Complete Works of Stanley J Weyman

by Stanley J Weyman

  “Further, that you will not within six months attempt anything against the Government?” Colonel John continued.

  “I will not.”

  “Very good. I accept that undertaking, and I thank these gentlemen for their courtesy in condescending to act as witnesses. Admiral Cammock and you, reverend father,” Colonel John continued, “it remains but to bid you farewell, and to ask you to believe” — the Colonel paused— “that I have not pushed further than was necessary the advantage I gained.”

  “By a neat stroke, Colonel Sullivan,” the Bishop replied, with a rather sour smile, “not to say a bold one. I’m not denying it. But one, I’d have you notice, that cannot be repeated.”

  “Maybe not,” the Colonel answered. “I am content to think that for some time to come I have transferred your operations, gentlemen, to a sphere where 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, I differ. That is all.”

  With that Colonel Sullivan bowed and left the cabin, and The McMurrough, who had listened to the colloquy with the air of a whipped hound, slunk after him. On deck the Colonel and Augustin talked apart for a moment, then the former signed to the young man to go down into the boat, which lay alongside with a couple of men at the oars, and Bale seated in the sternsheets. The fog still hung upon the water, and the 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 the rowers pushed off, while Augustin and the crew leant over the rail to see them go, and to send after them a torrent of voluble good wishes. A very few, strokes of the oars brought the passengers within misty view of the land; in less than two minutes after leaving the Cormorant the boat grated on the rocks, and the Colonel, James McMurrough, and Bale landed. The young man made out that they were some half-mile eastward of Skull Harbour.

  Bale stayed to exchange a few words with the seamen, while Colonel John and The McMurrough set off along the beach. They had not walked fifty yards before the fog isolated them; they were alone. And astonishment filled the young man, and grew as they walked. Did Colonel John, after all that had happened, mean to return to Morristown? to establish himself calmly — he, alone — in the midst of the conspirators whose leaders he had removed?

  It seemed incredible! For though he, James McMurrough, thirst for revenge as he might, was muzzled by his oath, what of the others? What of 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 of peasants, ready to commit any violence at a word from him?

  And still the Colonel walked on by his side. And now they were in sight of Skull — of the old tower and the house by the jetty, looming large through the dripping mist. And at last Colonel John spoke.

  “It was fortunate that I made my will as I came through Paris,” he said.

  CHAPTER XV

  FEMINA FURENS

  The Irish of that day, with all their wit and all their courage, had the bad habit of looking abroad for leaders. Colonel John had run little risk of being wrong in taking for granted that the meeting at the Carraghalin, mysteriously robbed of the chiefs from over-seas, whose presence had brought the movement to a head, would disperse; either amid the peals of Homeric laughter that in Ireland greet a monster jest, or, in sadder mood, cursing the detested Saxon for one more added to the many wrongs of a downtrodden land.

  Had Flavia indeed escaped, had the raid which Colonel Sullivan had so audaciously conceived failed to embrace her, the issue might have been different. Had she appeared upon the scene at the critical moment, her courage and enthusiasm might have supported the spirits of the assemblage and kept it together. But Uncle Ulick had not the force to do this: much less had old Timothy Burke or Sir Donny. Uncle Ulick, we know, expected little good from the rising; he was prepared for any, the worst mishap; while the faith of the older men in any change for the better was not robust enough to stand alone or to resist the first blast of doubt.

  Their views indeed were more singular than cheerful.

  “Very like,” Sir Donny said, with a fallen under-lip, “the ould earth’s opened her mouth and swallowed them. She’s tired, small blame to her, with all the heretics burdening her and tormenting her — the cream of hell’s fire to them!”

  “Whisht, man!” the other answered. “Be easy; you’re forgetting one’s a bishop. Small chance of the devil’s tackling him, and, like enough the holy water and all ready to his hand!”

  “Then I’m not knowing what it is,” the first pronounced hopelessly.

