CHAPTER XIV
THE COLONEL'S TERMS
Passive courage--courage in circumstances in which a man cannot helphimself, but must abide with bound hands whatever a frowning fortuneand his enemy's spite threaten--is so much higher a virtue than thatwhich carries him through hot emprises, and is so much more commonamong women, that the palm for bravery may fairly be given to theweaker sex. True, it is not in the first face of danger that a womanshines; time must be given her to string her nerves. But grant time andthere is no calamity so dreadful, no fate so abhorrent to tremblinghumanity, that a woman has not met it smiling: in the sack of cities,or in the slow agony of towns perishing of hunger, in the dungeon, orin the grip of disease.
The bravest men share this gift, and some whom the shock of conflictappals. Cammock and the Bishop belonged to the former class. Seized ina moment of activity, certain only that they were in hostile hands, andhurried, blind and helpless, to an unknown doom, they might have beenpardoned had they succumbed to despair. But they did not succumb. Thehabit of danger, and a hundred adventures and escapes, had hardenedthem; they felt more rage than fear. Stunned for a moment by theaudacity of the attack, and humiliated by its success, they had notbeen dragged a hundred yards before they began to reason and tocalculate the chances. If the purpose of those into whose hands theyhad fallen were to murder them they would have been piked on the spot.On the other hand, if their captors' object was to deliver them toEnglish justice, it was a long way to the Four Courts, and farther toWestminster. Weeks, if not months, must elapse before they stood at thebar on a capital charge; much water must flow under the bridges, andmany a thing might happen, by force or fraud, in the interval.
So, half-stifled and bitterly chagrined as they were, they did notwaste their strength in a vain resistance. They allowed themselves tobe pushed this way and pulled that, took what care they could of theirlimbs, and for their thoughts gave as many to vengeance as to safety.They had known many reverses in many lands. They did not believe thatthis was the end. And presently it would be their turn.
With the third of the prisoners it was otherwise. The courage of theIrish is more conspicuous in the advance than in the retreat; and evenof that recklessness in fight, that joy in the conflict, which is theirbirthright and their fame, Flavia had taken more than her woman'sshare. In James McMurrough's mean and narrow nature there was smallroom for the generous passions. Unlike his sister, he would have struckthe face of no man in whose power he lay; nor was he one to keep astout heart when his hands were bound. Conscience does not always makecowards. But he knew into whose hands he had fallen, he knew the fateto which he had himself consigned Colonel John--or would have consignedhim but for self-interest--and his heart was water, his knees wereaspens, his hair rose, as, helpless, he pictured in livid hues the fatethat now awaited himself.
As he had meant to do to the other, it would be done to him! He feltthe cruel pike rend the gasping throat; he had heard that it was themost painful death that a man could die, and that the shrieks of mendying on the pike-point could be heard a mile! Or would they throw him,bound and blind as he was, into the sullen lake--yes, that was it! Theywere carrying him that way, they were taking him to the lake.
And once and twice, in the insanity of fear, he fought with his bondsuntil the blood came, even throwing himself down, until the men, out ofpatience, pricked him savagely, and drove him, venting choked cries ofpain, to his feet again. After the second attempt, if attempt thatcould be called which had no reasoning behind it, but only sheer animalfear, he staggered on, beaten, hopeless. He was aware that Colonel Johnwas not with them; and then, again, that he was with them; andthen--they were on the wide track now between the end of the lake andthe sea--that they were proceeding with increased caution. That mighthave given a braver man hope, the hope of rescue. But rescue had itselfterrors for The McMurrough. His captors, if pressed, might hasten theend, or his friends might strike him in the _melee_. And so, with everyfurlong of the forced journey, he died a fresh death.
And the furlongs seemed interminable, quickly and roughly as he washurried along. In his terror the pains of his position, the heat, thefriction of the rough sacking, the want of air, went for little. But atlast he heard the fall of the waves on the shore, gorse pricked hislegs or tripped him up, the men about him spoke louder, he caught adistant hail. Laughter, and exclamations of triumph reached him, andthe voices of men who had won in spite of odds.
