THE INVASION OF IRELAND.
One lovely morning the good ship sailed into the harbor of Foreskillen,
an obscure fishing port on the lonely coast of Donegal. The _Arrow_ had
been in sight of land all the day before. A hush had fallen on the
spirits of the adventurers. The two innocents, Honora and her father,
had sat on deck with eyes fixed on the land of their love, scarcely able
to speak, and unwilling to eat, in spite of Arthur's coaxing. Half the
night they sat there, mostly silent, talking reverently, every one
touched and afraid to disturb them; after a short sleep they were on
deck again to see the ship enter the harbor in the gray dawn. The sun
was still behind the brown hills. Arthur saw a silver bay, a mournful
shore with a few houses huddled miserably in the distance, and bare
hills without verdure or life. It was an indifferent part of the earth
to him; but revealed in the hearts of Owen Ledwith and his daughter, no
jewel of the mines could have shone more resplendent. He did not
understand the love called patriotism, any more than the love of a
parent for his child. These affections have to be experienced to be
known. He loved his country and was ready to die for it; but to have
bled for it, to have writhed under tortures for it, to have groaned in
unison with its mortal anguish, to have passed through the fire of death
and yet lived for it, these were not his glories.
In the cool, sad morning the father and daughter stood glorified in his
eyes, for if they loved each other much, they loved this strange land
more. The white lady, whiter now than lilies, stood with her arm about
her father, her eyes shining; and he, poor man, trembled in an ague of
love and pity and despair and triumph, with a rapt, grief-stricken face,
his shoulders heaving to the repressed sob, as if nature would there
make an end of him under this torrent of delight and pain. Arthur
writhed in secret humiliation. To love like this was of the gods, and he
had never loved anything so but Agrippina. As the ship glided to her
anchorage the crew stood about the deck in absolute silence, every man's
heart in his face, the watch at its post, the others leaning on the
bulwarks. Like statues they gazed on the shore. It seemed a phantom
ship, blown from ghostly shores by the strength of hatred against the
enemy, and love for the land of Eire; for no hope shone in their eyes,
or in the eyes of Ledwith and his daughter, only triumph at their own
light success. What a pity, thought Dillon, that at this hour of time
men should have reason to look so at the power of England. He knew there
were millions of them scattered over the earth, studying in just hate to
shake the English grip on stolen lands, to pay back the robberies of
years in English blood.
The ship came to anchor amid profound silence, save for the orders of
the Captain and the movements of the men. Ledwith was speaking to
himself more than to Honora, a lament in the Irish fashion over the
loved and lost, in a way to break the heart. The tears rolled down
Honora's cheek, for the agony was beginning.
"Land of love ... land of despair ... without a friend except among thy
own children ... here am I back again with just a grain of hope ... I
love thee, I love thee, I love thee! Let them neglect thee ... die every
moment under the knife ... live in rags ... in scorn ... and hatred too
... they have spared thee nothing ... I love thee ... I am faithful ...
God strike me that day when I forget thee! Here is the first gift I have
ever given thee besides my heart and my daughter ... a ship ... no
freight but hope ... no guns alas! for thy torturers ... they are still
free to tear thee, these wolves, and to lie about thee to the whole
world ... blood and lies are their feast ... and how sweet are thy
shores ... after all ... because thou art everlasting! Thy children are
gone, but they shall come back ... the dead are dead, but the living are
in many lands, and they will return ... perhaps soon ... I am the
messenger ... helpless as ever, but I bring thee news ... good news ...
my beautiful Ireland! Poorer than ever I return ... I shall never see
thee free----"
He was working himself into a fever of grief when Honora spoke to him.
"You are forgetting, father, that this is the moment to thank Mr. Dillon
in the name of our country----"
"I forget everything when I am here," said Ledwith, breaking into
cheerful smiles, and seizing Arthur's hand. "I would be ashamed to say
'thank you,' Arthur, for what you have done. Let this dear land herself
welcome you to her shores. Never a foot stepped on them worthier of
respect and love than you."
They went ashore in silence, having determined on their course the night
previous. They must learn first what had happened since their departure
from New York, where there had been rumors of a rising, which Ledwith
distrusted. It was too soon for the Fenians to rise; but as the movement
had gotten partly beyond the control of the leaders, anything might have
happened. If the country was still undisturbed, they might enjoy a ride
through wild Donegal; if otherwise, it was safer, having accomplished
the purpose of the trip, to sail back to the West. The miserable village
at the head of the bay showed a few dwellers when they landed on the
beach, but little could be learned from them, save directions to a
distant cotter who owned an ass and a cart, and always kept information
and mountain dew for travelers and the gentry. The young men visited the
cotter, and returned with the cart and the news. The rising was said to
have begun, but farther east and south, and the cotter had seen soldiers
and police and squads of men hurrying over the country; but so remote
was the storm that the whole party agreed a ride over the bare hills
threatened no danger.
