Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798

by Talbot Baines Reed

  CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

  THE FIGHT IN KILGORMAN.

  I had not long to wait before the footsteps sounded in the long passagewhich led to the kitchen, and a dim streak of light appeared at thedoorway. Two of the company, rather by their voices than their faces, Irecognised--one as Martin, the other as Jake Finn, the treasurer of therebels, whom I had last seen in this very place on the night that PaddyCorkill was appointed to waylay and shoot his honour on the Black HillRoad. The other two, who carried cutlasses at their belts, werestrangers to me, but seemed to be men of importance in the rebelbusiness. Evidently a fifth man was expected.

  "Sure, he'll come," said one.

  "It's myself met him this blessed day no farther than Malin, and hepromised he'd be here."

  "Did he know this about Gorman?"

  "How should he? Sure, I didn't know it myself. Besides, he's just fromthe Foyle, and our news doesn't travel east."

  "How will he take it?"

  "Whisht!" cried Martin. "There he is."

  Three low taps sounded at the window, and Martin, taking the candle,hurried down the passage to admit the new arrival.

  The other three men advanced to the door.

  A quick, jaunty step sounded down the passage. The door opened, the mendrew themselves up and saluted, Martin held the candle above his head,and there entered--Tim! At the sight of him the great fount ofbrotherhood that was in me welled up and nearly overflowed.

  Tim was in the dress of a merchant sailor, and very handsome he looked,although the cut of his beard gave him a half-foreign look. His framewas knit harder than when I saw him last. His open face, tanned by theweather, was as fearless and serene as ever, and the toss of his headand the spring of his step were those rather of the boy I had known onFanad years ago than of the dangerous rebel on whose head a price wasset.

  "Well, boys," said he, as Martin replaced the light on the table,"what's the best of your news?"

  "Faith, that you're welcome, Tim Gallagher," replied Finn; "and it'sright glad we are to get our captain."

  "'Deed if it pleasures you to call me captain, you may," said Tim; "butI've no time to spend in these parts. I have business that won't keep.How goes the cause since I was here last?"

  "Badly enough," replied one of the men. "The boys are slack, and we'vebeen desperately thwarted by traitors and dirty informers and theEnglish gang."

  "And, saving your presence," said Martin, "we've to thank your ownbrother Barry for some of that same trouble. It was him who thwarted uson the Black Hill Road, and nearly spoilt our trip to Holland--"

  "Barry?" said Tim sharply. "What of him? He's no 'dirty informer.'What's all this about Black Hill Road and Holland?"

  "'Deed, Tim," said Finn, "it's an old story, and has been righted bynow. You mind his honour, Maurice Gorman of Knockowen?"

  "Mind him? of course I do--a coward that blew hot and cold, and led theboys on to mischief only to betray them. Yes; I mind Maurice Gorman."

  This invective seemed greatly to encourage the men present, who hadevidently feared Tim might for some reason have harboured a regard fortheir victim.

  "It was him was to be settled with on the Black Hill Road a year ago;and settled he would have been but for Barry."

  Tim's anger, I could see, was rising.

  "Settled?" he said; "do you mean murdered?"

  "Shot, any way. He got off that time; and a purty use he made of hischance, hanging boys by the dozen, and giving us no peace at all, atall. But since the young lady was lost to him--"

  "What?" exclaimed Tim again; "how lost?"

  "Didn't we have her over the seas to Holland for a hostage? And eversince he durstn't do a hand's turn against us. But he wouldn't come infor all that, or pay the money. It was Barry as nearly spoilt that gamefor us too; for he spirited the girl away in Holland, and if it hadn'tbeen for some of the boys who got hold of her again in Dublin, she'dhave been clane lost to Ireland for all our trouble."

  "You dogs!" cried Tim, starting forward with his hand on his sword."You mean to say you carried away an innocent girl to spite her father?You're a shame to your country!"

  They looked at him in amazement. Then the speaker went on,--

  "Sure, all's fair in war. The girl's safe enough." [Here Martinlaughed in a sinister fashion.] "And now that all is settled up withMaurice Gorman at last--"

  "Is Maurice Gorman dead, then?" asked Tim, controlling himself with amighty effort, as was plain by his white lips and flashing eyes.

