My impulse, when I read that sad message from my dead mother, was to rise from my bed and saddle the horse and return, cost what it might, to Kilgorman. Had I done so I might perchance have saved myself months, even years, of trouble.
But in a weak moment I let my fatigue and my irresolution and my fear of the ghost get the better of me, and decided to put off till to-morrow what I should have done to-day. If in after years my worst enemy had to confess that what I did I did quickly, it was due to the lesson which this one act of procrastination taught me.
Putting everything together, the meaning of the letter seemed pretty clear. My mother, distraught by the sudden death of her master and mistress, and believing herself to be dying too, had desired to ease her mind of a secret (I knew not what) which lay upon it; but being in dread of it falling into wrong hands, had written it and hidden it in some place, leaving this slender clue to the chance discoverer of her little book of ballads.
How was it possible to believe otherwise than that Providence had, after fourteen years, placed that clue in the hands of her son, and thereby imposed upon me a duty from which, whatever it was, I should have been undutiful, and a coward to boot, had I shrunk?
But, as I tell you, for one night I shrunk from it, resolving that on the morrow I would obey the summons. But many to-morrows were to come and go before the promise could be fulfilled.
His honour returned at dead of night from Derry, and when, as usual, I presented myself to wait at breakfast, I was surprised to find him seated there with his wife and daughter.
Miss Kit was in her wonted high spirits, and alarmed me by plunging at once into the story of yesterday’s adventure.
“Father,” she said, “why is Kilgorman all barred and bolted against its future mistress? Here was I, yesterday, standing humbly like a beggar on the doorstep of our own house, and obliged to slink away disappointed after all.”
His honour looked up with an angry flush on his pale face.
“Kilgorman!” cried he; “what took you there? Don’t you know no one is allowed within the grounds?”
“I didn’t know till Barry told me. And even then I did not suppose the prohibition applied to me.”
His honour rounded angrily on me.
“What does this mean, sirrah? How did you dare to take her to Kilgorman after the charge I laid upon you?”
“Barry take me, indeed!” broke in Miss Kit, with a mighty toss of her head. “Barry takes me nowhere. It was I took him, whether he would or not; and a very poor adventure he made of it. You shall take me yourself next time, father.”
“Understand,” said his honour, looking very black, “that no one, not even my daughter, is permitted to go where I forbid.—As for you, you prying fool,” added he, turning on me, “you shall see whether I am to be obeyed or not.”
I deemed it prudent to say nothing, and retired, pretty determined that were his honour Saint Patrick himself he should not keep me out of Kilgorman. But I had missed my chance.
After that day my position at Knockowen became more irksome than ever, for I was taken from my work in the stables, and a new boy appointed in my place to tend the horses and accompany Miss Kit when she rode out. And I was kept all day within doors, at everybody’s beck and call, from cock-crow, when I had to light the fires, to midnight, when I had to see his honour’s clothes brushed and laid out in his dressing-room.
My only liberty, if liberty it might be called, was when the boat was wanted. There my seamanship made me necessary. But since no one thought of sailing towards the lough mouth, but only across or up towards Rathmullan, there was no chance of my defying his honour’s regulations that way.
For a week or two even my mother’s message was driven from my head by hatred of my rival, the new groom—a villainous-looking rascal, some years my elder, who yet had not even the merit of being a good horseman to commend him.
Rightly or wrongly, I suspected that part of his business was to keep a watch on me. And if anything could determine me to defiance that was enough. As to Miss Kit, I humbly hoped she liked the change as little as I; for since her liberty was cut off from one road, and her new lackey had neither looks nor conversation to commend him, her love of riding gradually flagged, and presently Martin—that was the fellow’s name—had to lead out her riderless horse for exercise.
The trying thing to me was that Martin would not even do me the compliment of recognising me as his enemy. It was not for lack of invitation, nor was it owing to cowardice. But he was a dogged, short-sighted villain, taken up with his own concerns, and not choosing to trouble his head with those of others.
But one day I had the luck to startle him out of his reserve. Miss Kit came down to the yard that morning, and for the first time for more than a week ordered out her horse.
Martin, who was sitting lazily in the kitchen, rose somewhat sulkily and said,—
“It’s not the day for a ride. Sure Juno’s that saucy with want of work there’ll be no holding her in. Besides, the master—”
But the young lady cut him short.
“Get up, sir, at once, and do as you are bid. There’s more than Juno is saucy with want of work. Be quick now.”
He went off with a scowl, and presently returned, leading out Juno and the horse on which he was to follow—a great-limbed animal called Paddy.
What he had said about my little lady’s mare was very true. High-spirited she was at best of times, but a week’s idleness and eating had made her fairly wicked; and as I looked out from the kitchen door to watch them start, I wished it was my business and not Martin’s to see her safe on her way.
“Hold her head till I mount,” said Miss Kit, after trying for a minute or two to coax the mare into peace. “She will be easy enough when I am up.”
But though Martin held her head, the animal yet started and shied and curvetted every time Miss Kit gathered the reins in her hand and lifted her foot to the stirrup.
So I came out to the yard and gave her my hand to mount by.
Martin scowled very black at this.
“Go along away out of that,” said he, when my lady was fairly perched on the saddle; “the mare’s enough to fright her without you.”
