This story was started by B0urrou and I about a year ago and posted on the Dolcettish site. It is still there but without B0urreau's illustrations. I am posting the Illustrated version here in 3 parts.
The story takes place in ireland during the 1798 rebellion. It concerns a young Irish woman who is sentenced to death for spying and the reluctant British Colonel who is ordered to hang her.
I hope that you enjoy it. I certainly consider it the best writing I have done in this genera and could not have done it without collaborating with B0urreau.
Part 1:
The Colonel and The Courtesan – Death and Redemption
A Tale of the ’98
A collaboration by B0urreau and Courtesan
Illustrated by B0urreau
On a spring day in 1816, two people walked arm-in arm through an Irish churchyard: a tall man, thick-set, but beginning to stoop with age and walking with a slight limp; and on his arm, a beautiful young woman with a very refined air. An observer might have remarked that though their demeanour towards each other indicated the relationship of father and daughter – or even, at a pinch, grandfather and granddaughter – there seemed to be little familial likeness between them: the old man bore the straight features and sharp narrow nose of the Anglo-Saxons, whilst the girl’s black hair, round face and clear eyes were typically Irish.
The pair regarded the churchyard with the familiar yet not quite certain look of people who had been there before, but a very long time ago. They went unhurried, but nevertheless with a clear sense of purpose, through the jumble of headstones, the simple and the ornate, till they found the one they were seeking. The grass around it was freshly-mown.
As they looked down at the grave, it seemed, for a fleeting moment, as if they were not alone. There seemed to be with them the shades of others: a man in the red and white uniform of a Sergeant-major in the British Army; and a young dark-haired woman.
The plain stone slab bore a terse legend:
KATHRYN O’HOULIHAN
DAUGHTER OF IRELAND
BORN 1776
DIED 1798
RESTING WITH GOD
Death (1798)
The Courtesan:
It is a cold November day that portends an even colder November night. News travels fast, even to my dim gaol cell; Wolf Tone is dead, by his own hand. I soon will join him. That I know. The risk was always there. I had been recruited as a spy, and as a true daughter of Ériu I had done my best. My best was very little though because soon I was discovered.
I was taken in the night four days ago, in bed with one of my many lovers, in this case a British officer who had been sent to trap me. They had taken me naked, but allowed me to throw on a dress, nothing else.
The redcoat soldiers beat and abvsed me before my trial. The night that I was taken, three of them forced me to pleasure them at the same time. They were very rough and none of them had bathed in an age. But I submitted; the beating would only have been worse had I resisted.
My trial was a sham. I was not even allowed to speak; I was found guilty quickly and sentenced to hang.
‘Hanged by the neck until dead.’ It was as though a knife were stabbed into my gut when I heard those words. I had not believed until that moment that I would be sentenced to die. I had expected some leniency. So many of the officers were my friends I thought. My spying had amounted to nothing. But I was to pay the maximum penalty. I felt an instant panic when I heard the words. My stomach turned. ‘No, no, not me,’ I had said to myself in a whisper, ‘No, please, I don’t want to die, I can’t die,’ my mind screamed as I was dragged back to my gaol cell.
That was two days ago: since then I have not slept. My mind, tortured with what was happening to me, would not allow that. Tonight is to be my last, alone in my cell with only my thoughts to keep me company. The thoughts of my last minutes rage in my mind, how I will kick my life away as I strangle in a noose to the cheers of an angry, hateful mob.
Death is not my greatest fear though. I have a far greater fear, a greater regret than merely dieing. I fear for my young daughter, Aoife, who will grow up in an orphanage, never knowing a parent’s love. My thoughts now, are for her. My heart is a black hole of despair. All of my friends have abandoned me or worse, have been arrested and have met or await my fate. All of the men who had loved me, who had sworn that they would love me forever; all of the English officers that I had entertained and pleasured; all have abandoned me. They laughed at me and called me a whore at my trial. I can expect no help there.
Even if I were not to hang on the morrow I would be destitute and would have to scr@pe a meagre living as a street prostitute to try to support Aoife. The Crown confisc@ted all of my property. All of the plans and hopes that I had for my little daughter are now ashes. The family that I have paid to foster her has sent word that they will have to turn her out, as they can no longer afford to support her without money from me. With no means of support she will be sent to an orphanage. She will have a loveless, hopeless life of drudgery and servitude, with few prospects of marriage or advancement. This is my greatest fear, not death itself but the terror of not being able to provide for the one person that I love more than life itself. ‘What am I to do? What am I to do?’ I think to myself over and over.
