CHAPTER VI
Early next morning Donald Ward and Neal set forth on their journey.Rab MacClure's horses served them well. By breakfast time they reachedBallymoney. They sat in the inn kitchen while the woman of the housebroiled salmon for them. She was full of excitement, and very ready totalk. The yeomen had ridden through the town the day before. They hadstopped at her house to drink. The officer and some of the men had paidtheir score and ridden on. Ten of them remained behind, and demandedmore drink. Tumblers were brought to them as they sat in their saddles.One of them had proposed a toast--"To hell with all Papists andPresbyterians."
"And that was no civil talk to use to me, when all the town knows thatmy man is an elder in the kirk."
But there was more to follow. The troopers had flung down thetumblers--"the bonny cut glasses that were fetched from Wexford"--andshattered them on the pavement of the courtyard. Then they rode offwithout paying a penny, and when the mistress cried after them one mancame back with his sword drawn in his hand, and she was fain to flee andhide herself. But the story of her own wrongs did not quench the gooddame's curiosity. She recognised Neal as the son of the minister inDunseveric. It was towards Dunseveric that the yeomen had ridden. Whatdid they do there? Had there been hanging work or burning--the like ofwhat went on in other parts? Had they visited the minister's house? DidNeal see them?
Donald Ward was a talkative man, and somewhat given to boasting; but,apart from the fact that the business of the night before gave himlittle excuse for glorying, he had plenty of sound sense--too much senseto gossip with the mistresses of inns about serious business. He signedto Neal to keep silent, and himself parried the shower of questionsso adroitly that his hostess got no information from him. She tiredat last, and with a show of disappointed temper, put the salmon on thetable.
"There's your fish for you," she said, "and fadge and oaten farles, andif you want more you'd better show some civility to the woman that doesfor you."
She left the room, and stood, her hands on her hips, staring into thestreet.
"We're well rid of her tongue," said Donald.
Before the travellers' appetites were half satisfied she was with themagain. She ran into the kitchen with every sign of terror in her face.
"They're coming," she said. "I seen them coming round MacCance's corner,and they have men with them and led horses. I seen them plain, and oneof them is Rab MacClure, of Ballintoy. Away with you, Neal Ward, awaywith you. I'm thinking that them that has Rab MacClure and his feet tiedunder the horse's belly will be no friends of your father's or yours."
Donald Ward rose to his feet and stretched himself.
"The woman's right, Neal." He showed no signs of hurry in his speech."I'm thinking it will be safer for us to be out of this. Here, mistress,what's the reckoning?"
"Not a penny, not a penny, will I take. Are them murdering devils todrink without paying and me taking money from the son of Micah Wardor any friend of his? But for God's sake get you gone. I'll keep themdandering about the door for a while, and do you get your horses andout by the back way into the field. You can strike the road again lowerdown."
It was late in the evening when Donald and Neal, with weary horses andwearier limbs, came close to Antrim. Neal was unused to riding longdistances, and Donald complained that a voyage across the Atlantic lefta man unfit for land travelling. They accosted a stranger on the roadand asked his guidance to the best inn. The man answered them in a civilway. He spoke with a northern accent, but his voice was singularly sweetand gentle, and his words were those of a cultured man.
"I am on my way to the Massereene Arms," he said. "I think you will findthe accommodation good both for yourselves and your horses."
He walked with them, chatting about the weather and the condition of theroads. He said that he himself had that day walked from Ballymena, andintended to spend the night in Antrim. He asked no questions and seemedin no way concerned with the affairs of his chance acquaintances.
Donald and Neal took their horses to the inn yard and saw them rubbeddown, stabled, and fed. Then they entered the public room of the inn,sat down, and ordered their supper. The man who had guided them to thedoor sat at a corner of the table eating a frugal meal of bread andcheese. Beside his tumbler stood a large jug of buttermilk. In a fewminutes he rose from the table and took his seat on a bench near thefire, where the light from a lamp, which hung on the wall, fell onhim. He drew a notebook from his pocket, and proceeded to write in it,referring from time to time to scraps of paper, of which he seemed tohave a large number. He was a man of middle height, of a spare frame,which showed no sign of great personal strength, but was well knit, andmight easily have been capable of great endurance. His face was thinand narrow. He had very dark hair, and dark, gentle eyes. There was asuggestion about the mouth of the kind of strength which often goes withgentleness.
