Part 9

“’Tis rotten wud ammunition they are!” says he to his head-general. “Why, you might as well be at a smokin’-concert as standin’ here dhrawin’ in the fumes of their cannonadin’. I have a head on me like an accordion from the noise an’ the smoke.”

“Begor,” says the head-general, “it reminds me of a fog in the Channel, for I can’t see as far as the horse’s head.”

“I think we’ll have to dismount the horse-sogers,” says Crummle, “an’ let them have a fling at the walls, for if the second rank of fut sogers is desthroyed wud that new spaycies of war matayrial they’re heavin’ over the battlements; there’ll be no knowin’ what’ll become of us at all. Maybe ’tis a civil war ’ud break out agen me.”

As soon as the smoke cleared away the second rank of the standin’ army wor rallied by their officers, an’ they made a start to get up the walls, but Mike was just in time for ’em, an’ he gev ’em the second coorse of stirabout as hot as the first.

There wor only wan more rank of fut sogers left afther this, for every man jack of the first an’ second rank was that scalded an’ burned that he couldn’t lift a hand, let alone scale a wall or pull a thrigger; an’ Crummle was in the mischief’s own state of mind, fearin’ that the last reserve of his standin’ army ’ud kick agen makin’ a thry at the walls.

So he says to his head-general, “We’d best go down to the butt of the castle ourselves wud the mounted dhragoons to give the third rank courage to start on the attack.”

He was about to sing out the ordhers when again came a full discharge of cannon from the castle, wud more smoke an’ fire even than before.

“Begor,” says Crummle, nearly chokin’, “’tis well we’re out of rayche of that discharge, or they’d be a power of widows an’ orphans at home this day. I wondhers how it is,” says he, “that they were able to knock a hole in the van an’ not be able to rayche us wud the cannon-balls now. There’s some dodge in this, believe me.”

You see the thruth of it was there was only wan gun in the castle that could carry a shot any distance at all, and that was Mike’s own private cannon: the rest of the pieces were so much wore out that they worn’t a _thranneen_, so far as dischargin’ shot an’ shell was concarned.

None of the family of Don Isle ever thought any invadher ’ud be rash enough to thry an’ take the castle from ’em, an’ they didn’t think it worth while to ordher a new stock of cannons. Of coorse Crummle didn’t know this, an’ he thought ’twas only some dodge to dhraw him on to desthruction. However, his blood was up, an’ as soon as he got the smoke from Mike’s guns out of his throat, he ordhers the horse sojers to throt down to their comrades.

Mike Morrissey by this time was busy gettin’ ready the third an’ last coorse of stirabout, an’ thin he knew he’d have to start at the soda-wather.

Well, down rode the mounted dhragoons wud Crummle at their head, an’ ’twas as much as Mike could do to keep his hands off his private cannon an’ have a thry for to kill Crummle. “However,” says he to himself, “it wouldn’t do to miss him, an’ my hand is a thrifle unstudy now, an’ as I have only the wan shot left, I’ll resthrain meself until I gets him standin’ right undher me, an’ thin, maybe, I won’t make a cockshot of him! Now, boys,” says he, “the third rank is rallyin’ for a charge. Is the stuff on the boil?”

“It is, sir,” says the men.

“Thin, Mike wint through the manœuvres wance more, an’ for the third time the inemy was dhriven off the walls shriekin’ and bawlin’ worse even than the first two lots. Crummle had now got up close to the walls, an he dhrew up his mounted army not knowin’ what the dickens’ father to do wud ’em.”

“Even if they wor thrained circus horses,” says he, “there’d be no use in makin’ an offer to scale the walls wud ’em. I never was so much at my wits’ ends before. The only plan I can hit on,” he says to the general that had first warned him agen thryin’ to take Don Isle Castle, “is to stand here until we starves ’em out. We can’t be hungry for a spell ourselves,” says he, “for wan of the fut officers tells me this new war matayrial is good wholesome stirabout, an’ the ground is lined wud it all round the castle nearly as thick as guano on the Chinchy Islands. It must be,” says he, “that they’re run out of ammunition, or of coorse they’d be firin’ at us, so we’ll just keep a civil distance off an’ thry what hunger’ll do.”

