CHAPTER ONE.
WANDERING LIGHTS.
It was the first time Tim and I had fallen out, and to this day I couldscarcely tell you how it arose.
We had gone out on to the headland to drive in the sheep; for the windwas blowing up from seaward, and it was plain to tell that the nightwould be a wild one. Father was away with the trawlers off Sheep Haven,and would be ill pleased should he return to-morrow to find any of theflock amissing. So, though mother lay sick in the cottage, with none totend her, Tim and I, because of the dread we had of our father'sdispleasure, left her and went out to seek the sheep before the stormbroke.
It was no light task, for the dog was lame, and the wind carried backour shouts into our very teeth. The flock had straggled far and wide insearch of the scanty grass, and neither Tim nor I had our hearts in thework.
Presently Tim took a stone to dislodge one stubborn ewe, where it hidbeside a rock, and, as luck would have it, struck not her but my cheek,which received a sharp cut.
"Faith, and you'll make a fine soldier when you're grown," said I, in atemper, "if that's the best you can shoot."
Tim often said he would be a soldier when he came to be a man, and wastouchy on the point.
"Shoot, is it?" said he, picking up another stone; "you blackguard,stand where ye are and I'll show yez."
And he let fly and struck me again on the self-same place; and I confessI admired his skill more than his brotherly love.
I picked up the stone and flung it back. But the wind took it so thatit struck not Tim but the ewe. Whereat Tim laughed loudly and called mea French spalpeen. That was more than I could bear.
"I'll fight you for that," said I, flinging my cap on the ground andstamping a foot on it.
"Come on wid ye," retorted Tim, giving his buckle a hitch.
And there, on the lonely, wind-swept cliff, we two brothers stood up toone another. Con, the dog, limped between us with a whine.
"You might tie the dog to the gate till we're done, Barry," said Tim.
"You're right, Tim," said I; "I will."
It took no long time, but 'twas long enough to cool my blood, and when Ireturned to Tim I had less stomach for the fight than before.
"Was it 'Frenchman' you said?" asked I, hoping he might say no.
"Troth and I did," said he.
But it seemed to me he too was less fiery than when he spoke last.
So we fought. And I know not how it went. We were a fair match. WhatI lacked in strength I made up for in quickness, and if Tim hit me hardI hit him often.
But it was a miserable business, and our hearts were sorer than ourbodies. For we loved one another as we loved our own lives. And on aday like this, when mother lay dying at home, and father was out withthe trawlers in the tempest, we lacked spirit to fight in earnest. Onlywhen Tim called me "Frenchman" it was not in me to stand meekly by.
I know that when it was over, and we parted sulky and bruised each hisown way, I flung myself on my face at the edge of the cliff and wished Ihad never been born.
How long I lay I know not.
When I looked up the day was dark with tempest. The whistle of the windabout my ears mingled with the hoarse thunder of the surf as it broke onthe beach, four hundred feet below me, and swept round the point intothe lough. The taste of brine was on my lips, and now and again flakesof foam whirled past me far inland. From Dunaff to Malin the coast wasone long waste of white water. And already the great Atlantic rollers,which for a day past had brought their solemn warning in from the open,were breaking miles out at sea, and racing in on the shore like thingspursued.
As for me, my spirits rose as I looked out and saw it all. For I lovedthe sea in its angry moods. And this promise of tempest seemed somehowto accord with the storm that was raging in my own breast. It made meforget Tim and the sheep, and even mother.
I tried to get up on my feet, but the wind buffeted me back before Ireached my knees, and I was fain to lie prone, with my nose to thestorm, blinking through half-closed eyes out to sea.
For a long time I lay thus. Then I seemed to descry at the point of thebay windward a sail. It was a minute or more before I could be certainI saw aright. Yes, it was a sail.
What craft could be mad enough in such weather to trust itself to themercies of the bay? Even my father, the most daring of helmsmen, wouldgive Fanad Head a wide berth before he put such a wind as this at hisback. This stranger must be either disabled or ignorant of the coast,or she would never drive in thus towards a lee-shore like ours. Boy asI was, I knew better seamanship than that.
Yet as I watched her, she seemed to me neither cripple nor fool. Shewas a cutter-rigged craft, long and low in the water, under closecanvas, and to my thinking wonderfully light and handy in the heavy sea.She did not belong to these parts--even I could tell that--and hercolours, if she had any, had gone with the wind.
The question was, would she on her present tack weather Fanad Head (onwhich I lay) and win the lough? And if not, how could she escape therocks on which every moment she was closing?