To Neal the appearance of the man was not very interesting. He watchedhim in mere idleness while waiting for the girl to bring the supperDonald had ordered. If there had been anyone else in the room Neal wouldnot have wasted a second glance on the unobtrusive stranger. Yet, ashe watched the man he became aware of something about him which wasattractive. There was a dignity in his movements quite different fromDonald Ward's habitual self-assertion, different, too, from the statelyconfidence of Lord Dunseveric. There was a quiet seriousness in theway he set to work at his writing, and a methodical carefulness in hissorting of the scraps of paper which he drew one by one from his pocket.The maid entered with the wine and food which Donald had ordered.
"You'll be for beds, the night," she said.
"Ay," said Donald, "and do you see that the feathers are well shakenand the beds soft. If you'd ridden all the miles I've ridden to-day,my girl, after not being on the back of a horse for three months, you'dwant a soft bed to lie on."
The stranger looked up from his notebook. There was laughter in hisdark eyes, but it went no further than his eyes. His lips showed noinclination to smile.
Another man entered the room--a burly, strong man. He wore top boots,as if he had been riding. He looked like a well-to-do farmer. He gave noorder to the girl, but walked straight to where the dark-eyed strangersat. Greetings passed between them, and then talk in a low voice. Bothof them looked at Donald and Neal. Then, beckoning to the girl, thestranger asked if he could be accommodated with a private room. The girlnodded, and went to prepare one. Donald Ward finished his supper, rose,stretched himself, yawned, and then drawing a stool near the fire, satdown and filled his pipe. Neal, interested to watch the evening streettraffic in a strange town, climbed on to the deep sill of the window andpushed the lattice open. A blind piper sat on a stone bench outside theinn and played a reel for some boys and girls who danced on the road. Ahorseman--a handsomely-dressed man and well mounted--rode slowly up thestreet towards Lord Massereene's demesne. One of the dancers crossedhis way and caused the horse to shy. The rider cut at the girl with hiswhip. An angry growl followed the retreating figure. The piper stoppedplaying for a minute and listened. His face wore that eager look ofstrained attention which is seen often on the faces of the blind. Hebegan to play again, and this time his tune was the "Ca Ira." It waswell-known to his audience and its significance was understood. Severalvoices began to hum it in unison with the pipes. More voices joined,and in a minute or two the little crowd was shouting the tune. A grave,elderly man, in the dark dress and white bands of a clergyman, steppedout of a house opposite the inn and approached the piper. The dancersand the onlookers stopped singing and saluted him respectfully. He spoketo the piper.
"Don't be playing that tune, Phelim. Play your reel again. There'strouble where those French tunes are played. It was so in Belfast awhile ago. We want no riot in Antrim nor dragoons in our streets."
"I'm thinking," said the blind man, "that it's the voice of Mr.Macartney, the Rector of Antrim, that I'm listening to. Well, reverendsir, I'll stop my tune at your bidding. Not because you're a magistrate,nor yet because you're a great man, but just
for the sake of the letteryou wrote to save William Orr from being hanged."
The pipes gave a long wail and were silent. Then another man came up thestreet. Neal could not see his face, for his hat was slouched over it,but the sound of his voice reached the open window.
"What's this, boys? What's this? Which of you is it bids the piper stophis tune? It's only cowards and Orangemen that don't like that tune."
The voice struck Neal as one that he had heard before, but he could notrecollect where he had heard it. He leaned out of the window to hearbetter.
The clergyman stepped out into the road and confronted the newcomer.
"It was I who bid the piper stop that tune. What have you to say to me?"
The other approached him swaggering, then hesitated, stood still, tookoff his hat, and held it in his hand.
"Oh, nothing to you, nothing at all, Mr. Macartney. I did not know youwere here. Indeed, you were quite right to stop the man. As for what Isaid, I beg you to forget it. It was nothing but a joke, a little jokeof mine."
