Chapter Twenty Four.
What I found under the hearthstone at Kilgorman.
Our journey northward was uneventful. Captain Swift and I parted company at Derry. My orders were to join the Diana at Dublin at the end of the month, which allowed me only a little over a fortnight for my business in Donegal.
You may fancy with what mingled feelings I found myself one evening standing once more on the quay at Rathmullan, looking down the lough as it lay bathed in the shifting colours of the spring sunset, trying to detect in the distance the familiar little clump of trees behind which nestled Knockowen House. Was this journey one of peace or of war? Did hope lurk for me behind yonder trees; or had I come all this way to discover that the old comrade was forsaken for the new, and that the humble star of the sailor boy had been snuffed out by the gay sun of the gentleman soldier?
Then as my eye travelled further north and caught the bluff headlands towards the lough mouth, other doubts seized me. My mother’s message had burned holes in my pocket ever since I set foot again on Irish soil. And that sacred duty done, what fate awaited me among the secret rebels from whose clutches, when last I saw the Swilly, I was fleeing for my life, but who now, if I was to believe what I had heard, counted Tim, my own brother, in their ranks?
Late as it was, I was too impatient to postpone my fate by a night’s rest at the inn, and hired a boat for a sail down the lough.
Few men were about, and those who were could never have recognised in the tall, bronzed, bearded boatswain the poor, uncouth lad who four years ago rowed his honour’s boat. One or two that I saw I fancied I knew, one particularly, who had changed little since he held his gun to my head that night on the hills when I half took the oath of the society.
It was market day, and many boats were on the water, so that little notice was taken of me as I hoisted my sail and ran down on the familiar tack for the point below Knockowen.
The light soon fell, and I watched eagerly for the window lights. Once or twice on the road north I had heard of the travellers in the private carriage, and knew they had reached home a day or two ago; and to this news one gossip that I encountered on the road to Rathmullan added that Mistress Gorman, my little lady’s mother, had died two years ago, and that the maid was now her father’s only companion and housekeeper.
Presently the well-known twinkle of light shot out, and towards it, with a heart that throbbed more restlessly than my boat, I turned my keel.
When I came up level with the house it was all I could do to refrain from running my boat alongside the landing-place as of yore. I lowered my sail and let her drift as close under the bank as possible. No one was stirring. There were lights in the upper room, and one above the hall-door. Towards the former I strained my eyes longingly for a glimpse even of her shadow. How long I waited I knew not—it might have been a minute or an hour—but presently she came, her figure, more womanly than when I last saw it, dark against the light within, and her hair falling in waves upon her shoulder. She stood for a moment at the closed window, then opened it and looked out. The night was cold and dark; but she braved it, and sat humming a tune, her hand playing with the ivy that crept up to the window-sill.
The air was one I knew. Many a time had she crooned it in the old days as I rowed her in the boat. Once, on a specially happy evening, she had sung it in the attic on the Quai Necker in Paris, and had laughed when I put in a rough bass.
I could not help, as I stood and listened, repeating the experiment, first very softly, then less so, and finally loud enough for her to hear.
What fools we men are! At that instant, with a savage howl, a dog—my own dog Con—rushed down the garden to the spot. The window closed abruptly; there was a sound of voices in the yard and a drawing of bolts at the hall-door, and a hurrying of lights within. I had barely time to cast off from the stake by which I held, and let my boat into the rapid ebb, when footsteps sounded on the gravel, and a shot fired into the night woke the echoes of the lough.
So much for my serenading, and so much for the life of security and peace my little mistress was doomed to live in her father’s house.
I cared not much where the tide took me after that, till presently the tossing of my boat warned me that I must be on the reef off Kilgorman cliffs. In the darkness I could see nothing, but my memory was strong enough to serve for moon and compass both. On this tide and with this wind ten minutes would bring me into the creek.
Why not? Why not now as well as any other time? I was a man, and feared ghosts no longer. Love had been warned away from Knockowen; duty should welcome me at Kilgorman. So I put down my helm, let out my sheet, commended myself to my Maker, and made for the black rocks.
I was determined to avoid the creek and make for the house by the narrow cave which, as I had discovered at my last visit, led up from the shore to the great hearth in the kitchen of the house, and which, as it then seemed, was a secret passage known only to his honour and the smugglers in his employ. It needed some groping about in the dark to find the ledge of rock behind which was the small crack in the cliff that marked the entrance; but I hit on it after a little, and, shoving through, found myself inside the cave. I moored my boat beside the rocky ledge, and then clambered up to the entrance of the narrow gallery. Once there my course was clear; only I wished I had a light, for I knocked first my head, then my knees, then my elbows, and finally had to complete the journey in humble fashion on my hands and knees.
It surprised me greatly, when after long groping I supposed myself close to my destination, to perceive the glimmer of a light at the end of the passage, still more to hear the sound of voices. Were they ghosts or smugglers, or what?
If ghosts, I was disposed to venture on. That they were smugglers I could hardly believe, for there had been no sight of a ship anywhere near, nor of a boat in the cave. Whoever they were, they must have entered the place by the ordinary way above ground, and if so were probably unaware of the secret passage. At any rate, I had come so far, and would not turn back till I saw good reason. I had a pistol in my pocket and a tolerably handy knife, with which, even if surprised, I could give a good account of myself. So I crawled on, and presently came to a place where I could stand upright, and crept close under the corner of the upright stones that flanked the great hearth.
The mystery of the light and voices was soon explained. About a dozen men were assembled in the kitchen, lit up by the glare of a common candle, engaged in earnest consultation. Among the few faces which the light revealed to me I recognised some of my old foes of the secret society, and in the voices of others whose faces were hidden I recognised more.
The subject under discussion was twofold, and as its meaning gradually dawned on me I felt no compunction in listening.
The first matter was a letter, which had evidently been read before I arrived, from the leaders of the United Irishmen in Dublin, calling for a return of the members and officers and arms in each district. From what I could gather, Donegal was not a hopeful region. It numbered, indeed, a few branches of the society scattered up and down the county like that now in session, and was supposed to possess a few arms, and to be able when called upon to put into the field a few drilled men; but compared with other districts it was ineffective, and more given over to smuggling and unorganised raids than to disciplined work for the cause of Irish liberty.
This, as far as I could gather, was the subject of the somewhat upbraiding letter which had arrived from headquarters.
“Arrah, thin, and it’s the truth they’re spakin’,” said one voice, “and we’ll need to be moving.”
“Move, is it? How’ll you move when only the half of yez—and that’s some of yez as are not here the night—come to the meetings? Sure we could move fast enough if all the boys that’s sworn would jine us.”
“Anyhow, here’s the paper. It ’ud be a shame if Donegal was not to have a hand in the turn-out when it comes. Bedad, I’d move across to Antrim if it came to that.”
