Early next morning Donald Ward and Neal set forth on their journey.
Rab MacClure’s horses served them well. By breakfast time they reached
Ballymoney. They sat in the inn kitchen while the woman of the house
broiled salmon for them. She was full of excitement, and very ready to
talk. The yeomen had ridden through the town the day before. They had
stopped at her house to drink. The officer and some of the men had paid
their score and ridden on. Ten of them remained behind, and demanded
more drink. Tumblers were brought to them as they sat in their saddles.
One of them had proposed a toast--“To hell with all Papists and
Presbyterians.”
“And that was no civil talk to use to me, when all the town knows that
my man is an elder in the kirk.”
But there was more to follow. The troopers had flung down the
tumblers--“the bonny cut glasses that were fetched from Wexford”--and
shattered them on the pavement of the courtyard. Then they rode off
without paying a penny, and when the mistress cried after them one man
came back with his sword drawn in his hand, and she was fain to flee and
hide herself. But the story of her own wrongs did not quench the good
dame’s curiosity. She recognised Neal as the son of the minister in
Dunseveric. It was towards Dunseveric that the yeomen had ridden. What
did they do there? Had there been hanging work or burning--the like of
what went on in other parts? Had they visited the minister’s house? Did
Neal 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 him
little excuse for glorying, he had plenty of sound sense--too much sense
to gossip with the mistresses of inns about serious business. He signed
to Neal to keep silent, and himself parried the shower of questions
so adroitly that his hostess got no information from him. She tired
at last, and with a show of disappointed temper, put the salmon on the
table.
“There’s your fish for you,” she said, “and fadge and oaten farles, and
if you want more you’d better show some civility to the woman that does
for you.”
She left the room, and stood, her hands on her hips, staring into the
street.
“We’re well rid of her tongue,” said Donald.
Before the travellers’ appetites were half satisfied she was with them
again. 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 one
of them is Rab MacClure, of Ballintoy. Away with you, Neal Ward, away
with you. I’m thinking that them that has Rab MacClure and his feet tied
under 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 to
drink without paying and me taking money from the son of Micah Ward
or any friend of his? But for God’s sake get you gone. I’ll keep them
dandering about the door for a while, and do you get your horses and
out by the back way into the field. You can strike the road again lower
down.”
It was late in the evening when Donald and Neal, with weary horses and
wearier limbs, came close to Antrim. Neal was unused to riding long
distances, and Donald complained that a voyage across the Atlantic left
a man unfit for land travelling. They accosted a stranger on the road
and asked his guidance to the best inn. The man answered them in a civil
way. He spoke with a northern accent, but his voice was singularly sweet
and 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 find
the accommodation good both for yourselves and your horses.”
He walked with them, chatting about the weather and the condition of the
roads. He said that he himself had that day walked from Ballymena, and
intended to spend the night in Antrim. He asked no questions and seemed
in no way concerned with the affairs of his chance acquaintances.
Donald and Neal took their horses to the inn yard and saw them rubbed
down, 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 the
door sat at a corner of the table eating a frugal meal of bread and
cheese. Beside his tumbler stood a large jug of buttermilk. In a few
minutes he rose from the table and took his seat on a bench near the
fire, where the light from a lamp, which hung on the wall, fell on
him. 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 to
have 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, and
might easily have been capable of great endurance. His face was thin
and narrow. He had very dark hair, and dark, gentle eyes. There was a
suggestion about the mouth of the kind of strength which often goes with
gentleness.
To Neal the appearance of the man was not very interesting. He watched
him in mere idleness while waiting for the girl to bring the supper
Donald had ordered. If there had been anyone else in the room Neal would
not have wasted a second glance on the unobtrusive stranger. Yet, as
he watched the man he became aware of something about him which was
attractive. There was a dignity in his movements quite different from
Donald Ward’s habitual self-assertion, different, too, from the stately
confidence of Lord Dunseveric. There was a quiet seriousness in the
way he set to work at his writing, and a methodical carefulness in his
sorting 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 shaken
and 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’d
want a soft bed to lie on.”
