Chapter Thirty Five.
His honour escapes his enemies at last.
It was less than a year since I had seen Knockowen. But all seemed changed. Weeds and grass were on the paths, the flower-beds were unkempt, the fences were broken in places, damp stains were spread over the house front. Everywhere were signs of neglect and decay. Had I not known his honour to be a wealthy man, I should have supposed him an impecunious person with no income to maintain his property. As it was, there was some other cause to seek, and that cause I set down to the absence of Miss Kit.
Twice between the pier and the house I was challenged by sentries, and when I reached the door I noticed that the lower windows were shuttered and barred like those of a prison.
I announced myself to the servant who answered my summons as I had done to the sentinels, without giving my name, and was presently shown into his honour’s room at the back of the house, which, as all the shutters were closed, was lit by candles, though it was still daylight.
I was shocked to see how Mr Gorman was changed. The sly, surly expression had given place to a hunted, suspicious look. His face was haggard and pale and his beard unkempt. He started at any little sound, and his mouth, once firm, now looked weak and irresolute. Worse still, there was a flavour of spirits about the room and the man which told its own tale, and accounted for his bloodshot eyes and shaking fingers as he looked up.
“Gallagher!” he exclaimed, rising to his feet in evident panic; “what brings you here in this disguise? What have I ever done to you?”
“It is no disguise, your honour,” said I, in as reassuring a tone as I could assume. “I am Lieutenant Gallagher now.”
“And what do you want here? Why do you come in this sudden way? Go away, sir, and come when you are wanted! Where is my guard?”
And the poor man, whom the landlord at Rathmullan had well described as broken, actually put out his trembling hand to reach a pistol that lay on the table.
“You mistake me,” said I, paying no heed to the gesture. “I came merely on business, and if you like you can call your guard in. I’ve nothing to say that they need not hear.”
“You’re a good fellow, Gallagher,” said his honour, reassured. “I’m a little shaken in the nerves, and your coming was so sudden. I know you could mean no harm to your old benefactor.”
It made my heart bleed to hear him talk thus miserably, and I resolved to shorten the interview as much as I could.
“Stay and dine with me,” said he, as eager to keep me now as he was to be rid of me a minute ago; “it’s lonely, night after night, with no one to speak to and nowhere to go. You’ve heard, no doubt, I am a prisoner here.”
“How so, sir?”
“There’s a sentence of death out against me—not in the king’s name, but in the name of Tim Gallagher, your brother, captain of the rebels here.”
“In Tim’s name!” exclaimed I. “It’s false! I swear he never signed it; he is not even in the country.”
“Don’t be too sure of that. Anyway he’s their chosen leader, and they do all in his name. I daren’t go outside my own doors after dark for fear of a bullet.”
“The scoundrels!” cried I, starting up; “and they dare drag Tim’s name into their vile machinations. I tell you, Mr Gorman, Tim would no more wink at murder than—than Miss Kit would. And, by the way, sir, what of Miss Kit?”
He looked round with his haggard face.
“What is that to you, Gallagher?”
“I love her,” said I bluntly, “and so I have a right to know.”
“You! the son of Mike the boatman, and brother of Tim the rebel! You dare—”
I cut him short.
“See here, Maurice Gorman; understand me. With or without you I will find her, if I have to seek her to the world’s end. I’ve done so before now; remember how we parted last.”
“Oh,” said he, “I know all that, and of your meeting her in Holland and placing her in Biddy McQuilkin’s care. She wrote me all about that; and it’s little I owe you for it. Biddy belongs, body and soul, to the rebel faction.”
“But she wouldn’t let a hair of Miss Kit’s head be hurt for all that.”
“How do you know that, so long as I could be made to suffer by it?”
“Where are they now, then?” I asked eagerly.
