Charles O'Malley, The Irish Dragoon, Volume 1. Lever Charles James

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СКАЧАТЬ without ever having been actually engaged as a servant; and while thus no warrant officer, as, in fact, he discharged all his duties well and punctually, was rated among the ship’s company, though no one could say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became the gay butterfly with cords and tops, a striped vest, and a most knowing jerry hat who stalked about the stable-yard and bullied the helpers. Such was Mike. He had made his fortune, such as it was, and had a most becoming pride in the fact that he made himself indispensable to an establishment which, before he entered it, never knew the want of him. As for me, he was everything to me. Mike informed me what horse was wrong, why the chestnut mare couldn’t go out, and why the black horse could. He knew the arrival of a new covey of partridge quicker than the “Morning Post” does of a noble family from the Continent, and could tell their whereabouts twice as accurately. But his talents took a wider range than field sports afford, and he was the faithful chronicler of every wake, station, wedding, or christening for miles round; and as I took no small pleasure in those very national pastimes, the information was of great value to me. To conclude this brief sketch, Mike was a devout Catholic in the same sense that he was enthusiastic about anything, – that is, he believed and obeyed exactly as far as suited his own peculiar notions of comfort and happiness. Beyond that, his scepticism stepped in and saved him from inconvenience; and though he might have been somewhat puzzled to reduce his faith to a rubric, still it answered his purpose, and that was all he wanted. Such, in short, was my valet, Mickey Free, and who, had not heavy injunctions been laid on him as to silence and discretion, would well have lightened my weary hours.

      “Ah, then, Misther Charles!” said he, with a half-suppressed yawn at the long period of probation his tongue had been undergoing in silence, – “ah, then, but ye were mighty near it!”

      “Near what?” said I.

      “Faith, then, myself doesn’t well know. Some say it’s purgathory; but it’s hard to tell.”

      “I thought you were too good a Catholic, Mickey, to show any doubts on the matter?”

      “May be I am; may be I ain’t,” was the cautious reply.

      “Wouldn’t Father Roach explain any of your difficulties for you, if you went over to him?”

      “Faix, it’s little I’d mind his explainings.”

      “And why not?”

      “Easy enough. If you ax ould Miles there, without, what does he be doing with all the powther and shot, wouldn’t he tell you he’s shooting the rooks, and the magpies, and some other varmint? But myself knows he sells it to Widow Casey, at two-and-fourpence a pound; so belikes, Father Roach may be shooting away at the poor souls in purgathory, that all this time are enjoying the hoith of fine living in heaven, ye understand.”

      “And you think that’s the way of it, Mickey?”

      “Troth, it’s 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 СКАЧАТЬ