“Get you up on Paddy,” said I, “and don’t talk to me.—So, steady there, Juno lass.—Hold her gently, Miss Kit.”
Martin, muttering to himself, let go the mare’s head and walked over to where Paddy stood.
Just then, as luck would have it, out came Con the dog with a joyous yap.
This sudden noise was too much for the courage of Juno, who, feeling her head free and only a light weight on her back, gave a wild plunge, and next moment was away at a gallop out of the yard gate and down the avenue.
It was no time for halting. The mare must be caught before she could reach the cliffs, or to a certainty she and her rider were doomed.
Martin stood with his hand on Paddy’s mane, gaping after the runaway.
With a sudden spring I dashed him aside and vaulted into the saddle, and before he could expostulate or guess what had happened I was away in full chase.
Even in the terror of the moment I could not help laughing to myself at the thought of poor Martin tumbling across the stable-yard, and finding himself out of the hunt. After that he would at least deign to recognise Barry Gallagher.
Though scarcely half-a-minute had elapsed, Juno and her precious burden were at the end of the long avenue before I was at the beginning of it. Paddy, amazed at all the excitement, lost some seconds in plunging before I could induce him to lay himself out for the pursuit. Then, to do him justice, he needed little coaxing from me. If only his wind was as long as his stride, this hue and cry might prove a holiday freak. If not—
It was a moment of keen suspense when at last I got clear of the avenue and looked round in search of the fugitive. There she was, her light figure thrown back as she strained at the reins, and her face turned to the upland ahead. Just beyond Knockowen, on the south side, is a long stretch of smooth turf, lying along the cliff-tops for a mile or more, and then suddenly cut short by a deep chasm in the coast, into which the waters of the lough pour tumultuously even in fair weather, and in foul, rage and boil as if in a caldron. It was a favourite sport of Miss Kit to gallop along this tempting stretch of grass, and Juno knew the way only too well.
As I came into the open, I could see that, in spite of the rider’s efforts, the mare was making straight for the dangerous cliffs, and that in a few short minutes, unless a miracle happened, or unless I could reach the spot first, her mad career was likely to end in a way it made me sick to contemplate.
I stood in my stirrups and gave a loud halloo, and could see Miss Kit turn her head for a moment and then settle down again to the task of keeping her seat and pulling frantically at the reins; while I, aiming direct for the point of danger, put Paddy in a straight line across country.
It was a desperate race, that between the mad, high-mettled mare and the canny, raw-boned hunter. Happily he had but a boy’s light weight to carry. For a moment or two I lost sight of the runaways. Then as I cleared a rise I saw them, a quarter of a mile away on my right, our courses closing on one another at every yard.
Presently, with a sickening sensation, I caught sight of the solitary beacon-post which marks the edge of the chasm for the unwary traveller. On clear ground I could have been certain of arriving there in time to stop the mare, but, to my dismay, two tumble-down stone walls, of which I had forgotten the existence, lay between me and the goal. The nearer of them was fairly high; the other, only twenty yards beyond, was lower, but more dangerous on account of the loose stones between the two.
I called on Paddy; and, oh, the suspense as he rose at the ugly wall!
Over! Paddy came down with a stagger, and lost a pace as he gathered himself again for the next. None but a born Irishman could have picked his way as he did among the scattered boulders, or chosen his starting-point for the lower yet longer leap.
I remember, as we rose at it, I saw Miss Kit quite close, very white, with her hat gone, and her stirrup swinging loose, but very resolute still, gripping hard at the pommel with one hand as she tried to wave to me with the other.
Paddy performed his task nobly, and never broke stride as he settled down for the few remaining yards of that great race.
We had won, but only just. I had barely time to rein up at a safe distance from the edge, and turn to meet the oncomers, when there they were.
Juno, finding her way suddenly obstructed, flung up her head and swerved inland, and before she could gather herself I had leaned across and lifted her panting burden in my arm.
Juno might go now for me!
As for Paddy, no one knows how much at that critical moment I owed to his steady help.
The little lady looked up with a half smile as I set her before me on the saddle. Then her head fell back on my shoulder in a faint, and I had the sweetest and (for all we walked the whole way) the shortest ride home I ever knew.
It was with a sore heart that presently I surrendered my burden to her mother’s arms, and addressed myself to the task of recompensing my brave Paddy for that day’s feat.
While I rubbed him down, up came Martin, and my spirits rose.
“Go along away out of that, you blundering spalpeen,” said he, with a cuff on the ear. “I’ll learn you to meddle, so I will. Go and clean the pots, and let the horse alone.”
“Clean the pots yourself,” said I, pretty hot, “and leave the horse to one that can ride him.”
He gaped at me in his stupid way.
“You’ll swallow it in time,” said I, having finished my rubbing down. “Wait out there, like a jewel, till I put the beast away, and then you shall call me spalpeen again.”
I think he was more astonished to be defied than he chose to confess. Anyway he waited for me.
“Now,” said I, “Mister Martin, I’m waiting for you.”
He made a lunge at me, which I dodged, and before he knew where he was I had him on the cheek-bone so suddenly that he slipped and tumbled on the ground.
I was two years older than the day I had fought Tim, poor Tim, on the cliff at Fanad. And to-day I was so uplifted I could have fought an army.