  “There you speak truth, Sir Donny,” Tim Burke answered. “Is it they can be losing their way in the least taste of fog there is, do you think?”

  “And the young lady knowing the path, so that she’d be walking it blindfold in the dark!”

  “I’m fearing, then, it will be the garr’son from Tralee,” was Uncle Ulick’s contribution. And he shook his head. “The saints be between us and them, and grant we’ll not be seeing more of them than we like, and sooner!”

  “Amen to that same!” replied old Timothy Burke, with an uneasy look behind him.

  There was nothing comforting in this. And the messengers sent to learn what was amiss and why the expected party did not arrive had as little cheer to give. They could learn nothing. On which Uncle Ulick and his fellows rubbed their heads: the small men wondered. A few panic-stricken, began to slip away, but the mass were faithful. An hour went by in this trying uncertainty, and a second and part of a third; and messengers departed and came, and there were rumours and alarms, and presently something like the truth got abroad; and there was talk of pursuit, and a band of young stalwarts was detailed and sent off. Still the greater part of the assemblage, with Irish patience, remained seated in ranks on the slopes of the hills, the women with their drugget shawls drawn over their heads, the men with their frieze coats hanging loose about them. The chill mist which clung to the hillsides, and the atmosphere of doubt which overhung all, were a poor exchange for the roaring bonfires, the good cheer, the enthusiasm, the merriment of the previous evening. But the Irish peasant, if he be less staunch at the waiting — even as he is more forward in the hand-to-hand than his Scottish cousins — has the peasant’s gift of endurance; and in the most trying hours — in ignorance, in doubt, in danger — has often held his ground in dependence on his betters, with a result pitiful in the reading. For too often the great have abandoned the little, the horse has borne off the rider, and the naked footman, surprised, surrounded, out-matched, and put to the sword, has paid for all.

  But on this day a time came, about high noon, when the assemblage — and the fog — began at last to melt. Sir Donny was gone, and old Tim Burke of Maamtrasna. They had slipped homewards, by little-known tracks across the peat hags; and, shamefaced and fearful of the consequences, the spirit all gone out of them, had turned their minds to oaths and alibis. They had been in trouble before, and were taken to know; and their departure sapped the O’Beirnes’ resolution, whose uneasy faces as they talked together spread the contagion. Uncle Ulick and several of the buckeens were away on the search; the handful of Spanish seamen had returned to the house or to the ship: there was no one to check the defection when it set in. An hour after Sir Donny had slipped away, the movement which might have meant so much to so many was spent. The slopes about the ruined gables which they called Carraghalin, and which were all that remained of the once proud abbey, had returned to their wonted solitude; where hundreds had sat a short hour before the eagle hovered, the fox turned his head and scented the wind. Even the house at Morristown had so far become itself again that a scarcity, rather than a plenitude of life, betrayed the past night of orgy; and a quietness beyond the ordinary, the things that had been dreamed. The garrison of Tralee, the Protestant Se
ttlement at Kenmare, facts which had been held distant and negligible in the first flush of hope and action, now seemed to the fearful fancy many an Irish mile nearer and many a shade more real.

  Doubtless, in the minds of some, a secret thankfulness that, after all, they were not required to take the leap, relieved the disappointment and lessened the shame. They were well out of an ugly scrape, they reflected; well clear of the ugly shadow of the gallows — always supposing that no informer appeared. It might even be the hand of Providence, they thought, that had removed their leaders, and so held them back. They might think themselves happy to be quit of it for the fright.

  But there was one — one who found no such consolation; one to whom the issue was pure loss, a shameful defeat, the end of hopes, the defeat of prayers that had never risen to heaven more purely than that morning.

