But other counsels finally prevailed. The order for the tents was countermanded, and, at half-past four, the British infantry were ordered to advance. They pressed forward, in solid masses, across the ground where the cavalry fight had taken place, and the Irish horse fell back behind their infantry, who were posted behind the substantial hedges which intersected the ground beyond the rivulet. A heavy musketry fire was opened upon the British infantry as they advanced, but they pressed forward, in unbroken order, till they reached the hedges. These were long and obstinately contested.

The Irish had cut openings through the hedges by which they could retire, and, as they fell back from hedge to hedge, the advancing British were received by a fire from hedges on both flanks, as well as from the front. As the British poured regiment after regiment to the attack, Saint Ruth moved some bodies of horse and foot, from his left, to the support of his right wing.

This movement had been foreseen by Ginckle, who now gave orders for several battalions of infantry to cross the bog, and attack the Irish centre. At this point there was a path across the bog, or rather a place where the mud and water were not so deep as at other points, and where it was possible for it to be forded. Ginckle had found a peasant, who, for a large sum of money, disclosed the passage. It traversed the bog at its narrowest point, the hill of Kilcomeden here running out a shoulder far into it. Four regiments entered the morass, with orders to cross it, and make their way to the nearest hedges on the sloping ground, where they were to post themselves till the cavalry, who were to attempt the passage by Aughrim Castle, could come round to their support.

The first part of the passage was unopposed, but the difficulty of passing was great, for the men were frequently up to their waists in mud, too soft to afford any firm footing, but solid enough to render it extremely difficult for the feet to be disengaged from it. At length, as they approached firmer ground, the Irish infantry advanced towards the edge of the bog, and received them with a steady fire. The English, although suffering heavily, pressed forward without firing a shot, till the ground became solid under their feet, when the Irish withdrew, and, as upon the right, took post behind the hedges which everywhere intersected the slopes.

The English, seeing the Irish retire, pressed forward, and another fierce contest raged in the inclosures; the Irish, according to their preconceived plan, falling gradually back. The British, in their ardour, forgot their orders to halt at the first hedge, and continued to press forward, until the constantly increasing numbers of the enemy recalled to their leaders the danger of the position.

Before them were the heights of Kilcomeden, with a strong force drawn up to receive them, while on both flanks the enemy were crowding down, to intercept their retreat. Colonel Earl, who was the senior officer, looked anxiously towards the right, from which quarter he expected the British cavalry to arrive to his assistance; but no sound reached him from that quarter; while on the left the sound of the conflict, instead of advancing, appeared to recede, as if the British column was being forced back. Advancing before his own regiment, he called upon the soldiers to stand firm, for retreat would be destruction, and the only hope was to maintain their position till assistance arrived.

When the Irish saw that the enemy had halted, and could not be tempted to advance further, they poured down to the attack through the passages in the hedges. The British might have defended these hedges, as the Irish had done, but the soldiers saw that they would be taken in the flank and rear, and, observing a large body of cavalry ascending the hill, they were seized with a panic.

On the first shock of the Irish infantry, the four regiments broke and fled. They were hotly pursued, and slaughtered in great numbers, the Irish cavalry pouring through the openings in the hedges which had been prepared for them. At length, the fugitives reached the edge of the bog, where they gathered in a confused mass; which the officers, in vain, attempted to form into order. The cavalry charged down upon them, broke and scattered them, and drove them into the morass, followed by the Irish infantry, who were better acquainted with the ground, and more accustomed to traversing bogs. The soldiers were driven into the deepest and most difficult portion of the morass, and a great slaughter took place.

The British artillery were planted on the edge of the morass, but so mingled were the two parties that they were unable to fire. Great numbers of the English were killed. Colonels Earl and Herbert, with many officers and men, were taken prisoners, and the remnant of the British were driven completely across the bog, to the shelter of their own cannon.

While this was passing in the centre, another division of Ginckle's army, consisting of English and French infantry, had crossed the bog by a passage more to the right. They also had met with no opposition in passing, and it was only when they reached the hedges, on the firm ground, that the Irish showed themselves, fired, and retreated. This division, more cautious than that of Earl, could not be tempted to pursue, but contented themselves with maintaining their ground under a heavy fire, awaiting anxiously the arrival of the British horse. They could see, however, no sign of them, but could perceive the Irish cavalry descending in large masses, preparing to charge, while the infantry were forming for an advance.

So far the Irish had been successful at every point. They had repulsed every attack made by the British left; had crushed the brigade, composed of the flower of the British infantry, which had assaulted the centre; and were now preparing to destroy the division which stood, unsupported, on their side of the bog.

At this moment, a tumult was heard on the left wing of the Irish, the direction from which the British division expected relief, and the Irish, aware of the importance of the pass of Aughrim, suspended their attack to await the events there.

Saint Ruth had directed the operations of the battle with as much skill as he had prepared for the assault. He had taken up his position on a point of the hill whence he had a complete view of the whole field of battle, and had moved his troops, with calmness and judgment, to meet each of the attacks made upon them; and when he saw the destruction of the English regiment in the centre, he exclaimed, in the full confidence of victory, "Now I will drive the English to the walls of Dublin!"

There was, indeed, but one hope, on the part of the English, of retrieving the day; namely, the success of the attempt to force the passage at Aughrim. But two horsemen abreast could pass under the castle walls. Saint Ruth was aware of the passage, but thought it impassable for cavalry. It might easily have been made so, by cutting a deep gap across it; but here, as at Athlone, his overconfidence proved his destruction. He had, however, taken the precaution to erect a battery commanding the passage, and had placed some battalions of infantry there.

General Talmash, who commanded the English cavalry, knew that the battle was lost, unless he could succeed at this point; and, at the head of his command, he led the way along the pass, which was not only narrow, but broken and encumbered with the ruins of the castle wall. Saint Ruth beheld the attempt of the cavalry with astonishment, and, with the remark: "They are brave fellows, it is a pity they should be sacrificed," sent orders for the Irish horse to move forward and prepare to charge them; and moved down the hill at the head of his officers to the battery.

There is no doubt as to what the result would have been, had the Irish horse charged. They were greatly superior in number, and the English cavalry who had got across the passage were still in confusion, and were suffering from the fire of the battery, and, indeed, even when in equal numbers, William's cavalry had never withstood the charge of the Irish. It seemed that nothing could avert the defeat of the body on which Ginckle's last hope rested.

But at this moment one of those events, by which Providence overrules the calculations of man, occurred. A cannonball struck Saint Ruth, as he stood in the middle of the battery and killed him instantly. The occurrence paralysed the Irish army. Sarsfield was away, there was no one to give orders, the news that some extraordinary calamity had happened spread rapidly, the men in the battery ceased firing, the cavalry, receiving no orders to charge, remained immovable.

