Captain Swift, himself an Irishman, when he understood that I was
desirous of spending my leave of absence in Donegal, was gracious enough
to appoint me his secretary for the time being, and thus made easy what
might otherwise have been a difficult journey. The captain's
destination was a few miles south of Derry, where his family resided, so
that I was brought well on my way.
Our journey took us through Dublin, in which city the captain remained
some days, to confer with the naval authorities there as to the future
service of the _Diana_ in Irish waters. During that short halt I had
time to look about me, and form some impressions of a place of which I
had so often heard but never yet seen.
I am not going to trouble my readers with those impressions. Indeed,
when it came to looking about me, I found my attention taken hold of by
matters far more important than streets and edifices.
On the day before our departure for the north, one of my first errands
was to the coach-office, to engage places for the captain and myself for
the journey. I had done this, and was about to quit the yard, when a
private travelling coach, evidently about to start (for it was piled
with baggage on the top), drew up at the gate, to take on board a sack
of corn for the horses.
It was evidently the equipage of a wealthy man. Two passengers were
inside--a lady and a gentleman--both well cloaked, for it was a cold
spring day. I could not see their faces, and should probably not have
troubled myself twice about them, but for two strange incidents which
happened, just as, having taken up what they called for, the carriage
started on its journey. A man on the pavement, who had evidently been
watching the halt, uttered a howl of execration and shook his fist at
the window. A moment after, a young gentleman of military bearing,
mounted on a grey horse, cantered up the road and overtook the coach on
the other side. He carried a small bunch of flowers, which he stooped
to pass in at the window to the lady, receiving in exchange a wave from
one of the prettiest hands I ever saw. Next moment the coach was
rattling down the street; and the gentleman having accompanied it a
short distance, kissed his hand and wheeled up a side street and
disappeared.
Unless I was greatly deceived, that gentleman was Captain Lestrange.
"Who are the travellers?" said I to the man who had shaken his fist.
He was apparently a countryman, dressed in an old frieze coat, with a
slouching hat.
He ground his teeth as he turned on me.
"The greatest villain on earth," said he. "I know him."
"I suppose so," said I, "or you would hardly excite yourself about him."
"Excite, is it? Man, dear, if there is a Judas on this earth, that's
him! Excite? you'd be excited too."
The man talked like one tipsy, but I did not think it was with drink.
"What has he done to you?" said I.
"Done? Isn't that the boy who's lured us all on, and then comes to
Dublin to denounce us? Man alive, did you never hear of Maurice Gorman
in your life?"
It was as much as I could do to stand steady under this shock.
"I was never in Dublin before," said I; "how should I? Is he an
Englishman?"
"Englishman? he's worse. He's an Irish traitor, I tell you, and feeds
on the blood of his people. He was the toad that made fools of us all,
and wormed himself into our secrets, and then turned and stabbed us in
the back. But we're not dead yet. We'll be even with him."
"Where has he gone now?" said I.
"Away home with his girl, who's as bad as himself. Sure, you saw her
coquetting with the young dandy just now. He's in the very middle of
the nest of vipers that are plotting to grind the life out of Ireland.
Maybe," said he, stopping suddenly and looking hard at me, "you're one
of that same nest yourself?"
"God forbid!" said I; "I love Ireland."
"That's good hearing. You're one of us?"
"Of the friends of my country, yes."
"A sworn friend?"
"I was sworn, yes," said I, determined at all cost to hear more of the
business.
"Come this afternoon to the printer's house in Marquis Street; you'll
hear more of Gorman then, maybe. _Pikes and hemp_ is the word. No
questions will be asked--not if you are Ireland's friend."
"I'll be there," said I; "and God save Ireland!"
"Amen!" said he, and we parted.
It was, as I learned presently, the babbling of foolish talkers like
this poor fellow that wrecked the Irish conspiracy.
As for me, I confess I felt misgivings. I was a servant of his Majesty,
and had no business with secret conspiracies. Yet, when a life so
precious to me was at stake, how could I help trying to do something to
save it? Besides (and this salved my conscience a little), had I not
promised Tim, in the last hour I was with him, to strike a blow for my
country?
For hours that morning I paced the streets of Dublin debating with
myself, trying to reconcile dishonour with honour, and love with duty;
determining one hour to fail in my appointment, in another to keep it
and report all I heard to the government.
