CHAPTER VIII
Neal Ward was awakened next morning by the noise which Peg Macllrea madesweeping and tidying the room where he slept. He lay for a few minuteswatching the girl. Her red hair was coiled up now in a neat roll atthe back of her head. Her freckled face was clean, and had apparentlyescaped bruising in her conflict with the dragoon. She wore a short greyskirt of woollen homespun. The sleeves of her bodice were rolled up, anddisplayed a pair of muscular red arms. The girl was more than commonlytall, and anyone listening to her heavy footfall, and noting her thickfigure and broad shoulders, would have understood that she was well ableto carry a young man, even of Neal's height, up a flight of stairs. Thedragoon might easily have come to the worst in single combat with sucha maiden if he had not obtained an advantage over her at the start bytwisting her hair round his hand.
It was not very long before she noticed that Neal was awake. She cameover to him smiling.
"You've had a brave sleep," she said. "It's nigh on eleven o'clock. Themaster and Mr. Ward are out this twa hours. They bid me not stir you.I was just readying up the room a bit, and I went about it as mim as amouse."
"I'm thinking," said Neal, "that I'll be getting up now."
"'Deed, then, and you'll no. The last word the master said was just thatyou were to lie in the day. I'm to give you tea and toasted bread, andan egg if you fancy it."
"But," said Neal, "I can't lie here in bed all day."
"Whisht, now, whisht. Be good and I'll get you them twa graven imagesthe master's so set on and let you glower at them. Maybe you never seenthe like."
She spoke precisely as if she had a sick child to humour; as if she werethe nurse in charge, determined at any sacrifice to keep the peevishlittle one from crying. She crossed the room to a book-case and tookdown two bronze busts. With the utmost care she carried them over andlaid them on the bed in front of Neal.
"The master's one of them that goes neither to church nor mass normeeting," she said. "If ever he says his prayers at all, at all, it'sto them twa graven images he says them, and the dear knows they're no soeye-sweet."
She left the room, well satisfied apparently that she had provided herpatient with playthings which would keep him good till she returned withhis breakfast. Neal took up the busts and examined them. He would nothave known whose faces were represented had not an inscription on thepedestal of each informed him. "Voltaire," he read on one, "Rousseau" onthe other. These were strange household gods for a Belfast innkeeper torevere. Neal, gazing at them, slowly grasped their significance. He hadheard talk of French ideas, had seen his father shake his head over theworks of certain philosophers. He knew that there was an intellectualfreedom claimed by many of those who were most enthusiastic in the causeof political reform. He had not previously met anyone who was likely toaccept the teaching of either Voltaire or Rousseau. His eyes wanderedfrom the busts to the book-case on which they had stood. It was wellfilled, crammed with books. Neal could see them standing in close rows,books of all sizes and thicknesses, but he could not read the names ontheir backs. Peg Macllrea returned with his breakfast on a wooden tray.She put it down in front of him and then set herself to entertain himwhile he ate.
"Thon was a brave coup you gave the soger in the street," she said. "Yougripped him fine, the ugly devil. But you did na hurt him much. He wasup and off when they got us dragged from him, as hard as ever he couldlift a foot. You'll be fond of fighting?"
"So far," said Neal, "I have generally got the worst of it when I havefought."
"Ay, you would. Your way of fighting is no just the canniest, but Ilike you no the worse for it. You might have got off without thon bloodyclout on the top of your head if ye'd just clodded stones and then runlike the rest of them. But that's no your way of fightin'. Did ye everfight afore?"
"Just two nights ago," said Neal, "and I got the scrape on the side ofmy face then."
"And was it for a lassie you were fightin' thon time? I see well by theface of you that it was. And she liked you for it. Did she no? She'dbe a quare one that didna. Did she give you a kiss to make the scrab onyour face better? I wouldna think twice about giving you one myself onlyyou wouldn't have kisses from the likes of me. Be quiet now, and sup upyour tea. I willna have you offering to slabber ower my hand if that'swhat you're after."
Neal, who had felt himself goaded to some act of gallantry, returnedsheepishly to his tea and toast.
"You're no a Belfast boy?" said Peg.
"No," said Neal, "I'm from Dunseveric, right away in the north of thecounty."
"Ay, are you? Do you mind the old rhyme--
'County Antrim, men and horses, County Down for bonny lasses.'
