A MIDNIGHT TREASURE HUNT.
When, some miles on our road, we came to a long stretch of moorland, I
told Andy to stop till we got off. This being done, I told him to go on
and wait for us at the next house, as we wished to have a walk.
“The nixt house?” queried Andy, “the very nixt house? Must it be that
same?”
“No, Andy!” I answered, “the next after that will do equally well, or
the third if it is not too far off. Why do you want to change?”
“Well, yer ’an’r, to tell ye the thruth there’s a girrul at the house
beyant what thinks it’s a long time on the road I am widout doin’
anythin’ about settlin’ down, an’ that its time I asked her fortin,
anyhow. Musha! but it’s afeerd I am to shtop there, fur maybe she’d
take advantage iv me whin she got me all alone, an’ me havin’ to wait
there till yez come. An’ me so softhearted, that maybe I’d say too much
or too little.”
“Why too much or too little?”
“Faix! if I said too much I might be settled down before the month was
out; an’ if I said too little I might have a girrul lukin’ black at
me iv’ry time I dhruv by. The house beyant it is a public, an’ shure I
know I’m safe there anyhow—if me dhrouth’ll only hould out!”
I took the hint, and Andy spun my shilling in the air as he drove off.
Dick and I walked together, and when he was out of earshot I said:—
“Now, old fellow, we are alone! What is it?”
“It’s about Murdock.”
“Not more than you told me in your letter, I hope. I owe you a good
turn for that thrashing you gave him!”
“Oh, that was nothing; it was a labour of love! What I want to speak of
is a much more serious affair.”
“Nothing to touch Norah, I hope?” I said anxiously.
“This individual thing is not, thank God! but everything which that
ruffian can do to worry her or any of us will be done. We’ll have to
watch him closely.”
“What is this new thing?”
“It is about old Moynahan. I am in serious doubt and anxiety as to what
I should do. At present I have only suspicion to go on, and not the
faintest shadow of proof, and I really want help and advice.”
“Tell me all about it.”
“I shall! exactly as I remember it; and when I have told you, you may
be able to draw some conclusion which can help us.”
“Go on! but remember I am, as yet, in ignorance of what it is all
about. You must not take any knowledge on my part for granted.”
“I’ll bear it in mind. Well! you remember what I said in my letter,
that I had a suspicion of Murdock, and intended watching him?” I
nodded. “Two nights after I had written that, the evening was dark
and wet—just the weather I would have chosen myself had I had any
mysterious purpose on hand. As soon as it got dark I put on my black
waterproof and fishing boots and a sou’wester, and then felt armed for
any crouching or lying down that might be required. I waited outside
Murdock’s house in the laneway, where I could see from the shadows on
the window that both men were in the house. I told you that old Bat
Moynahan had taken up his residence entirely with the Gombeen Man——”
“And that he was always drunk!”
“Exactly! I see you understand the situation. Presently I heard a
stumble on the stone outside the porch, and peeping in through the
hedge I saw Murdock holding up old Moynahan. Then he shut the door
and they came down the path. The wind was by this time blowing pretty
strongly, and made a loud noise in the hedgerows, and bore in the roar
of the surf. Neither of the men could hear me, for I took care as I
followed them to keep on the leeward side, and always with something
between us. Murdock did not seem to have the slightest suspicion that
any one was even on the hill side, let alone listening, and he did not
even lower his tone as he spoke. Moynahan was too drunk to either know
or care how loud he spoke, and indeed both had to speak pretty loud
in order to be heard through the sound of the growing storm. The rain
fell in torrents, and the men passed down the boreen stumbling and
slipping. I followed on the other side of the hedge, and I can tell you
I felt grateful to the original Mackintosh, or Golosh, or whatever was
the name of the Johnny who invented waterproof. When they had reached
the foot of the hill, they went on the road which curves round by the
south-east, and I managed to scramble through the fir wood without
losing sight of them. When they came to the bridge over the stream,
where it runs out on the north side of the Peninsula, they turned up
on the far bank. I slipped over the bridge behind them, and got on the
far side of the fringe of alders. Here they stopped and sheltered for a
while, and as I was but a few feet from them I heard every word which
passed. Murdock began by saying to Moynahan:—
“‘Now, keep yer wits about ye, if ye can. Ye’ll get lashins iv dhrink
whin we get back, but remimber ye promised to go over the ground where
yer father showed ye that the Frinchmin wint wid the gun carriage an’
the horses. Where was it now that he tuk ye?’ Moynahan evidently made
an effort to think and speak:—
“‘It was just about this shpot wheer he seen thim first. They crast
over the sthrame—there wor no bridge thin nigher nor Galway—an’ wint up
the side iv the hill sthraight up.’
