Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  But no one was deceived. The courage, the enthusiasm, that danced in Flavia’s eyes were reflected more darkly and more furtively in a score of faces, within the room and without. To enjoy one hour of triumph, to wreak upon the cursed English a tithe of the wrongs, a tithe of the insults, that their country had suffered, to be the spoke on top, were it but for a day, to die for Ireland if they could not live for her, to avenge her daughters outraged and her sons beggared — could man own Irish blood, and an Irish name, and not rise at the call?

  If there were such a man, oh! cowardly, mean, and miserable he seemed to Flavia McMurrough. And much she marvelled at the patience, the consideration, the arguments which the silver-tongued ecclesiastic brought to bear upon him. She longed, with a face glowing with indignation, to disown him — in word and deed. She longed to denounce him, to defy him, to bid him begone, and do his worst.

  But she was a young plotter, and he who spoke from the middle of the hearth with so much patience and forbearance, was an old one, proved by years of peril, and tempered by a score of failures; a man long accustomed to play with the lives and fortunes of men. He knew better than she what was at stake to win or lose; nor was it without forethought that he had determined to risk much to gain Colonel Sullivan. The same far-sight and decision which had led him to take a bold course on meeting the Colonel in the garden, now lent him patience to win, if win he might, one whose value in the enterprise on which they were embarking he set at the highest. To his mind, and to Machin’s mind, the other men in the room, ay, and the woman, so fair and enthusiastic, were but tools to be used, puppets to be danced. But this man — for among soldiers of fortune there is a camaraderie, so that they are known to one another by repute from the Baltic to Cadiz — was a coadjutor to be gained. He was one whose experience, joined with an Irish name, might well avail them much.

  Colonel John might refuse, he might be obdurate. But in that event the Bishop’s mind was made up. Flavia supposed that if the Colonel held out, he would be dismissed; that he would go out from among them a cowardly, mean, miserable creature — and so an end. But the speaker made no mistake. He had chosen to grip the nettle danger, and he knew that gentle measures were no longer possible. He must enlist Colonel Sullivan, or — but it has been said that he was one hardened by long custom, and no novice in dealing with the lives of men.

  “If it be a question only of the chances,” he said, after some beating about the bush, “if I am right in supposing that it is only that which withholds Colonel Sullivan from joining us — —”

  “I do not say it is,” Colonel John replied very gravely. “Far from it, sir. But to deal with it on that basis: while I can admire, reverend sir, the man who is ready to set his life on a desperate hazard to gain something which he sets above that life, I take the case to be different where it is a question of the lives of others. Then I say the chances must be weighed — carefully weighed, and tried in the balance.”

  “However sacred the cause and high the aim?”

  “I think so.”

  The Bishop sighed, his chin sinking on his breast. “I am sorry,” he said, in a voice that sufficiently declared his depression— “I am sorry.”

  “That we cannot see alike in a matter so grave? Yes, sir, so am I.”

  “No. That I met you this morning.”

  “I am not sorry,” Colonel John replied, stoutly refusing to see the other’s meaning. “For — hear me out, I beg. You and I have seen the world and can weigh the chances. Your friend, too, Captain Machin” — he pronounced the name in an odd tone— “he too knows on what he is embarked and how he will stand if the result be failure. It may be that he already has his home, his rank, and his fortune in foreign parts, and will be little the worse if the worst befall.”

  “I?” Machin cried, stung out of his taciturnity. And he rose with an air of menace from his seat. “Let me tell you, sir, that I fling back the insinuation!”

  But the Colonel refused to listen. He proceeded as if the other were not speaking. “You, reverend sir, yourself,” he continued, “you too know, and well, on what you are embarking, its prospects and the issue for you, if it fail. But, you — I give you credit for it — are by your profession and choice devoted to a life of danger. You are willing, day by day and hour by hour, to run the risk of death. But these, my cousin there” — looking with a kind eye at Flavia— “she — —”

  “Leave me out!” she cried passionately. And she rose to her feet, her face on fire. “I separate myself from you! I, for my part, ask no better than to suffer for my country!”