Maybe your lassie, the one that kissed you, was out of the County Down?"
"She was not," said Neal, unguardedly.
Peg Macllrea laughed with delight and clapped her hands.
"I knew rightly there was a lassie, and that she kissed you. Now you'vetellt me yourself. But I willna split on you, nor I willna let on thatyou tellt on her. But I hope she's bonny, though she does not come fromthe County Down."
Neal grew angry. It did not seem fitting that this red-haired, freckledservant, with her bold tongue and red arms, should make game of Una St.Clair's kisses. They were sacred things in his memory.
"Now you're getting vexed," she said. "You're as cross as twa sticks. Ican see it in your eyes. Well, I've more to do than to be coaxing you."
She turned her back on him and began to sing--
"I would I were in Ballinderry, I would I were in Aghalee, I would I were on bonny Ram's Island, Sitting under an ivy tree. Ochone! Ochone!"
"Peg," said Neal, "Peg Macllrea, don't you be cross with me."
"I would I were in Ballinderry,"
she began again.
"Peg," said Neal, "I've finished my tea, and I wish you'd turn round.Please do, please."
She turned to him at last with a broad smile on her face.
"Is that the way you wheedled the poor lassie out of the kiss? But therenow, I'll no say a word more about her if it makes you sore. But Ican't sit here crackin' all day. I've the dinner to get ready, and themaster'll be quare and angry if it's no ready against he's home."
She picked up the tray as she spoke.
"Would you like me to leave you them twa graven images?" she said.
"I'd like you to take them away," said Neal, "and then get me a book outof the case."
"I will, surely. What sort of a book would you like? A big one or a weeone. There's one here in a braw red cover with pictures of ships in it.Maybe it might content you."
"Read me a few of their names," said Neal, "and I'll tell you which tobring."
"Faith, if you wait for me to read you the names you'll wait till thecrack of doom. Nobody ever learned me readin', writin', or 'rithmetic."
"Bring me three or four," said Neal, "and I'll choose the one I likebest."
She deposited half a dozen volumes on the chair beside him and left theroom. Neal took them up one by one. There was a volume of "Voltaire,"Tom Paine's "Rights of Man," "The Vindiciae Gallicae," by Mackintosh,Godwin's "Political Justice," Montesquieu's "Esprit des Lois," anda volume of Burns' poetry, not long out from a Belfast printer. Nealalready knew Godwin's works and the "Esprit des Lois." They stood on hisfather's bookshelves. He glanced at the pages of the others, and finallysettled down to read Burns' poetry. The Scottish dialect presents littledifficulty to a man bred among County Antrim people. The love songs,with their extraordinary freshness and vivid emotion, delighted Neal.Like many lovers of poetry, he tasted the full pleasure of verse bestwhen he read it aloud. One after another he declaimed the marvelloussongs, returning again and again to one which seemed peculiarly suitedto his circumstances--
"It's not the roar o' sea or shore Wad make me longer wish to tarry; Nor shouts o' war that's heard afar-- It's leaving thee, my bonny Mary."
He read the song aloud for the fourth time. As he
uttered the last wordshe heard a laugh, and, looking up, saw his host, Felix Matier, standingat the door of the room.
"Well, Neal, good morrow to you. You're well enough in body, to judgeby your voice. But if that poem's a measure of the state of your mindyou're sick at heart. Never mind Mary, man. There's better stuff inBurns than that. He's no bad poet, is Rabbie Burns. Listen to this now.Here's one I'm fond of."
He took the book out of Neal's hand, and read him "Holy Willie'sPrayer." His dry intonation', his perfect rendering of the dialect ofthe poem, the sly twinkle of his eyes as he read, added exquisite maliceto the satire.
"But maybe," he said, "I oughtn't to be reading the like of that to youthat's the son of the Manse, though nobody would think of Holy Willieand your father together. I'm not very fond of the clergy myself, Neal,either of your Church or another. I'm much of John Milton's opinion thatnew presbyter is just old priest writ large, but if there's one kindof minister that's not so bad as the rest it's the New Light men ofthe Ulster Synod, and your father's one of the best of them. But here'ssomething now that Micah Ward would approve of. Just let me read youthis. I'll have time enough before your uncle comes in. He's not aman of books, that uncle of yours, and I'd be ashamed if he caught mereading at this hour of the day. But listen to me now."