“And as for officers, sure we’re well off for them. Isn’t Larry Flanagan here a rale born secretary; and Jake Finn makes an iligant treasurer; and as for captain—”
“Ah, I can name you the man for that.”
“Who now? for it’s not iverybody that’ll suit.”
“Tim Gallagher’s your man.”
If I started at this, the sound was lost in the general acclamation which the proposal evoked.
“Faith, and you’ve named the very boy. Young as he is, his heart’s in the business.”
“And more by tokens, he’s well spoke of by them that know. I’m even told Lord Edward has a good word for him.”
“If there’s anything against him, it is that he’s brother to that scurvy informer that set Gorman on to us, and who, I hear, is still about. Tim will have to go the whole hog if he’s to lead us. There’s hunting down to be done, I warn you, as well as fighting.”
“Anyhow, Tim’s the boy for us, and I propose him. He’s due back this week, if he’s not caught by his honour’s ferrets.”
“That brings us to the other matter,” said the man already spoken of as Flanagan, the secretary, in whom I recognised one of my old persecutors, “and it’s about that same vermin. I’ve a letter from the Ulster Committee bidding us deal with Gorman in a way that’s best for the good of Ireland.”
“That means a bullet in him,” said one man bluntly.
“Faith, and you’ve hit it, my lad. We’ve been squeamish enough.”
“It’s got to be done, and soon, or he’ll get the upper hand of us. There’s men of his away seizing the arms in Rathmullan and Milford this week—him as was the manes of bringing them in too!”
“It’s one man’s job. His house is too well guarded for a raid; he must be met on the hillside. I say, let’s draw lots. To-morrow he’s to ride to Malin by the Black Hill road.”
“Ay, that’s the road Terence Gorman rode the night he paid his debts. It’s a grand place for squaring up is the Black Hill.”
“Come now,” said Flanagan, who had been busily marking a piece of paper, “there’s a paper for each of yez, and the one that draws the cross is the boy for the job. Come, one at a time now; draw out of my ould hat, and good luck to yez all.”
One by one they advanced and drew, and the lot fell on one they called Paddy Corkill, whose vicious face fell a little as he saw the fatal mark.
“Arrah, and it’s me hasn’t aven a gun,” said he.
“Take mine—it’s a good one,” said the secretary; “and more by tokens it was Tim Gallagher’s once, for he gave it me, and his name’s on it. To-morrow noight we meet here to hear your news, Paddy, if we’re not on the hill, some of us, to see the job done.”
“Faith, if it must be done it must,” said Paddy. “It’s no light thing setting a country free.”
“Away with yez now,” said the secretary, “or the ghost will be hunting yez.”
On which the meeting dispersed. I could hear their footsteps die away down the passage, and presently pass crunching on the gravel outside, while I remained crouched where I was, as still as a mouse, hardly knowing if I was awake or dreamed.
There was no time to be lost, that I could plainly see. But how to prevent this wicked crime was what puzzled me. I could not hope to gain admittance to Knockowen at this time of night; or if I did, I should probably only thwart my own object, and subject myself to arrest as the associate of assassins. His honour, I knew, was in the habit of starting betimes when business called him to Malin. If I was to do anything, it must be on the Black Hill itself; and thither, accordingly, I resolved to go.
But before I quitted Kilgorman I had another duty scarcely less sacred than that of saving a life from destruction. I stood on the very spot to which my mother’s last message had pointed me, and nothing should tear me now from the place till that wandering spirit was eased of its nightly burden.
“If you love God, whoever you are,” (so the message ran), “seek below the great hearth; and what you find there, see to it, as you hope for grace. God send this into the hands of one who loves truth and charity. Amen.”
Even while I repeated the words to myself, my ear seemed to catch the fluttering footstep advancing down the passage and hear the rustle of the woman’s dress as she passed through the door and approached my hiding-place. A beam of moonlight struck across the floor, and the night wind-swept with a wail round the gables without. Then all was silence, except what seemed to my strained senses a light tap, as with the sole of a foot, on the flagstone that stretched across in front of the fireplace. After that even the wind hushed and the moonlight went out.
I advanced cautiously over the embers, and felt my way down the room and into the passage without. There, where the conspirators had left it, stood the candle, and the tinder-box beside it. I carried the light back to the hearth, shading it with my hand for fear any one without might see it, and set it down beside the flagstone. All over this stone I groped without finding any trace of a rift or any hint of how to lift so formidable a weight. It seemed fast set in the boards, and gave no sound of hollowness or symptom of unsteadiness when I tried it.
I was almost beginning to lose heart, when I knelt by chance, not on the stone, but on a short board at the side, which ran at right angles with the general planks, and seemed intended as part of a kind of framework to the stone. This board creaked under my weight; and when I looked more closely at it, I discovered a couple of sunk hinges let deep into the plank adjoining, and covered over with dust and rust. With my sailor’s knife I cleared away at the edges, and after several trials, one of which broke my blade, I managed to raise it and swing it back on its hinges.
The slight cavity below was full of dirt and rubbish, and it was not till I had cleared these away that I found it ran partly under the adjoining flagstone. The hole was too small to look into, but I could get in my hand, and after some groping came upon what I wanted.
It was a small leather packet, carefully folded and tied round, not much larger than an envelope, and fastened on either side with a wafer. Slipped under the outer string was a smaller folded paper, on the cover of which I recognised, to my great amazement, my own name.
I thrust both packet and paper into my pocket, and after satisfying myself that the hole contained nothing more, filled it up again, and restored the hinged board to its old position. Then I extinguished and replaced the candle, and a few minutes later was hurrying, with my precious freight, down the rocky corridor towards the cave where I had left my boat.
I was not long in getting into the outer world once more. My boat I left where it was, and scrambled up the rocks to the place from which I had once watched the Arrow as she lay at anchor. Here I flung myself on the turf and waited impatiently for daylight.
It came at last, and at its first glow I took the packet from my pocket. The small outer paper addressed to me was in Tim’s hand, and was very brief. “Dear Barry,” it said, “I searched as I promised, and have read this letter. Time enough when Ireland’s business is done to attend to yours and mine.—Tim.” From this I turned with trembling curiosity to the packet itself, and took from it a faded paper, written in a strange, uncultured hand, but signed at the end with my mother’s feeble signature, and dated a month after Tim’s and my birth.
