The House by the Church-Yard | Page 6

relic with great reverence, out of regard for my
good uncle, he turned it about slowly before the eyes of the curate, who
scrutinised it, from a little distance, with a sort of melancholy horror.
'Yes, Lemuel,' said my uncle, still holding my hand, ''twas undoubtedly
a murder; ay, indeed! He sustained two heavy blows, beside that
gunshot through the head.'
''Twasn't gunshot, Sir; why the hole 'id take in a grape-shot,' said an old
fellow, just from behind my uncle, in a pensioner's cocked hat, leggings,
and long old-world red frock-coat, speaking with a harsh reedy voice,
and a grim sort of reserved smile.
I moved a little aside, with a sort of thrill, to give him freer access to
my uncle, in the hope that he might, perhaps, throw a light upon the
history of this remarkable memorial. The old fellow had a rat-like gray
eye--the other was hid under a black patch--and there was a deep red
scar across his forehead, slanting from the patch that covered the
extinguished orb. His face was purplish, the tinge deepening towards
the lumpish top of his nose, on the side of which stood a big wart, and
he carried a great walking-cane over his shoulder, and bore, as it
seemed to me, an intimidating, but caricatured resemblance to an old
portrait of Oliver Cromwell in my Whig grandfather's parlour.
'You don't think it a bullet wound, Sir?' said my uncle, mildly, and
touching his hat--for coming of a military stock himself, he always
treated an old soldier with uncommon respect.
'Why, please your raverence,' replied the man, reciprocating his

courtesy; 'I know it's not.'
'And what is it, then, my good man?' interrogated the sexton, as one in
authority, and standing on his own dunghill.
'The trepan,' said the fogey, in the tone in which he'd have cried
'attention' to a raw recruit, without turning his head, and with a scornful
momentary skew-glance from his gray eye.
'And do you know whose skull that was, Sir?' asked the curate.
'Ay do I, Sir, well,' with the same queer smile, he answered. 'Come,
now, you're a grave-digger, my fine fellow,' he continued, accosting the
sexton cynically; 'how long do you suppose that skull's been under
ground?'
'Long enough; but not so long, my fine fellow, as yours has been above
ground.'
'Well, you're right there, for I seen him buried,' and he took the skull
from the sexton's hands; 'and I'll tell you more, there was some dry eyes,
too, at his funeral--ha, ha, ha!'
'You were a resident in the town, then?' said my uncle, who did not like
the turn his recollections were taking.
'Ay, Sir, that I was,' he replied; 'see that broken tooth, there--I forgot
'twas there--and the minute I seen it, I remembered it like this
morning--I could swear to it--when he laughed; ay, and that sharp
corner to it--hang him,' and he twirled the loose tooth, the last but two
of all its fellows, from' its socket, and chucked it into the grave.
'And were you--you weren't in the army, then?' enquired the curate,
who could not understand the sort of scoffing dislike he seemed to bear
it.
'Be my faith I was so, Sir--the Royal Irish Artillery,' replied he,
promptly.

'And in what capacity?' pursued his reverence.
'Drummer,' answered the mulberry-faced veteran.
'Ho!--Drummer? That's a good time ago, I dare say,' said my uncle,
looking on him reflectively.
'Well, so it is, not far off fifty years,' answered he. 'He was a
hard-headed codger, he was; but you see the sprig of shillelagh was too
hard for him--ha, ha, ha!' and he gave the skull a smart knock with his
walking-cane, as he grinned at it and wagged his head.
'Gently, gently, my good man,' said the curate, placing his hand hastily
upon his arm, for the knock was harder than was needed for the
purpose of demonstration.
'You see, Sir, at that time, our Colonel-in-Chief was my Lord
Blackwater,' continued the old soldier, 'not that we often seen him, for
he lived in France mostly; the Colonel-en-Second was General
Chattesworth, and Colonel Stafford was Lieutenant-Colonel, and under
him Major O'Neill; Captains, four--Cluffe, Devereux, Barton, and
Burgh: First Lieutenants--Puddock, Delany, Sackville, and Armstrong;
Second Lieutenants--Salt; Barber, Lillyman, and Pringle; Lieutenant
Fireworkers--O'Flaherty--'
'I beg your pardon,' interposed my uncle, 'Fireworkers, did you say?'
'Yes, Sir.'
'And what, pray, does a Lieutenant Fireworker mean?'
'Why, law bless you, Sir! a Fireworker! 'twas his business to see that
the men loaded, sarved, laid, and fired the gun all right. But that doesn't
signify; you see this old skull, Sir: well, 'twas a nine days' wonder, and
the queerest business you ever heerd tell of. Why, Sir, the women was
frightened out of their senses, an' the men puzzled out