My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 2 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 2 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
The knocking became louder--more peremptory. There was no escape.
There was nothing for it but submission. With dry lustrous eyes Tom
Emmett bade his brother go and open the door.
There would be a trial--a court-martial. Vain mockery! Would the
result be execution--or lifelong servitude--or banishment? The
chief of the Irish Directory felt the humbling conviction that he was
not fit for his post. Like Phæton he had leapt into the sun-chariot.
He had been fooled and toyed with. The precious deposit whose
care he had presumptuously accepted was shattered through his
fault--yes--certainly through his fault. He should have been more
cautious in accepting Crosbie's overtures. Precious lives would now be
sacrificed--the cause gravely compromised, if not altogether ruined.
Execution--lifelong servitude? How wildly did Tom Emmett long at this
moment for the former--how gladly would he have hugged the rope--how
joyfully would he even have walked to the riding-school where
Beresford and his fellow-devils carried on their fiendish work! Any
personal pain--the more poignant the more welcome! Anything which
might rouse the hapless patriot from the grinding weight which crushed
him now, as prone on his face he lay sobbing on a form.
Many an encouraging hand was laid upon his shoulder.
'Cheer up, man! we're in the same boat,' the delegates murmured. 'It's
the chance of war--of an ignoble war waged in the dark against honest
men by an ignoble adversary. Fortune is cruel to us; but we'll snap
our fingers in her face. If we are to die, let us die as men--not in
tears like women. Rouse up, Tom! rouse up, boy! Put on a good front.
Open the door, Robert. If they have learned to probe thus deeply in
our secrets, they will know more--enough to hang us every one. There's
no good in battling with them.'
Major Sirr entered, and saluted his victims with one of the elaborate
military evolutions which had become the vogue. Tom Emmett started
from the form, and held himself erect. A paper caught his eyes. He
clutched and tore it into fragments.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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