The Colonel called him. “Darby,” he cried. “Come here, my man.”
O’Sullivan Og opened his mouth; he was on the point of interposing, but he thought better of it, and shrugged his shoulders, muttering something in the Erse.
“Darby,” the Colonel said gravely, “I’ve a message for the young master, and it must be given him in his bed. Will you give it?”
“I will, your honour.”
“You will not fail?”
“I will not, your honour,” the old servant answered earnestly.
“Tell him, then, that Colonel Sullivan made his will as he passed through Paris, and ’tis now in Dublin. You mind me, Darby?”
The old man began to shake — he had an Irish man’s superstition. “I do, your honour. But the saints be between us and harm,” he continued, with the same gesture of distress. “Who’s speaking of wills?”
“Only tell him that in his bed,” Colonel John repeated, with an urgent look. “That is all.”
“And by your leave, it is now we’ll be going,” Og interposed sharply. “We are late already for what we’ve to do.”
“There are some things,” the Colonel replied with a steady look, “which it is well to be late about.”
Having fired that shot, he turned his eyes once more on the house. Then, without further remonstrance, he and Bale, with their guard, marched out through the gate, and took the road along the lake — that same road by which the Colonel had come some days before from the French sloop. The men with the firelocks walked beside them, one on either flank, while the pikemen guarded them behind, and O’Sullivan Og brought up the rear.
They had not taken twenty paces before the fog swallowed up the party; and henceforth they walked in a sea of mist, like men moving in a nightmare from which they cannot awake. The clammy vapour chilled them to the bone: while the unceasing wailing of seagulls, borne off the lough, the whistle of an unseen curlew on the hillside, the hurtle of wings as some ghostly bird swept over them — these were sounds to deepen the effect, and depress men who had reason to suspect that they were being led to a treacherous end.
The Colonel, though he masked his apprehensions under an impenetrable firmness, began to fear no less than that — and with cause. He observed that O’Sullivan Og’s followers were of the lowest type of kerne, islanders in all probability, and half starved; men whose hands were never far from their skenes, and whose one orderly instinct consisted in a blind obedience to their chief. O’Sullivan Og himself he believed to be The McMurrough’s agent in his more lawless business; a fierce, unscrupulous man, prospering on his lack of scruple. The Colonel could augur nothing but ill from the hands to which he had been entrusted; and worse from the manner in which these savage, half-naked creatures, shambling beside him, stole from time to time a glance at him, as if they fancied they saw the winding-sheet high on his breast.
Some, so placed, and feeling themselves helpless, isolated by the fog, and entirely at these men’s mercy, might have lost their firmness. But he did not; nor did Bale, though the servant’s face betrayed the keenness of his anxiety. They weighed indeed, certainly the former, the chances of escape: such chances as a headlong rush into the fog might afford to unarmed men, uncertain where they were. But the Colonel reflected that it was possible that that was the very course upon which O’Sullivan Og counted for a pretext and an excuse. And, for a second objection, the two could not, so closely were they guarded, communicate with each other in such a way as to secure joint action.
After all, The McMurrough’s plan might amount to no more than their detention in some secret place among the hills. Colonel John hoped so.
Yet he could not persuade himself that this was the worst that was intended. He could not but think ill of things; of O’Sullivan Og’s silence, of the men’s stealthy glances, of the uncanny hour. And when they came presently to a point where a faintly marked track left the road, and the party, at a word from their leader, turned into it, he thought worse of the matter. Was it his fancy — he was far from nervous — or were the men beginning to look impatiently at one another? Was it his fancy, or were they beginning to press more closely on their prisoners, as if they sought a quarrel? He imagined that he read in one man’s eyes the question “When?” and in another’s the question “Now?” And a third, he thought, handled his weapon in an ominous fashion.
Colonel John was a brave man, inured to danger and trained to emergencies, one who had faced death in many forms. But the lack, of arms shakes the bravest, and it needed even his nerve to confront without a quiver the fate that, if his fears were justified, lay before them: the sudden, violent death, and the black bog-water which would swallow all traces of the crime. But he did not lose his firmness or lower his crest for a moment.