This is the strange matter it contained:—
“I, Mary Gallagher, being at the point of death,”—that was as she then supposed, but she lived many a year after, as the reader knows—“and as I hope for mercy from God, into whose presence I am summoned, declare that the girl-child who was buried beside my Mistress Gorman was not hers but mine. My twins were the boy who lives and the girl who died. My lady’s child is the boy who passes as twin-brother to mine. It was Maurice Gorman led me to this wrong. The night that Terence Gorman, my master, was murdered and my lady died of the news, Maurice persuaded me to change my dead girl for my lady’s living boy, threatening that unless I did so he would show that Mike, my husband, was his master’s murderer. To save my husband I consented. Had I been sure of him I would have refused; but I feared Mike had a hand in that night’s work, though I am sure it was not he who fired the shot. Thus I helped Maurice Gorman to become master of Kilgorman and all his brother’s property. But they no more belong to him than the boy belongs to me. And if this be the last word I say on earth, it is all true, as Maurice knows himself, and Biddy the nurse, who writes this from my lips. God forgive me, and send this to the hands of them that will make the wrong right.
(Signed)
“Mary Gallagher.”
“N.B.—The above is true, every word, to my knowledge.
(Signed)
“Biddy McQuilkin.”
Chapter Twenty Five.
On the Black Hill road.
This, then, was the mystery which for eighteen years had hung over Kilgorman. My mother’s letter cleared up a part of it, but the rest it plunged into greater mystery still. That Maurice Gorman was a villain and a usurper was evident. But who was the rightful heir my mother, either through negligence or of set purpose, had failed to state. Was it Tim? or I?
I recalled all I could of my mother’s words and acts to us both—how she taught us our letters; how she sang to us; how, when need be, she chid us; how, with a hand for each, she took us as children to church; how she kissed us both at nights, and gave us our porridge when we started for the hills in the morning. In all this she never by a sign betrayed that one of us was her son and the other a stranger. Even to the last, on the day she died, the words she spoke to me, I was convinced, she would equally have spoken to Tim, had he, not I, been there to hear them.
Could it be possible that she did not herself know? Any mother who reads this will, I think, scoff at the notion; and yet I think it was so. Weak and ill as she was when it all happened, bewildered and dazed by the murder of her master and the terrible suspicion thrown on her husband, lying for weeks after in a half swoon, and believing herself at the gate of death, I think, in spite of all the mothers in Ireland, that when at last she came back to life, and looked on the two little fellows nestled in the bed at her side, she knew not the one from the other.
My father, I was sure, if he even knew that one of us was not his own boy, neither knew nor concerned himself which was which, so long as he kept his honour in good-humour.
But as regarded Biddy McQuilkin, it was different. She was not ill or blind or in mortal fear when it all happened. If any one could tell, it was she. And she, unless all reports were false, slept in the pit of the guillotine in Paris, beside her last master and mistress. It was not likely that the Republic One and Indivisible, when it swept away the old couple, would overlook their faithful and inseparable attendant.
So, after all, it seemed that mystery was to hang over Tim and me still. I could have been happy had the paper said outright, “Tim is the son of Terence Gorman.” But to feel that as much might, with equal probability, be said of me, paralysed my purpose and obscured my path. How was I to set wrong right? As for Tim, it was evident from his brief note, written at a time when he did not know if I had survived the wreck of the Kestrel or not, that the matter concerned him little compared with the rebellious undertaking on which he was just now unhappily embarked.
Tim was, I knew, more of a natural gentleman than I, which might mean gentler blood. On the other hand, I, of the two of us, was less like Mike Gallagher in looks. Who was to decide between us? And meanwhile this Maurice Gorman—
That reminded me with a start of last night’s business. This very man, robber of the widow, unnatural brother, and oppressor of the fatherless, was appointed for death that very morning, and might already be on his way to meet it. I confess, as I then felt, I could almost have let him run on his doom; yet when I recalled the vision in the kitchen last night of Paddy Corkill shouldering the borrowed gun, my humanity reasserted itself. How could I stand idle with a human life, however worthless, at stake? As to his being Miss Kit’s father, that at the moment did not enter into my calculations; but as soon as it did, it urged my footsteps to a still more rapid stride as I made across the bleak tract for the Black Hill.
The morning was grey and squally, and the mists hung low on the hill-tops, and swept now and then thickly up the valleys. But I knew the way well. Tim and I had often as boys walked there to look at the spot where Terence Gorman fell, and often, in the Knockowen days, I had driven his honour’s gig past the spot on the way to Malin.
The road ascends steeply some little way up the hill between high rocks. Half-way up it takes a sharp turn inward, skirting the slope on the level, and so comes out on to the open bog-road beyond. Just at the angle is a high boulder that almost overhangs the road, affording complete cover to any one waiting for a traveller, and commanding a view of him both as he walks his horse up the slope and as he trots forward on the level. It needed not much guessing to decide that it was here that Terence Gorman’s murderer had lurked that fatal night, and that here Paddy Corkill would come to find his victim this morning.
As I came to the top of a hill that gave a distant view of the road by which the traveller would approach, my heart leaped to my mouth. For there, not a mile and a half away, appeared, in a break of the mist, a black speck, which I knew well enough to be his honour’s gig. In half-an-hour or less it would reach the fatal spot, and I could barely hope to reach it before him. The ground in front of me was littered with boulders, and in places was soft with bog. Rapid progress was impossible. A false step, a slip might lame me, and so stop me altogether. Yet on every moment hung the fate of her father!
It was a wild career I made that morning—down hollows, over rocks, through swamps, and up banks. I soon lost all sight of the road, and knew I should not see it again till I came above the boulder behind which the assassin probably lurked. Once I fancied I heard the clatter of the hoofs very near; and once, on the hill before me, I seemed to catch the gleam of a gun-barrel among the rocks.
A minute more brought me in view of the boulder and the road below. Stretched on the former, with his gun levelled, lay Corkill, waiting the moment when his victim should reach the corner. On the road, still toiling up the hill, came the gig, and to my horror and dismay, not only his honour in it, but Miss Kit herself.
Even in that moment of terror I could not help noticing how beautiful she looked, her face intent on the horse she was driving as she sat, inclined a little forward, gently coaxing him up the hill. His honour, aged and haggard, leaned back in his seat, glancing uneasily now and then at the rocks on either side, and now and then uttering an impatient “tchk” at the panting animal.
I had barely time to whip out my ship’s pistol from my belt—luckily already loaded—and level it at the assassin. Almost at the instant of my discharge his gun went off; and in the moment of silence that followed, I heard the horse start at a gallop along the level road.
Paddy lay on his face, hit in the shoulder, but not, as I judged by his kicking, fatally so. I was less concerned about him than about the occupants of the gig. As far as I could see, looking after them, neither was hurt, and the assassin’s gun must have gone off harmlessly in the air. The horse, who seemed to know what all this meant as well as any one, raced for his life, and I was expecting to see the gig disappear round the turn, unless it overturned first, when a huge stone rolled down on to the road a few yards ahead, and brought the animal up on his haunches with such suddenness that the two travellers were almost pitched from their seats.
At the same moment two men, armed with clubs, leaped on to the road, one making for the horse’s head, the other for the step.
