“Yet you would die for it?”
“Hate goes with that, too,” I half-tried to explain.
“I know.”
“Tell me,” I asked, another thought in my mind, “has any one been unkind to you?”
“Unkind? You are all so kind and gentle—and unhuman.”
That left me floundering.
“Don’t you see?” Her voice a monotone, she was explaining to herself as much as to me. “I am shut out. I am a prisoner, yet I am shut out. Every one is kind, considerate, very careful of me, but I only touch the surface. Any urge coming from within myself beats vainly on that cold chivalry—cold as ice within. I am an alien amongst you. You know, at the beginning, I actually half-intended playing Delilah to some Samson; but you men are possessed, obsessed, lost in one woman only—Eire, the sorrowful one. All other things—even passion—you touch carelessly, as a passing whim, as you go by. Oh! This is a terrible land for a woman.”
“We buy and sell her.”
“I will not be bought or sold.”
“Who is trying to?” I wondered.
“No one, of course. That first day I was afraid of myself and—all of you. . . . But there is no need to be afraid any more now.” And then I barely heard. “It has gone beyond fear.”
Her head was turned away from me, her chin in her hands, and her shoulders made no movement, but I saw the slow tears trickling down her wrist.
“Could you not let me go away, Owen Jordan?”
“It will not be long now, girl,” was all I could say and, by way of comfort, I leaned forward and gently touched her shoulder.
She shivered under my hand and jerked her shoulder away.
“Don’t touch me!” she cried fiercely.
That hurt—hurt like hell.
“Sorry. I didn’t know you disliked me so much.”
“Sometimes, I hate you.” She jumped to her feet, her face still away from me. “I’m going down to see what Paudh is doing.”
She went, her feet strangely uncertain in the shingle, down by the pool, and left her rod lying on the gravel.
I sat on where I was.
She had, surely, given me my quietus. And why not? I tried to be philosophic. I was not the sort to attract a woman. I knew what I was. The odd pup in Mother Nature’s litter, and that soulless mother would never miss me if a Tan bullet found a billet. And yet, I sardonically mused, I might, by some perversity of luck, carry on to a crabbed and lone old age. Lone? No! Men were my friends. With men I had a fellowship. Out in New Mexico I had good friends: Gene Rhodes, the lovable one; Long Sandy Maclaren, on the loose foot; Art O’Connor, my partner. And the men here in the south would not forget me either, though I might be six thousand miles away. Big Paudh Moran, faithful as a hound; Paddy Bawn, holding to his ideal of quietness; Sean Glynn, in the toils; Mickeen Oge Flynn, whose austerity no woman might break; Hugh Forbes, who held us lovingly in his strong hands. Hugh Forbes? I wonder! Could it be against the Small Dark Man’s iron that Margaid MacDonald had broken herself? Had she discovered that his whimsical ideal of a red-haired woman out of Scotland was only a shield to some secret urge of his own—perhaps the terrible urge for Freedom.
“Oh, hell!” I exclaimed. “Don’t think about it.”
I threw myself on my back and gazed up into the deeps of the sky. I was weary, weary—but I could carry on. High up a thin feather of cloud drifted aloof in the blue abyss, and the edges of it were already touched with the rose of evening. . . . I would make myself as aloof as that small cloud. . . .
The blunt toe of Paudh Moran’s service boot waked me out of a dream wherein I held a child’s hand.
III
“Where’s the girl gone to?”
I sat up and yawned deeply. “She went down your way a minute ago.”
“An’ she came back your way—a good half-hour ago.”
I was on my feet then.
“Good God! She’s gone!”
Her basket was still on the bank, her rod on the gravel, but she was gone. Escaped! I knew it—knew it with a certainty that was psychic. There was no need for me to stare up and down the course of the Ullachowen, though I did that. Half a mile below I could see her brother and Sean Glynn moving along the top of a bank, but there was no Margaid MacDonald anywhere. . . . She had come up from Paudh, found me asleep, and there was her opportunity. . . . But first she had made me careless by wounding me and getting me to nurse that wound . . . And now she was on her way to Castletown, the only place she could go to. . . .