Mike Morrissey was spyin’ down at Crummle all this time from behind a stack of chimneys, an’ though he couldn’t hear what Oliver was sayin’ to his head-general, he partly guessed that the plan they’d thry ’ud be to starve the castle out.

“If I had only a few good cannons,” says he, “an’ plenty of powdher an’ shot, I could sweep the whole army clane off the face of creation. I expect they guesses what’s the matther wud us, an’ that’s what’s makes ’em so darin’ as to ride up the last of the throops close to the walls. Well,” says Mike wud a grin, “we’ll thry what a little teetotal dhrink’ll do for ’em.”

An’ wud that he grips the neck of a soda-wather bottle in his fist, an’ twistin’ himself round an’ round as if he was “throwin’ the hammer,” he let fly the first shot at a heavy dhragoon officer.

Down dhropped the dhragoon out of his saddle wudout as much as a scream, for ’twas cracked his skull clane an’ clear Mike did.

“Holy wars!” says Crummle, who was now ridin’ about a thrifle in the rear of his throops. “Is it goin’ to shell us they are?”

An’ before he had time to collect his mind to give any ordhers down came the bottles wan afther the other like hailstones, an’ the mounted men began dhroppin’ right, left, an’ centhre.

Over a hundhred men had been killed while you’d be lookin’ about you, for Mike kept firin’ away like a steam-ingine; an’ then an officer rode up to Crummle an’ handed him wan of the bottles.

“Soda-wather!” says Crummle. “Murdher alive!” says he, “but I never heard of the like before! Hot grub first, and cowld dhrink atop of it—regular American fashion! ’Tis in disgrace I’ll be altogether if I have to rethrate out of this and write home that soda-wather licked me. I must only thry and inveigle the Countess into makin’ a thratey wud me. Run quick to the van,” says he to the officer that brought him the bottle, “an’ bring the flag of thruce back wud you. You’ll find it undher the dhriver’s sate.”

So the officer rides off, an’ Crummle stud gazin’ at the earth wud his mouth wide open like as if he was in a dhrame.

Mike Morrissey was watchin’ him all the time from behind the stack of chimneys. Poor Mike! he was fairly wore out for a spell. He was afther sendin’ off all the soda-wather, but he had the lemonade in reserve. He looked at Crummle through wan eye, and says he,—

“I’ll keep that cannon-ball here another spell, but I think I’ll thry what chance I’d have of hittin’ Crummle a clout of a bottle. ’Tis a long shot, an’ my arm is tired, but if I miss him on the skull maybe I’ll catch him on the bread-basket.”

So Mike grips the first of the lemonade bottles in his fist, an’ swings himself round for the throw. The minute he’d let go he puts the spyglass to his eye, but, begor, there was no occasion for a spyglass, for the bawl Crummle gev out of him ’ud be worth a pound a week to a railway porther.

There he sat, doubled up on his horse, wud his two hands grippin’ his stomach, an’ the screams comin’ out of him that you’d think ’twas a flock of curlews he was. “Aha!” roars Mike Morrissey. “How do you like that, my bowld warrior?”

“An’ now,” says Mike to himself, “I best let fly at him wud the cannon.”

So he rammed a charge into the gun, an’ fixed it for blowin’ the head off Crummle. He just got his wan eye travellin’ along the barrel to see that the shot ’ud carry properly, when what does he see but an officer ridin’ up to Crummle an’ handin’ him the flag of thruce. Crummle took wan hand off his stomach, and wud the other hand he began wavin’ the flag over his head, so poor Mike had to blow out his match, for he couldn’t for the life of him fire on a flag of thruce, though he felt in his heart that the inemy didn’t desarve to be thrated accordin’ to the thirty-nine articles.

“We’re be’t!” shouts Crummle, scarcely able to say the words wud the cramp in his stomach. “We’re fairly licked. What terms will you be axin’ from us to laive us rethrate in paice?”

Mike Morrissey stepped out in front of the battlements, an’ he shouts back at Crummle,—

“I must ax her ladyship what answer I’ll give you, for I’m only a sarvint. I suppose I may tell herself that you’ll repair all the damage, at any rate?”

“Of coorse,” answers Crummle. “I’ll do anything in raison.”

“Will you pay for the soda-wather?” axes Mike.

“How much a dozen is it?” says Crummle.