He bowed and cringed. He spoke in a deprecating whine, very differentfrom the blustering tone he had used before. Neal's interest in thescene before him became suddenly very acute. He was almost certain nowthat he recognised the voice. The whining tone brought back to him thenight when he had interfered with James Finlay's salmon poaching. Thevoice was, he felt sure of it, Finlay's voice. He drew back quickly,and from within the window watched Finlay pass through the inn door. Heheard his steps in the passage, heard him open the door of the room inwhich the travellers were gathered. Neal shrank back into the shadow ofthe window seat and watched.
Finlay swaggered across the floor and then paused and looked at DonaldWard, who smoked his pipe in the chimney corner. Then he turned to theother two.
"I don't know this gentleman," he said. "Is he----?"
He paused, his eyebrows elevated, his face expressing significantinterrogation. Neal saw him plainly in the lamp light. He had not beenmistaken in the voice. It was James Finlay. The man who had guided themto the inn rose without speaking and led the way to the private roomwhich the maid had prepared for his reception. Neal jumped down from hisseat and approached his uncle.
"Uncle Donald," he said, "that was James Finlay, the man we are lookingfor."
Donald took his pipe out of his mouth and looked hard at Neal.
"Are you quite sure?" he said. "It won't do to be making a mistake in ajob of this sort."
"I'm quite sure."
Donald replaced his pipe in his mouth and puffed hard at it for someminutes. Then he said--
"You don't know either of the other two, I suppose? No. Well it can'tbe helped. It would have been convenient if we had known. They may behonest men or they may be another pair of spies. I think I'll try andfind out something about them. Do you stay here, Neal, and watch. Letme know if any of the three of them leave the house. I'll go down thepassage to the tap-room. I'll drink a glass or two, and I'll see whatinformation I can pick up. You see, my boy, if the other two are honestmen we ought to warn them of our suspicions about Finlay. If they arespies we ought to know their names and warn somebody else. Any way, keepyour eye on Finlay, and let me know if he stirs."
A sensation of horror crept over Neal when his uncle left him. Herealised that he was hunting a fellow-creature, that the hunt might endat any moment in the taking of human life. In Dunseveric Manse, whilethe anger which the yeomen's blows and bonds had raised in him wasawake, while the enormity of Finlay's treachery was still fresh in hismind, it seemed natural and right that the spy should be killed. Now,when he had seen the man swagger down the street, when he had justwatched him cringe and apologize, when he had sat within a few feet ofhim, it seemed a ghastly and horrible thing to track and pursue him forhis life. A cold sweat bathed his limbs. His hands trembled. He saton the stool near the fire shivering with cold and fear. He listenedintently. It was growing late, and the piper had stopped playing in thestreet. The boys and girls who danced had gone home. There werevoices of passers by, but these grew rarer. Now and then there was thetrampling of a horse's hoofs on the road as some belated traveller fromBelfast pushed fast for home. A murmur of voices came to him from theinterior of the inn, he supposed from the tap-room to which his unclehad gone, but he could hear nothing of what was said. Once the girl whohad served his supper came in and told him that his bed was ready if hecared to go to it. Neal shook his head. Gradually he became drowsy. Hiseyes closed. He nodded. Then the very act of nodding awoke him with astart. He blamed himself for having gone near to sleeping at his post,for being neglectful of the very first duty imposed on him. The horrorof the watch he was keeping returned on him. He felt that he was likea murderer lurking in the dark for some unsuspecting victim. For Finlayhad no thought that he was distrusted, discovered, tracked. Then, tosteel himself against pity, he let his mind go back over the events ofthe previous night. He thought of the scene in the MacClures' cottage,of the heart-broken woman, of her husband riding with the brutaltroopers to a trial without justice and a death without pity. He feltwith his hand the blood caked on his own cheek, the scab on the cutwhere the yeoman had struck him. He remembered Una's shriek and theComtesse's frantic struggles as the soldiers dragged them from theirhiding-place. Of his own rush to their rescue he remembered little savethe momentary delight of feeling his fists get home on the men's faces.