“She’s up at the house, I bet you,” said Big Paudh hopefully.
“Bet the devil!” I caught his shoulder. Now was the time to think quickly, and think not at all of what escape meant. “How long, did you say?”
“Half an hour—good.”
“Up with you and warn Hugh Forbes—”
“An’ if she’s there—?”
“Whether she is there or not, you are to come back up the Ullachowen as fast as God’ll let you—right up to Castletown or until you meet me.”
“What’ll you be doin’?”
“Trying to head her off.” I swung him round and gave him a staggering push. “Off with you!”
And he went lumbering up the slope to Sean Glynn’s house half a mile above. In spite of his size and weight he was quick on his feet and incredibly tough-winded.
The Ullachowen flowed in a deep arc round the base of Leaccamore Mountain, and along that curve, eight miles away, was Castletown. The chord to the arc, right over the high shoulder of the hill, shortened the distance by three miles, but the going was the roughest: knee-deep heather, hidden boulders, eroded chorries. The fugitive would never choose that road. By the river she must have gone, and, with hawthorn fences and barbed-wire, that was no easy road either. Give her two hours at her best pace, and allow for her half-hour’s start—could I do it? I chose the road over the hill.
I splashed across the shallows thigh-deep and faced the bulging breast of Leaccamore. . . .
I did not spare myself in that race. I was weary enough before I started, but I was tough too, and drew on all my reserves. I took only one brief rest, and that on the crown of the ridge, looking two miles down on Castletown. The huddle of purple roofs was already in the shadows of the gloaming, but the gilt cross on the spire of the Catholic church gleamed in the last rays of the sun; and round me, where I panted in the heather, flowed a tawny red glory.
I looked along the curve of the Ullachowen far below me, but no figure moved there in the slowly gathering twilight. I did not mind that, for she would keep out of sight among the hazel copses as much as possible.
When, at last, I again splashed across the river I was so leg-weary that a twisting stone under my feet brought me to hands and knees in the water. I scrambled up and out on a broad embankment, and there were the backs of the houses of Castletown not a furlong away. It is a strange fact that most Irish country towns turn their backs to running water. Higher up the river a massive stone bridge spanned the stream in three fine arches, and a wide, well-trodden promenade path led to it from where I stood.
Castletown seemed a town asleep, though night had not yet fallen. Only, here and there, a thin blue spiral of smoke drifted from brick chimneys. No couples strolled along the pleasant river walk, no loiterers leaned over the parapets of the bridge, no amateur gardeners worked in the vegetable patches behind the houses. I knew the reason, of course. The curfew was in force by the police, and the citizens had to herd indoors with the set of sun.
There was no sign at all of Margaid MacDonald. If she had beaten me to Castletown there was nothing more I dare do; if she was still down the river I had better head her off as far from the town as possible. I stood in full view of the bridge, and, if a Tan patrol crossed over, the bullets would come singing round me. Moreover, I was aware that the river-bank was outposted at night, and, even now, a sentinel might be set at any point downstream. That risk I had to take.
Some distance below me a band of larch
es gathered in about the path, and I used the last of my wind to reach their shelter. I ran tiptoe on the grass edging, and my feet made no sound.
Just inside the larch grove a rustic seat was set close to the path, and in the far corner of it a woman sat. A man stood close over her, one foot on the seat at her side.
The woman was Margaid MacDonald. The man was a big fellow in the uniform of the Black-and-Tans. His rifle was propped against the back of the seat, and the butt of a long Webley showed from a holster hanging at his thigh.
She was in the corner of the seat, pressed close in, fear and anger in her eyes, and her breast surging. He was like a cat with mouse, in no hurry, leaning towards her, not touching her; and the context of his speech was not to be mistaken.
“. . . But where is your brother, then?”
She shook her head desperately.
“No!” he said. “Don’t you know that no one denies the police?” There was no mistaking the suggestiveness in his tone.