Talmash took advantage of the pause to get the rest of his cavalry across the passage, and then, with his whole force, moved towards the centre. As he approached, the idea that the unknown calamity, of which they had heard, was that the British had defeated their own left, spread among the Irish, and they began to fall back. The British column on the edge of the bog advanced, Ginckle pushed several fresh battalions across the morass in the centre, and the Irish infantry fell back, disputing every inch of the ground.

The cavalry were still without orders, for strangely enough, no one assumed the command on the death of Saint Ruth. As night came on, the retreat of the Irish infantry became a rout, but the cavalry halted on the summit of Kilcomeden, and covered the retreat.

The extraordinary circumstance, of the Irish army being left without orders after the death of Saint Ruth, has never been explained. The command should have devolved upon Sarsfield, but none of the accounts of the battle speak of him as being present. He had certainly not been consulted by Saint Ruth, and had not been present at the council of war before the battle; for the bad feeling, which had existed between him and Saint Ruth since that general arrived, had broken out into open dispute since the fall of Athlone. But it is inexplicable that there should have been no second in command, that no one should have come forward to give orders after the death of the general, that a victorious army should have been left, as a flock of sheep, without a shepherd.

Up to the moment of the death of Saint Ruth, the loss of the British had been very severe, as they had more than two thousand men killed and wounded, while that of the Irish was trifling. But in the subsequent struggle the Irish, fighting each man for himself, without order or object, were slaughtered in vast numbers, their loss being estimated by the British writers at seven thousand men, a number which points to wholesale slaughter, rather than to the loss which could have been inflicted upon a brave army during little over an hour of daylight.

But, crushing as the defeat of the Irish had been, the victory was far from inspiring William or his army with the confidence they had felt at the outset of the war. Here, as at Athlone, it was almost a miracle which had saved the English from a terrible disaster. The Irish had proved themselves fully a match for the best soldiers that William could send against them, and, although their infantry had suffered terribly in the rout, their ranks would be speedily filled up again; while the cavalry, the arm in which the Irish had uniformly proved their superiority, had moved away from the field of battle intact and unbroken. Athlone and Aughrim therefore rendered William and his general more anxious than ever to bring the struggle to an end, not by the force of arms, but by offering every concession to the Irish.

The imminence of the peril had cowed even the party of confiscation, and they offered no opposition to the issue, by Ginckle, of proclamations renewing the offers of William. Ginckle himself moved forward, immediately after the battle, and granted the most liberal terms to the garrisons of the various small posts which he came upon. On arriving before Galway, he permitted that town and garrison to surrender on the terms of a pardon for all, security of property and estate, freedom of religious worship, and permission for the garrison to march away to Limerick, with drums beating and colours flying, the British furnishing horses for the transport of their cannon and baggage.



Chapter 15: A Fortunate Recognition.

After the capitulation of Galway, Ginckle moved towards Limerick. King William, who was absent on the Continent, was most anxious for the aid of the army warring in Ireland, and the queen and her advisers, considering that the war was now virtually over, ordered transports to Ireland to take on board ten thousand men; but Ginckle was allowed a month's delay.

He himself was by no means sanguine as to his position. The Irish army was still as numerous as the British, and they were not discouraged by their defeat at Aughrim, where they considered, and rightly, that victory had only been snatched from their grasp by an accident. Ginckle relied rather upon concession than force. The Irish were divided into two parties, one of which earnestly desired peace, if they could obtain fair terms, while the other insisted that the British could not be trusted to keep any terms they might make. Sarsfield was at the head of the war party, and succeeded, for the present, in preventing any arrangement.

Ginckle advanced slowly, for he had to march through a waste and desolate country. Sarsfield, with his cavalry, hovered round him, and intercepted his communications, and he was so short of draught horses that it was only by forcing the gentry of Dublin to give up their carriage horses, for the use of the army, that he was enabled to move forward.

It was not until the end of August that he sat down with his siege train in front of Limerick, and prepared for the siege. For the moment, the party in favour of peace among the Irish had been silenced by the news that twenty large ships of war, with a great number of transport and store ships, were being pushed forward at Brest and other French ports to come to their assistance.

Ginckle occupied the same ground which William's army had taken up in the first siege, but directed his attacks chiefly upon the English town. As before, the Irish communication was open with the county of Clare, and the seventeen regiments of Irish horse were encamped on the Clare side of the river. Ginckle pushed on his works with great vigour, and the duty in the trenches was so severe, that the cavalry were compelled to take their turn with the infantry; but, notwithstanding that the siege artillery was much more powerful than that which William had at his disposal, but little progress was made. The town was set on fire several times; but the flames were speedily extinguished, and, as the inhabitants had all left the city and erected tents on the Clare side, under the protection of their cavalry, little harm was done to them.

While the siege was going on, a number of desultory engagements took place, in different parts of the country, between the Protestant militia which had been lately raised, and the bands of rapparees, with varying success.

The season was getting late. Ginckle was again becoming straitened for provisions, for the proclamations which he issued failed to inspire the peasantry with any confidence. He now erected a battery, of thirty-five guns, against King's Island; and, after an incessant cannonade of some days, a breach was effected in the wall between the abbey and Ballsbridge. Preparations were made for crossing the arm of the Shannon and assaulting the breach; but the works constructed for crossing the river were repeatedly destroyed by the Irish, and the idea of assault upon the breach was, at length, abandoned. So desperate did Ginckle now think his position, that he issued orders for the repair of the fortifications of Kilmallock, intending to raise the siege and establish his winter quarters there; but he postponed taking this step for a few days, for to do so would be to bring almost certain disaster upon his army.

The French fleet was expected to arrive shortly, and the Irish, reinforced with men, arms, and supplies of every kind, would probably resume the offensive during the winter, and he would find himself cut off from all supplies and assistance. He determined, therefore, to make one more effort before retiring.

He had, throughout the siege, been in communication with several Irish officers of high rank, and especially with General Clifford, who commanded the cavalry posted on the river opposite to his camp. These officers were as desirous as he was of bringing the war to an end, for they foresaw that if, after the arrival of the French, they succeeded in driving the English out of the country, Ireland would simply become a dependency of France, and they preferred the English connection to this. Ginckle determined to try, again, the same feint which had succeeded at Athlone. The workmen were kept busy repairing the works at Kilmallock, and preparing that place for the reception of the army. The greater portion of the baggage, and a regiment of Danes, were sent forward to that town. The batteries ceased firing, and the cannon were dismounted at several points, and the Irish were persuaded that the siege was about to be abandoned.

Meanwhile, Ginckle was busy collecting boats, and preparing a bridge across to a small island, which lay not far from the Clare side of the river. On a dark night, the boats were brought up and the bridge constructed, and, led by six hundred grenadiers, a strong force of infantry, cavalry, and artillery crossed to the island, and then waded through the shallow water beyond to the mainland.

