CHAPTER X
Early next morning Neal bade farewell to Hope and started on his walkto Donegore. For a while he kept along the side of the hill above thehomesteads that clustered on the lower slopes. Nearing Carnmoney hedescended and entered a small inn in order to obtain some breakfast. Hefound the master and his wife in a state of great excitement at the newswhich had just reached them that their son had been arrested in Belfast.It was some time before Neal could persuade the poor people to attend tohis wants, and it was a wretched breakfast which he obtained in the end.Leaving the inn, he walked along the high road through Molusk. He felttolerably safe, though bodies of troops and yeomen occasionally passedhim. His appearance was known to very few, and the people of thedistrict through which he was going were either United Irishmen or instrong sympathy with the society. It was unlikely that any small body oftroops would venture to make an arrest unless the officer in commandwas perfectly certain of the identity of his prisoner. So bold anddetermined were the people that Neal, stopping opposite a forge, saw thesmith fashioning pike heads openly, and apparently fearlessly. A numberof men stood round the forge door talking earnestly together. Among themwas Phelim, the blind piper, whom Neal had seen in the street of Antrim.They did not care to be silent or to lower their tones when Neal camewithin earshot.
"The place of the muster," said the piper, "is the Roughfort. Mind youthat now, and let them that has guns or pikes bring them."
"And will M'Cracken be there?"
"Ay, he will. Did you no see the proclamation?"
"Will Kelso," said some one to the smith, "are you working hard, man?We'll be needing a hundred more of them pike heads by the morrow'smorn."
The smith let his hammer fall with a clang on the anvil, and wiped hisbrow.
"If you do as good a day's work the morrow with what I'm working on theday there'll be no cause to complain of you."
For the first time since he left Dunseveric Neal felt a glow of hope forthe success of the movement. He knew what kind of men these farmersand weavers of Carnmoney and Templepatrick were--austere, cold men,difficult to stir to violent action; much more difficult to cow intosubmission when once roused. And it appeared to him that they wereeffectually roused now. He recalled his father's fanciful application ofthe verse from the prophet Jeremiah. He felt, as he listened to the menround the forge, the hardness of "the northern iron and the steel." Wasthere among the blustering yeomen and the disciplined troops of the Kingiron strong enough to break this iron?
He left the forge and passed on. His thoughts wandered from theenterprise to which he had pledged himself, and went back, as time aftertime during the last week they had gone back, to Una. He walked slowly,wrapped in a delicious day dream. Neglecting all fact, driving from hismind the pressing realities which separated him hopelessly from the girlhe loved, he imagined himself walking with her hand-in-hand in somefair place far from strife and the oppression which engendered strife.A feeling of fierce anger succeeded his day dream. The sun shone aroundhim, the fields were fair to see. Life ought to be like the sun andthe fields--simple and good and beautiful. Instead it was difficult andcruel. He was being dragged into a vortex of hate and battle. He loathedthe very thought of it. He wanted peace and love. And yet, what escapewas there for him? Did he even want to escape if he could? The wrongand tyranny he was to resist were real, insistent, horrible. He wouldbe less than a man, unworthy of the love and peace he longed for, if hefailed to do his part in the struggle for freedom and right.
At midday he reached Templepatrick village, and found the inn occupiedby a company of yeomen. He sought the house of the weaver with whom hehad dined, in company with James Hope, on his way to Belfast. Thedoor was closed, which struck Neal as strange, for the day was hot andbright. Coming near, he was surprised not to hear the rattle of theloom. Birnie was a diligent man; it was not like him to leave his loomidle. And the house was not empty; he could hear a woman's voice within.He tapped at the door, intending to ask for a meal and for leave to restawhile in the kitchen. There was no answer, and yet he heard the womanstill speaking in low, even tones. He tapped again, and then, despairingof attracting attention, raised the latch, half opened the door, andlooked in.
In the centre of the room, before the table, a young woman kneltmotionless, her hands stretched out before her. Neal heard her wordsdistinctly. She was praying aloud, steadily, quietly, but with intenseearnestness, repeating petition after petition for her husband's safety.Very softly Neal withdrew, and closed the door. He might go dinner-less,but he would not interrupt the woman's prayer. He turned, to find alittle girl gazing at him. He recognised her as the Birnies' child.
