Chapter Fourteen.
How Ludar fired the Beacon on Knocklay.
I think, had it not been that Ludar immediately fell into a swoon with the wound in his arm, we should never have got him back to the boat. For such was his wrath and despair that he would have turned and invaded the castle single-handed, preferring to meet his death thus to leaving the maiden in so dire an extremity. As for me, ’twas well I had this new care thrust upon me, or I too might have fallen into a despair scarce less than his.
I guessed, so soon as the panic was over and Captain Merriman brought round, that order would be given to follow and capture us at all hazard. Therefore, so soon as our McDonnells arrived, we bore Ludar among us to the boat, and cast loose without delay. In this we were none too soon, for we had not been long rowing ere a noise of bugles and shouting at the castle gave us to know that the pursuit was begun. Lucky for us, the woods on either bank were too dense to allow them to get within shot of us. Nor, after we had got safely past the town of Coleraine, was there much fear that they (being unprovided with boats), could get at close quarters with us.
Once clear, we looked to my comrade’s wounds. The bullet which had gashed his arm had happily not lodged there; but it had lost him so much blood that, although we bound it up and stanched the flow, it was yet a long while before he recovered life enough to open his eyes. Then he said:
“Whither are we going?”
“Seaward,” said I.
“Leaving her amid wolves,” said he, bitterly.
“’Twould do her no good if we returned,” said I, “to be slain before her eyes. So long as she knows we are safe, there will be hope for her; and she is brave enough to defend herself till we come again.”
Ludar smiled bitterly. He knew, as I did, there was nothing in the words.
“My men,” said he presently to the Scots, “wherever Sorley Boy, my father, is, take me.”
“Sorley Boy is a fox that leaves no tracks,” said one of the men, “but we last heard of him at Bonandonnye.”
“Sail thither,” said Ludar, and fell into silence.
’Twas a strange return voyage that, down that broad river, on the ebb of the self-same tide which had carried us up. Neither of us spoke a word, but as we watched the banks and one another, we wondered if this could be the same world and the same men as a few hours ago. It was a relief presently to meet the salt sea air on our faces, and to hear ahead once more the angry roar of the waves at the river’s mouth.
Just as we reached the place where the channel, narrowing suddenly, tears its way through the sand into the ocean, a posse of horsemen dashed down on the western shore and shouted to us. So near were they, that I could see Tom Price among them, and beside him, that rascally Captain Laker, whom I had seen, or heard, last in Sir William Carleton’s garden at Richmond.
One of the rowers pulled me down to the bottom of the boat just as a volley of shot whizzed over our heads.
“Up now, and row like fiends,” cried our men when it had passed.
“Give me my pistol,” said Ludar, “I have at least one arm.”
So we tore through the water, letting fly at them as best we could while they stood reloading.
Ludar’s aim missed, for he had only his left hand. Mine was more lucky, since it knocked over the villain Laker just as he raised his gun for a second shot.
This saved us; for it gave us time to pull further beyond reach. So that when the next volley came, it pattered harmlessly in the waves around us.
This time we could not duck our heads, for our boat was already in the hurly-burly of the surf, and needed all our skill and all our strength to get her over that angry bar. More than once we were glad to fall back right side uppermost, and more than once we looked to see every timber we had fly asunder. But at last, between two lesser waves, we slipped over, taking in half a boat of water as we did so, but winning clear of the peril; and leaving our pursuers, who had waited to see us perish, to turn back sullenly to report their ill success to their master.
’Twas a far cry to Bonandonnye, which lay behind the Eastern headlands, some four leagues beyond Benmore. Nor durst we approach it the shortest way, because our men had heard that the coast was closely guarded by the English, who made short work of all suspected craft. So we were fain to hoist our sail and stand out to sea, rounding Raughlin on the far side, and running back on Cantire.
There, for a week and more, Ludar lay in a fever, shouting to be taken to his father, yet too weak to turn in his bed. Tenderly his clansmen nursed him (and me, for the matter of that, for I had wounds too), until at least we were both in better trim.
Meanwhile, one of the men had rowed across to the mainland, and come back with the news that Sorley Boy was deep in the woods of Glenshesk, behind the great mountain of Knocklayd, where he was rapidly bringing his forces to a head for a swoop on Dunluce. This news decided Ludar to tarry not a day longer. That very night, as the sun set, we embarked on our boat. It was the time of the autumn gales, and hard enough were we put to it to get safely across. For that very reason, perhaps, we were able to land unobserved by the careless watchmen on the coast, who never dreamed to look for a boat on such a night. Whereas, had they known more of the McDonnell oarsmen, they would have doubled their guard instead of going asleep.