And I pray silently, 'Dear Lord God, I am facing death but I ask nothing for myself. Please protect little Aoife, please help her find her way through her life. Amen.' The prayer calms my mind.
My gaoler is a violent looking man and I was frightened of him until he proved to be quite kind. Seeing that I was cold, he brought me a heavy woollen blanket soon after I had been imprisoned and he has provided a basin of water for me to wash each morning.
He brought me my last meal a few minutes ago, a thin gruel. He apologized that it was all that they had but said it was hot and that I would feel better if I ate it. I let it sit on the table next to my bed, the only two pieces of furniture that adorn my tiny cell. I am not hungry. I have a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, thinking about tomorrow.
The Colonel:
I rode up to the gate of the gaol. The guards saluted as I dismounted and handed one of them the reins of my h0rse.
The duty gaoler stood up as I entered.
“I’m here to see the prisoner, Kathryn O’Houlihan,” I said.
“Yes sir, of course sir.”
He took a bunch of keys from a hook on the wall of the little alcove inside the entrance, and beckoned me to follow him down a dark corridor. The inside of the gaol was gloomy at the best of times, little daylight penetrating the small windows: now as evening drew in, it was a depressing place indeed, the candles along the walls providing little illumination.
As we passed each cell door, I was conscious of eyes peering out through the gratings. Most of them just stared sullenly: a few female voices called out to me, pleading, offering their services in return for money or anything that they could trade.
“Not often we get gentlemen in here sir,” he said, glancing at my uniform, “and a Colonel of the Foot, at that. May I enquire what your business is with the, er… lady?”
His obsequious manner irritated me already. “You may not.”
Kathryn O’Houlihan – Kitty as she was known to most, though not to me – was a courtesan, of legendary beauty and spirit. I had first come across her not long after our regiment arrived here in Ireland.
I did not wish to be here at all: we had unfinished business in Flanders, and elsewhere, with our country’s old enemies, the French. But in this year of 1798, the simmering discontent in Ireland had finally boiled into rebellion, the downtrodden Catholics finally kicking against the Anglo-Protestant ascendancy.
Few in England cared a whit for Ireland or the Irish – save those who owned the land; but the rebel leader Wolfe Tone had thrown in his lot with the French, who were seeking to export their late Revolution; and they had sent a military expedition to Ireland in support.
And if Ireland should go the way the American colonies had less than two decades before, it could provide the springboard for the long-feared French invasion of England. Our navy was already at full stretch, and our army was puny compared to theirs. And so, as often in times of crisis, the government had resorted to draconian measures to restore control.
In the end, we prevailed. The French expedition ended in fiasco, the rebellion failed, and Wolfe Tone was captured and taken for trial and execution – but he died by his own hand before they could hang him.
The rebellion and its aftermath had been attended with that peculiar atavistic best!ality that occurs whenever people are pitched against their own countrymen. Some frightful acts had been committed by the rebels – but I cannot say that the ghastly vengeance that followed was any credit to us. The green countryside was filled with charred black ruins and festooned with hanging corpses – of women sometimes, as well as men.
– And those hanged might have been considered the fortunate ones. We had all heard of the ‘pitch-capping’ practised by some of our militiamen against anyone suspected of being a ‘croppy’: I had never actually seen this for myself, but I had heard a Yeomanry officer, a gentleman I had thought, describing how his men did it – indeed, he was positively bragging of it.
I wondered how, in this modern age, human beings could still do such vile things to one another. This was the 1790s, not the Dark Ages; and we were civilised men, not the savages of North America.
I was determined that such barbarous cruelties would not be committed by the men under my command. We were a regiment of the line, proper soldiers, not some ramshackle Yeomanry outfit, and I was determined that some standard of human decency would prevail among my own fellows, even in the middle of this fratricidal madness.
And in the midst of all this, there was Kathryn O’Houlihan.
Our paths first had crossed long before the rebellion, not long after our regiment was first posted to Ireland, when the French first started sniffing around. I had been out one day sketching birds and an!mals in my pocket-book, a welcome break from my military duties. She answered my good-day with gaiety, and noticing my amateur artworks, commented kindly on them.
At that time I was still grieving for the loss of my wife, and I could not conceive that anyone else would ever fill the void in my world. But from the moment I first set eyes on Kathryn, I was in love again. She was of medium height and slight build, with a typical round Irish face; her hair, as black and glossy as a raven’s wing, was tied up under a broad-brimmed straw hat; her eyes were clear blue, as pale as a winter sky; girlish freckles were sc@ttered over a pert button nose. Her confident demeanour belied her fresh youthful appearance; and her ready smile would have won the heart of Beelzebub himself.
