I should be no better than a hypocrite were I to deny that, as I rode my
weary, borrowed nag back that morning along the Delft road, there shot
in and out of the turmoil of my feelings a sharp pang of disappointment.
It was no disloyalty to Tim; it was no greediness for name and wealth.
It was but the dashing of a passing hope that I might find myself, after
all, a gentleman, and so prove worthy to be regarded by Miss Kit as
something more than a trusty servant. As a Gorman, and her cousin, I
might claim her with the best of her suitors. As the son of Mike
Gallagher, boatman and smuggler, myself but a plain boatswain, how durst
I suppose, for all her kindness and gentleness, she could comprehend me
in the ranks of her equals?
Yet to serve her was something--to have snatched her from the scoundrel
Martin, and set her in a safe place, was some little triumph to set
against the disappointment of Biddy's news; and as I jogged Delft-ward
that morning, I fell to considering how best I could help her to her
home and Tim into his estate.
More people were about now than when I rode last, and some opened their
eyes to see a sailor on horseback. But I answered no questions and
halted for no parleys. At Delft I hoped to find a road round outside
the town, fearing lest I might encounter the owners of the nag on the
streets. But I found no way except that straight through the midst of
the town.
As I crossed the market-place two soldiers accosted me and ordered me to
dismount and give an account of myself. As they spoke only Dutch, and I
knew none of the language, it was hard for us to understand one another.
But the feel of their muzzles on my ears convinced me I had better
obey; and abandoning the luckless animal, I was conducted to the guard-
house and there locked up until business hours.
I demanded, in the best French I could muster, on what charge I was thus
laid by the heels.
My captors grunted by way of answer, and searched my pockets, from which
they drew my pistol and the little leather case containing my mother's
letter.
I repeated my question in English, at which they pricked their ears,
spoke something to one another in which the word "spy" occurred, and
clapped irons on my ankles.
Evidently then my crime was not horse-stealing, but that of being an
English spy, which meant, I supposed, a volley at ten paces before noon.
So here was an end to the business of Miss Kit, my sweetheart, and Tim,
my brother.
I confess, as it all dawned on me, I found myself smiling over my big
hopes and resolves of an hour ago. But I had long enough to wait to
lose all sense of humour, and sink into the most woeful depths of
despair. It always happened so. The cup was ever at my lips, and as
often rudely dashed aside. My little mistress had never before spoken
so gently; my mother's dying charge had never been nearer fulfilment.
And now, what could be further from my reach than either? How I
execrated that ill-starred jade, and the Dutch skiver, but for whom I
might at this moment have been my own master.
In due time I was marched into the burgomaster's presence, and deemed it
wise to make no further mystery of myself. I demanded an English
interpreter, unless the magistrate would hear me in French, which latter
he graciously agreed to do.
"Sir," said I, "my name is Gallagher; I am an Irishman, a servant of
King George, and a sailor in Admiral Duncan's fleet. I am, as I
believe, the sole survivor of the wreck in mid-sea of his Majesty's ship
_Zebra_, foully blown up by her mutinous crew. I was picked up by the
Dutch brig _Scheldt_, now lying at Rotterdam. I am no spy. I rode last
night to visit an acquaintance--a countrywoman at the Hague--and am on
my way now to fulfil my promise to the skipper of the _Scheldt_ to give
him a day's labour in unlading his brig in return for his kindness to
me. The sailor's coat and cap I wear were given me by him."
The magistrate heard my story attentively, and not altogether
unfavourably.
"Admiral Duncan's fleet," said he, "is in arms against the Dutch
republic."
"It is," said I.
"How many sail does he muster?" demanded my judge.
"I cannot tell you, mynheer," said I.
"Where do his ships lie?"
"Mynheer," said I, "would you expect a Dutch sailor to betray his
country to an English magistrate? I refuse to answer."
He frowned, less at my refusal than at the terms in which it was
couched.
"Give me the name of your acquaintance at the Hague," said he, changing
the subject.