So it was a disappointment when Martin stumbled to his feet and sheered off with a threat of vengeance.
What cared I? Paddy and I had won a race, and my little mistress was safe.
Yet Martin, as will appear presently, was a man of his word.
I know not what account of our adventure was given by my little mistress to her parents, but certain it was I found myself risen in the good graces of the mother, if not in those of his honour. As to the latter, his graces, good or bad, were hard to calculate. Perhaps he disliked me less than before, rather than liked me better. He said nothing, except to reprimand me for assaulting Martin. But I suspected it was no special love for Martin which called forth the rebuke.
And now, for a time, things went uneasily at Knockowen. For a sour man, his honour kept a good deal of company; and I, who waited upon them, with eyes and ears open, could see that my master was playing a difficult and dangerous game.
One week certain mysterious persons would drop in, and sit in long confabulation. Another week some fellow-justice of his honour’s would claim his hospitality and advice on matters of deep importance. Sometimes a noisy braggart from the country side would demand an audience; and sometimes an officer in his Majesty’s uniform would arrive as an honoured guest.
On all such occasions the tenor of the talk was the growing unrest of the country, and the gathering of that great storm which was soon to turn the whole country into a slaughter-house.
But the difficult task which Mr Gorman set before himself was to agree with everybody.
That he was deep in league with the smugglers on the coast I myself knew. But to hear him talk to the revenue officers who visited him, one might think that he spent his days and nights in seeking to put down this detestable trade. That he had a hand in the landing of foreign arms the reader knows as well as I. But when his brother magistrates came to lay their heads with his, none was more urgent than he to run down the miscreants. Indeed, he went to more than empty words; for once, when a rumour spread that a cargo of powder and shot was expected off Malin, he himself led the party which for three days lay in wait to intercept it. And no one knew except himself and me that during those very three days, while he kicked his loyal heels on Malin Head, the Cigale ran quietly into Lough Swilly, and after resting a few hours, ran as quietly out, with a good deal less ballast in her than she came with.
I remember that well, for it was a day when I was secretly plotting to take advantage of my master’s absence to steal up to Kilgorman. I had indeed got not far from the place when, to my disgust, Martin and another man overtook me on horseback, and ordered me to return at once to Knockowen at my mistress’s bidding.
I durst not disobey, or betray my purpose, so turned back sulkily, leaving them to canter on; and, to add to my chagrin, as I looked round presently from the hill-top, I recognised the flaunting sails of the Cigale standing in for the shore. This sight filled me with a new longing to see Tim, on whom for two years now I had only once, for an hour, set eyes. Come what would, I must steal away and hail him as soon as ever I could escape for an hour or so. Alas! it was easy to promise.
The reason of my mistress’s summons was for me to take an officer, who had just ridden over in hot haste from Carndonagh, by boat to Rathmullan. He was to rejoin his regiment that night, and being a distant kinsman of my lady had presumed on his relationship to beg a passage across the lough by the shortest way.
You may guess if I cast loose the boat with a merry heart, and bade farewell to my chance of seeing Tim, let alone of obeying my mother’s call to Kilgorman.
More than that, this voyage to Rathmullan reminded me of another time when my crew was more to my taste than this lumbering trooper; and, as if to complete my trouble, Miss Kit came down gaily to the jetty to speed the parting guest.
“It’s a pity we could not keep you, Captain Lestrange, till my father returned. You must come again when times are quieter.”
“That’ll not be this year or next,” said the young officer; “but whenever it is, I could hardly find you looking prettier than you are now, Miss Gorman.”
“Wait till you see,” said she, with a saucy laugh, waving her hand as we pushed off.
I had it in my heart to upset the boat as the fellow stood and kissed his hand.
“Sit down, sir, if you please, and trim the boat,” I said. “By your leave, sir, till I haul the sail.”
And before he was aware of it I hauled away, and left him kissing his hand to a sheet of white canvas that interposed between him and my little mistress.
That solaced me vastly.
Once out on the lough I found my passenger, who was little more than a lad of twenty, friendly enough, and inclined to while away the voyage with chat.
“So the master’s at Malin, after the smugglers?” said he.
“Troth, yes,” said I; “but they’re hard boys to catch.”
“I wouldn’t thank you for fools that ran into your arms,” said he.
“’Deed you won’t find many such in these parts.”
“What’s that building on the far point there?” he asked presently, pointing to Kilgorman.
“That’s Kilgorman House, colonel.”
“Oh! There’s some story about that house surely. Somebody was murdered or robbed—what was it?”
“His honour’s brother, Terence Gorman, owned it. And he was shot on the hill fifteen years ago; and nobody will go near the place since.”
“Oh, I remember now,” said he. “And there was something about a lady and child that died too. I heard about it from a cracked body that was servant to my sister-in-law in Paris.”
“Biddy McQuilkin,” said I. “Sure she’s in France still!”
“What, do you know her?”
“She’s from these parts, colonel.”
“Well, she may be there still, unless they’re all dead. Paris is a hot place for any one just now. When they kill kings, and cut off heads like turnip-tops, it’s no place for strangers.”
“They do say the French will be this length before long,” said I, recalling some of the talk I had heard at his honour’s table.
He eyed me sharply.
“They do, do they? And how come you to know it?”
