The Wild Geese

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER IX

  EARLY RISERS

  Colonel Sullivan had returned from Tralee in high spirits. He hadsucceeded beyond his hopes in the task he had set himself to perform,and he counted with confidence on gaining by that means a sound footingand a firm influence in the house. But as he sat in his room thatevening, staring at the rushlight, with the night silent about him, hefeared, nay, he almost knew, that his success came too late. Somethinghad happened behind his back, some crisis, some event; and that whichhe had done was as if it were undone, and that which he had gainedavailed nothing.

  It was plain--whatever was obscure--that the play of the Lady'sKerchief was a cover for matter more serious. Those who had taken partin it had scarcely deigned to pretend. Colonel John had been dullerthan the dullest if he had not seen in the white shreds for which themen had scrambled, and which they had affixed with passion to theircoats, the white Cockade of the Pretender; or found in Uncle Ulick'scouplet--uttered while in a careless fashion he affected disguise,

  The spoke that is to-day on top, To-morrow's on the ground,

  one of those catchwords which suited the taste of the day, and servedat once for a passport and a sentiment.

  But Colonel John knew that many a word was said over the claret whichmeant less than nothing next morning; and that many a fair hand passedthe wine across the water-bowl--the very movement did honour to ashapely arm--without its owner having the least intention ofendangering those she loved for the sake of the King across the Water.He knew that a fallen cause has ever two sets of devotees--those whotalk and those who act: the many, in other words, who sing the songsand drink the toasts, and delight in the badges of treason--in thesucked orange, the sprig of oak, the knot of white ribbon, thefir-planting; and the few who mean more than they say, who mean, andsternly, to be presently the Spoke on Top.

  Consequently he knew that he might be wrong in dotting the i's andcrossing the t's of the scene which he had witnessed. Such a scenemight mean no more than a burst of high spirits: in nine cases out often it would not be followed by action, nor import more than thatsinging of "'Twas a' for our rightful King!" which had startled him onhis arrival. In that house, in the wilds of Kerry, sheer loyalty couldnot be expected. The wrongs of the nation were too recent, the highseas were too near, the wild geese came and went too freely--wild geeseof another feather than his. Such outbursts as he had witnessed were nomore than the safety-valves of outraged pride. The ease with whichEngland had put down the Scotch rising a few years before--to saynothing of the fate of those who had taken part in it--must deter allreasonable men, whatever their race or creed, from entering on anundertaking beyond doubt more hopeless.

  For Ireland was not as Scotland. Scarcely a generation had passed sinceshe had felt the full weight of the conqueror's hand; and if shepossessed, in place of the Highland mountains, vast stretches ofuncharted bog and lake, to say nothing of a thousand obscure inlets,she had neither the unbroken clan-feeling nor the unbroken nationalspirit of the sister country. Scotland was still homogeneous, she stillcounted for a kingdom, her soil was still owned by her own lords andworked by her own peasants. She had suffered no massacre of Drogheda orof Wexford; no Boyne, no Aghrim, no vast and repeated confiscations.Whereas Ireland, a partitioned and subject land, which had sufferedduring the last two centuries horrors unspeakable, still cowered like awhipped dog before its master, and was as little likely to rebel.

  Colonel John leant upon such arguments; and, disappointed and alarmedas he was by Flavia's behaviour, he told himself that nothing wasseriously meant, and that with the morning light things would look morecheerful.

  But when he awoke, after a feverish and disturbed sleep, the faintgrisly dawn that entered the room was not of a character to inspirit.He turned on his side to sleep again if he could; but in the act, hediscovered that the curtain which he had drawn across the window waswithdrawn. He could discern the dark mass of his clothes piled on achair, of his hat clinging like some black bat to the whitewashed wall,of his valise and saddle-bags in the corner--finally of a stout figurebent, listening, at the door.

  An old campaigner, Colonel John was not easily surprised. Repressingthe exclamation on his lips, he rose to his elbow and waited until thefigure at the door straightened itself, and, turning towards him,became recognisable as Uncle Ulick. The big man crossed the floor, sawthat he was awake, and, finger on lip, enjoined silence. Then hepointed to the clothes on the chair, and brought his mouth near theColonel's ear.