Then a boat grated on the pebbles, he was lifted into it, and thrustdown in the bottom. He felt it float off, and heard the measured soundof the oars in the thole-pins. A few moments elapsed, the sound of theoars ceased, the boat bumped something. He was raised to his feet, hishands were unbound, he was set on a rope-ladder, and bidden to climb.Obeying with shaking knees, he was led across what he guessed to be adeck, and down steep stairs. Then his head was freed from the sack,and, sweating, dishevelled, pale with exhaustion and fear, he lookedabout him.
The fog was still thick outside, turning day into twilight, and thecabin lamp had been lit and swung above the narrow table, filling thelowbrowed, Dutch-like interior with a strong but shifting light. Behindthe table Colonel John and the skipper leant against a bulkhead; beforethem, on the nearer side of the table, were ranged the three captives.Behind these, again, the dark, grinning faces of the sailors, withtheir tarred pigtails and flashing eyes, filled the doorway; and,beyond doubt, viewed under the uncertain light of the lamp, they showeda wild and savage crew. As James McMurrough looked, his hopes, whichhad risen during the last few minutes, sank. Escape, or chance ofescape, there was none. He was helpless, and what those into whosehands he had fallen determined, he must suffer. For a moment his heartstood still, his mouth gaped, he swayed on his feet. Then he clutchedthe table and steadied himself.
"I am--giddy," he muttered.
"I am sorry that you have been put to so much inconvenience," ColonelJohn answered civilly.
The words, the tone, might have reassured him, if he had not suspecteda devilish irony. Even when Colonel John proceeded to direct one of themen to open a porthole and admit more air, he derived no comfort fromthe attention. But steady! Colonel John was speaking again.
"You, too, gentlemen," he said, addressing Cammock and the Bishop, "Iam sorry that I have been forced to put you to so much discomfort. ButI saw no other way of effecting my purpose. And," he went on with asmile, "if you ask my warranty for acting as I have acted----"
"I do!" the Bishop said between his teeth. The Admiral said nothing,but breathed hard.
"Then I can only vouch," the Colonel answered, "the authority by virtueof which you seized me yesterday. I give you credit, reverend father,and you, Admiral, for a belief that in acting as you did you were doingyour duty; that in creating a rising here you were serving a causewhich you think worthy of sacrifice--the sacrifice of others as well asof yourselves. But I tell, you, as frankly, I feel it my duty to thwartthat purpose and prevent that rising; and for the moment fortune iswith me. The game, gentlemen, is for the present in my hand; the moveis mine. Now I need hardly say," Colonel John continued, with anappearance almost of _bonhomie_, "that I do not wish to proceed toextremities, or to go farther than is necessary to secure my purpose.We might set sail for the nearest garrison port, and I might hand youover to the English authorities, assured that they would pay such areward as would compensate the shipmaster. But far be it from me to dothat! I would have no man's blood on my hands. And though I say at onceI would not shrink, were there no other way of saving innocent lives,from sending you to the scaffold----"
"A thousand thanks to you!" the Bishop said. But, brave man as he was,the irony in his voice masked relief; and not then, but a moment later,he passed his handkerchief across his brow. Cammock said nothing, butthe angry, bloodshot eyes which he fixed on the Colonel lost a littleof their ferocity.
"I say, I would not shrink from doing that," Colonel John continuedmildly, "were it necessary. Fortunately for us all, it is notnecessary. Still I must provid
e against your immediate return, againstimmediate action on your part. I must see that the movement which willdie in your absence is not revived by any word from you, or by tidingsof you! To that end, gentlemen, I must put you to the inconvenience ofa prolonged sea-voyage."
"If I could speak with you in private?" the Bishop said.
"You will have every opportunity," Colonel John answered, smiling, "ofspeaking to Captain Augustin in private."