All this took less time to happen than it takes me to tell it, and before the gig actually came to a standstill I was rushing along the road to the spot. My discharged pistol was in my hand, but I had no time to reload. I flung myself at the man on the step just as he raised his club, and sending him sprawling on to the road, levelled my weapon at his head.
“Move, and you’re a dead man!” said I.
Then turning to his honour, I thrust the pistol into his shaking hand, and said,—
“Fire if he tries to get up, your honour. Let me get at the other one.”
He was easily disposed of, for the terrified horse was jerking him off his feet and dragging him here and there in its efforts to get clear. I soon had him on the road beside his companion, helping him thereto by a crack on the head from his own club; and I then took the horse in hand, and reduced it, after a struggle, to quietness.
Till this was done I had had neither time nor heart to lift my eyes to the occupants of the gig. His honour, very white, kept his eyes on the men on the road and his finger on the trigger of the pistol. But Miss Kit had all her eyes for me. At first her look was one of mere gratitude to a stranger; then it clouded with bewilderment and almost alarm; then suddenly it lit up in a blaze of joyful recognition.
“Barry, it’s you after all?” she cried.
And the light on her face glowed brighter with the blush that covered it and the tears that sparkled in her eyes.
At the sound of her voice his honour looked round sharply, and after staring blankly for a moment, recognised me too.
“How came you here?” he exclaimed, as I thought, with as much disappointment as pleasure in his voice.
“I’ll tell you that by-and-by, when I’ve tied up these two scoundrels.—Come, stand up you two, and hands up, if you don’t want a taste of cold lead in your heads.”
They obeyed in a half-stupid way. One of them I recognised at once as the man who had acted as secretary at last night’s meeting. No doubt he and his fellow had had their misgivings as to Paddy Corkill’s ability, and had come here to second him in case of failure.
“So, Mr Larry Flanagan,” said I, “there’ll be grand news for the meeting to-night!”
“Who are you? I don’t know you. Who’s told you my name?”
“Never mind. The same as told me that Paddy Corkill borrowed your gun for this vile deed. Come, back to back now.”
I had already got the tether cord from the boot of the gig, and in a few minutes had the two fastened up back to back as neatly as a sailor can tie knots.
“There,” said I, dragging them to the roadside, “you’ll do till we send the police to fetch you.—Your honour,” said I, “I chanced to hear of this plot against your life last night. Thank Heaven I was in time to help you and the young mistress! Maybe you’ll do well to take a brace of police about with you when you travel, and leave the young lady at home. She will be safer there.”
“Stay, Gallagher,” said his honour, as I saluted and turned to go; “you must not go like this. I have questions to ask you.”
“And I,” said Miss Kit. “Don’t go, Barry.”
“The gig will only hold two,” said I; “but if his honour gives me leave, I’ll be at Knockowen to-morrow.”
“Certainly,” said Gorman. “And, Barry, say nothing of this. Leave me to deal with it.”
“As your honour pleases. Besides these two by the roadside, you’ll find a boy on the top of yonder boulder who wants a lift to the lock-up.”
“Don’t forget to-morrow, Barry,” said my lady with her sweetest smile and wave of the hand, as she gathered the reins together.
I stood cap in hand till they had disappeared round the bend, and then took a final look at my captives.
“So you are Barry Gallagher?” snarled the secretary.
“What of that?”
“Just this, that unless you let me go, and say not a word, your brother Tim shall swing for a rebel before a week’s out.”
It must have been satisfaction to him to see how I was staggered by this. I had never thought that what I had done to-day might recoil on the head of my own brother. However, I affected not to be greatly alarmed at the threat.
“Tim can take care of himself,” said I, sitting down to load my pistol; “but since that is your game, I’ll save the hangman a job.”
And I levelled the weapon at his face.
“Mercy, Mr Gallagher,” he cried all in a tremble. “Sure, I was only joking. I wouldn’t let out on Captain Tim for the world. Come now, won’t you believe me?”
His face was such a picture of terror and panic that I was almost sorry for him. His fellow-prisoner, too, who stood a good chance of the fag-end of my bullet, was equally piteous in his protestations.
“Mark this,” said I, lowering the pistol, to their great relief, “there’s more eyes on you and your confederates than you think. Murder is no way to help Ireland. Tell on Tim if you dare. My pistol can carry in the dark, and the first of you that has a word to say against him may say his prayers.”
And I left them rolling back to back on the roadside. As for Paddy Corkill, when I went to look for him where he had fallen, there was no sign of him but a pool of blood and a track of footsteps, which presently lost themselves in the bog.
Chapter Twenty Six.
Martial Law.
I spent the rest of that day in wandering over the familiar haunts on Fanad, in the vain hope of encountering Tim. Towards night, worn-out with weariness and excitement, I abandoned the quest, and dropped back on the tide to Rathmullan.
The place was full of reports of the new orders which had come from Dublin for the disarming of the people, and of the military rigour with which soldiers and magistrates between them were putting their powers into force. Nearly a hundred stands of arms had, it was rumoured, been captured the day before at Milford, and one man who resisted the search had been hung summarily on the nearest tree.
As I sat screened off in a quiet corner of the inn over my supper, a new-comer entered and joined the group who were discussing the news of the day in the public-room.
“Well?” was the greeting of one or two as he entered.
“Whisht, boys! we’re done intirely,” said the new-comer.
“How done? Did he not pass that road?”
“He did; but never a hair of him was singed.”
“I knew Paddy was a botch with the gun,” said one; “there should have been better than him for such a job. Was he taken?”
“’Deed, I don’t know how it all happened, but you’re out about Paddy. He did his best, I’m told, and there were two to second him. But the job had got wind, and Paddy got a shot in the arm before he could let fly. And they tell me the other two are taken.”
A cry of consternation went round the audience. “If Flanagan’s one of them—”
“The very boy.”
“It’ll be a bad job for us all, then, for Flanagan will save his skin if twenty others swing for it. Where is he?”
“At Knockowen for the night.”
“No news of Tim Gallagher?”
“Not a word. It’s a wonder what’s keeping him. He’s badly wanted.”
“’Deed, you may say so. He’s the only gineral we have.”
“As for Flanagan,” said some one else, “I’m thinking he may not have toime to turn king’s evidence. They’re making quick work of the boys now. Is there no getting him away out of that before he tells?”
“Knockowen’s guarded like a fort, with a troop of horse quartered in it.”
“Dear, oh! Do the rest of the boys know of it?”
“Ay, and they’ve scattered. And I’m thinking that is what we’d best do, in case Flanagan names names.”
“You’re roight,” said the chief speaker, rising. “By the powers, there’ll be a big reckoning for all this when Tim comes home.”
And they trooped out into the road.
All this was disturbing enough, and decided me to be early at my appointment with his honour in the morning.
