Chapter IV: Part 4

“The laiste said about that the betther,” says Mike; “for what use ’ud more wages be to me if I couldn’t enjoy meself in my own way?”

“Well, ’tis an obsthinate craychur you are,” says the Countess; “but ’tis only for your good I’m spaykin’, Mike.”

“I know that, ma’am,” says he; “an’ ’tis much obliged to you I am for the intherest you takes in me. An’ now if your ladyship would folly my advice I’d recommend you to take a lie down until mornin’, for it wouldn’t surprise me to see the sogers in the valley before we’re a day ouldher, an’ the deuce a much sleep you can expect to get while we’re firin’ the guns at the inemy.”

“All right, Mike!” says she. “I’ll retire airly to-night, an’ have a good long stretch.”

“Well, pleasant dhrames to you, ma’am!” says Mike, bowin’ down to the ground. “An’ depind yer life on me!”

Next mornin’, soon afther the break of day, the Countess was awoke out of her sleep by the sound of a thrumpet, so up she jumps an’ puts her head out of the bedroom windy.

Down in the valley under the castle walls, she sees a man on horseback wavin’ a flag of thruce, an’ at once Lady Catherine made up her mind this was an ambassadhor from Crummle himself.

The horseman didn’t see her for a spell, an’ begor, he nearly burst his _giddawn_ blowin’ blasts out of his bugle. The Countess, seein’ at last that he’d exhausted all his spare win’, gev a shout at him,—

“Did you think ’tis deaf we wor here?” says she. “What’s your business, my man?”

“Is the Countess of Don Isle at home?” says the horseman, scarcely able to make his voice rayche the castle windy, he was so hoarse from screechin’ into the thrumpet.

“She is,” says the Countess. “I’m the party in questhion, an’ who may you be, my cock-crowin’ galivanther?”

“My name is Crummle,” says the horseman; “an’ I’m glad to find ’tis your own sweet self I have the pleasure of addhressin’, Lady Catherine, my jewel.”

“I’ve heard tell of you,” says the Countess, “an’ by all accounts ’tis a dirty ruffian you are.”

“You’re not over civil, anyhow, in your spayche,” says Crummle, his cheeks gettin’ as red as a turkey-cock’s comb at the words of her ladyship. However he didn’t purtend to be offended, for the more he looked at the castle the more he made up his mind that it was only by palaver or sthrategy it could be taken.

“This is a fine hardy-lookin’ buildin’,” says he.

“’Tis,” says she. “I’m glad you admires it.”

“An’ yerself is a fine, wholesome-lookin’ faymale,” says he; “an’ only I’m a married man, maybe ’tis make you an offer of my own self I would.”

“Look here,” says she; “I want none of your soft sawdher. If you have anything to say to me on business, say it at wance.”

“Well, to tell you the thruth,” says Crummle, “I’m gettin’ sick an’ tired of all this murdher an’ bloodshed, an’ I’m come to offer you terms.”

“Terms!” says she. “What do you mane by that, you insultin’ ignoramus?”

“Well,” says he, “wan of my head generals has taken a great fancy to yerself an’ the castle. He’s a fine iligant man, an’ a rank teetotaller, an’ I’m towld you’re given that way yerself. Now, if you consints to marryin’ him, I’ll make the pair of ye a present of the place, an’ I’ll rethrate wud my throops wudout firin’ wan solithary box of a shot at you.”

“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.

“’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.

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.

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.”

“I hear ’tis an onsettled sort of a place,” says Rolly.

“’Tis,” says the Queen; “an’ that’s what I’m dhrivin’ at just now. You’re not particular what you do?” says she.

“No, thin,” says he. “I’m a purty hard case by this, an’ if it’s murdher you mane, I’m the boy for flourishin’ the swoord.”

“Well,” says the Queen, “I didn’t exactly mane that whin I axed you the questhion. Are you too proud to go into thrade!”

“’Deed, thin, I’m not,” says Rolly; “an’ if it’s the bacon thrade you mane,” says he, “which I’ve heard tell is the main stay of Ireland, I’m not at all averse to goin’ into the pig line, on a royal licence.”

“No,” says the Queen. “That’s too paceful a thrade for me.”

“An’ what is it you’re dhrivin’ at?” axes Rolly, seein’ that her Majesty was seemin’ly afeard to come out straight off wud her plan. “I towld you nothing was out of my line so long as I could see money at the end of it.”

“Very well,” says the Queen. “I’ll put my plans before you. I’m advised that very little ’ud rise a rebellion agen me in Munsther, so if you likes to go over an’ stir up the craychurs there, you’d have no throuble in slaughtherin’ ’em.”

“An’ I suppose,” says Rolly, intherruptin’ her Majesty, “you’d give me so much a head for the job—but where does the thrade come in?”

“You’re runnin’ away wud the story,” says she. “You see this is how it is. I’ve lately come to the conclusion that it’s dangerous to go on slaughtherin’ the Irish wudout buryin’ ’em aftherwards. A pestilence is like enough to break out, an’ maybe a sthrong westherly win’ ’ud carry that same over into this counthry; so my idaya is to put all the corpses into coffins, an’ bury ’em dacently. Now this is what I’m goin’ to offer you, so pay attention, Rolly,” says the Queen.

“I’m doin’ that,” says he, dhrawin’ his eyebrows very hard together.

“Go over to Munsther,” says she, “an’ I’ll make you a prisent of forty thousand acres of land.”

“What’s on the land?” axes Rolly.

“Tember,” says she. “Fine hardy threes, I’m towld. Now if you starts the Irish into a lively rebellion in your disthrict, you can set up a facthory an’ do the undhertakin’ wholesale, for I wouldn’t ax a knight to do it by retail.”

“I see,” says he, grinnin’. “A nod is as good as a wink to a blind horse, ma’am. An’ so it’s an undhertaker you wants to make of me?”