Castle Richmond by Anthony Trollope (best memoirs of all time txt) 📕

his own. Your coachman will have no objection to turn the mangle, but heaven and earth put together won't persuade him to take the horses out to exercise every morning at the same hour. These men had been told to come early, and they had been there on the road-side since five o'clock. It was not surprising that they were cold and hungry, listless and unhappy.

And then, as young Fitzgerald was questioning the so-named gangmen as to the instructions they had received, a jaunting car came up to the foot of the hill. "We war to wait for the ongineer," Shawn Brady had said, "an' shure an' we have waited." "An' here's one of Misther Carroll's cars from Mallow," said Thady Molloy, "and that's the ongineer hisself." Thady Molloy was right; this was the engineer himself, who had now arrived from Mallow. From this time forth, and for the next twelve months, the country was full of engineers, or of men who were so called. I do not say this in disparagement; but the engineers were like the yellow meal. When there is an immense demand, and that a suddenly immense demand, for any article, it is seldom easy to get it very good. In those days men became engineers with a short amount of apprenticeship, but, as a rule, they did not do their work badly. In such days as those, men, if they be men at all, will put their shoulders to the wheel.

The engineer was driven up to where they were standing, and he jumped off the car among the men who were to work under him with rather a pretentious air. He had not observed, or probably had not known, Herbert Fitzgerald. He was a very young fellow, still under one-and-twenty, beardless, light-haired, blue-eyed, and fresh from England. "And what hill is this?" said he to the driver.

"Ballydahan, shure, yer honer. That last war Connick-a-coppul, and that other, the big un intirely, where the crass road takes away to Buttevant, that was Glounthauneroughtymore. Faix and that's been the murthering hill for cattle since first I knew it. Bedad yer honer 'll make it smooth as a bowling-green."

"Ballydahan," said the young man, taking a paper out of his pocket and looking up the names in his list, "I've got it. There should be thirty-seven of them here."

"Shure an' here we are these siven hours," said our friend of the hoe, "and mighty cowld we are."

"Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady," called out the engineer, managing thoroughly to Anglicise the pronunciation of the names, though they were not Celtically composite to any great degree.

"Yez, we's here," said Thady, coming forward. And then Herbert came up and introduced himself, and the young engineer took off his hat. "I came away from Mallow before eight," said he apologetically; "but I have four of these places to look after, and when one gets to one of them it is impossible to get away again. There was one place where I was kept two hours before I could get one of the men to understand what they were to do. What is it you call that big hill?"

"Glounthauneroughtymore, yer honer," said the driver, to whom the name was as easy and familiar as his own.

"And you are going to set these men to work now?" said Herbert.

"Well, I don't suppose they'll do much to-day, Mr. Fitzgerald. But I must try and explain to the head men how they are to begin. They have none of them any tools, you see." And then he called out again. "Thady Molloy and Shawn Brady."

"We's here," said Thady again; "we did not exactly know whether yer honer'd be afther beginning at the top or the botthom. That's all that war staying us."

"Never fear," said Shawn, "but we'll have ould Ballydahan level in less than no time. We're the boys that can do it, fair and aisy."

It appeared to Herbert that the young engineer seemed to be rather bewildered by the job of work before him, and therefore he rode on, not stopping to embarrass him by any inspection of his work. In process of time no doubt so much of the top of Ballydahan Hill was carried to the bottom as made the whole road altogether impassable for many months. But the great object was gained; the men were fed, and were not fed by charity. What did it matter, that the springs of every conveyance in the county Cork were shattered by the process, and that the works resulted in myriads of wheelbarrows?

And then, as he rode on towards Gortnaclough, Herbert was overtaken by his friend the parson, who was also going to the meeting of the relief committee. "You have not seen the men at Ballydahan Hill, have you?" said Herbert.

Mr. Townsend explained that he had not seen them. His road had struck on to that on which they now were not far from the top of the hill. "But I knew they were to be there this morning," said Mr. Townsend.

"They have sent quite a lad of a fellow to show them how to work," said Herbert. "I fear we shall all come to grief with these road-cuttings."

"For heaven's sake don't say that at the meeting," said Mr. Townsend, "or you'll be playing the priests' game out and out. Father Barney has done all in his power to prevent the works."

"But what if Father Barney be right?" said Herbert.

"But he's not right," said the parson, energetically. "He's altogether wrong. I never knew one of them right in my life yet in anything. How can they be right?"

"But I think you are mixing up road-making and Church doctrine, Mr. Townsend."

"I hope I may never be in danger of mixing up God and the devil. You cannot touch pitch and not be defiled. Remember that, Herbert Fitzgerald."

"I will remember nothing of the kind," said Herbert. "Am I to set myself up as a judge and say that this is pitch and that is pitch? Do you remember St. Peter on the housetop? Was not he afraid of what was unclean?"

