“There he is; you may march in the ranks along with him.”
Neal took his place beside a boy with bright red hair and a pleasant smiling face, who handed him a musket and a pouch of cartridges.
“Them’s yours, Neal Ward. Jemmy Hope bid me bring them for you.”
“But what are you to do?” said Neal. “You have no musket for yourself.”
“Faith I couldn’t use it if I had. I never shot off one of them guns in my life. I’d be as like to hit myself as any one. I’ll just go along with you, I have a sword, and I’ll be able to use that if I get the chance.”
Neal looked at the lad beside him, noted his smooth face and sparkling eyes.
“You must be very young,” he said, “too young for this work.”
“I might be older than you now, young as I look. But is thon Mr. Matier coming till us? Go you and talk to him if you want. I won’t have him here, marching along with me.”
At about half-past one Hope halted his musketeers. He was in sight of Antrim, and he waited for orders. It was clear that the town was held by English troops. Their red coats were visible in the main street, but, without that, the houses which burnt here and there gave sufficient evidence of the presence of a ravishing army.
M’Cracken made a speech to his men—an eloquent speech. Now-a-days we are inclined to look with some contempt on men who make eloquent speeches. We are so accustomed to the perpetual flow of our Sunday oratory that we have come to think of speeches as mere preliminaries to copious draughts of porter in public-houses—a sort of grace before drink, to which no sensible man attaches any particular importance. But the orators of M’Cracken’s day spoke seriously, with a sense of responsibility, because all of them—Flood, Grattan, and the rest—spoke to armed men, who might at any time draw swords to give effect to the speaker’s words. M’Cracken spoke to men with swords already drawn and muskets loaded. Therefore, he had some right to be eloquent, and his hearers had some right to cheer.