“Sure, it’s common talk,” said I; “and more by tokens, they’ve sent their guns before them.”
“The less you talk about what you don’t understand the better,” said the officer, looking glum; “but I’d give any one a hundred pounds to tell me where they put the arms when they land them.”
Here I thought it wise to be silent. I could have earned a hundred pounds easily that afternoon.
When we reached Rathmullan, a sergeant was down on the pier awaiting Captain Lestrange.
“There’s wild work going, captain,” I heard him say; “the boys are getting to a head, and every mother’s son of them with a gun in his hand. The troop’s been ordered over to Letterkenny, and they’re away already to watch the fun. Begging your pardon, captain, you must take your dinner in the saddle this day.”
The captain took this news, especially the end of it, bravely, and tossed me down a shilling.
“Good-bye, my lad; and carry my respects to your young mistress.”
And he strode away to the inn where the horses waited, and in a few minutes was clattering at full speed down the road that leads to Letterkenny.
Now, thought I, was my chance, with a favouring breeze, to slip down the lough and carry out my purpose of speaking the Cigale.
I would spend my shilling, or part of it, in drinking his Majesty’s health, by which time it would be dusk enough to enable me to pass Knockowen unobserved.
In the inn, however, I found a great disturbance going on; so much so that I was crowded behind the door, and forced to stay there, first because I must, and presently because I would. What the trouble was I could not at first ascertain; but it soon came out that at Sheep Haven a gang of smugglers had been trapped, and their skipper swung at his own yard-arm. That was bad enough; but what was worse, he was a Rathmullan man, and the warrant for his capture had been given a week ago by a magistrate across the lough.
“I’ll warrant you that was Maurice Gorman did it,” said some one.
At the name I crept further back behind the door, and stood like a mouse.
“The very man,” said another. “He’s a dirty thraitor. He can let the boys well enough alone when he loikes.”
“Whisht!” said another; “he’s away at Malin this very week after more, and his men with him. I tell you what I’m thinking, Larry,” continued the speaker, who had drunk somewhat, “this—”
“Howld yer tongue,” said the first speaker in a whisper. “Do you know no better than blather at the top of your voice like that?”
“I’m thinking,” continued the other, retreating towards the door, and beckoning the others around him, “that it’d do Maurice a world of good to have his winders broken.”
“Ay, and not by pebbles. There’s lead enough to spare in the country, praise God.”
“And fire enough to warm his bones if he should be feeling cold,” said another.
“He’s to be back to-morrow. I heard that from Martin, who’s been left to take care of the place.”
“Sure, Martin’s a right boy for us. He’d never spoil sport for the likes of Gorman.”
“Not he. I warrant you Martin will be waiting on us, for I’ll step across and tell him myself. There’s no one else to mind but the women and a fool of a boy.”
“Begorrah, thin, we’ll stand by you, Larry. If Pat Corkill swings to plaze Maurice Gorman, Maurice shall roast to plaze us. But whisht! I’ll have a boat for the eight of yez at this time to-morrow.”
Then, one by one, they slunk off out of the dark shanty, leaving me behind the door in a fever of excitement and impatience.
I durst not go all at once, or be seen in the place; so I waited on till the road was clear and the host was away putting up his shutters.
Then I slipped out, and slouched quietly down to the pier. By good luck I had moored my boat under the side of an old hull that lay there, where she could hardly be noticed by any who did not look for her. I was thankful, aided by the friendly night, to reach it safely, and was soon speeding up the lough as fast as my sail would carry me, with my big budget of news for Knockowen.
I think, had the wind only favoured, I might have been tempted, notwithstanding the risk of it, to venture up in my boat as far as Kilgorman for the sake of getting a word with Tim, even if I could not hope to follow my quest up to the house itself. But the breeze dropped slack before I was well clear of Rathmullan, and it took me many hours of hard pulling, with the chance aid of an occasional puff, to make as far as Knockowen; and by that time the dawn was beginning to show in the east, and my chance of passing undetected was gone.
Besides, the news I bore, and the importance of it to the little, unprotected family at Knockowen, would hardly allow of delay. I slipped into the house and curled myself up in my corner, but not to sleep. Supposing, as was likely, his honour was not back by night, it would be left to me to defend the house and the women as best I could. And how was I to do it?
The first thing I saw when I arose at the summons of the cock was the white sails of the Cigale in the distance standing out for the mouth of the lough. So there was an end of Tim for the present. I confess I was almost glad; for had he been still within call, I should have been tempted all day long to desert my post to get at him. Now I had nothing to take my mind from the business of the night that was coming.
By mid-day his honour had not returned. And then it seemed to me I must do something, if the danger was to be averted. So I saddled Juno (who, by the way, had quietly trotted home to her stable the morning after her runaway race with Miss Kit three months ago), and despite Martin’s questions and objections, to which I replied that I was on my lady’s business, rode as hard as the mare would carry me to the barracks at Fahan.
There I boldly reported what I knew, and in my mistress’s name bade the sergeant in charge send half-a-dozen armed men to protect the house. The sergeant answered that all his men were away, and that unless they returned soon he would have no one to send.
Then I demanded a brace of guns, and a promise that, failing any others, he would come himself. To this he agreed that he certainly would, and bade me keep my own counsel and not alarm the women. As to Martin, I would do well, he said, to make sure of him before he could do any harm. He gave me the guns done up in a truss of straw to avoid detection, and with this clumsy parcel slung across the mare’s back I trotted home.
