Kilgorman Part 33

This adventure--though, as I say, I deserved no more credit for it than the score of gallant fellows who lost their lives--gained me no small renown; and when presently the _Diana_ was ordered home to British waters, one of the first pieces of news that met me when we landed at Portsmouth was that I had been recommended to the Admiralty as a suitable person to receive his Majesty's warrant as boatswain to my s.h.i.+p. Meantime, as necessary repairs to the _Diana_ would necessitate a full month in dock, leave of absence for a week or two was granted to most of her crew in consideration of their long service.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

LORD EDWARD.

Captain Swift, himself an Irishman, when he understood that I was desirous of spending my leave of absence in Donegal, was gracious enough to appoint me his secretary for the time being, and thus made easy what might otherwise have been a difficult journey. The captain's destination was a few miles south of Derry, where his family resided, so that I was brought well on my way.

Our journey took us through Dublin, in which city the captain remained some days, to confer with the naval authorities there as to the future service of the _Diana_ in Irish waters. During that short halt I had time to look about me, and form some impressions of a place of which I had so often heard but never yet seen.

I am not going to trouble my readers with those impressions. Indeed, when it came to looking about me, I found my attention taken hold of by matters far more important than streets and edifices.

On the day before our departure for the north, one of my first errands was to the coach-office, to engage places for the captain and myself for the journey. I had done this, and was about to quit the yard, when a private travelling coach, evidently about to start (for it was piled with baggage on the top), drew up at the gate, to take on board a sack of corn for the horses.

It was evidently the equipage of a wealthy man. Two pa.s.sengers were inside--a lady and a gentleman--both well cloaked, for it was a cold spring day. I could not see their faces, and should probably not have troubled myself twice about them, but for two strange incidents which happened, just as, having taken up what they called for, the carriage started on its journey. A man on the pavement, who had evidently been watching the halt, uttered a howl of execration and shook his fist at the window. A moment after, a young gentleman of military bearing, mounted on a grey horse, cantered up the road and overtook the coach on the other side. He carried a small bunch of flowers, which he stooped to pa.s.s in at the window to the lady, receiving in exchange a wave from one of the prettiest hands I ever saw. Next moment the coach was rattling down the street; and the gentleman having accompanied it a short distance, kissed his hand and wheeled up a side street and disappeared.

Unless I was greatly deceived, that gentleman was Captain Lestrange.

"Who are the travellers?" said I to the man who had shaken his fist.

He was apparently a countryman, dressed in an old frieze coat, with a slouching hat.

He ground his teeth as he turned on me.

"The greatest villain on earth," said he. "I know him."

"I suppose so," said I, "or you would hardly excite yourself about him."

"Excite, is it? Man, dear, if there is a Judas on this earth, that's him! Excite? you'd be excited too."

The man talked like one tipsy, but I did not think it was with drink.

"What has he done to you?" said I.

"Done? Isn't that the boy who's lured us all on, and then comes to Dublin to denounce us? Man alive, did you never hear of Maurice Gorman in your life?"

It was as much as I could do to stand steady under this shock.

"I was never in Dublin before," said I; "how should I? Is he an Englishman?"

"Englishman? he's worse. He's an Irish traitor, I tell you, and feeds on the blood of his people. He was the toad that made fools of us all, and wormed himself into our secrets, and then turned and stabbed us in the back. But we're not dead yet. We'll be even with him."

"Where has he gone now?" said I.

"Away home with his girl, who's as bad as himself. Sure, you saw her coquetting with the young dandy just now. He's in the very middle of the nest of vipers that are plotting to grind the life out of Ireland.

Maybe," said he, stopping suddenly and looking hard at me, "you're one of that same nest yourself?"

"G.o.d forbid!" said I; "I love Ireland."

"That's good hearing. You're one of us?"

"Of the friends of my country, yes."

"A sworn friend?"

"I was sworn, yes," said I, determined at all cost to hear more of the business.

"Come this afternoon to the printer's house in Marquis Street; you'll hear more of Gorman then, maybe. _Pikes and hemp_ is the word. No questions will be asked--not if you are Ireland's friend."

"I'll be there," said I; "and G.o.d save Ireland!"

"Amen!" said he, and we parted.

It was, as I learned presently, the babbling of foolish talkers like this poor fellow that wrecked the Irish conspiracy.

As for me, I confess I felt misgivings. I was a servant of his Majesty, and had no business with secret conspiracies. Yet, when a life so precious to me was at stake, how could I help trying to do something to save it? Besides (and this salved my conscience a little), had I not promised Tim, in the last hour I was with him, to strike a blow for my country?

For hours that morning I paced the streets of Dublin debating with myself, trying to reconcile dishonour with honour, and love with duty; determining one hour to fail in my appointment, in another to keep it and report all I heard to the government.

Finally, anxiety and curiosity got the better of me, and at the appointed hour I stood at the door of the printer's office in Marquis Street.

No one challenged me as I entered or pa.s.sed through the outer shop, where a lad was at work folding pamphlets. But at the inner door, leading to the press-room, a little shutter slid back and a face looked out.

"_Pikes and hemp_," said I.

"Name."

"Barry."

"Pa.s.s, friend."

I found myself in a large apartment, in one corner of which stood the printing-press, and in another an iron table and a can of ink.

My friend of the morning, looking restless and haggard, was there, and greeted me, I thought, somewhat anxiously, as though he doubted the prudence of his invitation. He did not, I am sure, feel more anxious than I, who every moment found the act in which I was engaged more intolerable.

At last, when about a hundred men, most of them of the cla.s.s of my friend, had dropped in silently, and stood talking in knots, awaiting one further arrival, I could stand it no longer.

"I told you a lie this morning," said I in a low voice to my companion; "I am not sworn."

He turned as white as a sheet.

"Then you are here to betray us?"

"No," said I. "Let me go, and no one shall hear a word of this."

"You cannot go," said he excitedly, "it would be death to me if it were known, and to you too. Stay where you are now."

"I don't want to stay," said I; "I was a fool to come."