  "The back-door!" he whispered. "Under the yews in the garden! Come!"And leaving the Colonel staring and mystified, he crept from the roomwith a stealth and lightness remarkable in one so big. The door closed,the latch fell, and made no sound.

  Colonel John reflected that Uncle Ulick was no romantic young person toplay at mystery for effect. There was a call for secrecy therefore. TheO'Beirnes slept in a room divided from his only by a thin partition;and to gain the stairs he must pass the doors of other chambers, allinhabited. As softly as he could, and as quickly, he dressed himself.He took his boots in his hand; his sword, perhaps from old habit, underhis other arm; in this guise he crept from the room and down the duskystaircase. Old Darby and an underling were snoring in the cub, which inthe daytime passed for a pantry, and both by day and night gave forth asmell of sour corks and mice: but Colonel John slid by the open door asnoiselessly as a shadow, found the back-door--which led to thefold-yard--on the latch, and stepped out into the cool, dark morning,into the sobering freshness and the clean, rain-washed air.

  The grass was still grey-hued, the world still colourless andmysterious, the house a long black bulk against a slowly lighteningsky. Only the earliest sparrows were twittering; in the trees only themost wakeful rooks were uttering tentative caws. The outburst of joyand life and music which would attend the sun's rising was not yet.

  Colonel John paused on the doorstep to draw on his boots, then hepicked his way delicately to the leather-hung wicket that broke thehedge which served for a fence to the garden. On the right of thewicket a row of tall Florence yews, set within the hedge, screened thepleasaunce, such as it was, from the house. Under the lee of these hefound Uncle Ulick striding to and fro and biting his finger-nails inhis impatience.

  He wrung the Colonel's hand and looked into his face. "You'll do me thejustice, John Sullivan," he said, with a touch of passion, "that neverin my life have I been overhasty? Eh? Will you do me that?"

  "Certainly, Ulick," Colonel John answered, wondering much what wascoming.

  "And that I'm no coward, where it's not a question of trouble?"

  "I'll do you that justice, too," the Colonel answered. He smiled at thereservation.

  The big man did not smile. "Then you'll take my word for it," hereplied, "that I'm not speaking idly when I say you must go."

  Colonel John lifted his eyebrows. "Go?" he answered. "Do you mean now?"

  "Ay, now, or before noon!" Uncle Ulick retorted. "More by token," hecontinued with bitterness, "it's not that you might go on the instantthat I've brought you out of our own house as if we were a couple ofrapparees or horse-thieves, but that you might hear it from me who wishyou well, and would warn you not to say nay--instead of from those whomay be 'll not put it so kindly, nor be so wishful for you to be takingthe warning they give."

  "Is it Flavia you're meaning?"

  "No; and don't you be thinking it," Uncle Ulick replied with a touch ofheat. "Nor the least bit of it, John Sullivan! The girl, God bless her,is as honest as the day, if----"

  "If she's not very wise!" Colonel John said, smiling.

  "You may put it that way if you please. For the matter of that, you'llbe thinking she's not the only fool at Morristown, nor the oldest, northe biggest. And you'll be right, more shame to me that I didn't usethe prudent tongue to them always, and they young! But the blood mustrun slow, and the breast be cold, that sees the way the Saxons aremocking us, and locks the tongue in silence. And sure, there's no moreto be said, but just this--that there's
those here you'll be wise notto see! And you'll get a hint to that end before the sun's high."

  "And you'd have me take it?"

  "You'd be mad not to take it!" Uncle Ulick replied, frowning. "Isn't itfor that I'm out of my warm bed, and the mist not off the lake?"

  "You'd have me give way to them and go?"

  "Faith, and I would!"

  "Would you do that same yourself, Ulick?"

  "For certain."

  "And be sorry for it afterwards!"

  "Not the least taste in life!" Uncle Ulick asseverated.

