Early next morning Neal bade farewell to Hope and started on his walk
to Donegore. For a while he kept along the side of the hill above the
homesteads that clustered on the lower slopes. Nearing Carnmoney he
descended and entered a small inn in order to obtain some breakfast. He
found the master and his wife in a state of great excitement at the news
which 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 to
his 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 felt
tolerably safe, though bodies of troops and yeomen occasionally passed
him. His appearance was known to very few, and the people of the
district through which he was going were either United Irishmen or in
strong sympathy with the society. It was unlikely that any small body of
troops would venture to make an arrest unless the officer in command
was perfectly certain of the identity of his prisoner. So bold and
determined were the people that Neal, stopping opposite a forge, saw the
smith fashioning pike heads openly, and apparently fearlessly. A number
of men stood round the forge door talking earnestly together. Among them
was 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 came
within earshot.
“The place of the muster,” said the piper, “is the Roughfort. Mind you
that 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’s
morn.”
The smith let his hammer fall with a clang on the anvil, and wiped his
brow.
“If you do as good a day’s work the morrow with what I’m working on the
day there’ll be no cause to complain of you.”
For the first time since he left Dunseveric Neal felt a glow of hope for
the success of the movement. He knew what kind of men these farmers
and weavers of Carnmoney and Templepatrick were--austere, cold men,
difficult to stir to violent action; much more difficult to cow into
submission when once roused. And it appeared to him that they were
effectually roused now. He recalled his father’s fanciful application of
the verse from the prophet Jeremiah. He felt, as he listened to the men
round the forge, the hardness of “the northern iron and the steel.” Was
there among the blustering yeomen and the disciplined troops of the King
iron strong enough to break this iron?
He left the forge and passed on. His thoughts wandered from the
enterprise to which he had pledged himself, and went back, as time after
time during the last week they had gone back, to Una. He walked slowly,
wrapped in a delicious day dream. Neglecting all fact, driving from his
mind the pressing realities which separated him hopelessly from the girl
he loved, he imagined himself walking with her hand-in-hand in some
fair place far from strife and the oppression which engendered strife.
A feeling of fierce anger succeeded his day dream. The sun shone around
him, the fields were fair to see. Life ought to be like the sun and
the fields--simple and good and beautiful. Instead it was difficult and
cruel. He was being dragged into a vortex of hate and battle. He loathed
the very thought of it. He wanted peace and love. And yet, what escape
was there for him? Did he even want to escape if he could? The wrong
and tyranny he was to resist were real, insistent, horrible. He would
be less than a man, unworthy of the love and peace he longed for, if he
failed to do his part in the struggle for freedom and right.
At midday he reached Templepatrick village, and found the inn occupied
by a company of yeomen. He sought the house of the weaver with whom he
had dined, in company with James Hope, on his way to Belfast. The
door was closed, which struck Neal as strange, for the day was hot and
bright. Coming near, he was surprised not to hear the rattle of the
loom. Birnie was a diligent man; it was not like him to leave his loom
idle. 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 rest
awhile in the kitchen. There was no answer, and yet he heard the woman
still speaking in low, even tones. He tapped again, and then, despairing
of attracting attention, raised the latch, half opened the door, and
looked in.
In the centre of the room, before the table, a young woman knelt
motionless, her hands stretched out before her. Neal heard her words
distinctly. She was praying aloud, steadily, quietly, but with intense
earnestness, 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 a
little 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 here
one day before with James Hope.”
“I mind you rightly, now,” she said. “Come in and welcome, but if it’s
my 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 me
to 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 have
to set for you. The wee bit of meat we had I cooked for him to take with
him. 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 the
morrow. 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 this
year 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 very
thing the now while you were standing at the door with Jinny. But the
Lord’s ways are not our ways.”
She set a plate of oatcake and a jug of buttermilk on the table before
Neal, and bade him eat. When he had finished, he sat and talked with her
awhile, trying to cheer her. But she was not a woman to whom it was easy
to speak comfortable platitudes. She knew the risks her husband ran--the
risk of battle, and the worse risks which would follow defeat. Neal rose
at last and bid her farewell.
“When you are saying a prayer for your husband,” he said, “say one for
me; 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? When
you’re killing with your pike and your gun, even if it’s a yeo that’s
forninst 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 even
if he’s a yeoman itself?”
It was seven o’clock when Neal reached Aeneas Moylin’s house, after
climbing the steep lane that led to Donegore Hill. He found six men
seated 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 was
made for him at the table round which they sat. Aeneas Moylin rose and
fetched another chair from the next room. Neal noticed that all six men
were armed with swords and pistols. Donald Ward sat at the head of the
table, and had the air of presiding over the assembly. There was dead
silence in the room, save for the ticking of a clock which stood in a
dark corner out of reach of the rays of the lamp. No man looked at any
of his fellows. They stared fixedly at the ceil-ing, the table, or the
walls of the room. After about ten minutes, Felix Marier rose, crossed
the room, and peered at the face of the clock. He went to the door and
looked down the lane. Then, with a sharp in drawing of the breath, he
took his seat again. The movement roused Donald Ward. He fumbled in
his pocket and took out his tobacco box and pipe. He held up the box--a
round metal one--between his finger and thumb. Neal, watching, noticed
with surprise that his uncle’s hand trembled. Donald held the box
without opening it for perhaps two minutes. Then, when he was satisfied
that his hand had become quite steady, he filled his pipe. He rose, took
a 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, smoking
slowly.