Finally, anxiety and curiosity got the better of me, and at the
appointed hour I stood at the door of the printer's office in Marquis
Street.
No one challenged me as I entered or passed through the outer shop,
where a lad was at work folding pamphlets. But at the inner door,
leading to the press-room, a little shutter slid back and a face looked
out.
"_Pikes and hemp_," said I.
"Name."
"Barry."
"Pass, friend."
I found myself in a large apartment, in one corner of which stood the
printing-press, and in another an iron table and a can of ink.
My friend of the morning, looking restless and haggard, was there, and
greeted me, I thought, somewhat anxiously, as though he doubted the
prudence of his invitation. He did not, I am sure, feel more anxious
than I, who every moment found the act in which I was engaged more
intolerable.
At last, when about a hundred men, most of them of the class of my
friend, had dropped in silently, and stood talking in knots, awaiting
one further arrival, I could stand it no longer.
"I told you a lie this morning," said I in a low voice to my companion;
"I am not sworn."
He turned as white as a sheet.
"Then you are here to betray us?"
"No," said I. "Let me go, and no one shall hear a word of this."
"You cannot go," said he excitedly, "it would be death to me if it were
known, and to you too. Stay where you are now."
"I don't want to stay," said I; "I was a fool to come."
"You will be still more a fool to go," said he. "Sit down; eyes are on
us already. Life may be nothing to you, but it is everything to me."
He spoke so eagerly, almost piteously, that I felt sorry for him, and
for his sake more than my own took the seat at his side.
At that moment there entered the room a noble-looking young man, at
sight of whom every one present rose to his feet and uncovered.
"It's Lord Edward himself!" exclaimed my companion, still trembling.
Lord Edward! I had heard of him before. It was he whose letter I had
carried four years ago to Depute Duport on behalf of the unfortunate
Sillery; and it was he on whom just now the eyes of all Irish rebels
were turned for guidance and hope in the desperate enterprise on which
they were embarked.
There was something fascinating in his open frank countenance and the
half reckless, joyous air with which he carried himself. The assembly,
which, till he arrived, had been sombre and mysterious, lit up under his
presence into enthusiasm and eagerness.
He had news to give and receive; and as I sat and listened I came to
learn more of the state of Ireland in half-an-hour than a week in Dublin
would have taught me.
The fuel was ready for the torch. The United Irishmen were organised
and drilled in every county. The English garrison was becoming day by
day more slack and contemptible. What traitors there were were known
and marked. The dawn was in the sky. A little more patience, a little
more sacrifice, a little more self-restraint, and the hour of Ireland's
liberty would soon strike.
But it was not in generalities like these that the speaker moved my
admiration most. It was when the meeting came to consider the state of
the rebel organisation in various parts that the soldier and general
shone out in him, and convinced me that if any man could carry the
movement through he would. The present meeting, as I understood,
consisted of delegates from the north, where people were beginning to
grow impatient for the signal to rise; and where, as some one boasted,
one hundred thousand men were ready even now to move on Dublin and drive
the English garrison into the sea.
"What of the Donegal men?" inquired Lord Edward, looking at a paper
before him. "I see there is a question of treachery there."
"By your lordship's leave," said my companion, starting up, "I denounce
Maurice Gorman of Knockowen as a traitor to the cause. He has been in
Dublin within the last week in conference at the Castle."
Lord Edward's brow clouded.
"Was it not through him the Donegal men got their arms?"
"It was; and it's through him many of them have lost them, for he's as
busy now disarming as he was a few years back arming."
"What is the reason of the change?"
"Money, my lord. He's grown a rich man; he must keep in with the
government, or his estates will be taken."
Lord Edward shrugged his shoulders.
"We have not much to fear from a poltroon like him; but let the
Provincial Directory of Ulster deal with the matter. Meanwhile we want
to know that Donegal is as ready as other parts. We have some good men
there surely. Order a return of all secretaries and officers in a
month," said he to the clerk.
Then other matters were talked of, including the prospect of a French
landing; and presently the meeting broke up. At the end of it Lord
Edward walked straight up to me.
"Yours is a new face here," said he.
"It is, my lord," said I. "I am a Donegal man who has been abroad for
four years; yet we have had dealings together before now."