A few men, posted on the island, carried the news to Clifford, but he gave no orders to the four regiments of cavalry and two of infantry under his command, nor did he send any notice to the camp. Some of the infantry and cavalry, however, ran without orders to the bank, and kept the grenadiers in check until the British cavalry had crossed, and compelled them to fall back. The British cavalry then dashed forward to the Irish cavalry camp, which they took completely by surprise. Panic stricken at this unexpected attack, the soldiers and the citizens in the town camp fled in all directions, and, great numbers rushing to Thomond Bridge, entered the city by that narrow approach.

Had Ginckle at once pushed forward, he would have captured almost the whole of the Irish officials and civilians on the Clare side of the river; but, fearing an ambuscade, he halted his troops before advancing to the Irish camp, and this gave time for most of them to escape. Being afraid that the garrison would sally out from the town, and attack his lines on the other side of the river, he recrossed the Shannon with his troops, carrying with them a crowd of civilians, among them a number of persons of rank, and officials with the records and public treasure.

The confusion and surprise in the town were so great that the Irish generals took no steps whatever, either to hinder his passage back across the river, or to attack either portion of his divided army. They knew that treachery must have been at work, to have enabled the enemy to surprise the camp, and, as they could not tell how far that treachery extended, they abstained from all action.

Captain Davenant's troop had shared in the disaster inflicted by the night attack upon the cavalry camp. All were asleep when the English cavalry burst upon them. Taken utterly by surprise, and ignorant as to the strength of the force by which they were attacked, there was no thought of resistance. Officers and men leapt from the piles of rushes, which served as beds, and rushed to their horses. The English troopers were cutting and hewing in all directions, and, cutting the picket ropes, each man sprang on his horse and rode for his life.

Captain Davenant had, at first, shouted to his men to keep steady; but his words were lost in the din which prevailed, and, seeing that nothing was to be done, he said to Walter:

"It is all over, Walter. We must ride for it, like the rest."

By morning, the Irish cavalry was scattered all over the country, and it was not for two or three days that they again assembled in regiments, presenting a sorry sight, the greater part having lost saddles and accoutrements of every kind. A few troops, composed of men who had been fortunate enough to have left their horses saddled when night came on, were sent back to Limerick. The rest drew off towards Ennis, and encamped there until they could procure saddles and accoutrements to take the field again.

In Captain Davenant's troop there were but six men who had saved their saddles; and, as it would have been useless to send so small a detachment to Limerick, these remained with the troop, and were, at Walter's request, placed entirely at his disposal, in order that with them he might make scouting expeditions in the enemy's rear. He had permission to consider himself entirely on detached service, and to join any body of rapparees he might choose; but this Walter did not care about doing, for he had a horror of the savage acts which were perpetrated by the irregular forces on both sides, and determined to confine himself to watching the roads, bringing in news of any convoys which might be traversing the country, and cutting off messengers going or returning with despatches.

The service was one of no great danger, for parties of peasants were on the watch, night and day; and, the instant any movement was observed, they started off at full speed to warn all the inhabitants of the surrounding villages to drive away their cattle, and carry off their effects into the hills or into the heart of some neighbouring bog, where the cavalry would not venture to penetrate.

One day when, with his little band, he was halting at a village, some ten miles in rear of the camp, a peasant ran in.

"A party of their horse have just seized some carts laden with potatoes at Kilcowan, and are driving them off. The boys are mustering to attack them on their way back."

"It is too bad," Walter exclaimed. "Only three days ago, Ginckle issued another proclamation guaranteeing that no provisions, or other goods, should be taken by his soldiers without payment.

"To horse, lads! We will ride out and give the peasants a helping hand, if they really mean to attack the enemy."

Kilcowan was two miles away and, having learned from the peasant that the people intended to attack at a point where the road passed between two hills, a mile and a half beyond the village, he galloped on at full speed. He arrived, however, too late to take any part in the fight. The peasants had rushed suddenly down the hillsides, armed with scythes and pikes, upon the convoy as it passed below them. Several of the cavalry had been killed, and the rest were riding off, when Walter with his troopers dashed up. They continued the pursuit for a mile, cutting off a few stragglers, less well mounted than the rest, and then returned to Kilcowan, where the peasants had just arrived in triumph with the rescued carts of potatoes.

"What are you going to do?" he asked, when the excitement of the welcome, accorded by the women to the captors, had subsided a little. "You may expect a strong body to be sent out, tomorrow, to punish you for this."

"It's the general's own proclamation, your honour. Didn't he say, himself, that his soldiers were not to stale anything, and that they would be severely punished if they did? And didn't he guarantee that we should be paid for everything? He could not blame us for what we have done, and he ought to hang the rest of those thieving villains, when they get back to him."

"I wouldn't be too sure about it," Walter said. "He issued a good many proclamations before, but he has never kept the terms of one of them. If I were you, I would leave the village—man, woman, and child—for a few days, at any rate, and see how the Dutchman takes it."

But the villagers could not be persuaded that the Dutch general would disapprove of what they had done, and Walter, finding his arguments of no avail, rode off with his men to the village they had left, an hour before; with the parting advice that, if they would not follow his counsel, they should, at any rate, place watchers that night on the roads towards Ginckle's camp, to bring them news of the approach of any body of the enemy's cavalry.

But the villagers were too delighted with their day's work to pay much heed to Walter's warning, and, after a general jollification in honour of their victory, retired to rest, thoughtless of danger.

It was getting dark when Walter reached the village where he had determined to stay for the night. He ordered the men to keep the saddles on their horses, and to hitch them to the doors of the cabins where they took up their quarters, in readiness for instant movement. He placed one mounted sentry at the entrance to the village, and another a quarter of a mile on the road towards Kilcowan.

At nine o'clock, he heard the sound of a horse galloping up to the door, and ran out. It was the sentry at the end of the village.

"Kilcowan is on fire, sir!"

Walter looked in that direction, and saw a broad glare of light.

"Ride out, and bring in the advanced sentry," he said, "as quick as possible."

He called the other men out, and bade them mount; that done, they sat, ready to ride off on the return of their comrades.

"Here they come, sir," one of the men said, "and I fancy the enemy are after them."

Walter listened intently. He could hear a deep thundering noise, which was certainly made by the hoofs of more than two horses.

"Face about, men, trot! Keep your horses well in hand, until the others come up, and then ride for it.

"Ah, what is that!"

As he spoke, there was a shout from the other end of the village, followed instantly by the trampling of horses.

"They have surrounded us!" Walter exclaimed. "Shoulder to shoulder, lads, and cut your way through. It's our only chance. Charge!"

And, placing himself at the head, he set spurs to his horse and dashed at the approaching enemy.

There was a fierce shock. A horse and rider rolled over from the impetus of his charge, then he cut right and left; pistol shots rang out, and his horse fell beneath him, shot through the head, pinning his leg beneath it.

The fall saved his life, for four or five troopers had surrounded him, and in another moment he would have been cut down. For a time, he ran great risk of being trampled upon, in the confusion which followed. Then some of the troopers dismounted, he was dragged from beneath his horse, and found himself a prisoner. He was placed in the centre of the troop, the only captive taken, for two of the six men had got safe away in the darkness and confusion, the other four had fallen.