“‘Now, couldn’t ye folla the way yer father showed ye? Jist think. It’s
all dark, and there’s nothin’ that ye know to confuse ye—no threes what
has growed up since thin. Thry an’ remimber, an’ ye’ll have lashins iv
dhrink this night, an’ half the goold whin we find it.”
“‘I can go! I can show the shpot! Come on.’ He made a sudden bolt down
into the river, which was running unusually high. The current almost
swept him away; but Murdock was beside him in a moment, crying out:—
“‘Go an! the wather isn’t deep! don’t be afeerd! I’m wid ye.’ When I
heard this I ran round and across the bridge, and was waiting behind
the hedge on the road when they came up again. The two men went up the
hill straight for perhaps a hundred yards, I still close to them; then
Moynahan stopped:—
“‘Here’s about the shpot me father tould me that he seen the min whin
the moon shone out. Thin they went aff beyant,’ and he pointed to
the south. The struggle through the stream had evidently sobered him
somewhat, for he spoke much more clearly.
“‘Come on thin,’ cried Murdock, and they moved off.
“‘Here’s wheer they wint to, thin,’ said Moynahan, as he stopped on the
south side of the hill—as I knew it to be from the louder sound of the
surf which was borne in by the western gale. ‘Here they wor, jist about
here, an’ me father wint away to hide from thim beside the big shtone
at the Shleenanaher so that they wouldn’t see him.’ Then he paused,
and went on in quite a different voice:—
“There, now I’ve tould ye enough for wan night. Come home! for it’s
chilled to the harrt I am, an’ shtarved wid the cowld. Come home! I’ll
tell no more this night.’ The next sound I heard was the popping of a
cork, and then the voice of Murdock in a cheery tone:—
“‘Here, take a sup of this, ould man. It’s chilled we both are, an’
cramped wid cowld. Take a good dhraw, ye must want it if ye’re as bad
as I am!’ The gurgle that followed showed that he had obeyed orders;
this was confirmed within an incredibly short time by his voice as he
spoke again.
“‘Me father hid there beyant. Come on!’ We all, each in his own way,
moved down to the Shleenanaher, and stood there. Moynahan spoke first.
“‘From here, he seen them jist over the ridge iv the hill. I can go
there now; come on!’ He hurried up the slope, Murdock holding on to
him. I followed, now crouching low, for there was but little shelter
here. Moynahan stopped and said:—
“‘It was just here!’
“‘How do ye know?’ asked Murdock doubtfully.
“‘How do I know! Hasn’t me father been over the shpot wid me a score iv
times; aye, an’ a hundhred times afore that be himself. It was here, I
tell ye, that he seen the min wid the gun carriage for the last time.
Do ye want to arguey it?’
“‘Not me!’ said Murdock, and as he spoke I saw him stoop—for as I was
at the time lying on the ground I could see his outline against the
dark sky. He was looking away from me, and as I looked too I could see
him start as he whispered to himself:—
“‘Be God! but it’s thrue! there’s the gun carriage!’ There it was! Art,
true enough before my eyes, not ten feet away on the edge of the bog!
Moynahan went on:—
“‘Me father tould me that the mountain was different at that time; the
bog only kem down about as low as this. Musha! but its the quare lot
it has shifted since thin!’ There was a pause, broken by Murdock, who
spoke in a hoarse, hard voice:—
“‘An’ where did he see them nixt?’ Moynahan seemed to be getting
drunker and drunker, as was manifest in his later speech; his dose of
whiskey had no doubt been a good one.