"Were you at Hamburg or Basle?" said he.
"Neither; but I had the honour of carrying a letter from your lordship
to a French deputy in '93, as well as another, franked by your lordship,
for a certain Mr Lestrange in Paris."
He looked hard at me.
"You are not John Cassidy?" said he.
Then I told him the story of my adventure in the wood near Morlaix, and
how I delivered the letters of his dead messenger in Paris.
He clapped me on the back.
"You are a good fellow," said he, "and I thank you. Little came of my
letters; but that was no fault of yours. So you are one of us in
Donegal?"
"No, my lord," said I. "I am here on false pretences, though not wholly
of my own accord. I cannot expect you to be troubled with my
explanations, but they are at your service if you require them. If not,
here I am at your mercy."
He looked at me suspiciously for a moment, then he smiled.
"Walk a little way home with me," said he.
So I followed him out, the members present saluting as he passed through
them, and wondering, no doubt, what high official of the society was
this whom the leader of Ireland chose thus to honour.
"Now," said Lord Edward, as we got to the end of the street, "what is
this mystery?"
"Shortly, my lord, I am in love," began I.
He laughed pleasantly at that.
"There we agree entirely," said he.
"I am a servant to his Majesty, and have sworn him allegiance," I
continued.
"His Majesty has more than he deserves."
"I am a sailor, sir, on leave. I arrived only yesterday in Dublin after
four years' absence. To-morrow (unless you or your society shoot me
through the head) I start northward, hoping to get a glimpse of her I
love. By chance to-day I heard her father's name mentioned in the
street as a man whose life was in peril. In a weak moment I so far
forgot my duty to my king as to pass myself off to my informant as a
United Irishman, in the hope of obtaining information which might enable
me to help him."
"I trust you got it," said his lordship.
"I did not," said I; "the Provincial Directory of Ulster is to deal with
the case."
Lord Edward stopped short.
"You don't mean--" began he, and stopped.
"I mean that I love Maurice Gorman's daughter--a hopeless quest
perhaps--but the prize--"
"The most charming lady in Ireland," said he. "Your name is Barry, I
believe?"
"Barry Gallagher, my lord."
"Are you a kinsman of Tim Gallagher of Fanad?"
"Twin-brother. Is he alive then?" and in my eagerness I seized his
lordship's arm.
He did not resent the liberty at all.
"He is, and is a trusty member of our society, as I hope you will be
even yet."
"Pardon me," said I; "had Tim been dead, I promised him to fight for
Ireland. As it is, I am bound to my king."
"Well," said he, with a shrug, "that is no concern of mine. As to your
spying on our meeting--all's fair in love and war. You will, no doubt,
make use of what you have heard against us."
"That I certainly shall not do," said I. "I am a poor man, but I am at
least a gentleman. To protect the lady I love I shall certainly try;
but to betray those whose gallantry and chivalry have spared me to do
it, I certainly shall not. Besides, apart from my obligations to you, I
am already sworn to secrecy." And I told him how I had once been forced
to take the oath of the society, and had already got the length of
pledging myself to secrecy before a happy diversion saved me from the
rest.
"Well, Gallagher," said he, stopping short and extending his hand with
that engaging smile which, rebel as he was, knit my soul to him, "I do
not say but, were I in your shoes, I should feel compelled to act as you
do. It is a delicate position. When we meet again it may be with drawn
swords. Meanwhile, luck go with your wooing, and may it turn out as
happy as my own."
This kindness quite humbled and abashed me. I had been guilty of
meanness and disloyalty, and this noble way of passing it over took all
the conceit out of me.
I returned crestfallen, with slow steps, to the captain's hotel. Even
the news of Tim's safety failed to inspirit me. "The most charming lady
in Ireland," were the words that rang in my ears; and who was I--common
seaman, sneak, and cadger--to aspire to such as her? Would she, I
wondered, ever care to take a flower from me as she had taken one from
Captain Lestrange that morning?
I was half minded to beg Captain Swift for leave to remain behind in
Dublin. But then the thought of the peril that threatened her urged me
to go forward. At least I could die for her.
At the door of the hotel a person in plain clothes, but evidently a
soldier, touched me on the shoulder.
"I see you are a friend of Lord Edward Fitzgerald," said he with a
smirk.