The English, as he afterwards learned, had, immediately they arrived at Kilcowan, inquired where the Irish cavalry, who had taken part in the afternoon's fight, were quartered, and on hearing that they were but two miles away, the officer in command had forced one of the peasants to act as guide, and to take a party round, by a detour, so as to enter at the other end of the village, just as another party rode in by the direct road.

Walter was taken first to Kilcowan. There he found a party of twelve or fourteen peasants, surrounded by cavalry. The whole village was in flames. Several of the inhabitants had been cut down, as the cavalry entered. The rest, with the exception of those in the hands of the troops, had fled in the darkness. As soon as the detachment with Walter arrived, the whole body got into motion, and reached Ginckle's camp shortly before midnight.

As the general had retired to sleep, they were placed in a tent, and four sentries posted round it, with orders to shoot anyone who showed his head outside. In the morning, they were ordered to come out, and found outside the general, with several of his officers.

"So," Ginckle said, "you are the fellows who attacked my soldiers. I will teach you a lesson which shall be remembered all over Ireland. You shall be broken on the wheel."

This sentence was heard unmoved by the peasants, who had not the least idea of what was meant by it; but Walter stepped forward:

"It is not these men who are to blame, but your soldiers, general," he said. "Your own proclamation, issued three days ago, guaranteed that no private property should be interfered with, and that everything the troops required should be paid for. Your soldiers disobeyed your orders, and plundered these poor people, and they were just as much justified in defending themselves against them, as any householder is who resists a burglar."

"You dare speak to me!" exclaimed Ginckle. "You shall share their fate. Every man of you shall be broken on the wheel."

"General Ginckle," Walter said warmly, "hitherto, the foul excesses of your troops have brought disgrace upon them, rather than you; but, if this brutal order is carried out, your name will be held infamous, and you will stand next only to Cromwell in the curses which Irishmen will heap upon your memory."

The Dutch general was almost convulsed with passion.

"Take the dogs away," he shouted, "and let the sentence be carried out."

Several English officers were standing near, and these looked at one another in astonishment and disgust. Two of them hurried away, to fetch some of the superior officers, and directly these heard of the orders that had been given, they proceeded to Ginckle's tent.

"Can it be true," General Hamilton said, "that you have ordered some prisoners to be broken on the wheel?"

"I have given those orders," Ginckle said angrily, "and I will not permit them to be questioned."

"Pardon me," General Hamilton said firmly; "but they must be questioned. There is no such punishment as breaking on the wheel known to the English law, and I and my English comrades protest against such a sentence being carried out."

"But I will have it so!" Ginckle exclaimed, his face purple with passion.

"Then, sir," General Hamilton said, "I tell you that, in half an hour from the present time, I will march out from your camp, at the head of my division of British troops, and will return to Dublin; and, what is more, I will fight my way out of the camp if any opposition is offered, and will explain my conduct to the king and the British parliament. Enough disgrace has already been brought upon all connected with the army, by the doings of the foreign troops; but when it comes to the death by torture of prisoners, by the order of their general, it is time that every British officer should refuse to permit such foul disgrace to rest upon his name."

There was a chorus of assent from the other English officers, while Ginckle's foreign officers gathered round him, and it looked for a moment as if swords would be drawn.

Ginckle saw that he had gone too far, and felt that, not only would this quarrel, if pushed further, compel him to raise the siege and fall back upon Dublin, but it would entail upon him the displeasure of the king, still more certainly that of the English parliament.

"There is no occasion for threats," he said, mastering his passion. "You tell me that such a punishment is contrary to English law. That is enough. I abandon it at once. The prisoners shall be hung and quartered. I presume that you have no objection to offer to that."

"That, general, is a matter in your own competence, and for your own conscience," Hamilton said. "The men have simply, as I understand, defended their property against marauders, and they are, as I conceive, worthy of no punishment whatever. If you choose to sentence them to such a punishment, it is your sentence, not mine. I thought it was your policy to heal the breach between the two parties. It seems I was mistaken. Personally, I protest against the execution of the sentence, beyond that I am not called upon to go. An act of injustice or cruelty, performed by a general upon prisoners, would not justify a soldier in imperilling the success of the campaign by resisting the orders of his superior; therefore, my duty to the king renders me unable to act; but I solemnly protest, in my own name and that of the English officers under your command, against the sentence, which I consider unjust in the extreme."

So saying, General Hamilton, with the English officers, left the general's tent. If they hoped that the protest would have the effect of preventing the barbarous sentence from being carried into execution, they were mistaken. The fact that, to carry out his first intention would have been absolutely unlawful, had caused Ginckle to abandon it, but this made him only the more obstinate in carrying the second into execution.

The English officers stood talking, not far from his tent, in tones of indignation and disgust at the brutal sentence, and then walked towards their divisional camp. As they went, they saw a number of men standing round a tree. Some Hessian soldiers, with much brutal laughter, were reeving ropes over the arm of the tree, and, just as the officers came along, six struggling forms were drawn up high above the heads of the crowd.

The party paused for a moment, and were about to pass on, their faces showing how deep was their horror at the scene, when one of them exclaimed:

"There is an Irish officer, in uniform, among the prisoners! This cannot be suffered, Hamilton. The Irish have several of ours prisoners in the town, and they would rightly retaliate by hanging them on the battlements."

General Hamilton and the others pressed forward.

"Colonel Hanau," the general said to a Hessian officer, "you surely cannot be going to hang this young officer? The general can never have included him with the others?"

"The general's orders were precise," the Hessian said coldly. "Twelve peasants and one officer were to be hung, and afterwards quartered."

"It is monstrous!" General Hamilton exclaimed. "I will go back to the general, and obtain his order for the arrest of the execution."

"You will be too late, sir," the Hessian said coldly. "I have my orders, and before you are half way to the general's camp, that prisoner will be swinging from that bough."

"I order you to desist, sir, till I return," General Hamilton said.

"As I do not happen to be in your division, General Hamilton, and as I have received my orders from the commander in chief, I decline altogether to take orders from you."

Walter, who had resigned himself to his fate, stood watching the altercation with a renewed feeling of hope. This died out when the colonel spoke, and two of the troopers seized him, but at that moment his eye fell upon one of the English officers.

"Colonel L'Estrange!" he exclaimed.

The officer started, at hearing his name called out by the prisoner, but he did not recognize him.

"I am Walter Davenant. You remember, sir, the wreck off Bray?"

"Good heavens!" Colonel L'Estrange exclaimed, pressing forward.

"It is the lad who saved my life, General Hamilton!

"Gentlemen, this young officer saved my life at the risk of his own. I cannot and will not stand by and see him murdered."

The Hessian colonel signed to four of his men, who seized Walter and dragged him towards the tree. Colonel L'Estrange drew his sword.