“‘He seen them next to the north beyant—higher up towards Murdock’s
house.’
“‘Towards Murdock’s house! Ye mane Joyce’s?’
“‘No, I mane Black Murdock’s; the wan he had before he robbed Joyce.
But begor! he done himself! It’s on Joyce’s ground the money is! He’s
a nagur, anyhow—Black Murdock the Gombeen—bloody end to him!’ and he
relapsed into silence. I could hear Murdock grind his teeth; then after
a pause he spoke as the bottle popped again.
“‘Have a sup; it’ll kape out the cowld.’ Moynahan took the bottle.
“‘Here’s death and damnation to Black Gombeen!’ and the gurgling was
heard again.
“‘Come! now, show me the shpot where yer father last saw the min!’
Murdock spoke authoritatively, and the other responded mechanically,
and ran rather than walked along the side of the hill. Suddenly he
stopped.
“‘Here’s the shpot!’ he said, and incontinently tumbled down.
“‘Git up! Wake up!’ shouted Murdock in his ear. But the whiskey had
done its work; the man slept, breathing heavily and stentoriously,
heedless of the storm and the drenching rain. Murdock gathered a few
stones and placed them together—I could hear the sound as they touched
each other. Then he, too, took a pull at the bottle, and sat down
beside Moynahan. I moved off a little, and when I came to a whin bush
got behind it for a little shelter, and raising myself looked round. We
were quite close to the edge of the bog, about half way between Joyce’s
house and Murdock’s, and well in on Joyce’s land. I was not satisfied
as to what Murdock would do, so I waited.
“Fully an hour went by without any stir, and then I heard Murdock
trying to awaken old Moynahan. I got down on the ground again and
crawled over close to them. I heard Murdock shake the old man, and
shout in his ear; presently the latter awoke, and the Gombeen Man gave
him another dose of whiskey. This seemed to revive him a little as well
as to complete his awakening.
“‘Musha! but it’s cowld I am!’ he shivered.
“‘Begor it is—git up and come home!’ said Murdock, and he dragged the
old man to his feet.
“‘Hould me up, Murtagh,’ said the latter, ‘I’m that cowld I can’t
shtand, an’ me legs is like shtones—I can’t feel them at all, at all!’
“‘All right!’ said the other, ‘walk on a little bit—sthraight—as ye’re
goin’ now—I’ll just shtop to cork the bottle.’
“From my position I could see their movements, and as I am a living
man, Art! I saw Murdock turn him with his face to the bog, and send him
to walk straight to his death!”
“Good God! Dick—are you quite certain?”
“I haven’t the smallest doubt on my mind. I wish I could have, for
it’s a terrible thing to remember! That attempt to murder in the dark
and the storm, comes between me and sleep! Moreover, Murdoch’s action
the instant after showed only too clearly what he intended. He turned
quickly away, and I could hear him mutter as he moved past me on his
way down the hill:—
“‘He’ll not throuble me now—curse him! an’ his share won’t be
required,’ and then he laughed a low horrible laugh, slow and harsh,
and as though to himself; and I heard him say:—
“‘An’ whin I do get the chist, Miss Norah, ye’ll be the nixt!’”
My blood began to boil as I heard of the villain’s threat:—“Where is
he Dick? He must deal with me for that.”
“Steady, Art! steady!” and Dick laid his hand on me.
“Go on!” I said.
“I couldn’t go after him, for I had to watch Moynahan, whom I followed
close, and I caught hold of as soon as I thought Murdock was too far
to see me. I was only just in time, for as I touched him he staggered,
lurched forward, and was actually beginning to sink in the bog. It was
at one of those spots where the rock runs sheer down into the morass.