“I’ll ax herself that, too,” says Mike; “but am I to undherstand you’ll pay?”

“I will,” says Crummle, “but thry an’ let me off at wholesale price.”

“O, we always gives a reduction on a quantity!” says Mike, wud a grin.

“Well, like a good fellow, will you make haste an’ ax herself the lowest terms? an’ if we settles the job, as of coorse I expect we will, I suppose I may make bowld enough to thresspass on you for a hot poultice for my stomach?”

“I think we’ll go that far,” says Mike; “so stand there now, Crummle,” says he, “an’ keep wavin’ your flag until I comes back.”

Then Mike jumped down off the battlements, an’ ’twas in great glee he was. “Begor,” says he, “she can’t refuse to stand a whole gallon jar of the hard stuff afther winnin’ the battle for her, an’ if ever a man had raison to go on a spree it’s my own self afther gainin’ such a victhory.”

So he goes down to the Countess’s apartments, thinkin’ of the grand time he’d have of it laither on wud a whole gallon of malt all to himself, an’ maybe a deck of cards to play “forty-five” wud the girls.

He shoves in the door of Lady Catherine’s room, an’ there was herself pacin’ up an’ down like a sinthry.

“Well, Mike,” says she, “how is the battle goin’?”

“It’s partly over,” says he, thryin’ to break the good news to her gently, fearin’ if she heard the thruth all at wance it might give her a shock that ’ud injure her constitution.

“Over!” says she. “An’ are we murdhered?”

“Well,” says he, as if he wor only tellin’ her that to-morrow ’ud be a fine day, “we’re not quite licked yet.”

“O, don’t be standin’ there an’ stammerin’ at me,” says she, “but tell me the thruth this minute whether the news be good or bad.”

“We’ve be’t the inemy clane,” says Mike, wud a smile on him that stretched his mouth from ear to ear.

“Glory be to heaven!” says the Countess, “but that’s grand news intirely! It’s a fine man you are!” says she. “How did you manage it at all?”

“Principally,” says he, “wud soda-wather;” an’ then he up an’ he towld her the whole story.

“Wondherful!” says she, whin she had heard all about Mike’s manœuvres. “You see now, isn’t teetotal dhrink a grand thing?”

“’Tis,” says he, his jaw dhroppin’ at the words—“to throw away.”

“An’ is that the gratitude you shows to the soda-wather?” axes the Countess.

“Arrah, whisht, woman!” says he, losin’ his timper, “an’ thry an’ think of something more saisonable than your bastely teetotalism. ’Tis ever in your head it is, wakin’ an’ sleepin’!”

“How dar’ you,” says the Countess, “spake to me like that?”

“O, don’t let us be squabblin’, ma’am,” says Mike. “Poor Crummle’ll be wore out standin’ there waitin’ for your answer. An’ while you’re makin’ up your mind, would you aither give me the kays of the cellar, or ring the bell an’ ax wan of the undher-servants to fetch a gallon of malt to my private apartment?”

“Is it dhramein’ you are, Mike?” says her ladyship.

“I don’t usually dhrame standin’,” says the head-gunner.

“Maybe ’tis dhrunk you are?” says she.

“No,” says Mike; “but, plaize heaven, I _will_ be, laither on.”

“Begor,” says her ladyship, stampin’ her fut on the flure, “I never heard of such a piece of impudence in all my born days, as the manner you spakes to me in. ’Tis a maygrim in your brain you must have from swingin’ round wud them bottles.”

“That may be,” says Mike, shakin’ his head an’ lookin’ ten years ouldher, as he thought of havin’ a maygrim hove at him as his reward for desthroyin’ a whole army; “but anyhow the form the maygrim takes now is a quart pot of ale on the spot to wash down the dust in my throath, an’ the gallon of malt in due coorse. Don’t dhrive me desperate,” says he, liftin’ his hand as much as to say, “hear me out an’ no intherruptions,” an’ risin’ his voice at the same time; “or maybe you’ll regret it all the days of your life, an’ generations unborn will be handin’ your name from wan to another as an example of what faymale ingratitude can dhrive an honest man an’ a faithful sarvint to. Phew!” says he, rubbin’ his forehead as if the spayche exhausted him complately.