As I came near the avenue I noticed a skulking figure step quickly behind the trees, and guessed this was probably the messenger who had promised to come over to warn Martin of what was in store. I doubted whether I ought not to attack him there and then. But had I done so I might have given an alarm, and lost my guns into the bargain. So I pretended to see nothing, and passed on, whistling to myself, up to the house.
The afternoon was already well advanced before I dismounted in the stable-yard. Martin, as I expected, stood there waiting for me. It was as much his object to get me disposed of as it was mine to dispose of him. My only chance was to seem to know nothing, and keep a sharp look-out on him.
“You’re fond of riding,” said he with a sneer; “it’s worth a ride to Fahan to fetch a truss of straw when there’s plenty in the stable.”
“There’s more than straw in this,” said I, lifting it up and carrying it up to the house. “Man, dear, it’s full of guns.”
He was not to be taken in by chaff like that, he said. And indeed he fully believed, as I hoped he would, that I was making a fool of him.
“Since you don’t believe me, you might carry it indoors for me, while I put up the mare,” said I, risking a little more to make sure of him.
“You may carry your own litter,” said he, “and hold your tongue over it.”
So I carried the truss into the kitchen, and laid it in the corner there, and presently returned to the yard.
He had taken Juno into the stable, and was unsaddling her there.
“Come here,” he called, “and put up your own beast.”
I guessed pretty well what he meant by that. The stable was a small one, with only one little grated window high up, and a thick door. Could he lock me in there, I should be quiet enough for the rest of the evening.
Happily for me Martin was a dull fool as well as a great villain, and he betrayed his purpose by the glitter of his eye too clearly for any one to mistake him. I strolled carelessly up towards the door, and as I did so he left the horse and came to meet me.
“Come in here,” said he, “and let’s see how you can rub down a horse.”
“I don’t need you to show me,” said I. “Look at her there, with her mane all in a twist and her fetlock grazed by your clumsy pail.”
He turned round to look, and in that moment I had the door shut on him and the key turned on the outside. I knew that the door, which was thick enough to stand a horse’s kick, had nothing to fear from his. And as to his noise, there would be no one to heed that. He would be safe there till morning, and there were oats enough in the place to keep him and Juno both from starving.
This business done, I hastened back to the house, and sought Miss Kit, to whom I told everything.
“Father will not be home to-night,” said she bravely. “We must do the best we can, Barry.”
“We’ll do better than that, plaze God,” said I.
Then followed an anxious council of war. Besides our two selves, there were my lady and three maid-servants in the house. Mistress Gorman was too nervous and delicate to count upon for help, but the maids were all three sturdy wenches. So our garrison was five souls, and, counting the two guns I had brought, there were eight stands of arms and ammunition to match in the house.
The danger to be feared was not so much from the invaders’ shooting as from the possibility of their carrying out their threat to fire the house. Our only hope seemed to lie in frightening them off at the onset by as formidable a show of resistance as possible. Failing that, we should have to protect ourselves as best we could.
Fortunately we could at least prevent their surrounding the house; for by closing and barricading the garden doors on either side, all approach would be limited to the water-front, unless a very wide circuit was made outside the grounds. The drawing-room in which the family usually spent their evenings was on the first floor at this side, and here no doubt the enemy would direct their first attack.
I therefore resolved to have the candles lit as usual and to keep the blinds up, so as to give no hint that we were forewarned of their visit.
Below, on the ground-floor, there were two windows on either side of the door, with shutters in which we bored some hasty loopholes, at each of which we could station one of our party. And the more effectively to keep up an appearance of being in force, I placed a loaded gun, pointed towards the door, on the outer wall at each side, which, by an arrangement of string attached to the triggers, I should be able to let off from within, and so give the party the discomfort of believing themselves taken in the rear.
For the rest, we removed everything inflammable, such as curtains and bedding, as far from the windows as possible, and trusted to a supply of well-filled buckets stationed in every room to help us in case of fire. And as an additional defender against a forcible entry from any unexpected quarter, I brought Con the dog (who seemed to understand all that was going forward) into the house, and stationed him in the hall.
By the time these preparations were all complete it was quite dark, and I knew we might expect our visitors at any moment.
I begged Miss Kit to see her mother disposed of in an apartment as far from the point of danger as possible, while I lit the candles in the drawing-room, and stationed the maids at their posts in the darkened hall below.
My little mistress came to the drawing-room to report her task done.
“If you are not afraid,” said I, “it would be well to move about in this room near the window for a little, so as to let ourselves be seen by any one who approaches. They may be in view of us already.”
She seated herself boldly at the window, while I, in my livery coat, waited on her with a tray.
“Afraid!” said she, taking up my words; “that would be difficult. I do not forget that afternoon in the boat, or the gap in the cliff.”
If anything could have put me more on my mettle, these words and the smile that accompanied them sufficed. I could have received an army single-handed.
We waited silently after that. Presently Con below gave a low growl, and Miss Kit’s eyes met mine. “Listen, and you’ll hear them,” said I. Sure enough, through the open window there came the steady plash of oars, and the sound of voices across the water.