"Still, sir, if I could see you alone I think I could convince you----"
"You shall have every opportunity of convincing Captain Augustin,"Colonel John returned, smiling more broadly, "and of convincing him bythe same means which I venture to think, reverend sir, you would employwith me. To be plain, he will take you to sea for a certain period, andat the end of that time, if your arguments are sufficiently weighty, hewill land you at a convenient harbour on the French shore. He will beat the loss of his cargo, and that loss I fear you will have to makegood. Something, too, he may charge by way of interest, and for yourpassage." By this time the sailors were on the broad grin. "A trifle,perhaps, for landing dues. But I have spoken with him to be moderate,and I doubt not that within a few weeks you, Admiral Cammock, will bewith your command, and the reverend father will be pursuing his callingin another place."
For a moment there was silence, save for a titter from the group ofseamen. Then Cammock laughed--a curt, barking laugh. "A bite!" he said."A d----d bite! If I can ever repay it, sir, I will! Be sure of that!"
Colonel John bowed courteously.
The Bishop took it otherwise. The veins on his forehead swelled, and hehad much ado to control himself. The truth was, he feared ridicule morethan he feared danger, perhaps more than he feared death; and such anend to such an enterprise was hard to bear. To have set forth to raisethe south of Ireland, to have undertaken a diversion that would neverbe forgotten, that, on the contrary, would be marked by historians as amain factor in the restoration of the house of Stuart--to have embarkedon such an enterprise and to be deported like any troublesome villagerdelivered to the pressgang for his hamlet's good! To end thus! It wastoo much.
"Is there no alternative?" he asked, barely able to speak for thechagrin that took him by the throat.
"One, if you prefer it," Colonel Sullivan answered suavely. "You cantake your chance with the English authorities. For myself, I lean tothe course I have suggested."
"If money were paid down--now? Now, sir?"
"It would not avail."
"Much money?"
"No."
The Bishop glared at him for a few seconds. Then his face relaxed, hiseyes grew mild, his chin sank on his breast. His fingers drummed on thetable. "His will be done!" he said--"His will be done! I was notworthy."
His surrender seemed to sting Cammock. Perhaps in the course of theirjoint adventures he had come to know and to respect his companion, andfelt more for him than for himself.
"If I had you on my quarter-deck for only half an hour," he growled, "Iwould learn who was the better man! Ah, my man, I would!"
"The doubt flatters me," Colonel John answered, viewing them both withgreat respect; for he saw that, bad or good, they were men. Then, "Thatbeing settled," he continued, "I shall ask you, gentlemen, to go ondeck for a few moments, that I may say a word to my kinsman."
"He is not to go with us?"
"That remains to be seen," Colonel John replied, a note of sternness inhis voice. Still they hesitated, and he stood; but at last, inobedience to his courteous gesture, they bowed, turned--with a deepsigh on the Bishop's part--and clambered up the companion. The seamenhad already vanished at a word from Augustin, who himself proceeded tofollow his prisoners on deck.
"Sit down!" Colonel Sullivan said, the same sternness in his voice. Andhe sat down on his side of the table, while James McMurrough, with asullen look but a beating heart, took his seat on the other. The fearof immediate death had left the young man; he tried to put on an air ofbravado, but with so little success that if his sister had seen himthus she had been blind indeed if she had not discerned, between thesetwo men seated opposite to one another, the difference that existsbetween the great and the small, the strong and the infirm of purpose.
It was significant of that difference that the one was silent at will,while the other spoke because he had not the force to be silent.
"What are you wanting with me?" the young man asked.
"Is it not you," Colonel John answered, with a piercing look, "will bewanting to know where O'Sullivan Og is--O'Sullivan Og, whom you sent todo your bidding this morning?"
The young man turned a shade paler, and his bravado fell from him. Hisbreath seemed to stop. Then, "Where?" he whispered--"where is he?"
"Where, I pray, Heaven," Colonel John answered, with the samesolemnity, "may have mercy upon him."
