At the time in which the events that we have undertaken to record took place, there stood at the southern extremity of the city, near the point at which Camden Street now terminates, a small, old-fashioned building, something between an ale-house and an inn. It occupied the roadside by no means unpicturesquely; one gable jutted into the road, with a
‘Here, Tony, boy,’ whispered the man, as the innkeeper approached, ‘fetch us a pint of Hollands, a couple of pipes, and a glim; but first turn the key in this door here, and come yourself, do ye mind?’
Tony squeezed the speaker's arm in token of acquiescence, and turning a key gently in the lock, he noiselessly opened
Scarcely had he drawn back again into the room, when Tony returned with the refreshments which the gentleman had ordered, and with a dark lantern enclosing a lighted candle.
‘Right, old cove,’ said Bill. ‘I see you hav'n't forgot the trick of the trade. Who are your pals inside?’
‘Three of them sleep here to-night,’ replied Tony. ‘They're all quiet coves enough, such as doesn't hear nor see any more than they ought.’
The two fellows filled a pipe each, and lighted them at the lantern.
‘What mischief are you after now, Bill?’ inquired the host, with a peculiar leer.
‘Why should I be after any mischief,’ replied Brimstone jocularly, ‘any more than a sucking dove, eh? Do I look like mischief to-night, old tickle-pitcher—do I?’
He accompanied the question with a peculiar grin, which mine host answered by a prolonged wink of no less peculiar significance.
‘Well, Tony boy,’ rejoined Bill, ‘maybe I am and maybe I ain't—that's the way: but mind, you did not see a stim of me, nor of him, to-night’ (glancing at his comrade), ‘nor ever, for that matter. But you did see two ill-looking fellows not a bit like us; and I have a notion that these two chaps will manage to get into a sort of shindy before an hour's over, and then mizzle at once; and if all goes well, your hand shall be crossed with gold to-night.’
‘Bill, Bill,’ said the landlord, with a smile of exquisite relish, and drawing his hand coaxingly over the man's forehead, so as to smooth the curls of his periwig nearly into his eyes, ‘you're just the same old dodger—you are the devil's own bird—you have not cast a feather.’
It is hard to say how long this tender scene might have continued, had not the other ruffian knocked his knuckles sharply on the table, and cried—
‘Hist! brother—chise it—enough fooling—I hear a horse-shoe on the road.’
All held their breath, and remained motionless for a time. The fellow was, however, mistaken. Bill again advanced to the window, and gazed intently through the long vista of trees.
‘There's not a bat stirring,’ said he, returning to the table, and filling out successively two glasses of spirits, he emptied them both. ‘Meanwhile, Tony,’ continued he, ‘get back to your company. Some of the fellows may be poking their noses into this place. If you don't hear from me, at all events you'll hear of me before an hour. Hop the twig, boy, and keep all hard in for a bit—skip.’
With a roguish grin and a shake of the fist, honest Tony, not caring to dispute the commands of his friend, of whose temper he happened to know something, stealthily withdrew from the room, where we, too, shall for a time leave these worthy gentlemen of the road vigilantly awaiting the approach of their victim.
Larry Toole had no sooner recovered his senses—which was in less than a minute—than he at once betook himself to the ‘Cock and Anchor,’ resolved, as the last resource, to inform O'Connor of the fact that an attack was meditated. Accordingly, he hastened with very little ceremony into the presence of his master, told him that young Ashwoode was to be waylaid upon the road, near the ‘Bleeding Horse,’ and implored him, without the loss of a moment, to ride in that direction, with a view, if indeed it might not already be too late, to intercept his passage, and forewarn him of the danger which awaited him.
Without waiting to ask one useless question, O'Connor, before five minutes were passed, was mounted on his trusty horse, and riding at a hard pace through the dark streets towards the point of danger.
Meanwhile, young Ashwoode, followed by his mounted attendant, proceeded at a brisk trot in the direction of the manor; his brain filled with a thousand busy thoughts and schemes, among which, not the least important, were sundry floating calculations as to the probable and possible amount of Lady Stukely's jointure, as well as some conjectures respecting the maximum duration of her ladyship's life. Involved in these pleasing ruminations, sometimes crossed by no less agreeable recollections, in which the triumphs of vanity and the successes of the gaming-table had their share, he had now reached that shadowy and silent part of the road at which stood the little inn, embowered in the great old trees, and peeping forth with a sort of humble and friendly aspect, but ill-according with the dangerous designs it served to shelter.
Here the servant, falling somewhat further behind, brought his horse close under the projecting window of the inn as he passed, and with a sharp cut of his whip gave the concerted signal. Before sixty seconds had elapsed, two well-mounted cavaliers were riding at a hard gallop in their wake. At this
‘Let go your skiver—drop it, you greenhorn,’ cried the fellow, hoarsely, as he wheeled round his plunging horse, and drew a pistol from the holster, ‘or, by the eternal ——I'll blow your head into dust!’
