The Wild Geese

by Stanley John Weyman

  CHAPTER X

  A COUNCIL OF WAR

  The meal had been eaten, stolidly by some, by others with a poorappetite, by Colonel John with a thoughtful face. Two men of family,but broken fortunes, old Sir Donny McCarthy of Dingle, and TimothyBurke of Maamtrasna, had joined the party--under the rose as it were,and neither giving nor receiving a welcome. Now old Darby kept the doorand the Bishop the hearth; whence, standing with his back to theglowing peat, he could address his audience with eye and voice. Theothers, risen from the table, had placed themselves here and there,Flavia near the Bishop and on his right hand, Captain Machin on hisleft; The McMurrough, the two O'Beirnes, Sir Donny and Timothy Burke,with the other strangers, sat in a knot by the window. Uncle Ulick withColonel Sullivan formed a third group. The courtyard, visible throughthe windows, seethed with an ever-increasing crew of peasantry,frieze-coated or half bare, who whooped and jabbered, now about one oftheir number, now about another. Among them moved some ten or twelvemen of another kidney--seamen with ear-rings and pigtails, bronzedfaces and gaudy kerchiefs, who listened but idly, and with the contemptof the mercenary, but whose eyes seldom left the window behind whichthe conference sat, and whose hands were never far from the hilt of acutlass or the butt of a pistol. The sun shone on the crowd and thecourt, and now and then those within the house caught through thegateway the shimmer of the lake beyond. The Irish air was soft, the humof voices cheerful; nor could anything less like a secret council, lesslike a meeting of men about to commit themselves to a dark anddangerous enterprise, be well imagined.

  But no one was deceived. The courage, the enthusiasm, that danced inFlavia's eyes were reflected more darkly and more furtively in a scoreof faces, within the room and without. To enjoy one hour of triumph, towreak upon the cursed English a tithe of the wrongs, a tithe of theinsults, that their country had suffered, to be the spoke on top, wereit but for a day, to die for Ireland if they could not live for her, toavenge her daughters outraged and her sons beggared--could man ownIrish blood, and an Irish name, and not rise at the call?

  If there were such a man, oh! cowardly, mean, and miserable he seemedto Flavia McMurrough. And much she marvelled at the patience, theconsideration, the arguments which the silver-tongued ecclesiasticbrought to bear upon him. She longed, with a face glowing withindignation, to disown him--in word and deed. She longed to denouncehim, to defy him, to bid him begone, and do his worst.

  But she was a young plotter, and he who spoke from the middle of thehearth with so much patience and forbearance, was an old one, proved byyears of peril, and tempered by a score of failures; a man longaccustomed to play with the lives and fortunes of men. He knew betterthan she what was at stake to win or lose; nor was it withoutforethought that he had determined to risk much to gain ColonelSullivan. The same far-sight and decision which had led him to take abold course on meeting the Colonel in the garden, now lent him patienceto win, if win he might, one whose value in the enterprise on whichthey were embarking he set at the highest. To his mind, and to Machin'smind, the other men in the room, ay, and the woman, so fair andenthusiastic, were but tools to be used, puppets to be danced. But thisman--for among soldiers of fortune there is a camaraderie, so that theyare known to one another by repute from the Baltic to Cadiz--was acoadjutor to be gained. He was one whose experience, joined with anIrish name, might well avail them much.

  Colonel John might refuse, he might be obdurate. But in that event theBishop's mind was made up. Flavia supposed that if the Colonel heldout, he would be dismissed; that he would go out from among them acowardly, mean, miserable creature--and so an end. But the speaker madeno mistake. He had chosen to grip the nettle danger, and he knew thatgentle measures were no longer possible. He must enlist ColonelSullivan, or--but it has been said that he was one hardened by longcustom, and no novice in dealing with the lives of men.

  "If it be a question only of the chances," he said, after some beatingabout the bush, "if I am right in supposing that it is only that whichwithholds Colonel Sullivan from joining us----"

  "I do not say it is," Colonel John replied very gravely. "Far from it,sir. But to deal with it on that basis: while I can admire, reverendsir, the man who is ready to set his life on a desperate hazard to gainsomething which he sets above that life, I take the case to bedifferent where it is a question of the lives of others. Then I say thechances must be weighed--carefully weighed, and tried in the balance."

  "However sacred the cause and high the aim?"

  "I think so."

