OF A STORMY INTERVIEW.
Gervase slept soundly that night on board the _Phoenix_, and in the
morning the mate insisted on his making use of his shore-going suit,
into which Gervase was able to get with some difficulty. When he came on
deck the day was bright and cloudless, with a warm sweet air blowing
from the north-west and the sea hardly broken by a ripple. The ships lay
at anchor near them; the _Dartmouth_ with her rows of guns showing
through the open ports; beyond lay the _Swallow_ and a little further
away the _Mountjoy_, both of which vessels Gervase had seen before.
But his first glance was toward the city lying far up the river, and he
was filled with joy when he caught sight of the crimson flag still
flying from the Cathedral Tower.
The master was early astir and met Gervase on the deck, with his red
face freshly shaven and clad in his best suit which had been brought out
for the occasion. He was very contrite over his last night´s potations,
and made many polite inquiries as to how his guest had passed the night.
The anxiety of Gervase to be put on board the _Swallow_ to deliver his
message to Kirke, was so great that he could hardly restrain his
impatience during the breakfast to which the master and himself sat down
together. But they had assured him that the Colonel had not slept off
the fumes of his last night´s excesses, and that of all men he was the
least approachable in the morning. It was necessary to find Kirke in
good humour; so Gervase stifled his impatience, though his feelings were
so strong and so bitter that he doubted whether a less fitting messenger
than himself could have been found for his errand.
“Ye´ll just tell him your plain story like a plain man,” said the mate,
“and leave the rest in the hands of the Almighty. I know ye´ll find it
hard to shorten sail, but ´tis the only way ye´ll make the port after
all.”
“I don´t understand the matter at all,” Gervase answered. “Here am I
with a message to yon sluggard that should make his ears tingle for the
duty he has neglected and the days he has wasted in useless waiting. One
would think ´twas a favour I was begging at his hands. When His Majesty
hears----”
“Tut, man, His Majesty--God bless him! will never come to know the
rights of it. Just put your pride in your pocket and take as a
favour--when ye get it--what should come to you by right. I don´t see
myself that the thing is as easy as ye make it. A ship´s timbers are
dainty enough, and yon boom´s an ugly sort of thing; not to speak of the
cannon in the forts and the channel--that´s ticklish at the best of
times.”
“When a kingdom´s at stake, one might run a little danger without being
foolhardy.”
“I´m not saying that he mightn´t and I would willingly try it myself if
I had the chance, but you must make allowances. I hear they had a parson
aboard there the other day who gave them some plain speech and got a
flea in his ear for his pains. Fair and softly will carry for many a
mile. I´ll go with you myself and maybe put in a good word if I can. The
boats are ready and we´ll be alongside in a twinkling.”
* * * * *
As they rowed towards the _Swallow_, which carried Kirke´s flag,
Gervase´s mind was full of the way in which he should deliver his
message, while Douglas sat beside him pouring his homely counsel into
his ear. It was evident that the latter stood in no little dread of the
commander who had won for himself an unenviable notoriety for cruelty
and severity, and was clearly doubtful of the reception that awaited an
envoy who knew so little regarding the character of the man with whom he
had to deal. But Gervase had determined that if all else failed he would
speak out his mind without any fear of the consequences. He had not
undertaken this perilous journey and faced so many dangers to shrink
from plain speech if that would serve his purpose.
The master of the _Phoenix_ on the news being brought that Kirke would
receive them immediately in the gunroom, was like to have turned tail
incontinently and left Gervase to face the redoubtable soldier alone.
“The boatswain yonder is an old crony of mine,” he said, “and we don´t
often have a chance of a quiet word. I wish you all luck, but I think
I´ll step forward and have a bit of speech while you do your errand.”
“By your leave, but the General must see you both, Master Douglas,” said
the man who had brought the message; “if you don´t come now I´ll have to
fetch you by the ears by-and-by. He hath ten thousand blue devils
tearing his liver this morning, so that we cannot bind or hold him. But
you have seen the General after a wet night with a head wind in the
morning.”
“I was a fool to come aboard,” Douglas muttered. “Speak to him fair and
soft, Mr. Orme,” he continued, taking Gervase by the arm, “if ye would
have the tyke listen to ye, but for God´s sake don´t cross him.”
“I´ll tell him a plain story that wants no gloss,” Gervase answered.
“You need not be afraid that I shall speak outside my commission. Now,
sir, I am at your service.”
“He´ll get a flea in his ear,” muttered Douglas, letting go his arm, and
dropping behind. “Send me well out of this.”