"Were you wanting my da?"
"Yes, little girl, but I see he's gone away."
"Ay, but if any stranger come for him I was to tell my mammy."
"Never mind," said Neal, "you mustn't disturb her now."
"Will I no, then, when I was bid? Mammy I Mammy!"
In answer to the child's cry, the mother opened the door.
"What ails you, Jinny? I beg pardon, sir, were you waiting long on me?"
"You don't know me, Mrs. Birnie. You don't remember me, but I came hereone day before with James Hope."
"I mind you rightly, now," she said. "Come in and welcome, but if it'smy Johnny you're wanting to see, he's abroad the day."
"I won't disturb you," said Neal.
"You'll come in. You'll no be disturbing me. There's time enough for meto do what I was doing when the wean called me."
Neal entered the house and sat down.
"You'll be wanting a bite to eat," said Mrs. Birnie. "It's little I haveto set for you. The wee bit of meat we had I cooked for him to take withhim. It's no much Jinny and I will be wanting while he's awa from us.Ay, and it's no much Jinny and I will get if he doesna come back to us."
"Where has he gone?" said Neal.
"He's gone to the turn-out," she said, "to the turn-out that's to be themorrow. It's more goes to the like, I'm thinking, than comes back again.He's taken the pike with him that lay in the thatch over our bed thisyear and more. But the will of the Lord be done."
"May God bring him safe home to you," said Neal.
"Ay, for God can do it, God can do it. I take no shame to tell you,young as you are, that I was just beseeching the Lord to do that verything the now while you were standing at the door with Jinny. But theLord's ways are not our ways."
She set a plate of oatcake and a jug of buttermilk on the table beforeNeal, and bade him eat. When he had finished, he sat and talked with herawhile, trying to cheer her. But she was not a woman to whom it was easyto speak comfortable platitudes. She knew the risks her husband ran--therisk of battle, and the worse risks which would follow defeat. Neal roseat last and bid her farewell.
"When you are saying a prayer for your husband," he said, "say one forme; I'll be along with him. I'm going to fight, too."
"And will you be for the turn-out, then, with the rest of them? Ay,I'll say a prayer for you, And--and, young man, will you mind this? Whenyou're killing with your pike and your gun, even if it's a yeo that'sforninst you, gie a thought to the woman that's waiting at home for him,and, maybe, praying. What would hinder her to pray for her husband evenif he's a yeoman itself?"
It was seven o'clock when Neal reached Aeneas Moylin's house, afterclimbing the steep lane that led to Donegore Hill. He found six menseated in the kitchen--Donald Ward, Felix Matier, James Bigger, Moylin,and two others whom he did not know.
"It's Neal Ward," said Donald. "It's my nephew. Sit you down, Neal."
No one else spoke, though all nodded a welcome to Neal, and room wasmade for him at the table round which they sat. Aeneas Moylin rose andfetched another chair from the next room. Neal noticed that all six menwere armed with swords and pistols. Donald Ward sat at the head of thetable, and had the air of presiding over the assembly. There was deadsilence in the room, save for the ticking of a clock which stood in adark corner out of reach of the rays of the lamp. No man looked
at anyof his fellows. They stared fixedly at the ceil-ing, the table, or thewalls of the room. After about ten minutes, Felix Marier rose, crossedthe room, and peered at the face of the clock. He went to the door andlooked down the lane. Then, with a sharp in drawing of the breath, hetook his seat again. The movement roused Donald Ward. He fumbled inhis pocket and took out his tobacco box and pipe. He held up the box--around metal one--between his finger and thumb. Neal, watching, noticedwith surprise that his uncle's hand trembled. Donald held the boxwithout opening it for perhaps two minutes. Then, when he was satisfiedthat his hand had become quite steady, he filled his pipe. He rose, tooka red peat from the hearth, and pressed it into the bowl of the pipe.He did not sit down again, but stood with his back to the fire, smokingslowly.
Aeneas Moylin spoke in a harsh, constrained voice.
"Would you like to drink while you wait? I have whisky in the house."
"No," said Donald.