She saw me then, over his shoulder, and I knew that she was glad to see me at that moment. She made no sign, no exclamation, and that showed her quality; but the leap of light in her eyes warned him. He turned head, whirled on one heel, and his right hand dropped towards thigh-holster. But I was quicker as I leaped.
“Up with them!”
The automatic muzzle was against his stomach above the belt, and his hands were in the air like a reflex action. We knew each other at the same instant.
He was the fellow Garner who had clouted me that day outside John Molouney’s saloon. And, as then, he was half-mad or half-drunk.
“You were a Shinner, you swine!”
My breath whistled through nostrils, and my arm was a stiff bar pressing against him. His dead-white, lined cheeks twitched, and a madness lit behind his black eyes.
“Shoot, damn you! Shoot!” He expected no mercy.
“Keep them up!” I had seen his hands clench.
“Go on—get it over! I am sick of it all.”
I knew I could not hold him, but I could not kill him there before the girl. Quickly I decided to give him the butt, but he forestalled me.
“I’ll make you.”
His left hand struck down at my wrist. I should have pulled trigger then, yet I did not. I suppose, at the back of my mind, I was vain of my strength, and felt I could quickly master this half-drunken, wholly-rotten madman; and, possibly, some vindictive inner devil wanted to repay him with a little manhandling. My left hand grasped his right wrist before he could reach his gun, and we came together breast to breast.
And there I realized my mistake. He was stronger than I was, with the false and frenzied strength of madness. As we strained there, my right hand already wrenched out of range, I looked over his shoulder at Margaid MacDonald still in the seat corner.
“Get out! Too strong. Get out!”
And then I was on the ground under him. I braced myself and held on; and he held me down and lifted head over me. He knew he had me, and I knew it, but I hoped for a little second wind to give the girl time to get away.
“I’ll settle you this time, you ——” I felt his right arm strain.
The mind will sometimes drive the body to its best even though the body revolts. The ugly word he used before the girl made me nearly as mad as he was. . . .
I do not remember much of the next minute or two, but, presently, I was surprised that I was doing not so badly. Oh! but I was tough. I was still under him mostly, but once my shoulders, jarring into the crutch of a root, gave me leverage to get a knee up and hard into his diaphragm. That helped to even matters. And, after a time, I discovered that he was not so strong, or that I was growing stronger.
And then, and suddenly, the life that he had lived came home to him. He went loose as a rag, and I rolled him over, wrenched hand free, smashed into his face three times, jerked his gun from holster, and came to my feet over him. I gave him a rude boot-toe.
“Up!”
He came to his hands and knees, and then swayingly to his feet.
“Get out!” I thrust his own gun hard against him.
His fury over, the madness had gone out of his eyes. He was no more than a poor done man, with a sagging bloody mouth, very much afraid of death.
“Get out!” I prodded him savagely.
He turned and lurched out of the trees and up the path. I watched him for a little while, thrust the guns away, and turned round.
IV
Margaid MacDonald was still there, on her feet now, but still shaky, as much after the real fright she had got as after her flight. She made an effort to pull herself together and smiled wanly.
“He nearly licked you,” she said, her old critical spirit not dead.
“You might have stood on his ear for me,” I told her.
Somehow, I was no longer winded or weary. A latent reserve had come into action, and, though my breathing filled the whole cavity of my breast, I was feeling toughly indestructible. I walked straight up to her.
“We’ll be going back now, Margaid MacDonald.”
And, shaking her head with desperate emphasis, she would not meet my eye after one startled glance.
“It is not safe here—not for a moment,” I urged.
“I am not going back,” she said with forced calm.
“But—”
“Don’t you see? I dare not go back.” She was no longer calm. “Can’t you see?”
“Very well,” I agreed. “Give me your word—”
“Please—please, Owen! Don’t ask anything of me—I’m afraid.”
A little anger mounted in me.
“Woman! what is there to fear?”
“Oh! I don’t know. I must go away.”
“Come, then! Let us go at once.”