The stranger looked up from his notebook. There was laughter in his
dark eyes, but it went no further than his eyes. His lips showed no
inclination 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 no
order to the girl, but walked straight to where the dark-eyed stranger
sat. Greetings passed between them, and then talk in a low voice. Both
of them looked at Donald and Neal. Then, beckoning to the girl, the
stranger asked if he could be accommodated with a private room. The girl
nodded, and went to prepare one. Donald Ward finished his supper, rose,
stretched himself, yawned, and then drawing a stool near the fire, sat
down and filled his pipe. Neal, interested to watch the evening street
traffic in a strange town, climbed on to the deep sill of the window and
pushed the lattice open. A blind piper sat on a stone bench outside the
inn and played a reel for some boys and girls who danced on the road. A
horseman--a handsomely-dressed man and well mounted--rode slowly up the
street towards Lord Massereene’s demesne. One of the dancers crossed
his way and caused the horse to shy. The rider cut at the girl with his
whip. An angry growl followed the retreating figure. The piper stopped
playing for a minute and listened. His face wore that eager look of
strained attention which is seen often on the faces of the blind. He
began to play again, and this time his tune was the “Ça Ira.” It was
well-known to his audience and its significance was understood. Several
voices 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, stepped
out of a house opposite the inn and approached the piper. The dancers
and the onlookers stopped singing and saluted him respectfully. He spoke
to the piper.
“Don’t be playing that tune, Phelim. Play your reel again. There’s
trouble where those French tunes are played. It was so in Belfast a
while 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, reverend
sir, 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 letter
you wrote to save William Orr from being hanged.”
The pipes gave a long wail and were silent. Then another man came up the
street. 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 stop
his 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 not
recollect where he had heard it. He leaned out of the window to hear
better.
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, took
off his hat, and held it in his hand.
“Oh, nothing to you, nothing at all, Mr. Macartney. I did not know you
were here. Indeed, you were quite right to stop the man. As for what I
said, I beg you to forget it. It was nothing but a joke, a little joke
of mine.”
He bowed and cringed. He spoke in a deprecating whine, very different
from the blustering tone he had used before. Neal’s interest in the
scene before him became suddenly very acute. He was almost certain now
that he recognised the voice. The whining tone brought back to him the
night when he had interfered with James Finlay’s salmon poaching. The
voice 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. He
heard his steps in the passage, heard him open the door of the room in
which the travellers were gathered. Neal shrank back into the shadow of
the window seat and watched.
Finlay swaggered across the floor and then paused and looked at Donald
Ward, who smoked his pipe in the chimney corner. Then he turned to the
other two.
“I don’t know this gentleman,” he said. “Is he----?”
He paused, his eyebrows elevated, his face expressing significant
interrogation. Neal saw him plainly in the lamp light. He had not been
mistaken in the voice. It was James Finlay. The man who had guided them
to the inn rose without speaking and led the way to the private room
which the maid had prepared for his reception. Neal jumped down from his
seat and approached his uncle.
“Uncle Donald,” he said, “that was James Finlay, the man we are looking
for.”
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 a
job of this sort.”
“I’m quite sure.”
Donald replaced his pipe in his mouth and puffed hard at it for some
minutes. Then he said--
“You don’t know either of the other two, I suppose? No. Well it can’t
be helped. It would have been convenient if we had known. They may be
honest men or they may be another pair of spies. I think I’ll try and
find out something about them. Do you stay here, Neal, and watch. Let
me know if any of the three of them leave the house. I’ll go down the
passage to the tap-room. I’ll drink a glass or two, and I’ll see what
information I can pick up. You see, my boy, if the other two are honest
men we ought to warn them of our suspicions about Finlay. If they are
spies we ought to know their names and warn somebody else. Any way, keep
your eye on Finlay, and let me know if he stirs.”
