The red winter sun sank to hide itself below the waste of Atlantic
waters as the _Hen Hawk_, still held snugly in the grasp of the breeze,
beat round the grim cliffs of Three-Castle Head, and entered Dun-manus
Bay. The Englishman had been set adrift hours before, and by this
time, no doubt, the telegraph had spread to every remotest point on the
Southern and Western coast warning descriptions of the vessel and its
master. Perhaps even now their winged flight into the west was being
followed from Cape Clear, which lay behind them in the misty and
darkening distance. Still the _Hen Hawk’s_ course was confidently shaped
homeward, for many miles of bog and moorland separated Muirisc from any
electric current.
The O’Mahony had hung in meditative solitude over the tiller for
hours, watching the squatting groups of retainers playing silently at
“spoil-five” on the forward deck, and revolving in his mind the thousand
and one confused and clashing thoughts which this queer new situation
suggested. As the sun went down he called to Jerry, and the two,
standing together at the stern, looked upon the great ball of fire
descending behind the gray expanse of trackless waters, without a word.
Rude and untutored as they were, both were conscious, in some vague way,
that when this sun should rise again their world would be a different
thing.
“Well, pard,” said the master, when only a bar of flaming orange marked
where the day had gone, “it’ll be a considerable spell, I reckon, afore
I see that sort o’ thing in these waters again.”
“Is it l’avin’ the country we are, thin?” asked Jerry, in a sympathetic
voice.
“No, not exactly. You’ll stay here. But _I_ cut sticks to-morrow.”
“Sure, then, it’s not alone ye’ll be goin’. Egor! man, didn’t I take me
Bible-oath niver to l’ave yeh, the longest day ye lived? Ah--now, don’t
be talkin’!”
“That’s all right, Jerry--but it’s got to be that way,” replied The
O’Mahony, in low regretful tones. “I’ve figured it all out. It’ll be
mighty tough to go off by myself without you, pard, but I can’t leave
the thing without somebody to run it for me, and you are the only one
that fills the bill. Now don’t kick about it, or make a fuss, or think
I’m using you bad. Jest say to yourself--‘Now he’s my friend, an’ I’m
his’n, and if he says I can be of most use to him here, why that settles
it.’ Take the helm for a minute, Jerry. I want to go for’ard an’ say a
word to the men.”
The O’Mahony looked down upon the unintelligible game being played with
cards so dirty that he could not tell them apart, and worn by years of
use to the shape of an egg, and waited with a musing smile on his face
till the deal was exhausted. The players and onlookers formed a compact
group at his knees, and they still sat or knelt or lounged on the deck
as they listened to his words.
“Boys,” he said, in the gravely gentle tone which somehow he had learned
in speaking to these men of Muirisc, “I’ve been tellin’ Jerry
somethin’ that you’ve got a right to know, too. I’m goin’ to light
out to-morrow--that is, quit Ireland for a spell. It may be for a good
while--maybe not. That depends. I hate like the very devil to go--but
it’s better for me to skip than to be lugged off to jail, and then to
state’s prison--better for me an’ better for you. If I get out, the rest
of you won’t be bothered. Now--hold on a minute till I git through!--now
between us we’ve fixed up Muirisc so that it’s a good deal easier to
live there than it used to be. There’ll be more mines opened up soon,
an’ the lobster fact’ry an’ the fishin’ are on a good footin’ now. I’m
goin’ to leave Jerry to keep track o’ things, along with O’Daly, an’
they’ll let me know regular how matters are workin’, so you won’t suffer
by my not bein’ here.”
“Ah--thin--it’s our hearts ’ll be broken entirely wid the grief,” wailed
Dominic, and the others, seizing this note of woe as their key, broke
forth in a chorus of lamentation.
