Part 8

“You’ll make me a present of my own castle!” says the Countess. “Well, don’t be talkin’, but you have the impudence of the ould boy! Look here, Crummle,” says she, fairly losin’ her timper, “if you don’t gallop away this minute, I’ll give you a little cowld lead to break your fast on.”

“Lead, is it!” says Crummle, wavin’ his flag.

“Yes,” says she, “an’ I can tell you that though I’m agen breakin’ the rules I’ll disregard your flag of thruce, for no dacent woman ought to have mercy on a thraithor.”

Begor, Crummle turned as white as the big starched collar he wore round his neck at the word “thraithor,” for ’tis right well he knew he was afther cuttin’ off a king’s head, and between anger an’ dhread he lost conthrol of himself for the minute.

“I gev you the offer,” says he, “but now I withdhraws it, an’ shot an’ shell is the medicine I’ll ordher you for your conthrariness.”

“Two can play at that game,” says the Countess, seein’ that her words wor bitin’ like pizened daggers into Crummle, “an’ I have a grand docthor intirely in my head gunner. He’ll feel your pulse for you, I’ll warrant.”

“Well,” says Crummle, puttin’ his pride in his pocket for the instant, “I’ll give you the offer wance more, an’ if you don’t take it,” says he, pointin’ over his showldher wud his flag of thruce, “I’ll thrate you, mark my words, like I’ve thrated your cousins over beyant there.”

“How was that?” says the Countess aigerly, for she hadn’t heard any news about her relations for a week or more, and Crummle’s words sent a cowld thrill through her.

“I’m afther murdherin’ every blessed wan of ’em,” says Crummle.

Begor, when the Countess heard this, she set up a screech, an’ Crummle knew he was afther puttin’ his fut in it by tellin’ her the news, so cursin’ his runaway tongue he dug his spurs into his horse an’ galloped off, thinkin’ every minute ’tis a box of a bullet he’d get in the back.

“Murdher alive!” says he to himself, “but ’tis all up wud my sthrategy now. I must only make a bowld dash of it, an’ if I can’t take the castle by storm I’ll do my best to starve the garrison out.”

Just as Crummle started off, Lady Catherine rushed up to the battlements, where she knew she’d find her head gunner.

“Mike!” says she, tearin’ her hair. “Did you hear that?”

“I did,” says he; “an’ ’twas only waitin’ for the word from yerself I was to open fire on him.”

“We couldn’t hit him, you know, Mick,” says she, “on account of his flag of thruce, for that’s agen the thirty-nine articles of war.”

“I know that,” says Mike; “but in spite of all the rules and regulations, if you only said the words in time I’d have let fly the biggest cannon-ball on the premises at the dirty rapscallion.”

“It’s a pity you waited for ordhers,” says she.

“I wouldn’t,” says Mike, “only I knew how hard you wor on any one in your employ breakin’ the thirty-nine articles, an’ firin’ wudout ordhers is even worse than disregardin’ a flag of thruce, accordin’ to Cocker.”

“Well, now,” says the Countess, “I’ll give you my ordhers fair an’ square.”

“I’m all attintion,” says Mike, touchin’ his cap.

“Crummle—oh, the dirty ruffian!” says she. “I can scarcely mention his name wudout gettin’ a taste in my mouth.”

“I don’t wondher at that,” says Mike; “but have heart, my lady. We’ll give him a dose that he won’t recover from in a hurry. There’s no time to lose, however, ma’am,” says he, “so the sooner you give your commands, the sooner I’ll be able to make preparations accordin’ly.”

“You’re a dutiful man, Mike,” says the Lady Catherine. “Crummle’s sure to bring his throops up undher the walls this very day, an’ my ordhers are first and foremost to keep firin’ at him until the guns are red-hot.”

“That won’t be long, I fear,” says Mike, intherruptin’ her, “for most of ’em is as thin as the plates of a cargo steamer.”

“You can only do your best,” says she; “an’ while they’re coolin’ you have free permission from me to pour boilin’ wather, and melted butther, an’ red-hot nails, an’ hot stirabout, an’ any mortial thing you can think of, down atop of the sogers, for I’ll not thrate the scoundhrels any longer accordin’ to the thirty-nine articles.”