When they entered the gunroom, Gervase saw a small knot of officers
seated at breakfast, which was nearly over. At the head of the table was
the man he had come so far to seek and who carried the destiny of the
city in his hands. His dark brow was blotched and seamed by excesses,
his eyes were prominent and bloodshot, and his jaws, heavy and coarse,
gave to his face an expression of ferocity and obstinacy. He lay back
lazily in his chair, his throat divested of his cravat, and his
richly-laced waistcoat unbuttoned and thrown open. For a time he did not
seem to notice the new-comers, but continued his conversation in a
languid way with the gentleman who sat on his left hand. Gervase who had
come into the centre of the room, stood silent for a minute or two,
waiting for some sign of recognition, but Kirke, studiously ignoring his
presence, never once looked up. Then Gervase stung into action by what
seemed merely studied insult, quietly came forward and laid Walker´s
letter on the table.
“I was charged, sir, to deliver this into your hand without fail at the
earliest moment. It brooks of no delay.”
“And who the devil are you, sir?”
“A humble gentleman who with some peril to himself has succeeded in
escaping from the city and finding his way thither. But the letter I
carry will tell its own tale.”
“They might have chosen a messenger with better manners,” said Kirke,
taking up the missive, “but these citizens know no better.”
“These citizens, sir, have set you a lesson which you have not been fain
to follow,” cried Gervase, disregarding all the hints he had received
and giving vent to the indignation that had become ungovernable. “For
nine weeks they have served His Majesty as king was never served before;
spent themselves in his service; seen their wives and children dying
before them; and now they want to know what you have done and what you
purpose doing?”
For a moment or two the general, who was not accustomed to such speech
in the mouth of a rough seaman, as Gervase seemed, sat astonished and
aghast. Then he leapt to his feet and pushed over the chair he had been
sitting on. “God´s wounds! I´ll teach you to use such words to me if
there´s a yard-arm on the ship. Who are you that dares to question me in
my own vessel. You hear him, gentlemen, you hear him, by ----”
“They have heard us both, sir, and I wish His Majesty could have heard
us also,” cried Gervase, who saw that there was only one way to deal
with the hectoring bully of whom most men stood in awe. “They have heard
us and they may judge between us. I hold the King´s commission like
yourself, and can answer for my conduct in any fitting time or place.
But this matter is of more importance than your dignity or mine. The
salvation of some thousand lives depends upon it, and the last hold of
His Majesty upon Ulster and Ireland. Colonel Walker hath bidden me place
this letter in your hands without delay. I have only done my duty, and
am no whit afraid of you or of any other man living.”
Gervase had spoken quietly and with a fine glow on his cheeks. The
gentlemen at the table who had preserved an expectant silence, looked at
one another with a chuckle of amusement as Kirke broke the envelope
without a word. In the reading he glanced once or twice at Gervase, and
when he had finished he threw the paper with an oath across the table.
“Read that, Leake,” he said. “This parson in the buff coat thinks that
round shot can be cooked like peas, and that a ship´s sides are harder
than stone walls. To hear him one would think that we had no more than
an hour´s sail to find ourselves at the quay, with meat and mutton to
fill these yokels´ bellies.”
The gentleman to whom he had thrown the letter, a bluff, red-faced
sailor, with a frank brave look that met you honestly, read the letter
in silence, and then spread it open before him. “You had better hear
what the young gentleman has to say. Colonel Walker seems to trust him
implicitly, and I should like to hear how he came from the city. ´Twas a
bold feat and deserves a better reception than you have given him.”
“My reception hath not closed yet,” said Kirke savagely. “But I am ready
to hear what he hath to say, and if I find him tripping, fore God----”
“I have faced death too often during these three weeks,” said Gervase
gravely, “to fear the threats of any man, and I will speak what is on my
mind boldly----”
“And briefly, for I am not a patient man.”
“We in the city trusting to the expectation of speedy succour from
England, have made our defence as I think defence was never made before.
We have lost seven thousand men; those who remain are but living
skeletons, stricken with sore diseases. We are distraught with our
afflictions, and almost fear rather to live than to die. We can do no
more. On Wednesday morning there will not be a pound of meat in the
magazines, and the last stronghold of faith and freedom in Ireland will
have fallen. And this is what they say yonder and--and what I say here.
In the Lough are ships and men and food and guns, and a water-way to the
city walls. A little courage, a bold push, and the boom that you seem to
fear would snap like a thread. And they know not how to use their guns.
We who have listened to their music for months have ceased to fear
them.”
“And the boom,” cried Leake; “how know you that?”
“This I know, that there never was wood yet that could resist the edge
of an axe if there were strong arms to will it. You have long boats and
men courageous enough to try it. With your leave I´ll show them how it
can be done myself.”
“By Heaven, the lad is right If we were once past Culmore----”
“There is no great danger there,” said Gervase, feeling that he had met
a spirit as bold and resolute as his own, “their balls fly as innocent
as wild duck. Let the frigate hold by the fort, so that under her
shelter the smaller vessels may pass unscathed.”
“We want none of your lessons,” cried Kirke; “you have listened to
sermons so long that you have caught the trick of preaching yourself.”
