Chapter Twenty Six.
Martial Law.
I spent the rest of that day in wandering over the familiar haunts on Fanad, in the vain hope of encountering Tim. Towards night, worn-out with weariness and excitement, I abandoned the quest, and dropped back on the tide to Rathmullan.
The place was full of reports of the new orders which had come from Dublin for the disarming of the people, and of the military rigour with which soldiers and magistrates between them were putting their powers into force. Nearly a hundred stands of arms had, it was rumoured, been captured the day before at Milford, and one man who resisted the search had been hung summarily on the nearest tree.
As I sat screened off in a quiet corner of the inn over my supper, a new-comer entered and joined the group who were discussing the news of the day in the public-room.
“Well?” was the greeting of one or two as he entered.
“Whisht, boys! we’re done intirely,” said the new-comer.
“How done? Did he not pass that road?”
“He did; but never a hair of him was singed.”
“I knew Paddy was a botch with the gun,” said one; “there should have been better than him for such a job. Was he taken?”
“’Deed, I don’t know how it all happened, but you’re out about Paddy. He did his best, I’m told, and there were two to second him. But the job had got wind, and Paddy got a shot in the arm before he could let fly. And they tell me the other two are taken.”
A cry of consternation went round the audience. “If Flanagan’s one of them—”
“The very boy.”
“It’ll be a bad job for us all, then, for Flanagan will save his skin if twenty others swing for it. Where is he?”
“At Knockowen for the night.”
“No news of Tim Gallagher?”
“Not a word. It’s a wonder what’s keeping him. He’s badly wanted.”
“’Deed, you may say so. He’s the only gineral we have.”
“As for Flanagan,” said some one else, “I’m thinking he may not have toime to turn king’s evidence. They’re making quick work of the boys now. Is there no getting him away out of that before he tells?”
“Knockowen’s guarded like a fort, with a troop of horse quartered in it.”
“Dear, oh! Do the rest of the boys know of it?”
“Ay, and they’ve scattered. And I’m thinking that is what we’d best do, in case Flanagan names names.”
“You’re roight,” said the chief speaker, rising. “By the powers, there’ll be a big reckoning for all this when Tim comes home.”
And they trooped out into the road.
All this was disturbing enough, and decided me to be early at my appointment with his honour in the morning.
“Yet,” said I to myself, “men who can talk thus above their breath in a public inn are not the sort of men that will turn the land upside down. What would Lord Edward say if he could hear them—or Tim, for the matter of that?”
It was scarcely eight o’clock next morning when I pulled boldly up to his honour’s pier and moored my boat.
At the garden entrance stood a trooper on guard, who brought his gun to the port and demanded what I wanted, “I am here to see his honour, at his bidding.”
“What is your name?”
“Barry Gallagher.”
The soldier gave a whistle, and a comrade from within approached, to whom he spoke a few words.
“Wait there!” said the sentinel to me, closing the gate as if I were a beggar, and resuming his pacing to and fro.
I swallowed my pride as best I could. If I had been fool enough to flatter myself I was to be welcomed with open arms and made much of for yesterday’s exploit, this was a short way of undeceiving me. For a quarter of an hour I kicked my heels on the narrow causeway, looking up sometimes at the windows of the house for a chance glimpse of my little lady. How would she meet me after all these years? Would it be mere graciousness to one who had done her a service, or something more? I should soon know.
The sentinel presently opened the gate and beckoned me to approach.
“Pass, Gallagher,” said he, motioning me to follow his comrade.
The latter conducted me up the garden, and round the house to the yard, where a strange scene met my eyes.
A soldier stood on guard at each doorway. In the middle of the open space was a table, and at it three chairs, in which sat his honour, another gentleman, and a choleric-looking man in the uniform of a captain of horse. Standing before the table handcuffed, and in the custody of three policemen, stood Flanagan and his comrade, whom I had last left back to back on Black Hill Road.