“Yet,” said I to myself, “men who can talk thus above their breath in a public inn are not the sort of men that will turn the land upside down. What would Lord Edward say if he could hear them—or Tim, for the matter of that?”
It was scarcely eight o’clock next morning when I pulled boldly up to his honour’s pier and moored my boat.
At the garden entrance stood a trooper on guard, who brought his gun to the port and demanded what I wanted, “I am here to see his honour, at his bidding.”
“What is your name?”
“Barry Gallagher.”
The soldier gave a whistle, and a comrade from within approached, to whom he spoke a few words.
“Wait there!” said the sentinel to me, closing the gate as if I were a beggar, and resuming his pacing to and fro.
I swallowed my pride as best I could. If I had been fool enough to flatter myself I was to be welcomed with open arms and made much of for yesterday’s exploit, this was a short way of undeceiving me. For a quarter of an hour I kicked my heels on the narrow causeway, looking up sometimes at the windows of the house for a chance glimpse of my little lady. How would she meet me after all these years? Would it be mere graciousness to one who had done her a service, or something more? I should soon know.
The sentinel presently opened the gate and beckoned me to approach.
“Pass, Gallagher,” said he, motioning me to follow his comrade.
The latter conducted me up the garden, and round the house to the yard, where a strange scene met my eyes.
A soldier stood on guard at each doorway. In the middle of the open space was a table, and at it three chairs, in which sat his honour, another gentleman, and a choleric-looking man in the uniform of a captain of horse. Standing before the table handcuffed, and in the custody of three policemen, stood Flanagan and his comrade, whom I had last left back to back on Black Hill Road.
His honour recognised my arrival with a cold nod, and Flanagan, who was apparently under examination at the moment, scowled viciously. The other prisoner, who seemed as much fool as knave, looked with white face first at his judges, then at the doors, and finally with a listless sigh straight before him.
“How many does your society consist of?” his honour’s fellow-magistrate was inquiring of Flanagan as I arrived.
“Och, your honour, there you puzzle me,” began the shifty informer; “it might be—”
The officer brought his fist down on the table with a sound which brought all the soldiers about the place to attention, and made the prisoners start.
“Speak out, sir, or you shall swing on that hook on the wall in two minutes.”
“Arrah, colonel dear, sure I’m telling you. There’s forty-eight sworn men, and that’s the truth.”
“You are the secretary,” said the magistrate. “Give me a list of their names.”
“’Deed, sir, my memory is not what it was, and the book—”
“Here ’tis, captain,” said a soldier, advancing with a salute, and holding out a small copy-book; “it was found on him.”
“That will do,” said the magistrate, putting it down without examining it. “Who is your captain or leader?”
“Who’s the captain?” repeated the prisoner vaguely.
“You hear what I say,” replied the magistrate. “Answer the question at once!”
“The captain? Sure, sir, it’s Tim Gallagher, own brother to the man who’s standing there.”
Here all eyes were turned on me, and I found it difficult to endure the unfriendly scrutiny with composure. Had I walked into a trap after all, and instead of thanks was I to find myself implicated in this plot and suspected as a rebel?
“Tim Gallagher,” said the magistrate, turning to his honour. “Do you know him, Gorman?”
“I do,” replied Mr Gorman shortly, and evidently uneasy. “His father was once a boatman on my place.”
“Ah, and a smuggler too, wasn’t he? We used to hear of him at Malin sometimes.”
“Likely enough. He was drowned some years ago.”
“And his two sons are rebels?”
“One is by all accounts,” said his honour; “the other is here, and can speak for himself.”
“I am no more a rebel than you,” said I hotly, without waiting to be questioned. “I am a servant of the king. His honour here knows if I ever joined with them.”
“It is true,” said his honour, as I thought rather grudgingly, “this rough-spoken young man was the one who frustrated the attempt on me yesterday. I know of nothing against his loyalty.”
“Yet,” said the presiding magistrate, who had been turning over the leaves of the secretary’s book, “I find Barry Gallagher’s name down here as having taken the oath. How’s that?”
“It’s false!” exclaimed I, betraying more confusion at this sudden announcement than was good for me. “I was once forced, years ago, with a gun at my head, to repeat the words or some of them; but I was never properly sworn!”
“How did you hear of the attempt that was to be made on Mr Gorman?” demanded the officer suspiciously.
“By accident, sir. I overheard the whole plot.”
“Where?”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m not under arrest?”
At this the officer glared at me, his honour drummed his fingers on the table, and the other magistrate looked sharply up.
“We can remedy that in a moment,” said he; “and will do so unless you treat this court with more respect. We require you to say if you know the meeting-place of this gang.”
“Sure, your honour, I’m after telling you—” began Flanagan, when he was peremptorily ordered to be silent.
“Answer the question!” thundered the officer, “or—”
Mr Gorman looked up. He had his own good reasons for preventing any revelations as to the secret uses to which Kilgorman had been put in past times.
“Pardon me, captain, would it not be much better to take information like this in a more private manner, if we are to run these villains to earth? At present, what we have to decide is as to the two prisoners; and there seems no question as to their guilt. I identify them both as the men who attacked my car, and whom Gallagher here helped to capture.”
The officer growled something about interfering civilians, but the other magistrate adopted his honour’s view.
“Perhaps you are right, Gorman; but we must find out their hiding-places for all that later on.—Have you any questions to ask, Captain Lavan?”
“Only how long is this formality going on? It’s as clear a case as you could have, and yet here have we been sitting an hour in this draughty yard trying to obscure it,” said the soldier gruffly. “I’m sent here to administer martial law, not to kick my heels about in a police-court.”
The two magistrates took this rebuke meekly, and the president proceeded to pronounce his sentence.
“Cassidy,” said he to the prisoner who had not spoken, and who had evidently refused to answer any question, “you have been caught red-handed in a cowardly attempt to murder an officer of his Majesty, and have admitted your guilt. You have also been proved to be a sworn rebel against the king, and engaged in a conspiracy to overturn his government in Ireland. According to the law, your life is forfeited, and I have no alternative but to hand you over to the military authorities for immediate execution.”
“Guards!” cried the captain, rising, “advance! Take the prisoner outside and shoot him. Quick march!”
Cassidy, who heard his sentence without concern or emotion, shouted,—
“Down with the king! Down with informers!” and fell in between his executioners, as they marched from the yard.
“As for you, Flanagan, your guilt is equally clear and heinous; but you have given evidence which entitles you to more lenient treatment. You will be taken to Derry Jail, till arrangements are made to send you out of the country—”
“Faith, I’d start this day!” said Flanagan, on whom the perils of remaining within reach of his late comrades were evidently beginning to dawn.
“Silence! Remove the prisoner!”
At this moment the report of a volley in the paddock without sent a grim shudder through the party. Flanagan, with a livid face, walked off between his guards, and the three magistrates turned to enter the house.