By-and-by the track, which for a time had ascended, began to run downward. The path grew less sound. The mist, which was thicker than before, and shut them in on the spot where they walked, as in a world desolate and apart, allowed nothing to be seen in front; but now and again a ragged thorn-tree or a furze bush, dripping with moisture, showed ghostlike to right or left. There was nothing to indicate the point they were approaching, or how far they were likely to travel; until the Colonel, peering keenly before them, caught the gleam of water. It was gone as soon as seen, the mist falling again like a curtain; but he had seen it, and he looked back to see what Og was doing. He caught him also in the act of looking over his shoulder. Was he making sure that they were beyond the chance of interruption?
It might be so; and Colonel John wheeled about quickly, thinking that while O’Sullivan Og’s attention was directed elsewhere, he might take one of the other men by surprise, seize his weapon and make a fight for his life and his servant’s life. But he met only sinister looks, eyes that watched his smallest movement with suspicion, a point ready levelled to strike him if he budged. And then, out of the mist before them, loomed the gaunt figure of a man, walking apace towards them.
The meeting appeared to be as little expected by the stranger as by Og’s party. For not only did he spring aside and leave the track to give them a wider berth, but he went by warily, with his feet in the bog. Some word was cried to him in the Erse, he answered, for a moment he appeared to be going to stop. Then he passed on and was lost in the mist.
But he left a change behind him. One of the firelock-men broke into hasty speech, glancing, the Colonel noticed, at him and Bale, as if they were the subjects of his words. O’Sullivan Og answered the man curtly and harshly; but before the reply was off his lips a second man broke in vehemently in support of the other. They all halted; for a few seconds all spoke at once. Then, just as Colonel John was beginning to hope that they would quarrel, O’Sullivan Og gave way with sullen reluctance, and a man ran back the way they had come, shouting a name. Before the prisoners could decide whether his absence afforded a chance of escape, he was back again, and with him the man who had passed in the bog.
Colonel John looked at the stranger, and recognised him; and, a man of quick wit, he knew on the instant that he had to face the worst. His face set more hard, more firm — if it turned also a shade paler. He addressed his companion. “They’ve called him back to confess us,” he muttered in Bale’s ear.
“The devils!” Bale exclaimed. He choked on the word and worked his jaw, glaring at them; but he said no more. Only his eyes glanced from one to another, wild and full of rage.
Colonel John did not reply, for already O’Sullivan Og was addressing him. “There’s no more to it,” The McMurrough’s agent said bluntly; “but you’ve come your last journey, Colonel, and we’ll go back wanting you. There’s no room in Ireland from this day for them that’s not Irish at heart! nor safety for honest men while you’re walking the sod. But — —”
“Will you murder us?” Colonel John said. “Do you know, man,” he continued sternly, “what you do? What have we done to you, or your master?”
“Done?” O’Sullivan Og answered with sudden ferocity. “And murder, say yo
u? Ay, faith, I would, and ten thousand like you, for the sake of old Ireland! You may make your peace, and have five minutes to that — and no more, for time presses, and we’ve work to do. These fools would have a priest for you” — he turned and spat on the ground— “but it is I, and none better, know you are black Protestants, and ’twould take the Holy Father, God bless him, and no less, to make your souls!”
Colonel John looked at him with a strange light in his eyes. “It is little to you,” he said, “and much to me. Yet think, think, man, what you do. Or if you will not, here is my servant. Let him go at least. Spare his life at least. Put him, if you please, on board the French sloop that’s in the bay — —”
“Faith, and you’re wasting the little breath that is left you,” the ruffian answered, irritated rather than moved by the other’s calmness. “It’s to take or leave. I told the men a heretic had no soul to make, but — —”
“God forgive you!” Colonel John said — and was silent; for he saw that remonstrance would not help him, nor prayer avail. The man’s mind was made up, his heart steeled. For a brief instant, something, perhaps that human fear which he had so often defied, clutched Colonel John’s heart. For a brief instant human weakness had its way with him, and he shuddered — in the face of the bog, in the face of such an end as this. Then the mist passed from his eyes, if not from the landscape; the gracious faith that was his returned to him: he was his grave, unyielding self again. He took Bale’s hand and begged his forgiveness. “Would I had never brought you!” he said. “Why did I, why did I? Yet, God’s will be done!”
