CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE.
HIS HONOUR ESCAPES HIS ENEMIES AT LAST.
It was less than a year since I had seen Knockowen. But all seemedchanged. Weeds and grass were on the paths, the flower-beds wereunkempt, the fences were broken in places, damp stains were spread overthe house front. Everywhere were signs of neglect and decay. Had I notknown his honour to be a wealthy man, I should have supposed him animpecunious person with no income to maintain his property. As it was,there was some other cause to seek, and that cause I set down to theabsence of Miss Kit.
Twice between the pier and the house I was challenged by sentries, andwhen I reached the door I noticed that the lower windows were shutteredand barred like those of a prison.
I announced myself to the servant who answered my summons as I had doneto the sentinels, without giving my name, and was presently shown intohis honour's room at the back of the house, which, as all the shutterswere closed, was lit by candles, though it was still daylight.
I was shocked to see how Mr Gorman was changed. The sly, surlyexpression had given place to a hunted, suspicious look. His face washaggard and pale and his beard unkempt. He started at any little sound,and his mouth, once firm, now looked weak and irresolute. Worse still,there was a flavour of spirits about the room and the man which told itsown tale, and accounted for his bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers as helooked up.
"Gallagher!" he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; "whatbrings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?"
"It is no disguise, your honour," said I, in as reassuring a tone as Icould assume. "I am Lieutenant Gallagher now."
"And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Goaway, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?"
And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described asbroken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that layon the table.
"You mistake me," said I, paying no heed to the gesture. "I came merelyon business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I've nothingto say that they need not hear."
"You're a good fellow, Gallagher," said his honour, reassured. "I'm alittle shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know youcould mean no harm to your old benefactor."
It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolvedto shorten the interview as much as I could.
"Stay and dine with me," said he, as eager to keep me now as he was tobe rid of me a minute ago; "it's lonely, night after night, with no oneto speak to and nowhere to go. You've heard, no doubt, I am a prisonerhere."
"How so, sir?"
"There's a sentence of death out against me--not in the king's name, butin the name of Tim Gallagher, your brother, captain of the rebels here."
"In Tim's name!" exclaimed I. "It's false! I swear he never signed it;he is not even in the country."
"Don't be too sure of that. Anyway he's their chosen leader, and theydo all in his name. I daren't go outside my own doors after dark forfear of a bullet."
"The scoundrels!" cried I, starting up; "and they dare drag Tim's nameinto their vile machinations. I tell you, Mr Gorman, Tim would no morewink at murder than--than Miss Kit would. And, by the way, sir, what ofMiss Kit?"
He looked round with his haggard face.
"What is that to you, Gallagher?"
"I love her," said I bluntly, "and so I have a right to know."
"You! the son of Mike the boatman, and brother of Tim the rebel! Youdare--"
I cut him short.
"See here, Maurice Gorman; understand me. With or without you I willfind her, if I have to seek her to the world's end. I've done so beforenow; remember how we parted last."
"Oh," said he, "I know all that, and of your meeting her in Holland andplacing her in Biddy McQuilkin's care. She wrote me all about that; andit's little I owe you for it. Biddy belongs, body and soul, to therebel faction."
"But she wouldn't let a hair of Miss Kit's head be hurt for all that."
"How do you know that, so long as I could be made to suffer by it?"
"Where are they now, then?" I asked eagerly.
"Till lately she was in Dublin, in the family of Lord Edward, who,traitor as he is, is at least a gentleman, and a distant kinsman intothe bargain. She was happy there; and what sort of place was this tobring a girl to? But look here," said he, getting up and fumbling in adrawer among some papers, "what do you say to this?" and he put aletter, written in a delicate female hand, before me. It read asfollows:--
"To Maurice Gorman, Esquire.
"Sir,--With great sorrow I inform you that Miss Gorman, while walkingyesterday evening in the Park with her attendant McQuilkin, wassurrounded by a gang of masked men, and they were both carried away,whither we know not. We are in terrible distress, and sparing no effortto find the dear girl, whom Lord Edward and I had come to love as asister. Be assured you shall receive such news as there may be. LordEdward's wrath knows no bounds, and he even risks his own liberty (forhe is a marked man) in seeking for them.--I have the honour to be, sir,your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald."
"That is from Lady Edward," said his honour. "Now read this."
The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, withoutdate or signature.
"Maris Gorman,--Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not bereturnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundredpounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come inquickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for atrayter to Ireland."
"Now," said he, with a gloomy smile, "you know as much of my daughter'swhereabouts as I do."
"This is terrible news," said I. "How is it you are not in Dublin atthis moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?"
He laughed bitterly.
"It's easy talking," said he. "In the first place, I should be shotbefore I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner herefor weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took theoath, where is the money to come from?"
"Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you."
