numerous bodies scattered in the hall, and soon came upon Walter, who was lying, insensible, just at the foot of the stairs. The excitement had supported him so long as the defence had to be continued; but, as soon as succour appeared, and the assailants retreated, he had stumbled forward with his men, and had fallen insensible from loss of blood at the foot of the stairs. Captain Davenant hastily examined him.

"Thank God," he said to Larry, who had smuggled himself over with the second detachment, "he has no other wound but this on the shoulder, and has only fainted from loss of blood! Run upstairs, and snatch a sheet from one of the beds. We will soon make some bandages."

Larry did as he was ordered. Slips were torn off the sheets, and, after cutting Walter's coat and shirt from his shoulder, Captain Davenant bound and bandaged up the wound. In the meantime, Larry had got some spirits from the buffet in the dining room, and a spoonful or two were poured down Walter's throat, and in a few minutes he opened his eyes. For a moment he looked confused, then he smiled at his father.

"You were just in time," he said. "We couldn't have held out much longer."

"Yes, we were just in time, thank God!" his father said; "but where are the ladies?"

"In the drawing room. Mrs. Conyers has fainted."

Captain Davenant ran upstairs. Claire had succeeded in restoring her mother, who had just sat up when Captain Davenant entered.

"My daughter tells me that you have rescued us, you and your son," she said faintly. "How can I thank you enough?"

"Never mind that now, my dear lady," Captain Davenant said hastily. "Just at present, we have no time to lose. The fellows who have escaped will carry the news to William's camp, and in half an hour we shall have a regiment of cavalry here. I must retreat at once, and carry my wounded with me. What will you do? Will you stay here, or will you and your daughter come with us?"

"Oh, I will go with you, please. If I was sure my husband would come with them, I would not fear; but he may not hear of it, and there is no saying what they might do."

"How is Walter, Captain Davenant?" Claire--who had been waiting impatiently for her mother to finish--burst in. "He was wounded, and there was such terrible fighting afterwards, and he has not come back with you."

"He fainted from loss of blood," Captain Davenant said; "but I do not think his wounds are serious.

"Mrs. Conyers, I can only give you five minutes. Take with you any jewels or valuables you prize most. If they should arrive without your husband, they will be sure to sack and burn the house."

Captain Davenant now hurried downstairs. The wounded had already been collected. There were but four so seriously wounded as to be unable to walk. Six had been killed. The wounded, including Walter, lay on blankets. Men took each a corner, and at once started to the spot where the boats had been left.

Captain Davenant told four men to wait at the foot of the stairs, while he went up to the drawing room. Mrs. Conyers and her daughter were already prepared. Each had thrown a shawl over her head, and had in their hands the dressing cases containing Mrs. Conyers's jewellery.

"Now, madam," Captain Davenant said, "if you will point out your plate chest, I have four men below in readiness to carry it to the boat. It is no use leaving that to be divided between the marauders."

Mrs. Conyers pointed out two chests, in one of which deeds and other valuable documents were kept, and in the other the plate, of which Mrs. Conyers had a considerable quantity. Two men seized each of them.

"Now, Mrs. Conyers, please accompany them as quick as you can to the river. We will follow and cover the retreat. I think we have a few minutes yet, before cavalry can arrive from the camp."

When Captain Davenant and the rearguard reached the bank, they found that the boats had already returned, after taking over the wounded and a portion of the detachment. The rest, with the two ladies and the female servants, at once took their places, and were taken across before any sound betokened the arrival of the enemy at the Hall.

"I sincerely hope, Mrs. Conyers," Captain Davenant said, as they landed, "that Mr. Conyers may accompany the first body of troops who arrive, for if not, I fear they will set fire to the Hall. They must have lost considerably over fifty men, and in their rage at finding no one on whom to wreak their vengeance, they will make no inquiry as to whom the house belongs. Indeed, they will find no one there to ask. The servants of the house had already fled, and I sent my boy's servant, Larry, round to the stables to tell the men there to ride away with the horses. They will accompany fifteen of my men, who mounted as many of the horses we captured, and are driving the rest to a ford some miles away. They are a valuable capture, and altogether, as far as we are concerned, we have made a good night's work of it."