A sensation of horror crept over Neal when his uncle left him. He
realised that he was hunting a fellow-creature, that the hunt might end
at any moment in the taking of human life. In Dunseveric Manse, while
the anger which the yeomen’s blows and bonds had raised in him was
awake, while the enormity of Finlay’s treachery was still fresh in his
mind, 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 just
watched him cringe and apologize, when he had sat within a few feet of
him, it seemed a ghastly and horrible thing to track and pursue him for
his life. A cold sweat bathed his limbs. His hands trembled. He sat
on the stool near the fire shivering with cold and fear. He listened
intently. It was growing late, and the piper had stopped playing in the
street. The boys and girls who danced had gone home. There were
voices of passers by, but these grew rarer. Now and then there was the
trampling of a horse’s hoofs on the road as some belated traveller from
Belfast pushed fast for home. A murmur of voices came to him from the
interior of the inn, he supposed from the tap-room to which his uncle
had gone, but he could hear nothing of what was said. Once the girl who
had served his supper came in and told him that his bed was ready if he
cared to go to it. Neal shook his head. Gradually he became drowsy. His
eyes closed. He nodded. Then the very act of nodding awoke him with a
start. He blamed himself for having gone near to sleeping at his post,
for being neglectful of the very first duty imposed on him. The horror
of the watch he was keeping returned on him. He felt that he was like
a murderer lurking in the dark for some unsuspecting victim. For Finlay
had no thought that he was distrusted, discovered, tracked. Then, to
steel himself against pity, he let his mind go back over the events of
the previous night. He thought of the scene in the MacClures’ cottage,
of the heart-broken woman, of her husband riding with the brutal
troopers to a trial without justice and a death without pity. He felt
with his hand the blood caked on his own cheek, the scab on the cut
where the yeoman had struck him. He remembered Una’s shriek and the
Comtesse’s frantic struggles as the soldiers dragged them from their
hiding-place. Of his own rush to their rescue he remembered little save
the momentary delight of feeling his fists get home on the men’s faces.
He had nerved himself now with memories and conquered his qualms. He
felt that it would be easy work and pleasant to drag James Finlay to
earth and trample the life out of him. The thought of the insults of
the brutal men who held Una and his own impotent struggles with the belt
which bound him made him fierce enough. But the mood passed. His mind
reverted to the subject which had never, all day, been far from his
thoughts. He recalled each detail of his walk back to Dun-severic with
Una, her words of praise for his bravery, the resting of her hand in his
as they crossed stiles and ditches, the times when it rested in his hand
longer than it need have rested, the great moment when he had ventured
to clasp and keep it fast. He thrilled as he recollected holding her
in his arms, the telling of his love, and Una’s wonderful reply to
him. Emotion flooded him. Una loved him as he loved her. The future was
impossible, unthinkable. At the best of times he could not hope that
proud Lord Dunseveric would consent to let him marry Una; and now, of
all times, now, when he was engaged in a dangerous conspiracy, pledged
to a fight which he felt already to be hopeless; when he had the
hangman’s ladder to look forward to, or, at best, the life of a hunted
outlaw and exile to some foreign land; what could he expect now to come
of his love for Una? His mind refused to dwell on such thoughts for
long. It went back to the simple fact, the glorious, incredible thing
which 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. There
were 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 darkness
looking out of the door. He saw three men pass him--James Finlay and
the other two. They stood at the street door speaking last words in low
voices. Neal sped down the passage to the tap-room. His uncle sat in
a cloud of tobacco smoke, with a tumbler in his hand. Round him was
gathered a knot of admirers, most of them somewhat tipsy. Donald was
telling them stories of the American war. At the sight of Neal he rose
quickly and laid down his tumbler. It was evident that he, at least, had
drunk 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 hats
on and were bidding good night to the first, the man who brought us
here.”
Donald left the tap-room quickly. The street door closed, and in the
passage he found himself face to face with the gentle-mannered traveller
whom 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, a
simple man. I take no pride in the titles men give each other.”
“James Hope,” said Donald, “I’ve heard of you, and I’ve heard of you as
an 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 speak
with you there? I have matters of some importance.”
James Hope turned without a word and led the way upstairs to a small
room. Three candles stood on the table. There were also tumblers and
an empty whisky bottle. It was noticeable that there were only two
tumblers. James Hope had not been drinking. Donald walked over to the
table and blew out one of the candles.
“I’m not more superstitious than other men,” he said, “but I won’t sit
in the room with three candles burning. It’s damned unlucky.”
Again, as earlier in the public room, Neal thought that James Hope was
going 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 on
the table and some clean glasses. You know this inn, James Hope, what’s
their best drink?”
“I have but a poor head,” said Hope. “I drink nothing but water. But I
believe that the whisky is good enough.”
“Neal, my boy,” said Donald, “the wench that bought us our supper is
gone 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’ll
get some whisky from the taproom.”
Donald filled himself a glass with a generous proportion of spirit, and
lit 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 took
from it one of the letters which Micah Ward had written. James Hope read
it carefully.
