My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the UnionWingfield, Lewis
History
My Lords of Strogue, Vol. 3 (of 3): A Chronicle of Ireland, from the Convention to the Union
Wingfield, Lewis
Historical fiction; Ireland -- History -- 18th century -- Fiction
Curran marked uneasily that the battalion was in great force to-day.
Was it out of curiosity, or were they here on business? Long impunity
had developed all the native ferocity and brazenness of these
Staghouse demons. They wore new modish suits of clothes, with
fashionable bows of ribbon at the knee, provided at Government
expense. They looked sleek and well-to-do, for they were sumptuously
fed and boarded, and provided with three guineas a day for
pocket-money. Cockahoop was the jovial crew, for the band was too
compact and strong to fear Moiley now; though time was when one of the
number who was ill dared not take his medicine, lest haply he should
find his quietus in it. Those times were past. The people were cowed
and trampled. These men had, for a fee, sworn away the lives of their
brothers and then fathers. Moiley had over-eaten herself--was languid
through repletion. There was no room in her maw even for a strangled
informer. They were growing rich, budding into proprietors; some
screening their names under an alias from infamy some too callous to
feel any shame at all. Which of the rowdy knot was to do the work
to-day? Since the battalion had become so highly trained, Lord Clare's
ingenious invention with respect to the testimony of a single witness
was a dead letter. That the oath of one person should, at a pinch,
consign a man to the scrag-boy was a wholesome and judicious rule that
was likely to save much trouble. But when you have a whole pack of
hounds at your command, each one taught to yelp at a given signal, it
is pretty sport to watch their tricks. Besides, a pile of testimony,
more or less irrelevant and contradictory, has an improving effect
upon a jury. The Irish are eminently superstitious. These trials
sometimes lasted through the night. Men were apt to get frightened at
shadows on the wall, at the flickering candles with their guttering
winding-sheets. It was well to pile Pelion upon Ossa, to crush out any
stray drop of pity. A heap of evidence confused and dazed them. Many
crawled home after sentence was pronounced, fully persuaded that they
had only done their duty--that so many witnesses, each with his pat
story, must of a surety have spoken truth; that they had earned their
honest stipend without injuring their souls.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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