Chapter Thirty Four.
A step up the ladder.
A strange thing befell me as soon as I landed in Dublin. I was prowling along the quay, wondering whether I should present myself then and there at the Admiralty, or take French leave for Donegal while I was free and had money in my pocket, when I was startled out of my wits by what seemed to be a veritable ghost in my path. Unless I had been certain that I was the only survivor out of the ill-starred Zebra, I could have sworn I saw Mr Felton, the second lieutenant, leaning over the rails, watching the dressing of a smart-looking revenue cutter that lay out in the water-way. The more I looked the less like a ghost did he appear, until at last I ventured to walk up to him with a salute.
“Good-morrow, Lieutenant Felton,” said I.
“Captain, if you please,” said he, turning round. “What! is that you, Gallagher, or your ghost? I thought I was the only man that saved his life out of that fated ship.”
“I thought the same of myself, till this moment,” said I.
“I hung on to a cask for close on twenty-four hours, till an English lugger picked me up. But I’ll tell you of that later. Where do you spring from?”
“From hospital; I was on Duncan’s ship at the battle of Camperdown—”
“You were! Lucky dog!” interjected he.
“Where I got a crack in the shoulder, and am only just out.”
“And what are you going to do?”
“I am going to report myself at the Admiralty, and apply for a berth. I have my papers, and a letter from the admiral himself.”
“It strikes me they’ll have to build a ship for you,” said he, with a laugh; “for, supposing you to be dead, I gave such an extravagantly glowing account of your conduct on the Zebra, that I dare swear they’ll want to make a vice-admiral of you straight away. But what do you say to serve under me? Just at the time when I called at the Admiralty they had received a pressing request from the Customs to find them an officer to take charge of a cutter—there she lies,” pointing to the smart craft he had been inspecting; “and they gave me the offer, and I took it. And I’m on the look-out for a few smart hands, especially a first officer.”
“Nothing would suit me better,” said I, “if I can get the proper step. I’m only a boatswain, you know.”
“That will not be difficult with the papers you have got and your record. At a time like this they are not stiff about promotion, provided they get the proper men. So come along and beard the lions at once.”
“There’s one thing, sir,” said I, “that I must do before I can join any ship—I must take a run home to Donegal, to—”
“Donegal! why, that’s where we’re ordered to, man. There’s a gang of smugglers on the coast between Inishowen and Fanad that we’ve got to catch; and if that’s near your home—”
“Near!” I exclaimed; “sure it is my home. I know every creek and shoal of the coast in the dark.”
“That settles it,” said Captain Felton, thumping me on the back; “you are the man I want, and I’m the man you want. Come away!”
As he had predicted, my papers, and especially Admiral Duncan’s letter, added to the previous favourable reports of Captain Swift and Mr Felton, stood me in good stead with the authorities, especially just then when there was a dearth of men to fill all the vacancies caused by the war. I was told to call again on the following day, when, to my astonishment, I was handed a commission appointing me a lieutenant in his Majesty’s navy, and a letter of recommendation to the Customs for appointment to the Gnat, Captain Felton’s cutter.
With a bound of joy I found myself, by some strange shifting of the luck, a gentleman and an officer after all—humble and poor indeed, but entitled to hold my head with the best; and what was more—and that sent the blood tingling through my veins—no longer beyond the range of my little mistress’s recognition as a suitor. A paltry distinction if you will, and one in name only; for the gentleman is born, not made by Admiralty warrants; and had I been a cur at heart, no promotion could have made me otherwise. But if at heart I was a gentleman, this new title gave me the right to call myself one, and opened a door to me which till now I had thought fast shut.
The week that followed was one of busy work; so busy that I had scarce time to wander through my old haunts in Dublin and notice the air of sullen mischief which brooded over the city. Men were watched and watching at every corner, guards were doubled, officials walked abroad only under escort. This man was pointed out as a leader of the coming “turn-out”—for so they spoke of the rebellion that was to follow—that was marked down as a traitor, and walked with the sentence of death in his hang-dog face. This man was spoken of as one to be got at and won over; and that was hooted and spat upon as he rode past in his gay equipage amid flying stones, and now and again a bullet out of space, which made him glad enough to retreat into cover. But these last demonstrations were less common than the dull, savage air of menace which pervaded the place. Something assuredly was going to happen.
Some said the French were already on their way to Ireland, and that their landing was to be the signal for a general rising. Others whispered that Lord Edward had his plans ripe for the capture of the capital, and the setting up of the new Irish republic. Many said all this suspense was just the sign that no leader was ready to fire the mine, and unless the blow was struck soon it would not be struck at all. As to the men in office and the police, they held their peace, saying nothing, but hearing all.