“Till lately she was in Dublin, in the family of Lord Edward, who, traitor as he is, is at least a gentleman, and a distant kinsman into the bargain. She was happy there; and what sort of place was this to bring a girl to? But look here,” said he, getting up and fumbling in a drawer among some papers, “what do you say to this?” and he put a letter, written in a delicate female hand, before me. It read as follows:—
“To Maurice Gorman, Esquire.
“Sir,—With great sorrow I inform you that Miss Gorman, while walking yesterday evening in the Park with her attendant McQuilkin, was surrounded by a gang of masked men, and they were both carried away, whither we know not. We are in terrible distress, and sparing no effort to find the dear girl, whom Lord Edward and I had come to love as a sister. Be assured you shall receive such news as there may be. Lord Edward’s wrath knows no bounds, and he even risks his own liberty (for he is a marked man) in seeking for them.—I have the honour to be, sir, your obedient servant, Pamela Fitzgerald.”
“That is from Lady Edward,” said his honour. “Now read this.”
The paper he handed me now was a dirty and illiterate scrawl, without date or signature.
“Maris Gorman,—Take note your doghter is in safe hands, and will not be returnd till you take the oth of the Unyted Irishmen and pay 5 hundred pounds sterling to the fund. Allso note that unless you come in quickly, you will be shott like a dog, and the devil help you for a trayter to Ireland.”
“Now,” said he, with a gloomy smile, “you know as much of my daughter’s whereabouts as I do.”
“This is terrible news,” said I. “How is it you are not in Dublin at this moment, moving heaven and earth to find her?”
He laughed bitterly.
“It’s easy talking,” said he. “In the first place, I should be shot before I reached my own gate; I have been practically a prisoner here for weeks. In the next place, what could I do? Even if I took the oath, where is the money to come from?”
“Five hundred pounds is a small sum to a rich man like you.”
“Whoever calls me rich, lies,” said he testily, and with an uneasy gesture which explained to my mind the dilapidated state of the place. Maurice Gorman was not only a poltroon but a miser, and five hundred pounds were worth more to him than his own daughter.
“Is nothing being done?” said I. “Have you shown the letter to the authorities, or to Lord Edward?”
“What use?” said he. “I am on too ill terms with either to expect their help.”
“And so you intend to leave that poor girl to her fate?” I cried. “But if you will not move, I will!”
“What can I do?” said he wearily. “You know how I am fixed. Perhaps when I am shot they will let her go. Maybe that will be the simplest way out of it, after all.”
I could not help pitying him, much as I despised him, so miserably did he speak.
Then he began to talk about the state of the country, and of the bad odour he had fallen into with his brother magistrates.
“They suspect me of being in with the rebels, Gallagher, as if I had cause to love them. On my soul, if I’m to be suspected, it sometimes seems I might as well be so with reason as without. Suppose, for the sake of argument, Gallagher, I took their precious oath—suppose it, I say, how should I stand then? By all appearances, Ireland is going to be delivered; and it will be a bad day when she comes into her own for those who withstood her. Should I be worse off by joining them? I’m told they are ready to welcome any man of position and landed interest on their side. It might be an opportunity of doing some service to my fellow countrymen. Besides, when a daughter’s liberty is at stake, one does not stand at sacrifice. They hate me now because I have been instrumental in thwarting them. By winning me over they would be rid of an obstacle; and all the favour I have shown them in the past in the matter of the arms, and allowing some of them to slip through the fingers of the law, would stand to my credit. Why, Gallagher,” added he, growing quite excited at the vision, “in the new Irish Government I should be a man of mark; and my fortune, instead of being confiscated, would be my own, and at the service of my friends. Why, you and Tim—”
“Are you so sure that fortune is your own now?” said I, losing my self-restraint at last.
He turned a little whiter as he glared round at me.
“You mean that improbable story of the changeling at Kilgorman,” said he, with a forced laugh. “As pure moonshine as ever was, and beyond all proof even if it wasn’t.”
“You forget Biddy McQuilkin has been found.”
“Did she say anything?” he demanded.
“She did, on her oath.”