It was an uneasy moment, especially when we heard the grating of the boat alongside the jetty.
“It’s time now we went below,” said I. “Leave me here to close the window and pull down the blinds. And, Miss Kit,” said I as she rose, “if any one is hurt this night it shall not be you.”
She laughed a brave little laugh, and replied, “You want too much for yourself, Barry. We’ll share and share alike.”
Then with her cheeks somewhat pale, and her eyes very bright, she went below, and groped her way to her station in the hall.
Meanwhile, as ostentatiously as I could, I closed the window and lowered the blinds; and after moving from one place to another between them and the candles so as to throw as many shadows as possible, I slipped from the room, and ran down the stairs.
At first nothing could be seen, and we only had Con’s growing uneasiness to warn us of the danger approaching. Then through my loophole I saw among the trees a moving light, evidently a lantern, and presently seven or eight dark forms moving doubtfully along the little jetty.
They halted at a little distance to reconnoitre, and perhaps to wonder why Martin, on whom they depended to conduct them, did not appear.
At last we could discern a movement and the sound of footsteps crunching on the gravel. My orders were that no sign should be given by any of us in the house till they had expended their first shot. And this, as it happened, turned out to be good advice.
Presently we could see them ranged in a row, about twenty yards from the house. Then one stepped forward cautiously, and rapped at the door behind which we stood.
His only answer was a growl from Con.
“Boys,” whispered he, “there’s not a sound stirring. You’ll need to rap at yon window to find if his honour’s at home. All together now.”
Whereupon, with a hideous noise, seven guns were let off, and we heard the bullets crash into the room overhead.
One of the maids lost her nerve, and shrieked. But if they heard it, they thought nothing of it.
“Are you a goose?” cried Miss Kit angrily. “Stand steady now, like a woman.”
This reassured the girl, and at the same time I gave the order to fire.
Our object was not to kill but to frighten. And I knew well enough the women would aim wild. But for myself, I confess I had no scruples in covering the man who carried the lantern.
The effect of our volley was amazing. The villains had barely grounded their arms, and were proceeding leisurely, with their eyes still upturned to the shattered windows, to reload, when we let fly.
My man fell back with a yell, so did one of the others. The rest yelled in chorus, and stood a moment stupified. Quick as thought I pulled my strings right and left, and completed their consternation by a flank fire, which, had it been aimed by a marksman, could not have been more decisive. For one other of the party fell without even a cry, and at the same moment the rest rushed gasping and stumbling over one another down to the boat.
It was the shortest battle I ever took part in. Within three minutes of the first attack the invaders were flying for their lives across the lough. Three of their number were left on the field senseless, and for all we knew stone dead.
I confess that victory is sometimes more terrible than defeat, and any relief our little garrison felt in the danger averted was lost in the counting of the cost. My little mistress, especially, was not to be held till the door was opened, and she could go out to where the victims lay.
Of the three, one—he who had caught the fire of the gun on the wall—was dead. The other two were senseless, but only slightly wounded. The one, whom I had brought down, was bleeding from a wound in the forearm; and the other, who was shot with no will of her own by the frightened servant-maid, was deeply grazed on the cheek.
We had scarcely carried the two wounded men inside, when a clatter of hoofs in the avenue warned us that the sergeant, true to his promise, had come to our succour, and not alone. He was not well pleased to find himself too late for the fighting, and only in time to tend a couple of bruised men, and carry off the body of another. But for this duty he might at least have given chase to the fugitives, and gained a little credit to himself by their capture. As it was, my lady, who in her husband’s absence, and then only, spoke with his authority, would hear of no such attempt, and ordered the immediate removal of the body to Fahan, pending the necessary inquiry, while two of the soldiers were to be left in the house to protect it and see to the wounded.
As for these, a little whisky and bandaging soon set them right; and when next morning his honour, who had already been met by the news of the night’s adventure, reached home, he was able to send them off to jail in the custody of the soldiers.
“There’ll be trouble enough to us out of all this,” said he to me that day, as we followed to the court of inquiry. “I wish to God I had left you where I found you.”
That was the least I expected of his honour. His gratitude counted for very little beside the look Miss Kit had given me the night before, when the danger was yet to come.
His Honour was quite right; there was trouble enough out of that night’s business. But more for me than for him.
For him, as he was then situated, playing a fast and loose game between the side of order and the side of treason, the fact that his house had been attacked by friends of the latter party stood him in good stead with the former. And if any of his brother magistrates had been inclined to suspect him of half-heartedness before, this outrage might be counted on to confirm his zeal for the right cause.
Under cover of this new security he was able to play even more than before into the hands of the lawless party. His first act was to hush up the affair of the night attack and procure the release of the two prisoners. His next was to abandon me to the tender mercies of those who sought vengeance for the blood of the dead man.
Once as I crossed the lough in a boat on his honour’s business a shot across the water, which buried itself in the gunwale, made me look round, and I perceived one of the Rathmullan long-boats, manned by four of the party I had overheard in the inn weeks before, in full chase. The wind was slack, and escape was almost impossible. Could I only have used my sail I might have led them a pretty dance out into the open. As it was, without arms, one to four, and in a little, broad-beamed tub, I could do nothing but haul down my sail and wait their pleasure.
