Eclectic Magazine of Foreign Literature, Science, and Art, February, 1885. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ style="font-size:15px;">      Paddy did not heed her interruption; he was embarked on the full tide of recollection – the horrible scene lived again before him. “They gave him a great many lashes,” he continued; “I dinna mind how many hundred it was, an’ each time they stopped he was asked if he would tell, an’ his mother still bid him die like a man, an’ his answer was still the same. At long an’ at last the officer called out ‘Stop! would you kill a game bird?’ an’ he was took down an’ put in the guard-room for the night.

      “Niel an’ me was invited in to tak’ a look at him, an’ we seen him lying on his face on a table wi’ an ointment shirt on that the soldiers had thrown over him. The officers gave orders that the whole country was to see him if they liked. I think they wanted to scare the United Men.

      “He was to be took to Limavady the next day for the sentence to be carried out there, so the whole country took a holiday again to see the rear o’ the flogging. Jack an’ his mother was in the cart, an’ the army marchin’ wi’ them, an’ me an’ Niel an’ a crowd o’ neighbors following along the road to Limavady.

      “The mother called out to us, ‘I’m going wi’ his living funeral,’ says she; ‘but I’ll gie him the same advice I did yesterday,’ says she.

      “When we reached Limavady he was tied up, an’ we were watching for the lash to fall, when there was a great shout an’ we seen a man galloping up the street as hard as his horse could go, waving something white over his head. It was a pardon come from Dublin for Jack McSparron.”

      “I am glad the pardon came, for he was an heroic youth, rebel though he was.”

      “Ay,” cried the old man, “he wouldna’ be an informer. There’s few o’ his sort left in Ireland now, more’s the pity – more’s the pity!”

      The fire in his voice told us plainly where his sympathies really were. Not, certainly, with murdered landlords, bailiffs, or non-land-league farmers!

      “Did Jack live to be an old man?”

      “Ay, did he. He died it’ll be sixteen year past next Candlemas. There’s a daughter o’ his married on a farmer not very far from this. The McSparrons in this parish is all proud o’ being his friends. When ane o’ them shows himsel’ a gude comrade or neighbor, the people says, ‘Ay, he’s o’ the blood of Jack McSparron.’”

      Tragedies at Maghera

      Mrs. Majilton was in a state of much excitement one day in the summer of ’98 because parties of soldiers were passing her house one after another. Her house was close to the high-road, half-way between Feeny and Dungiven, and stood in a comfortable little farmyard. She was a Church Protestant, dreadfully afraid of the rebels, and consequently very glad to see the red-coats in the country. They had been marching past her house all morning, and she had stood at the door with the baby in her arms, wishing them “God speed.”

      The men had exchanged a cheerful greeting with her now and then, and as they went by she caught some of their conversation; the word Maghera was repeated over and over again. They were marching to Maghera; no time must be lost; they could not delay for refreshment or rest. The day wore on, and a party of stragglers stopped at her door, young lads, mere recruits, who had lagged behind the main body, not being able to endure the hardships of their forced march from Londonderry as well as the older men. Their sergeant, a bronzed veteran, asked the good woman to give them a drink of water, for the love of God.

      “I have sworn at the poor fellows till I’m hoarse, ma’am; but they’re giving up, and I must let them rest a minute.”

      Mrs. Majilton ran to lay the baby in its cradle; then she opened the barrel, filled a large bowl half full of oatmeal, poured water upon it, and handed it to the men, who sat down in the yard, and passed the bowl from one to another.

      “That’s both meat and drink,” said they, gratefully.

      “Our orders are to hurry on to Maghera without stopping, for we’ve got to burn it to the ground,” said the sergeant.

      “God bless me, sir, what’s occurring at Maghera?”

      She knew that Maghera was a country town farther off than Dungiven. Some of her neighbors had been there, but she had never travelled so far herself. The sergeant told her that news had reached Derry that the rebels were in force at Maghera, and were murdering all who refused to join them. There were few newspapers in those days, and no penny post; rumor spread and perhaps exaggerated the evil tidings. It was said that a young girl combing her hair beside her hearth had been shot dead by a party of men who came to look for her father. They looked in at the window, saw her, and murdered her out of revenge because her father had escaped them. “And now,” concluded the sergeant, “our orders are that Maghera is to be destroyed.”

      Mrs. Majilton, who knew her Bible well, remembered the fate of Sodom and Gomorrah, and of Nineveh – that wicked city; and she thought the soldiers were the Lord’s instruments to execute His judgment upon Maghera.

      When the party of recruits got as far as Dungiven they found that counter-orders had come – Maghera was not to be burnt after all; but sufficient troops to quiet the country were to be sent on, while the remainder halted at Dungiven. We shall accompany two of the soldiers who pressed forward. As they neared the town, scenes of desolation met them on every hand – deserted houses, smouldering thatch, burnt stackyards. They were told that the rebels had taken to the mountains when they heard the troops were coming. The men separated; some explored one road, some another, hoping to inclose the enemy in a net.

      As Privates John Buckley and Tom Green advanced up one of these mountain roads they were appalled by the terrible loneliness of the place. Here a farmhouse stood empty, its door hanging off the hinges; there were blackened circles where stacks of corn had been; again they saw a cottage with a smouldering thatch, and no sign of life near, excepting a starved cat that prowled about the door.

      The rebels had clearly passed that way; those were the marks they had left behind them. At length, where the lane seemed about to lose itself in a mountain pass, they came to a cottage whose door stood open. It looked like a comfortable small farmer’s homestead: a pretty garden, gay with common flowers, was at one side of the house; there were laburnums and lilacs just out of blossom; red and white roses in full blossom; tall orange lilies with bursting buds; rows of peas and beans and plots of cabbages. The whole place had a civilized air, and reminded the Englishmen of their own homes. The pretty green railing and rustic gate; the orderly stackyard and offices, gave an impression of neatness, taste, and comfort unusual in that country.

      The men went into the kitchen of the farmhouse. There was no fire upon the hearth. The turf had burnt to ashes under a great black pot of potatoes that hung upon the crook, and two children sat disconsolately leaning against each other beside the cold hearth.

      Buckley explored the “room,” and Green the loft; there was no trace of human being to be found; the children were the only inmates of the place.

      The eldest child, a little girl of about four years old, with pretty blue eyes and curly hair, looked up curiously, but did not move. Her tiny brother was too languid to raise his head from her shoulder.

      “Are you alone in the house?” asked Green.

      “Ay,” replied the child.

      “Where are your father and mother?”

      “They are sleeping in the garden; they ha’ been there this good wee while,” answered the little one, fixing her serious eyes upon them. “Come, an’ I’ll show you СКАЧАТЬ