His honour beckoned to me to follow, and took me into his private room.
“I owe you something for yesterday,” said he in his ungracious way. “Take a word of advice. Get out of these parts as soon as you can, and warn your brother to do the same.”
“Why should I go?” said I. “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Unless you are prepared to tell the authorities everything you know, and assist in hunting down the rebels, you are better away. You are a marked man already among the rebels. Unless you assist our side you will be a marked man among the authorities.”
“If it comes to that, your honour,” said I, “there is no man more marked in these parts than yourself. The boys could forgive you for being on the English side, but they can’t forgive you for having encouraged them once and turned against them now.”
His honour turned white at this.
“How do you know that?” he demanded.
“How does every one know it?” replied I. “Your enemies are not likely to let you off with yesterday’s attempt.”
His honour looked at me as if he would read in my face something more than my words expressed. I was older now than I once was, and I was my own master, so I had no reason to avoid his scrutiny.
“I have given you the advice of a friend,” said he coldly; “take it or leave it. Meanwhile, your business here is at an end.”
“May I see Miss Kit?” said I, in a milder tone, which his honour at once observed. “She desired to see me when I came to-day.”
“Miss Gorman is not at home.”
This was a blow to me, and I had not the art to conceal it.
“Will she be back to-day?” I ventured to ask.
“No; she has gone on a visit to friends,” replied his honour, who evidently enjoyed my disappointment.
“She expected to be at home when I saw her yesterday.”
“And what of that? Pray, what matters it to you?”
“Only this,” said I, warming up, “that I would lay down my life any day for Miss Kit; and it is for her sake, and for her alone, that I would be sorry to see harm come to a man to whom I owe nothing but harshness and injury.”
I repented as soon as I had said the words, but he gave me no chance of drawing back. He laughed dryly.
“So that’s at the bottom of it? The son of a boatman and smuggler aspires to be son-in-law to the owner of Knockowen and Kilgorman—a pretty honour indeed!”
Here I flung all prudence to the winds, and glared in his face as I said,—
“Suppose, instead of the son of a boatman and smuggler, the man who loved your daughter were the son of him whose estates and fortune you have stolen, what then, Mr Gorman?”
He looked at me attentively for a moment, and his face turned so white that I thought him about to swoon. It was a moment or two before he could master his tongue, and meanwhile he kept his eyes on me like a man fascinated.
“Fool!” he gasped at last. “You don’t know what you are talking about.” Then with a sudden recovery of composure, and in a voice almost conciliatory, he added, “Miss Kit is about to visit her friends in Dublin, and will not be back here for weeks. Take the advice of a friend, Gallagher, and get away from these parts. To give you the chance, you may, if you wish to serve me, ride to Malin instead of Martin, and escort my daughter as far as Derry.”
“Miss Kit might prefer some other escort,” said I.
“She might. You are not bound to wait upon her. But I can give you a pass if you do.”
“When does she leave Malin?”
“To-morrow forenoon.”
“And what of Tim if he is caught?” said I.
“Warn him to keep on Fanad. He will be safe there.”
“Let the horse and the passport be ready as soon as it is dark to-night,” said I. “I will be here.”
“Very good. And see here, Gallagher,” said he, “what did you mean when you said just now that I had stolen any one’s land and fortune?”
“What should I mean?” said I. “It’s an old story you’ve got hold of,” said he, “that was disposed of twenty years ago by the clearest proofs. Do you suppose, if you had been what you are foolish enough to imagine, I would have brought you up in my own house, eh? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drop you in the lough? It was only my esteem for your poor mother, Mary Gallagher, that prevented my letting all the world know what you may as well know now, that Mike Gallagher, your father, was the murderer of my brother.”
“That is a lie,” said I, “and some day I’ll prove it.”
“Ay, do,” said he with a laugh. “It will take a good deal of proof.”
“Not more than Biddy McQuilkin can give,” said I.
He staggered at this like a man shot.
“Biddy is dead long ago,” he exclaimed.
“Are you so sure of that?” said I. “Any way, I’ll be here for the horse and the pass at dark. And take my advice, Maurice Gorman, and see that not a hair of Tim’s head is hurt. You are safe as long as he is, and no longer.”
And not waiting to take food or encounter the other officials, I went down to my boat and cast myself adrift on the dark waters of the Swilly.
My most urgent business was to find or communicate with Tim, and for that purpose I set sail once more for the headlands of Fanad.
As to his honour’s curious behaviour, I knew him and distrusted him enough not to think much of it. He was a coward, cursed with a guilty conscience, and would fain have passed himself off as a righteous judge and powerful patron. He was anxious to conciliate me, not so much, I thought, because of my hint about the property, which he was satisfied was incapable of proof, as from a fear I might compromise him with the authorities about his past dealings with the rebels. He was nervously anxious to get me out of the country, and was willing to promise anything, even Tim’s safety and Miss Kit’s society, to get rid of me.
But it would go hard with Tim if he had no security better than his honour’s word; and my dear little mistress, if she was to be won at all, was not to be won as the price of a political bargain.
All the morning and afternoon I searched up and down in vain, meeting not a soul nor any sign of my brother. With heavy misgivings I returned to my boat, and set sail once more towards Knockowen. Half-way down the lough it occurred to me that I would do better to pay a visit first of all to Kilgorman. After the scare of this morning’s business the rebels would hardly have the hardihood to meet there to-night; and although there was little chance of finding Tim there, the place contained a spot known to both of us, in which a message could be safely deposited.
So I tacked about, and soon found myself once more in the deep cave. The place was empty and silent, and as I crept along the rocky passage nothing but the echoes of my own feet and of the dull waves without disturbed the gloomy stillness of the place.
The big kitchen, already darkening, was deserted. Everything was as I had left it two nights ago.
I lost no time in lifting the board and depositing in the recess below the hearth my brief message for Tim:—
“Beware, Tim! You are marked down, and there’s martial law after you. Informers are at work, and the names are all known. Keep on Fanad. I serve on H.M.S. Diana.—Barry.”
This done, and the board replaced, I was about to retire so as to be in time at Knockowen, when, taking a last glance round the gaunt room, my eye was attracted by the flutter of a paper pinned to the woodwork of one of the windows.
It contained a few words roughly scrawled with the end of a charred stick. This is what it said, and as I read my heart gave a great bound within me:—
“She’s safe at Malin. The Duchman sails on the flud to-night.—Finn.”
This, if it meant anything, meant foul play, and crushing the paper into my pocket, I lost not a moment in regaining my boat and making all sail for Knockowen.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
What I found at Malin.