They scrambled to their feet with uncovered heads, and clustered
about him, jostling one another for possession of his hands, and
affectionately patting his shoulders and stroking his sleeves, the while
they strove to express in their own tongue, or in the poetic phrases
they had fashioned for themselves out of a practical foreign language,
the sincerity of their sorrow. But the Irish peasant has been schooled
through many generations to face the necessity of exile, and to view
the breaking of households, the separation of kinsmen, the recurring
miseries attendant upon an endless exodus across the seas, with the
philosophy of the inevitable. None of these men dreamed of attempting
to dissuade The O’Mahony from his purpose, and they listened with
melancholy nods of comprehension when he had secured silence, and spoke
again:
“You can all see that it’s _got_ to be,” he said, in conclusion. “And
now I want you to promise me this: I don’t expect you’ll have trouble
with the police. They won’t get over from Balleydehob for another day or
two--and by that time I shall be gone, and the _Hen Hawk_, too--an’ if
they bring over the dingey I gave the Englishman to land in, why, of
course there won’t be a man, woman or child in Muirisc that ever laid
eyes on it before.”
“Sure, Heaven ’u’d blast the eyes that ’u’d recognize that same boat,”
said one, and the others murmured their confidence in the hypothetical
miracle.
“Well, then, what I want you to promise is this: That you’ll go on
as you have been doin’, workin’ hard, keepin’ sober, an’ behavin’
yourselves, an’ that you’ll mind what Jerry says, same as if I said it
myself. An’ more than that--an’ now this is a thing I’m specially sot
on--that you’ll look upon that little gal, Kate O’Mahony, as if she was
a daughter of mine, an’ watch over her, an’ make things pleasant for
her, an’--an’ treat her like the apple of your eye.”
If there was an apple in The O’Mahony’s eye, it was for the moment
hidden in a vail of moisture. The faces of the men and their words alike
responded to his emotion.
Then one of them, a lean and unkempt old mariner, who even in this keen
February air kept his hairy breast and corded, sunburnt throat exposed,
and whose hawk-like eyes had flashed through fifty years of taciturnity
over heaven knows what wild and fantastic dreams born of the sea, spoke
up:
“Sir, by your l’ave, I’ll mesilf be her bodyguard and her servant, and
tache her the wather as befits her blood, and keep the very sole of her
fut from harrum.”
“Right you are, Murphy,” said The O’Mahony. “Make that your job.”
No one remembered ever having heard Murphy speak so much at one time
before. To the surprise of the group, he had still more to say.
“And, sir--I’m not askin’ it be way of ricompinse,” the fierce-faced old
boatman went on--“but w’u’d your honor grant us wan requist?”
“You’ve only got to spit ’er out,” was the hearty response.
“Thin, sir, give us over the man ye ’ve got down stairs.”
The O’Mahony’s face changed its expression. He thought for a moment;
then asked:
“What to do?”
“To dale wid this night!” said Murphy, solemnly.
There was a pause of silence, and then the clamor of a dozen eager
voices clashing one against the other in the cold wintry twilight:
“Give him over, O’Mahony!” “L’ave him to us!” “Don’t be soilin’ yer
own hands wid the likes of him!” “Oh, l’ave him to us!” these voices
pleaded.
The O’Mahony hesitated for a minute, then slowly shook his head.
“No, boys, don’t ask it,” he said. “I’d like to oblige you, but I can’t.
He’s _my_ meat--I can’t give him up!”
“W’u’d yer honor be for sparin’ him, thin?” asked one, with incredulity
and surprise.
The O’Mahony of Muirisc looked over the excited group which surrounded
him, dimly recognizing the strangeness of the weirdly interwoven
qualities which run in the blood of Heber--the soft tenderness of nature
which through tears would swear loyalty unto death to a little child,
shifting on the instant to the ferocity of the wolf-hound burying its
jowl in the throat of its quarry. Beyond them were gathering the sea
mists, as by enchantment they had gathered ages before with vain intent
to baffle the sons of Milesius, and faintly in the halflight lowered the
beetling cliffs whereon The O’Mahonys, true sons of those sea-rovers,
had crouched watching for their prey this thousand of years. He could
almost feel the ancestral taste of blood in his mouth as he looked, and
thought upon his answer.
“No, don’t worry about his gitting off,” he said, at last. “I ’ll take
care of that. You’ll never see him again--no one on top of this earth
’ll ever lay eyes on him again.”
With visible reluctance the men forced themselves to accept this
compromise. The _Hen Hawk_ plunged doggedly along up the bay.