  The Bishop sighed, his chin sinking on his breast. "I am sorry," hesaid, in a voice that sufficiently declared his depression--"I amsorry."

  "That we cannot see alike in a matter so grave? Yes, sir, so am I."

  "No. That I met you this morning."

  "I am not sorry," Colonel John replied, stoutly refusing to see theother's meaning. "For--hear me out, I beg. You and I have seen theworld and can weigh the chances. Your friend, too, Captain Machin"--hepronounced the name in an odd tone--"he too knows on what he isembarked and how he will stand if the result be failure. It may be thathe already has his home, his rank, and his fortune in foreign parts,and will be little the worse if the worst befall."

  "I?" Machin cried, stung out of his taciturnity. And he rose with anair of menace from his seat. "Let me tell you, sir, that I fling backthe insinuation!"

  But the Colonel refused to listen. He proceeded as if the other werenot speaking. "You, reverend sir, yourself," he continued, "you tooknow, and well, on what you are embarking, its prospects and the issuefor you, if it fail. But, you--I give you credit for it--are by yourprofession and choice devoted to a life of danger. You are willing, dayby day and hour by hour, to run the risk of death. But these, my cousinthere"--looking with a kind eye at Flavia--"she----"

  "Leave me out!" she cried passionately. And she rose to her feet, herface on fire. "I separate myself from you! I, for my part, ask nobetter than to suffer for my country!"

  "She thinks she knows, but she does not know," the Colonel continuedquietly, unmoved by her words. "She cannot guess what it is to be castadrift--alone, a woman, penniless, in a strange land. And yet that atthe best--and the worst may be unspeakably worse--must be her fate ifthis plot miscarry! For others, The McMurrough and his friendsyonder"--he indicated the group by the window--"they also areignorant."

  The McMurrough sprang to his feet, spluttering with rage. "D--n you,sir, speak for yourself!" he cried.

  "They know nothing," the Colonel continued, quite unmoved, "of thatforce against which they are asked to pit themselves, of that stolidpower over sea, never more powerful than now! And so to pit themselves,that losing they will lose their all!"

  "The saints will be between us and harm!" the eldest of the O'Beirnescried, rising in his wrath. "It's speak for yourself I say too!"

  "And I!"

  "And I!" others of the group roared with gestures of defiance. "We arenot the boys to be whistled aside! To the devil with your ignorance!"

  And one, stepping forward, snapped his fingers close to the Colonel'sface. "That for you!--that for you!" he cried. "Now, or whenever youwill, day or night, and sword or pistol! To the devil with yourimpudence, sir; I'd have you know you're not the only man has seen theworld! The shame of the world on you, talking like a schoolmaster whileyour country cries for you, and 'tis not your tongue but your handshe's wanting!"

  Uncle Ulick put his big form between Colonel John and his assailant."Sure and be easy!" he said. "Sir Donny, you're forgetting yourself!And you, Tim Burke! Be easy, I say. It's only for himself the Colonel'sspeaking!"

  "Thank God for that!" Flavia cried in a voice which rang high.

  They were round him now a ring of men with dark, angry faces, andhardly restrained hands. Their voices cried tumultuously on him, indefiance of Ulick's intervention. But the Bishop intervened.

  "One moment," he said, still speaking smoothly and with a smile."Perhaps it is for those he thinks he speaks!" And the Bishop pointedto the crowd which filled
the forecourt, and of which one member oranother was perpetually pressing his face against the panes to learnwhat his sacredness, God bless him! would be wishing. "Perhaps it isfor those he thinks he speaks!" he repeated in irony--for of thefeeling of the crowd there could be no doubt.

  "You say well," Colonel John replied, rising to his feet and speakingwith gloomy firmness. "It is on their behalf I appeal to you. For it isthey who foresee the least, and they who will suffer the most. It isthey who will follow like sheep, and they who like sheep will go to thebutcher! Ay, it is they," he continued with deeper feeling, and heturned to Flavia, "who are yours, and they will pay for you.Therefore," raising his hand for silence, "before you name the prize,sum up the cost! Your country, your faith, your race--these are greatthings, but they are far off and can do without you. But these--theseare that fragment of your country, that tenet of your faith, thathandful of your race which God has laid in the palm of your hand, tocherish or to crush, and----"

  "The devil!" Machin ejaculated with sudden violence. Perhaps he read inthe girl's face some shadow of hesitation, of thought, of perplexity."Have done with your preaching, sir, I say! Have done, man! Try us nottoo far! If we fail----"

  "You must fail!" Colonel John retorted--with that narrowing of thenostrils that in the pinch of fight men long dead had seen for a momentin distant lands, and seen no more. "You will fail! And failing, sir,his reverence will stand no worse than now, for his life is forfeitalready! While you----"

  "What of me? Well, what of me?" the stout man cried truculently. Hisbrows descended over his eyes, and his lips twitched.