Bale did not seem able to speak. His jaw continued to work, while his eyes looked sideways at Og. Had the Irishman known his man, he would have put himself out of reach, armed as he was.
“But I will appeal for you to the priest!” Colonel John continued; “he may yet prevail with them to spare you.”
“He will not!” O’Sullivan Og said naïvely.
CHAPTER XII
THE SEA MIST
Father O’Hara looked at the two prisoners, and the tears ran down his face. He was the man whom Colonel Sullivan and Bale had overtaken on their way to Tralee. In spite of his life and his wrongs, he was a merciful man, and with all his heart he wished that, if he could do no good, God had been pleased to send him another way through the mist. Not that life was to him aught but a tragedy at any time, on whichever road he took. What but a tragedy could it be to a man bred at Douay and reared on Greek, and now condemned to live in loneliness and squalor among unlettered, unwashed creatures; to one who, banned by the law, moved by night, and lurked in some hiding-place by day, and, waking or sleeping, was ever in contact with the lawless and the oppressed, the wretched and the starving — whose existence was spent in shriving, christening, burying among the hills and bogs?
Yet, even in such a life this was a tragedy beyond the common. And— “What can I do?” he cried. “Non mihi, domine, culpa! Oh, what can I do?”
“You can do nothing, father,” O’Sullivan Og said grimly. “They’re heretics, no less! And we’re wasting your time, blessed man.” He whispered a few words in the priest’s ear.
The latter shuddered. “God forgive us all!” he wailed. “And most, those who need it most! God keep us from high place!”
“Sure and we’re in little peril!” O’Sullivan Og replied.
Colonel John looked at the priest with solemn eyes. Nor did aught but a tiny pulse beating in his cheek betray that every sense was on the stretch; that he was listening, watching, ready to seize the least chance, that he might save, at any rate, poor Bale. Then, “You are a Christian, father,” he said gravely. “I ask nothing for myself. But this is my servant. He has done nothing, he knows nothing. Prevail with them to spare him!”
Bale uttered a fierce remonstrance. No one understood it, or what he said, or meant. His eyes looked askance, like the eyes of a beast in a snare — seeking a weapon, or a throat! To be butchered thus! To be butchered thus!
Perhaps Colonel John, notwithstanding his calm courage, had the same thought, and found it bitter. Death had been good in the face of silent thousands, with pride and high resolve for cheer. Or in the heat of a fight for the right, where it came unheeded and almost unfelt. But here on the bog, in the mist, unknown, unnoticed, to perish and be forgotten in a week, even by the savage hands that took their breath! Perhaps to face this he too had need of all his Christian stoicism.
“My God! My God!” the priest said. And he fell on his knees and raised his hands. “Have pity on these two, and soften the hearts of their murderers!”
“Amen,” said Colonel John quietly.
“Faith, and ’tis idle, this,” O’Sullivan Og cried irritably. He gave a secret sign to his men to draw to one side and be ready. “We’ve our orders, and other work to do. Kneel aside, father, ’tis no harm we mean you, God forbid! But you’re wasting breath on these same. And you,” he continued, addressing the two, “say what prayer you will, if you know one, and then kneel or stand — it’s all one to us — and, God willing, you’ll be in purgatory and never a knowledge of it!”
“One moment,” Colonel John interposed, his face pale but composed, “I have something to say to my friend.”
“And you may, if you’ll play no tricks.”