She stared at me hopelessly. “Not kind, only reasonable. Not merciful, only just. You did not kill that man, but you showed him no mercy. And now——Very well! I will not go with you.”
“Then I will have to carry you,” I said hotly, and I was more than a little angry now.
Something suddenly furtive in her glance told me that she contemplated flight; but my hand was firmly above her elbow before she could move. At once she whirled to free herself, and I had to use a second hand.
“I will not go—I will not go.”
And I had to hold her. She was as supple and strong as whalebone, and, in order not to tear her blouse, I had to grasp her within my arms. And I grasped her closely—in spite of any will of mine. My arms tightened, and she threw back her head and stared at me. A white-hot rage surged in me.
“You don’t like me to touch you. No? Very well!”
And I brought my mouth down on hers and held it.
She went limp in my arms, and I lifted my head.
“Oh! you brute!”
“Exactly!” said I, and forthwith picked her up and strode furiously down the path between the thin tall trunks of the larches.
She made not the least stir in my arms, and, though I never looked down at her, I knew that she was staring up at me. I kept my eyes on the path ahead. I felt unnaturally strong, and I was so mad that I scarcely knew what I was doing.
We came out on an open field, and I fixed my eyes on the black bulk of a hawthorn hedge on the other side. It looked far and far away in the lessening light of the gloaming, but I clenched my teeth and made for the shelter of it. And to hell with aching arms!
I got there, arms numb, and back breaking, and was about to stand her on her feet when, with a heart-stounding crash, a big figure half-leaped, half-tumbled between two bushes.
“Hell!” I exclaimed and dropped her. She sat at my feet.
“Jasus!” cried Big Paudh Moran.
A second figure crashed through the hedge. It was Paddy Bawn Enright.
They panted like hounds.
“Mother o’ God! Is the darling girl hurt on us?” cried Paddy Bawn.
“No—sulking! It will be your turn to carry her next.”
She scrambled to her
feet. “I’ll walk.”
“You’re nothing but a bloody pagan, Owen Jordan,” said Paudh with conviction.
It took us more than two hours to get back to Sean Glynn’s, and, during the last hour, the girl was glad to hang heavily on Big Paudh’s arm. She took not the least notice of me.
And, as we went, the big bell in the Catholic church at Castletown started ringing, and, when the air drifted from that direction, shouts came faintly to us down the valley.
“The alarm?” whispered Margaid.
“Och! the Tans up to some divilment,” Big Paudh told her. “Never you fear, they won’t venture a mile out o’ town in the dark.”
Paddy Bawn, at my side, looked at me quickly, and I nodded.
“I might get to my quiet place, after all,” he murmured.
We had both the same thought in our minds as to what the ringing might mean.
It was full night when we got back. A bright summer night with the moon three parts full above the shoulder of Leaccamore. As we came over the last rise we saw lights in all the windows fronting the farmhouse, and the kitchen door was wide open, with light splaying out across the garden. This was unusual and careless, for where the Flying Column holed up no light was shown. And as we came nearer there reached our ears the lively jigging of a melodeon and the stamp of dancing feet.
“Jasus! Hugh Forbes must be out of his mind,” cried Big Paudh in a voice of awe.
Hugh, himself, met us at the gate in the drystone wall.
“Apollo and his laurel bush!” he cried at us gaily. “Haven’t ye heard the news?”
“We hear the bells ringing,” said I.
“Ay, the truce has come. John Molouney brought out a wire from Dublin an hour ago. Peace, my children, peace!”
And that was that. All that had happened this evening—waste effort! Oh, damn! . . . From very far away I heard Margaid MacDonald’s voice.
“Where is my brother?”
“He went back in the car with John—and Sean Glynn. They were in a state about our little runaway.”
“Could I get to Castletown tonight—Mr. Forbes?”
And after a long time Hugh’s voice, very quiet: “Yes! He will be anxious, your brother. I’ll get Paddy Bawn to tackle the pony; but come ye away in now and have a bite of supper.”
The Quiet Man and Other Stories Page 7