# Charles O'Malley; the Irish Dragoon (Rackham, 1897)/Chapter 12

Chapter XII
Mickey Free
Nearly three weeks followed the event I have just narrated ere I again was restored to consciousness. The blow by which I was felled—from what hand coming it was never after discovered—had brought on concussion of the brain, and for several days my life was despaired of. As by slow steps I advanced towards recovery, I learned from Considine that Miss Dashwood, whose life was saved by my interference, had testified in the warmest manner her gratitude, and that Sir George had, up to the period of his leaving the country, never omitted a single day to ride over and inquire for me.
“You know, of course,” said the Count, supposing such news was the most likely to interest me,—“you know we beat them.”
“No, Pray tell me all. They’ve not let me hear anything hitherto."
“One day finished the whole affair: we polled man for man till past two o’clock, when our fellows lost all patience, and beat their tallies out of the town; the police came up, but they beat the police; then they got soldiers, but, begad, they were too strong for them too. Sir George witnessed it all, and, knowing besides how little chance he had of success, deemed it best to give in; so that a little before five o’clock he resigned. I must say no man could behave better: he came across the hustings and shook hands with Godfrey, and, as the news of the scrimmage with his daughter had just arrived, said that he was sorry his prospect of success had not been greater, that, in resigning, he might testify how deeply he felt the debt the O’Malleys had laid him under.”
“And my uncle, how did he receive his advances?”
“Like his own honest self—grasped his hand firmly, and, upon my soul, I think he was half sorry that he gained the day. Do you know, he took a mighty fancy to that blue-eyed daughter of the old General’s: faith, Charley, if he were some twenty years younger, I would not say but——. Come, came, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings; but I have been staying here too long: I’ll send up Mickey to sit with you; mind and don’t be talking too much to him.”
So saying the worthy Count left the room, fully impressed that, in hinting at the possibility of my uncle’s marrying again, he had said something to ruffle my temper,
For the next two or three weeks my life was one of the most tiresome monotony. Strict injunctions had been given by the doctors to avoid exciting me, and, consequently, every one that came in walked ​on tiptoe, spoke in whispers, and left me in five minutes. Reading was absolutely forbidden, and with a sombre half light to sit in, and chicken-broth to support me, I dragged out as dreary an existence as a gentleman west of Athlone.
Whenever my uncle or Considine were not in the room, my companion was my own servant, Michael, or, as he was better known, “Mickey Free.” Now, had Mickey been left to his own free and unrestricted devices, the time would not have hung so heavily; for among Mike’s manifold gifts, he was possessed of a very great flow of gossiping conversation; he knew all that was doing in the country, and never was barren in his information wherever his imagination could come into play. Mickey was the best hurler in the barony, no mean performer on the violin, could dance the national bolero of “Tatter Jack Walsh” in a way that charmed more than one soft heart beneath a red wolsey bodice, and had, withal, the peculiar free-and-easy, devil-may-care kind of offhand Irish way that never deserted him in the midst of his wiliest and most subtle moments, giving to a very deep and cunning fellow all the apparent frankness and openness of a country lad.
He had attached himself to me as a kind of sporting companion and, growing daily more and more useful, had been gradually admitted to the honours of the kitchen and the prerogative of cast clothes, 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 ever say at what precise period he changed his caterpillar existence and became a 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 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 cover 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 everything; 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 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?”
“Maybe I am—maybe 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 purdathory, 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 it’s 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 scerecy, Mickey began:—
“Maybe 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 betoken, 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 tho 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 know 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 cowld-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! meila marther,’ 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 nor day,’ says he, ‘Mickey, your father is a mighty hard man.’
“‘True for you, Father Roach,’ said 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 depend 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!—maybe 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 would come with them; that is, av they 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 Tuesday week? for that’s bringing things to a focus.’
“‘Two masses, in the morning, fastin’,’ says Father Roach, half loud, ‘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; ‘begorra, ye might as well ax me to give you the rock of Cashel’
“‘I’m sorry for ye, Mickey,’ says he, gathering up the reins to ride off; ‘I’m sorry for you; and the day 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 forty shillings get him out?’
“‘Ay course it wouldn’t,’ says he.
“‘Maybe,’ says I, coaxing, ‘maybe, av you said that his son was a poor boy that lived by his indhusiry, and the times was bad? ’
“‘Not the least use,’ says he.
“‘Arrah, but it’s hard-hearted they are,’ thinks I; ‘well, see now; I’ll give you the money—but I can’t afford it all at on’st—but I’ll pay five shillings a week—will that do?’