"But I do not understand now," Mrs. Conyers said, "how it was that you came across just in time. How did you know that we were in such trouble? Because I am sure you would not have come across to attack the soldiers in our house, without some special reason?"

"No, indeed, madam, I certainly should not have made your house a battlefield. The fact is, our fortunate arrival is due entirely to my son. He made all the arrangements, without my knowing anything about it. He sent over his boy to one of your lads in the stable, and arranged that, if there should be any trouble in the house in the absence of Mr. Conyers, he should run down and signal across the river. Your daughter's maid was to let the boy know what was going on within. It was not till he had the whole business in train, that Walter told me anything about it. As it was his plan and not mine, and I could see he was extremely anxious about it, I left the matter in his hands, and authorized him to lead the first party across whenever the signal was made, night or day. Our boats would only carry twenty-five men, and four of these had to return with them. As Walter would have but a quarter of our force with him, I ordered him, in case the signal was made and he crossed, not to attack until I joined him, unless the necessity seemed very urgent. I suppose he considered it was so, for he would hardly have fallen upon some eighty or ninety troopers, unless he had deemed it most urgent."

"Thank God he did so!" Mrs. Conyers said, "for we owe him our lives, and more. I cannot tell you all now. It is too horrible to think of. But I shall never forget the thankfulness and joy I felt, when suddenly I heard the noise of shouts and firing, and the men who were trying to tear my child from my arms suddenly desisted and, rushing out of the room, left us alone. I fainted then, and knew nothing more till I heard, in a confused way, the sound of shouting and conflict, and Claire was bending over me, telling me that your son was holding the stairs against the Germans, and that he was expecting help to arrive every moment.

"Where is he? I long to see him, and give him my thanks and blessing."

"He is in that cottage yonder, which is at present our quarters," Captain Davenant said. "I told them to send off a trooper to Limerick, for a doctor, as soon as they got across."

"But you assured me his wound was not dangerous," Mrs. Conyers said anxiously.

"No, I am sure it is not. It is a severe wound, but not likely to have serious consequences. But I fear that some of the men are in a far worse condition."

"I shall install myself as head nurse," Mrs. Conyers said, decidedly. "We owe so much to you all, that that is the least I can do."

"Very well, Mrs. Conyers. Then I appoint you head of the hospital. I will have the four seriously wounded men moved into the cottage next to mine. You will be able to obtain plenty of assistance among the women of the village. O'Moore and I will move into other quarters, and leave the cottage to you and your daughter. Your servants can have the cottage on the other side."

They had now reached the door.

"I will just go in and see him first," Captain Davenant said.

Larry was sitting by Walter's couch.

"Well, Walter, how are you feeling?"

"Oh, I am all right now," Walter said, "since Larry brought me word that the boats have brought everyone across safely. I was anxious before, you know."

"How does your shoulder feel?"

"It throbs a bit, father; but that is no odds."

"Mrs. Conyers is coming in to see you. She is going to establish herself here, and O'Moore and I are moving out. She is going, for the present, to be head nurse."

"That will be nice," Walter said; "but I sha'n't want much nursing."

"I don't know, Walter. A downright cut with a heavy cavalry sword is not a light matter, even when it falls on the shoulder instead of the head. But you had better not talk much now, but, when you have seen Mrs. Conyers, try and get off to sleep.

"Larry, do you see to moving our things out, at once."

So saying, Captain Davenant left the room, and a minute later Mrs. Conyers came in. She took the left hand that Walter held out to her.

"God bless you, my boy!" she said, softly. "I shall never forget what Claire and I owe to you. All my life I shall be your grateful debtor, and some day I hope that my husband will be able to thank you for what you did for us.