I was glad to find that Ludar, having resolved on the journey, had strength enough to go through with it. Indeed, his step grew firmer every pace we took, and although his brow remained black, and he would, I think, have felled me to the ground had I mentioned the maiden’s name in his ear, yet on other matters his spirits revived.
’Twas a difficult journey from the little bay where we landed to Glenshesk; nor dare we make it in broad daylight. We took care to clad ourselves like herdsmen; yet even so, it would have been a risk to accost a stranger or enter a hut for shelter. For the O’Neills and the English among them had overawed the peasants; and although it was commonly believed the Turlogh would hold aloof in this quarrel, yet he had his own grudge against the McDonnells, and was not lightly to be run against. So we lay hid all day in the thick heather, and at night crossed rapidly at the back of Benmore, and plunged into the woods on the slopes of the dome-like Knocklayd. Ludar seemed to know his way by instinct. The McDonnell had told us where we should meet with a friendly clansman, who would take us to the chief, and had warned us what paths specially to avoid in crossing the mountain. His instructions served us well; and at daybreak we came upon the friendly hut just where we had expected, a little below the summit on the seaward side of the hill.
The man would by no means let us lie in his hut for fear of being seen, but showed us a deep cave in the hill-side, where we (and a score of men beside, had it been needful), might hide.
As we lay there, waiting for night, Ludar, for the first time, referred to what had befallen at Castleroe.
“Humphrey,” said he, “I am torn in two. How can I go out to take a castle, while she lies in the wolf’s clutches yonder? Yet how may I, a loyal man, pursue my private quarrel while my brave father demands my service for the clan in this great enterprise?”
“Maybe,” said I, “in doing the latter you will achieve both ends. For, assuredly, so soon as an alarm is raised for the safety of Dunluce, this Merriman and every trooper he has must come thither; so, the maiden will be left free of him. Besides,” said I, “if what the old nurse says is true, my Lady Cantire is not the woman lightly to abandon her rights in the maiden. She is more likely to hold her as a bait to trap the Captain into some benefit to herself, and to that end she will at least keep her safe out of his clutches for a while.”
Ludar groaned.
“Humphrey,” said he, “you are a glib comforter. Tell me,” he added, “from this height we should surely be able to see Castleroe.”
“Yes,” said I, “I remember seeing this round hill, as we stood parleying with the sentinel.”
Ludar said no more, but sat at the mouth of the cave, looking westward, till sunset.
Then a new resolve seemed to have taken hold of him. He led me to the cairn on the mountain top, where was piled a great heap of wood and briar ready for a beacon fire.
“When shall this be lit?” he asked our guide.
“When Sorley Boy is ready. ’Tis the last signal agreed upon. When Knocklayd is fired, friend and foe, the country round, will march.”
“Then,” said Ludar, “pile up more fuel, and fetch a torch.”
The man and I stared at him in amazement.
“Do you hear?” he thundered. “Am I McDonnell or are you?”
Then when the man, scared and terrified, went off to obey, Ludar said to me:
“I cannot help this, Humphrey. The signal must go out to-night, or all will be too late. Something tells me she is looking this way even now, praying for deliverance. Something tells me, too, that a day’s more delay, and Dunluce is lost to us for ever. This shall bring all to a head, for better or worse.”
“But your father,” said I. “If he be not ready—”
“Sorley Boy McDonnell is always ready,” said Ludar, proudly.
So we stood silent and waited till the shepherd brought the torch.
“Can we see Dunluce from here?” I asked presently.
He took my arm and pointed to where, away in the west, a gleam of moonlight struck the sea.
“There,” said he.
Then, as we both strained our eyes, there arose, as it seemed from that very spot, a strange wild sound, like the rise and fall of some wailing music, which moaned in the air and died away.
“What was that?” I asked.
“Hush!” said he. “Listen.”
It came again, rising almost to a shriek, and sinking again into a sigh.
Once more I looked at Ludar; and once more, with pale face, he motioned me to hold my peace and listen.