“I’ll prepare to carry out your ordhers to the best of my judgment,” says Mike. “An’ now, ma’am,” says he, “I’m afeard you’ll be catchin’ cowld on the battlements, an’, maynin’ no offence, you’re dhressed light for such a dhraughty spot as this.”

“You’re right, Mike,” says she, shruggin’ her showldhers; “but sure it went out of my head complately that I hadn’t the ordinary complement of clothes on me. I hopes you’ll excuse me.”

“Don’t mintion it, ma’am,” says he. “To tell you the truth” (for Mike was fond of a joke), says he, puttin’ his hand on a barrow-load of ammunition, “I thought you mistook this for a ball-room.”

“’Tis a dhroll man you are,” says she, laughin’ back at the head gunner; an’ wud that she thripped down the stairs like a grasshopper to her dhressin’-room.

Then Mike Morrissey set to work. He got the guns charged wud powdher to the muzzles, an’ he lit a big fire on the top of the battlements, an’ planted a great three-legged iron pot atop of the fire. An’ afther that he ordhered the cook to come up from the kitchen an’ look afther the boilin’ of the ingraydients to heave down on the inemy.

When the cook an’ himself had everything in full swing, Mike says to her, quite innocent-like,—

“Bridget, _alanna_! will you go down to the misth’ess an’ ax her for the kays of the cellar?”

“You know well, Mike,” says the cook, “that to ax Lady Catherine that same would be as much as my place ’ud be worth!”

“Bad luck to it!” says Mike. “I think ye’re all in laygue wud her to keep me from my rights, an’ if a dhrop in raison isn’t wan of my rights, I dunno what is. Go on now, Bridget,” says he, puttin’ his hand tindherly on her showldher. “Sure if you only thried you cud coax herself out of the kays, or maybe get a howld of ’em unbeknownst to her?”

“’Deed an’ I won’t thry for to do anything of the sort, Mike Morrissey,” says Bridget, tossin’ her head; “an’ ’tis surprised at you I am to ax me to do the like.”

“An’ what in the name of mischief am I to do for a pint now an’ again while the inemy is undher the walls?”

“There’s lashin’s of soda-wather and lemonade in the lardher,” says the cook.

“Is there?” says Mike in a jeerin’ voice; “an’ do you think I’d desthroy my inside wud soda-wather an’ lemonade to plaze the whims of a parcel of conthrairey women? Stop!” says he, an idaya sthrikin’ him. “How many bottles of this hogwash are below?”

“Twelve dozen of aich,” says the cook.

“Bring the lot up here,” says Mike.

“Man alive!” says she, “sure you’re not goin’ to swally the contints of twenty-four dozen bottles! Is it a gas-retort you thinks you are?”

“Ax me no questhions, and I’ll tell you no lies,” says the head gunner. “But do my biddin’, Bridget, for I’m first in command now, afther herself, of coorse; an’ committin’ mutiny is a sayrious offence agen the articles of war.”

“Are we undher martial law now?” axes the cook.

“We are,” says Mike; “an’ though ’twould give me a great turn to do the like, maybe ’tis dhrive me to suspend you by the habeas corpus you would; so you’d best look alive about that twenty-four dozen, Bridget, my darlin’.”

Begor, the poor cook ran down the stairs before the last words were well out of Mike’s mouth, an’ Mike walked up an’ down the battlements as grand as if he wor a lance-corporal of militia. There was a smile on the corners of his mouth, too, an’ says he to himself, “That’ll kill two birds wud the wan stone. Twenty-four dozen makes two hundhred an’ eighty-eight by the multiplication table, or I’m no scholard; an’ I’m able to break the cup at Aunt Sally two times out of three at the long range. Now, standin’ up here, ’twill go hard if I can’t do as well as that at the inemy, for ’tis nearly right undher me they’ll be. That’ll be nigh on to two hundhred skulls I ought to crack wud the bottles. An’ the best of the joke,” laughs Mike, “will be that ’twill exhaust all the teetotal dhrink in the castle, an’ nothing will be left but the rale Simon Pure that’s locked up in the cellar, so Lady Catherine will have to fork out the kays when the fun wud Crummle is over.”