“My sermon is not yet finished, General Kirke,” continued Gervase,
disregarding the hint the friendly sailor gave him, and determined to
unburden his mind once and for all. “You have lain here and done nothing
for us. The king, I am told, hath sent you an urgent message that the
relief should be undertaken without delay. To-day you may carry out his
commands; to-morrow you may return to England and tell him your
cowardice hath lost him a kingdom. The lives of the starving souls
yonder will be on your head. These are bitter words, but I speak them
out of a full heart, and if you will not listen to me now, His Majesty
will hear me presently, for as God is my witness, I will carry my story
to the foot of the throne.”
“You will carry it into the Lough with a shot at your feet,” cried
Kirke, purple with passion.
“You dare do nothing of the sort, sir, here in the sight of these
gentlemen and in the full sight of the people of England, who will soon
know the whole matter. I am the ambassador of the governor who holds the
city for His Majesty, and it is by his authority that I speak the words
that I have used. I am a gentleman like yourself holding His Majesty´s
commission, and owing you neither respect nor authority.”
Kirke leaped to his feet, his face swollen red, and his eyes blazing
with a fierce passion that over-mastered his speech. He caught up the
scabbard of the sword that lay beside him and attempted to draw the
blade. Then Leake, who was sitting near Gervase, caught the outspoken
envoy by the shoulders, and while Kirke still stood swearing
incoherently, hurried him out of the gun-room. When they reached the
deck he clapped him on the back with his broad palm, and cried with
enthusiasm, “I like your spirit, my lad; that was the way to stand by
your guns and rake him fore and aft. But it was ticklish work, let me
tell you, to tackle him that way. He has got the wolf´s tusk in his
mouth (he learnt that in Tangier) and likes to see a pair of heels
dancing in the air. But you´ve done the trick, I think, this time, and
the old _Dartmouth_ will have a chance of trying her ribs against the
iron yonder. Now, clear your mind a bit and just tell me your story like
a sensible lad, for you´ve got some common sense, and let me see if I
can´t make some use of your knowledge after all.”
“I´ve been a weak fool,” said Gervase, “to forget myself when so much
depended on my discretion. I´ve ruined the best cause in the world.”
“You have done nothing of the sort, sir, if I can lay a ship´s head by
the compass. You have carried your point and the burghers yonder will
hear the roaring of our guns before the day is out. The general hath
been told what we dared not tell him in plain speech that there is no
mistaking. Now let me know how matters are in the city, and what men and
guns they have in the fort yonder at Culmore.”
Then Gervase told his whole story soberly and plainly, without colour or
exaggeration, but with such truth and effect that his hearer was so lost
in admiration that he never interrupted him till he had drawn his tale
to a close. Then he swore many oaths, but swearing with such honest and
kindly feeling that Gervase forgave him, that such brave fellows were
worth putting their lives in peril for, even if it did not profit His
Majesty a farthing. And then he questioned Gervase searchingly, his eye
scanning him narrowly all the time, about the forts between the city and
the castle of Culmore, and where the cannon were posted and what was the
weight of the guns. “Now,” he said, in conclusion, “get you back with
Andrew Douglas, who is an honest man and a good mariner, and you´ll see
what you will see. If there should be a little more wind and more
northing in it, I´ll stake my reputation we´ll try of what strength yon
timbers are, and you and I will get our share of the glory! Glory, lad!
That stirs the blood. That thought about the long boats was a shrewd
one, and I have an idea of my own about the way to draw their teeth at
Culmore.”
Douglas was waiting for Gervase in the boat of the _Phoenix_, and
welcomed him with a grim smile as he took his place beside him. He said
nothing, but motioned to the two sailors to push off and row to the
brig. When they got out of earshot, he burst into a hoarse cackle of
laughter that grated unpleasantly on Gervase´s overstrung nerves.
“I wouldn´t have missed it,” he cried, clapping his brown hands on his
knees, “for a puncheon of rum. Man, ye gave it to him finely, and ye
talked like a book straight up and down. A good wholesail breeze all the
way and lying your course as straight as an arrow. It did my heart good
to hear you. And he couldn´t get in a word--never a word, but stared at
you out of his red bulging eyes, and choked about the jaws like a turkey
cock strangling in a passion. You´re a well plucked one and no mistake.
I had thought to see you, as he said, at the end of the yard-arm.”
“Yon swaggering bully is an arrant coward,” said Gervase, “and I wonder
how he came to be chosen for a work like this. For all his bluster I saw
that he was quailing, and I was determined that he should hear the truth
for once in his life.”
“He didn´t hear a third of it, but I´m thinking he heard as much as was
good for him. Will they move, think ye?”
“Leake says----”
“He´s a man at any rate; I´d like to know what he says.”
“That we´ll see what we´ll see. He thinks my speech hath done little
harm, but I know not whether it hath done any good. God grant that it
hath.”
“Amen and Amen to that. Now let us go aboard, and let us see whether
your adventure has taken away your appetite.”