It took all my strength to pull him out, and when I did get him on the
rock he sank down again into his drunken sleep. I thought the wisest
thing I could do was to go to Joyce’s for help; and as, thanks to my
experiments with the magnets all those weeks, I knew the ground fairly
well, I was able to find my way—although the task was a slow and
difficult one.
When I got near I saw a light at the window. My rubber boots, I
suppose, and the plash of the falling rain dulled my footsteps, for as
I drew near I could see that a man was looking in at the window, but he
did not hear me. I crept up behind the hedge and watched him. He went
to the door and knocked—evidently not for the first time; then the door
was opened, and I could see Joyce’s figure against the light that came
from the kitchen.
“‘Who’s there? What is it?’ he asked. Then I heard Murdock’s voice:—
“‘I’m lookin’ for poor ould Moynahan. He was out on the hill in the
evenin’, but he hasn’t kem home, an’ I’m anxious about him, for he had
a sup in him, an’ I fear he may have fallen into the bog. I’ve been out
lukin’ for him, but I can’t find him. I thought he might have kem in
here.’
“‘No, he has not been here. Are you sure he was on the hill?’
“‘Well, I thought so—but what ought I to do? I’d be thankful if ye’d
advise me. Be the way, what o’clock might it be now?’
“Norah, who had joined her father, ran in and looked at the clock.
“‘It is just ten minutes past twelve,’ she said.
“‘I don’t know what’s to be done,’ said Joyce. ‘Could he have got to
the shebeen?’
“‘That’s a good idea! I suppose I’d betther go there an’ luk afther
him. Ye see, I’m anxious about him, for he’s been livin’ wid me, an’ if
anythin’ happened to him, people might say I done it!’
“‘That’s a queer thing for him to say!’ said Norah to her father.
“Murdock turned on her at once.
“‘Quare thing—no more quare than the things they’ll be sayin’ about you
before long.’
“‘What do you mean?’ said Joyce, coming out.
“‘Oh, nawthin’, nawthin’! I must look for Moynahan.’ And without a word
he turned and ran. Joyce and Norah went into the house. When Murdock
had quite gone I knocked at the door, and Joyce came out like a
thunderbolt.
“‘I’ve got ye now ye ruffian’—he shouted—‘what did ye mean to say to me
daughter?’ but by this time I stood in the light, and he recognized me.
“‘Hush!’ I said, ‘let me in quietly’—and when I passed in we shut
the door. Then I told them that I had been out on the mountain, and
had found Moynahan. I told them both that they must not ask me any
questions, or let on to a soul that I had told them anything—that much
might depend on it—for I thought, Art, old chap, that they had better
not be mixed up in it, however the matter might end. So we all three
went out with a lantern, and I brought them to where the old man was
asleep. We lifted him, and between us carried him to the house; Joyce
and I undressed him and put him in bed, between warm blankets. Then I
came away and went over to Mrs. Kelligan’s, where I slept in a chair
before the fire.
“The next morning when I went up to Joyce’s I found that Moynahan
was all right—that he hadn’t even got a cold, but that he remembered
nothing whatever about his walking into the bog. He had even expressed
his wonder at seeing the state his clothes were in. When I went into
the village I found that Murdock had been everywhere and had told
everyone of his fears about Moynahan. I said nothing of his being
safe, but tried quietly to arrange matters so that I might be present
when Murdock should set his eyes for the first time on the man he had
tried to murder. I left him with a number of others in the shebeen,
and went back to bring Moynahan, but found, when I got to Joyce’s that
he had already gone back to Murdock’s house. Joyce had told him, as we
had arranged, that when Murdock had come asking for him he had been
alarmed, and had gone out to look for him; had found him asleep on the
hillside, and had brought him home with him. As I found that my scheme
of facing Murdock with his victim was frustrated, I took advantage of
Murdock’s absence to remove the stones which he had placed to mark the
spot where the treasure was last seen. I found them in the form of a
cross, and moving them, replaced them at a spot some distance lower
down the line of the bog. I marked the place, however, with a mark of
my own—four stones put widely apart at the points of a letter Y—the
centre marking the spot where the cross had been. Murdock returned to
his house not long after, and within a short time ran down to tell that
Moynahan had found his way home, and was all safe. They told me that he
was then white and scared-looking.” Here Dick paused:—
“Now, my difficulty is this. I know he tried to murder the man, but
I am not in a position to prove it. No man could expect his word to
be taken in such a matter and under such circumstances. And yet I am
morally certain that he intends to murder him still. What should I do?