It was nine o’clock when I came alongside his honour’s jetty, and once more demanded entrance of the sentry. This time I was received even more suspiciously than in the morning, and was allowed to wait for nearly half-an-hour before it was decided that I might safely be admitted into the premises. For this irritating delay I had probably to thank the impatience with which I met the sentinel’s questions; for when at last I found myself at the house, his honour met me with an inquiry why I had delayed my coming to so late an hour.
“It is four long leagues to Malin,” said he, “and on such a road you are not likely to be there before midnight, when the inn will be closed. However, get Martin to saddle Tara for you. I wish Miss Kit and her maid to start for Derry at daybreak.”
“Where is she now?” I asked.
“At the house of Mr Shannon, the magistrate who is with me here.”
“And where is she to be taken in Derry?”
“To the Foyle Inn, where she will find instructions from me as to her journey to Dublin.”
“Have you the pass?”
He handed me a paper, which read:—
“The bearer rides on my orders. Pass him, and two ladies.—Monsieur Gorman of Knockowen.”
I was turning to the stable when he called me back.
“Remember my advice of this morning. Don’t return here if you value your liberty. There are warrants out against all the men named in the list. The authorities are in earnest this time.”
The tone in which he said this, coming from a man who had paltered with treason for years, struck me as contemptible; but I had no time just then to let him see what I felt.
“I will take care of myself,” said I; “and your honour will do well to remember what I said about Tim. When the reckoning for all this business comes, it will stand you in good stead.” And not waiting to hear his reply, I went off to the stables.
Martin, whom the reader will remember, and who, despite his connection with the marauders and his bad odour with the police, continued to retain his place in his honour’s service, was nowhere to be found. He had been absent, said the boy, since the afternoon, when he had taken off Tara for exercise.
I was obliged, therefore, to put up with an inferior animal, and to saddle him myself. But I was too impatient to be off to allow of any further delay.
“At what hour is the tide full?” I asked of one of the servants.
“Half-an-hour after midnight,” was the reply.
As he spoke, the clock in the hall struck half-past nine.
“In three hours,” said I to myself, as I galloped down the avenue, “the Dutchman at Malin weighs anchor.”
It was well for me I was no stranger to the rough, mountainous road I had to travel, for the night was pitch dark, and scarcely a soul was afoot at that late hour. I did, indeed, encounter a patrol of troopers near the Black Hill, who ordered me to halt and dismount and give an account of myself. But his honour’s passport satisfied them, as it did the sentry who challenged me on entering the little town of Carndonagh. Thence to Malin it is but two leagues; but my wretched beast was so spent that, unless I wished to leave it on the road, I was compelled to take it most of the way at a foot’s pace; so that when at last I pulled up before the little inn at Malin, it was on the stroke of midnight.
“Faith, Mr Gorman’s fond of sending messengers,” said the landlord. “There was another of his here two hours since.”
“What!” I exclaimed, springing up from the bench at which I was partaking of a hurried supper.
“Ay; he came with a message for the young lady up yonder at Mr Shannon’s.”
“What sort of man was he?”
“Much like yourself—a common-looking man, with a shaven face and a nose that turns up.”
“Did he ride an iron-grey mare?” said I.
“Faith, a beauty.”
“It’s Martin!” I exclaimed, confirmed more than ever in my suspicions of foul play. “Show me Mr Shannon’s house, like a decent man,” said I to mine host.
“There’ll be no one stirring there at this hour. His honour’s away with Mr Gorman, and the women folks will be a-bed long since.”
“Never mind about that,” said I; “show me the house.”
The landlord grumblingly turned out and walked with me to the Hall, which was some half-mile beyond the village.
“Yonder’s the house,” said he, stopping short, and pointing to a clump of trees just discernible in the darkness. “You’ll not be wanting me further?”
I hastened on, and was presently knocking loudly at the door of the Hall. The house was quite dark, and every one had evidently retired for the night. Nearly ten minutes elapsed before a window opened, and a surly voice called out,—
“Well? Who’s there, disturbing decent folk at this hour?”
“A messenger from Mr Gorman. Is the young lady at home? I must see her instantly.”
“Young leddy! There’s none younger than the mistress, and she sleeps at night like a decent woman.”
“Has Miss Gorman gone, then?” I exclaimed.
“Why not, when she was sent for?”
“Who sent for her? When did she go? Where has she gone? Let me in, I say. There’s foul play, and I must see your mistress instantly.”
My agitation succeeded in convincing the fellow that something was amiss, and he put in his head and presently unbarred the front door.
“Mercy on us! what’s the meaning of all this?” said the old man-servant as I stepped into the hall.
“Let me see Mrs Shannon,” said I.
“What is it?” said a voice on the stairs before the butler could answer.
I explained my mission, and inquired if it was true that Miss Kit had already departed.
“To be sure,” said the lady. “Mr Gorman’s groom, Martin, rode over from Knockowen this evening with a message—”
“Written?” I interrupted.
“No; Mr Gorman was too busy to write. It was to say that a passage had been taken for Miss Kit and a maid on a brig that happened to be lying off the Five Fingers; and that, as he found the ship was to sail for Dublin with the flood to-night, he had sent over Martin to see her safely on board. I confess it seemed a little unusual; and Miss Kit was very reluctant to start on such short notice, saying it had been arranged she was to travel overland by way of Derry. But tell me, what’s amiss?”
“Foul play; nothing less!” cried I. “That ship is bound, not for Dublin, but for Holland; and this is a vile plot of the rebels to be revenged on Gorman, and decoy away his daughter as a hostage. Where did Martin say the ship lay?”
“At Five Fingers, west of the headland; two leagues from here.”
“When did they start from here?”
“Ten o’clock.”
“On foot?”
“No. They rode; and will have been there an hour ago.”
“Can you lend me a horse? Mine at the inn is spent.”
“There’s the cart-horse,” said the butler.
“That wall do. Mrs Shannon, I beg you will send over a man at once to Knockowen and let his honour know how matters stand. I will ride to Five Fingers and see if anything is to be done or learned. What sort of girl is the maid?”
“A soft creature enough. She and this Martin have been courting a year past.”
With a groan of despair I followed the butler to the yard, and bridled the unwieldy beast I found there.
“It’s a fool’s errand you are on,” said the old retainer; “but maybe you’ll have the luck to come within arm’s-length of that blackguard Martin. I always doubted him. Are you armed?”
“I have a pistol.”
“Take yonder old sword,” said he, pointing to a rusty weapon suspended on the stable wall. “It has seen service before now.”
Thus mounted and accoutred, I dug my heels into the flanks of the great horse, and, in the breaking dawn, made along the rocky track which the butler had pointed out as leading to Five Fingers.
“If nothing can be done,” said I, as I left, “I will return here.”
“Dear send we shall see you no more then,” said the old man.
Along the road which led from Malin village to the promontory rapid progress was impossible, and but that I hoped to have better use for my horse later on, I could almost have gone as well on foot.