  "He is so. We had him watched day and night, and on Sunday came ourchance. He's gone to his account; and it's not six hours since he wasput out of harm's way under the turf. By Saint Patrick, but it's agrand day for Ireland this."

  "And you mean to tell me," said Tim, in a voice which made his hearersshift on their feet uncomfortably--"you mean to tell me that you dare tocommit murder and outrage like this in the name of Ireland?"

  "Why, what's amiss? Wasn't it yourself was saying with your own lipsthe Gorman was a dirty coward?" retorted one of the group testily.

  "And that means the same to you as saying a man should be shot in thedark without a word of warning, and his innocent daughter carried off,who never did a hand's turn in the place that wasn't kindly and good?"

  Guess who it was that loved Tim as he spoke those words?

  "It's no time to be squeamish," persisted the man who had first spoken."It's a blow for the good of the country, and there's them will give uscredit for it, if you don't."

  "You curs! I give you credit for being the meanest cowards unhung. AndI don't mind telling anybody as much. Pray, is it you and the like ofyou I'm captain to?"

  "When we chose you, we thought you were for the people," snarled Martin.

  "Then take back your choice, you crew of blackguards," cried Tim, now ina towering rage. "I've nothing to do with such as you. No more hasIreland, thank God!"

  "That's well enough," said Finn savagely; "but what's done is done, andin your name too, whether you like it or not. You should have let usknow in time if your stomach wasn't strong enough for the work."

  "My name! The girl carried away in my name, and her father murdered.How dare you, you dirty whelp, you!"

  And he struck Finn across the cheek with his hand.

  Instantly the scene became one of wild uproar. The blow was all the menhad wanted to give vent to the bitter resentment which Tim'scontemptuous reproaches had called up. As long as the quarrel was oneof words, they were sullen but cowed. Now it was come to blows, eventsbefell rapidly. Ere I could push my way into the room, sword in hand--in truth, more rapidly than I can narrate it--Tim, my brave, impulsivebrother, had sent one of the rascals to his last account, and hadstepped to the wall, with his back there, holding the others at sword'spoint.

  Martin--that malign spirit, fated to thwart and injure me at allpoints--more cunning than his comrades, had stepped back behind theother two while Tim was engaged with them, poised a long knife above hishead, and at the moment when Tim was lunging at the nearest of hisassailants, I saw the brute, as in a nightmare, strike with all hismight. The cowardly blow struck Tim full on the forehead, and broughthim down with a crash on the floor. I had sprung at Martin's raisedarm, but, alas! had just missed him by a flash of time.

  "Take _that_ for many an old score!" I shouted, as I brought him downon the instant with a cut which laid him bleeding and prostrate at myfeet.

  Then stepping across Tim's senseless body, I let out at the other two.

  My sudden appearance--for I seemed to have dropped from the clouds--amazed and paralysed them. They were too terror-stricken to show muchfight; and it was as well for them, for I was in a killing mood, andcould have sent them to their last reckoning with a relish had theyinvited me. As it was, with white faces they backed to the door, andpresently howled for mercy.

  "It's Barry himsilf!" exclaimed Finn. "Be aisy now Barry darlint, anddon't harm a defenceless man." And he dropped his weapon on the floor.


  The other man laid down his knife and tried to edge through the door;but I stopped him.

  "Now you are here," said I, "you shall stay here till I please. Help meto lift Tim; and the first of you that stirs for anything else is a deadman."

  We lifted Tim tenderly--I could see, now that the heat of passion wascooled, that the men really respected him and deplored the upshot of theunexpected encounter--and we laid him gently on the table. My heartalmost stopped beating as I noted the ghastly pallor of his face and sawthe blood running over his temple. He opened his eyes in a dazed wayfor a moment; but if he saw me he did not know me. I bandaged his woundas best I could, and soaking my kerchief in a pool of rain-water, whichhad oozed through and on to the window-ledge, moistened his parchedlips.

  "Now," said I, sternly enough, stooping over Martin, on whom--withhardly a ray of pity for him in my heart, I fear--I could see the handof death was laid, "one question for you: where is Maurice Gorman'sdaughter?"

  Martin half opened his eyes. I think he saw the gleam of my pistol,which, though still in my hand, I had no intention of using. Aconvulsive look of terror passed over his face as he muttered thickly,--

  "Take that thing away, for mercy's sake, and you shall know all. Wetook her and Biddy to the priest's at Killurin; but Father Murphy wouldhave nothing to say to us. We didn't know _what_ to do. So we--we--we--ah, Lord, forgive all."