His honour recognised my arrival with a cold nod, and Flanagan, who was apparently under examination at the moment, scowled viciously. The other prisoner, who seemed as much fool as knave, looked with white face first at his judges, then at the doors, and finally with a listless sigh straight before him.
“How many does your society consist of?” his honour’s fellow-magistrate was inquiring of Flanagan as I arrived.
“Och, your honour, there you puzzle me,” began the shifty informer; “it might be—”
The officer brought his fist down on the table with a sound which brought all the soldiers about the place to attention, and made the prisoners start.
“Speak out, sir, or you shall swing on that hook on the wall in two minutes.”
“Arrah, colonel dear, sure I’m telling you. There’s forty-eight sworn men, and that’s the truth.”
“You are the secretary,” said the magistrate. “Give me a list of their names.”
“’Deed, sir, my memory is not what it was, and the book—”
“Here ’tis, captain,” said a soldier, advancing with a salute, and holding out a small copy-book; “it was found on him.”
“That will do,” said the magistrate, putting it down without examining it. “Who is your captain or leader?”
“Who’s the captain?” repeated the prisoner vaguely.
“You hear what I say,” replied the magistrate. “Answer the question at once!”
“The captain? Sure, sir, it’s Tim Gallagher, own brother to the man who’s standing there.”
Here all eyes were turned on me, and I found it difficult to endure the unfriendly scrutiny with composure. Had I walked into a trap after all, and instead of thanks was I to find myself implicated in this plot and suspected as a rebel?
“Tim Gallagher,” said the magistrate, turning to his honour. “Do you know him, Gorman?”
“I do,” replied Mr Gorman shortly, and evidently uneasy. “His father was once a boatman on my place.”
“Ah, and a smuggler too, wasn’t he? We used to hear of him at Malin sometimes.”
“Likely enough. He was drowned some years ago.”
“And his two sons are rebels?”
“One is by all accounts,” said his honour; “the other is here, and can speak for himself.”
“I am no more a rebel than you,” said I hotly, without waiting to be questioned. “I am a servant of the king. His honour here knows if I ever joined with them.”
“It is true,” said his honour, as I thought rather grudgingly, “this rough-spoken young man was the one who frustrated the attempt on me yesterday. I know of nothing against his loyalty.”
“Yet,” said the presiding magistrate, who had been turning over the leaves of the secretary’s book, “I find Barry Gallagher’s name down here as having taken the oath. How’s that?”
“It’s false!” exclaimed I, betraying more confusion at this sudden announcement than was good for me. “I was once forced, years ago, with a gun at my head, to repeat the words or some of them; but I was never properly sworn!”
“How did you hear of the attempt that was to be made on Mr Gorman?” demanded the officer suspiciously.
“By accident, sir. I overheard the whole plot.”
“Where?”
“That doesn’t matter. I’m not under arrest?”
At this the officer glared at me, his honour drummed his fingers on the table, and the other magistrate looked sharply up.
“We can remedy that in a moment,” said he; “and will do so unless you treat this court with more respect. We require you to say if you know the meeting-place of this gang.”
“Sure, your honour, I’m after telling you—” began Flanagan, when he was peremptorily ordered to be silent.
“Answer the question!” thundered the officer, “or—”
Mr Gorman looked up. He had his own good reasons for preventing any revelations as to the secret uses to which Kilgorman had been put in past times.
“Pardon me, captain, would it not be much better to take information like this in a more private manner, if we are to run these villains to earth? At present, what we have to decide is as to the two prisoners; and there seems no question as to their guilt. I identify them both as the men who attacked my car, and whom Gallagher here helped to capture.”
The officer growled something about interfering civilians, but the other magistrate adopted his honour’s view.
“Perhaps you are right, Gorman; but we must find out their hiding-places for all that later on.—Have you any questions to ask, Captain Lavan?”
“Only how long is this formality going on? It’s as clear a case as you could have, and yet here have we been sitting an hour in this draughty yard trying to obscure it,” said the soldier gruffly. “I’m sent here to administer martial law, not to kick my heels about in a police-court.”
