"Inquiries have been made as to this friend. She is known, but has
disappeared since yesterday."
"What!" I exclaimed, "Biddy gone? And what of--"
"In company with a young lady," said the burgomaster, eyeing me sternly.
"Prisoner, I demand to know where these persons have gone."
"I do not know," said I, and my own bewilderment might have answered for
my sincerity.
"I do not believe that," said the burgomaster. "A messenger arrived at
her inn with a letter early yesterday, and she and the lady left, it is
said by boat, soon after. Do you deny that you sent that message?"
"I do."
"Do you deny that you know who did?"
"I do."
"Do you deny that you know where they have gone?"
"I do," retorted I; "and, if it please your worship, what has all this
to do with whether I am a spy or not?"
"This, that a man who has lied in one particular is not to be believed
in others. The same reason which induced you to pass yourself as a
Frenchman may explain your refusal to say where the woman McQuilkin has
gone. Her house is known to be a resort of spies and foreigners of
doubtful character, and your connection with her, and the abduction of
the young lady, and your refusal to give any information, are strongly
against you."
I am not learned in Dutch logic, and was not convinced now; but
apparently my judges were, for I was ordered to be handed over to the
military authorities of Amsterdam as a prisoner of war, suspected of
being a spy, for them to deal with me as they might consider best.
Before I departed, the burgomaster handed me back my mother's pocket-
book, the contents of which he had had translated, and which he was good
enough to say appeared not to be incriminating. My pistol he detained
for the service of the Dutch republic.
The military authorities at Amsterdam were far too busy to attend to my
affairs. They were in the midst of equipping an armament to land on
Irish shores and strike at England with the cat's-paw of an Irish
rebellion. The place was full of Irishmen, some of whom honestly enough
looked to see their country redeemed by Dutch saviours; others, hungry
hangers-on, seeking what profit to themselves they could secure from the
venture. A few faces, even during the short time I was kept waiting in
quarters, seemed familiar to me as of men I had seen in former days in
the secret conclaves at my father's cabin or under his honour's roof,
and one or two I was certain I had seen that day in Dublin not long
since when I was present at a meeting of the United Irishmen.
Little I knew then or for months after that among these very faces, had
I looked long enough, I might have seen that of Tim, my brother, or
(must I say now?) my brother that was, before he became Tim Gorman of
Kilgorman.
But, as I said, the authorities were too busy to inquire into my case,
and, taking the word of the Delft burgomaster, locked me up with a batch
of other English prisoners to await the issue of the coming war.
For three months I languished here in a dismal dungeon in dismal company
and fed on dismal fare. But I who had lodged in the Conciergerie at
Paris in "the terror" could afford to think my Dutch hosts lavish in
their comforts.
Once and again some new captive brought us news from outside, the
purport of which was that the great Irish expedition, after lying for
weeks and weeks at the Texel, held prisoner there by the unyielding west
wind and by Admiral Duncan, had collapsed like a burst bubble. The
troops had all been landed, the ships had returned to refit, and the
pack of Irishmen, seeing the hunt up in this quarter, had gone off in
full cry to Paris. If the Dutch ventured anything now, it would be
against England, and on their own account.
One day towards the end of September a great surprise broke the tedium
of our captivity. Our jailer brought an announcement that an exchange
of prisoners was in contemplation, and that some twenty of us might
reasonably hope to see our native land again in a few days. Whether the
fortunate score would be selected according to rank or to seniority of
captivity would depend on the prisoners handed over by Admiral Duncan.
It was a pleasing subject of speculation with me, as you may guess. For
were the selection to be by seniority, I was excluded; if by rank, as a
petty officer in a company which largely consisted of common seamen, I
might count with tolerable certainty on my liberty.
The few days that intervened were anxious and wearisome. Should I miss
my chance, I had nothing to look for but a prolongation of this wretched
existence, with perhaps an ounce of lead, when all was said and done, to
end it. If, on the other hand, luck were to favour me, a week hence,
who could say, I might be by my little mistress's side at home; for I
made no doubt that when I came to inquire at the "White Angel," as I
certainly would do, I should find that Biddy had taken her thither, or,
if not there, at least to some safe place at which I could hear of her.
In due time came the end to our suspense. The twenty were appointed by
rank, and I marched one fine evening out of that wretched dungeon a free
man--stay, not quite free. There was no slipping away to the Hague and
the "White Angel;" no walking through the port of Amsterdam to inspect
the enemy's preparations. We were marched, under arrest, with an
escort, in the dark of night, to some little fishing-station among the
dunes, where we found an English lugger, attended by two armed Dutch
boats, waiting to receive us. On this we embarked, bidding farewell to
our captors; but not until the white cliffs of Margate appeared on the
western horizon did our Dutch convoy sheer off and leave us in English
waters in undisturbed enjoyment of English liberty.
Yet even so, did I still harbour a thought of returning home or seeking
the lost, I was destined to disappointment. For from Margate we were
marched direct to Sheerness, and there inspected by Lords of the
Admiralty, who, without ceremony, told us off to fill vacancies in ships
at that moment engaged in active service, promising us, when the present
troubles were over, to recompense our hardships and services in some
better way.
I found myself under orders to sail forthwith to Yarmouth, there to
report myself on board the _Venerable_, the flag-ship of Admiral Duncan
himself.
An Admiralty cutter was just then sailing with despatches for the fleet,
and on it I embarked the same afternoon, and found myself in Yarmouth
Roads next morning.
The admiral's fleet was all in a flutter; for news had only just come
that the Dutch admiral, taking advantage of the temporary withdrawal of
the English ships from the mouth of the Texel (for Admiral Duncan, after
his long cruise there, had been compelled to return to refit his
squadron), was setting sail at last, and determined to venture an
engagement in the open. Our fleet was wild with joy at the news--as
wild as the greyhound who for hours has been straining at his leash with
the hare in view is to feel his collar thrown off.
Signals were flying from every mast-head. The last of the barges and
bumboats were casting loose. The dull thunder of a salute came from the
shore, the yards were manned, sails were unfurling, and the anchor
chains were grinding apeak.
At such a moment it was that the Admiralty cutter hove alongside of the
_Venerable_, and I found myself a few minutes later lending a hand to
haul to the mast-head the blue flag of that most gallant of sea-dogs,
Admiral Duncan.