“You are,” he said, “the Donald Ward mentioned in this letter, and you
are Neal Ward, the son of a man whom we all respect and admire. I bid
you welcome.”
He held out his hand, first to Donald, who shook it heartily, and then
to Neal. He fixed his dark eyes on the young man’s face, and looked long
and steadily at him. Neal’s eyes wavered and dropped before this earnest
scrutiny, which seemed to read his very thoughts.
“God bless you and keep you, my boy,” said James Hope. “You are the son
of a brave man. I doubt not that you will be a brave man, too, brave in
a good cause.”
Donald Ward seemed a little impatient at this long scrutiny of Neal and
the speech which followed. He took several gulps of whisky and water and
blew 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 we
are men to be trusted?”
“God forbid else,” said Hope. “Whom should we trust if not the brother
and son of Micah Ward?”
“Then I’ll come straight to the point,” said Donald. “Who were the two
men that were with you just now?”
“The one of them,” said Hope, “was Aeneas Moylin, a Catholic, and a
friend of Charlie Teeling. He’s a man that has done much to bring the
Defender boys from County Down and Armagh into the society. He has a
good farm of land near by Donegore.”
“And the other?”
“The other you ought to know, Neal Ward. He’s from Dunseveric. His
name’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 the
letter you bring yourself. I have trusted him a great deal.”
“Trust him no more, then,” said Donald, “the man’s a spy. My brother was
deceived 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 buried
cannon, that of these, only one, James Finlay, had left Dunseveric, that
Neal Ward’s name had appeared on the list of suspected persons, though
Neal had hitherto taken no part and had no knowledge of the doings
of the United Irishmen; that his name must have been given to the
authorities by some one who had a private spite against him; that James
Finlay, and he alone of the people of Dunseveric, had any cause to seek
revenge on Neal.
“It’s a case of suspicion,” said James Hope, “of heavy suspicion, but
you’ve not proven that the man’s a traitor.”
“No,” said Donald, “it’s not proven. I know that well, but the man ought
to be trusted no more until his character is cleared. He ought to be
tried and given a chance of defending himself.”
James Hope sat silent. His fingers pushed back the lock of dark hair
which hung over his forehead. His face grew stern, and there was a look
of determination in his dark eyes. A frown gathered in deep wrinkles on
his forehead. At last he spoke.
“You are on your way to Belfast. I shall give you a letter to Felix
Matier, who keeps the inn with the sign of Dumouriez in North Street.
You will find him easily. His house is a common meeting-place for
members of the society. I shall tell him to have a careful watch kept on
Finlay, and to communicate with you.”
“I’ll deal with the man,” said Donald, “as soon as I have anything more
than suspicion to go on.”
“Deal uprightly, deal justly,” said Hope. “Ours is a sacred cause. It
may be God’s will that we are to be victorious, or it may be written in
His 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, and
love mercy when mercy can be shown without imperilling the lives of
innocent 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 no
help for it. But remember, Donald Ward, that you and I must answer for
our actions before the judgment seat of God. Remember, also, that our
names and our deeds will be judged by posterity. We must not shrink from
stern necessities laid upon us. But let us not give the enemy an excuse
to brand us as assassins in the time to come.”
“God damn it, man, you speak to me as if you thought me a hired
murderer. I take such language from no man living, and from you no
more than another, James Hope. You shall answer for your words and your
insinuations.”
Donald stood up as he spoke. His face was deeply flushed. He had drunk
heavily during the evening. Even the best men, the leaders of every
class and section of society drank heavily in those days. He was an
exceptional man who always went to bed in full possession of his
senses. Donald Ward was no worse than his fellows. But the man whom
he challenged was one of the few for whom the wine bottle had no
attractions. He was also one of those--rare in any age--who had learnt
the mastery of self, whom no words, even insulting words, can drive
beyond the limits of their patience.
“If I have spoken anything which hurts or vexes you, Donald Ward, I am
sorry for it. I had no wish to do so. Comrades in a great enterprise
must not quarrel with each other. I offer you my hand in token that I do
not think of you as anything but an honourable man.”
“Spoken like a gentleman,” said Donald, grasping the outstretched
hand. “Enough said, you have satisfied me that you meant no insult. A
gentleman can do no more.”
“I am not what they call a gentleman,” said James Hope, “I am only a
poor weaver with no claim to any such title.”