  "For you, Admiral Cammock----"

  The other stepped forward a pace. "You know me?"

  "Yes, I know you."

  There was silence for an instant, while those who were in the secreteyed Colonel Sullivan askance, and those who were not gaped at Cammock.

  Soldiers of fortune, of fame and name, were plentiful in those days,but seamen of equal note were few. And with this man's name the worldhad lately rung. An Irishman, he had risen high in Queen Anne'sservice; but at her death, incited by his devotion to the Stuarts, hehad made a move for them at a critical moment. He had been broken,being already a notable man; on which, turning his back on anungrateful country, as he counted it, he had entered the Spanishmarine, which the great minister Alberoni was at that moment reforming.He had been advanced to a position of rank and power--Spain boasted nostouter seaman; and in the attempt on which Alberoni was bent, to upsetthe Protestant succession in England, Admiral Cammock was a factor ofweight. He was a bold, resolute man, restrained by no fine scruples,prepared to take risks himself, and not too prone to think for others.In Ireland his life was forfeit, Great Britain counted him renegade andtraitor. So that to find himself recognised, though grateful to hisvanity, was a shock to his discretion.

  "Well, and knowing me?" he replied at last, with the tail of his eyeson the Bishop, as if he would gladly gain a hint from his subtlety."What of me?"

  "You have your home, your rank, your relations abroad," ColonelSullivan answered firmly. "And if a descent on the coast be a part ofyour scheme, then you do not share the peril equally with us. You arehere to-day and elsewhere to-morrow. We shall suffer, while you sailaway."

  "I fling that in your teeth!" Cammock cried. "I know you too, sir,and----"

  "Know no worse of me than of yourself!" Colonel Sullivan retorted. "Butif you do indeed know me, you know that I am not one to stand by andsee my friends led blindfold to certain ruin. It may suit your plans tomake a diversion here. But that diversion is a part of larger schemes,and the fate of those who make it is little to you."

  Cammock's hand flew to his belt, he took a step forward, his facesuffused with passion.

  "For half as much I have cut a man down!" he cried.

  "May be, but----"

  "Peace, peace, my friends," the Bishop interposed. He laid a warninghand on Cammock's arm. "This gentleman," he continued smoothly, "thinkshe speaks for our friends outside."

  "Let me speak, not for them, but to them," Colonel Sullivan repliedimpulsively. "Let me tell them what I think of this scheme, of itschances, of its certain end! I will tell them no more than I have toldyou, and no more than I think justified."

  He moved, whether he thought they would let him or not, towards thewindow. But he had not taken three steps before he found his progressbarred. "What is this?" he exclaimed.

  "Needs must with so impulsive a gentleman," the Bishop said. He had notmoved, but at a signal from him The McMurrough, the O'Beirnes and twoof the other young men had thrust themselves forward. "You must give upyour sword, Colonel Sullivan," he continued.

  The Colonel retreated a pace, and evinced more surprise than he felt."Give up--do you mean that I am a prisoner?" he cried. He had notdrawn, but two or three of the young men had done so, and Flavia, inthe background by the fire, was white as paper--so suddenly had theshadow of violence fallen on the room. Uncle Ulick could be heardprotesting, but no one heeded him.

  "You must surrender!" the Bishop repeated firmly. He too was a triflepale, but he was used to such scenes and he spoke with decision.

  "Resistance is vain. I hope that with this lady in the room----"

  "One moment!" the Colonel cried, raising his hand. But as TheMcMurrough and the others hesitated, he whipped out his sword andstepped two paces to one side with an agility no one had foreseen. Henow had the table behind him and Uncle Ulick on his left hand. "Onemoment!" he repeated, raising his hand in deprecation and keeping hispoint lowered. "Do you consider----"

  "We consider our own safety," Cammock answered grimly. And signing toone of the men to join Darby at the door, he drew his cutlass. "Youknow too much to go free, sir, that is certain."

  "Ay, faith, you do," The McMurrough chimed in with a sort of glee. "Hewas at Tralee yesterday, no less. And for a little we'll have thegarrison here before the time!"

