Six horsemen, riding three abreast, came into view from behind the bluff. They had rifles slung across their backs. With their heads bent low for shelter from the wind, they trotted swiftly towards the bridge through the dead forest.
The old woman sat down as they approached. She began again to stir her porridge.
“Be quiet there now, Sheila,” she scolded, after the goat had bleated a second time. “Don’t let me hear another sound out of you, for fear these men might notice us. They could be bad men that would do us harm.”
She listened anxiously as the horsemen halted on the bridge overhead. There was a short silence. Then she heard two horses gallop towards the north along the Killuragh road. A little while later, two men trudged down along the rough path that led from the road. They came into sight before the mouth of the arch.
The goat snorted and rapped the ground fiercely with her left fore-foot.
“Behave yourself, Sheila,” the old woman said. “Have manners in front of strangers.”
The white goat trotted out a little way towards the advancing men. She had her short tail flat against her back. She snorted belligerently. When they came near her, however, she retreated hurriedly to her former position beneath the ass’s belly. There she stood watching them, timid and silent, with her delicate nostrils quivering.
The two men had their faces masked by black kerchiefs. The man in front advanced with his rifle at the high port. The other man had an unlighted torch in his right hand.
“Stand up there,” said the man in front, as he halted before the old woman’s little wall and levelled his rifle. “Let us have a good look at you.”
She stood erect promptly. Although she was sixty-five years old, her movements were quick and vigorous. The top of the wall reached just above the waist of her tall, lean frame.
“Who are you?” the man said, after peering closely at her.
“I’m Nora Crane of Ballymore,” she said proudly. “Who might you be?”
“We’re Fenians,” the man said.
The other man lit the torch at the fire and held it up before the old woman’s face.
“It’s Nora Crane all right,” he said at once.
Her withered cheeks looked rosy in the torch-light. She had big, strong bones. Her jaws were square. There was a look of madness in her sunken, blue eyes.
“You can sit down now,” said the man who had spoken first as he slung the rifle over his shoulder. “Forgive us for disturbing you, but we had to make sure who was in it. God be with you.”
The old woman watched them in silence as they went out from under the arch and up on to the road with the lighted torch. The goat trotted out, snorted and rapped the ground. She was brave again, now that the strangers were in retreat.
“Stop your jig-acting, Sheila,” the old woman scolded. “Lie down there.”
She sat down, took a saucepan from within the box and poured the cooked porridge into it. She scooped out every morsel from the bottom of the skillet with a wooden spoon. Then she poured salt on to the smoking meal from a snuff-box. She crossed herself, said grace and began to eat.
“They are gentle people,” she said to the goat after she had eaten some of the porridge. “We need have no fear of them, Sheila. They are our own kind, thank God.”
Overhead, the man with the lighted torch had now climbed on to the top of the narrow wall that flanked the bridge. Two other men held him by the thighs, in order to keep him steady against the wind.
Michael stood at the centre of the bridge, with his arms folded across his chest, looking intently towards the east.
“I’m ready now,” said the man with the torch.
“All right,” Michael said. “Swing it slowly from side to side. Keep on swinging until they answer our signal.”
A shower of sparks flew from the blazing torch as the man began to swing it over his head. The four horses, which were tied to an ash tree by the western end of the bridge, now began to neigh and prance. Excited by their cries, the ass brayed down below.
A volley of rifle shots rang out suddenly far to the east.
“That’s it,” Michael said. “Put out the torch and quieten the horses.”
The man jumped down from the wall, laid the torch against the road and put his foot on the lighted end. The other two men ran to the horses. The rattle of gunfire quickly increased in volume. Then the crash of exploding dynamite came from the north-east.
The man with the smoking torch came over to Michael and said:
“Flatley is at work already. That’s quick.”
The land rose eastwards from the bridge in gently-sloping terraces. There were hardly any trees. The grey stone fences and the white-walled cabins stood out distinctly. Mountains lined the horizon. They looked gigantic in the moonlight.
“That old woman down there,” said the man with the torch as he leaned close to Michael with his back canted against the wind, “has been on the road for more than twenty-five years. Her family was one of the first that Captain Butcher evicted when he bought Manister. The village of Ballymore, where she lived, doesn’t exist now. Butcher swept it off the face of the earth, at one blow. The people that were in it scattered. That old woman down there went to Clash with her husband and seven children. They caught typhus fever. They all died of it within a couple of days except herself. She went out of her mind for a while. Then she took to the road. I’ve been seeing her go back and forth all my life, winter and summer. She hardly ever stays more than one night in the one place. She never sleeps under a roof. She always has an ass and a cart and a goat with her. She is a holy woman. No one ever hears a wicked word out of her. She must have great breed in her to be able to live the way she does, under such terrible conditions. Mind you, she never begs, although she will take whatever is given to her in God’s name. She can make lovely lace when she has a mind for it. She earns a little money that way, here and there.”