"Whoever calls me rich, lies," said he testily, and with an uneasygesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place.Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundredpounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.
"Is nothing being done?" said I. "Have you shown the letter to theauthorities, or to Lord Edward?"
"What use?" said he. "I am on too ill terms with either to expect theirhelp."
"And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?" I cried. "Butif you will not move, I will!"
"What can I do?" said he wearily. "You know how I am fixed. Perhapswhen I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplestway out of it, after all."
I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably didhe speak.
Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the badodour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.
"They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I hadcause to love them. On my soul, if I'm to be suspected, it sometimesseems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for thesake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath--suppose it, Isay, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going tobe delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own forthose who withstood her. Should I be worse off by joining them? I'mtold they are ready to welcome any man of position and landed intereston their side. It might be an opportunity of doing some service to myfellow countrymen. Besides, when a daughter's liberty is at stake, onedoes not stand at sacrifice. They hate me now because I have beeninstrumental in thwarting them. By winning me over they would be rid ofan obstacle; and all the favour I have shown them in the past in thematter of the arms, and allowing some of them to slip through thefingers of the law, would stand to my credit. Why,
Gallagher," addedhe, growing quite excited at the vision, "in the new Irish Government Ishould be a man of mark; and my fortune, instead of being confiscated,would be my own, and at the service of my friends. Why, you and Tim--"
"Are you so sure that fortune is your own now?" said I, losing my self-restraint at last.
He turned a little whiter as he glared round at me.
"You mean that improbable story of the changeling at Kilgorman," saidhe, with a forced laugh. "As pure moonshine as ever was, and beyond allproof even if it wasn't."
"You forget Biddy McQuilkin has been found."
"Did she say anything?" he demanded.
"She did, on her oath."
"And, pray, what was her version of this wonderful story?"
"She told me all I needed to know--that is, which of us two was TerenceGorman's son."
"And which is, pray?"
"That is my secret. Time will show."
"What!" exclaimed he, "some new conspiracy to rob me? And one of theconspirators a man who presumes to my daughter's hand! Come, Gallagher,let you and me understand each other. I defy you, or Biddy, or any one,to make good your story. But if you are frank with me, you won't findme unreasonable. Let me see the documents."
"In good time, sir," said I. "Now, as to the smugglers."
And we proceeded to talk about the object of our cruise. I found he hadlittle news to give me, or else he chose to give little, and after awhile I rose to go. He pressed me to stay the night, urging hissolitude; but I had no desire to prolong the interview.
"We shall meet again," said I; "and you may rely on hearing from me if Ihave any news of your daughter."
We were out on the doorstep by this time. It was a beautiful, freshevening, with a half-moon hanging above the opposite hills and sending abroad track of shimmering light across the lough.
"It's a tempting night," said he. "I've not taken the air for days.I've a good mind to see you to your boat."
For all that, he looked round uneasily, with the air of a man whosuspected a lurking foe in every rustling leaf.
"Two of you men follow," said he to the sentries at the door. "Keep mein view. Ah, how fresh the air is after that close room! Yes,Gallagher, you were speaking of my daughter. Since she left me--keep inthe shade, man, it's safer--this place has been a hell to me. What'sthe use of--what's that?" he exclaimed, catching my arm; "it soundedlike a man's breathing. What's the use of keeping it up, I say? I've amind to--"
He got no further. We had emerged from the shady walk into the moonlitpath leading down to the pier. The two sentinels were just discernibleahead, and the footsteps of the two behind followed us close. There wasno other sound in the stillness but his honour's quavering voice, andnothing stirring but the leaves of the trees and the waves of the loughas they broke gently on the beach.
Suddenly there rang out from the water's edge the sharp crack of a gun,followed by a wild howl. Mr Gorman staggered forward a pace and fellon his face. There was a rapid swish of oars, two hurried shots fromthe sentries, and the phantom of a little boat as it darted out acrossthe moon track and lost itself in the blackness of the shadows.
In a moment I was kneeling beside the body of the poor dying man. Theshot had struck him in the breast, and the life-blood was oozing awayfast. He was conscious as we tried to lift him.
"Let me lie here," said he. "I'm safe here now."
But by this time the soldiers had him in their arms, and were bearinghim gently towards the house.
It was little a doctor could do if we had one, but a soldier was sent toFahan to bring one, and to take word of the murder. Meanwhile we laidhim on his bed, and I did what I could to stanch the bleeding and easehis suffering.
For half-an-hour he lay in a sort of stupor. Then he said,--
"Gallagher, I want to speak--Send the others away--no, keep one for awitness."
We did as he desired, and waited for what was to come.
Several minutes passed; then he tried to lift his head, and said,--
"It is true that one of you is Terence Gorman's boy, I knew it, but onlyBiddy knows which it is. I had no hand in Terence's murder, nor hadMike Gallagher, though I tried to put it on him. Write that downquickly, and I'll sign it."