  “She thinks she knows, but she does not know,” the Colonel continued quietly, unmoved by her words. “She cannot guess what it is to be cast adrift — alone, a woman, penniless, in a strange land. And yet that at the best — and the worst may be unspeakably worse — must be her fate if this plot miscarry! For others, The McMurrough and his friends yonder” — he indicated the group by the window— “they also are ignorant.”

  The McMurrough sprang to his feet, spluttering with rage. “D — n you, sir, speak for yourself!” he cried.

  “They know nothing,” the Colonel continued, quite unmoved, “of that force against which they are asked to pit themselves, of that stolid power over sea, never more powerful than now! And so to pit themselves, that losing they will lose their all!”

  “The saints will be between us and harm!” the eldest of the O’Beirnes cried, rising in his wrath. “It’s speak for yourself I say too!”

  “And I!”

  “And I!” others of the group roared with gestures of defiance. “We are not the boys to be whistled aside! To the devil with your ignorance!”

  And one, stepping forward, snapped his fingers close to the Colonel’s face. “That for you! — that for you!” he cried. “Now, or whenever you will, day or night, and sword or pistol! To the devil with your impudence, sir; I’d have you know you’re not the only man has seen the world! The shame of the world on you, talking like a schoolmaster while your country cries for you, and ’tis not your tongue but your hand she’s wanting!”

  Uncle Ulick put his big form between Colonel John and his assailant. “Sure and be easy!” he said. “Sir Donny, you’re forgetting yourself! And you, Tim Burke! Be easy, I say. It’s only for himself the Colonel’s speaking!”

  “Thank God for that!” Flavia cried in a voice which rang high.

  They were round him now a ring of men with dark, angry faces, and hardly restrained hands. Their voices cried tumultuously on him, in defiance of Ulick’s intervention. But the Bishop intervened.

  “One moment,” he said, still speaking smoothly and with a smile. “Perhaps it is for those he thinks he speaks!” And the Bishop pointed to the crowd which filled the forecourt, and of which one member or another was perpetually pressing his face against the panes to learn what his sacredness, God bless him! would be wishing. “Perhaps it is for those he thinks he speaks!” he repeated in irony — for of the feeling of the crowd there could be no doubt.

  “You say well,” Colonel John replied, rising to his feet and speaking with gloomy firmness. “It is on their behalf I appeal to you. For it is they who foresee the least, and they who will suffer the most. It is they who will follow like sheep, and they who like sheep will go to the butcher! Ay, it is they,” he continued with deeper feeling, and he turned to Flavia, “who are yours, and they will pay for you. Therefore,” raising his hand for silence, “before you name the prize, sum up the cost! Your country, your faith, your race — these are great things, but they are far off and can do without you. But these — these are that fragment of your country, that tenet of your faith, that handful of your race which God has laid in the palm of your hand, to cherish or to crush, and — —”

  “The devil!” Machin ejaculated with sudden violence. Perhaps he read in the girl’s face some shadow of hesitation, of thought, of perplexity. “Have done with your preaching, sir, I say! Have done, man! Try us not too far! If we fail — —”

>   “You must fail!” Colonel John retorted — with that narrowing of the nostrils that in the pinch of fight men long dead had seen for a moment in distant lands, and seen no more. “You will fail! And failing, sir, his reverence will stand no worse than now, for his life is forfeit already! While you — —”

  “What of me? Well, what of me?” the stout man cried truculently. His brows descended over his eyes, and his lips twitched.

  “For you, Admiral Cammock — —”

  The other stepped forward a pace. “You know me?”

  “Yes, I know you.”

  There was silence for an instant, while those who were in the secret eyed Colonel Sullivan askance, and those who were not gaped at Cammock.

  Soldiers of fortune, of fame and name, were plentiful in those days, but seamen of equal note were few. And with this man’s name the world had lately rung. An Irishman, he had risen high in Queen Anne’s service; but at her death, incited by his devotion to the Stuarts, he had made a move for them at a critical moment. He had been broken, being already a notable man; on which, turning his back on an ungrateful country, as he counted it, he had entered the Spanish marine, which the great minister Alberoni was at that moment reforming. He had been advanced to a position of rank and power — Spain boasted no stouter seaman; and in the attempt on which Alberoni was bent, to upset the Protestant succession in England, Admiral Cammock was a factor of weight. He was a bold, resolute man, restrained by no fine scruples, prepared to take risks himself, and not too prone to think for others. In Ireland his life was forfeit, Great Britain counted him renegade and traitor. So that to find himself recognised, though grateful to his vanity, was a shock to his discretion.