It wasn’t long until all the faymale sarvints in the place—an’ ’twas a great sighth of ’em there was, too—were mountin’ the stairs to the battlements wud the soda-wather an’ lemonade. Mike showed the girls where to pile the bottles, an’ then he dismissed ’em, cook an’ all; “for,” says he, “it won’t do to have me disthracted wud petticoats when the heat of the work is on me, an’ besides,” says he, winkin’ at the girls, “though I know ye’d like to keep me company here, and though I’d sooner be gazin’ at yer purty figures than at the grandest cannon-piece ever forged, still we have our duty to perform to our employer, an’ there ’ud be a hundhred times more danger from the inemy if they caught a glimpse of ye up here, for ’tis death on the women Crummle an’ his sogers are, an’ they’d go through fire an’ soda-wather,” says he, “to massacray ye.”

As soon as he got rid of the women, who wor all in love wud Mike for his bein’ such an iligant spayker, the head-gunner thought he’d pay wan last visit round the castle walls, an’ see that everything was snug an’ tidy.

He found all the study, thrained men ready at their guns, an’ a whole pile of ’em that had no guns to ’tend wor exercisin’ themselves in various ways. Some of ’em wor hard at it wud the gloves, an’ more of ’em wor sparrin’ in airnest wud their shut fists; some of ’em wor fencin’ wud swoords; an’ more wor busy wud the bay’net dhrill.

But wan thing the head-gunner saw on his rounds didn’t plaize him at all, at all. He found a handful of lazy chaps playin’ hide-an’-go-seek wud some of the flighty girls out of the churnin’ department.

Whin they heard Mike Morrissey’s thread along the corridors, they forewent the game, an’ purtended to be havin’ a sham battle wud the inemy. Of coorse Mike twigged what the play-boys wor ralely doin’, so afther ordherin’ the women to the lower raygions, he gathered all the men, good an’ bad, together, an’ says he,—

“’Tis fine warriors ye are intirely. I’ll have a leather medal sthruck for the whole ridg’ment of sham-fighters. An’ now,” says he, “as ye’ve proved yerselves so fond of warfare that ye must be sham-battlin’ before even Crummle’s van gets over the brow of yondher hill, I’ll see ye gets the merit due to ye for bravery and industhry. Now,” says Mike, “let every warrior that took part in the raycent sham-battle wud the faymales stand out in the middle of the flure here an’ howld up his hand.”

Every wan of the _omadhauns_ that was larkin’ wud the girls rushed from all sides into the middle of the flure at Mike’s words, an’ ’tis a lazy lot of bla’guards they wor, too, but of coorse they worn’t beyond takin’ a reward, whether they desarved it or no.

“My brave an’ thrusted warriors,” says Mike, “let every mother’s son of ye march sthraight up to the top of the battlements at the word of command, an’ ye’ll larn there what rale warfare manes, an’ what a dirthy thrick it was to be playin’ children’s games whin ye thought my back was turned. Now, warriors,” says he, “go where glory waits ye. Quick march, up to the top, where ye’ll have full opportunity of playin’ hide-an’-go-seek wud the inemy’s shot an’ shell.”

Begor, ’twas a sighth to see the long faces of the lazy brigade whin they larned what their reward was to be; an’ every man, from the slathers that worked on the roof in time of peace to the shoe-blacks on the flure of the kitchen, felt that he had a supayrior general in the head-gunner, an’ that there was no use in thrying to desayve him or mislade him.

Whin Lady Catherine heard how Mike Morrissey had sarved the play-boys by sindin’ them to the most exposed an’ dangerous part of the buildin’, she was in great glee.

“Ah!” says she, to the parlour-maid who brought her the news, “sure I always towld ye there was the makin’s of a Bonyparte in Mike. I’d back him agen all the Emperors of the Rooshias if he’d only become a teetotaller; but ’tis my private belief,” says she, “that he’d dhrink a brewery dhry if he came across wan on the road to the campaign, an’ of coorse there ’ud be no hope for a general that ’ud dhrink as hard as that.”

“I suppose not, your ladyship,” says the parlour-maid; “but Mike, I think, isn’t as fond of the hard stuff as yerself makes him out to be.”

