# Charles O'Malley; the Irish Dragoon (Rackham, 1897)/Chapter 11

Chapter XI
An Adventure
As thus we lightened the road with chatting, the increasing concourse of people, and the greater throng of carriages that filled the road, announced that we had nearly reached our destination,
“Considine,” said my uncle, riding up to where we were, ‘I have just got a few lines from Davern. It seems Bodkin’s people are afraid to como in: they know what they must expect, and if so, more than half of that barony is lost to our opponent.”
“Then he has no chance whatever.”
“He never had, in my opinion,” said Sir Harry.
“We’ll see soon,” said my uncle cheerfully, and rode to the post.
The remainder of the way was occupied in discussing the various possibilities of the election, into which I was rejoiced to find that defeat never entered.
In the goodly days I speak of, a county contest was a very different thing indeed from the tame and insipid farce that now passes under that name: where a briefless barrister, bullied by both sides, sits as assessor—a few drunken voters—a radical O’Connellite grocer—a demagogne priest—a deputy grand purple something from the Trinity College lodge, with some half-dozen followers shouting “to the devil with Peel, or down with Dens’,” form the whole corps de ballet. No, no; in the times I refer to the voters were some thousands in number, and the adverse parties took the field, far less dependent for success upon previous pledge or promise made them, than upon the actual stratagem of the day. Each went forth like a general to battle, sur-​rounded by numerous and well-chosen staff; one party of friends, acting as commissariat, attending to the victualling of the voters, that they obtained a due, or rather undue, allowance of liquor, and came properly drunk to the poll; others again broke into skirmishing parties, and, scattered over the country, cut off the enemy’s supplies, breaking down their post-chaises, upsetting their jaunting cars, stealing their poll-books, and kidnapping their agents. Then there were secret service people, bribing the enemy and enticing them to desert; and lastly, there was a species of sapper-and-miner force, who invented false documents, denied the identity of the apposite party’s people, and, when hard pushed, provided persons who took bribes from the enemy, and gave evidence afterwards on a position. Amid all these encounters of wit and ingenuity, the personal friends of the candidate formed a species of rifle brigade, picking out the enemy’s officers, and doing sore damage to their tactics, by shooting a proposer, or wounding a seconder—a considerable portion of every leading agent’s fee being intended as compensation for the duels he might, could, would, should, or ought to fight during the election. Such, in brief, was a contest in the olden time; and, when it is taken into consideration, that it usually lasted a fortnight or three weeks, that a considerable military force was always engaged (for our Irish law permits this), and which, when nothing pressing was doing, was regularly assailed by both parties—that far more dependence was placed in a bludgeon than a pistol—and that the man who registered a vote without a cracked pate, was regarded as a kind of natural phenomenon, same faint idea may be formed how much such a scene must have contributed to the peace of the country, and the happiness and welfare of all concerned in it,
As we rode along, a loud cheer from a road that ran parallel to the one we were pursuing attracted our attention, and we perceived that the cortége of the opposite party was hastening on to the hustings. I could distinguish the Blakes’ girls on horseback among a crowd of officers in undress, and saw something like a bonnet in the carriage and four which headed the procession, and which I judged to be that of Sir George Dashwood. My heart beat strongly as I strained my eyes to see if Miss Dashwood were there, but I could not discern her, and it was with a sense of relief that I reflected on the possibility of our not meeting under circumstances wherein our feelings and interests were so completely opposed. While I was engaged in making this survey, I had accidentally dropped behind my companions; my eyes were firmly fixed upon that carriage, and, in the faint hope that it contained the object of all my wishes, I forgot everything else. At length the cortége entered the town, and, passing beneath a heavy stone gateway, was lost to my view. I was still lost in reverie, when an under agent of my uncle’s rode up. “Oh! Master Charles,” said he, “what’s to be done? they’ve forgotten Mr. Holmes at Woodford, and we haven’t a carriage, chaise, or even a car left, to send for him.”
“Have you told Mr. Considine?” inquired I.
And sure you know yourself how little Mr, Considine thinks of a lawyer. It’s small comfort he’d give me if I went to tell him: if it was a ease of pistols or a bullet mould, he’d ride back the whole way himself for them.”
​“Try Sir Harry Boyle, then.”
“He’s making a speech this moment before the court-house.”
This had sufficed to show me how far behind my companions I had been loitering, when a cheer from the distant road again turned my eyes in that direction: it was the Dashwood carriage returning after leaving Sir George at the hustings. The head of the britska, before thrown open, was now closed, and I could not make out if any one were inside.
“Devil a doubt of it,” said the agent, in answer to some question of a farmer who rode beside him; “will you stand to me?”
“Troth, to be sure I will.”
“Here goes then,” said he, gathering op his reins and turning his horse towards the fence at the roadside; “follow me now, boys.”
The order was well obeyed, for, when he had cleared the ditch, a dozen stout country fellows, well mounted, were beside him. Away they went at a hunting pace, taking every leap before them, and heading towards the road before us.