They mounted the cart in high spirits, now that emotion had subsided.
All matters had been arranged with Captain Curran, who was not to expect
them earlier than the next day at evening, and had his instructions for
all contingencies. They set out for a village to the north, expressly to
avoid encounters possible southward. The morning was glorious. Arthur
wondered at the miles of uninhabited land stretching away on either side
of the road, at the lack of population in a territory so small. He had
heard of these things before, but the sight of them proved stranger than
the hearing. Perhaps they had gone five miles on the road to Cruarig,
when Grahame, driving, pulled up the donkey with suddenness, and cried
out in horror. Eight men had suddenly come in sight on the road, armed
with muskets, and as suddenly fled up the nearest timbered hill and
disappeared.
"I'll wager something," said Grahame, "that these men are being pursued
by the police, or--which would be worse for us--by soldiers. There is
nothing to do but retreat in good order, and send out a scout to make
sure of the ground. We ought to have done that the very first thing."
No one gainsaid him, but Arthur thought that they might go on a bit
further cautiously, and if nothing suspicious occurred reach the town.
Dubiously Grahame whipped up the donkey, and drove with eyes alert past
the wooded hill, which on its north side dropped into a little glen
watered by the sweetest singing brook. They paused to look at the brook
and the glen. The road stretched away above and below like a ribbon. A
body of soldiers suddenly brightened the north end of the ribbon two
miles off.
"Now by all the evil gods," said Grahame, "but we have dropped into the
very midst of the insurrection."
He was about to turn the donkey, when Honora cried out in alarm and
pointed back over the road which they had just traveled. Another scarlet
troop was moving upon them from that direction. Without a word Grahame
turned the cart into the glen, and drove as far as the limits would
permit within the shade. They alighted.
"This is our only chance," he said. "The eight men with muskets are
rebels whom the troops have cornered. There may be a large force in the
vicinity, ready to give the soldiers of Her Majesty a stiff battle. The
soldiers will be looking for rebels and not for harmless tourists, and
we may escape comfortably by keeping quiet until the two divisions
marching towards each other have met and had an explanation. If we are
discovered, I shall do the talking, and explain our embarrassment at
meeting so many armed men first, and then so many soldiers. We are in
for it, I know."
No one seemed to mind particularly. Honora stole an anxious glance at
her father, while she pulled a little bunch of shamrock and handed it to
Arthur. He felt like saying it would yet be stained by his blood in
defense of her country, but knew at the same moment how foolish and
weak the words would sound in her ears. He offered himself as a scout to
examine the top of the hill, and discover if the rebels were there, and
was permitted to go under cautions from Grahame, to return within
fifteen minutes. He returned promptly full of enthusiasm. The eight men
were holding the top of the hill, almost over their heads, and would
have it out with the two hundred soldiers from the town. They had
expected a body of one hundred insurgents at this point, but the party
had not turned up. Eager to have a brush with the enemy, they intended
to hold the hill as long as possible, and then scatter in different
directions, sure that pursuit could not catch them.
"The thing for them to do is to save us," said Grahame. "Let them move
on to another hill northward, and while they fight the soldiers we may
be able to slip back to the ship."
The suggestion came too late. The troops were in full sight. Their
scouts had met in front of the glen, evidently acting upon information
received earlier, and seemed disappointed at finding no trace of a body
of insurgents large enough to match their own battalion. The boys on the
top of the hill put an end to speculations as to the next move by firing
a volley into them. A great scattering followed, and the bid for a fight
was cheerfully answered by the officer in command of the troops. Having
joined his companies, examined the position and made sure that its
defenders were few and badly armed, he ordered a charge. In five minutes
the troops were in possession of the hilltop, and the insurgents had
fled; but on the hillside lay a score of men wounded and dead. The
rebels were good marksmen, and fleet-footed. The scouts beat the bushes
and scoured the wood in vain. The report to the commanding officer was
the wounding of two men, who were just then dying in a little glen close
by, and the discovery of a party of tourists in the glen, who had
evidently turned aside to escape the trouble, and were now ministering
to the dying rebels.