“You don’t know him as well as I do, my girl,” says the Countess. “I gives him only very bare wages, an’ it isn’t out of stinginess I don’t rise his salary, but I know by his eye that the want of the money is the only thing keeps him from makin’ a baste of himself daily. Much as he’s attached to the family, I’d lay a wager he’d sell the pass on us all if he wor ralely bent on a spree, and couldn’t get a dhrink except by threachery.”

“I’m surprised to hear you spake like that of him,” says the parlour-maid, who had a sthrong regard for the head-gunner; “an’ sure, ma’am, if that’s the case,” says the girl, “wouldn’t it be betther to take temptation out of his road, an’ give him the run of the cellar when he’s inclined that way?”

“I’d die rather than give in to dhrink,” says the Countess. “All my ancesthors died in the horrors, an’ I’ve detarmined I’ll be the first of the family that ever made a stand-up fight agen the daymon of dhrink.”

Just as the Countess got the words out of her, in walks Mike Morrissey.

“I came to inform you,” says he, bowin’ to her ladyship, “that the inemy has hove in sighth. Their van was just sthrugglin’ over the brow of the hill beyant whin I rushed down to give you the first news.”

“Did you notice, Mike,” axes the Countess, “if it was a hired van?”

“Well, I partly guess that it isn’t,” says Mike; “for it have ‘Oliver Crummle’ chalked in big letthers on the side of it. I seen ’em through the telescope.”

“Then he manes business,” says the Countess; “because if it wor only just a detachment of his throops he was sendin’ here, he’d hire a van by the hour, but sendin’ his own private van proves that the flower of his army is follyin’ up behind.”

“Begor, your ladyship shows great knowledge intirely of the art of war. Do you think, ma’am, that Crummle himself is in the van?” axes Mike.

“I doubts it,” says the Countess. “Kings as a rule rides in the van when they’re goin’ to the battle-field, but Crummle bein’ so hard agen kings isn’t likely to do as royalty does. However,” says she, “it won’t be any harm to send a few shots into the body of the van as soon as it comes wudin range. If ’twill do us no good, ’twill do us no harm.”

“I will, ma’am,” says Mike. “An’ now,” says he, “I must go to my perch on the battlements, an’ I won’t bother you again until the siege is over. You’d betther make the shutthers fast,” says he, “before the row begins. I lined ’em with sheet iron yesterday, an’ if you stretches a confedherate blanket across ’em you’ll be as safe an’ as comfortable here as if the battle was forty mile off.”

An’ wud that Mike wint out of the Lady Catherine’s apartments and got up to the top of the battlements again, three steps at a time.

“Is the stirabout on the boil?” says he to the boys that wor standin’ round the pot.

“’Tis at a white heat, sir,” says they.

“Well, keep it to that,” says he, “and when the time comes, I’ll tell ye how to manœuvre wud it.”

There was only wan gun fixed on the top of the battlements, an’ of coorse Mike tuk charge of this himself. There wasn’t much more than a few rounds of powdher an’ shot for aich of the cannons; but Mike knew how to nurse what little ammunition he had, an’ indeed he depinded more on the situation of the castle, an’ on the dodges he had in his mind, than on perishable articles like lead an’ gunpowther.

“Of coorse I know,” says he to himself, “we must cut a dash wud the cannons in the start, or Crummle might get it into his head ’twas a purty aisy job to knock the daylights out of us, but my private belief is that the turnin’ point of the sthruggle will be whin I’m pourin’ the hot stirabout on the sogers an’ peltin’ ’em wud the bottles. Naaturally they’ll think we’re keepin’ the ord’nery ingraydients of warfare in reserve, an’ are only havin’ a play wud ’em in the start. An’ now,” says he, “to send the first box of a shot into ould Crummle’s van!”

So wud that he shut wan eye an’ gauged the lie of the gun wud the other, an’ thin he struck a match and laid it on the touchhole. As soon as the smoke cleared away, he puts his spyglass on top of the copin’ of the battlements an’ takes a look at the van, an’ sure enough ’twas a good offer he made at it, for there was a big roundy hole right in the centre of the van, that you cud see the daylight at the other side through.

“If Oliver is there,” says Mike, wud a grin, “I’d lay a wager his insurance policy is purty near due.”