To take any preventive steps would involve making the charge which I
cannot prove. As yet neither of the men has the slightest suspicion
that I am concerned in the matter in any way—or that I even know of it.
Now may I not be most useful by keeping a watch and biding my time?”
I thought a moment, but there seemed to be only one answer:—
“You are quite right, Dick! We can do nothing just at present. We
must keep a sharp look out, and get some tangible evidence of his
intention—something that we can support—and then we can take steps
against him. As to the matter of his threat to harm Norah, I shall
certainly try to bring that out in a way we can prove, and then he
shall have the hottest corner he ever thought of in his life.”
“Quite right that he should have it, Art; but we must think of her too.
It would not do to have her name mixed up with any gossip. She will be
going away very shortly, I suppose, and then his power to hurt her will
be nil. In the mean time everything must be done to guard her.”
“I shall get a dog—a good savage one—this very day; that ruffian must
not be able to even get near the house again——” Dick interrupted me:—
“Oh, I quite forgot to tell you about that. The very day after that
night I got a dog and sent it up. It is the great mastiff that
Meldon, the dispensary doctor, had—the one that you admired so much.
I specially asked Norah to keep it for you, and train it to be always
with her. She promised that she would always feed him herself and take
him about with her. I am quite sure she understood that he was to be
her protector.”
“Thank you, Dick,” I said, and I am sure he knew I was grateful.
By this time we had come near the house, outside which the car stood.
Andy was inside, and evidently did not expect our coming so soon, for
he sat with a measure of stout half emptied before him on the table,
and on each of his knees sat a lady—one evidently the mother of the
other. As we appeared in the doorway he started up.
“Be the powdhers, there’s the masther! Git up, acushla!”—this to the
younger woman, for the elder had already jumped up. Then to me:—
“Won’t ye sit down, yer ’an’r—there’s only the wan chair, so ye see the
shifts we’re dhruv to, whin there’s three iv us. I couldn’t put Mrs.
Dempsey from off iv her own shtool, an’ she wouldn’t sit on me knee
alone—the dacent woman!—so we had to take the girrul on too. They all
sit that way in these parts!” The latter statement was made with brazen
openness and shameless effrontery. I shook my finger at him:—
“Take care, Andy. You’ll get into trouble one of these days!”
“Into throuble! for a girrul sittin’ on me knee! Begor! the
Govermint’ll have to get up more coorts and more polis if they want
to shtop that ould custom. An’ more betoken, they’ll have to purvide
more shtools, too. Mrs. Dempsey, whin I come round agin, mind ye kape
a govermint shtool for me! Here’s the masther wouldn’t let any girrul
sit on any wan’s knee. Begor! not even the quality nor the fairies! All
right, yer ’an’r, the mare’s quite ready. Good-bye, Mrs. Dempsey. Don’t
forgit the shtool—an’ wan too for Biddy! Gee up, ye ould corncrake!”
and so we resumed our journey.
As we went along Dick gave me all details regarding the property which
he and Mr. Caicy had bought for me. Although I had signed deeds and
papers without number, and was owner in the present or in future of the
whole hill, I had not the least idea of either the size or disposition
of the estate. Dick had been all over it, and was able to supply me
with every detail. As he went on he grew quite enthusiastic—everything
seemed to be even more favourable than he had at first supposed. There
was plenty of clay; and he suspected that in two or three places there
was pottery clay, such as is found chiefly in Cornwall. There was any
amount of water; and when we should be able to control the whole hill
and regulate matters as we wished, the supply would enable us to do
anything in the way of either irrigation or ornamental development. The
only thing we lacked, he said, was limestone, and he had a suspicion
that limestone was to be found somewhere on the hill.