At first it seemed that nothing could save her, for she broke off shortof the point, and drove in within half-a-mile of the rocks. Then, whileI waited to see the end of her, she suddenly wore round, and afterstaggering a moment while the sea broke over her, hauled up to the wind,and careening over, with her mainsail sweeping the water, started gailyon the contrary tack.
It was so unlike anything any of our clumsy trawler boats were capableof, that I was lost in admiration at the suddenness and daring of themanoeuvre. But Fanad was still to be weathered, and close as she sailedto the wind, it seemed hardly possible to gain sea-room to clear it.
Yet she cleared it, even though the black rocks frowned at her not acable's length from her lee-quarter, and the wind laid her over so thather mast-head seemed almost to touch them as it passed. Then, onceclear, up went her helm as she turned again into the wind, and slipped,with the point on her weather-quarter, into the safe waters of thelough.
I was so delighted watching this adventure from my lonely perch that Idid not notice the October afternoon was nearly spent, and that thelight was beginning to fade. The storm gathered force every moment, sothat when at last I turned to go home I had to crawl a yard or two toshelter before I could stand on my feet.
As for the sheep, unless Tim had driven them in, which was not likely,they would have to shift for themselves for this night. It was too lateto see them, and Con, who limped at my heels, had not a yap left in him.
As I staggered home, leaning my back against the wind, I could not helpwondering what this strange boat might be, and why she should make forthe lough on so perilous a course. She might be a smuggler anxious toavoid the observation of the revenue officers. If so, her cargo must beprecious indeed to make up for the risk she ran. Or she might be aforeigner, driven in by one of the king's cruisers, which had not daredto follow her into the bay.
Whatever she was, she was a pretty sailer, and prettily handled. Iwondered if ever I, when I grew to be a man, should be able to weather apoint as skilfully.
It was night before I reached our cabin, and all there was dark.Neither Tim nor father was home, the fire was out on the hearth, and thepoor fevered sufferer lay tossing and breathing hard on the bed.
She was worse, far worse than when we left her in the morning; and Icould have died of shame when I came to think that all those hours shehad lain alone and untended. I struck a light and put it in the window.
"Is that Barry?" said she faintly.
"Ay, mother, it's Barry," said I, going to the bed and bending over her.
"Bring the light, and let me look at you," she said.
I obeyed. She scrutinised my face eagerly, and then turned her headwearily on the pillow.
"Barry," said she presently.
"Well?" said I, as I took the hot worn hand in mine.
She lay silent a long while, so that I thought she had fallen asleep,then she said,--
&nbs
p; "Where is father?"
"Away with the boats."
"And Tim?"
"I can't say. Tim and I fought the day, and--"
"Fought? Ay, there'll be fighting enough before wrong's made right,Barry. Listen! I'm dying, son, but I must see him before I go."
"Is it Tim?" said I.
"No." Then she lifted herself in her bed, and her face was wild andexcited as she clutched my hand. "Barry, it's Gorman I must see--Maurice Gorman. Fetch him to me. Make him come. Tell him I'm a dyingwoman, and must speak before I go. There's time yet--go, Barry!"
"Mr Gorman!" exclaimed I. What could my mother want with his honourdown at Knockowen?
"Ay, and quickly--or it will be too late."
Knockowen was across the lough, five miles up above Dunree. It would behours on a night like this before he could be here. But my mothercontinued to moan, "Go, Barry--make haste." So, much against my will, Iput on my cap and prepared to leave her alone. At the door she calledme back.
"Kiss me, Barry," said she. Then before I could obey her she fell toraving.
"Give me back the lassie," she cried, "dead or alive. She's more to methan all Kilgorman! Trust me, Mr Maurice--I'll breathe never a word ifyou'll but save Mike. It's false--he never had a hand in it! Some daytruth will out--if the lad's mine no harm shall come to him. I'll usehim against you, Mr Maurice. The truth's buried, but it's safe.There's more than earth under a hearthstone." And she laughed in aterrible way.
After a minute she opened her eyes again and saw me.
"Not gone, Barry? For pity's sake, fetch him, or I must go myself."And she even tried to get up from her bed.
This settled it, and I rushed from the house, whimpering with misery andterror.
What was it all about? Why did she send me away thus on a fool'serrand? For Mr Gorman was not likely to come out on a night like thisat the bidding of Mike Gallagher's English wife.
If there had only been some one I could have sent to mind her while Iwas gone! But our cabin on the bleak headland was miles from aneighbour--Knockowen, whither I was speeding, was indeed the nearestplace.
