Chapter Twenty Eight.
Two old acquaintances.
Save to turn my back on a region which had now become full of gloomy associations, I had no very definite purpose in view in that morning’s ride. There was nothing to be done. The mischief to her I loved was beyond recall. Even those who had made themselves the agents of this vile conspiracy had placed themselves out of reach. Tim, my own brother, was nominal chief to the hated band, and though he was absent, and would, I knew, have had no hand in this business, to denounce the whole company would be only to strike at him. From Maurice Gorman, coward and time-server, there was nothing to be hoped. Not a friend was there on whom I could count, not an enemy on whom I could have the sorry satisfaction of being revenged.
As, however, the gallop through the bracing morning air produced its natural effect, it occurred to me to offer my services, during the remainder of my leave of absence, to Captain Swift, or, should he desire it, join the Diana forthwith, and try to forget my trouble in hard work.
His honour’s passport took me safely past the numerous patrols which beset my way between Malin and Derry, and which spoke much for the rigour with which the new régime of martial law was being enforced. Once or twice I was questioned as to the two ladies named in the pass, to which I replied that I was to foregather with them presently—which I devoutly wished might be true.
At Derry more than usual ceremony awaited a stranger at the gates. I was conducted to the guard-room, and there detained under a kind of friendly arrest for half-an-hour or so, until it suited the pleasure of the officer on guard to inspect me.
When this gentleman made his appearance, I recognised, not altogether with delight, my old acquaintance and supposed rival, Captain Lestrange. He failed to recognise me at first, but when I reminded him of our last meeting in Paris, he took in who I was.
“Those were hard times,” said he. “How I ever got the ladies out of that terrible city I scarcely know to this day. I see you travel on Mr Gorman’s business, and escort two ladies. Where are they?”
“I wish I knew,” said I, and gave him a full account of my ride to Malin and all that happened there.
He heard my story with growing attention and consternation.
“Decoyed!” he exclaimed vehemently. “The dogs shall pay for this! I remember that scoundrel Martin.”
“Shall you go to Rotterdam?” said I.
“I?” said he, looking at me in surprise. “I am no man of leisure just now.”
“But report says you have a particular interest in Miss Gorman’s welfare.”
“Rumour commits many impertinences,” replied he with an angry frown. “For all that, I am not master of my own movements just now. I am here to hunt down rebels; and among them, unless I mistake, a brother of yours holds a prominent place.”
I winced.
“At least,” said I, “he never had hand either in murder, or pillage, or meanness to a woman. He is an honest soldier, though, alas! on the wrong side.”
Captain Lestrange laughed.
“It is the fashion of these rebels,” said he, “to dignify themselves as soldiers and claim the honours of war. But when we get hold of them they will learn that there is a difference between felony and warfare. Can you not persuade your brother out of it? I hear he is a fine fellow.”
“I have tried,” said I, mollified by this compliment; “but it is useless, and at present he is not to be found.”
“That’s the best place for him. As to Miss Gorman, I will go over to Knockowen and see if anything can be done to intercept the Dutchman. Meanwhile what of you?”
“I go to join my ship.”
“Good. We may meet again, Gallagher. Our paths have met strangely before now. Heaven grant they may bring us out into fair weather at last.”
I left him on the whole in good cheer. There was a blunt frankness about him which led me to believe that were I ever to be called upon to meet Captain Lestrange as an enemy, it would be as an honest and generous one. His affected indolence had already been disproved by the service he had rendered to the ladies in Paris. His regrets as to Tim showed that he was a man in whom the kindlier instincts were not all wanting. What, however, comforted me most was his tone with regard to Miss Kit. There was nothing of the lover about the words, and too little of the actor about the man to lead me to suppose he was deluding me. Why should he? He was my superior in birth and rank. He had claims of kinship and property which pointed him out as the natural squire for the heiress of Kilgorman. The idea of my being a rival had probably never entered his head; and if it had, would have done so only to raise a smile of incredulous pity. But that a lover could receive the news I brought as he did seemed quite impossible. So I went on my way, if not cheered, at least with a less heavy weight on my mind than before.
I found Captain Swift in bed with an attack of jaundice, and in a state of high excitement.