And my love was undiminished even when I learned that she was a courtesan, a professional woman, selling her favours to men. But I never availed myself of her services, as some of my brother officers did: instead I admired her from afar, my feelings for her growing ever more ardent; and when the time seemed to be right, I had summoned up all my courage and asked her to become my wife.
But she would have none of it. She laughed off my proposal, dismissing me as a love-struck boy – although I was in fact a deal older than she. I cannot say I was unhurt by her rejection, but her gay laughter was without malice, and I could bear her no ill-will.
But some time later, I was dumbfounded to learn that Kathryn had been revealed to be more, much more, than merely a courtesan.
She was a spy for the rebels – and indeed, what better cover for a spy than to be a prostitute who was patronised by army officers? She used her feminine wiles to obtain information; and this she passed on to the rebels.
‘Spying’ was a strong word: her offence had been, in truth, little more than the passing-on of military gossip. But the authorities were determined to send a salutary message that secessionist and republican activities were longer to be tolerated as once they might have been, and she was put on trial for treason.
Her trial was a perfunctory affair, as was often the case in those harsh times –in the bloody aftermath of the rebellion, many alleged croppies had no trial at all, but were simply dispatched straight to the gallows – or worse. Kathryn at least had a hearing of sorts, but the verdict was a foregone conclusion; and when it came in, there could only be one possible outcome. She was sentenced to be hanged by the neck until dead.
When I heard the sentence pronounced, it felt as though my guts had been ripped out of me; but worse, if worse there could be, was to follow.
For my regiment was ordered to carry out the sentence.
In a way, I think the authorities were punishing me as well. My feelings for Kathryn were widely known. Had I merely used her as a whore, for nothing more than sexual gratification, as my brother officers were wont to do, this might have been forgiven; actually being in love with a rebel and traitor was quite another thing. So they were evidently determined to test my loyalty, and at the same time to send a salutary message to all that fraternisation with the natives would no longer be tolerated.
I was no stranger to death: I had witnessed it in many forms. I had seen it in battle: I had seen a man take a roundshot full in the face, spattering his mates with the bloody shreds of his brains, his headless body taking three more steps before toppling; I had seen a man lying on the ground in too much pain to scream, rocking silently from side to side as a bright red fountain spurted from the artery in his groin; I had seen a seventeen-year-old youth weeping and calling for his mother as his sight began to fail and he felt the cold creeping over him.
And my own wife had died, in c h i l dbirth; and our baby daughter just a day after her. That was worse than any battle-slaughter, any death of a soldier, who knew and accepted the risks of his trade.
But dreadful as they were, none of these things appalled me as much as what was to come. Death, in whatever guise, had at least taken all these victims by surprise: they may have been afraid, but none of them ever knew they were to die on the day, as a condemned person knew. I had witnessed nothing as obscene, as revolting, as demeaning to all present, both participants and audience, as a public execution, the planned, cold-blooded killing of a human being turned into ghastly entertainment to satiate the mob.
And on the morrow, I was to be the master of ceremonies in yet another of these dreadful dramas; and this time, the doomed diva was to be Kathryn.
The Courtesan:
I hear the sound of footsteps outside of my cell, the fumbling of keys and the sound of the lock turning. I look up from my bed as a broad shouldered British officer steps in, followed by the Gaoler. I know this officer; he is Colonel John Pettigrew of the 68th Foot.
He stands there resplendent in his scarlet uniform, with its gold braid trim, buttons, and epaulettes. He removes his cocked hat, as dandified as his uniform sporting a large plume. He is carrying a small basket in one hand and a package under his arm. A curved sword dangles at his side and he wears fine riding boots polished as black as midnight. He is a tall, strong and broadly built man with a wide and distinctive, if not greatly handsome, face. A face one could take comfort in.
I have entertained many men wearing such uniforms, officers in the mighty English army. Although they are my country’s enemies I bore them no particular ill will. In fact I had liked most of them very well and they treated me like a lady, despite what I was. I always tried to satisfy them and make them happy, professional pride. But as a class, I always remembered who they were and why they were in Ireland. I had little compunction about using my wiles to obtain information that would help the cause, little and unimportant as that information might be.
Colonel Pettigrew is about twenty years my senior, old enough to have fathered me. I had entertained him as a friend; but he had never been numbered among my lovers, though I certainly would have welcomed him to my boudoir and had indicated such to him. But he declined, out of respect for his departed wife he told me, so I did not pursue the matter. That was why it surprised me so, a year ago, that he had asked me to marry him. I spurned him, of course, as gently as I could but I spurned him. I could not fathom what had come over him. Men do not take whores to wife. They marry first then seek out whores to sate their lusts.