The two magistrates took this rebuke meekly, and the president proceeded to pronounce his sentence.
“Cassidy,” said he to the prisoner who had not spoken, and who had evidently refused to answer any question, “you have been caught red-handed in a cowardly attempt to murder an officer of his Majesty, and have admitted your guilt. You have also been proved to be a sworn rebel against the king, and engaged in a conspiracy to overturn his government in Ireland. According to the law, your life is forfeited, and I have no alternative but to hand you over to the military authorities for immediate execution.”
“Guards!” cried the captain, rising, “advance! Take the prisoner outside and shoot him. Quick march!”
Cassidy, who heard his sentence without concern or emotion, shouted,—
“Down with the king! Down with informers!” and fell in between his executioners, as they marched from the yard.
“As for you, Flanagan, your guilt is equally clear and heinous; but you have given evidence which entitles you to more lenient treatment. You will be taken to Derry Jail, till arrangements are made to send you out of the country—”
“Faith, I’d start this day!” said Flanagan, on whom the perils of remaining within reach of his late comrades were evidently beginning to dawn.
“Silence! Remove the prisoner!”
At this moment the report of a volley in the paddock without sent a grim shudder through the party. Flanagan, with a livid face, walked off between his guards, and the three magistrates turned to enter the house.
His honour beckoned to me to follow, and took me into his private room.
“I owe you something for yesterday,” said he in his ungracious way. “Take a word of advice. Get out of these parts as soon as you can, and warn your brother to do the same.”
“Why should I go?” said I. “I’ve done nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Unless you are prepared to tell the authorities everything you know, and assist in hunting down the rebels, you are better away. You are a marked man already among the rebels. Unless you assist our side you will be a marked man among the authorities.”
“If it comes to that, your honour,” said I, “there is no man more marked in these parts than yourself. The boys could forgive you for being on the English side, but they can’t forgive you for having encouraged them once and turned against them now.”
His honour turned white at this.
“How do you know that?” he demanded.
“How does every one know it?” replied I. “Your enemies are not likely to let you off with yesterday’s attempt.”
His honour looked at me as if he would read in my face something more than my words expressed. I was older now than I once was, and I was my own master, so I had no reason to avoid his scrutiny.
“I have given you the advice of a friend,” said he coldly; “take it or leave it. Meanwhile, your business here is at an end.”
“May I see Miss Kit?” said I, in a milder tone, which his honour at once observed. “She desired to see me when I came to-day.”
“Miss Gorman is not at home.”
This was a blow to me, and I had not the art to conceal it.
“Will she be back to-day?” I ventured to ask.
“No; she has gone on a visit to friends,” replied his honour, who evidently enjoyed my disappointment.
“She expected to be at home when I saw her yesterday.”
“And what of that? Pray, what matters it to you?”
“Only this,” said I, warming up, “that I would lay down my life any day for Miss Kit; and it is for her sake, and for her alone, that I would be sorry to see harm come to a man to whom I owe nothing but harshness and injury.”
I repented as soon as I had said the words, but he gave me no chance of drawing back. He laughed dryly.
“So that’s at the bottom of it? The son of a boatman and smuggler aspires to be son-in-law to the owner of Knockowen and Kilgorman—a pretty honour indeed!”
Here I flung all prudence to the winds, and glared in his face as I said,—
“Suppose, instead of the son of a boatman and smuggler, the man who loved your daughter were the son of him whose estates and fortune you have stolen, what then, Mr Gorman?”
He looked at me attentively for a moment, and his face turned so white that I thought him about to swoon. It was a moment or two before he could master his tongue, and meanwhile he kept his eyes on me like a man fascinated.
“Fool!” he gasped at last. “You don’t know what you are talking about.” Then with a sudden recovery of composure, and in a voice almost conciliatory, he added, “Miss Kit is about to visit her friends in Dublin, and will not be back here for weeks. Take the advice of a friend, Gallagher, and get away from these parts. To give you the chance, you may, if you wish to serve me, ride to Malin instead of Martin, and escort my daughter as far as Derry.”