The man walked over to the ash tree after he had finished speaking. The horses had quietened over there by now. Michael continued to stare fixedly towards the east. The rattle of gunfire and the rolling crash of exploding dynamite continued. Columns of yellow flame shot into the air through billowing clouds of black smoke, as hay-ricks and turf-stacks and the thatched roofs of houses were set on fire. The fires were like fantastic flowers unfolding their beauty in the night, here and there across the moonlit land. Cattle appeared far away, darting hither and thither, with their tails in the air, over patches of ground made lurid by the flames. The shrill neighing of frightened horses came faintly on the wind.
Michael turned suddenly and walked swiftly from the bridge down the path that led to the river. He paused for a little while at the entrance to the arch. The white goat trotted forward and snorted at him.
“Behave yourself, Sheila,” the old woman said.
He came forward slowly to the wall and bowed with ceremony to the old woman.
“God save you,” he said.
“God save you kindly,” she answered him. “Did you come to warm yourself?”
She had already finished eating and washed her vessels in the river. She was drying the saucepan.
“I came to ask your blessing,” he said.
“Why would a fine young man like yourself need the blessing of a poor, homeless old woman?” she said.
“I, too, am homeless,” Michael said gently. “I have been homeless all my life.”
The old woman put away the saucepan in her box and said:
“Bend down your face close to me, treasure. Let me see does it show the sorrow that I hear in your voice.”
Michael put his hands on top of the wall and leaned towards her. She looked at his face in silence for a long time.
“Ah! Woe!” she said at length. “My sorrow is old now and yours is new. At its worst, my sorrow was little compared to yours. It came to me without warning. Yours didn’t. It’s terrible to wait for the lightning to strike.”
Michael leaned closer to her and whispered almo
st inaudibly:
“No sooner did I meet my love than I had to say farewell.”
The old woman touched his face in several places gently with the tips of her fingers. Then she nodded.
“I understand why you had to leave her,” she said.
“Did you see that in my face?” Michael said.
“I didn’t see it in your face, pulse of my heart,” the old woman said.
Michael stood erect and said brusquely:
“Speak out, then, and tell me what you understand.”
“Before you met her,” the old woman said gently, “you were already wedded to the dark stranger.”
Michael’s face clouded with anger.
“You have no right to say that,” he cried.
“Hush, alannah,” the old woman whispered. “Bend down close to me again and don’t be cross. I want to tell you something before I give you my blessing.”
Michael looked at her fiercely for a little while.
“Forgive me, good woman,” he said at length.
He shuddered, put one knee against the ground and then laid his arms along the top of the wall. He bowed his head over his hands.
“It’s not long since I left her,” he whispered gently. “Speak to me kindly.”
Now the bellowing of cattle became loud. The rattle of gunfire continued both to the east and to the west.
“The pain of a new wound is bitter,” the old woman said. “I still remember the pain of my own, when I said my farewell. Ah! Woe! When my man and my seven children died and my village was laid low and my kindred were scattered to the four corners of the world, I went mad with loneliness.”
She raised her lean hands above her head and shouted in a tone of frenzied anger:
“They took all I had.”
Then she put her hands before her eyes and rocked herself.
“God forgive me for shouting,” she said in a contrite whisper. “It’s sinful to be angry with the dead past.”
She put her hands on Michael’s shoulders.
“Sweet pulse of my heart,” she said tenderly, “I have no right to complain. There was one loveliness they couldn’t take from me.”
“What was that?” Michael said.
“Faith,” she said.
“Was that what you wanted to tell me?” Michael said. “Faith makes all things lovely,” she said, “sorrow as well as joy.”
“My faith is different from yours,” Michael said. “It makes me do cruel things, to myself and to others.”
“Be true to it, whatever it is,” she cried. “That is all that counts. Be true to it till death.”
The bellowing of cattle, the hoarse cries of drovers and the yelping of dogs now drowned the sound of gun-fire.
“Give me your blessing now,” Michael said to her. “It’s time for me to go.”
She put her palms flat against the crown of his head and prayed in silence.
“Go now,” she said when she had finished, “and may your faith remain strong in you.”
Michael got to his feet swiftly. He took her right hand and kissed it reverently three times. Then he hurried out from under the arch.
The white goat snorted at him and rapped the ground.
“Hush, Sheila,” the old woman whispered in a solemn tone. “We must be gentle with that man and show him great respect. He’s on his way to meet the dark stranger.”
Chapter XXXIV
A red heifer was the first to come over the brow of the hill. With her tail in the air, she galloped down the long slope towards the bridge. She kept turning her raised head slowly from side to side as she ran. She left a thin trail of blood that dripped from a gash made by a dog’s teeth in her left flank. An old black cow came next, trotting swiftly on widespread legs, lowing in panic, with foam about her jaws. Her slack udder swung rhythmically, to left and right, up against her flanks.
Then a great mass of bellowing cattle surged across the brow. Their hooves made thunder on the frozen road as they came charging down the slope. The smoke from their heated bodies rose in a cloud above their backs, like a pale mane unfurled by their flight. Men and dogs harried the flanks of the column. The men chanted the hoarse cry of the drover, as they lashed at the beasts with heavy sticks. The dogs yelped and snapped at the bellies of the runners.