  "But by the powers," Uncle Ulick cried, "ye shall not hurt him! Yourreverence!"--the big man's voice shook--"your reverence, this shall notbe! It's not in this house they shall murder him, and him a Sullivan!Flavia, speak, girl," he continued, the perspiration standing on hisbrow. "Say ye'll not have it. After all, it's your house! By G--d, itis your house. And, by the Holy Cross, there shall be no Sullivan bloodspilt in it while I am standing by to prevent it!"

  "Then let him give up his sword!" Cammock answered doggedly.

  "Yes, let him give up his sword," Flavia said in a small voice.

  "Colonel Sullivan," the Bishop interposed, stepping forward, "I hopeyou'll hear reason. Resistance is vain. You know as well as I do thatat a word from us our friends outside would deal with you, and roughly.Give up your sword and----"

  "And _presto_!" Cammock cried, "or take the consequences!" He hadedged his way, while the Bishop spoke, round Ulick and round the headof the table. Now, with his foot on the bench, he was ready at a wordto spring on the table, and take the Colonel in the rear. It was clearthat he was a man of action. "Down with your sword, sir," he criedflatly.

  Colonel John recognised the weakness of his position. Before him theyoung men were five to one, with old Sir Donny and Timothy Burke in therear. On his flank the help which Ulick might give was discounted bythe move Cammock had made. He saw that he could do no more at present,that he must base his hope on the future; this, though he was not blindto the fact that there might be no future. Suddenly as the storm hadblown up, he knew that he was dealing with desperate men, who from thisday onward would act with their necks in a noose, and whom his wordmight send to the scaffold. They had but to denounce him to the rabblewho waited outside, and, besides the Bishop, one only there, as hebelieved, would have the influence to save him.

  Colonel John had confronted danger many times; to confront it had beenhis trade. And it was with coolness and a clear perception of theposition that he turned to Flavia. "I will give up my sword," he said,"but to my cousin only. This is her house, and I yield myself"--with asmile and a bow--"her prisoner."

>   Before they knew what he would be at, he stepped forward and tenderedhis hilt to the girl, who took it with flaccid fingers. "I am in yourhands now," he said, fixing his eyes on hers and endeavouring to conveyhis meaning to her. For surely, with such a face, she must have, withall her recklessness, some womanliness, some tenderness of feeling inher.

  "D--n your impudence!" The McMurrough cried.

  "A truce, a truce," the Bishop interposed. "We are all agreed thatColonel Sullivan knows too much to go free. He must be secured," hecontinued smoothly, "for his own sake. Will two of these gentlemen seehim to his room, and see also that his servant is placed under guard inanother room?"

  "But," the Colonel objected, looking at Flavia, "my cousin will surelyallow me to give----"

  "She will be guided by us in this," the Bishop rejoined with asperity."Let what I have said be done."

  Flavia, very pale, holding the Colonel's sword as if it might stingher, did not speak. Colonel Sullivan, after a moment's hesitation,followed one of the O'Beirnes from the room, the other bringing up therear.

  When the door had closed upon them, Flavia's was not the only pale facein the room. The scene had brought home to more than one the fact thathere was an end of peace and law, and a beginning of violence andrebellion. The Rubicon was passed. For good or for ill, they werecommitted to an enterprise fraught, it might be, with success andglory, fraught also, it might be, with obloquy and death. Uncle Ulickstared at the floor with a lowering face, and sighed, liking neitherthe past nor the prospect. The McMurrough, the Squireens, Sir Donny,and Burke, secretly uneasy, put on a reckless air to cover theirapprehensions. The Bishop and Cammock, though they saw themselves in afair way to do what they had come to do, looked thoughtful also. Andonly Flavia--only Flavia, shaking off the remembrance of Colonel John'sface, and Colonel John's existence--closed her grip upon his sword, andin the ardour of her patriotism saw with her mind's eye not victory noracclaiming thousands--no, nor the leaping line of pikemen charging for_his_ glory that her brother saw--but the scaffold, and a death for hercountry. Sweet it seemed to her to die for the cause, for the faith, todie for Ireland! To die as young Lord Derwentwater had died a year ortwo before; as Lady Nithsdale had been ready to die; as innumerable menand women had died, lifted above common things by the love of theircountry.