“‘Ill do my endayvours,’ says Father Roach; ‘and I’ll speak to them to trate him peaceably in the meantime,’
“‘Long life to your Reverence, and do. Well, here now, here’s five hogs to begin with; and, musha, but I never thought I’d be spending my loose change that a way.’
“Father Roach put the six tenpinnies in the pocket of his black breeches, said something in Latin, bid me good-morning, and rode off.
​“Well, to make my story short, I worked late and early to pay the five shillings a week, and I did do it for three weeks regular: then I brought four and fourpence—then it came down to one and tenpence halfpenny-then ninepence—and, at last, I had nothing at all to bring.
“‘Mickey Free,’ says the priest, ‘ye must stir yourself—your father is mighty displeased at the way you’ve been doing of late: and av ye kept your word, he’d he near out by this time.’
“‘Troth, says I, ‘it’s a very expensive place.’
“‘By coorse it is,’ says he: ‘sure all the quality of the land’s there. But, Mickey, my man, with a little exertion your father’s business is done, What ate you jingling in your pocket there?’
“‘It’s ten shillings, your Reverence, I have to buy seed potatoes.’
“‘Hand it here; my son: Isn’t it better your then be enjoying himself in Paradise, than ye were to have all the potatoes in Ireland?’
“‘And: how do ye know,’ says I, ‘he is so near out?’
“‘How do I know—how do I know—is it?—didn’t I see him?”
“‘See him! tear-an-ages, was you down there again?”
“‘I was,’ says he, ‘I was down there for three-quarters of an hour yesterday evening, getting out Luke Kennedy’s mother—decent people the Kennedys—never spared expense.’
“‘And ye seen my father?’ says I.
“‘I did,’ says he; ‘he has an ould flannel waistcoat on, and a pipe sticking out of the pocket av it.’
“‘That’s him, said I; Shad he a hairy cap?’
“‘I didn’t mind the cap,’ says he, ‘but av coorse he wouldn’t have it on his head in that place,’
“‘There’s for you,’ says I, ‘did he speak to you?’
“‘He did,’ says Father Roach; ‘he spoke very hard about the way he was treated down there, that they was always jibin’ and jeerin’ him about drink, and fightin’, and the course he led up here, and that it was a queer thing, for the matter of ten shillings, he was to be kept there so long.’
“‘Woll,’ says I, taking out the ten shillings and counting it with one hand, ‘we must do our best, anyhow—and ye think this ’ill get him out surely?’
“‘I know it will,’ says he; ‘for when Luke’s mother was leaving the place, yer father saw the door open, he made a rush at it, and, begorra, before it was shut he got his head and one shoulder outside av it, so that, ye see, a trifle more ’ill do it.’
“‘Faix, and yer Reverence,’ says I, ‘you’ve lightened my heart this morning,’ and I put the money back again in my pocket.
“‘Why, what do you mean?’ says he, growing very red, for he was angry.
“‘Just this,’ says I, ‘that I’ve saved my money; for av it was my father you seen, and that he got his head and one shoulder outside the door, oh, then, by the powers,’ says I, ‘the devil a gaol or gaoler from hell to Connaught id hould him; so, Father Roach, I wish you the top of the morning,’ and I went away laughing; and from that day to this I never heard more of purgathory; and ye see, Master Charles, I think I was right.”
​Scarcely had Mike concluded when my door was suddenly burst open, and Sir Harry Boyle, without assuming any of his usual precautions respecting silence and quiet, rushed into the room. A broad grin upon his honest features, and his eyes twinkling in a way that evidently showed me something had occurred to amuse him.
“By Jove, Charley, I mustn’t keep it from you, it’s too good a thing not to tell you: do you remember that very essenced young gentleman who accompanied Sir George Dashwood from Dublin, as a kind of electioneering friend?”
“Do you mean Mr. Prettyman?”
“The very man; he was, you are aware, an under-secretary in some Government department. Well, it seems that he had come down among us poor savages, as much from motives of learned research and scientific inquiry, as though we had been South Sea Islanders; report had gifted us humble Galwagians with some very peculiar traits, and this gifted individual resolved to record them. Whether the election week might have sufficed his appetite for wonders I know not, but he was peaceably taking his departure from the West on Saturday lest, when Phil Macnamara met him and pressed him to dine that day with a few friends at his house.—You know Phil; so that when I tell you Sam Burke, of Greenmouut, and Roger Doolan were of the party, I need not say that the English traveller was not left to his own unassisted imagination for his facts; such anecdotes of our habits and customs as they crammed him with, it would appear never were heard before—nothing was too hot or too heavy for the luckless cockney, who, when not sipping his claret, was faithfully recording in his tablet the mems, for a very brilliant and very original work on Ireland.