“Martin was right this time,” I heard him who had fired the shot say, as he leisurely reloaded.
I was in doubt whether I was to be made an end of then and there, or allowed the mockery of a trial.
“What’s your will?” said I, as they came alongside. “You’ve no need to scratch the paint of his honour’s boat, anyway.”
They said nothing, but hauled me bodily into their own craft, and tied me hand and foot.
“Save your breath,” said one presently, “till it’s wanted.”
And I was flung like a sack on the floor of the boat.
“What’ll we do with yon?” said another, knocking his oar against the Knockowen boat.
“Capsize her and let her drift,” said the leader of the party.
So my old craft, which had carried me so often, and not me only but my little lady whom it seemed I was never to see more, was upset and turned adrift, to carry, for all I knew, the message of my fate to any whom it might concern.
It was almost dark already, and by the direction my captors rowed I concluded I was to be taken, not to Rathmullan, but to a landing-place nearer the lough mouth. They cruised about till it was quite dark, and then put in for a point called Carrahlagh, some miles south of my old home on Fanad. Here my feet were loosed and I was ordered to march with my company inland. The man with the gun walked by my side. The others, who as we went along were joined by some half-score of confederates at various points, who all gave a watchword on joining, talked among themselves eagerly.
Presently we came to a hill—one I knew well—and here the stragglers began to muster in larger numbers, till as we came to the hollow basin below the top I counted nearly fifty. A few of them I recognised as old gossips of my father’s, but for the most part they were strangers who seemed to have come from a distance.
About ten of the number carried guns, the rest were all armed with either clubs or sticks, while one or two carried rude pikes.
I noticed that one of my captors, not he who guarded me, was looked up to as the leader of the gathering; and when by common consent a circle was formed, and sentinels posted, one on either side of the hollow, it was he who stepped forward and spoke.
If he was an Irishman, his voice did not betray him. Indeed, he spoke more like an Englishman, with a touch of the foreigner at the tip of his tongue.
The first part of his speech was about matters I little understood—about some Bill before the Irish Parliament at Dublin, and the efforts of the friends of the people to defeat it. Then he went on to talk of the great events taking place in Paris:—How the whole people were up in arms for liberty; how the king there had been beheaded, and the streets were flowing with the blood of the friends of tyranny. From end to end of France the flag of freedom was floating. Was Ireland to be the only country of slaves in Europe? She had a tyrant worse than any of whom France had rid herself. The English yoke was the one secret of the misery and troubles of Ireland, and so on. “Boys!” cried he, “the soldiers of liberty are looking at you. They’re calling on you to join hands. Are you afraid to strike a blow for your homes? Must I go and tell them that sent me that the Irishman is a coward as well as a slave? There’s fighting to be done, if there’s only men to do it—fighting with the men who wring the life’s blood out of you and your land—fighting with the toadies who are paid by England to grind you down—fighting with the blasphemers who rob your priests and your chapels—fighting with the soldiery who live on you, and tax you, and insult your wives and daughters. It’s no child’s play is wanted of you. We want no poltroons in the cause. We know the people’s friends, and we know their enemies; and it’s little enough quarter will be going on the day we reckon accounts. Arrah, boys!” cried he, letting go his foreign air for a moment and dropping into the native, “it’s no time for talking at all. There’s some of yez armed already; there’s a gun for any mother’s son here that will use it for the people, and swear on the book to leave the world with one tyrant less upon it. Come up, boys, and take the oath, and shame to them that hang back.”
Instantly there was a forward movement in the audience, as with shouts and cheers they pressed towards the speaker.
He held aloft a book and recited the oath in a loud voice. As far as I remember it bound every one to be a loyal member of the society organised in that district to put down the tyrant and free Ireland from the English yoke. It bound him, without question, to obey any command or perform any service demanded of him in the cause. It pledged him to utter secrecy as to the existence and actions of the society. And it doomed him to the penalty of death for any breach of his vow.
In fours, each with a hand on the book, the company advanced and took the vow, each man’s name as he did so being written down and publicly announced. Even the two sentinels were called from their posts and replaced, in order that they might join.
Finally the leader cried,—
“Is that the whole of ye?”
“No,” cried my custodian, pushing me forward with the butt-end of his gun. “There’s a boy here, plaze your honour, captain, that we took this day. It’s him that gave Larry Dugan his death that night we visited Knockowen.”
The leader turned me to the moonlight and scrutinised my face sharply.
“I had forgotten him,” said he; “he should have been left behind.—That was a bad business at Knockowen.”
“’Deed, sir,” said I, plucking up a little heart at the mildness of his manner, “I did no more than your honour would have done in my shoes; I defended the women. And as for Larry Dugan, it was a mischance he was hit.”
A hurried consultation took place among the chief of the confederates, during which I was left standing in suspense.
It was against me that I had been present and overheard all this business of the oath. That, it was evident, weighed more against me than the part I had taken in the defence of the Knockowen women. Were they to let me go now, the society would be at the mercy of my tongue. It would be simpler, as some advised, to put me out of harm’s way then and there with an ounce of lead in my head.
Presently the consultation ended.
“Give him the oath,” said the leader; and the book was held out to me, while a couple of guns were pointed at my head.