  “Well, and knowing me?” he replied at last, with the tail of his eyes on the Bishop, as if he would gladly gain a hint from his subtlety. “What of me?”

  “You have your home, your rank, your relations abroad,” Colonel Sullivan answered firmly. “And if a descent on the coast be a part of your scheme, then you do not share the peril equally with us. You are here to-day and elsewhere to-morrow. We shall suffer, while you sail away.”

  “I fling that in your teeth!” Cammock cried. “I know you too, sir, and — —”

  “Know no worse of me than of yourself!” Colonel Sullivan retorted. “But if you do indeed know me, you know that I am not one to stand by and see my friends led blindfold to certain ruin. It may suit your plans to make a diversion here. But that diversion is a part of larger schemes, and the fate of those who make it is little to you.”

  Cammock’s hand flew to his belt, he took a step forward, his face suffused with passion.

  “For half as much I have cut a man down!” he cried.

  “May be, but — —”

  “Peace, peace, my friends,” the Bishop interposed. He laid a warning hand on Cammock’s arm. “This gentleman,” he continued smoothly, “thinks he speaks for our friends outside.”

  “Let me speak, not for them, but to them,” Colonel Sullivan replied impulsively. “Let me tell them what I think of this scheme, of its chances, of its certain end! I will tell them no more than I have told you, and no more than I think justified.”

  He moved, whether he thought they would let him or not, towards the window. But he had not taken three steps before he found his progress barred. “What is this?” he exclaimed.

  “Needs must with so impulsive a gentleman,” the Bishop said. He had not moved, but at a signal from him The McMurrough, the O’Beirnes and two of the other young men had thrust themselves forward. “You must give up your sword, Colonel Sullivan,” he continued.

  The Colonel retreated a pace, and evinced more surprise than he felt. “Give up — do you mean that I am a prisoner?” he cried. He had not drawn, but two or three of the young men had done so, and Flavia, in the background by the fire, was white as paper — so suddenly had the shadow of violence fallen on the room. Uncle Ulick could be heard protesting, but no one heeded him.

  “You must surrender!” the Bishop repeated firmly. He too was a trifle pale, but he was used to such scenes and he spoke with decision.

  “Resistance is vain. I hope that with this lady in the room — —”

  “One moment!” the Colonel cried, raising his hand. But as The McMurrough and the others hesitated, he whipped out his sword and stepped two paces to one side with an agility no one had foreseen. He now had the table behind him and Uncle Ulick on his left hand. “One moment!” he repeated, raising his hand in deprecation and keeping his point lowered. “Do you consider — —”

  “We consider our own safety,” Cammock answered grimly. And signing to one of the men to join Darby at the door, he drew his cutlass. “You know too much to go free, sir, that is certain.”

  “Ay, faith, you do,” The McMurrough chimed in with a sort of glee. “He was at Tralee yesterday, no less. And for a little we’ll have the garrison here before the time!”

  “But by the powers,” Uncle Ulick cried, “ye shall not hurt him! Your reverence!” — the big man’s voice shook— “your reverence, this shall not be! It’s not in this house they shall murder him, and him a Sullivan! Flavia, speak, girl,” he continued, the perspiration standing on his brow. “Say ye’ll not have it. After all, it’s your house! By G — d, it is your house. And, by the Holy Cross, there shall be no Sullivan blood spilt in it while I am standing by to prevent it!”

  “Then let him give up his sword!” Cammock answered doggedly.

  “Yes, let him give up his sword,” Flavia said in a small voice.

  “Colonel Sullivan,” the Bishop interposed, stepping forward, “I hope you’ll hear reason. Resistance is vain. You know as well as I do that at a word from us our friends outside would deal with you, and roughly. Give up your sword and — —”

  “And presto!” Cammock cried, “or take the consequences!” He had edged his way, while the Bishop spoke, round Ulick and round the head of the table. Now, with his foot on the bench, he was ready at a word to spring on the table, and take the Colonel in the rear. It was clear that he was a man of action. “Down with your sword, sir,” he cried flatly.