"My men," he shouted, to some English soldiers who were mingled with the crowd of onlookers, which had rapidly increased during the dispute, "stand by me, and don't let this brave young officer be murdered."

A score of soldiers pushed through the crowd, and ranged themselves by Colonel L'Estrange. He dashed forward, sword in hand, and in a moment Walter was torn from the grasp of the soldiers, and placed in the centre of his rescuers, who were now joined by General Hamilton and the other officers.

Several men had run off at full speed, to the British camp, to bring up aid. The Hessian colonel called upon his men to seize the prisoner, and cut down all who interfered to prevent the general's orders being carried out. These hesitated before the resolute aspect of the English, but the crowd of foreign soldiers ranged themselves with them, and the attack was about to commence, when a number of English soldiers were seen running, musket in hand, from their camp.

The Hessian colonel saw that to attempt to carry out his orders, now, would bring on something like a pitched battle, and he therefore waved his men back, saying to General Hamilton:

"I have nothing to do now, sir, but to report to General Ginckle that I have been prevented, by force, from carrying his orders into effect."

"That you will, of course, do," General Hamilton said coldly. "I shall be perfectly prepared to answer for my conduct."

There was no goodwill between the English and foreign sections of Ginckle's army, and General Hamilton had some trouble in preventing the soldiers from attacking the Hessians, and in inducing them to retire to their camp. As soon as he arrived there, he ordered the drums to be beaten, and the whole division to get under arms. He then despatched an officer to General Ginckle, narrating the circumstances, and saying that the honour of the whole army was concerned in preventing an officer, fairly taken prisoner in war, and not while acting as a spy, from being injured; and that, indeed, policy as well as honour forbade such a course being taken, as there were several officers of rank in the hands of the Irish, who would naturally retaliate on them the execution of prisoners of war. He made a formal complaint against Colonel Hanau, for refusing to delay the execution until he could lay the matter before the general. As for his own conduct in the matter, he said he was perfectly prepared to defend it before any military court, but that court must be held in England, where he purposed to return at once, with the division his majesty had intrusted to his command.

The Dutch general had, long before he received the letter, been informed of what had taken place, and had also learned that the English division had struck their tents, and were drawn up under arms. To allow them to depart would be to entail certain ruin upon the campaign, and he felt that it was more than probable that the course Hamilton and his officers had taken would be upheld by a military court in England, and that public opinion would condemn the execution of an officer, taken in fair fight. He therefore wrote a letter to General Hamilton, saying that he regretted to find that he had been acting under a misapprehension, for he had understood that the person claiming to be an Irish officer was in fact a spy, and that he had severely reprimanded Colonel Hanau for his refusal to delay the execution until the fact had been explained to him. Far from feeling in any way aggrieved that General Hamilton had interfered to prevent such a mistake from taking place, he felt much obliged to him for what he had done, as the execution of an Irish officer taken in war would, in every way, have been a most unfortunate circumstance.

General Hamilton showed the letter to the colonels of the various regiments in the division, and these agreed that, as General Ginckle was evidently desirous that the matter should go no further, it would be as well to order the tents to be again pitched, and for the troops to resume their ordinary duties.

"My dear Walter," Colonel L'Estrange said, "I am happy, indeed, that we came up when we did. What should I have felt, if I had afterwards learned that you, who had saved my life, had been murdered here, for your execution would have been neither more nor less than murder, as was that of the twelve poor fellows who were taken at Kilcowan—a brutal murder! They were perfectly justified in defending their property, and the idea of quartering them, as well as hanging them, just as if they were traitors of the worst dye, is nothing short of monstrous.

"I only came out here with my regiment a month since, but I am heartily sick with what I see going on. It was terrible to see the ruined villages on the road from Dublin. I have seen fighting on the Continent, but nothing to equal the wholesale brutality with which the war is conducted here. How God can continue to give success, to an army which behaves as this one has done, is altogether beyond me. Of one thing I am resolved, whether we take Limerick or not—and I own I see but small chance of it—I shall exchange, if possible, into a regiment serving in Flanders. If not, I shall resign my commission.

"And now, how is your father? I rode out from Dublin to see your mother, and was very glad to find her, and old Mrs. Davenant, well. I was glad, too, to find that, owing to the influence of Mr. Conyers, they had not been troubled; and I was fortunately able, myself, to bring some influence to bear upon the council, who seem to be bent upon squeezing the last drop of blood from the Irish veins.

"But the men are falling in, and I must put myself at the head of the regiment. I will hand you over to the care of an officer, and, if we march out, you will, of course, go with us."

When the men were again dismissed, Colonel L'Estrange rejoined Walter.

"Ginckle has thought better of it," he said. "I fancied he would not venture to push matters further, for the loss of the one division he can really rely upon would be fatal to all his hope of success to the campaign. Ginckle is a passionate man, but he is not a fool, and he must have seen that, if the matter had been laid before the king, his conduct would not have been approved. I don't say that ours is right, in a military sense, but I am sure that public opinion would have approved of it. The tales that have been circulated, of the doings of the army over here since the commencement of the war, have already roused a very strong feeling of irritation throughout the country."

Colonel L'Estrange now took Walter to General Hamilton's tent, and, after formally introducing him, he told the story of the wreck, and of his rescue by Walter from certain death.

"What do you mean to do with him, L'Estrange?" General Hamilton asked.

"My intention is, unless you see any objection to it, to pass him through the lines this evening. I will provide him with a good horse, and see him well away. After what has happened Ginckle will, I should say, feel obliged for our thus rendering him a service by getting rid of his prisoner. There are not likely to be any questions asked or remarks made afterwards. I am not without influence at court, and there is a very strong section, who are bitterly opposed to Dutchmen being placed in every post in the king's gift, and there would be no difficulty in getting up such a hostile feeling against Ginckle, in relation to this affair, that it would cost him his command."

"Yes," the general agreed. "Marlborough would be only too glad to take the matter up, and as Ginckle must be pretty well aware that his want of success here must have already made his position precarious, I do not think he will trouble himself to ask any questions about the prisoner; and, certainly, William will not thank him for being the means, by his unjust and arbitrary conduct, of causing a split between the English and his foreign troops. I should like to put all their heads into one noose, and I should feel no compunction in setting them swinging, for a greater set of rascals were never collected under the sun. I must say that the contrast between our army and the Irish is very great, and that, although many bloody deeds are performed by the rapparees, there has never been a single complaint brought against the Irish troops.

"Anyhow, Mr. Davenant, I think you cannot do better than fall in with Colonel L'Estrange's plan. There will be no difficulty in getting out, and, indeed, I will send a troop of cavalry to see you well beyond our lines."

Walter spent the rest of the day with Colonel L'Estrange, and told him all that had taken place since they had last met.

"It is difficult to believe that it is but three years ago," he said, when he had finished.