He took up the volume of "Voltaire" and read--
L'ame des grands travaux, l'objet des nobles voeux, Que tout mortel embrasse, ou desire, ou rapelle, Qui vit dans tous les coeurs, et dont le nom sacre Dans les cours des tyrans est tout bas adore, La Liberte! J'ai vu cette deesse altiere Avec egalite repandant tous les biens, Descendre de Morat en habit de guerriere, Les mains teintes du sang des fiers Autrichiens Et de Charles le Temeraire."
Felix Matier's manner of pronouncing French was somewhat painful tolisten to. Voltaire would probably have failed to recognise his solitarylyric if he had heard it read by Mr. Matier. But if the poet haddiscovered that the verses were his own and had got over his shudder ata mangling of French sounds worse than the worst he can have heard atPotsdam from the courtiers of Frederick William, he would probably havebeen well enough satisfied with the spirit of the rendering. Mr. Matier,of the North Street, Belfast, was obviously a sincere worshipper ofthe _deesse altiere_, and would have been delighted to see her hands_teintes du sang_ of the men who had torn down his sign the nightbefore. Neal, though he could read French easily, did not understanda single word he heard. He took the book from his host to see what thepoem was about. Mr. Matier did not seem the least vexed, although heunderstood what Neal was doing.
"The French are a great people," he said. "Europe owes them all theideas that are worth having. I'd be the last man to breathe a wordagainst them, but I must say that it requires some sort of a twistedjaw to pronounce their language properly. I understand it all right whenit's printed, but as for Speaking it or following it when a Frenchmanspeaks it----"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"But it's time I stopped moidering you with poetry. I hope you're reallyfeeling better. I hope Peg took good care of you, and brought you yourbreakfast."
"Indeed she did. She took rather too good care of me. I thought one timeshe was going to kiss me.
"Did she make to do that? Well, now, just think of it! Isn't she thebrazen hussy? And I'm sure her breath reeked of onions or some suchlike."
"Oh," said Neal, "we didn't get as far as that. Her breath may be rosesfor all I know."
"You kept her at arm's length. Serve her well right. I never heard ofsuch impudence. But these red-haired ones are the devil. It's the samewith horses. I had a chestnut filly one time--a neat little tit in herway--but she'd kick the weathercock off the top of the church steeplewhenever she was a bit fresh. Never trust anything red. A red dog willbite you, a red horse will kick you, a red wench will kiss you, besidesbeing a damned unlucky thing to meet first thing in the morning, a redsoldier will hang you. There's only one good thing in the world that'sred, and that's a red cap--the red cap of Liberty, Neal, and may we soonhave all the red coats in the country cut up into such head-gear."
It was fortunate for Neal that he found Felix Matier's conversationamusing and Felix Matier's books interesting. He had ample opportunityof enjoying them during the week which followed the dragoons' riot.Donald Ward refused, as long as possible to allow him to get out of bed,and even when Neal was up and dressed, peremptorily forbade him to leavethe house. He spoke weighty words about his experience of wounds, offrightful consequences which followed cuts on the head when the cold ofthe outer air got at them, of men who had died of lockjaw because theywould not take care of scalp wounds, of burning eruptions which brokeout on the unwary, of desperate fevers threatening life and reason.
Neal was puzzled. He had tumbled about among the rocks at Ballintoy agood deal during his boyhood, cutting and bruising most parts of hisbody. Even his head had not escaped. There was a deep scar under hishair which he had come by in the course of an attempt to enter a longfissure among the rocks of the Skerries, off Port-rush. But such woundshad troubled him very little. He had never made a fuss about them ortaken any special precautions on account of them, neither knowing norcaring anything about the evils which may follow wounds, which do followwounds, in pampered bodies. He could not understand why his uncle, whowas certainly not otherwise given to morbid coddling, should insist uponsuch excessive care of a cut which was healing rapidly.
