Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 1. Lever Charles James
likely. Anyhow, I know its not the place they make it out.”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“Well, then, I’ll tell you, Misther Charles; but you must not be saying anything about it afther, for I don’t like to talk about these kind of things.”
Having pledged myself to the requisite silence and secrecy, Mickey began: —
“May be you heard tell of the way my father, rest his soul wherever he is, came to his end. Well, I needn’t mind particulars, but, in short, he was murdered in Ballinasloe one night, when he was baitin’ the whole town with a blackthorn stick he had; more by token, a piece of a scythe was stuck at the end of it, – a nate weapon, and one he was mighty partial to; but those murdering thieves, the cattle-dealers, that never cared for diversion of any kind, fell on him and broke his skull.
“Well, we had a very agreeable wake, and plenty of the best of everything, and to spare, and I thought it was all over; but somehow, though I paid Father Roach fifteen shillings, and made him mighty drunk, he always gave me a black look wherever I met him, and when I took off my hat, he’d turn away his head displeased like.
“‘Murder and ages,’ says I, ‘what’s this for?’ But as I’ve a light heart, I bore up, and didn’t think more about it. One day, however, I was coming home from Athlone market, by myself on the road, when Father Roach overtook me. ‘Devil a one a me ‘ill take any notice of you now,’ says I, ‘and we’ll see what’ll come out of it.’ So the priest rid up and looked me straight in the face.
“‘Mickey,’ says he, – ‘Mickey.’
“‘Father,’ says I.
“‘Is it that way you salute your clargy,’ says he, ‘with your caubeen on your head?’
“‘Faix,’ says I, ‘it’s little ye mind whether it’s an or aff; for you never take the trouble to say, “By your leave,” or “Damn your soul!” or any other politeness when we meet.’
“‘You’re an ungrateful creature,’ says he; ‘and if you only knew, you’d be trembling in your skin before me, this minute.’
“‘Devil a tremble,’ says I, ‘after walking six miles this way.’
“‘You’re an obstinate, hard-hearted sinner,’ says he; ‘and it’s no use in telling you.’
“‘Telling me what?’ says I; for I was getting curious to make out what he meant.
“‘Mickey,’ says he, changing his voice, and putting his head down close to me, – ‘Mickey, I saw your father last night.’
“‘The saints be merciful to us!’ said I, ‘did ye?’
“‘I did,’ says he.
“‘Tear an ages,’ says I, ‘did he tell you what he did with the new corduroys he bought in the fair?’
“‘Oh, then, you are a could-hearted creature!’ says he, ‘and I’ll not lose time with you.’ With that he was going to ride away, when I took hold of the bridle.
“‘Father, darling,’ says I, ‘God pardon me, but them breeches is goin’ between me an’ my night’s rest; but tell me about my father?’
“‘Oh, then, he’s in a melancholy state!’
“‘Whereabouts is he?’ says I.
“‘In purgathory,’ says he; ‘but he won’t be there long.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘that’s a comfort, anyhow.’
“‘I am glad you think so,’ says he; ‘but there’s more of the other opinion.’
“‘What’s that?’ says I.
“‘That hell’s worse.’
“‘Oh, melia-murther!’ says I, ‘is that it?’
“‘Ay, that’s it.’
“Well, I was so terrified and frightened, I said nothing for some time, but trotted along beside the priest’s horse.
“‘Father,’ says I, ‘how long will it be before they send him where you know?’
“‘It will not be long now,’ says he, ‘for they’re tired entirely with him; they’ve no peace night or day,’ says he. ‘Mickey, your father is a mighty hard man.’
“‘True for you, Father Roach,’ says I to myself; ‘av he had only the ould stick with the scythe in it, I wish them joy of his company.’
“‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I see you’re grieved, and I don’t wonder; sure, it’s a great disgrace to a decent family.’
“‘Troth, it is,’ says I; ‘but my father always liked low company. Could nothing be done for him now, Father Roach?’ says I, looking up in the priest’s face.
“‘I’m greatly afraid, Mickey, he was a bad man, a very bad man.’
“‘And ye think he’ll go there?’ says I.
“‘Indeed, Mickey, I have my fears.’
“‘Upon my conscience,’ says I, ‘I believe you’re right; he was always a restless crayture.’
“‘But it doesn’t depind on him,’ says the priest, crossly.
“‘And, then, who then?’ says I.
“‘Upon yourself, Mickey Free,’ says he, ‘God pardon you for it, too!’
“‘Upon me?’ says I.
“‘Troth, no less,’ says he; ‘how many Masses was said for your father’s soul; how many Aves; how many Paters? Answer me.’
“‘Devil a one of me knows! – may be twenty.’
“‘Twenty, twenty! – no, nor one.’
“‘And why not?’ says I; ‘what for wouldn’t you be helping a poor crayture out of trouble, when it wouldn’t cost you more nor a handful of prayers?’
“‘Mickey, I see,’ says he, in a solemn tone, ‘you’re worse nor a haythen; but ye couldn’t be other, ye never come to yer duties.’
“‘Well, Father,’ says I, Looking very penitent, ‘how many Masses would get him out?’
“‘Now you talk like a sensible man,’ says he. ‘Now, Mickey, I’ve hopes for you. Let me see,’ here he went countin’ upon his fingers, and numberin’ to himself for five minutes. ‘Mickey,’ says he, ‘I’ve a batch coming out on Tuesday week, and if you were to make great exertions, perhaps your father could come with them; that is, av they have made no objections.’
“‘And what for would they?’ says I; ‘he was always the hoith of company, and av singing’s allowed in them parts – ’
“‘God forgive you, Mickey, but yer in a benighted state,’ says he, sighing.
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘how’ll we get him out on Tuesday week? For that’s bringing things to a focus.’
“‘Two Masses in the morning, fastin’,’ says Father Roach, half aloud, ‘is two, and two in the afternoon is four, and two at vespers is six,’ says he; ‘six Masses a day for nine days is close by sixty Masses, – say sixty,’ says he; ‘and they’ll cost you – mind, Mickey, and don’t be telling it again, for it’s only to yourself I’d make them so cheap – a matter of three pounds.’
“‘Three pounds!’ says I; ‘be-gorra ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel.’
“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gatherin’ up the reins to ride off, – ‘I’m sorry for ye; and the time will come when the neglect of your poor father will be a sore stroke agin yourself.’
“‘Wait a bit, your reverence,’ says I, – ‘wait a bit. Would