*****
Three hours later, The O’Mahony and Jerry, not without much stumbling
and difficulty, reached the strange subterranean chamber where they had
found the mummy of the monk. They bore between them the inert body of a
man, whose head was enveloped in bandages, and whose hands, hanging limp
at arm’s length, were discolored with the grime and mold from the
stony path over which they had dragged. They threw this burden on the
mediaeval bed, and, drawing long breaths of relief, turned to light some
candles in addition to the lantern Jerry had borne, and to kindle a fire
on the hearth.
They talked in low murmurs meanwhile. The O’Mahony had told Jerry
something of what part Linsky had played in his life. Jerry, without
being informed with more than the general outlines of the story, was
able swiftly to comprehend his master’s attitude toward the man--an
attitude compounded of hatred for his treachery of to-day and gratitude
of the services which he had unconsciously performed in the past. He
understood to a nicety, too, what possibilities there were in the plan
which The O’Mahony now unfolded to him, as the fire began crackling up
the chimney.
“I can answer for his gittin’ over that crack in the head,” said The
O’Mahony, heating and stirring a tin cup full of balsam over the flame.
“Once I’ve fixed this bandage on, we can bring him to with ammonia and
whisky, an’ give him some broth. He’ll live all right--an’ he’ll live
right here, d’ye mind. Whatever else happens, he’s never to git outside,
an’ he’s never to know where he is. Nobody but you is to so much as
dream of his bein’ down here--be as mum as an oyster about it, won’t
you? You’re to have sole charge of him, d’ye see--the only human being
he ever lays eyes on.”
“Egor! I’ll improve his moind wid grand discourses on trayson and
informin’ an’ betrayin’ his oath, and the like o’ that, till he’ll be
fit to die wid shame.”
“No--I dunno--p’r’aps it’d be better not to let him know _we_ know--jest
make him think we’re his friends, hidin’ him away from the police.
However, that can take care of itself. Say whatever you like to him,
only--”
“Only don’t lay a hand on him--is it that ye were thinkin’?” broke in
Jerry.
“Yes, don’t lick him,” said The O’Mahony. “He’s had about the worst
bat on the head I ever saw a a man git an’ live, to start with. No--be
decent with him, an’ give him enough to eat. Might let him have a
moderate amount o’ drink, too.”
“I suppose there’ll be a great talk about his vanishin’ out o’ sight
all at wance among the Brotherhood,” suggested Jerry.
“That don’t matter a darn,” said the other. “Jest you go ahead, an’ tend
to your own knittin’, an’ let the Brotherhood whistle. We’ve paid a good
stiff price to learn what Fenianism is worth, and we’ve learned enough.
Not any more on my plate, thankee! Jest give the boys the word that the
jig is up--that there won’t be any more drillin’ or meanderin’ round
generally. And speakin’ o’ drink--”
A noise from the curtained bed in the alcove interrupted The O’Mahony’s
remarks upon this important subject. Turning, the two men saw that
Linsky had risen on the couch to a half-sitting posture, and, with
a tremulous hand, drawing aside the felt-like draperies, was staring
wildly at them out of blood-shot eyes.
“For the love of God, what is it?” he asked, in a faint and moaning
voice.
“Lay down there!--quick!” called out The O’Mahony, sternly; and Linsky
fell back prone without a protest.
The O’Mahony had finished melting his gum, and he spread it now
salve-like upon a cloth. Then he walked over to where the wounded
man lay, with marvel-stricken eyes wandering over the archaic vaulted
ceiling.
“Is it dead I am?” he groaned, with a vacuous glance at the new-comer.
“No, you’ve been badly hurt in battle,” said the other, in curt tones.
“We can pull you through, perhaps; but you’ve got to shut up an’ lay
still. Hold your head this way a little more--that’s it.”
The injured man submitted to the operation, for the most part, with
apparently closed eyes, but his next remark showed that he had been
gathering his wits together.
“And how’s the battle gone, Captain Harrier?” he suddenly asked. “Is
Oireland free from the oppressor at last?”
“No!” said The O’Mahony, with dry brevity--“but she’ll be free from
_you_ for a spell, or I miss _my_ guess most consumedly.”