“How did you know I wanted you?” he said when I presented myself.
“I did not, sir,” said I. “Have you any orders for me?”
“A despatch has come from the Admiralty,” said he, “cancelling all leave of absence. The Diana being still under repair, I am appointed to the Zebra, now off Dublin, and ordered to sail on Saturday to join the fleet watching the Dutch off the Texel.”
I hope he put down to zeal for the service the whole of the satisfaction with which I received this announcement. No work just then could fit in better with my humour than watching the Dutchmen.
“Be ready to start by to-night’s coach,” said he. “I shall follow to-morrow, with or without my doctor’s leave. Here is a letter I wish you to deliver at the Admiralty. Then report yourself on board. I hear she’s an ill-found craft, and no one knows what sort of crew they will rake up for us. I wish the Diana hands were within call,” he added to himself.
Next day I was in Dublin, and duly left my captain’s letter at the Admiralty. I was instructed to report myself on board the Zebra before sundown, as there was much work to be done getting crew and stores in order ready for our immediate departure.
Having an hour or two at my disposal, I took a walk through the streets. Dublin, to all outward appearance, was in an orderly and peaceable state, and gave few signs of being, what it actually was at that time, the hotbed of a dangerous rebellion. It was only when I dived into some of the lower streets near the river, and saw the mysterious and ominous groups which hung about at the corners, and noticed the menacing looks with which they greeted any chance passer-by who was known to be a servant of the government, that I realised that I walked, as it were, on the edge of a volcano. How soon I was to experience for myself the terrors of that coming explosion the reader will hear.
I had got beyond the streets and into the Park, attracted thither by strains of martial music, when, in a retired path, I encountered a gentleman dressed in a close-fitting, semi-military coat, with a green scarf round his neck, and switching a cane to and fro as he paced moodily along. I recognised him as Lord Edward.
He looked up as I approached and at once recognised me.
“Ah, Gallagher, what news from Donegal? How is the charming fair one?” said he.
“The charming fair one,” said I, with a bitterness that startled him, “is a victim in the hands of your lordship’s followers. She has been decoyed away and carried off to Holland as an act of reprisal against her father.”
“What?” said he. “Tell me what you mean.”
And I told him my story. He listened, switching his cane against his leg, and watching my face with keen interest.
“It is part of the fortune of war,” said he, “that the innocent suffer for the guilty. But this must be seen to at once. The Scheldt will probably make for Holland by the north route. If so, she will not arrive at Rotterdam for a week or two. By that time I will communicate with some one I know near there, and see she is taken care of. Hang the fools!” muttered he. “What good can come to any one by such an act?”
“Indeed, my lord,” said I, “if I may venture to say so; Ireland has little to look for from her professed friends in Donegal, where private spite and greed are the main support of your confederacy.”
“You are not the first who has told me that,” said he gloomily. “No doubt you are glad to see our weakness in this quarter.”
“I should be but that my brother, although absent, is the nominal head there, and it’s little credit to him.”
“Tim Gallagher is too good a man to be wasted.”
“Do you know where he is?” I inquired.
“Abroad on his country’s service,” said Lord Edward. “You must be content with that. Here our ways part. Good-bye, my lad.” And he gave me a friendly nod.
“Your lordship will pardon me one question. Have you any objection to tell me the address of the friend in Holland to whose care you propose to commend Miss Gorman?”
“She is an old retainer in a kinswoman’s family, one Biddy McQuilkin. She keeps a little inn on the outskirts of the Hague, called the ‘White Angel.’”
“Biddy McQuilkin!” exclaimed I with excitement. “Why, she was servant to the Lestranges in Paris, who perished in ‘the terror.’”
“The same. This Biddy was overlooked, and finally escaped, and by the interest of Madame Sillery got to Holland, and set up at this small inn, frequented by English and Irish visitors.”
It was difficult to disguise the joy which this unexpected discovery afforded me. I bade adieu to his lordship with a grateful salute, and then betook myself in a state of wonder and jubilation to the harbour.