No one else spoke. Several of the men passed their tongues over theirdry lips. They would have liked to drink. Their mouths craved formoisture, their nerves for stimulant, but they did not dispute DonaldWard's emphatic refusal of the offer.
THE NORTHERN IRON. 175
Felix Matier rose again. Again he peered at the clock, again heopened the door and looked down the lane. This time he turned almostimmediately, and said in a whisper--
"There's a man coming up the lane, a single rider. I hear the tramp ofhis horse."
He hurried back to his seat, as if he were afraid of being found apartfrom his comrades, as if he expected to discover safety in being just asthey were. Donald Ward took his seat at the head of the table. His pipewas still between his teeth, but he ceased to puff at it. It went out.The noise of the approaching horse was plainly audible in the room.Felix Matier suddenly laughed aloud, and then, half chanting the wordsin a cracked falsetto, quoted--
"What is right and what is wrang by the law? What is right and what is wrang? A short sword and a lang, A stout arm and a Strang, For to draw."
"Silence," said Donald.
"It is the man," said Aeneas Moylin, "I hear him putting his horse intothe shed. It must be he, for no stranger would know the ways of theplace."
James Bigger drew a pistol from his pocket, looked carefully at thepriming, cocked it, and laid it on the table before him. He sat at theend of the table opposite Donald Ward, and was nearest to the door.
The latch was lifted from without, and James Finlay entered the room.
"You are welcome," said Donald, and every man at the table repeated thewords.
Something in the tone of the greeting, some sense of the feeling ofthose who sat in the room, startled Finlay. He glanced quickly at thefaces before him, became deadly white, took a step forward, and thenturned to the door. It was shut, and James Bigger, pistol in hand, stoodwith his back against it. Finlay stood stock still. Neal, looking athim, saw in his eyes an expression of wild terror--an agonised appealagainst the horror of death. In a single instant the man had understoodthat he was to die. Neal felt suddenly sick. Then a faintness overcamehim. He leaned back in his chair unable to move or speak. He heard, asif from a great distance, as if out of some other world, his uncle'svoice--
"The men you expected are not here, friend Finlay. M'Cracken is busyelsewhere, Munro has an engagement this evening, Hope, whom you let slipthrough your fingers yesterday, is not here to meet you."
"I wear to you," said Finlay, "that I tried to save Hope yesterday."
Donald took no notice of the words. He went on in a cool, not unfriendlyvoice--
"We are here instead, and I think we are quite competent to conduct thebusiness for which we have met; but you will agree with us that thishouse will not be a suitable place for our meeting. We think it possiblethat Aeneas Moylin's house may be honoured to-night by a visit from somedragoons or yeomen. They will probably be here in half an hour or so.In the meanwhile, we shall adjourn. There is near at hand a buildingin which we may do our business with perfect safety. You have heard, nodoubt, of the custom of body-snatching. Certain men--resurrectioners, Ithink, they are called--have of late been robbing the graves of the deadand selling the bodies to the medical schools for the use of students.The good people of Donegore have built in their churchyard a very strongvault with an iron door, of which Aeneas Moylin keeps the key. Herethey lock up the bodies of their dead for some time before buryingthem--until, in fact, the natural process of decay renders themunsuitable for dissection. This is their plan for defeating theresurrectioners. There is no corpse in the vault to-night. We shalladjourn to it for our meeting. The walls are so thick, I am told, thatremarks made even in a loud tone inside will be perfectly inaudible toeavesdroppers. The door is very small, and we can hang a cloak over it,so that our light will not be visible. It will be quite safe, I think;besides, it will be very comforting to think that if one of us shoulddie suddenly his body will not become a prey to the ghoulish people ofwhom we have been speaking."
He paused. Then, changing his tone, gave a series of orders sharply--
"Bind his hands; gag him; bring a lantern and means of lighting it;bring the key of the vault; leave the light burning in this room. Come."
The orders were quickly obeyed. It was evident that every man had hispart assigned to him beforehand, and was ready to perform it. There wasno confusion, and no talking.