"No, we judge the flight of time by the incidents we crowd into it. The most uneventful days pass the most unheeded. Now to me, it seems but yesterday that I stood on the deck of the ship, and knew that she was sure to go to pieces, and that the chance of anyone reaching that rocky coast alive were small, indeed; when I saw what seemed little more than a black speck approaching, and you and your fisher boy made your way over the wave.

"By the way, how is he? Doing well, I hope?"

"He might have done well, if he liked. The present that you left in my father's hands, to buy him a boat when he was old enough to start as a fisherman on his own account, would have made a man of him, but it is hidden somewhere in the thatch of his father's cottage. When my father first went to the war, he handed it over to Larry, as he could not say what might happen before his return. Larry was at first delighted with the thought that some day he should have a boat of his own, and a boat, too, larger than any on the shore; but when I accompanied my father, Larry insisted on going with me.

"'It will be time enough to buy a boat, when the war is over,' he said.

"And as I was very glad to have him with me, and my father did not object, Larry had his way, and he has been with me ever since. He is enrolled in the troop now, and, when he thinks there is any chance of fighting, he takes his place in the ranks, but at other times he acts as my servant."

"Tell him I have not forgotten him," Colonel L'Estrange said. "While you have been doing so much, I have had a quiet time of it. I could have got a regiment at once, had I cared for it, but I disliked the thought of fighting over here. It was too much like civil war. Six months ago, when things were going badly with us on the Continent, I asked to be employed, and was given a regiment they were just raising. I had got them into fair order, and was expecting to be ordered to embark for the Low Country at any moment, when the news came of Ginckle's heavy losses at Athlone and Aughrim, and the orders came for us to proceed to Bristol, and take ship there for Ireland. I half thought of throwing up my commission, for the news of the scandalous conduct of the foreign soldiers had stirred every English heart with disgust and indignation, but I thought that the struggle was nearly over. William was anxious for peace at any price, and would grant almost any terms to secure it; and, on the other hand, we knew that Louis was, at last, going to make a great effort. So that it was certain that either the Irish would make peace on fair terms before winter, or the French would land, and there would be an end of any prospect of conquering Ireland, until matters were settled on the Continent, and William could devote his whole strength to this business."

"And which alternative do you think the most likely?" Walter asked.

"The latter," Colonel L'Estrange said, gravely. "Frankly, Walter, the situation looks bad. There is, so far as I can see, no chance whatever of our taking Limerick, and in a fortnight ten thousand French troops will be landed.

"Of course it is probable that, at the last moment, the Irish may conclude that they prefer to be under England rather than France, for that is what it comes to. I hope they will have the sense to choose England, and if what we hear be true, they can judge from the insolent arrogance of the French officers, when they are but a fraction of your force, what they would be when they regarded themselves as your masters.

"William is ready to grant religious equality, and the security of persons and estates. I think the Irish will be very unwise to refuse. At the same time, they have suffered such villainous treatment, at the hands of William's soldiers, that I cannot blame them if they decide to throw in their lot with France."

"I think," Walter said, "that, if they were but sure that all the promises would be kept, the greater part would be in favour of making peace at once. Nine out of ten of us are of English descent, and have only been driven to take up arms by the cruel oppression which we have suffered. Why, at present five-sixths of the soil of Ireland is in the hands of Protestants, our religion is persecuted, and for years we have been trampled on, and regarded as fair objects of robbery."

"All that you say is true, Walter, and no one can regret it more than I do. Still, I do think that you would be worse off under France than under England. Louis would drain the island of its men to fill his army. He uses you only as a cat's paw in his struggle against England and Holland, and would not hesitate to turn you over to England again, did it at any time suit him to make peace on such terms; or to offer Ireland as an exchange for some piece of territory he coveted, beyond his frontier."

"I know my father is very much of your opinion," Walter said, "and that he has no confidence whatever in the King of France, and considers that French interference is responsible for the want of success which has attended us. At any rate, there is scarcely one of us who does not hate the French, and certainly, if we had to choose between the two countries, we should choose England."

When it became dark, a troop of cavalry mounted, and with Colonel L'Estrange and Walter in their midst, rode out of camp. They went for several miles, and then Colonel L'Estrange said:

"We are now well outside the limit where you will be likely to meet any of our scouting parties. Two miles further along this road, you will come to the village of Mulroon. It has, like all the others, suffered heavily, but there are two or three houses still standing, and when I rode through, it a few days since, I saw an old man standing at the door of one of them, so you will be likely to get information as to the best road to the town, and perhaps a guide."

"Thank you very heartily, Colonel L'Estrange. I know the village, for I rode through it only the day before I was captured, and if I can get no guide, I can make my own way round as soon as it is daylight."

"You had better go on tonight, if you can, Walter. Some party of rascally plunderers might arrive here, or Ginckle may, for aught I know, have sent out parties of dragoons. At any rate, I would not stop here, but make your way on among the hills, even if you can only get a mile away, and have to sleep by the side of your horse. No one can say he is safe under a roof within twenty miles of Ginckle's army."

There was a hearty leave taking between Colonel L'Estrange and Walter, and the latter then rode straight forward, while the troop faced about, and made their way back to camp.

On arriving at the village, Walter, as soon as he succeeded in convincing the inhabitants of a cottage, in which he saw a light, that he was an Irish officer, found no difficulty in obtaining a guide, a boy of fourteen volunteering at once to conduct him to the ford, ten miles above Limerick. It was nearly twenty miles, by the byroads by which they travelled, and the morning was just breaking as they arrived there.

Colonel L'Estrange had insisted on providing Walter with funds, and he was therefore able to reward his guide, who went his way, rejoicing, while Walter crossed the river and rode for the cavalry camp, where he was received with delight by his father and friends, who had believed him to have been killed in the skirmish, for such was the report of the troopers who had managed to make their escape.

"I must not let you go on any more detached commands, Walter," his father said. "I do not say that you have been imprudent, or to blame; but this is the second time that you have been surprised by the enemy, and, as it is out of the question to expect that you can always have the good luck to get out of their hands when you are captured, as you have on the last two occasions, I shall keep you by me in future; for seriously, my boy, your absence has caused me terrible anxiety."

When Walter's account of the barbarous sentence passed upon the peasants, whose only crime was that they had defended their property against marauders acting in defiance of the general's order, was known in camp, the most intense indignation prevailed, and this was heightened by the fact that a cavalry officer, taken in open fight, should have been sentenced to a similar fate. So great, indeed, was the fury of both officers and men, that had they been in any condition to take the field, nothing could have restrained them from mounting and riding, at once, to strike a blow in revenge for the murder and mutilation of the peasants.



Chapter 16: Peace.