Lady Catherine looked at him hard, an’ for a minute her heart was touched by the airnist words that came from Mike; so she rang the bell and stud starin’ at the head-gunner wudout attemptin’ to open her lips.

A young slip of a sarvint-boy answered the Countess’s bell, an’ for wan minute her ladyship was goin’ to pass Mike’s ordher on to the boy; but she hesitated as the daymon of teetotalism tuk howld of her, an’ she whispered her insthructions into the boy’s ears.

Then she turned to Mike, an’ says she, “I’ve sint for the best dhrink on the premises for you; but I’m sadly afeard we must part afther this job wud Crummle is settled, for much as I admires you, Misther Morrissey, this cravin’ of yours for grog ’ud be only a constant source of throuble between us, an’ I hopes you’ll believe me, I’m partin’ wud you much agen my will. I’ll give you a written characther, too,” says she, seein’ that Mike didn’t offer to spake, “that’ll be sartin’ to get you a generalship in some family that are your own way of thinkin’ in regard of the drink.”

As she was sayin’ the words, the sarvint-boy enthered the room wud a grand silver mug on a grand silver thray.

“Dhrink that now, Misther Morrissey,” says she; “an’ I’ll warrant that ’twill stick to your ribs as well as wash the cobwebs out of your throath.”

Mike took the mug off the thray an’ looked at it.

“Butthermilk!” says he, dashin’ it on the flure. “This is the last sthraw,” says he, scowlin’ at the Countess for wan second. An’ thin he sthrode out of the room.

Up he rushes to the top of the battlements an’ looks down at Crummle, who was still wavin’ his flag an’ still groanin’.

“Crummle!” shouts the head-gunner.

“Ay, ay!” shouts Crummle back at him.

“Is there any whisky or bottled porther in the van?”

“Lashin’s of both,” answers Crummle; “but for the love of goodness let me dhrop the flag, for my arm is fairly wore out. I takes it,” says he, “that ye’ll give fair terms.”

“Write an ordher on the keeper of the van for whatever dhrink I requires,” says Mike, “an’ while you’re scribblin’ the words, I’ll go down an’ open the front door for you, an’ you can make your own thratey from the inside.”

“Milia murther!” shouts Crummle, forgettin’ the pain in his stomach, an’ ready to jump out of his skin wud joy. “Is it sellin’ the pass you are?”

“’Tis,” says Mike; “an’ all I’ll ax for meself is that you’ll do no hurt or harm to any one in the castle.”

“I’ll give you my word that far,” says Crummle.

“Maynin’ no offence,” says Mike, “I must have it in writin’; an’ whin you drops the thratey into the letther box I’ll open the door for you.”

“All right, my sweet fellow,” says Crummle, takin’ out his writing maytarials from the breastpocket of his jacket.

Off jumps poor Mike from the battlements an’ down the stairs he rushes headlong; an’ that night Don Isle Castle fell into Crummle’s hands, an’ ever since ’tis known as “Butthermilk Castle.”

No wan ever could tell for sartin what became of Mike Morrissey. Some said he joined the Monks of the Screw, an’ more said he turned Orangeman; but ’tis my own private belief that Crummle in ordher to get back the thratey, gev insthructions in cipher to have the dhrink poisoned for Mike, an that the poor gunner met threachery for threachery. Anyhow, I’m towld that at times his “fetch” and that of the Lady Catherine pays a visit to the top of the ruins of Don Isle; an’ whinever they’re cotched sight of, Mike’s ghost is seen to dash out of the hands of Lady Catherine’s ghost, the ghost of a mug of butthermilk; an’ thin they all vanishes wud a cry that’s a cross between the wail of a _banshee_ an’ the sound of a foghorn from a steamboat in disthress.

[Illustration: (banner) RALEIGH IN MUNSTER]

Many generations ago there appeared at the English Coort a young fellow by the name of Walther Rolly. He was a darin’ sojer an’ a darin’ navigathor, but wud all his navigatin’ an’ sogerin’ he could never keep his mind off the money. Day an’ night he was always dhramein’ of goold; an’ nothing was too hot or too heavy for him so long as there was goold at the bottom of the job. Wan minute he’d go an’ discover a new counthry out in the bowels of the unknown says, an’ another minute he’d start an’ knock the daylights out of the French army or the Spanish Armady. O! he was a darin’ man altogether an’ no mistake; but the money, as I’ve towld you, was always in his mind.