For a lad of twelve it was no easy task on a dark stormy night like thisto cross the lough. But I thought nothing of that. Most of my shortlife I had spent afloat, and I knew every rock and creek along theshores.
The boat lay tugging at her moorings when I got down to her, as ifimpatient to be away. Luckily her mast was up. It would need but theleast taste of canvas to run her across. The business would be comingback in the face of the wind.
Sure enough, when I cast off, she rushed through the water likesomething mad. And again my spirits rose as I heard the hiss of thefoam at her bows, and felt her rear and plunge among the big boisterouswaves.
After a time I could catch the light at Knockowen as it flickered in thewind, and put up my helm so as to clear the shoal. This would bring meclose under Kilgorman rock, whence I could drive before the wind as faras Knockowen.
To my surprise, as I closed in on the shore I saw strange lights at thewater's edge, and casting my eyes up towards Kilgorman (which I neverdid in those days without a qualm, because of the ghost that haunted it)I seemed to see a moving light there also.
I said a hurried prayer, and put round my helm into the wind before mytime. Even the shoal, thought I, was less to fear than the unearthlyterrors of that awful deserted house.
By good luck the strong wind carried me in clear of the bank and so intofairly still water, and in half-an-hour more I was in under the light ofKnockowen, mooring my boat in his honour's little harbour.
It must have been near midnight, and I was wondering how I should wakenthe house and deliver my message, when a voice close beside me said,--
"Are the guns all landed and taken up to the house?"
It was his honour's voice. But I could not see him in the dark.
"I beg your pardon, your honour," said I, "it's me, Barry Gallagher."
A quick step came down to where I stood, and a hand was laid on myshoulder.
"You! What do you here?" said his honour sharply, for he had evidentlyexpected some one else.
"If you please, sir, my mother's sick, and she sent me to bid you comebefore she died."
He made a startled gesture, as I thought, and said, "What does she wantme for?"
"It's to tell your honour something. I couldn't rightly say what, forshe spoke strangely."
"I'll come in the morning if the weather mends," said he.
"I've the boat here for you, sir," I ventured to say, for I guessed themorning would be too late.
"Leave her there, and go up to the house. You may sleep in thekitchen."
What could I do? For the first time that night I knew for certain Ihated his honour. My mother's dying message was nothing to him. Andshe, poor soul, lay in the cabin alone.
Knockowen was a poor shambling sort of house. Strangers wondered whyMaurice Gorman, who owned Kilgorman as well, chose to live in this placeinstead of the fine mansion near the lough mouth. But to the countrypeople this was no mystery. Kilgorman had an evil name, and for twelveyears, since its late master died, had stood desolate and empty--tenanted only, so it was said, by a wandering ghost, and no place fordecent Christian folk to dwell in.
As I lay curled up that stormy night in his honour's kitchen, I couldnot help thinking of the strange lights I had seen as I rowed in by theshore. Where did they come from, and what did they mean? I shuddered,and said one prayer more as I thought of it.
Then my curiosity got the better of me, and I crept to the window andlooked out. The wind howled dismally, but the sky was clearing, and themoon raced in and out among the clouds. Away down across the lough Icould see the dim outline of Fanad, below which was the little homewhere, for all I knew, my mother at that moment lay dead. And oppositeit loomed out the grey bleak hill below which, even by this half light,I fancied I could detect the black outline of Kilgorman standing grimlyin the moonlight.
It may have been fancy, but as I looked I even thought I could see oncemore moving lights between the water's edge and the house, and I slunkback to my corner by the fire with a shiver.
Presently, his honour came in with a candle. He had evidently been upall night, and looked haggard and anxious.
"Get up," said he, "and make the boat ready."
I rose to obey, when he called me back.
"Come here," said he harshly. And he held the candle to my face andstared hard at me. It was a sinister, sneering face that looked intomine, and as I returned the stare my looks must have betrayed the hatredthat was in my mind.
"Which of Gallagher's boys are you?" he demanded.
"Barry, plaze your honour."
"How old are you?"
"I think twelve, sir--the same as Tim." For Tim and I were twins.
He looked hard at me again, and then said, "What was it your mother sentword?"
"She said would your honour plaze to come quick, for she felt likedying, and wished to spake to you before."
"Was that all?"
"Indeed, sir, she talked queerly the night about a dead lassie, andcalled on your honour to save my father, if you plaze, sir."
He went to a cupboard and poured himself out a glass of raw whisky anddrank it. Then he beckoned to me to follow him down to the boat.
Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798 Page 2