  There was a painful pause. For a moment I thought his secret would diewith him. Then he murmured, pointing to the ceiling with his thumb, "Webrought her _here_!"

  "What?" I cried in amazement; "Miss Kit is in this house now?"

  Martin raised himself with difficulty on his elbow, fumbled feebly inhis belt, and handed me a rusty key. Before I could seize it he fellback on the floor, and I had to take the key from his dead hand.

  In the midst of my woe a wild throb of joy shot through me as I realisedwhat this unlooked-for news meant.

  As I looked from Martin to his dead comrade, and from him to my poorbruised Tim, from whom, as I feared, life was rapidly ebbing away, mymind was filled with the pathos and a sense of the useless suffering ofit all. Addressing the two men who only a minute or two ago were hisassailants and mine, but who now stood with downcast faces, I said,--

  "Boys, I don't doubt that ye are both acting from what ye consider to bea sense of duty to old Ireland, and maybe even to your Maker, in allthis terrible bloodshed and unhappiness. To my thinking it's a sadlymistaken sense of duty, and will only land you and the dear country inshame and misery. But that is not here or there. Let us part withouthatred. You will find a passage here to the sea," said I, showing themthe opening by the fireplace through which I had entered the room; "andin a cave at the end of the passage you will find a boat. Carry yourdead to it, and see them taken to their places."

  Both men said gravely, as in a chorus, "God save Ireland!" to which Icould utter, though in a different sense from theirs, "Amen!"

  Then they did as I bade them, and laboriously carried away their deadcomrades.

  I turned to Tim. He was stirring slowly and feebly. I took off my coatand rolled it into a pillow for his head. Presently he opened his eyes,and a smile like the smile of an angel passed over his face.

  "Barry," said he, "dear old Barry, and is it you, my brother?"

  I bent over him and kissed his cheek.

  "Methinks, Barry dear," said he, "I have struck my last blow for belovedIreland. God bless her! But it has been a paltry, poor bit of work--all that I have been able to do."

  "Cheer up, Tim, my boy, keep up your heart; we'll soon have you rightagain," said I, though my own heart misgave me as I spoke. "Do youknow, Tim, that I have just heard that Kit is here, in this house,now--"

  "Kit? Dear old Barry!" He took my hand in his and held it there, butall the strength was gone from his grip. I saw that he read my secret."Now that her father is dead, Barry, this is _her_ house," he said,trying to smile.

  "No, Tim. This house and these lands are yours."

  His face seemed to flush at this.

  "Is that so? are you sure?" said he. "As sure as that I am here."

  "And it is I who am heir to the estates?"

  "It is. You are a rich man, for your father besides had land in Englandwith your mother."

  Tim's eyes were wide open. He lay silent for a time. "Barry, boy," hesaid, now almost fainting for lack of blood, "we have always beenbrothers, haven't we? even when we differed and fought when we wereboys, eh? Nothing, nothing can unbrother you and me, Barry. I hand onall my rights to you and Kit--God bless ye both!"

  His eyes closed wearily, but on his face there came again the happysmile of boyhood.

  "Tim dear, shall I bring Kit down?--if, indeed, she is here."

  "No, Barry, no; this is no place to bring a lady to, nor am I in acondition to see any lady."

  As I looked at the blood-stained floor and table, and the walls whichbore marks of the fray, I could not but agree with him. It was easy tosee also that poor Tim's moments were numbered. His eyes were sunk deepin his head, his face was pallid, and his breathing became more and moredifficult. His lips moved in broken utterance, but I saw he was notaddressing me; there was a far-off, unworldly expression in his eyes. Icould hear him murmur,--

  "Ah, the tragedy! ah, the farce of it all!--I dreamed of a free, happycountry, of a free, happy people prospering and blessed when the tyrantwas overthrown--I thought I could help on this glorious time; and whathappens? I am struck down by the hand of a friend in a miserablesquabble; inglorious, farcical!--O Ireland, Ireland! the follies of yourown children may be a greater curse to you in the days to come than havebeen the crimes of the stranger who has usurped your rights."