Without thinking further of the matter, I was laughing at the droll effect the line of frieze coats presented as they rode side by side, over the stone walls, when an observation near me aroused my attention.
“Ah, then, av they know anything of Jim Finucane, they’ll give it up peaceably; it’s little he’d think of taking the coach from under the judge himself.”
“What are they about, boys?” said I.
“Goin’ to take the chaise and four forninst ye, yer honour,” said the man.
I waited not to hear more, but darting spurs into my horse’s sides, cleared the fence in one bound, My horse, a strong-knit half-bred, was as fast as a racer for a short distance; so that when the agent and his party had come up with the carriage, I was only a few hundred yards behind. I shouted out with all my might, but they either heard not or heeded not, for scarcely was the first man over the fence into the road, when the postillion on the leader was felled to the ground, and his place supplied by his slayer—the boy on the wheeler shared the same fate, and in an instant, so well managed was the attack, the carriage was in possession of the assailants. Four stout fellows had climbed into the box and the rumble, and six others were climbing into the interior, regardless of the aid of steps. By this time the Dashwood party had got the alarm, and returned in full force—not, however, before the other had laid whip to the horses, and set out in full gallop; and now commenced the most terrific race I ever witnessed.
The four carriage horses, which were the property of Sir George, were English thoroughbreds of great value, and totally unaccustomed to the treatment they experienced, and dashed forward at a pace that threatened annihilation to the carriage at every bound. The pursuers, though well mounted, were speedily distanced, but followed at a pace that, in the end, was certain to overtake the carriage. As for myself, I rode on beside the road, at the full speed of my horse, shouting, cursing, imploring, execrating, and beseeching at turns, but all in vain—the yells and shouts of the pursuers and pursued drowned all other sounds, except when the thundering crash of the horses’ feet rose above ​all. The road, like most western Irish roads, until the present century, lay straight as an arrow for miles, regardless of every opposing barrier, and in the instance in question, crossed a mountain at its very highest point. Towards this pinnacle the pace had been tremendous; but, owing to the higher breeding of the cattle, the carriage party had still the advance, and, when they reached the top, they proclaimed the victory by a cheer of triumph and derision, The carriage disappeared beneath the crest of the mountain, and the pursuers halted, as if disposed to relinquish the chase.
“Come on, boys, Never give up,” cried I, springing over into the road and heading the party, to which by every right I was opposed.
It was no time for deliberation, and they followed me with a hearty cheer that convinced me I was unknown. The next instant we were on the mountain top, and beheld the carriage, half way down beneath us, still galloping at fall stretch.
“We have them now,” said a voice behind me, “they’ll never turn Lurra bridge, if we only press on.”
The speaker was right: the road at the mountain foot turned at a perfect right angle, and then crossed a lofty one-arched bridge, over a mountain torrent that ran deep and boisterously beneath, On we went, gaining at every stride, for the fellows who rode postillion well knew what was before them, and slackened their pace to secure a safe turning. A yell of victory rose from the pursuers, but was answered by the others with a cheer of defiance. The space was now scarcely two hundred yards between us, when the head of the britska was flung down, and a figure that I at once recognised as the redoubted Tim Finucane, one of the boldest and most reckless fellows in the country, was seen standing on tho seat—holding, gracious heavens! it was true—holding in his arms the apparently lifeless figure of Miss Dashwood.
“Hold in!” shouted the ruffian, with a voice that rose high above all the other sounds. “Hold in! or, by the eternal, I’ll throw her, body and bones, into the Lurra gash,” for such was the torrent called, that boiled and foamed a few yards before us.
He had by this time got firmly on the hind seat, and held the drooping form on one arm, with all the ease of a giant’s grasp.
“For the love of God,” said I, “pull up. I know him well—he’ll do it to a certainty if you press on.”
“And we know you too,” said a ruffianly fellow, with a dark whisker meeting beneath his chin, “and have some scores to settle ere we part——”
But I heard no more. With one tremendous effort I dashed my horse forward. The carriage turned the angle of the road—for an instant was out of sight—another moment I was behind it.
“Stop!” I shouted, with a last effort, but in vain. The horses, maddened and infuriated, sprang forward, and, heedless of all efforts to turn them, the leaders sprang over the low parapet of the bridge, and, hanging for a second by the traces, fell with a crash into the swollen torrent beneath. By this time I was beside the carriage—Finucane had now clambered to the box, and, regardless of the death and rain around, bent upon his murderous object, he lifted the light and girlish form above his head, bent backwards, as if to give greater
impulse to his effort, when, twining my lash around my wrist, I levelled my heavy and loaded hunting-whip at his head: the weighted ball of lead struck him exactly beneath his hat, he staggered, his hands relaxed, and he fell lifeless to the ground; the same instant I was felled to the earth by a blow from behind, and saw no more.