“‘Fine country—splendid country—glorious people—gifted—brave—intelligent—but not happy—alas! Mr, Macnamara, not happy. But we don’t know you gentlemen—we dont indeed, at the other side of the channel ; our notions regarding you are far, very far from just.’
“‘I hope and trust,’ said old Burke, ‘you’ll help them to a better understanding ere long.’
“‘Such, my dear sir, will be the proudest task of my life. The facts I have heard here this evening have made so profound an impression upon me, that I burn for tho moment when I can make them known to the world at large. To think—just to think, that a portion of this beautiful island should be so steeped in poverty—that the people not only live upon the mere potatoes, but are absolutely obliged to wear the skins for raiment, as Mr. Doolan has just mentioned to me.”
“‘Which accounts for our cultivation of lumpers,’ added Mr. Doolan, ‘they being the largest species of the root, and best adapted for wearing apparel.’
“‘I should deem myself culpable, indeed I should, did I not inform my countrymen upon the real condition of this great country,’
“‘Why, after your great opportunities for judging, said Phil, ‘you ought to speak out—you’ve seen us in a way, I may fairly affirm, few Englishmen have, and heard more.’
“‘That’s it, that’s the very thing, Mr, Macnamara, I’ve looked at you more closely, I’ve watched you more narrowly, I’ve witnessed what the French call your vie intime.’
​“‘Begad you have,’ said old Burke, with a grin, ‘and profited by it to the utmost.’
“‘I’ve been a spectator of election contests—I’ve partaken of your hospitality—I’ve witnessed your popular and national sports—I’ve been present at your weddings, your fairs, your wakes; but no, I was forgetting, I never saw a wake.’
“‘Never saw a wake!’ repeated each of the company in turn, as though the gentleman was uttering a sentiment of very dubious veracity.
“‘Never,’ said Mr. Prettyman, rather abashed at this proof of his incapacity to instruct his English friends upon all matters of Irish interest.
“‘Well, then,’ said Macnamara, ‘with a blessing, we’ll show you one. Lord forbid that we shouldn’t do the honours of our poor country to an intelligent foreigner when he’s good enough to come amongst us.’
“‘Peter,’ said he, turning to the servant behind him, ‘who’s dead hereabouts?’
“‘Sorra one, yer honour, Since the scrimmage at Portumna the place is peaceable.”
“‘Who died lately, in the neighbourhood?"
“‘The Widow Macbride, yer honour.’
“‘Couldn’t they take her up again, Peter?—my friend here never saw a wake.”
“‘I’m afeerd not, for it was the boys roasted her, and she wouldn’t be a decent corpse for to show a stranger, said Peter, in a whisper.
Mr. Prettyman shuddered at these peaceful indications of the neighbourhood, and said nothing.
“‘Well, then, Peter, tel! Jemmy Divine to take the old musket in my bedroom, and go over to the Clunagh hog, he can’t go wrong, there’s twelve families there that never pay a halfpenny rent, and when it’s done, let him give notice to the neighbourhood, and we’ll have a rousing wake.’
“‘You don’t mean, Mr. Macnamara, you don’t mean to say—stammered out the cockney, with a face like ghost.
“‘I only mean to say, said Phil, laughing, ‘that you’re keeping the decanter very long at your right hand.’
“Burke contrived to interpose before the Englishman could ask any explanation of what he had just heard—and for some minutes he could only wait in impatient anxiety—when a loud report of a gun close beside the house attracted the attention of the guests—the next moment old Peter entered, his face radiant with smiles.
“‘Well, what’s that?’ said Macnamara.
“‘’Twas Jimmy, yer honour; as the evening was rainy he said he’d take one of the neighbours, and he hadn’t to go far, for Andy Moore was going home, and he brought him down at once.”
“‘Did he shoot him? anid Me Prettyman, while cold perspiration broke over his forehead. ‘Did he murder the man?’
“‘Sorra murder,’ said Poter disdainfully; ‘but why wouldn’t he shoot him when the master bid him?’
​“I needn’t tell you more, Charley; but in ten minutes after, feigning some excuse to leave the room, the terrified cockney took fight, and offering twenty guineas for a horse to convey him to Athlone, he left Galway, fully convinced ‘that they don’t yet know us on the other side of the channel.’”