Young Ashwoode attempted to seize the reins of the fellow's horse, and made a desperate pass at the rider.
‘Take it, then,’ cried the fellow, thrusting the muzzle of the pistol into Ashwoode's face and drawing the trigger. Fortunately for Ashwoode, the pistol missed fire, and almost at the same moment the rapid clang of a horse's hoofs, accompanied by the loud shout of menace, broke startlingly upon his ear. Happy was this interruption for Henry Ashwoode, for, stunned and dizzy from the shock, he at that moment tottered, and in the next was prostrate upon the ground. ‘Blowed, by ——!’ cried the villain, furiously, as the unwelcome sounds reached his ears, and dashing the spurs into his horse, he rode at a furious gallop down the road towards the country. This scene occupied scarce six seconds in the acting. Brimstone Bill, who had but a moment before come up to the succour of his comrade, also heard the rapid approach of the galloping hoofs upon the road; he knew that before he could count fifty seconds the new comer would have arrived. A few moments, however, he thought he could spare—important moments they turned out to be to one of the party. Bill kept his eye steadily fixed upon the point some three or four hundred yards distant at which he knew the horseman whose approach was announced must first appear.
In that brief moment, the cool-headed villain had rapidly calculated the danger of the groom's committing his accomplices through want of coolness and presence of mind, should he himself, as was not unlikely, become suspected. The groom's pistols were still loaded, and he had taken no part in the conflict. Brimstone Bill fixed a stern glance upon his companion while all these and other thoughts flashed like lightning across his brain.
‘Darby,’ said he, hurriedly, to the man who sat half-stupefied in the saddle close beside him, ‘blaze off the lead towels—crack them off, I say.’
Bill impatiently leaned forward, and himself drew the pistols from the groom's saddle-bow; he fired one of them in the air—he cocked the other. ‘This dolt will play the devil with us all,’ thought he, looking with a peculiar expression at the bewildered servant. With one hand he grasped him by the collar to steady his aim, and with the other, suddenly thrusting the pistol to his ear, and drawing the trigger, he blew the wretched man's head into fragments like a potsherd; and wheeling his horse's head about, he followed his comrade pell-mell, beating the sparks in showers from the stony road at every plunge.
All this occurred in fewer moments than it has taken us lines
It was well for him that the shot, which at the same moment he had discharged, had not been altogether misdirected. O'Connor, indeed, escaped unscathed, but the ball struck his horse between the eyes, and piercing the brain, the poor beast reared upright and fell dead upon the road. Extricating himself from the saddle, O'Connor returned to the spot where young Ashwoode and the servant still lay. Stunned and dizzy with the fall which he had had, the excitement of actual conflict was no sooner over, than Ashwoode sank back into a state of insensibility. In this condition O'Connor found him, pale as death, and apparently lifeless. Raising him against the grassy bank at the roadside, and having cast some water from a pool close by into his face, he saw him speedily recover.
‘Mr. O'Connor,’ said Ashwoode, as soon as he was sufficiently restored, ‘you have saved my life—how can I thank you?’
‘Spare your thanks, sir,’ replied O'Connor, haughtily; ‘for any man I would have done as much—for anyone bearing your name I would do much more. Are you hurt, sir?’
‘O'Connor, I have done you much injustice,’ said the young man, betrayed for the moment into something like genuine feeling. ‘You must forget and forgive it—I know your feelings respecting others of my family—henceforward I will be your friend—do not refuse my hand.’
‘Henry Ashwoode,’ replied O'Connor, ‘I take your hand—gladly forgetting all past causes of resentment—but I want no
‘Nothing, nothing,’ replied Ashwoode—‘merely a fall such as I have had a thousand times after the hounds. It has made my head swim confoundedly; but I'll soon be steady. What, in the meantime, has become of honest Darby? If I mistake not, I see his horse browsing there by the roadside.’
A few steps showed them what seemed a bundle of clothes lying heaped upon the road; they approached it—it was the body of the servant.
‘Get up, Darby—get up, man,’ cried Ashwoode, at the same time pressing the prostrate figure with his boot. It had been lying with the back uppermost, and in a half-kneeling attitude; it now, however, rolled round, and disclosed, in the bright moonlight, the hideous aspect of the murdered man—the head a mere mass of ragged flesh and bone, shapeless and blackened, and hollow as a shell. Horror-struck at the sight, they turned in silence away, and having secured the two horses, they both mounted and rode together back to the little inn, where, having procured assistance, the body of the wretched servant was deposited. Young Ashwoode and O'Connor then parted, each each on his respective way.