“And, pray, what was her version of this wonderful story?”
“She told me all I needed to know—that is, which of us two was Terence Gorman’s son.”
“And which is, pray?”
“That is my secret. Time will show.”
“What!” exclaimed he, “some new conspiracy to rob me? And one of the conspirators a man who presumes to my daughter’s hand! Come, Gallagher, let you and me understand each other. I defy you, or Biddy, or any one, to make good your story. But if you are frank with me, you won’t find me unreasonable. Let me see the documents.”
“In good time, sir,” said I. “Now, as to the smugglers.”
And we proceeded to talk about the object of our cruise. I found he had little news to give me, or else he chose to give little, and after a while I rose to go. He pressed me to stay the night, urging his solitude; but I had no desire to prolong the interview.
“We shall meet again,” said I; “and you may rely on hearing from me if I have any news of your daughter.”
We were out on the doorstep by this time. It was a beautiful, fresh evening, with a half-moon hanging above the opposite hills and sending a broad track of shimmering light across the lough.
“It’s a tempting night,” said he. “I’ve not taken the air for days. I’ve a good mind to see you to your boat.”
For all that, he looked round uneasily, with the air of a man who suspected a lurking foe in every rustling leaf.
“Two of you men follow,” said he to the sentries at the door. “Keep me in view. Ah, how fresh the air is after that close room! Yes, Gallagher, you were speaking of my daughter. Since she left me—keep in the shade, man, it’s safer—this place has been a hell to me. What’s the use of—what’s that?” he exclaimed, catching my arm; “it sounded like a man’s breathing. What’s the use of keeping it up, I say? I’ve a mind to—”
He got no further. We had emerged from the shady walk into the moonlit path leading down to the pier. The two sentinels were just discernible ahead, and the footsteps of the two behind followed us close. There was no other sound in the stillness but his honour’s quavering voice, and nothing stirring but the leaves of the trees and the waves of the lough as they broke gently on the beach.
Suddenly there rang out from the water’s edge the sharp crack of a gun, followed by a wild howl. Mr Gorman staggered forward a pace and fell on his face. There was a rapid swish of oars, two hurried shots from the sentries, and the phantom of a little boat as it darted out across the moon track and lost itself in the blackness of the shadows.
In a moment I was kneeling beside the body of the poor dying man. The shot had struck him in the breast, and the life-blood was oozing away fast. He was conscious as we tried to lift him.
“Let me lie here,” said he. “I’m safe here now.”
But by this time the soldiers had him in their arms, and were bearing him gently towards the house.
It was little a doctor could do if we had one, but a soldier was sent to Fahan to bring one, and to take word of the murder. Meanwhile we laid him on his bed, and I did what I could to stanch the bleeding and ease his suffering.
For half-an-hour he lay in a sort of stupor. Then he said,—
“Gallagher, I want to speak—Send the others away—no, keep one for a witness.”
We did as he desired, and waited for what was to come.
Several minutes passed; then he tried to lift his head, and said,—
“It is true that one of you is Terence Gorman’s boy, I knew it, but only Biddy knows which it is. I had no hand in Terence’s murder, nor had Mike Gallagher, though I tried to put it on him. Write that down quickly, and I’ll sign it.”
I wrote his words hurriedly down, and read them over; but when it came to putting the pen in his hand, he fell back, and I thought all was over. But after a few minutes he rallied again.
“Hold me up—guide my hand—it all swims before me.”
The paper with his woeful scrawl affixed lies before me at this moment as I write.
“Gallagher,” said he, more faintly yet, “be good to Kit, and forgive me.”
“God will do that, your honour,” whispered I.
“Pray for me.—Ah!” cried he, starting suddenly in bed, and throwing up his arm as if to ward off a blow, “I’ll take the oath, boys. You shall have the money. God save—”
And he fell back, dead.