  Flavia sat with her eyes on the dead peat that cumbered the hearth — for in the general excitement the fire had been suffered to go out — and in a stupor of misery refused to be comforted. Of her plans, of her devotion, of her lofty resolves, this was the result. She had aspired, God knew how honestly and earnestly, for her race downtrodden and her faith despised, and this was the bitter fruit. Nor was it only the girl’s devotion to her country and to her faith that lay sore wounded: her vanity suffered, and perhaps more keenly. The enterprise that was to have glorified the name of McMurrough, that was to have raised that fallen race, that was to have made that distant province blessed among the provinces of Ireland, had come to an end, derisive and contemptible, before it was born. Her spirit, unbroken by experience and untrained to defeat, fearing before all things ridicule, dashed itself against the dreadful conviction, the dreadful fact. She could hardly believe that all was over. She could hardly realise that the cup was no longer at her lip, that the bird had escaped from the hand. But she looked from the window; and, lo, the courtyard which had hummed and seethed was dead and silent. In one corner a knot of men were carrying out the arms and the powder, and were preparing to bury them. In another, a woman — it was Sullivan Og’s widow — sat weeping. It was the Hic jacet of the great Rising that was to have been, and that was to have regenerated Ireland!

  And “You must kill him!” she cried, with livid cheeks and blazing eyes. “If you do not, I will!”

  Uncle Ulick, who had heard the story of the ambush, and beyond doubt was one of those who felt more relief than disappointment, stretched his legs uneasily. He longed to comfort her, but he did not know what to say. Moreover, he was afraid of her in this mood.

  “You must kill him!” she repeated.

  “We’ll talk of that,” he said, “when we see him.”

  “You must kill him!” the girl repeated passionately. “Or I will! If you are a man, if you are an Irishman, if you are a Sullivan, kill him, the shame of your race! Or I will!”

  “If he had been on our side,” Uncle Ulick answered soberly, “instead of against us, I’m thinking we should have done better.”

  The girl drew in her breath sharply, pierced to the quick by the thought. Simultaneously the big man started, but for another reason. His eyes were on the window, and they saw a sight which his mind declined to believe. Two men had entered the courtyard — had entered with astonishing, with petrifying nonchalance, as it seemed to him. For the first was Colonel Sullivan. The second — but the second slunk at the heels of the first with a hang-dog air — was James McMurrough.

  Fortunately Flavia, whose eyes were glooming on the cold hearth and the extinct ashes, fit image of her dead hopes, had her back to the casement. Uncle Ulick rose. His thoughts came with a shock against the possibility that Colonel John had the garrison of Tralee at his back! But, although The McMurrough had all the appearance of a prisoner, Ulick thrust away the notion as soon as it occurred. To clear his mind, he looked to see how the men engaged in getting out the powder were taking it. They had ceased to work, and were staring with all their eyes. Something in their bearing and their attitudes told Uncle Ulick that the notion which had occurred to him had occurred to them, and that they were prepared to run at the least alarm.

  “His blood be on his own head!” he muttered. But he did not say it in the tone of a man who meant it.

  “Amen!” she cried, her back still turned to the window, her eyes brooding on the cold hearth. The words fell in with her thoughts.

  By this time Colonel Sullivan was within four paces of the door. In a handturn he would be in the room, he would be actually in the girl’s presence — and Uncle Ulick shrank from the scene which must follow. Colonel John was, indeed, and plainly, running on his fate. Already the O’Beirnes, awakening from their trance of astonishment, were closing in behind him with grim faces; and short of the garrison of Tralee the big man saw no help for him; well-nigh — so strongly did even he feel on the matter — he desired none. But Flavia must have no part in it. In God’s name, let the girl be clear of it!

  The big man took two steps to the door, opened it, slipped through, and closed it behind him. His breast as good as touched that of Colonel Sullivan, who was on the threshold. Behind the Colonel was James McMurrough; behind James were the two O’Beirnes and two others, of whose object, as they cut off the Colonel’s retreat, no man who saw their faces could doubt.

  For once, in view of the worse things that might happen in the house, Ulick was firm. “You can’t come in!” he said, his face pale and frowning. He had no word of greeting for the Colonel. “You can’t come in!” he repeated, staring straight at him.

  The Colonel turned and saw the four men with arms in their hands spreading out behind him. He understood. “You had better let me in,” he said gently. “James will talk to them.”