  Colonel John recognised the weakness of his position. Before him the young men were five to one, with old Sir Donny and Timothy Burke in the rear. On his flank the help which Ulick might give was discounted by the move Cammock had made. He saw that he could do no more at present, that he must base his hope on the future; this, though he was not blind to the fact that there might be no future. Suddenly as the storm had blown up, he knew that he was dealing with desperate men, who from this day onward would act with their necks in a noose, and whom his word might send to the scaffold. They had but to denounce him to the rabble who waited outside, and, besides the Bishop, one only there, as he believed, would have the influence to save him.

  Colonel John had confronted danger many times; to confront it had been his trade. And it was with coolness and a clear perception of the position that he turned to Flavia. “I will give up my sword,” he said, “but to my cousin only. This is her house, and I yield myself” — with a smile and a bow— “her prisoner.”

  Before they knew what he would be at, he stepped forward and tendered his hilt to the girl, who took it with flaccid fingers. “I am in your hands now,” he said, fixing his eyes on hers and endeavouring to convey his meaning to her. For surely, with such a face, she must have, with all her recklessness, some womanliness, some tenderness of feeling in her.

  “D — n your impudence!” The McMurrough cried.

  “A truce, a truce,” the Bishop interposed. “We are all agreed that Colonel Sullivan knows too much to go free. He must be secured,” he continued smoothly, “for his own sake. Will two of these gentlemen see him to his room, and see also that his servant is placed under guard in another room?”

  “But,” the Colonel objected, looking at Flavia, “my cousin will surely allow me to give — —”

  “She will be guided by us in this,” the Bishop rejoined with asperity. “Let what
I have said be done.”

  Flavia, very pale, holding the Colonel’s sword as if it might sting her, did not speak. Colonel Sullivan, after a moment’s hesitation, followed one of the O’Beirnes from the room, the other bringing up the rear.

  When the door had closed upon them, Flavia’s was not the only pale face in the room. The scene had brought home to more than one the fact that here was an end of peace and law, and a beginning of violence and rebellion. The Rubicon was passed. For good or for ill, they were committed to an enterprise fraught, it might be, with success and glory, fraught also, it might be, with obloquy and death. Uncle Ulick stared at the floor with a lowering face, and sighed, liking neither the past nor the prospect. The McMurrough, the Squireens, Sir Donny, and Burke, secretly uneasy, put on a reckless air to cover their apprehensions. The Bishop and Cammock, though they saw themselves in a fair way to do what they had come to do, looked thoughtful also. And only Flavia — only Flavia, shaking off the remembrance of Colonel John’s face, and Colonel John’s existence — closed her grip upon his sword, and in the ardour of her patriotism saw with her mind’s eye not victory nor acclaiming thousands — no, nor the leaping line of pikemen charging for his glory that her brother saw — but the scaffold, and a death for her country. Sweet it seemed to her to die for the cause, for the faith, to die for Ireland! To die as young Lord Derwentwater had died a year or two before; as Lady Nithsdale had been ready to die; as innumerable men and women had died, lifted above common things by the love of their country.

  True, her country, her Ireland, was but this little corner of Kerry beaten by the Atlantic storms and sad with the wailing cries of seagulls; the rudest province of a land itself provincial. But if she knew no more of Ireland than this, she had read her story; and naught is more true than that the land the most down-trodden is also the best beloved. Wrongs beget a passion of affection; and from oppression springs sacrifice. This daughter of the windswept shore, of the misty hills and fairy glens, whose life from infancy had been bare and rugged and solitary, had become, for that reason, a dreamer of dreams and a worshipper of the ideal Ireland, her country, her faith. The salt breeze that lashed her cheeks and tore at her hair, the peat reek and the soft shadows of the bogland — ay, and many an hour of lonely communing — had filled her breast with love; such love as impels rather to suffering and to sacrifice than to enjoyment. Nor had she yet encountered the inevitable disappointments. Her eyes had not yet been opened to the seamy side of patriotism; to the sordid view of every great adventure that soon or late saddens the experienced and dispels the glamour of the dreamer.