The fact was that Donald Ward was nervous about Neal, not at all onaccount of his cut head, which was nothing, but because Captain Twinelyand his yeomen had returned to Belfast. It leaked out that the militaryauthorities were not pleased with Captain Twinely. He had brought backthree prisoners and the cannon, but he had not brought back MicahWard, who was particularly wanted. Captain Twinely, angry at his coldreception, and furious at the hanging of his trooper, was anxious torevenge himself upon some one. Lord Dun-severic was too great a manto be attacked. The Government could not afford to interfere with hismethods of executing justice in North Antrim. Captain Twinely was givena broad hint that he must hawk at lower game, and keep his mouth shutabout the hanging of his trooper. There was no objection to the yeomenoutraging women so long as they confined themselves to farmers' wives,but an insult offered to Lord Dunseveric's sister and daughter, underLord Dunseveric's own eyes, was a different matter. The less said thebetter about the hanging of the man who had distinguished himself bythat exploit. Captain Twinely, growing savage at this second snub,and afraid lest perhaps he himself might be sacrificed when LordDunseveric's story of his raid came to be told, sought to ingratiatehimself with the authorities by offering them a fresh victim. He gavean exaggerated version of Neal Ward's attack on the troopers outside themeeting-house, and drew an imaginary picture of the young man as a deepand dangerous conspirator. He even managed to shift the responsibilityfor the hanging of the trooper from Lord Dunseveric's shoulders toNeal's. He knew that Neal had left Dunseveric, and he assured Major Fox,the town major, that Neal was at that moment in Belfast arranging forthe outbreak of the rebellion. Major Fox was worried by the complaintswhich respectable citizens were making about the dragoons' riot. Hewas anxious to prove, if possible, that the soldiers' conduct had beenprovoked by the violence of the United Irishmen. He produced the manwhom Peg Macllrea and Neal had mangled and set him before the public asan object of pity, his wrist tied up and his head elaborately bandaged.A great idea flashed on him. He allowed it to be understood that he wason the track of a most dangerous rebel--a young man who had hangeda yeoman in Dunseveric and nearly murdered a dragoon in Belfast. Inreality he was too busy just then with more important matters to makeany real search for Neal Ward. But a week later he offered a reward offifty pounds for such information as would lead to his apprehension.
But the rumours of Captain Twinely's sayings were sufficient to frightenDonald Ward. He did not shrink from danger himself, and, had his ownlife been threatened, would have taken measures to protect himselfwithout any feeling of panic, but his apprehe
nsion of peril for Nealwas a different matter. He felt responsible for his nephew, and did notintend to allow him to be captured if caution could save him. Therefore,he insisted on Neal's remaining indoors, and plied him with the mostalarming accounts of the danger of his wound. He hoped in a few days toget Neal out of Belfast to the comparative safety of some farmhouse. Hewas particularly anxious that Finlay, who would certainly recognise theyoung man, should not see him.
News reached Belfast that the United Irishmen in Wexford were in armsand had taken the field against the English forces. The northern leadersbecame eager to move at once and to strike vigorously. Everything seemedto depend on their obtaining the command of Antrim and Down, and openingcommunications with the south. James Hope arrived in Belfast. Henry JoyM'Cracken was there. Henry Monro rode in every day from Lisburn.Meeting after meeting was held in M'Cracken's house in Rosemary Lane, inBigger's house in the High Street, in Felix Matier's shattered inn, orin Peggy Barclay's. Robert Simms, the general of the northern UnitedIrishmen, resigned his position. His heart failed him at the criticalmoment, and when pressed by braver men to take the field at once he hungback and gave up his command. He forgot his oath on MacArt's Fort, wherehe stood side by side with Wolfe Tone. Henry Joy M'Cracken, a man ofanother spirit, was appointed in his place. With extreme rapidity and aninsight into the conditions of the struggle, marvellous in a man withno military training, he laid his plans for simultaneous attacks upon anumber of places in Down and Antrim.
The Government was not idle. The northern United Irishmen were the bestorganised and most formidable body to be dealt with. During the pausebefore the outbreak of hostilities spies went busily to and fro. Reportswere carried to the authorities of every movement made, of almost everymeeting held. Men were arrested, imprisoned, flogged in the streets ofBelfast. Information was forced from prisoners under the lash. Partiesof yeomen rode through the country burning, ravishing, and hanging asthey went.
James Finlay earned his pay with the best of his kind, denouncing menwhom he knew to be United Irishmen, and giving information about theirwhereabouts. He was settled in Bridge Street, and, strangely blind tothe fact that he was no longer trusted, invited the leaders to conferwith him, and allowed his house to be used as a store for ammunition.Donald Ward, grimly determined that this man should get his deserts,insisted that nothing should be said or done to alarm him.