  “James — —”

  “You had better speak to them,” Colonel John continued, addressing his companion. “And you, Ulick — —”

  “You can’t come in,” Ulick repeated grimly.

  James McMurrough interposed in his harshest tone. “An end to this!” he cried. “Who the devil are you to bar the door, Ulick! And you, Phelim and Morty, be easy a minute till you hear me speak.”

  Ulick still barred the way. “James,” he said, in a voice little above a whisper, “you don’t know — —”

  “I know enough!” The McMurrough answered violently. It went sadly against the grain with him to shield his enemy, but so it must be. “Curse you, let him in!” he continued fiercely; they were making his task more hard for him. “And have a care of him,” he added anxiously. “Do you hear? Have a care of him!”

  Uncle Ulick made a last feeble attempt. “But Flavia,” he said. “Flavia is there and — —”

  “Curse the girl!” James answered. “Get out of the road and let the man in! Is this my house or yours?”

  Ulick yielded, as he had yielded so often before. He stood aside. Colonel John opened the door and entered.

  The rest happened so quickly that no movement on his part could have saved him. Flavia had heard their voices in altercation — it might be a half minute, it might be a few seconds before. She had risen to her feet, she had recognised the voice of one of the speakers — he had spoken once only, but that was enough — she had snatched up the naked sword that since the previous morning had leant in the chimney corner. As Colonel John crossed the threshold — oh, dastardly audacity, oh, insolence incredible, that in the hour of his triumph he should soil that threshold! — she lunged with all the force of her strong young arm at his heart.

  With such violence that the hilt struck his breast and hurled him bodily against the doorpost; while the blade broke off, shivered by contact with the hard wood.

  Uncle Ulick uttered a cry of horror. “My G —— d!” he exclaimed, “you have killed him!”

  “His blood — —”

  She stopped on the word. For instead of falling Colonel John was regaining his balance. “Flavia!” he cried — the blade had passed through his coat, missing his breast by a bare half-inch. “Flavia, hold! Listen! Listen a moment!”

  B
ut in a frenzy of rage, as soon as she saw that her blow had failed, she struck at him with the hilt and the ragged blade that remained — struck at his face, struck at his breast, with cries of fury almost animal. “Wretch! wretch!” she cried— “die! If they are cowards, I am not! Die!”

  The scene was atrocious, and Uncle Ulick, staring open-mouthed, gave no help. But Colonel Sullivan mastered her wrists, though not until he had sustained a long bleeding cut on the jaw. Even then, though fettered, and though he had forced her to drop the weapon, she struggled desperately with him — as she had struggled when he carried her through the mist. “Kill him! kill him!” she shrieked. “Help! help!”

  The men would have killed him twice and thrice if The McMurrough, with voice and blade and frantic imprecations and the interposition of his own body, had not kept the O’Beirnes and the others at bay — explaining, deprecating, praying, cursing, all in a breath. Twice a blow was struck at the Colonel through the doorway, but one fell short and the other James McMurrough parried. For a moment the peril was of the greatest: the girl’s cries, the sight of her struggling in Colonel John’s grip, wrought the men almost beyond James’s holding. Then the strength went out of her suddenly, she ceased to fight, and but for Colonel Sullivan’s grasp she would have fallen her length on the floor. He knew that she was harmless then, and he thrust her into the nearest chair. He kicked the broken sword under the table, staunched the blood that trickled fast from his cheek; last of all, he looked at the men who were contending with James in the doorway.

  “Gentlemen,” he said, breathing a little quickly, but in no other way betraying the strait through which he had passed, “I shall not run away. I shall be here to answer you to-morrow, as fully as to-day. In the meantime I beg to suggest” — again he raised the handkerchief to his cheek and staunched the blood— “that you retire now, and hear what The McMurrough has to say to you: the more as the cases and the arms I see in the courtyard lie obnoxious to discovery and expose all to risk while they remain so.”