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 their
dry lips. They would have liked to drink. Their mouths craved for
moisture, their nerves for stimulant, but they did not dispute Donald
Ward’s emphatic refusal of the offer.
THE NORTHERN IRON. 175
Felix Matier rose again. Again he peered at the clock, again he
opened the door and looked down the lane. This time he turned almost
immediately, and said in a whisper--
“There’s a man coming up the lane, a single rider. I hear the tramp of
his horse.”
He hurried back to his seat, as if he were afraid of being found apart
from his comrades, as if he expected to discover safety in being just as
they were. Donald Ward took his seat at the head of the table. His pipe
was 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 words
in 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 into
the shed. It must be he, for no stranger would know the ways of the
place.”
James Bigger drew a pistol from his pocket, looked carefully at the
priming, cocked it, and laid it on the table before him. He sat at the
end 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 the
words.
Something in the tone of the greeting, some sense of the feeling of
those who sat in the room, startled Finlay. He glanced quickly at the
faces before him, became deadly white, took a step forward, and then
turned to the door. It was shut, and James Bigger, pistol in hand, stood
with his back against it. Finlay stood stock still. Neal, looking at
him, saw in his eyes an expression of wild terror--an agonised appeal
against the horror of death. In a single instant the man had understood
that he was to die. Neal felt suddenly sick. Then a faintness overcame
him. He leaned back in his chair unable to move or speak. He heard, as
if from a great distance, as if out of some other world, his uncle’s
voice--
“The men you expected are not here, friend Finlay. M’Cracken is busy
elsewhere, Munro has an engagement this evening, Hope, whom you let slip
through 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 unfriendly
voice--
“We are here instead, and I think we are quite competent to conduct the
business for which we have met; but you will agree with us that this
house will not be a suitable place for our meeting. We think it possible
that Aeneas Moylin’s house may be honoured to-night by a visit from some
dragoons 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 building
in which we may do our business with perfect safety. You have heard, no
doubt, of the custom of body-snatching. Certain men--resurrectioners, I
think, they are called--have of late been robbing the graves of the dead
and selling the bodies to the medical schools for the use of students.
The good people of Donegore have built in their churchyard a very strong
vault with an iron door, of which Aeneas Moylin keeps the key. Here
they lock up the bodies of their dead for some time before burying
them--until, in fact, the natural process of decay renders them
unsuitable for dissection. This is their plan for defeating the
resurrectioners. There is no corpse in the vault to-night. We shall
adjourn to it for our meeting. The walls are so thick, I am told, that
remarks made even in a loud tone inside will be perfectly inaudible to
eavesdroppers. 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 should
die suddenly his body will not become a prey to the ghoulish people of
whom 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 his
part assigned to him beforehand, and was ready to perform it. There was
no confusion, and no talking.
Aeneas Moylin led the way. Two others followed, holding Finlay, gagged
and bound, by the arms. Donald Ward, his sword drawn, brought up the
rear. They moved like shadows, silent as the prowling body-snatchers
of whom Donald had spoken. In front of them, a dark mass in the June
twilight, stood the church, and round it rows and rows of gravestones.
Moylin crossed the stile. Finlay sank helplessly in a heap in front of
it. He could not, or would not, put his feet on the stone steps. Without
a 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 the
church, led the way to a corner of the cemetery where as yet there were
no graves. Here, barely visible among the tangle of brambles, nettles,
and high grass which surrounded it, was the vault. Kneeling down, Moylin
fumbled with the lock, turned the key with a harsh, grating sound, and
swung 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 a
projecting ledge of the rough masonry. Finlay was dragged in. The others
followed, 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 stand
upright, and there was little room for moving. James Finlay, still bound
and gagged, lay at full length on the floor. Round him, their backs
against the walls, crouched the other men. Moylin’s lantern cast a
feeble, smoky light. The air was heavy and close. It was the air of a
charnel house.
“Take from the prisoner the arms he has about him,” said Donald. “Search
his pockets, and hand me any papers you find. Now unbind his hands and
free his mouth.
“James Finlay, we are here to do strict justice. You shall have every
opportunity of making any defence you can when you hear the charges
against you. If you clear yourself you shall go free. If you fail to
clear 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 or
condemn you in strict justice. The first charge against you is
this. Having been sworn a member of the United Irishmen’s society in
Dunseveric, having been elected a member of the committee, you did in
Belfast betray the fact that there were cannons hidden in Dunseveric
meeting-house, and gave the names of your fellow-members to the military
authorities.”