Aeneas Moylin led the way. Two others followed, holding Finlay, gaggedand bound, by the arms. Donald Ward, his sword drawn, brought up therear. They moved like shadows, silent as the prowling body-snatchersof whom Donald had spoken. In front of them, a dark mass in the Junetwilight, stood the church, and round it rows and rows of gravestones.Moylin crossed the stile. Finlay sank helplessly in a heap in front ofit. He could not, or would not, put his feet on the stone steps. Withouta word his two guards lifted him over and set him down among the graves.Donald crossed last. Moylin, skirting the north side and east end of thechurch, led the way to a corner of the cemetery where as yet there wereno graves. Here, barely visible among the tangle of brambles, nettles,and high grass which surrounded it, was the vault. Kneeling down, Moylinfumbled with the lock, turned the key with a harsh, grating sound, andswung open the iron door. It was so low that he had to crawl through.Once inside, he lit the lantern which he carried, and set it on aprojecting ledge of the rough masonry. Finlay was dragged in. The othersfollowed, until only Neal and his uncle stood outside.
"Go next, Neal."
"I cannot, uncle, I cannot. I am not able to bear this. Let me go away."
"No. Go in, Neal. I want you. I shall let you go before the end."
The vault was very small inside. It was hardly possible to standupright, and there was little room for moving. James Finlay, still boundand gagged, lay at full length on the floor. Round him, their backsagainst the walls, crouched the other men. Moylin's lantern cast afeeble, smoky light. The air was heavy and close. It was the air of acharnel house.
"Take from the prisoner the arms he has about him," said Donald. "Searchhis pockets, and hand me any papers you find. Now unbind his hands andfree his mouth.
"James Finlay, we are here to do strict justice. You shall have everyopportunity of making any defence you can when you hear the chargesagainst you. If you clear yourself you shall go free. If you fail toclear yourself you must abide the sentence we shall pronounce on you."
"You mean to murder me," said Finlay.
"We do not mean to murder you. We mean to try you fairly, to acquit orcondemn you in strict justice. The first charge against you isthis. Having been sworn a member of the United Irishmen's society inDunseveric, having been elected a member of the committee, you did inBelfast betray the fact that there were cannons hidden in Dunsevericmeeting-house, and gave the names of your fellow-members to the militaryauthorities."
"I deny it," said James Finlay. "You have no proof of what you assert.Will you murder a man on suspicion?"
"Neal Ward," said Donald, "is this the James Finlay who was sw
orn intothe society by your father?"
"Yes," said Neal.
"Tell us what you know about the visit of the yeomen to Dunseveric."
Neal repeated the story, telling how he knew that his own name was onthe list of persons to be arrested. There was a short silence when hehad finished. Then James Bigger said--
"You have not proved that charge. The circumstances are suspicious, butyou have proved nothing."
Donald Ward bowed. Finlay raised his eyes for the first time since hehad been dragged into the vault, and looked round him. There had risenin him a faint gleam of hope.
"You are charged," said Donald again, "with having provided the dragoonswho rioted in Belfast last week with information which led them toattack and wreck the houses of those who are in sympathy with thesociety."
"I deny it. I was not in Belfast that day. I was here in Donegore withAeneas Moylin."
"You were here the day before," said Moylin. "You left me that dayearly. You might have been in Belfast."
"I was not," said Finlay.
Donald Ward produced the scrap of paper which Peg Macllrea had takenfrom the dragoon.
"Is that your handwriting?" he asked.
James Finlay looked at it.
"No," he said.
"James Bigger, give me the last letter you had from Finlay. Now put thelantern down on the floor."
He looked steadily at the two papers, and then said--
"In my opinion these two are written in the same hand."
He passed them to the man next him. They went from one to another, andthe lantern followed them on their round. Each man examined them, andeach nodded assent to Donald's judgment.
"Let me see them," said Finlay.
They were handed to him.
"I wrote neither of them," he said.
"Your name is signed to one," said Donald.
"I did not write it. I had hurt my hand on the day that note waswritten. I employed another man to write for me. The writing is his, notmine."
"Name the man you employed."
"Kelso, James Kelso."
"Kelso was flogged yesterday," said Donald, "and is in prison now. Doyou expect us to believe that he is an informer? Is flogging the wagesthe Government pays to spies?"