I encountered no one I knew, except one man, him who once had stopped me on the steps of the hotel, after my first meeting with Lord Edward, and who had offered me money for information. To my surprise he now greeted me by name.
“Good-day, Mr Gallagher; glad to meet you. How go matters in Donegal? and how is Lord Edward?”
I stared at him in amazement.
“I have not the honour to know you,” said I, walking on.
But he followed, linking his arm in mine.
“Come now,” said he; “you know me well enough. But be assured you have nothing to fear from me if you are open. Your name is well-known at the Castle as a leader of the conspiracy, and a friend of Lord Edward’s. A word from me, and you would get free board and lodging in Newgate, if not a yard or two of rope thrown in; but I have no wish to hurt you. These are dangerous times, though.”
“I tell you, sir,” repeated I, “I am not the man you take me for, so kindly address yourself to some one else.”
“Tush!” said he, “what’s the use between friends? Tim Gallagher is as well-known a name as O’Connor’s.”
Tim Gallagher! Then they took me for Tim, not myself.
“And what information is it you want, and for whom?” I demanded, trying to conceal my curiosity.
“Turn up here; it’s quieter,” said he, drawing me into a side street, “and I’ll tell you. I’ve no commission, mind you, but I’ll undertake to say your candour will be worth a couple of hundred pounds in your pocket within twenty-four hours.”
“Go on,” said I, feeling my toes tingling to kick this man, who could suppose Tim Gallagher a common informer.
“It’s known you’re lately returned from Paris,” said he, “with an important message from the rebel leaders there, and that that message concerns among other things the coming French invasion.”
“Well?”
“Well! can you ask? It is presumed the leaders in Dublin know your news by this time, and are making arrangements accordingly. If so, it is worth a couple of hundred pounds to you, as I said, to let me know what is going forward.”
“And if not?”
“Simply that a warrant is out for the arrest of Timothy Gallagher, at present in Dublin disguised as a naval officer, and it rests with me to put it into motion. So come,” said he, halting and facing me, “make up your mind.”
We had now reached the end of the street, which was a deserted one, backing on the Park. It had been all I could do to keep myself within bounds and refrain from knocking this contemptible cur on the head. Prudence, and a desire to learn something more about Tim alone had restrained me.
Now that, one way or another, the matter was come to an issue, I hesitated as to what I should do. Either I might put him off, and invent a story to please him, or I might refuse to answer anything, or I might convince him of his mistake, or I might run for it. In the first case, I should be acting unfairly to Tim; in the other cases, I should be risking my own liberty at a time I particularly needed it. Suddenly a fifth course opened before me. At the end of the street was a coach-house, the door of which stood open, and the key on the outside. It had evidently been left thus by a careless groom, for the place was empty and no one was in sight.
Quick as thought I caught my man by the scrag of his neck and pitched him head first into the stable, taking time only to say, as I drew to the door and turned the key. “Take that from Tim Gallagher’s brother, you dog!” After which I walked away, leaving him kicking his feet sore against the tough timbers.
I returned straight to the Gnat, and told Captain Felton exactly how matters stood, requesting him to allow me to remain on board till it was time to sail.
“Which will be in two days,” said he. “I’m sorry, though, you’re afflicted with a scoundrel of a brother. I had the same trouble myself once, and know what it is like.”
“Tim’s no scoundrel,” said I hotly, “though he’s on the wrong side. He’s a gentleman; and when it comes to that, I’ve no right to talk of him as my brother at all.”
“Well, please yourself,” said Captain Felton, who evidently did not care to discuss the matter. “That doesn’t concern me, as long as you handle the Gnat smartly and get into no scrapes yourself. We can’t afford to let private concerns interfere with the king’s business.”
Two days later all was ready, and, to my great relief, we weighed anchor and ran out of the bay with a brisk south-easterly breeze. The Gnat proved an excellent sailer, and, fitted as she was with ten six-pounders, and manned by a crew of twenty smart hands, she was a formidable enough customer for any smuggler that had to reckon with her.
We put in at Larne in expectation of getting some news of the marauders we were in search of, but found none. We were, however, warned to keep our eyes open not only for smugglers, but for foreign craft which were said to be at the old business of landing arms for the Ulster rebels, who by all accounts were in a very red-hot state, and longing anxiously for the signal to rise. Indeed, so threatening did things appear generally that the authorities gave Captain Felton peremptory instructions to allow nothing to stand in the way of his communicating immediately to headquarters any intelligence (particularly as to the expected French landing) with which in the course of his cruise he might meet.