  True, her country, her Ireland, was but this little corner of Kerrybeaten by the Atlantic storms and sad with the wailing cries ofseagulls; the rudest province of a land itself provincial. But if sheknew no more of Ireland than this, she had read her story; and naughtis more true than that the land the most down-trodden is also the bestbeloved. Wrongs beget a passion of affection; and from oppressionsprings sacrifice. This daughter of the windswept shore, of the mistyhills and fairy glens, whose life from infancy had been bare and ruggedand solitary, had become, for that reason, a dreamer of dreams and aworshipper of the ideal Ireland, her country, her faith. The saltbreeze that lashed her cheeks and tore at her hair, the peat reek andthe soft shadows of the bogland--ay, and many an hour of lonelycommuning--had filled her breast with love; such love as impels ratherto suffering and to sacrifice than to enjoyment. Nor had she yetencountered the inevitable disappointments. Her eyes had not yet beenopened to the seamy side of patriotism; to the sordid view of everygreat adventure that soon or late saddens the experienced and dispelsthe glamour of the dreamer.

  For one moment she had recoiled before the shock of impending violence,the clash of steel, the reality of things. But that had passed; now herone thought, as she stood with dilated eyes, unconsciously clutchingthe Colonel's sword, was that the time was come, the thing wasbegun--henceforth she belonged not to herself, but to Ireland and toGod.

  Deep in such thoughts, the girl was not aware that the others had gottogether and were discussing the Colonel's fate until mention was madeof the French sloop and of Captain Augustin. "Faith, and let him go inthat!" she heard Uncle Ulick urging. "D'ye hear me, your reverence?'Twill be a week before they land him, and the fire we'll be lightingwill be no secret at all at all by then."

  "May be, Mr. Sullivan," the Bishop replied--"may be. But we cannotspare the sloop."

  "No, by the Holy Bones, and we'll not spare her!" The McMurrough chimedin. "She's heels to her, and it's a godsend she'll be to us if thingsgo ill."

  "And an addition to our fleet anyway," Cammock said. "We'd be mad tolet her go--just to make a man safe, we can make safe a deal cheaper!"

  Flavia propped the sword carefully in an angle of the hearth, and movedforward. "But I do not understand," she said timidly. "We agreed thatthe sloop and the cargo were to go free if Colonel Sullivan--but youknow!" she added, breaking off and addressing her brother. "You werethere."

  "Is it dreaming you are?" he retorted contemptuously. "Is it we'll betaking note of that now?"

  "It was a debt of honour," she said.

  "The girl's right," Uncle Ulick said, "and we'll be rid of him."

  "We'll be rid of him without that," The McMurrough muttered.

  "I am fearing, Mr. Sullivan," the Bishop said, "that it is not quiteunderstood by all that we are embarked upon a matter of the utmostgravity, upon a matter of life and death. We cannot let bagatellesstand in the way. The sloop and her cargo can be made good to herowners--at another time. For your relative and his servant----"

  "The shortest way with them!" some one cried. "That's the best and thesurest!"

  "For them," the Bishop continued, silencing the interruption by a look,"we must not forget that some days must pass before we can hope to getour people together, or to be in a position to hold our own. During theinterval we lie at the mercy of an informer. Your own people you know,and can trust to the last gossoon, I'm told. But the same cannot besaid of this gentleman--who has very fixed ideas--and his servant. Ourlives and the lives of others are in their hands, and it is of the lastimportance that they be kept secure and silent."

  "Ay, silent's the word," Cammock growled.

  "There could be no better place than one of the towers," The McMurroughsuggested, "for keeping them safe, bedad!"

  "And why'll they be safer there than in the house?" Uncle Ulick askedsuspiciously. He looked from one speaker to another with a baffledface, trying to read their minds. He was sure that they meant more thanthey said.

  "Oh, for the good reason!" the young man returned contemptuously."Isn't all the world passing the door upstairs? And what more easy thanto open it?"

  Cammock's eyes met the Bishop's. "The tower'll be best," he said."Devil a doubt of it! Draw off the people, and let them be taken there,and a guard set. We've matters of more importance to discuss now. Thisgathering to-morrow, to raise the country--what's the time fixed forit?"

  But Flavia, who had listened with a face of perplexity, interposed."Still, he is my prisoner, is he not?" she said wistfully. "And if Ianswer for him?"

  "By your leave, ma'am," Cammock replied, with decision, "one word.Women to women's work! I'll let no woman weave a halter for me!"

  The room echoed low applause. And Flavia was silent.