"He is not dead?" The McMurrough cried, his voice rising on the lastword.
"I have little doubt he is," the Colonel replied. "Dead, sir! And themen who were with him--dead also, or the most part of them. Dead, JamesMcMurrough, on the errand they went for you."
The shock of the news struck the young man dumb, and for some momentshe stared at the Colonel, his face colourless. At length, "All dead?"he whispered. "Not all?"
"For what I know," Colonel John replied. "Heaven forgive them!" And, inhalf a dozen sentences, he told him what had happened. Then, "They arethe first fruits," he continued sternly, "God grant that they be thelast fruits of this reckless plot! Not that I blame them, who did butas they were bid. Nor do I blame any man, nor any woman who embarked onthis--reckless as it was, foolish as it was--with a single heart,either in ignorance of the things that I know, or knowing them, for thesake of an end which they set above their own lives. But--but"--andColonel John's voice grew more grave--"there was one who had neither ofthese two excuses. There was one who was willing to do murder, not inblind obedience, nor for a great cause, but to serve his own privateinterest and his own advantage!"
"No! no!" the young man cried, cowering before him. "It is not true!"
"One who was ready to do murder," Colonel John continued pitilessly,"because it suited him to remove a man!"
"No! no!" the wretched youth cried, almost grovelling before him. "Itwas all of them!--it was all!"
"It was not all!" Colonel John retorted; but there was a keenness inhis face which showed that he had still something to learn.
"It was--those two-on deck!" The McMurrough cried eagerly. "I swear itwas! They said--it was necessary."
"They were one with you in condemning! Be it so! I believe you! But whospared?"
"I!" The McMurrough cried, breathlessly eager to exculpate himself. "Itwas I alone. I! I swear it. I sent the boy!"
"You spared? Yes, and you alone!" the Colonel made answer. "So Ithought, and out of your own mouth you are condemned. You sparedbecause you learned that I had made a will, and you feared lest thatwhich had passed to me in trust might pass to a stranger for good andall! You spared because it was--because you thought it was to yourinterest, your advantage to spare! I say, out of your own mouth you arecondemned."
James McMurrough had scarcely force to follow the pitiless reasoning bywhich the elder man convicted him. But his conscience, his knowledge ofhis own motives, filled the hiatus, and what his tongue did not own hiscolourless face, his terrified eyes, confessed.
"You have fallen into our hands," Colonel John continued, grave asfate. "Why should we not deal with you as you would have dealt with us?No!"--the young man by a gesture had appealed to those on deck, totheir escape, to their impunity--"no! They may have consented to mydeath; but as the judge condemns, or the soldier kills; you--you, foryour private profit and advantage. Nevertheless, I shall not deal sowith you. You can go as they are going--abroad, to return at aconvenient season, and I hope a wiser man. Or----"
"Or--what?" the young man cried hurriedly.
"Or you can stay here," Colonel John continued, "and we will treat thepast as if it had not been. But on a condition."
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br /> James's colour came back. "What'll you be wanting?" he muttered,averting his gaze.
"You must swear that you will not pursue this foolish plan further.That first."
"What can I be doing without _them_?" was the sullen answer.
"Very true," Colonel John rejoined. "But you must swear also, myfriend, that you will not attempt anything against me, nor be party toanything."
"What'd I be doing?"
"Don't lie!" the Colonel replied, losing his temper for a singleinstant. "You know what you have done, and therefore what you'd belikely to do. I've no time to bandy words, and you know how you stand.Swear on your hope of salvation to those two things, and you may stay.Refuse, and I make myself safe by your absence. That is all I have tosay."
The young man had the sense to know that he was escaping lightly. Thetimes were rough, the district was lawless, he had embarked--howfoolishly he saw--on an enterprise too high for him. He was willingenough to swear that he would not pursue that enterprise further. Butthe second undertaking stuck in his gizzard. He hated Colonel John. Forthe past wrong, for the past defeat, above all for the presenthumiliation, ay, and for the very magnanimity which spared him, he, theweak spirit, hated the strong with a furious, if timid malignity.