"I tried to save Hope yesterday," said Finlay. "Neal Ward, you haveborne witness against me, tell the truth in my favour now."
"I believe," said Neal, "that he did his best to save Hope and meyesterday. I believe that he wanted to save us."
He told his story, and he told of the conversation on the Cave Hillafterwards. Again the flicker of hope crossed Finlay's face.
"You hear," he said. "Would I have done that if I had been a spy? CouldI not have handed them over to Major Barber if I had wished?"
"I shall give you credit for wishing to save Hope," said Donald. "Now Ishall pass on to examine the papers found on your person to-night."
Finlay protested eagerly.
"I beg that you do not examine the papers you have taken from me. Theyare of a very private nature."
"I can believe," said Donald, "that they are of such a kind that youwould willingly keep them private."
"I protest against your reading them. You have no right to read them.They concern others besides myself. I give you my word." Donald smiledslightly. "I swear to you, I will take any oath you like that there isno paper there concerned with politics. You will be sorry if you readthem. I assure you that you will repent it afterwards. You will bedoing a base action. You will pry into a woman's secrets. You will bringdishonour on the name of a lady, a noble lady."
"Do you expect us to believe," said Donald, "that any lady, noble orother--that any woman, that any soldier's drab even--has written loveletters to you?"
He opened the first which came to hand of the pile of papers which layat his feet on the ground. Finlay suddenly collapsed. His impudence,his ready tongue, deserted him. He had fought hard for his life, hadlied--though he lied clumsily in his terror--had twisted, doubled,fought point after point. Whatever the papers were that had been foundon him, he recognised that they condemned him utterly and hopelessly.The game was up for him. He saw death near at hand, as he had seen itearlier when he first realised that he was trapped in Moylin's kitchen.Donald read paper after paper silently. Some he laid aside, some hepassed to the man next him to read. Finlay rallied again. He madeanother effort to save himself.
"Listen," he said, "I have influence with the Government. I don't denyit. Call me an informer, a spy, any name you like, but admit that I haveserved my masters well. I can claim my reward from them. Let me go, andI swear to obtain pardons for you. I can save you, and I will. I offeryou your lives as a ransom for mine."
"Would you make us what you are?" said Donald, sternly. "Would you buyour honour, you that have sold your own?"
Finlay, who had knelt during his last appeal, fell forward. He graspedNeal with his hands. It was impossible in the dim light to see the facesof the men around him, but some instinct told him that Neal alone feltany pity for him, that from Neal alone he could look for mercy.
"Save me, Neal Ward," he cried. "For God's sake, save me. Plead for me.They will listen to you. I am not fit to die. Grant me one day, only oneday. I will do anything you wish. I will---- Oh God, Oh Christ, Oh saveme, save me now."
Neal felt drops fall on his hands, sweat from Finlay's brow or tearsfrom his eyes. He spoke--
"Spare him," he said. "Who are we to judge and to slay? James Hope saidto me last night that we should refrain from taking vengeance. I askyou to respect what he said. Think of it. This man's case to-day maybe your's to-morrow. Remember you may take life, but you cannot give itback again. Oh, this is too horrible--to kill him now, like this."
He felt, while he spoke, Finlay's clasp tighten on him. He felt thewretched man cover his hands with kisses, mumble, and slobber over them.There was silence for a while when Neal ceased speaking. Then DonaldWard said--
"Neal, you had better go outside. This is no work for a boy. It is, asyou say, horrible. To inflict death is horrible, but it is sometimesjust. If ever it is just for man to shed the blood of his brother man itis just to shed James Finlay's. He has broken oaths, has brought deathon men, has made women widows and children fatherless; has wrecked thehappiness of homes. He has done these things for the sake of gain, formoney counted out to him as the priests counted money out to Judas."
It was impossible to plead his cause any more. Moylin pushed open theiron door of the vault. Neal dragged his hands from Finlay's grasp, andcrawled out. He heard the door clang behind him, shut fast again uponthe broken, terrified wretch and his judges--relentless men of iron, thenorthern iron.
No sound reached him from the vault. Save for the occasional belatedcawing of some rooks in the trees which shadowed the graveyard, no soundreached him at all. He sat down among the nettles, the brambles, and therank grass and burst into tears.