As the early May dawn lifted, I could get glimpses of the sea lying calm on my left, with a light breeze off the land stirring its surface.
“That is in favour of the Dutchman,” groaned I.
Not a human being, scarcely a wayside hut, did I see during that tedious ride, as my lumbering beast stumbled over the loose stones and plashed his way, fetlock deep, through the bog. At length I came to the place which the butler had described as the spot where I was to turn off the road and make by a grass track for the sea-level.
A short way down this latter path brought me to a corner which opened a sudden view of the sea to northward. Gazing eagerly in that direction, the first sight which met my eyes was a brig, with all sails set, standing out to sea before the wind, about a mile or two from the shore.
Too late! I had expected nothing else, but the certainty of it now drove me into a frenzy of wrath. I flung myself from the horse and strode, pistol in hand, towards the deserted shore. There, except for hoof-marks, which convinced me three horses had passed that way, there was no sign of living being. By the tracks I could almost fix the spot at which the party had put off, doubtless in one of the brig’s boats. Of the return track of the horses I could find nothing, and judged that they had been taken off either at the edge of the water, which the tide had subsequently covered, or up one of the hard rocky tracks towards the foreland.
Along one of these, which seemed the most likely, I went for some distance. It brought me out on to the cliff-top, but disclosed no trace of what I sought.
I took my red scarf, and fixing it on the end of the sword, waved it defiantly at the receding ship. Whether it was seen or not, or whether, if seen, it was understood by those who alone would be likely to understand it, I could not say.
I was about to return to Malin when a thin curl of smoke from behind a rock advised me that there was at least one human habitation within reach, where it might be possible to get information. It was a wretched mud hovel backing on to the rock—its roof of sods being held at the corners by stones—and boasting no window, only the door out of which the smoke was pouring.
An old man, with the stump of a clay pipe in his lips, was turning his pig out to grass as I approached. He looked at me suspiciously, and went on without replying to my salutation.
“Good-morrow, father,” said I. “You’ve had a ship in overnight, I see.”
“Like enough,” replied he in Irish. “Thrt—thrt!” and he gave the pig a switch.
“Was she English?” I asked.
“’Deed I know nothing of her,” said he with a cunning look which convinced me he was lying.
“What does she carry?” I continued, playing with the butt of the pistol in my belt.
He was quick enough to notice this gentle hint.
“Bad luck to the ship!” said he; “she’s no concern of mine. What are you looking for? The trade brings me no good.”
“Hark here,” said I, pulling the weapon from my belt and balancing it on my fingers. “I’m no custom-house runner. Your cabin may be full, as it probably is, of rum or bitters for all I care,” here he gave a wince of relief. “I want to know what yonder brig carried off, not what she left ashore.”
“Sure, I thought your honour was from the police,” said the man with a leer.
“Tell me,” said I, “who went off in the ship’s boat early this morning.”
“Three just—a man and two females.”
“Did you know any of them?”
“Maybe I did, maybe no. One of the ladies was maid to Mistress Shannon, away at Malin.”
“And the man?”
“He’s the boy that’s courting that same maid, and comes from Knockowen.”
“And the other lady?”
“I never saw her before; but I’m thinking she was a rale lady.”
“Who rowed them out to the ship?”
“Some of the crew, by the lingo they talked.”
“Did they leave the horses?”
“They did. It was me took them and turned them back over the hill. They’ll find their ways home.”
“What is the ship’s name?”
“That I can’t say, except that she was Dutch.”
“How long had she been lying off here?”
“Since yesterday morning just.”
“What was her cargo?”
“Sure, your honour said that was no matter at all.”
“Was it Dutch goods?”
“It was; and if you’ll wait here I’ll fetch a drop of it to you,” said he nervously.
“Stay where you are,” said I. “Tell me, who is there can say what the ship’s name is and where bound?”
“No one, unless it’s Hugh Henry at the inn below.”
“Did the young lady say anything as they took her on the boat?”
“Sure, she asked to see the captain, and to know when they were to reach Dublin, and seemed to mislike the voyage altogether. But I heard Martin say it was her father’s orders, and that he would be in Dublin to meet her.”
This was all the news I could gather, but it was enough to confirm my worst suspicions. Leaving the old man still in doubt as to the motive for my questions, I returned as rapidly as I could to Malin, and presented myself at the inn.
“Sure, I thought you were away,” said the host, who came down half-dressed to admit me.
“I want to know something about the Dutch ship that was in here overnight,” said I. “Not,” I added, as I noticed the conscious fall of his face, “that I care what she carried. No doubt she was a smuggler, and that you and she had your business together—”
“’Deed, sir,” he began, “may the—”
“Whisht!” said I, “that will do later. Just now I must know her name, and whither bound. The young lady at the Hall has been decoyed away in her, and must be found.”
His amazement convinced me that at least he had been no party to the abduction, which had probably, and wisely so, been confided to no one beyond Martin and the officials of the secret society.
“The young leddy, Mr Gorman’s daughter, carried off!” and he indulged in a long whistle. “I always said his honour would get into trouble with a kittle girl like that.”
“Hold your tongue, you scoundrel,” shouted I, “unless you want it crammed down your throat, and tell me the ship’s name and her port.”
“No offence, sir,” said the honest landlord, taken aback by my anger, and by the gleam of the pistol which I set down on the table—“no offence, sir. She was the brig Scheldt from Rotterdam, a well-found craft that’s been this way before with messages from the Irish in Holland to those at home.”
With this I made once more for the Hall, where I found the household up, and in a state of anxious expectation. When they heard my story, great was the distress of the lady of the house to discover how she, in whose charge Miss Kit had been left, had been imposed upon. She implored me to wait till Mr Shannon returned from Knockowen; but as it was doubtful when that would be, such delay seemed useless.
Before I left I wrote a letter to Mr Gorman giving him all the particulars I could. He would no doubt receive an official notice from the rebels, naming their conditions for restoring their hostage. But so cowardly and shambling a creature had this father become, that I doubted very much whether he would risk much even to recover his child.
I then returned once more to the inn, where already the news of the night’s adventure had attracted a group of gossips. The landlord seeing me, took me aside and handed me a paper.
“Here’s a song of another tune,” said he. “It was left by the Dutch skipper, and may be news to some of you.”
I read it. It was a proclamation to the people of Ireland, couched in bombastic language, and stating that the hour of deliverance was at hand. A foreign fleet was about to descend on our northern coasts. Any day now the signal might be given for Ireland to rise. All was ready, and trusty leaders would accompany the friendly fleet. A strong blow well struck would end Ireland’s ills for ever. And so on.
“What do I want with this?” said I, giving back the paper. “Give it to those who want it. I’ve had enough of the Dutch for one night.”
And saddling my horse I started, in what sort of humour my readers may imagine, towards Derry.