But we frequently saw each other socially. I usually was on the arm of another English officer but we had taken several walks together. Two months ago we spent a whole afternoon in the countryside. He had a great love for the natural world, and showed an almost c h i l dlike excitement at the sight of a particular species of plant or bird that he had not encountered before. I know little of such things but I feigned interest and, in spite of myself, by the end of the afternoon had gained some knowledge of the subject. I was pleased to be with him and felt no little pang of regret at having turned down his proposal of marriage for he would make a fine husband. But he also is a gentleman with fortune and title. I am a common whore. High priced and called a courtesan, but a whore no less. A gentleman must have a proper wife.
Colonel Pettigrew, sir!” I exclaim. I had certainly not expected to see him: all of my other paramours in the army distanced themselves from me with alacrity when I was unmasked.
Then I see that in his other hand, the Colonel is holding a riding crop. Has he come to use it on me?
The Colonel:
The cell was very dim, and it was a moment before my eyes adjusted and I saw Kathryn, sitting on the bed.
Her sophisticated air was no more. Her dress was torn and dirty; her face was gaunt with fear and despair; her beautiful hair was unkempt, flowing loose over her shoulders. But for all that, my heart gave a little flutter, as it always did when I saw her.
“Colonel Pettigrew, sir!” she said.
We stared into each other’s eyes for what seemed an age. There was so much I wanted to say to her; and yet, at this moment, my tongue failed me.
The Courtesan:
A thrill of fear courses through me as I stare at the Colonel’s riding crop. I have pleasured men that way. A certain class of men loves to inflict pain and for an extra guinea I will take a few licks on my bare arse. But these men frequently want more than that and a woman is left prostrate with deep red welts across her back, buttocks and legs. Have I misjudged Colonel Pettigrew? When he finishes will I even be able to stand tomorrow when it comes time for the noose to be placed around my neck?
But he just gazes down at me in silence. I stare sullenly back at him but I cannot divine what he is thinking. From the grim look on his face I can expect little sympathy from him tonight nor mercy tomorrow. But then, it seems to me that the Colonel always has a grim look, or is it a sadness?
The Colonel:
Suddenly I became aware that the gaoler had followed me in, and was now beside me, leering at her.
“That will be all, thank you,” I said coldly. I had wanted to use a stronger phrase, but I would not – not in front of a lady. He nodded, then turned and left, and I heard the key turn in the lock behind me.
“What are you doing here?” said Kathryn. “Are you here for my favours, at last? Or have you just come to gloat, to see the woman who spurned you get her comeuppance? You could have done that tomorrow. You’ll be in good company.”
I put down my riding crop and the package and basket I had brought. “I’m not here to gloat, Miss O'Houlihan,” I said, at last finding my tongue. “Nor have I come for your services. I never wanted you like that.”
“Why not? You could have had them, just like the others. I would not have spurned you for that, and,” she added defiantly, “maybe I could have had some useful intelligence from you too, for the boys.”
“I never wanted you like that,” I repeated.
“What did you want, then? And now? What do you want now?”
I took off my sword and placed it against the wall. No mere ornament for a popinjay officer, this – it was a soldier’s weapon, a French cavalry sabre: I have seen a diagonal cut from one of these take off a man’s head and arm together in the same stroke. I myself carried a scar from this very sword, running down my left arm from shoulder to elbow, and I would never again fully straighten that limb; but its former owner, the man who gave me the blow, had no more need of it. We had left him dead on the field.
There was no chair in the room, so I sat on the bed beside her. “I want the same thing I have always wanted. Something much more precious, which you would never give me.”
“What?”
I took her hand, coyly, like a shy love-struck boy. “I wanted you. Just you. To love me, as I love you, as I have always loved you since first I saw you.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “How can you say that? How can you love me? I spurned you, I turned you down. I’m a rebel spy, your enemy, and I’m a courtesan – a whore, if you prefer, the words pretty much mean the same thing. How can you love a whore? Men fuck whores, they don’t love them.”
It pained me greatly to hear her talk of herself so.
“I never thought of you as a whore,” I said, “I just thought of you as a woman, a woman to be loved. If you don’t understand that now…”
The Courtesan:
He looks less forbidding now, and I do not object to his taking my hand. It is comforting having someone, anyone, beside me at this time, even my country’s enemy.
He hands me the basket that he was carrying. “I have brought you some things.”
I pull back the cloth covering it and inspect the contents: a veal pie, a couple of chicken legs, some apples and a bottle of wine. I take a bite of the pie. It is very good and I realize how hungry I am. I have not had a proper meal in a week.
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