Men on horse-back, with lighted torches held aloft, cantered through the fields that lay adjacent to the road on either side. Far to the rear, the earth was dappled with flame from north to south, abreast of the towering dark mountains.
The red heifer and the cow charged back over the bridge as the head of the column reached the western end. Bellowing madly, they hurled themselves into the mass and became engulfed. The horde then surged across. A white-faced bullock tried to leap over his mates, in order to escape from a dog’s fangs. He was carried the whole length of the bridge standing on end, his fore-legs jabbing at the air like a boxer.
They ran west through the dead forest. When they reached the rocky bluff, where the road swept sharply to the right, the horsemen forced them to go straight ahead through a wide gap in the fence. Almost at once, they began to climb over stiffly-rising ground. They slackened pace and stopped bellowing. Their hooves made hardly any sound on the thick heather. Now only the yelping of the dogs and the hoarse cries of the drovers could be heard. The riders made a wide circle about the compact mass with their lighted torches.
The ascent became more abrupt. The heather gave place to rough shore grass. There were clumps of gorse, loose boulders and patches of naked shingle. Then the circle of riders opened up in front. The cattle passed through the gap into the wide mouth of a defile. With a wild bellow, they charged forward at a gallop over the level ground. The men and dogs ran hotly in pursuit, redoubling their cries and their blows. The riders thrust their horses into the rear of the throng and set the lighted torches to the hides of the fleeing beasts.
The defile narrowed rapidly. Bleak granite rocks, that glistened in the moonlight, rose high on either side. The grass disappeared. There was only shingle under foot. The ground began to slope gently downwards. The smell of the sea came strongly from in front. Then the land’s end stood out distinctly in the gloom of night. Beyond it lay the void, filled only by the awe-inspiring thunder of the unseen waves.
The leading beasts lowed in terror and tried to turn when they saw the edge of the void close to them. They were gored by the horns of the succeeding ranks and carried sidelong down. They turned over and over as they fell, their death cries re-echoing through the cliff.
All the other beasts leaped gracefully to their doom, sailing through the void as in a dance, with heads erect and tails outstretched.
Chapter XXXV
Neville sat at the end of the dining-room table, with his arms on the elbows of his chair and his fingers laced across his chest. His cloth-bound metal hat lay beside his revolver on the white table-cloth in front of him. He had on his waistcoat of chain mail beneath a brown tweed coat. He stared grimly at the floor between his feet.
A shrill cry of pain, coming from the direction of the library, made him sit erect and turn his head sharply to the left. He listened intently. His eyes narrowed. Deep vertical lines came into the centre of his forehead. He opened his mouth a little. The tip of his tongue came out slowly and rested against his upper lip. He remained in that posture for more than two minutes without movement, waiting in vain for a repetition of the cry. Then he sighed deeply, shuddered and bowed his head once more.
Sub-Inspector Lodge, the commander of the detachment protecting Manister House, sat at the other end of the table with District Inspector Gregg. Lodge was finishing his breakfast. Gregg sipped at a glass of whisky. It was he who had taken Fenton’s place at Clash.
“I couldn’t do a blasted thing,” Lodge said irritably, “beyond returning their fire. I have only a small detachment here, you know, barely sufficient to cover the house properly.”
He pushed aside his empty plate and began to pour fresh tea into his cup. He was
a sallow-faced man of slight build and youthful appearance, with high cheek-bones and mobile brown eyes. He looked exhausted. There were dark circles under his eyes. The skin on his face was strained almost to breaking point. He had some difficulty in directing the spout of the tea-pot towards the mouth of the cup.
“I rode over the estate after daylight,” he continued. “I must say that the Fenians were very thorough. A swarm of locusts could not possibly have been more devastating.”
Gregg nodded. He was a big man with twinkling blue eyes, a mottled face, long grey moustaches and a completely bald crown.
“Sorry I couldn’t get here sooner,” he said, “but I had my own hands full. I just got to Clash on the seven o’clock train last evening. A few hours later, before I had time to unpack, the Fenians began to give me a hearty Irish welcome. They kept it up most of the night.”
“Throwing cattle over a cliff is a new one on me,” Lodge said.
“It used to be common in my young days,” Gregg said. “The idea is to have the animals carried out to sea and not found again for identification. In that way, the proprietor can whistle for his compensation. You know, of course, that the county only pays when a recognizable portion of the carcass is produced.”
There was another shriek. It was repeated again and again. There was such agony in the high-pitched voice that all three men were now compelled to raise their heads and listen.
“Who is the fellow?” Gregg said to Lodge, when the screaming came to an end.
“Cooney is his name,” Lodge said. “Used to be schoolmaster in this village, before he went off with the Fenians. We caught him sneaking towards the house a couple of hours ago. He offered to betray O’Dwyer into our hands. His story sounded very fishy to me, so I asked my fellows to take him into the library and …”
He was interrupted by Neville, who pushed back his chair with violence and jumped to his feet.
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