  "And be sorry for it afterwards," Colonel John repeated quietly."Kinsman, come here," he continued with unusual gravity. And takingUncle Ulick by the arm he led him to the end of the garden, where thewalk looked on the lake and bore some likeness to a roughly madeterrace. Pausing where the black masses of the Florence yews, mostfunereal of trees, still sheltered their forms from the house, he stoodsilent. The mist moved slowly on the surface of the water and crawledabout their feet. But the sky to eastward was growing red, the lowerclouds were flushed with rose-colour, the higher hills were warm withthe coming of the sun. Here and there on the slopes which faced them acotter's hovel stood solitary in its potato patch or its plot of oats.In more than one place three or four cottages made up a tiny hamlet,from which the smoke would presently rise. To English eyes, to oureyes, the scene, these oases in the limitless brown of the bog, hadbeen wild and rude; but to Colonel John, long familiar with thetreeless plains of Poland and the frozen flats of Lithuania, it spokeof home, it spoke of peace and safety and comfort, and even of a narrowplenty. The soft Irish air lapped it, the distances were mellow,memories of boyhood rounded off all that was unsightly or cold.

  He pointed here and there with his hand; and with seeming irrelevance."You'd be sorry afterwards," he said, "for you'd think of this, Ulick.God forbid that I should say there are no things for which even thisshould be sacrificed. God forbid I should deny that even for this toohigh a price may be paid. But if you play this away in wantonness--ifthat which you are all planning come about, and you fail, as theyfailed in Scotland three years back, and as you will, as you must failhere--it is of this, it is of the women and the children under theseroofs that will go up in smoke, that you'll be thinking, Ulick, at thelast! Believe me or not, this is the last thing you'll see! It's to aburden as well as an honour you're born where men doff caps to you; andit's that burden will lie the black weight on your soul at the last.There's old Darby and O'Sullivan Og's wife--and Pat Mahony and JudyMahony's four sons--and Mick Sullivan and Tim and Luke the Lamiter--andthe three Sullivans at the landing, and Phil the crowder, and the seventenants at Killabogue--it's of them, it's of them"--as he spoke hisfinger moved from hovel to hovel--"and their like I'm thinking. You crythem and they follow, for they're your folks born. But what do theyknow of England or England's strength, or what is against them, or thecertain end? They think, poor souls, because they land their spiritsand pay no dues, and the Justices look the other way, and a bailiffslife here, if he'd a writ, would be no more worth than a woodcock's,and the laws, bad and good, go for naught--they think the blackProtestants are afraid of them! While you and I, you and I know,Ulick," he continued, dropping his voice, "'tis because we lie so poorand distant and small, they give no heed to us! We know! And that's ourburden."

  The big man's face worked. He threw out his arms. "God help us!" hecried.

  "He will, in His day! I tell you again, as I told you the hour I came,I, who have followed the wars for twenty years, there is no deed thathas not its reward when the time is ripe, nor a cold hearth that is notpaid for a hundredfold!"

  Uncle Ulick looked sombrely over the lake. "I shall never see it," hesaid. "Never, never! And that's hard. Notwithstanding, I'll do what Ican to quiet them--if it be not too late."

  "Too late?"

  "Ay, too late, John. But anyway, I'll be minding what you say. On theother hand, you must go, and this very day that ever is."

  "There are some here that I must not be seeing?" Colonel John saidshrewdly.

  "That's it."

  "And if I do not go, Ulick? What then, man?"

  "Whisht! Whisht!" the big man cried in unmistakable distress. "Don'tsay the word! Don't say the word, John, dear."

  "But I must say it," Colonel John answered, smiling. "To be plain,Ulick, here I am and here I stay. They wish me gone because I am in theway of their plans. Well, and can you give me a better reason forstaying?"

  What argument Ulick would have used, what he was opening his mouth tosay, remains unknown. Before he could reply the murmur of a voice nearat hand startled them both. Uncle Ulick's face fell, and the two turnedwith a single movement to see who came.

  They discerned, in the shadow of the wall of yew, two men, who had justpassed through the wicket into the garden.

  The strangers saw them at the same moment, and were equally taken bysurprise. The foremost of the two, a sturdy, weather-beaten man, with asquare, stern face and a look of power, laid his hand on hiscutlass--he wore a broad blade in place of the usual rapier. The other,whom every line of his shaven face, as well as his dress, proclaimed apriest--and perhaps more than a priest--crossed himself, and mutteredsomething to his companion. Then he came forward.

  "You take the air early, gentlemen," he said, the French accent veryplain in his speech, "as we do. If I mistake not," he continued,looking with an easy smile at Colonel John, "your Protestant kinsman,of whom you told me, Mr. Sullivan? I did not look to meet you, ColonelSullivan; but I do not doubt you are man of the world enough to excuse,if you cannot approve, the presence of the shepherd among his sheep.The law forbids, but----" still smiling, he finished the sentence witha gesture in the air.