Ginckle's expedition across the Shannon, and his surprise of the Irish cavalry camp, successful as it had been, altered the position in no way. Several days passed, and then, after a council of war, it was determined to recross the bridge of boats, which remained undisturbed, to the Clare side, and try to force a way across Thomond Bridge. On the 22nd of September, all the cavalry of the army, ten regiments of infantry, and fourteen pieces of cannon made the passage without molestation, and marched towards the bridge, which was defended upon the Clare side by two strong towers. As the British advanced guard of infantry approached the bridge, it was charged by a body of Irish horse, broken, and driven back.

A strong body of cavalry rode up to support the infantry; the Irish horse were reinforced, and a hot fight continued until, at about four o'clock in the afternoon, the whole force of British infantry came up, and the Irish retired upon the infantry posted in the works which covered the bridge. Near the gate were high grounds cut up by gravel pits. The Irish infantry were posted here, as well as in the forts; and the English, as they advanced, were assailed with a very heavy fire from these positions, and also from the guns on the town walls.

In spite of the heavy loss they were suffering, the English pressed on with the greatest gallantry. Success was now almost a necessity, for, if defeated, but few of them would ever have been able to recross the river. Foot by foot they fought their way, pressed on past the outworks, and pushed back the Irish infantry, till the latter were gathered round the head of the bridge.

The Irish generals had thought that Ginckle's movement was but a repetition of the previous raid, and the force that had been sent over to guard the head of the bridge was altogether insufficient to withstand the determined attack by Ginckle's force. Reinforcements were now sent across the bridge, but this only added to the confusion. Pressed back by the weight and power of the English attack, the Irish were beginning to retire across the bridge, when they met the reinforcements making their way over.

The bridge was of great length, but extremely narrow, and a complete block took place. The English had pierced their way through the struggling mass at the head of the bridge, and pressed on the rear of the mass of fugitives, literally hewing their way through them, and the pressure became so great that the regiments crossing were carried back. The head of the British column was pushed forward by those behind, and could only advance by slaying those in front of them and throwing their bodies over the bridge; for the mass were wedged so tightly that movement had now become impossible, while the Irish, as they retreated, formed ramparts of the slain and impeded the advance of the enemy.

While the struggle on the bridge was at its fiercest, the French officer who commanded at the drawbridge across the arch nearest to the city, fearing that the British would press in at the rear of the Irish, and that he might not then be able to raise the drawbridge, ordered this to be done at once—thereby cutting off the retreat of the soldiers still on the bridge. These jumped over the parapet into the river, and strove to reach the city wall by swimming. Some did so, but great numbers were drowned. This incident greatly increased the standing feud between the Irish and French, the former declaring that the latter not only never fought themselves, but were ready, at the first alarm, to sacrifice their allies in order to secure their own safety.

The success of Ginckle's second raid had been complete, in so far that he had inflicted great slaughter upon the Irish infantry, and had gained a moral victory; but he was no nearer capturing the town. An attack across the long narrow bridge was not even to be thought of; and he again retired across the river.

The Irish were disheartened. Sarsfield, though a dashing cavalry commander, appeared wholly incapable of handling large bodies of men. Ginckle had twice given him a great opportunity, but on neither occasion had he made the slightest effort to utilize it.

On the first occasion, surprise and uncertainty might excuse inaction on the part of the army in Limerick, but there was no such excuse the second time. Their force outside the town gate was but a small one; it was certain that the English could not push across the bridge; and, as Ginckle had taken the best part of his army across, Sarsfield could have issued out with his whole force on the Limerick side, crushed the British force remaining there, and captured the camp and all its stores—in which case Ginckle's position would have been desperate. But not a movement was made to seize an opportunity which would have been patent to any military commander possessing genius and energy; nor, until it was too late, was any attempt made to reinforce the detachment which, on the other side of the bridge, was withstanding the attack of a vastly superior force.

Ginckle, relying upon the moral effect of the blow he had just struck, renewed his negotiations. Some of the Irish leaders had already received bribes. Others were genuinely anxious that the war should cease, now that William was ready to grant terms which would secure the ends for which they had been fighting. Others, again, were animated by hostility to the French, and the fear that, if the expected reinforcements arrived and the English were driven out, Ireland would become a mere appanage of France.

Sarsfield himself was, no doubt, swayed by his dislike to being again superseded in the command by the arrival of another French general. He was, too, influenced by the fear that the peace party might prevail, and that Clifford's act of treachery might be repeated, and the enemy be admitted into the city without any terms being arranged.

The French officers, eager to return home, made no attempt to stem the course of events; and, on the evening of the day after the battle on the Clare side, the drums of the besieged beat a parley, and Generals Sarsfield and Waughup went out and had a conference with Ginckle. A cessation of arms was concluded for the night; and in the morning the truce was extended for three days, to allow the cavalry, who were now encamped near Ennis, to be communicated with.

On the 25th, the principal noblemen and officers from the cavalry camp arrived, prisoners were exchanged, and hostages on both sides were given, until the terms of a treaty of peace could be adjusted. On the 27th, the Irish submitted their proposals to the English general, which were—that "all past offences should be pardoned; that the Catholics of the counties of Cork, Limerick, Kerry, Clare, Sligo, and Mayo be restored to the estates which they held previous to the war; freedom of worship to be allowed; Catholics to be capable of holding all employments, civil and military; the Irish army to be kept on foot, and those who were willing to serve to be received into the king's service; Catholics to be at liberty to reside in all cities and towns, and to have all rights of citizens; and that an act of parliament should be passed to confirm these conditions."

These terms were agreed to, and were held to be applicable, not only to the garrison of Limerick, but to the whole of Ireland. Ginckle at once sent an express to Cork, to order the transports in that harbour to sail round to the Shannon, for the purpose of taking on board such part of the Irish army as might wish to be carried to France—this being one of the stipulations of the treaty.

Sarsfield and most of his officers, and the priests, used their utmost efforts to persuade the soldiers to enter the French service, in preference to the English. Their exhortations were successful. Only about two thousand Irish joined the British army, four thousand laid down their arms and returned to their homes, and a considerable number deserted on their march down to Cork. The rest were shipped in transports to France, where they entered the service of that country. Two days after the treaty was signed, the French fleet, with ten thousand men and a great abundance of stores, arrived at the mouth of the Shannon.

The Irish negotiators of the treaty have been greatly and deservedly blamed, inasmuch as, while they stipulated that the proprietors of the neighbouring counties should retain their estates, they abandoned those possessing property throughout the rest of Ireland to ruin and beggary. There was no excuse for this. They knew that the French fleet had sailed, and must have arrived in a few days, and that the English cause was becoming so desperate that Ginckle would not have resisted any terms they had laid down. This cruel and wholly unnecessary desertion of their friends has thrown a slur upon the memory of Sarsfield and the other leaders who conducted the negotiations.

The officers and men who entered the service of France had bitter reason to repent their decision. Instead of being, as they expected, kept together in regiments, they were for the most part broken up and distributed throughout the French army. Louis was deeply enraged at the surrender, just as the expedition he had made such efforts to send for the conquest of Ireland was within a few hours' sail of its shores, and he treated the whole of the Irish and French who returned from Ireland as men who had acted the part of traitors.