Captain Sydenham went up to investigate. Before he arrived the little
drama of death had passed, and the two insurgents lay side by side at
the margin of the brook like brothers asleep. When the insurgents fled
from their position, the two wounded ones dropped into the glen in the
hope of escaping notice for the time; but they were far spent when they
fell headlong among the party in hiding below. Grahame and Ledwith
picked them up and laid them near the brook, Honora pillowed their heads
with coats, Arthur brought water to bathe their hands and faces, grimy
with dust of travel and sweat of death; for an examination of the wounds
showed Ledwith that they were speedily mortal. He dipped his
handkerchief in the flowing blood of each, and placed it reverently in
his breast. There was nothing to do but bathe the faces and moisten the
lips of the dying and unconscious men. They were young, one rugged and
hard, the other delicate in shape and color; the same grace of youth
belonged to both, and showed all the more beautifully at this moment
through the heavy veil of death.
Arthur gazed at them with eager curiosity, and at the red blood bubbling
from their wounds. For their country they were dying, as his father had
died, on the field of battle. This blood, of which he had so often read,
was the price which man pays for liberty, which redeems the slave;
richer than molten gold, than sun and stars, priceless. Oh, sweet and
glorious, unutterably sweet to die like this for men!
"Do you recognize him?" said Ledwith to Grahame, pointing to the elder
of the two. Grahame bent forward, startled that he should know either
unfortunate.
"It is young Devin, the poet," cried Ledwith with a burst of tears.
Honora moaned, and Grahame threw up his hands in despair.
"We must give the best to our mother," said Ledwith, "but I would prefer
blood so rich to be scattered over a larger soil."
He took the poet's hand in his own, and stroked it gently; Honora wiped
the face of the other; Grahame on his knees said the prayers he
remembered for sinners and passing souls; secretly Arthur put in his
pocket a rag stained with death-sweat and life-blood. Almost in silence,
without painful struggle, the boys died. Devin opened his eyes one
moment on the clear blue sky and made an effort to sing. He chanted a
single phrase, which summed up his life and its ideals: "Mother, always
the best for Ireland." Then his eyes closed and his heart stopped. The
little party remained silent, until Honora, looking at the still faces,
so young and tender, thought of the mothers sitting in her place, and
began to weep aloud. At this moment Captain Sydenham marched up the glen
with clinking spur. He stopped at a distance and took off his hat with
the courtesy of a gentleman and the sympathy of a soldier. Grahame went
forward to meet him, and made his explanations.
"It is perfectly clear," said the Captain, "that you are tourists and
free from all suspicion. However, it will be necessary for you to
accompany me to the town and make your declarations to the magistrate as
well. As you were going there anyhow it will be no hardship, and I shall
be glad to make matters as pleasant as possible for the young lady."
Grahame thanked him, and introduced him to the party. He bowed very low
over the hand which Honora gave him.
"A rather unfortunate scene for you to witness," he said.
Yet she had borne it like one accustomed to scenes of horror. Her
training in Ledwith's school bred calmness, and above all silence, amid
anxiety, disappointment and calamity.
"I was glad to be here," she replied, the tears still coursing down her
face, "to take their mother's place."
"Two beautiful boys," said the Captain, looking into the dead faces.
"Killing men is a bad business anywhere, but when we have to kill our
own, and such as these, it is so much worse."
Ledwith flashed the officer a look of gratitude.
"I shall have the bodies carried to the town along with our own dead,
and let the authorities take care of them. And now if you will have the
goodness to take your places, I shall do myself the pleasure of riding
with you as far as the magistrate's."
Honora knelt and kissed the pale cheeks of the dead boys, and then
accepted Captain Sydenham's arm in the march out of the glen. The men
followed sadly. Ledwith looked wild for a while. The tears pressed
against Arthur's eyes. What honor gilded these dead heroes!
The procession moved along the road splendidly, the soldiers in front
and the cart in the rear, while a detail still farther off carried the
wounded and dead. Captain Sydenham devoted himself to Honora, which gave
Grahame the chance to talk matters over with Ledwith on the other side
of the car.
"Did you ever dream in all your rainbow dreams," said Grahame, "of
marching thus into Cruarig with escort of Her Majesty? It's damfunny.
But the question now is, what are we to do with the magistrate? Any sort
of an inquiry will prove that we are more than suspicious characters. If
they run across the ship we shall go to jail. If they discover you and
me, death or Botany Bay will be our destination."
"It is simply a case of luck," Ledwith replied. "Scheming won't save us.