In Biddy McQuilkin were centred any hopes I entertained of righting the wrong which had been done at Kilgorman, and so of carrying out my mother’s sacred bequest. Moreover, the thought that Miss Kit would find so stalwart a protector at the end of her unhappy voyage lifted a heavy weight from my mind.
And all this relief I owed to the man whom, of all others, I, as a loyal subject of his Majesty, was bound to consider as my country’s most dangerous enemy! Alack! I was not born to be a good hater. For as I strode that evening through the streets of Dublin I counted this Lord Edward as one of the few men for whom I would gladly have given my life.
When in due time I procured a boat to row me out to the Zebra, I found that Captain Swift’s forebodings as to the state of the ship were only too well founded. The Zebra was a second-rate frigate, which for some years had been out of regular commission, doing duty on coast-guard service, or cruising under letters of marque. She was not an ill-looking craft; though, to judge by her looks as she rode at anchor, her lines were better adapted to fast sailing than hard knocks.
When I reported myself on board, however, I was better able to understand my captain’s misgivings. The first lieutenant in charge was a coarse, brutal-looking fellow, who, if he spared me some of the abuse which he measured out to the ordinary seamen, did so because he looked to me to take some labour off his hands.
“It’s high time you came,” said he; “and unless you can lick a pack of wolves into shape, you may as well swing yourself up at the yard-arm at once. They seem to have emptied all the jails in Dublin to find us men; and as for stores—well, the less said about these the better.”
I was not long in discovering that he had good reasons for his gloomy opinions. The hands, whom presently I piped on deck, were as ill-assorted and ill-conditioned a lot as boatswain ever was called upon to overhaul. Many were raw hands, who did not know one end of a mast from the other. Others, who knew better, appeared to be the refuse of crews which had rejected their worst men. And the few old salts of the right kind were evidently demoralised and dissatisfied, both at their enforced association with their present messmates and with the abrupt termination of their leave ashore.
As to the officers, with the exception of the first lieutenant and a few of the petty officers who took their cue from him, they seemed a decent and fairly smart set, although few of them had been tried in active service, and fewer still, I fancy, had had charge of so ill-found a ship as the Zebra.
One of the first complaints I was called upon to hear and report to my officers was as to the ship’s food, which was truly as scurvy and unsavoury a provision as I ever saw. Biscuits and grog and pork were such as the lowest slop-shop in Letterkenny would have been ashamed to sell.
“It’s good enough for hounds like them,” was all I could get out of the lieutenant. “They can take it or leave it.”
The next complaint I made was on my own account, and referred to the ship’s stores. We had barely our complement of anchors and cables, still less any to come and go on. For reserve spars and sails and other tackle we were almost as badly off; while the ammunition and arms were certainly not enough for a service involving any considerable action.
The officer in charge received all these representations with the utmost indifference.
“Get better if you can,” said he; “it’s all of a piece, and quite proper for a service that’s gone to the dogs. Hark at those demons now! The rum seems good enough, anyhow.”
And indeed all that night the Zebra was more like a madhouse than one of his Majesty’s ships. What authority there was was maintained at the end of the cat-o’-nine-tails. As for the enthusiasm and patriotic ardour which are usually supposed to hail the prospect of close-quarters with the enemy, one would have had to listen long and hard for any sign of either below decks that night.
“The best that can happen to us,” said I to myself, as I turned in at last, “is a hurricane up Channel, and the Dutch fleet at the end of it. These may hold us together; nothing else will.”
When Captain Swift came on board next evening things mended a little, for our gallant officer was a man whose name and manner both commanded respect. At the last moment some few additional stores were brought off; and the little speech he made to the crew, reminding them of their honourable profession, and holding out a prospect of distinction and prize-money in the near future, was listened to with more respect than I feared it would meet. The men, through one of their number, made a formal complaint of their grievances, which Captain Swift received on his part without resentment. The order was then given to weigh anchor, and half-an-hour later the Zebra was standing out to sea on as ill-starred a voyage as vessel ever made.
Had Captain Swift’s health been equal to his gallantry and tact all might even yet have gone well. But he came on board ill, and two days after we sailed he was confined to his berth with a dangerous relapse, and the fate of the Zebra was left in the hands of the worst possible man for the duty—Mr Adrian, the first lieutenant.