"And now," she went on, in a lighter tone, "I am going to be your nurse, and my first order is that you lie quite quiet, and try to get to sleep. I will make you some barley water, and put it by your bedside. That is all I can do for you, till the surgeon comes to examine your wound. Claire wanted to come in to thank you herself, but the child has gone through enough for one night, so I have sent her straight to bed. I do not want her on my hands, too."

A few minutes later Larry, having established the two officers in another cottage, returned and took his place by Walter's bedside, while Mrs. Conyers went out to see to the comfort of the other wounded. Half an hour later, a surgeon arrived from Limerick. Two of the cases were pronounced at once to be hopeless, the other two he thought might recover. Walter's wound he said was a severe one, but in no way dangerous. The sword had probably glanced off something as it descended, so that the edge had not fallen straight on the shoulder bone. It had, however, nearly taken off the arm. Had it fallen truly, it would probably have been fatal.

After he had attended to the more serious cases, he dressed the wounds of the other men, several of which were quite as severe as that of Walter, although they had not incapacitated the men from making their way down to the boats.

Captain Davenant had kept a watch towards the Hall. And as, in an hour after they had crossed, no sheet of flame was seen arising thence, he was able to tell Mrs. Conyers that he thought that it was safe, and that either Mr. Conyers himself must have accompanied the troops, who would by this time have unquestionably arrived there, or that some officer, aware that the owner of the house was a friend, and with sufficient authority over the men to prevent its destruction, must be in command.

In the morning, he had a long talk with her. He suggested that she and her daughter should accompany him into Limerick, and be sent, with a flag of truce, across the bridge to join her husband in William's camp. This, however, she positively declined to accede to.

"In the first place," she said, "I consider that it is my duty to nurse the men who suffered for our sake. In the next place, after what we went through last night, I refuse absolutely to place myself and my daughter in the hands of the ruffians who disgrace the cause of William. Hitherto, as a Protestant, I have been an adherent of that cause, as has my husband. Henceforth, I am an Irishwoman, and as such abhor a cause which can employ such instruments, and inflict such atrocities upon Ireland. I will write a letter to my husband, telling him exactly what has happened, and how we have been preserved, and say that nothing will induce me to trust myself and Claire among William's troops, but that I shall remain on this side of the Shannon. If, as I trust will not be the case, the English force their way across the river, I shall make for Galway, and thence take ship to England, where we can join him. I intend to remain here as long as I can be useful as a nurse, and I shall then retire, with Claire, to Galway, where I have some relations, with whom I can stay until matters are decided."

Mrs. Conyers at once wrote the letter, which Captain Davenant carried himself into Limerick, as he was going in to report the occurrences of the preceding night. The governor immediately sent the letter across, with a flag of truce. General Sarsfield, who was in command of the cavalry, expressed himself highly pleased with the result of the raid across the Shannon, and appointed three officers to raise another troop of horse with the captured animals, which had arrived before morning at Ballygan, and to place themselves under Captain Davenant's command.

"Your son must be a lad after your own heart," he said to Captain Davenant. "It was indeed a most gallant action, thus, with twenty-five dismounted men only, to attack a strong troop of Hessians. I hope that, as soon as he is well enough to mount a horse again, you will introduce him to me. Keep your troop in readiness for a move, for I mean to beat them up before long."

"Can't I see Walter today, mamma?" Claire asked, after Captain Davenant had ridden off. "It seems so unkind, my being in the house with him, and not going in to tell him how sorry I am that he was wounded."

"Not today, Claire. He is very flushed and feverish this morning, and I must not have him excited at all."

"But I would not excite him, mother. I would only go in and speak to him quietly."

"Even that would excite him, my dear. I will tell him that you want to come in and see him; but that I think you had better not do so, for a day or two."

But even without the excitement of Claire's presence, Walter became more feverish, and by evening was talking wildly. The excitement and anxiety he had gone through were as much responsible for this as the wound, and by midnight he knew no one. The surgeon, who came over in the evening, ordered cloths constantly soaked with fresh water to be placed round his head, and that he should be given, whenever he desired it, barley water sharpened by apples boiled in it.