A third time the sound came, like a snatch of some mad song, ending in a sob. After it, you could almost feel the silence. We stood rooted to the spot, until presently the footsteps of the herdsman broke the spell. Then Ludar said:
“That is the Banshee. It means that in this business a McDonnell of us will fall. Heaven help us!”
Then, scornfully throwing off the fear which for a moment had seemed to overtake him, he resolutely snatched the torch from the man’s hand and plunged it into the pile.
We stood and watched the fire, as first it crackled amidst the under-layer of twigs and dry heather, then caught the branches above, and finally shot up in a grand tall column of flame skyward, showering high its sparks, and casting a fierce glow far and wide over land and sea.
’Twas a strange, a wondrous sight; yet, as I looked, the midnight fire itself was not so strange as the sight of Ludar standing there, noble, huge and motionless, illumined by the strong light, gazing out with shaded eyes into the far distance. To me it seemed like a scene in some weird play of which I forgot that I was myself an actor.
But as soon as the flame, bursting forth with a great roar, reddened the sky overhead, Ludar drew me to a little distance, and pointed seaward. Then I perceived, suddenly, on our right a twinkle of light which presently increased to a lurid flame. At the same instant on the left appeared a like fire, which in turn was taken up one by one from headland to headland, till the whole coast from Cushindun to Ramore was ablaze; even on the far distant Donegal headlands there glimmered a responsive signal. A wondrous sight indeed, with the Atlantic almost at our feet, reflecting angrily back the glare of the fire, and traversed by paths of light each seeming less fierce as the distance increased, until from the remotest there travelled but a tiny streak. Above, the sky still more fiercely carried the red signal; while from their rocks swooped up the great army of sea-birds and flew crying out to sea.
Thither my two comrades still eagerly gazed. Though scarce five minutes had passed since the first flame shot aloft, the impatience of the herdsman became extreme, and he muttered angrily through his clenched teeth as he strained his eyes into the irresponsive darkness.
“Altacarry!” exclaimed he at length, when presently, on the point of Raughlin, a light shot up.
“And Cantire!” he added, when, later, the eagerly looked for light on the Scottish mainland broke aloft and mingled its glare with that of the Antrim fires.
Then, at last, Ludar relaxed his motionless posture, and taking my arm, plunged hastily from the summit, with the herdsman before us for a guide.
Half-way down, the guide halted and pointed out two new signals inland. One to our right, the other straight before us.
“Yonder,” said he, pointing to the right, “comes from the O’Cahan’s country beyond the Bann, above Castleroe, where be English troops; that in front shows that Sorley Boy is afoot already. ’Tis a wily fox,” added the man (talking as they all did in their Irish tongue), “among these score of lights, who shall say which is his, or whither he foregathers? But we know!”
Presently we dropped into the marshland at the base of the hill, and lost all save the red glare in the sky above us. By many a cunning path the man led us, between bogs, through woods, and over piled-up rocks, till we stood on a new hill-side, and caught sight again of the distant beacons. That on Knocklayd, behind us, was already burning low; but it had done its work. For, as we mounted higher, a dozen new fires inland met our view; and, standing for a moment to look, our ears caught a distant sound of shouting, and the clattering of horses’ feet.
We were now, our guide told us, looking down into the deep vale of Glenshesk, at the head of which the chieftain lay. A wild impassable valley it looked, crowded with forest, and flanked with rugged mountain. I could scarcely wonder, as I looked down, at the tales the man had told us, of how, in time of war, the country people would drive their cattle, together with the women and children, far into the depths of these glens for safety, while they went out to meet the enemy on the seaboard; or of how, tempting him to follow the booty up one of these, they had caught him many a time in a trap between two fires, and cut him to pieces.
The descent into the valley was perilous enough even for us. For the greater part of the way we had to swing ourselves down by the trees, many of which threatened to break under our weight and hurl us headlong to the bottom. But when, at last, we reached the stony land below, it was easier walking, and we reached the stream in safety.
Here we halted impatiently till morning.
“Humphrey,” said Ludar, “by this time, unless we have ventured for naught, an alarm has gone out which will send Merriman out of Castleroe, and bring back Turlogh into it. So far, we have done well. But unless Sorley Boy reach Dunluce quickly, the enemy will be in the place before us, and we shall have done harm. Why do they not come? If I had but fifty men like you, Humphrey, we need not be sitting thus.”