Next day an inquiry was held which ended in nothing. No trace of the murderer was to be found, and no evidence but that of us who saw the tragedy with our own eyes. Plenty of folk, who had given him a wide berth living, crowded to the place to look at the dead Gorman; but in all their faces there was not one sign of pity or compunction—nay, worse, that very night, on Fanad and Knockalla bonfires were lit to celebrate his murder.
The next day we buried him. For miles round no one could be found willing to make his coffin, and in the end we had to lay him in a common soldier’s shell. Nor would any one lend horse or carriage to carry him to his grave, and we had to take him by boat to his resting-place, rowing it through the gathering storm with our own arms. The flag half-mast on the Gnat was the only sign of mourning; and when we bore the coffin up to the lonely graveyard on the cliff-top at Kilgorman, and laid it beside that of his lady, in the grave next to that of the murdered Terence, not a voice but mine joined in the “Amen” to the priest’s prayer.
When all was said and done, I lingered on, heedless of the wind and rain, in the deserted graveyard, full of the strange memories which the place and scene recalled.
Eight years ago I had stood here with Tim at the open grave of her whom we both called mother. And on that same day her ghostly footstep had sounded in our ears in the grim kitchen of Kilgorman, summoning us to a duty which was yet unfulfilled. What had not happened since then? The boatman’s boys were grown, one into the heir of half the lough-side, the other into a servant of his Majesty. Tim, entangled hand and foot in the toils of a miserable conspiracy, was indifferent to the fortune now lying at his feet; I, engaged in the task of hunting down the rebels of whom he was a leader, was eating my heart out for love of her who called by the sacred name of father the murdered man who lay here, to whom we owed all our troubles. Was the day never to dawn? Was there never to be peace between Tim and me? And was Kit, like some will-o’-the-wisp, always to be snatched from my reach whenever I seemed to have found her for my own?
I lingered beside his honour’s grave till the daylight failed and the waters of the lough merged into the stormy night, and the black gables of Kilgorman behind me lost themselves against the blacker sky. The weather suited my mood, and my spirits rose as the hard sleet struck my cheek and the buffet of the wind sweeping the cliff-top sent me staggering for support against the graveyard wall. It made me feel at home again to meet nature thus, and I know not how long I drank in courage for my sick heart that night.
At length I turned to go, before even it occurred to me that I had nowhere to go. The Gnat lay in the roadstead off Rathmullan, beyond reach that night. The cottage on Fanad was separated from me by a waste of boiling water. In Knockowen the bloodstains were not yet dry. Kilgorman—yes, there was no place else. I would shelter there till daylight summoned me to my post of duty on the Gnat. Looking back now, I can see that destiny led my footsteps thither.
As I turned towards the house, I thought I perceived in that direction a tiny spark of light, which vanished almost as soon as it appeared. Still more remarkable, a faint glimmer of light appeared in a small gable-window high up, where assuredly I had never before seen a light. It may have been on this account or from old association that, instead of approaching the place by the upper path, I descended the cliff and made my way round to the cave by which so many of my former visits had been paid. Fortunately the gale was an easterly one, so that the water in the cave was fairly still, and I was able in the dark to grope my way to the ledge on which the secret passage opened.
All was quiet when at last I reached the recess of the great hearth and peered out into the dark kitchen. By all appearance no one had looked into the place since I was there last a year ago and left my note for Tim, and found the mysterious message which warned me of the plot to carry off Miss Kit. I wondered if the former paper was still where I left it, and was about to step out of my hiding-place in search of a light, when the crunching of footsteps on the path without and the flitting of a lantern past a window sent me back suddenly into retirement.
A moment’s consideration told me that it was easy to guess who the intruders might be. The night that Maurice Gorman had been laid in his grave would be a grand night for the rebels of Fanad. And who could say whether the object of their meeting might not be to consider the fate of Miss Kit herself, who, now that her father was dead, was no longer a hostage or the price of a ransom in their hands? There might at least be news of her, and even of Tim.
So I stood close, and waited as still as a mouse.