“Miss Kit might prefer some other escort,” said I.
“She might. You are not bound to wait upon her. But I can give you a pass if you do.”
“When does she leave Malin?”
“To-morrow forenoon.”
“And what of Tim if he is caught?” said I.
“Warn him to keep on Fanad. He will be safe there.”
“Let the horse and the passport be ready as soon as it is dark to-night,” said I. “I will be here.”
“Very good. And see here, Gallagher,” said he, “what did you mean when you said just now that I had stolen any one’s land and fortune?”
“What should I mean?” said I. “It’s an old story you’ve got hold of,” said he, “that was disposed of twenty years ago by the clearest proofs. Do you suppose, if you had been what you are foolish enough to imagine, I would have brought you up in my own house, eh? Wouldn’t it have been simpler to drop you in the lough? It was only my esteem for your poor mother, Mary Gallagher, that prevented my letting all the world know what you may as well know now, that Mike Gallagher, your father, was the murderer of my brother.”
“That is a lie,” said I, “and some day I’ll prove it.”
“Ay, do,” said he with a laugh. “It will take a good deal of proof.”
“Not more than Biddy McQuilkin can give,” said I.
He staggered at this like a man shot.
“Biddy is dead long ago,” he exclaimed.
“Are you so sure of that?” said I. “Any way, I’ll be here for the horse and the pass at dark. And take my advice, Maurice Gorman, and see that not a hair of Tim’s head is hurt. You are safe as long as he is, and no longer.”
And not waiting to take food or encounter the other officials, I went down to my boat and cast myself adrift on the dark waters of the Swilly.
My most urgent business was to find or communicate with Tim, and for that purpose I set sail once more for the headlands of Fanad.
As to his honour’s curious behaviour, I knew him and distrusted him enough not to think much of it. He was a coward, cursed with a guilty conscience, and would fain have passed himself off as a righteous judge and powerful patron. He was anxious to conciliate me, not so much, I thought, because of my hint about the property, which he was satisfied was incapable of proof, as from a fear I might compromise him with the authorities about his past dealings with the rebels. He was nervously anxious to get me out of the country, and was willing to promise anything, even Tim’s safety and Miss Kit’s society, to get rid of me.
But it would go hard with Tim if he had no security better than his honour’s word; and my dear little mistress, if she was to be won at all, was not to be won as the price of a political bargain.
All the morning and afternoon I searched up and down in vain, meeting not a soul nor any sign of my brother. With heavy misgivings I returned to my boat, and set sail once more towards Knockowen. Half-way down the lough it occurred to me that I would do better to pay a visit first of all to Kilgorman. After the scare of this morning’s business the rebels would hardly have the hardihood to meet there to-night; and although there was little chance of finding Tim there, the place contained a spot known to both of us, in which a message could be safely deposited.
So I tacked about, and soon found myself once more in the deep cave. The place was empty and silent, and as I crept along the rocky passage nothing but the echoes of my own feet and of the dull waves without disturbed the gloomy stillness of the place.
The big kitchen, already darkening, was deserted. Everything was as I had left it two nights ago.
I lost no time in lifting the board and depositing in the recess below the hearth my brief message for Tim:—
“Beware, Tim! You are marked down, and there’s martial law after you. Informers are at work, and the names are all known. Keep on Fanad. I serve on H.M.S. Diana.—Barry.”
This done, and the board replaced, I was about to retire so as to be in time at Knockowen, when, taking a last glance round the gaunt room, my eye was attracted by the flutter of a paper pinned to the woodwork of one of the windows.
It contained a few words roughly scrawled with the end of a charred stick. This is what it said, and as I read my heart gave a great bound within me:—
“She’s safe at Malin. The Duchman sails on the flud to-night.—Finn.”
This, if it meant anything, meant foul play, and crushing the paper into my pocket, I lost not a moment in regaining my boat and making all sail for Knockowen.