“I cannot but think,” said he, “that there must be a streak of
limestone somewhere. I cannot otherwise account for the subsidence
of the lake on the top of the hill. I almost begin to think that
that formation of rock to which the Snake’s Pass is due runs right
through the hill, and that we shall find that the whole top of it has
similar granite cliffs, with the hollow between them possibly filled
in with some rock of one of the later formations. However, when we get
possession I shall make accurate search. I tell you, Art, it will well
repay the trouble if we can find it. A limestone quarry here would be
pretty well as valuable as a gold mine. Nearly all these promontories
on the western coast of Ireland are of slate or granite, and here we
have not got lime within thirty miles. With a quarry on the spot, we
can not only build cheap and reclaim our own bog, but we can supply
five hundred square miles of country with the rudiments of prosperity,
and at a nominal price compared with what they pay now!”
Then he went on to tell me of the various arrangements effected—how
those who wished to emigrate were about to do so, and how others who
wished to stay were to have better farms given them on what we called
“the mainland”; and how he had devised a plan for building houses for
them—good solid stone houses, with proper offices and farmyards. He
concluded what seemed to me like a somewhat modified day-dream:—
“And if we can find the limestone—well! the improvements can all be
done without costing you a penny; and you can have around you the most
prosperous set of people to be found in the country.”
In such talk as this the journey wore on till the evening came upon
us. The day had been a fine one—one of those rare sunny days in a wet
autumn. As we went I could see everywhere the signs of the continuous
rains. The fields were sloppy and sodden, and the bottoms were flooded;
the bogs were teeming with water; the roads were washed clean—not only
the mud but even the sand having been swept away, and the road metal
was everywhere exposed. Often, as we went along, Dick took occasion to
illustrate his views as to the danger of the shifting of the bog at
Knockalltecrore by the evidence around us of the destructive power of
the continuous rain.
When we came to the mountain gap where we got our first and only view
of Knockalltecrore from the Galway road, Andy reined in the mare, and
turned to me, pointing with his whip:—
“There beyant, yer ’an’r, is Knockalltecrore—the hill where the
threasure is. They do say that a young English gintleman has bought up
the hill, an’ manes to git the threasure for himself. Begor! perhaps he
has found it already. Here! Gee up! ye ould corncrake! What the divil
are ye kapin’ the quality waitin’ for?” and we sped down the road.
The sight of the hill filled me with glad emotion, and I do not think
that it is to be wondered at. And yet my gladness was followed by an
unutterable gloom—a gloom that fell over me the instant after my eyes
took in the well-known hill struck by the falling sunset from the west.
It seemed to me that all had been so happy and so bright and so easy
for me, that there must be in store some terrible shock or loss to make
the balance even, and, to reduce my satisfaction with life to the
level above which man’s happiness may not pass.
There was a curse on the hill! I felt it and realized it at that
moment for the first time. I suppose I must have shown something of my
brooding fear in my face, for Dick, looking round at me after a period
of silence, said suddenly:—
“Cheer up Art, old chap! Surely you, at any rate, have no cause to be
down on your luck! Of all men that live, I should think you ought to be
about the very happiest!”
“That’s it, old fellow,” I answered. “I fear that there must be
something terrible coming. I shall never be quite happy till Norah and
all of us are quite away from the Hill.”
“What on earth do you mean? Why, you have just bought the whole place!”
“It may seem foolish, Dick; but the words come back to me and keep
ringing in my ears—‘The Mountain holds—and it holds tight.’” Dick
laughed:—
“Well, Art, it is not my fault, or Mr. Caicy’s, if you don’t hold it
tight. It is yours now, every acre of it; and, if I don’t mistake,
you are going to make it in time—and not a long time either—into the
fairest bower to which the best fellow ever brought the fairest lady!
There now, Art, isn’t that a pretty speech?”
Dick’s words made me feel ashamed of myself, and I made an effort to
pull myself together, which lasted until Dick and I said good-night.