By this time there was a great sighth of sogers on horseback and on fut, marchin’ down the hill which faced the aist side of the Castle at full speed. They wor all in the rear of the van a good bit, an’ Crummle himself on a black charger was headin’ ’em.

“Halt awhile,” says he at the top of his voice, when he saw Mike Morrissey’s shot go clane through the van. “This is the divil’s own start intirely, boys,” says he, “to have the van complately disabled at the first shot from the Castle! Maybe it sthrikes ye now how much better I am than any of these bosthoons of kings ye’ve been strugglin’ undher for ages. If I stuck to their custom of ridin’ in the van, look at the fix ye’d all be in! for of coorse I’d be knocked into minced meat by this, an’ ye’d have to rethrate in disordher wudout gettin’ even a chance of wipin’ the inemy off the face of the earth. Now, before a panic saizes ye at the disasther to the van, let all of ye that are on fut take a good mouthful of fresh air into yer lungs, an’ as soon as I gives ye the word make wan rush down the hill an’ surround the castle on all sides. I’ll keep the horse-sogers around me here for a body-guard. There’s no use in wastin’ powdher and shot on the walls, but thry yer livin’ best to scramble up the sides, an’ I’ll give a hundhred pound to whoever brings me the head of that insultin’ virago of a woman that owns the place, an’ fifty pound for the head of the gunner that desthroyed my new van. Now boys, I’ll say no more. Ye’re thrained men, an’ ye all knows yer work, an’ so I’ll merely conclude by actin’ accordin’ to the ordinary rules an’ regulations of war, an’ readin’ the Riot Act, an’ of coorse ye know that manes ye’re to give no quarther.”

So Crummle takes a roll of paper out of his pocket an’ he read out the Riot Act, an’ the moment he came to the last word, the standin’ army sets up a shout an’ rushes down the hill headlong.

Mike Morrissey was watchin’ all the manœuvres of Crummle through his spyglass.

“It’s just playin’ into my hands they are,” says he, “an’ I’ll change my original tactics to suit their convaynience. I suppose he’s afther tellin’ ’em not to throw away their ammunition by firin’ it at Don Isle Castle, an’ that their only chance is to board us in the regular ould pirate style. ’Tis aisier said than done though,” says Mike, wud a chuckle, “an’ I’ll give ’em some saysonin’ in their soup when they starts at thryin’ to scramble up the walls.”

“Did ye get the fire-buckets ready, boys?” says he, turnin’ to the contingent round the big iron pot.

“We did, sir,” says they.

“An’ are ye prepared now to pass the buckets along an’ to keep up the steam until I counthermands ye?”

“We are, sir,” says they.

“Very well,” says Mike. “They’re purty nearly at the walls now, so look alive with the buckets. You know how I insthructed ye to conduct yerselfs, an’ if ye wants to rethreive yer lost honour, ye’ll carry out my ordhers to the letther.”

“We will, sir,” says they.

“Ready!” says Mike; an’ at the word the first bucket of hot stirabout was filled.

“Presint!” says Mike; an’ aich man passed the bucket along to a neighbour until it rayched the farthermost corner of the battlements of the castle.

Mike went on, “Ready—Presintin’” until every warrior in the castle had a bucketful of red-hot stirabout, an’ by that time the sogers below wor startin’ to scramble up the walls.

“Fire!” says Mike, wud a shout like the screech of a railway thrain; an’ from all sides an’ quarthers of the castle a hailstorm of hot stirabout was discharged atop of the red-coats below.

Such screamin’ an’ bawlin’ you never heard in your life before as came from the army at the fut of the castle! Down they dhropped from the foundations like youngsthers caught robbin’ an orchard, an’ there they lay rowlin’ an’ writhin’ an’ yellin’ in the thrench at the bottom of the castle.

“Now,” says Mike, “that’s breakfast! an’ while we’re gettin’ lunch ready for the second rank that’ll attack us, let wan of ye run along the battlements an’ give ordhers to have all the guns discharged simultaneous, an’ while the smoke is thick we’ll prepare the second coorse of stirabout.”

So the guns in the castle wor fired, an’ the racket they made nearly drove Crummle out of his mind.