[Illustration: RALEIGH IN MUNSTER.]

Of coorse he didn’t do his thravellin’ an’ sogerin’ for nothing, but he found ’twasn’t aisy at all to make a big fortune, the Coort had so many pickin’s out of everything. Aich an’ every man in the Coort was bustin’ wud jealousy of young Walther, an’ of coorse they all used their endayvours to cut Rolly’s share down to the lowest penny whinever he brought a cargo of diamonds into port, or nabbed a threasure-ship from the King of Spain.

Well, wan day Rolly was walkin’ along the sthreets of London, turnin’ over some new plan for shovellin’ in the coin, whin what does he see but Eleezabeth, the Queen of all England, pickin’ her steps across the road!

’Twas a muddy day, an’ crossin’-sweepers, I’m towld, worn’t invinted in that time, so Rolly seein’ her Majesty’s shoes wor rather slendher in the soles, an’ that the mud was stickin’ to ’em like wax, rushes over to her, whips off his cloak, an’ axes her to make a door-mat of it. Eleezabeth just looked at him for wan minute, an’ sure enough she recognized him.

“Rolly!” says she, wipin’ her boots on the cloak.

“The same, your Majesty, at your sarvice,” says he, kneelin’ down on wan knee as if to pick up his cloak, but ralely wud the intintion of remindin’ Eleezabeth that now was her chance to make a knight of him aisy.

Her Majesty looks at him out undher the corners of her eyes, an’ it sthruck her more than ever what a handsome young chap this Rolly was, an’ begor, says she to herself, “he seems a rale Coort gintleman, an’ maybe I’m doin’ wrong in bein’ so bitther agen the men”—for you must know Queen Eleezabeth was teetotally opposed to mathrimony. All the single kings in Europe, an’ all the princes an’ lords at her own Coort ’ud be only too aiger to lade her to the althar, but she wouldn’t look at wan of ’em at any price. However, this young Rolly tuk her fancy all of a suddint, an’ she ups wud her umbrella an’ there an’ then she hits him a whack of it on the showldher, an’ says she, “Rise up, Sir Walther Rolly—an’ call a covered car for me!”

So Rolly did as he was towld, an’ he didn’t forget to pick up his cloak aither. “Send that to the wash,” says Queen Eleezabeth; “an’ I’ll see that you gets a new cloak out of the royal wardrobe, for ’twas a very gintlemanly act to spread it undher the soles of my feet.”

“All right, your Majesty,” says Rolly, openin’ the door of the covered car, an’ helpin’ her into it.

“Come up to the Coort,” says she, “afther taytime, an’ I’ll have a talk wud you about a job that I think ’ud suit you complately.”

“I will,” says Rolly, “wud the greatest of pleasure; an’ ’tis much obliged to you I am for makin’ a knight of me.”

“Don’t mintion it,” says she. An’ then the car druv off towards the Palace.

The same evenin’ Rolly dhresses himself in his Sunday clothes, an’ fixes rings all over his fingers, an’ puts into his scarf a beautiful new pin he’d snatched out of a Spanish prince’s shirt, an’ afther oilin’ his hair, and spillin’ a dhrop of scent on his han’kerchief, he starts off for the Palace an’ was shown up to the Queen’s apartments.

“Well, Sir Walther,” says Queen Eleezabeth, “I’ve been makin’ enquiries about you, an’ I’m towld you’re on the look-out for a job. Is that so?”

“It is,” says he.

“What sort of a job ’ud you like?” says she.

“Anything that’ll pay,” says he.

“Did you ever hear tell of Ireland in your thravels?” axes the Queen.

“I did, thin; but at the present moment I couldn’t give you the bearin’s of it, though if you axed where any part of Afrikay or Amerikay was, I could tell you right off the exact lie of it by the compass.”

“Sthrange,” says she, “you never ventured to Ireland!”

“I’m towld there’s no money there,” says he.

“Well, there isn’t many goold mines in it,” says the Queen, wud a laugh; “for we’ve been squeezin’ ’em purty dhry since my ancesthor, ould Henery the Second, grabbed the counthry. But wud all that,” says she, “there’s dodges of makin’ money there if you only goes the right way about it.”