"The meaning of that was that he was to convert the Gentiles, and not give way to their errors. He was to contend with them and not give way an inch till he had driven them from their idolatry." Mr. Townsend had been specially primed by his wife that morning with vigorous hostility against Father Barney, and was grieved to his heart at finding that his young friend was prepared to take the priest's part in anything. In this matter of the roads Mr. Townsend was doubtless right, but hardly on the score of the arguments assigned by him.

"I don't mean to say that there should be no road-making," said Herbert, after a pause. "The general opinion seems to be that we can't do better. I only say that we shall come to grief about it. Those poor fellows there have as much idea of cutting down a hill as I have; and it seems to me that the young lad whom I left with them has not much more."

"They'll learn all in good time."

"Let us hope it will be in good time."

"If we once let them have the idea that we are to feed them in idleness," said Mr. Townsend, "they will want to go on for ever in the same way. And then, when they receive such immense sums in money wages, the priests will be sure to get their share. If the matter had been left to me, I would have paid the men in meal. I would never have given them money. They should have worked and got their food. The priest will get a penny out of every shilling; you'll see else." And so the matter was discussed between them as they went along to Gortnaclough.

When they reached the room in which the committee was held they found Mr. Somers already in the chair. Priest McCarthy was there also, with his coadjutor, the Rev. Columb Creagh—Father Columb as he was always called; and there was a Mr. O'Leary from Boherbuy, one of the middlemen as they were formerly named,—though by the way I never knew that word to be current in Ireland; it is familiar to all, and was I suppose common some few years since, but I never heard the peasants calling such persons by that title. He was one of those with whom the present times were likely to go very hard. He was not a bad man, unless in so far as this, that he had no idea of owing any duty to others beyond himself and his family. His doctrine at present amounted to this, that if you left the people alone and gave them no false hopes, they would contrive to live somehow. He believed in a good deal, but he had no belief whatever in starvation,—none as yet. It was probable enough that some belief in this might come to him now before long. There were also one or two others; men who had some stake in the country, but men who hadn't a tithe of the interest possessed by Sir Thomas Fitzgerald.

Mr. Townsend again went through the ceremony of shaking hands with his reverend brethren, and, on this occasion, did not seem to be much the worse for it. Indeed, in looking at the two men cursorily a stranger might have said that the condescension was all on the other side. Mr. M'Carthy was dressed quite smartly. His black clothes were spruce and glossy; his gloves, of which he still kept on one and showed the other, were quite new; he was clean shaven, and altogether he had a shiny, bright, ebon appearance about him that quite did a credit to his side of the church. But our friend the parson was discreditably shabby. His clothes were all brown, his white neck-tie could hardly have been clean during the last forty-eight hours, and was tied in a knot, which had worked itself nearly round to his ear as he had sat sideways on the car; his boots were ugly and badly brushed, and his hat was very little better than some of those worn by the workmen—so called—at Ballydahan Hill. But, nevertheless, on looking accurately into the faces of both, one might see which man was the better nurtured and the better born. That operation with the sow's ear is, one may say, seldom successful with the first generation.

"A beautiful morning, this," said the coadjutor, addressing Herbert Fitzgerald, with a very mild voice and an unutterable look of friendship; as though he might have said, "Here we are in a boat together, and of course we are all very fond of each other." To tell the truth, Father Columb was not a nice-looking young man. He was red-haired, slightly marked with the small-pox, and had a low forehead and cunning eyes.

"Yes, it is, a nice morning," said Herbert. "We don't expect anybody else here, do we, Somers?"

"At any rate we won't wait," said Somers. So he sat down in the arm-chair, and they all went to work.

"I am afraid, Mr. Somers," said Mr. M'Carthy from the other end of the table, where he had constituted himself a sort of deputy chairman, "I am afraid we are going on a wrong tack." The priest had shuffled away his chair as he began to speak, and was now standing with his hands upon the table. It is singular how strong a propensity some men have to get upon their legs in this way.

"How so, Mr. M'Carthy?" said Somers. "But shan't we be all more comfortable if we keep our chairs? There'll be less ceremony, won't there, Mr. Townsend?"

"Oh! certainly," said Townsend.

"Less liable to interruption, perhaps, on our legs," said Father Columb, smiling blandly.

But Mr. M'Carthy was far too wise to fight the question, so he sat down. "Just as you like," said he; "I can talk any way, sitting or standing, walking or riding; it's all one to me. But I'll tell you how we are on the wrong tack. We shall never get these men to work in gangs on the road. Never. They have not been accustomed to be driven like droves of sheep."

"But droves of sheep don't work on the road," said Mr. Townsend.

"I know that, Mr. Townsend," continued Mr. M'Carthy. "I am quite well aware of that. But droves of sheep are driven, and these men won't bear it."

"'Deed an' they won't," said Father Columb, having altogether laid aside his bland smile now that the time had come, as he thought, to speak up for the people. "They may bear it in England, but they won't here." And the sternness of his eye was almost invincible.

"If they are so foolish, they must be taught better manners," said Mr. Townsend. "But you'll find they'll work just as other men do—look at the navvies."

"And look at the navvies' wages," said