  While I held his hand, stooping over him, with a heart too full forspeech, he opened his eyes again, and said,--

  "Barry, brother, you have forgiven me for that stone I threw at ye onFanad Head?--ay, and the poor old mother is gone, and father too--andthe guns are in Kilgorman--and Wolfe Tone is coming--and the French arepreparing to deliver us; yes, they are on the way--and a time of joy iscoming to Ireland--Barry, Barry, do ye hear the rustle of silk by thehearthstone? Do ye think the ghost is here?--I hear something--put butthe light, boy, and lie close--there, there--my God, it is mother!" andhe swooned away.

  I thought he was dead, and I began to pray, when I heard him murmur,--

  "Barry, are ye there, dear?--I can't see ye at all, at all. Why don'tye light the lamp?--there is no air!--open the window!--light, light,give me light!" and he fell back dead.

  It was the bitterest, saddest moment of my life. Yet I felt a curiousenvy of him. He was out of the whirl and confusion and chaos of ourunhappy time! Peace be with him! I loved him as my own soul, with alove which was not weakened but made only more pathetic to me that hisideals for the happiness of our loved country were not my ideals.

  But there was comfort for me--of a kind I perhaps little deserved--closeat hand. When I had drawn my coat over Tim's face, I rushed upstairs,calling aloud as I went,--

  "Kit, Kit, I am coming! where are you, Kit?"

  Then by-and-by I heard, far off, from a remote attic up in the roof ofthe rambling old building to which I had never before penetrated--Iheard, faintly, a voice calling me by name, which fell on my heart likesweetest music. And when the rusty key had turned in the rusty oldlock, and the crazy door was pushed open, I found a pair of arms flungtightly about my neck, and a pair of lips pressed close against mine,with cries of "Thank God, Barry! thank God, Barry! you are here atlast."

  It was a meeting of smiles and tears, of most delicious joy, with abackground of infinite sadness.

  Kit and Biddy McQuilkin were quickly brought by me to more comfortablequarters in Knockowen, and where they were more likely to have betterprotection. Captain Felton, on my signal, came ashore from the _Gnat_,and I found in him a friend indeed. He urged me to take Kit and Biddyto the house of his aunt (the widow of one of the canons of Salisbury
Cathedral), who lived a peaceful life in one of the quaint old houses inthe Close of that lovely cathedral city--at any rate until quieter timesfor Ireland. Not only this, but he managed so that Kit and Biddy and Iwere landed at Stranraer, on the Scottish coast, bearing letters fromhim to his aunt, who received us hospitably, and in whose care I wascontent to leave my beloved one, with a lighter heart concerning herthan I had experienced during all the years I had known her.

  I am not going to detail here all the bloody work of the next few monthsin our loved country. The wars of brothers are best left untold. Ofthe terrible doings in the north and south and west, but especially inCounty Wexford, at Enniscorthy and Vinegar Hill, where blood was spiltlike water, we had enough, and more than enough, in the public prints,and on the loud tongue of rumour, at the time. But I was in the sea-fight off Lough Swilly, when we made mincemeat of the French squadron inOctober of that black year 1798, and pluckier fighting against enormousodds than was done on that day by the French frigate _Hoche_ I had neverseen, nor ever again wish to see. It was courage worthy of a bettercause.

  It was for the part I had in that affair that, later on, to my joy, Ireceived my promotion, and gained the coveted right to place thehonoured word "captain" after my name. With the defeat of the Frenchexpeditions in the west and north, and the capture and subsequent tragicdeath of the heroic if erratic genius Wolfe Tone, and after many wearydays of suffering on the part of Ireland's noblest sons and daughters,there came gradually a modifying of the brutal spirit of hatred andbloodshed throughout the land. And with the better and more kindlyunderstanding between the peoples there came by-and-by a measure ofpeace and prosperity and a calm after the long period of storm anddisturbance.

  In the spring of 1799 Kit and I were wedded in Salisbury. My friendCaptain Felton was my "best man." At first our home was in Belfast, butwe made frequent expeditions to Knockowen and Kilgorman as thecountryside became more settled; for the place, in spite of all that hadpassed, had a fascination for both of us. And as the painfulassociations died away, we have long since returned to Donegal. Therefor many a day we and our little ones--beloved Tim and Kit and Eileen--have made our home by the side of our lovely lough, as happy a home asany to be found throughout Ireland, in a renovated and regeneratedKilgorman.

  THE END.