It was an ugly choice, I confess. Little as I understood the nature of the work in hand, I had gathered enough to know that the oath sold me body and soul to men who would stick at nothing to gain their end, and that in taking it I became not only a traitor to the king, but an accomplice of murder and outrage.
Yet what could I do? Young life is sweet, and hope is not to be thrown away like a burned-out match. Besides, I longed to see Tim once more before I died, and—I blushed in the midst of my terror—my little mistress.
“Loose my hands,” said I, “and give me the book.”
The muzzles of the guns laid their cold touch on my cheeks as the cord was unfastened.
Then in a sort of dream I held the book and began to repeat the words. I know not how far I had gone, or to what I had pledged myself, when a sudden shout from one of the sentries brought everything to an end.
“Whisht—soldiers!” was the shout.
In a moment the hollow was almost empty. Men scuttled away right and left like sheep at the alarm of the dog. Those who guarded me let me go and raced for the gap. The clerk left paper and pen and lantern on the ground and slunk towards the rocks. I was left standing, book in hand, with but one of the party, and that one the leader, beside me.
“Kiss the book,” said he in a menacing tone.
I looked at him. He was not armed, and I was as free a man as he. Quick as thought I seized the list which the clerk had dropped on the ground.
“Your secret is safe,” said I, flourishing it in his face, “so long as the women at Knockowen are unhurt. But my soul and my hand are my own.”
So saying I flung the book and struck him a blow on the breast which sent him reeling back against the rock. And off I went among the bracken, thanking God for this peril escaped.
As I have often proved many a time since, the road to safety lies often on the side of danger. Most of the fugitives had made for the hills in an opposite direction to that towards which the sentinel had pointed. I went the other way, and hid myself under a broad flat rock near the roadside, guessing that no one would ever look for lurkers there.
And in so doing I was able to discover what the others would have given something to be sure of:—that the sentinel’s alarm had been a false one altogether, and that what he took for soldiers was no more than a party of revellers returning from a harvest dance in high good spirits along the road. I even recognised some of the familiar faces I had known at Fanad in the old days, and was sorely tempted to claim acquaintance.
But prudence forbade. As sure as daylight came no effort would be spared to hunt me down. For had I not the secret of this society in my own hands, down to the very list of its members? A word from me could smoke them in their holes like rats in a drain. It was not likely I should be allowed to remain at large; and when caught next time, I might promise myself no such good luck as had befallen me to-night.
So I lay low till the road was clear, and then struck north for Fanad, where I knew nooks and crannies enough to keep me hid, if need be, for a month to come.
For a week I lodged uncomfortably enough in one of the deep caves that pierce the coast, which at high tide was unapproachable except by swimming, and at low so piled up with sea-weed at its mouth as to seem only a mere hole in the cliff. Here, on a broad ledge high beyond reach of the tide, I spent the weary hours, living for the most part on sea-weed, or a chance crab or lobster, cooked at a fire of bracken or hay, collected at peril of my life in the upper world.
Once as I peeped out I saw a boat cruising along the shore, and discovered in one of its crew no other than he who had acted as leader of the gathering of a week ago. So near did they come that I could even hear their voices.
“You’re wastin’ your time, captain, over a spalpeen like that. Sure, if he’s alive he’s far enough away by this time.”
The leader turned to the speaker and said,—
“If I could but catch him he would not travel far again. Was there no news of him at Knockowen?”
“’Deed no; only lamenting from the ladies when his empty boat came ashore.”
Then they passed out of hearing, never even looking my way. At last, when I judged they had abandoned the pursuit for a time and were returned to Rathmullan, I ventured out on to the headland, and one day even dared to walk as far as to the old cabin at Fanad.
It had become a ruin since I saw it last. The winter’s winds had lifted the thatch, and the wall on one side had tumbled in. There was no sign of the old life we lived there. The little window from which the guiding light had shone so often was fallen to pieces. Even the friendly hearth within was filled with earth and rubbish.
I left it with a groan; it was like a grave. As I wandered forth, turning my way instinctively to the old landing-place, a flash of oars over the still water (it was a day of dead calm) sent my heart to my mouth. The place was so desolate that even this hint of life startled me. Who could it be that had found me out here?
Quick as thought I dropped on my hands and knees and crawled in among the thick bracken at the path-side. There was one place I remembered of old where Tim and I had often played—a deep sort of cup, grown full of bracken, and capped by a big rock, which to any one who did not know it seemed to lie flat on the soil. Hither I darted, and only just in time, for the boat’s keel grated on the stones as I slipped into cover.
I peered out anxiously and as best I could without showing myself. By their footsteps and voices there were two persons. And when they came nearer, and I caught a momentary glance as they climbed the path to the cabin, I recognised in one of them the face of one of my late captors.
Whether they were here after me or on some other mischief I could not guess. But I hid low, as you may fancy.
Then a sudden thought came to me. The boat was down at the pier. Why should I stay where I was, hunted like a partridge, while across the lough I should at least be no worse off, and have seven clear miles of water between me and my pursuers? Now was my time if ever. Besides—and once more I think I blushed, even under the bracken—on the other side of the lough was my little Lady Kit.
So while the two men walked up the steep path to the cabin I slipped from my hiding-place and ran down to the boat. And a minute later I was clear of the land, with my bows pointing, as they had pointed so often before, for the grim turrets of Kilgorman.