“This puts a boot on our other leg,” said the captain to me that evening, as we watched the sunset light fade over Fair Head. “It seems to me collecting customs will be the least part of our business. Never mind. I’d sooner put a bullet into a rebel any day than into a poor beggar who tries to land a keg of whisky for nothing. Fortune send us either, though!”
It seemed as if this wish were not without reason; for though we cruised up and down for a fortnight, watching every bay and creek between Ballycastle and Sheep Haven, we came upon nothing but honest fisher craft and traders.
At last, to my relief—for I was growing impatient to hear news of my little mistress—Captain Felton bade me run the cutter into Lough Swilly. And knowing my desire, he made an excuse to send me ashore at Rathmullan for provisions, bidding me return within three days, unless I was signalled for earlier.
It was a Sunday morning when I found myself once more in the familiar inn at Rathmullan. I soon found that my host, who took little note of his customers, did not remember me; and he was civil enough now to one of his Majesty’s lieutenants, and eager to execute my commissions for stores.
“Faith, sir,” said he, “and it’s some of us will be glad to see the luck back, for it’s gone entirely since the troubles began.”
“You mean the smuggling?” said I, by way of drawing him out.
“That and other things. These are bad times for honest folk.”
As I knew the fellow to be an arrant harbourer of smugglers and rebels, I took his lamentation for what it was worth.
“Maybe you’re a stranger to these parts, captain,” said he presently, giving me another step in the service.
“I’ve heard something of them,” said I. “I met a young fellow called Gallagher not long since, and he was talking of Lough Swilly.”
“Tim was it, or Barry?” asked the landlord, with interest.
“Are there two of them, then?”
“Faith, yes; and one’s as black as the other’s white. Tim, bless him! is a rale gentleman and a friend to the people.”
“Which means a rebel, I suppose. And what of Barry?”
“Bedad, he’s a white-livered sneak, and he’d best not show his face in these parts. There’s a dozen men sworn to have the life of him.”
I laughed.
“It must have been Tim I spoke to, then, for he spoke well of you, and said you had some excellent rum in your cellar. Maybe he knew more about it than the Custom-House, eh?”
This put mine host in a flutter, and he vouched by all the saints in the calendar he had not a drop in the house on which he had not paid duty. And as Tim Gallagher had mentioned the rum, would I be pleased to try a glass?
“Where is this Tim now?” I inquired, when the glasses were brought.
“’Deed, captain, that’s more than I can tell you. He was wanted badly by the boys here, who chose him their captain for the turn-out that’s to be; but it’s said he’s abroad on the service of the country, and we’ll likely see him back with the Frenchmen when they come.”
“Ah, you’re expecting the Frenchmen, are you? So are we. I may meet this Tim Gallagher over a broadside yet.”
“If you do, dear help you, for Tim’s got a long arm, I warn you.”
As I was about to go, I inquired,—
“By the way, you have a magistrate living somewhere near here, haven’t you a Mr Gorman, whom I am to see on business.”
The landlord’s face fell.
“Ay. His honour’s house is across the lough yonder at Knockowen. But you’ll get little value out of him. He’s a broken man.”
“How broken?”
“Arrah, it’s a long story. He’s run with the hare and hunted with the hounds too long, and there’s no man more hated between here and the Foyle. His life’s not worth a twopenny-piece.”
“Was he the man whose daughter was carried off?” I asked as innocently as I could.
“Who told you that?” said he, with a startled look. “Not Tim. If it had been Barry now, the scoundrel, he could have told you more of that than any man. Ay, that’s he.”
“Did he ever get her back?”
“’Deed, there’s no telling. He says not a word. But he hangs every honest man that comes across him. I’d as soon swim from Fanad to Dunaff in a nor’-westerly gale as call up at Knockowen.”
“Well,” said I, with a laugh, “get me a boat, for I must see him at once, and take my chance of a hanging. Give me oars and a sail; I can put myself over.”
So once more I found myself on the familiar tack, with Knockowen a white speck on the water-side ahead. What memories and hopes and fears crowded my mind as I slid along before the breeze! How would his honour receive me this time? Should I find Knockowen a trap from which I should have to fight my way out? Should I—here I laughed grimly—spend the night dangling at a rope’s end from one of the beeches in the avenue? Above all, should I find Miss Kit there, or any news of her? Then I gave myself up to thinking of her, and the minutes passed quickly, till it was time to slip my sheet and row alongside the landing-stage.
“Halt! who goes there?” cried a voice.
“A friend,” said I; “first officer of his Majesty’s cutter Gnat, with a message from the captain to Mr Gorman.”
“Pass, friend,” said the sentry, grounding his gun with a clang.
“Ah,” thought I, as I walked up the well-known path, remembering the half-hour I had been kept waiting at my last visit, “it’s something to be an officer and a gentleman after all.”