  "I approve all men," Colonel John answered quietly, "who are in theirduty, father."

  "But wool and wine that pay no duty?" the priest replied, turning witha humorous look to his companion, who stood beside him unsmiling. "I'mnot sure that Colonel Sullivan extends the same indulgence tofree-traders, Captain Machin."

  Colonel John looked closely at the man thus brought to his notice. Thenhe raised his hat courteously. "Sir," he said, "the guests of theSullivans, whoever they be, are sacred to the Sullivans."

  Uncle Ulick's eyes had met the priest's, as eyes meet in a moment ofsuspense. At this he drew a deep breath of relief. "Well said," hemuttered. "Bedad, it is something to have seen the world!"

  "You have served under the King of Sweden, I believe?" the ecclesiasticcontinued, addressing Colonel John with a polite air. He held a book ofoffices in his hand, as if his purpose in the garden had been merely toread the service.

  "Yes."

  "A great school of war, I am told?"

  "It may be called so. But I interrupt you, father, and with yourpermission I will bid you good-morning. Doubtless we shall meet again."

  "At breakfast, I trust," the ecclesiastic answered, with a certain airof intention. Then he bowed and they returned it, and the two pairsgave place to one another with ceremony, Colonel John and Ulick passingout through the garden wicket, while the strangers moved on towards thewalk which looked over the lake. Here they began to pace up and down.

  With his hand on the house door Uncle Ulick made a last attempt. "ForGod's sake, be easy and go," he muttered, his voice unsteady, his eyesfixed on the other's, as if he would read his mind. "Leave us to ourfate! You cannot save us--you see what you see, you know what it means.And for what I know, you know the man. You'll but make our end theblacker."

  "And the girl?"

  Uncle Ulick tossed his hands in the air. "God help her!" he said.

  "Shall not we too help her?"

  "We cannot."

  "It may be. Still, let us do our duty," Colonel John replied. He wasvery grave. Things were worse, the plot was thicker, than he hadfeared.

  Uncle Ulick groaned. "You'll not be bidden?" he said.

  "Not by an angel," Colonel John answered steadfastly. "And I've seennone this morning, but only a good man whose one fault in life
is toanswer to all men 'Sure, and I will!'"

  Uncle Ulick started as if the words stung him. "You make a jest of it!"he said. "Heaven send we do not sorrow for your wilfulness. For mypart, I've small hope of that same." He opened the door, and, turninghis back upon his companion, went heavily, and without any attempt atconcealment, past the pantry and up the stairs to his room. ColonelJohn heard him slip the bolt, and, bearing a heavy heart himself, heknew that the big man was gone to his prayers.

  To answer "Yes" to all comers and all demands is doubtless, in thelanguage of Uncle Ulick, a mighty convenience, and a great softener ofthe angles of life. But a time comes to the most easy when he mustanswer "No," or go open-eyed to ruin. Then he finds that from longdisuse the word will not shape itself; or if uttered, it is taken fornaught. That time had come for Uncle Ulick. Years ago his age andexperience had sufficed to curb the hot blood about him. But he hadbeen too easy to dictate while he might; he had let the reins fall fromhis hands; and to-day he must go the young folks' way--ay, go, seeingall too plainly the end of it.

  It was not his fate only. Many good men in the '15 and the '45, ay, andin the war of La Vendee, went out against their better judgment, bornealong by the energy of more vehement spirits--went out, aware, as theyrode down the avenue, and looked back at the old house, that they wouldsee it no more; that never again except in dreams would they mount fromthe horse-block which their grandsires' feet had hollowed, walk throughthe coverts which their fathers had planted, or see the faces of theaged serving-men who had taught their childish fingers to hold thereins and level the fowling-piece!

  But Colonel John was of another kind and another mind. Often in theSwedish wars had he seen a fair country-side changed in one day into awaste, from the recesses of which naked creatures with wolfish eyesstole out at night, maddened by their wrongs, to wreak a horridvengeance on the passing soldier. He knew that the fairest parts ofIreland had undergone such a fate within living memory; and how oftenbefore, God and her dark annals alone could tell! Therefore he wasfirmly minded, as firmly minded as one man could be, that not againshould the corner of Kerry under his eyes, the corner he loved, thecorner entrusted to him, suffer that fate.