“If you would spare him — —”
“’Tis idle, I say! Sorra a bit of good is it! But there, ye shall be having while the blessed man says three Paternosters, and not the least taste of time beyond! Devil a bit!”
Colonel John made a sign to the priest, who, bowing himself on the wet sod, covered his eyes with his hand and began to pray. The men, at a sign from O’Sullivan, had drawn to either side, and the firelock-men were handling their pieces, with one eye on their leader and one on the prisoners.
Colonel John took Bale’s hand. “What matter, soon or late?” he said gently “Here, or on our beds we die in our duty. Let us say, In manus tuas — —”
“Popish! Popish!” Bale muttered, shaking his head. He spoke hoarsely, his tongue cleaving to his mouth. His eyes were full of rage.
“Into Thy hands!” Colonel John said. He stooped nearer to his man’s ear. “When I shout, jump and run!” he breathed. “I will hold two.” Again he lifted his head and looked calmly at the threatening figures standing about them, gaunt and dark, against the curtain of mist. They were waiting for the signal. The priest was half way through his second Paternoster. His trembling tongue was stumbling, lagging more and more. As he ended it — the two men still standing hand in hand — Colonel John gripped Bale’s fingers hard, but held him.
“What is that?” he cried, in a loud voice — but still he held Bale tight that he might not move. “What is that?” he repeated. On the ear — on his ear first — had fallen the sound of hurrying feet.
They strained their eyes through the mist.
“And what’ll this be?” O’Sullivan Og muttered suspiciously, looking first in the direction of the sound, and then, still more suspiciously, at his prisoners. “If you budge a step,” he growled, “I’ll drive this pike — —”
“A messenger from The McMurrough,” Colonel John said, speaking as sternly as if he and not The McMurrough’s henchman commanded the party. If he was human, as indeed he was, if his heart, at the hope of respite, beat upon his ribs as the heart of a worse man might have beaten, he did not betray it save by a light in his eyes. “You will see if I am not right,” he added.
They had not to wait. As he spoke a tall, lathy form emerged from the mist. It advanced with long leaps, the way they had come. A moment, and the messenger saw them — almost as soon as they had seen him. He pulled up, and walked the intervening distance, his arms drooping, and his breath coming in gasps. He had run apace, and he could not speak. But he nodded — as he wiped the saliva from his parted lips — to O’Sullivan Og to come aside with him; and the two moved off a space. The others eyed them while the message was given. The suspense was short. Quickly O’Sullivan Og came back.
“Ye may be thankful,” he said drily. “Ye’ve cheated the pikes for this time, no less. And ’tis safe ye are.”
“You have the greater reason to be thankful,” Colonel John replied solemnly. “You have been spared a foul crime.”
“Faith, and I hope I may never do worse,” Og answered hardily, “than rid the world of two black Protestants, an’ them with a priest to make their souls! Many’s the honest man’s closed his eyes without that same. But ’tis no time for prating! I wonder at your honour, and you no more than out of the black water! Bring them along, boys,” he continued, “we’ve work to do yet!”
“Laus Deo!” the priest cried, lifting up his hands. “Give Him the glory!”
“Amen,” the Colonel said softly. And for a moment he shut his eyes and stood with clasped hands. Perhaps even his courage was hardly proof against so sudden, so late a respite. He looked with a hardly repressed shudder on the dreary face of the bog, on the gleaming water, on the dripping furze bushes. “I thank you kindly, father, for your prayers!” he said. “The words of a good man avail much!”
No more was said. For a few yards Bale walked unsteadily, shaken by his escape from a death the prospect of which had evoked as much rage as fear. But he recovered himself speedily, and, urged by O’Sullivan’s continual injunctions to hasten, the party were not long in retracing their steps. They reached the road, and went along it, but in the direction of the landing-place. In a few minutes they were threading their way in single file across the saucer-like waste which lay to landward of the hill overlooking the jetty and the inlet.
“Are you taking us to the French sloop?” Colonel John asked.
Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman Page 560