As soon as the terms of capitulation were arranged, Captain Davenant obtained papers of protection for all the men of his troop. He had formed them up on parade, and had put the question, whether they wished to return home or to enter the service of France.

"I myself, and your officers, intend to return home," he said. "Of course, each of you is free to do as he chooses; but it appears to me a most foolish thing to leave your country forever, and exile yourself in the service of France, when you are free to return home. You know how little French promises have been kept during this war, and how little faith is to be placed on them in future."

The men were unanimous in their decision to return to their homes, and, as soon as the protection papers were obtained, the troop disbanded, and all returned to their homes and occupations in and around Bray.

It was a joyful meeting, when Captain Davenant and Walter returned to the castle. Mrs. Davenant had always shared her husband's opinion, that the chances of ultimate success were small, and of late even his mother had given up hope, and both were delighted that their anxieties were at last over, and husband and son restored to them in safety. There was an immense deal to tell on both sides, for it was months since any letter had passed between them.

"We have everything to be thankful for," Mrs. Davenant said, when the stories on both sides had been told, "and it seems to me that it is, to no slight extent, due to Walter that we have passed so well through the last two troubled years. It was Jabez Whitefoot who first stood our friend, and who saved the castle from being burned, and his goodwill was earned by Walter's friendship with his son. Then Mr. Conyers stood between us and the council, who would certainly have confiscated everything, had it not been for him. And, although he always expressed himself as greatly indebted to you also, he said that, so far as he understood from his wife, it was to Walter's foresight and arrangement that his wife and daughter owed their rescue.

"How was it that Walter was so forward in the matter, Fergus?"

"Walter was perhaps more particularly interested in the matter than I was," Captain Davenant said, with a smile. "His thoughts were running in that direction."

Walter coloured up, and Mrs. Davenant, who was looking at him with some surprise, at her husband's words, broke into a laugh.

"You don't mean to say, Walter, that you have been falling in love, at your age?"

"You forget, dear," Captain Davenant said, coming to Walter's rescue, "that Walter is no longer a boy. Three years of campaigning have made a man of him, and, I venture to think, an earnest and thoughtful one. He is, it is true, only nineteen, but he has seen as much, and gone through as much, as men double his age. He has, upon several occasions, evinced an amount of coolness and judgment in danger which has earned him the approbation even of General Sarsfield, a man not easily satisfied."

"I don't mean to hurt your feelings, Walter," Mrs. Davenant said; "but of course, it is difficult for me, at first, to realize that while you have been away you have changed from a boy into a man."

"I don't mind, mother dear," Walter said, "and you can laugh at me as much as you like."

"And is there anything in what your father says?" Mrs. Davenant asked, as she passed her hand fondly over Walter's head, as he sat on a low stool beside her.

"Yes, mother," he answered manfully. "I am engaged to Claire Conyers. I have her mother's consent, but what Mr. Conyers will think about it, I don't know. He must know long before this, for Mrs. Conyers said that she should tell him, as soon as he joined them in England."

Mrs. Davenant leaned over, and kissed her son.

"The Conyers are of good family," old Mrs. Davenant said, "although they did come over with Cromwell. I do not think that is any objection to a son of our house marrying into theirs."

Captain Davenant laughed.

"No objection at all, on our side, mother. Any objection is likely to be on the other side, not on the ground of family, but on that of property. Claire Conyers is one of the richest heiresses in Ireland, while Walter's inheritance can scarcely be termed extensive."

Two months later, Captain Davenant received a letter from Mr. Conyers, saying that he had arrived with his wife and daughter at Dublin on the previous day, and should be glad to make his acquaintance, and that of his son.

"My wife," he said, "has informed me of certain love passages, which have taken place between Claire and your son, and I shall be glad to talk to you concerning them."

Captain Davenant and Walter at once rode over to Dublin, the latter full of delight, and yet with a considerable amount of trepidation as to the interview between his father and Mr. Conyers. His mind was, however, speedily put at rest, for upon entering, Mr. Conyers at once took him by the hand, and said:

"I am glad, indeed, of the opportunity of thanking you, in person, for the inestimable service you rendered to my wife and daughter. I find, from my wife, that Claire has discovered a means of repaying you for your service, and as her happiness is, she tells me, dependent on my giving my consent to the plan, I tell you at once that I do so, very heartily. I think you had better wait for a while, say two or three years, but we need not settle that at present.

"Come here, Claire."

He placed the girl's hand in Walter's.

"Take her," he said, "and make her happy."

The next day, Mr. Conyers, with his wife and daughter, accompanied Captain Davenant and Walter back to Davenant Castle, where they stayed for some days.

The Whitefoots did not long remain neighbours of the Davenants. Old Zephaniah had passed away, ere the peace was signed, and, soon after Captain Davenant returned, Jabez called at the castle.

"We are going away," he said. "John has made up his mind to become a trader, in London, and Hannah and I would be lonely without him, and, moreover, we are both weary of our life here, and have far more than enough money laid by for our needs, and for giving John the means of entering some well-established firm, when the time shall come. As to the lands here, they are ours now; but the next turn of the wheel might give them back to you. Besides, we do not wish to be troubled with their care. I therefore intend to revert to the offer which you made me, when the Parliament restored the land to you. I have received a good offer for our house and farm, and this I have accepted. The rest of the estates I hand back to you, from whom they were taken by the sword. My wife wishes this, as well as myself. John is eager that it should be so. He will be glad that his friend should be heir to the estates of his ancestors."

"But we could not accept such a generous offer," Captain Davenant exclaimed. "It is out of all reason."

"That I know not, friend Davenant; but I know that I, and my wife and John, have so made up our minds, and we are of a race not given to change. The land would but be an incumbrance and a trouble to us. John would far rather make his path in life, as he chooses it, than live upon the rents of ill-gotten lands. You will receive your own again, and all parties will be satisfied."

Nothing could alter the resolution Jabez and his wife and son had taken, and so the Davenant estates came back to their former possessors.

Three years after the conclusion of peace, Walter became Claire Conyers' husband, and in time succeeded to the wide estates of Mr. Conyers, as well as those of the Davenants. Godfrey Davenant, on attaining the age of eighteen, obtained, through Colonel L'Estrange's interest, a commission in the English army, fought under Marlborough in the fierce campaign in Flanders, and fell at the battle of Oudenarde. Happily, during the lifetime of Walter and Claire Davenant, there was never any renewal of trouble in Ireland, and they lived to see their children and grandchildren grow up around them, in peace and happiness.

John Whitefoot became, in time, one of the leading merchants of the city of London, and spent the greater of the fortune he gained in trade in works of charity and kindness. The friendship between him and Walter Davenant remained unchanged to the end of their lives. They occasionally paid each other visits, and, when a son of John Whitefoot married a daughter of Walter Davenant, they felt that this was a fitting termination of the old feud between the families.