He had nerved himself now with memories and conquered his qualms. Hefelt that it would be easy work and pleasant to drag James Finlay toearth and trample the life out of him. The thought of the insults ofthe brutal men who held Una and his own impotent struggles with the beltwhich bound him made him fierce enough. But the mood passed. His mindreverted to the subject which had never, all day, been far from histhoughts. He recalled each detail of his walk back to Dun-severic withUna, her words of praise for his bravery, the resting of her hand in hisas they crossed stiles and ditches, the times when it rested in his handlonger than it need have rested, the great moment when he had venturedto clasp and keep it fast. He thrilled as he recollected holding herin his arms, the telling of his love, and Una's wonderful reply tohim. Emotion flooded him. Una loved him as he loved her. The future wasimpossible, unthinkable. At the best of times he could not hope thatproud Lord Dunseveric would consent to let him marry Una; and now, ofall times, now, when he was engaged in a dangerous conspiracy, pledgedto a fight which he felt already to be hopeless; when he had thehangman's ladder to look forward to, or, at best, the life of a huntedoutlaw and exile to some foreign land; what could he expect now to comeof his love for Una? His mind refused to dwell on such thoughts forlong. It went back to the simple fact, the glorious, incredible thingwhich he had learned. Una loved him. That was sufficient for him then.He was happy.
The door of a room somewhere within the house closed noisily. Therewere footsteps on the stairs and then in the passage. Neal was alert.He quenched the light which hung on the wall and stood in the darknesslooking out of the door. He saw three men pass him--James Finlay andthe other two. They stood at the street door speaking last words in lowvoices. Neal sped down the passage to the tap-room. His uncle sat ina cloud of tobacco smoke, with a tumbler in his hand. Round him wasgathered a knot of admirers, most of them somewhat tipsy. Donald wastelling them stories of the American war. At the sight of Neal he rosequickly and laid down his tumbler. It was evident that he, at least, haddrunk no more than he could stand.
"Well, has he moved?" he whispered.
"Yes," said Neal. "He and the second man are going. They had their hatson and were bidding good night to the first, the man who brought ushere."
Donald left the tap-room quickly. The street door closed, and in thepassage he found himself face to face with the gentle-mannered travellerwhom he had accosted in the street.
"I think," said Donald, "that I have the honour of addressing Mr. Hope."
"James Hope," said the other, "or Jemmy Hope. I am but a weaver, asimple man. I take no pride in the titles men give each other."
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bsp; "James Hope," said Donald, "I've heard of you, and I've heard of you asan honest man. I reckon there's no title higher than that one. I think,sir, that you have a room at your disposal in this house. May I speakwith you there? I have matters of some importance."
James Hope turned without a word and led the way upstairs to a smallroom. Three candles stood on the table. There were also tumblers andan empty whisky bottle. It was noticeable that there were only twotumblers. James Hope had not been drinking. Donald walked over to thetable and blew out one of the candles.
"I'm not more superstitious than other men," he said, "but I won't sitin the room with three candles burning. It's damned unlucky."
Again, as earlier in the public room, Neal thought that James Hope wasgoing to laugh. But again the laughter got no further than his eyes.
"Now," said Donald, "if you've no objection, I'll have a fresh bottle onthe table and some clean glasses. You know this inn, James Hope, what'stheir best drink?"
"I have but a poor head," said Hope. "I drink nothing but water. But Ibelieve that the whisky is good enough."
"Neal, my boy," said Donald, "the wench that bought us our supper isgone to bed, and the landlord's too drunk to carry anything upstairs.You go and fill the jug there with hot water in the kitchen, and I'llget some whisky from the taproom."
Donald filled himself a glass with a generous proportion of spirit, andlit his pipe again.
"I've a letter here, addressed to you," he said.
He fumbled in his breast pocket, drew forth a leather case, and tookfrom it one of the letters which Micah Ward had written. James Hope readit carefully.
"You are," he said, "the Donald Ward mentioned in this letter, and youare Neal Ward, the son of a man whom we all respect and admire. I bidyou welcome."
He held out his hand, first to Donald, who shook it heartily, and thento Neal. He fixed his dark eyes on the young man's face, and looked longand steadily at him. Neal's eyes wavered and dropped before this earnestscrutiny, which seemed to read his very thoughts.
"God bless you and keep you, my boy," said James Hope. "You are the sonof a brave man. I doubt not that you will be a brave man, too, brave ina good cause."
Donald Ward seemed a little impatient at this long scrutiny of Neal andthe speech which followed. He took several gulps of whisky and water andblew clouds of tobacco smoke. He cleared his throat noisily and said.