"We can't deal with him here," he said. "Wait, wait till we get him downto Donegore next week. If we frighten him now he won't go."
Of all these doings Neal heard only vague rumours. Sometimes PegMacllrea, crimson with horror and rage, came to him and told him of aflogging, sparing him no details of the brutality. Sometimes his unclesat an hour with him and talked of the fight that was coming. He seemedneither impatient nor excited. He looked forward with calm satisfactionto the day when he would have a gun in his hand and an opportunity ofshooting at the men who were harrying the country.
"We have a couple of brass cannons, Neal. They're not much to boast of,but if they are properly served they will do some mischief. I have alittle experience of artillery, though it wasn't in my regular line offighting. I think I'll perhaps get charge of one of them."
Felix Matier came often to see Neal. As things grew darker outsidehe became more and more extravagantly cheerful. His talk was all ofliberty, of the dawn of the new era, of the breaking of old chains, andthe rising of the peoples of the world in unconquerable might.
"We're to do our share in the grand work, Neal Ward, you and me; we'llhave our hands in it in a day or two now.
"'May liberty meet with success! May prudence protect her from evil! May tyrants and tyranny tine in the midst And wander their way to the devil.'
"Ora, but fighting's the work for a man after all. Here am I that havespent my life making up reckonings and seeing to drink and men's dinnersand the beds they were to sleep in. But I never was contented with suchthings, and the money I made didn't content me a bit more. _They_ taughtme better, boy." He put his hand on the pile of books which lay on thetable in front of Neal. "They taught me that there was something betterthan making money and eating full and living soft, something in theworld a man might fight for. Eh, but I wasn't meant for an innkeeper--Iwas meant for a fighter.
"'I'd fight at land, I'd fight at sea; At hame I'd fight my auntie, O! I'd meet the devil and Dundee On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O!'"
James Hope also came to see Neal. His talk was very different from theflamboyant exultation of Felix Matier; very different also from DonaldWard's cool delight in the prospect of battle. James Hope seemedto realise the awful gravity of taking up arms against establishedgovernment. He alone understood the very small chance there was ofvictory for the United Irishmen. Yet Neal never for an instant doubtedHope's courage. He felt that this man had argued out the whole matterwith himself and thought deeply and prayed earnestly and had made up hismind.
"I do not think that we are sure to win, Neal, but I hope that ourfighting will enable those coming after us to obtain by other means theliberty and security which will surely be withheld from them unless wefight. I do not say these things to every one, but I feel safe in sayingthem to you. You will not fear to die, if death is to be the end of itfor us."
Neal felt convinced that Hope himself would go calmly, steadfastly on ifhe were quite sure that the gallows waited for him. It was to Hope, morethan to either of the others, that he complained about his confinementin Matier's house.
"I cannot bear," he said, "to be shut up here. I am not ill. The cuton my head is cured now. There must be some other reason for keepingme here. Am I not to be trusted? You say that you believe I will notshrink. Why keep me here as if you were all afraid of my turning cowardor traitor?"
Hope parried these complaints as well as he could, telling Neal that asoldier's first duty was obedience, that in good time he would be givensomething to do; that in the meanwhile he must show himself brave bybeing patient!
"It is harder," he said, "to conquer yourself than to conquer yourenemy."
One day, when Neal had been a week in captivity, he broke outpassionately to Hope--
"I cannot bear this any longer. I hear of you and my uncle and theothers risking your lives. I hear of the brutality of the soldiers.I hear of great plans on foot. I claim my share of the danger thatsurrounds us. I understand now why you all combine to keep me here. Youare afraid of my running risks. I claim, I claim as a right, that I beallowed to take the same risks as the rest."
James Hope sat silent. His fingers played with the dark lock of hairwhich hung over his forehead. Neal knew the gesture well. It was commonwith Hope when he thought deeply and painfully. His fine dark eyes werefixed on Neal's, and there was the same curiously gentle expression inthem which had attracted Neal the first time he noticed it.
"I admit your claim," said Hope, slowly, at last. "I shall speak to youruncle. To-morrow, I think I may promise this; to-morrow you shall comewith me, and we shall do something which will be difficult, and I thinka little dangerous too."