"I'm having no choice," he said, shrugging his shoulders.
"Very good," Colonel John answered curtly. And, going to the door, hecalled Bale from his station by the hatchway, and despatched him to theBishop and to Admiral Cammock, requesting them to do him the honour todescend.
They came readily enough, in the hope of some favourable turn. But theColonel's words quickly set them right.
"Gentlemen," he said politely, "I know you to be men of honour inprivate life. For this reason I have asked you to be present aswitnesses to the bargain between my cousin and myself. Blood is thickerthan water: he has no mind to go abroad, and I have no mind to send himagainst his will. But his presence, after what has passed, is astanding peril to myself. To meet this difficulty, and to free me fromthe necessity of banishing him, he is ready to swear by all he holdssacred, and upon his honour, that he will attempt nothing against me,nor be a party to it. Is that so, sir?" the speaker continued. "Do youwillingly, in the presence of these gentlemen, give that undertaking?"
The young man, with averted eyes and a downcast face, nodded.
"I am afraid I must trouble you to speak," Colonel John said.
"I do," he muttered, looking at no one.
"Further, that you will not within six months attempt anything againstthe Government?" Colonel John continued.
"I will not."
"Very good. I accept that undertaking, and I thank these gentlemen fortheir courtesy in condescending to act as witnesses. Admiral Cammockand you, reverend father," Colonel John continued, "it remains but tobid you farewell, and to ask you to believe"--the Colonel paused--"thatI have not pushed further than was necessary the advantage I gained."
"By a neat stroke, Colonel Sullivan," the Bishop replied, with a rathersour smile, "not to say a bold one. I'm not denying it. But one, I'dhave you notice, that cannot be repeated."
"Maybe not," the Colonel answered. "I am content to think that for sometime to come I have transferred your operations, gentlemen, to a spherewhere I am not concerned for the lives of the people."
"There are things more precious than lives," the Bishop said.
"I admit it. More by token I'm blaming you little--only you see, sir, Idiffer. That is all."
With that Colonel Sullivan bowed and left the cabin, and TheMcMurrough, who had listened to the colloquy with the air of a whippedhound, slunk after him. On deck the Colonel and Augustin talked apartfor a moment, then the former signed to the young man to go down intothe boat, which lay alongside with a couple of men at the oars, andBale seated in the sternsheets. The fog still hung upon the water, andthe land was hidden. The young man could not see where they lay.
After the lapse of a minute or two Colonel John joined him, and therowers pushed off, while Augustin and the crew leant over the rail tosee them go, and to send after them a torrent of voluble good wishes. Avery few, strokes of the oars brought the passengers within misty viewof the land; in less than two minutes after leaving the _Cormorant_ theboat grated on the rocks, and the Colonel, James McMurrough, and Balelanded. The young man made out that they were some half-mile eastwardof Skull Harbour.
Bale stayed to exchange a few words with the seamen, while Colonel Johnand The McMurrough set off along the beach. They had not walked fiftyyards before the fog isolated them; they were alone. And astonishmentfilled the young man, and grew as they walked. Did Colonel John, afterall that had happened, mean to return to Morristown? to establishhimself calmly--he, alone--in the midst of the conspirators whoseleaders he had removed?
It seemed incredible! For though he, James McMurrough, thirst forrevenge as he might, was muzzled by his oath, what of the others? Whatof Sir Donny and old Timothy Burke? What of the two O'Beirnes? Nay,what of his sister, whom he could fancy more incensed, more vindictive,more dangerous than them all? What, finally, of the barbarous rout ofpeasants, ready to commit any violence at a word from him?
And still the Colonel walked on by his side. And now they were in sightof Skull--of the old tower and the house by the jetty, looming largethrough the dripping mist. And at last Colonel John spoke.
"It was fortunate that I made my will as I came through Paris," hesaid.
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