"You'll be satisfied, James Hope, by the letter I've given you that weare men to be trusted?"
"God forbid else," said Hope. "Whom should we trust if not the brotherand son of Micah Ward?"
"Then I'll come straight to the point," said Donald. "Who were the twomen that were with you just now?"
"The one of them," said Hope, "was Aeneas Moylin, a Catholic, and afriend of Charlie Teeling. He's a man that has done much to bring theDefender boys from County Down and Armagh into the society. He has agood farm of land near by Donegore."
"And the other?"
"The other you ought to know, Neal Ward. He's from Dunseveric. Hisname's James Finlay."
"I do know him," said Neal, "but I don't trust him."
"He came to me," said Hope, "with a letter from your father, like theletter you bring yourself. I have trusted him a great deal."
"Trust him no more, then," said Donald, "the man's a spy. My brother wasdeceived in him."
"These are grave words you speak," said Hope. "Can you make them good?"
Donald told the story of the raid on the Dunseveric meeting-house.He dwelt on the fact that only five or six people knew of the buriedcannon, that of these, only one, James Finlay, had left Dunseveric, thatNeal Ward's name had appeared on the list of suspected persons, thoughNeal had hitherto taken no part and had no knowledge of the doingsof the United Irishmen; that his name must have been given to theauthorities by some one who had a private spite against him; that JamesFinlay, and he alone of the people of Dunseveric, had any cause to seekrevenge on Neal.
"It's a case of suspicion," said James Hope, "of heavy suspicion, butyou've not proven that the man's a traitor."
"No," said Donald, "it's not proven. I know that well, but the man oughtto be trusted no more until his character is cleared. He ought to betried and given a chance of defending himself."
James Hope sat silent. His fingers pushed back the lock of dark hairwhich hung over his forehead. His face grew stern, and there was a lookof determination in his dark eyes. A frown gathered in deep wrinkles onhis forehead. At last he spoke.
"You are on your way to Belfast. I shall give you a letter to FelixMatier, who keeps the inn with the sign of Dumouriez in North Street.You will find him easily. His house is a common meeting-place formembers of the society. I shall tell him to have a careful watch kept onFinlay, and to communicate with you."
"I'll deal with the man," said Donald, "as soon as I have anything morethan suspicion to go on."
"Deal uprightly, deal justly," said Hope. "Ours is a sacred cause. Itmay be God's will that we are to be victorious, or it may be written inHis book that we shall fail. He alone knows the issue. But, either way,our hands must not be stained with crime. We must do justly, aye, andlove mercy when mercy can be shown without imperilling the lives ofinnocent men."
"Traitors must be dealt with as traitors are in all civilised States,"said Donald.
"Ay, truly, when we are sure that they are traitors."
"I shall make sure," said Donald, "and then----"
"Then------," Hope sighed deeply. "Then---- you are right. There is nohelp for it. But remember, Donald Ward, that you and I must answer forour actions before the judgment seat of God. Remember, also, that ournames and our deeds will be judged by posterity. We must not shrink fromstern necessities laid upon us. But let us not give the enemy an excuseto brand us as assassins in the time to come."
"God damn it, man, you speak to me as if you thought me a hiredmurderer. I take such language from no man living, and from you nomore than another, James Hope. You shall answer for your words and yourinsinuations."
Donald stood up as he spoke. His face was deeply flushed. He had drunkheavily during the evening. Even the best men, the leaders of everyclass and section of society drank heavily in those days. He was anexceptional man who always went to bed in full possession of hissenses. Donald Ward was no worse than his fellows. But the man whomhe challenged was one of the few for whom the wine bottle had noattractions. He was also one of those--rare in any age--who had learntthe mastery of self, whom no words, even insulting words, can drivebeyond the limits of their patience.
"If I have spoken anything which hurts or vexes you, Donald Ward, I amsorry for it. I had no wish to do so. Comrades in a great enterprisemust not quarrel with each other. I offer you my hand in token that I donot think of you as anything but an honourable man."
"Spoken like a gentleman," said Donald, grasping the outstretchedhand. "Enough said, you have satisfied me that you meant no insult. Agentleman can do no more."
"I am not what they call a gentleman," said James Hope, "I am only apoor weaver with no claim to any such title."