If Lord Constantine were in London now----"
"Great God!" cried Grahame in a whisper, "there's the luck. Say no more.
I'll work that fine name as it was never worked before."
He called out to Captain Sydenham to come around to his side of the car
for a moment.
"I am afraid," he said, "that we have fallen upon evil conditions, and
that, before we get through with the magistrates, delays will be many
and vexatious. I feel that we shall need some of our English friends of
last winter in New York. Do you know Lord Constantine?"
"Are you friends of Lord Leverett?" cried the Captain. "Well, then, that
settles it. A telegram from him will smooth the magistrate to the
silkiness of oil. But I do not apprehend any annoyance. I shall be happy
to explain the circumstances, and you can get away to Dublin, or any
port where you hope to meet your ship."
The Captain went back to Honora, and talked Lord Constantine until they
arrived in the town and proceeded to the home of the magistrate.
Unfortunately there was little cordiality between Captain Sydenham and
Folsom, the civil ruler of the district; and because the gallant Captain
made little of the episode therefore Folsom must make much of it.
"I can easily believe in the circumstances which threw tourists into so
unpleasant a situation," said Folsom, "but at the same time I am
compelled to observe all the formalities. Of course the young lady is
free. Messrs. Dillon and Grahame may settle themselves comfortably in
the town, on their word not to depart without permission. Mr. Ledwith
has a name which my memory connects with treasonable doings and sayings.
He must remain for a few hours at least in the jail."
"This is not at all pleasant," said Captain Sydenham pugnaciously. "I
could have let these friends of my friends go without troubling you
about them. I wished to make it easier for them to travel to Dublin by
bringing them before you, and here is my reward."
"I wish you had, Captain," said the magistrate. "But now you've done it,
neither is free to do more than follow the routine. We have enough real
work without annoying honest travelers. However, it's only a matter of a
few hours."
"Then you had better telegraph to Lord Constantine," said Sydenham to
Grahame.
Folsom started at the name and looked at the party with a puzzled frown.
Grahame wrote on a sheet of paper the legend: "A telegram from you to
the authorities here will get Honora and her party out of much trouble."
"Is it as warm as that?" said the Captain with a smile, as he read the
lines and handed the paper to Folsom with a broad grin.
"I'm in for it now," groaned Folsom to himself as he read. "Wish I'd let
the Captain alone and tended to strict business."
While the wires were humming between Dublin and Cruarig, Captain
Sydenham spent his spare time in atoning for his blunders against the
comfort of the party. Ledwith having been put in jail most honorably,
the Captain led the others to the inn and located them sumptuously. He
arranged for lunch, at which he was to join them, and then left them to
their ease while he transacted his own affairs.
"One of the men you read about," said Grahame, as the three looked at
one another dolorously. "Sorry I didn't confide in him from the start.
Now it's a dead certainty that your father stays in jail, Honora, and I
may be with him."
"I really can't see any reason for such despair," said Arthur.
"Of course not," replied Grahame. "But even Lord Constantine could not
save Owen Ledwith from prison in times like these, if the authorities
learn his identity."
"What is to be done?" inquired Honora.
"You will stay with your father of course?" Honora nodded.
"I'm going to make a run for it at the first opportunity," said Grahame.
"I can be of no use here, and we must get back the ship safe and sound.
Arthur, if they hold Ledwith you will have the honor of working for his
freedom. Owen is an American citizen. He ought to have all the rights
and privileges of a British subject in his trial, if it comes to that.
He won't get them unless the American minister to the court of St. James
insists upon it. Said minister, being a doughhead, will not insist. He
will even help to punish him. It will be your business to go up to
London and make Livingstone do his duty if you have to choke him black
in the face. If the American minister interferes in this case Lord
Constantine will be a power. If the said minister hangs back, or says,
hang the idiot, my Lord will not amount to a hill of beans."
"If it comes to a trial," said Arthur, "won't Ledwith get the same
chance as any other lawbreaker?"
Honora and Grahame looked at each other as much as to say: "Poor
innocent!"
"When there's a rising on, my dear boy, there is no trial for Irishmen.
Arrest means condemnation, and all that follows is only form. Go ahead
now and do your best."
Before lunch the telegrams had done their best and worst. The party was
free to go as they came with the exception of Ledwith. They had a merry
lunch, enlivened by a telegram from Lord Constantine, and by Folsom's
discomfiture. Then Grahame drove away to the ship, Arthur set out for
Dublin, and Honora was left alone with her dread and her sorrows, which
Captain Sydenham swore would be the shortest of her life.