But sit we did, till the sun looked at us over the hill. Then Ludar could wait no longer, but summoned me to my feet, and stalked up the valley. We had gone about an hour, when a loud tramp and shouting ahead, together with a vision of wild figures on the hills on either hand, told us that the long expected meeting had come at last. The next turn of the valley brought us full in view of the McDonnell host. It stretched in a wild irregular line far up the glen, the men marching four or five abreast, armed, some with spears, some with swords and bucklers, others with bows, and a very few with firearms. They sang a loud wailing song as they marched, mingled with cries of defiance, and now and then of laughter. But what moved me most was the aspect of the two men who marched a dozen paces in the front of all.
The elder was a giant, huge of limb, towering above his clan like Saul, in the Bible, among his Israelites. His white hair hung wildly on his shoulders, and tossed defiantly with every step he took. He may have been seventy years of age, yet his face was knit as hard as a warrior’s of thirty, and he stepped out as lissom and quick as his youngest gallowglass. Yet all this was as nothing to the noble sadness of his face and the blaze of his deep, blue eyes, which, had I not known it already, would have betrayed him to me anywhere as Ludar’s father. The younger warrior at his side, a man of thirty-five, joyous of mien, his yellow hair glistening in the sunlight, and his massive form (only less massive than his father’s), moving with a careless ease, it was not hard to guess was Alexander, the darling of the clan and the pride of his father’s life.
Seeing us in the path, they suddenly halted, while the musketeers behind levelled their pieces.
But Ludar stepped solemnly forward.
“Father, I am Ludar,” said he.
The old man uttered a quick exclamation and stepped back a pace to look at this stalwart man, whom he had seen last a young boy ten years ago. Then, with a face as solemn as that of his son’s, he laid his great hand on the lad’s shoulder and said:
“Thou art come in good time, Ludar, my son.”
That was all the greeting that passed betwixt these two; for immediately the march began again, the old man stalking first alone, and the two brothers (who had kissed at meeting), following, arm in arm. ’Twas a noble sight those three great men—the old chief and his first and last born sons. But to my mind, much as I loved my master, Sorley Boy was the grandest of the three. While he was by, a man could look at no one else. Every gesture, every toss of the head, and swing of the arm had force in it; and to me it seemed a wonder that such a man should need an army at his back to carry him anywhere he willed.
He halted again presently, and wheeled round on his sons.
“Why did you fire the beacon?” he asked of Ludar.
“Because the time had come,” said Ludar. “To-day Dunluce is slenderly guarded; to-morrow it will be full of the enemy.”
Then he coloured up with a flush as he added:
“Father, I demand a favour—the first for ten years.”
“It is granted, lad. I know what it is. You shall take the castle.”
Then Ludar grew radiant, as he clutched his father’s hand and thanked him for this mighty honour. And Alexander seemed scarcely less happy for his young brother’s sake.
“We be a thousand armed man,” said the old chief (he spoke in his own tongue, to which even I was growing somewhat familiar by now). “Take three hundred with you, Ludar, my son, and turn westward. Alexander, with three hundred more, shall march to the sea, northward, as we go now. I, with the rest, will strike eastward to Bonandonnye. To-morrow, boy, if Dunluce be not yours, Alexander shall come to take it for you. The day after, if you both fail, I shall be there myself with the clansmen from the Isles, who are already upon the sea. Here we part company, lads. When we meet again one of us shall not see the other two. Last night I heard the Banshee.”
“And I,” said Alexander.
“And I,” said Ludar.
“Farewell, then,” said Sorley Boy. “Do you, Ludar, choose your three hundred and begone. After you, Alexander do the same. I will take the rest. The pipers shall come with me to draw the enemy eastward.”
The division was soon made. Ludar chose the clansmen who knew best the parts about Dunluce and the country we should have to cross to reach it. In an hour we were ready to start.
“Farewell,” said the old chief. “We meet all at Dunluce two days hence.”
“Dead or alive,” said Alexander.
Then the order was given to march, and we turned suddenly up the westward slope of the glen, the men behind us shouting, “Dunluce! Froach Eilan! Ludar!” till our several parties lost sight of one another. Then Ludar ordered silence and speed; and so, all day long, we tramped over the rugged hills and across the deep valleys; till, near sundown, Ludar, having halted his men in a deep-wooded hollow, took me forward and brought me to the summit of a little green hill. Here he took my arm and pointed ahead.
“Dunluce!” said he.