I wrote his words hurriedly down, and read them over; but when it cameto putting the pen in his hand, he fell back, and I thought all wasover. But after a few minutes he rallied again.
"Hold me up--guide my hand--it all swims before me."
The paper with his woeful scrawl affixed lies before me at this momentas I write.
"Gallagher," said he, more faintly yet, "be good to Kit, and forgiveme."
"God will do that, your honour," whispered I.
"Pray for me.--Ah!" cried he, starting suddenly in bed, and throwing uphis arm as if to ward off a blow, "I'll take the oath, boys. You shallhave the money. God save--"
And he fell back, dead.
Next day an inquiry was held which ended in nothing. No trace of themurderer was to be found, and no evidence but that of us who saw thetragedy with our own eyes. Plenty of folk, who had given him a wideberth living, crowded to the place to look at the dead Gorman; but inall their faces there was not one sign of pity or compunction--nay,worse, that very night, on Fanad and Knockalla bonfires were lit tocelebrate his murder.
The next day we buried him. For miles round no one could be foundwilling to make his coffin, and in the end we had to lay him in a commonsoldier's shell. Nor would any one lend horse or carriage to carry himto his grave, and we had to take him by boat to his resting-place,rowing it through the gathering storm with our own arms. The flag half-mast on the _Gnat_ was the only sign of mourning; and when we bore thecoffin up to the lonely graveyard on the cliff-top at Kilgorman, andlaid it beside that of his lady, in the grave next to that of themurdered Terence, not a voice but mine joined in the "Amen" to thepriest's prayer.
When all was said and done, I lingered on, heedless of the wind andrain, in the deserted graveyard, full of the strange memories which theplace and scene recalled.
Eight years ago I had stood here with Tim at the open grave of her whomwe both called mother. And on that same day her ghostly footstep hadsounded in our ears in the grim kitchen of Kilgorman, summoning us to aduty which was yet unfulfilled. What had not happened since then? Theboatman's boys were grown, one into the heir of half the lough-side, theother into a servant of his Majesty. Tim, entangled hand and foot inthe toils of a miserable conspiracy, was indifferent to the fortune nowlying at his feet; I, engaged in the task of hunting down the rebels ofwhom he was a leader, was eating my heart out for love of her who calledby the sacred name of father the murdered man who lay here, to whom weowed all our troubles. Was the day never to dawn? Was there never tobe peace between Tim and me? And was Kit, like some will-o'-the-wisp,always to be snatched from my reach whenever I seemed to have found herfor my own?
I lingered beside his honour's grave till the daylight failed and thewaters of the lough merged into the stormy night, and the black gablesof Kilgorman behind me lost themselves against the blacker sky. Theweather suited my mood, and my spirits rose as the hard sleet struck mycheek and the buffet of the wind sweeping the cliff-top sent mestaggering for support against the graveyard wall. It made me feel athome again to meet nature thus, and I know not how long I drank incourage for my sick heart that night.
At length I turned to go, before even it occurred to me that I hadnowhere to go. The _Gnat_ lay in the roadstead off Rathmullan, beyondreach that night. The cottage on Fanad was separated from me by a wasteof boiling water. In Knockowen the bloodstains were not yet dry.Kilgorman--yes, there was no place else. I would shelter there tilldaylight summoned me to my post of duty on the _Gnat_. Looking backnow, I can see that destiny led my footsteps thither.
As I turned towards the house, I thought I perceived in that direction atiny spark of light, which vanished almost as soon as it appeared.Still more remarkable, a faint glimmer of
light appeared in a smallgable-window high up, where assuredly I had never before seen a light.It may have been on this account or from old association that, insteadof approaching the place by the upper path, I descended the cliff andmade my way round to the cave by which so many of my former visits hadbeen paid. Fortunately the gale was an easterly one, so that the waterin the cave was fairly still, and I was able in the dark to grope my wayto the ledge on which the secret passage opened.
All was quiet when at last I reached the recess of the great hearth andpeered out into the dark kitchen. By all appearance no one had lookedinto the place since I was there last a year ago and left my note forTim, and found the mysterious message which warned me of the plot tocarry off Miss Kit. I wondered if the former paper was still where Ileft it, and was about to step out of my hiding-place in search of alight, when the crunching of footsteps on the path without and theflitting of a lantern past a window sent me back suddenly intoretirement.
A moment's consideration told me that it was easy to guess who theintruders might be. The night that Maurice Gorman had been laid in hisgrave would be a grand night for the rebels of Fanad. And who could saywhether the object of their meeting might not be to consider the fate ofMiss Kit herself, who, now that her father was dead, was no longer ahostage or the price of a ransom in their hands? There might at leastbe news of her, and even of Tim.
So I stood close, and waited as still as a mouse.
Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798 Page 36