  Yet when he descended to breakfast, his face told no tale of histhoughts, and he greeted with a smile the unusual brightness of themorning. As he stood at the door, that looked on the courtyard, he hada laughing word for the beggars--never were beggars lacking at the doorof Morristown. Nor as he sunned himself and inhaled with enjoyment thefreshness of the air did any sign escape him that he marked a change.

  But he was not blind. Among the cripples and vagrants who lounged aboutthe entrance he detected six or eight ragged fellows whose sunburntfaces were new to him and who certainly were not cripples. In thedoorway of one of the two towers that fronted him across the courtstood O'Sullivan Og, whittling a stick and chatting with a sturdy idlerin seafaring clothes. The Colonel could not give his reason, but he hadnot looked twice at these two before he got a notion that there wasmore in that tower this morning than the old ploughs and the brokenboat which commonly filled the ground floor, or the grain which wasstored above. Powder? Treasure? He could not say which or what; but hefelt that the open door was a mask that deceived no one.

  And there was a stir, there was a bustle in the court; a sparkle in theeyes of some as they glanced slyly and under their lashes at the house,a lilt in the tread of others as they stepped to and fro. He divinedthat hands would fly to caubeens and knees seek the ground if a certainface showed at a window: moreover, that that at which he merely guessedwas no secret to the barefooted colleens who fed the pigs, or thebarelegged urchins who carried the potatoes. Some strange change hadfallen upon Morristown, and imbued it with life and hope and movement.

  He was weighing this when he caught the sound of voices in the house,and he turned about and entered. The priest and Captain Machin haddescended and were standing with Uncle Ulick warming themselves beforethe wood fire. The McMurrough, the O'Beirnes, and two or threestrangers--grim-looking men who had followed, a glance told him, thetrade he had followed--formed a group a little apart, yet near enoughto be addressed. Asgill was not present, nor Flavia.

  "Good-morning, again," Colonel John said. And he bowed.

  "With all my heart, Colonel Sullivan," the priest answered cordially.And Colonel John saw that he had guessed aright: the speaker no longertook the trouble to hide his episcopal cross and chain, or the ring onhis finger. There was an increase of dignity, too, in his manner. Hisvery cordiality seemed a condescension.

  Captain Machin bowed silently, while The McMurrough and the O'Beirneslooked darkly at the Colonel. They did not understand: it was plainthat they were not in the secret of the morning encounter.

  "I see O'Sullivan Og is here," the Colonel said, addressing UncleUlick. "That will be very convenient."

  "Convenient?" Uncle Ulick repeated, looking blank.

  "We can give him the orders as to the Frenchman's cargo," the Colonelsaid calmly.

  Uncle Ulick winced. "Ay, to be sure! To be sure, lad," he answered. Buthe rubbed his head, like a man in a difficulty.

  The Bishop seemed to be going to ask a question. Before he could speak,however, Flavia came tripping down the stairs, a gay song on her lips.Half way down, the song, light and sweet as a bird's, came to a suddenend.

  "I am afraid I am late!" she said. And then--as the Colonelsupposed--she saw that more than the family party were assembled: thatthe Bishop and Captain Machin were there also, and the strangers--and,above all, that he was there. She descended the last three stairssilently, but with a heightened colour, moved proudly into the middleof the group, and curtsied before the ecclesiastic till her kneetouched the floor.

  He gave her his hand to kiss, with a smile and a murmured blessing. Sherose with sparkling eyes.

  "It is a good morning!" she said, as one who having done her duty couldbe cheerful.

  "It is a very fine morning," the Bishop answered in the same spirit."The sun shines on us, as we would have him shine. And after breakfast,with your leave, my daughter, and your brother's leave, we will hold alittle council. What say you, Colonel Sullivan?" he continued, turningto the Colonel. "A family council? Will you join us?"

  The McMurrough uttered an exclamation, so unexpected and strident, thatthe words were not articulate. But the Bishop understood them, for, asall turned to him, "Nay," he said, "it shall be for the Colonel to say.But it's ill arguing with a fasting man," he continued genially, "andby your leave we will return to the matter after breakfast!"

  "I am not for argument at all," Captain Machin said. It was the firsttime he had spoken.