“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 sworn into
the 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 on
the list of persons to be arrested. There was a short silence when he
had finished. Then James Bigger said--
“You have not proved that charge. The circumstances are suspicious, but
you have proved nothing.”
Donald Ward bowed. Finlay raised his eyes for the first time since he
had been dragged into the vault, and looked round him. There had risen
in him a faint gleam of hope.
“You are charged,” said Donald again, “with having provided the dragoons
who rioted in Belfast last week with information which led them to
attack and wreck the houses of those who are in sympathy with the
society.”
“I deny it. I was not in Belfast that day. I was here in Donegore with
Aeneas Moylin.”
“You were here the day before,” said Moylin. “You left me that day
early. You might have been in Belfast.”
“I was not,” said Finlay.
Donald Ward produced the scrap of paper which Peg Macllrea had taken
from 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 the
lantern 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, and
the lantern followed them on their round. Each man examined them, and
each 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 was
written. I employed another man to write for me. The writing is his, not
mine.”
“Name the man you employed.”
“Kelso, James Kelso.”
“Kelso was flogged yesterday,” said Donald, “and is in prison now. Do
you expect us to believe that he is an informer? Is flogging the wages
the Government pays to spies?”
“I tried to save Hope yesterday,” said Finlay. “Neal Ward, you have
borne witness against me, tell the truth in my favour now.”
“I believe,” said Neal, “that he did his best to save Hope and me
yesterday. I believe that he wanted to save us.”
He told his story, and he told of the conversation on the Cave Hill
afterwards. Again the flicker of hope crossed Finlay’s face.
“You hear,” he said. “Would I have done that if I had been a spy? Could
I 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 I
shall 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. They
are of a very private nature.”
“I can believe,” said Donald, “that they are of such a kind that you
would 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 smiled
slightly. “I swear to you, I will take any oath you like that there is
no paper there concerned with politics. You will be sorry if you read
them. I assure you that you will repent it afterwards. You will be
doing a base action. You will pry into a woman’s secrets. You will bring
dishonour on the name of a lady, a noble lady.”
“Do you expect us to believe,” said Donald, “that any lady, noble or
other--that any woman, that any soldier’s drab even--has written love
letters to you?”
He opened the first which came to hand of the pile of papers which lay
at his feet on the ground. Finlay suddenly collapsed. His impudence,
his ready tongue, deserted him. He had fought hard for his life, had
lied--though he lied clumsily in his terror--had twisted, doubled,
fought point after point. Whatever the papers were that had been found
on 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 it
earlier when he first realised that he was trapped in Moylin’s kitchen.
Donald read paper after paper silently. Some he laid aside, some he
passed to the man next him to read. Finlay rallied again. He made
another effort to save himself.
“Listen,” he said, “I have influence with the Government. I don’t deny
it. Call me an informer, a spy, any name you like, but admit that I have
served my masters well. I can claim my reward from them. Let me go, and
I swear to obtain pardons for you. I can save you, and I will. I offer
you your lives as a ransom for mine.”
“Would you make us what you are?” said Donald, sternly. “Would you buy
our honour, you that have sold your own?”
Finlay, who had knelt during his last appeal, fell forward. He grasped
Neal with his hands. It was impossible in the dim light to see the faces
of the men around him, but some instinct told him that Neal alone felt
any 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 one
day. I will do anything you wish. I will---- Oh God, Oh Christ, Oh save
me, save me now.”
Neal felt drops fall on his hands, sweat from Finlay’s brow or tears
from his eyes. He spoke--
“Spare him,” he said. “Who are we to judge and to slay? James Hope said
to me last night that we should refrain from taking vengeance. I ask
you to respect what he said. Think of it. This man’s case to-day may
be your’s to-morrow. Remember you may take life, but you cannot give it
back 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 the
wretched man cover his hands with kisses, mumble, and slobber over them.
There was silence for a while when Neal ceased speaking. Then Donald
Ward said--
“Neal, you had better go outside. This is no work for a boy. It is, as
you say, horrible. To inflict death is horrible, but it is sometimes
just. If ever it is just for man to shed the blood of his brother man it
is just to shed James Finlay’s. He has broken oaths, has brought death
on men, has made women widows and children fatherless; has wrecked the
happiness of homes. He has done these things for the sake of gain, for
money counted out to him as the priests counted money out to Judas.”
It was impossible to plead his cause any more. Moylin pushed open the
iron door of the vault. Neal dragged his hands from Finlay’s grasp, and
crawled out. He heard the door clang behind him, shut fast again upon
the broken, terrified wretch and his judges--relentless men of iron, the
northern iron.
No sound reached him from the vault. Save for the occasional belated
cawing of some rooks in the trees which shadowed the graveyard, no sound
reached him at all. He sat down among the nettles, the brambles, and the
rank grass and burst into tears.