The Northern Iron Part 12

"You don't know either of the other two, I suppose? No. Well it can't be helped. It would have been convenient if we had known. They may be honest men or they may be another pair of spies. I think I'll try and find out something about them. Do you stay here, Neal, and watch. Let me know if any of the three of them leave the house. I'll go down the pa.s.sage to the tap-room. I'll drink a gla.s.s or two, and I'll see what information I can pick up. You see, my boy, if the other two are honest men we ought to warn them of our suspicions about Finlay. If they are spies we ought to know their names and warn somebody else. Any way, keep your eye on Finlay, and let me know if he stirs."

A sensation of horror crept over Neal when his uncle left him. He realised that he was hunting a fellow-creature, that the hunt might end at any moment in the taking of human life. In Dunseveric Manse, while the anger which the yeomen's blows and bonds had raised in him was awake, while the enormity of Finlay's treachery was still fresh in his mind, it seemed natural and right that the spy should be killed. Now, when he had seen the man swagger down the street, when he had just watched him cringe and apologize, when he had sat within a few feet of him, it seemed a ghastly and horrible thing to track and pursue him for his life. A cold sweat bathed his limbs. His hands trembled. He sat on the stool near the fire s.h.i.+vering with cold and fear. He listened intently. It was growing late, and the piper had stopped playing in the street. The boys and girls who danced had gone home. There were voices of pa.s.sers by, but these grew rarer. Now and then there was the trampling of a horse's hoofs on the road as some belated traveller from Belfast pushed fast for home. A murmur of voices came to him from the interior of the inn, he supposed from the tap-room to which his uncle had gone, but he could hear nothing of what was said. Once the girl who had served his supper came in and told him that his bed was ready if he cared to go to it. Neal shook his head. Gradually he became drowsy. His eyes closed. He nodded. Then the very act of nodding awoke him with a start. He blamed himself for having gone near to sleeping at his post, for being neglectful of the very first duty imposed on him. The horror of the watch he was keeping returned on him. He felt that he was like a murderer lurking in the dark for some unsuspecting victim. For Finlay had no thought that he was distrusted, discovered, tracked. Then, to steel himself against pity, he let his mind go back over the events of the previous night. He thought of the scene in the MacClures' cottage, of the heart-broken woman, of her husband riding with the brutal troopers to a trial without justice and a death without pity. He felt with his hand the blood caked on his own cheek, the scab on the cut where the yeoman had struck him. He remembered Una's shriek and the Comtesse's frantic struggles as the soldiers dragged them from their hiding-place. Of his own rush to their rescue he remembered little save the momentary delight of feeling his fists get home on the men's faces.

He had nerved himself now with memories and conquered his qualms. He felt that it would be easy work and pleasant to drag James Finlay to earth and trample the life out of him. The thought of the insults of the brutal men who held Una and his own impotent struggles with the belt which bound him made him fierce enough. But the mood pa.s.sed. His mind reverted to the subject which had never, all day, been far from his thoughts. He recalled each detail of his walk back to Dun-severic with Una, her words of praise for his bravery, the resting of her hand in his as they crossed stiles and ditches, the times when it rested in his hand longer than it need have rested, the great moment when he had ventured to clasp and keep it fast. He thrilled as he recollected holding her in his arms, the telling of his love, and Una's wonderful reply to him. Emotion flooded him. Una loved him as he loved her. The future was impossible, unthinkable. At the best of times he could not hope that proud Lord Dunseveric would consent to let him marry Una; and now, of all times, now, when he was engaged in a dangerous conspiracy, pledged to a fight which he felt already to be hopeless; when he had the hangman's ladder to look forward to, or, at best, the life of a hunted outlaw and exile to some foreign land; what could he expect now to come of his love for Una? His mind refused to dwell on such thoughts for long. It went back to the simple fact, the glorious, incredible thing which he had learned. Una loved him. That was sufficient for him then.

He was happy.

The door of a room somewhere within the house closed noisily. There were footsteps on the stairs and then in the pa.s.sage. Neal was alert.

He quenched the light which hung on the wall and stood in the darkness looking out of the door. He saw three men pa.s.s him--James Finlay and the other two. They stood at the street door speaking last words in low voices. Neal sped down the pa.s.sage to the tap-room. His uncle sat in a cloud of tobacco smoke, with a tumbler in his hand. Round him was gathered a knot of admirers, most of them somewhat tipsy. Donald was telling them stories of the American war. At the sight of Neal he rose quickly and laid down his tumbler. It was evident that he, at least, had drunk no more than he could stand.

"Well, has he moved?" he whispered.

"Yes," said Neal. "He and the second man are going. They had their hats on and were bidding good night to the first, the man who brought us here."

Donald left the tap-room quickly. The street door closed, and in the pa.s.sage he found himself face to face with the gentle-mannered traveller whom he had accosted in the street.

"I think," said Donald, "that I have the honour of addressing Mr. Hope."

"James Hope," said the other, "or Jemmy Hope. I am but a weaver, a simple man. I take no pride in the t.i.tles men give each other."

"James Hope," said Donald, "I've heard of you, and I've heard of you as an honest man. I reckon there's no t.i.tle higher than that one. I think, sir, that you have a room at your disposal in this house. May I speak with you there? I have matters of some importance."

James Hope turned without a word and led the way upstairs to a small room. Three candles stood on the table. There were also tumblers and an empty whisky bottle. It was noticeable that there were only two tumblers. James Hope had not been drinking. Donald walked over to the table and blew out one of the candles.

"I'm not more superst.i.tious than other men," he said, "but I won't sit in the room with three candles burning. It's d.a.m.ned unlucky."

Again, as earlier in the public room, Neal thought that James Hope was going to laugh. But again the laughter got no further than his eyes.

"Now," said Donald, "if you've no objection, I'll have a fresh bottle on the table and some clean gla.s.ses. You know this inn, James Hope, what's their best drink?"

"I have but a poor head," said Hope. "I drink nothing but water. But I believe that the whisky is good enough."

"Neal, my boy," said Donald, "the wench that bought us our supper is gone to bed, and the landlord's too drunk to carry anything upstairs.

You go and fill the jug there with hot water in the kitchen, and I'll get some whisky from the taproom."

Donald filled himself a gla.s.s with a generous proportion of spirit, and lit his pipe again.

"I've a letter here, addressed to you," he said.

He fumbled in his breast pocket, drew forth a leather case, and took from it one of the letters which Micah Ward had written. James Hope read it carefully.

"You are," he said, "the Donald Ward mentioned in this letter, and you are Neal Ward, the son of a man whom we all respect and admire. I bid you welcome."

He held out his hand, first to Donald, who shook it heartily, and then to Neal. He fixed his dark eyes on the young man's face, and looked long and steadily at him. Neal's eyes wavered and dropped before this earnest scrutiny, which seemed to read his very thoughts.

"G.o.d bless you and keep you, my boy," said James Hope. "You are the son of a brave man. I doubt not that you will be a brave man, too, brave in a good cause."

Donald Ward seemed a little impatient at this long scrutiny of Neal and the speech which followed. He took several gulps of whisky and water and blew clouds of tobacco smoke. He cleared his throat noisily and said.

"You'll be satisfied, James Hope, by the letter I've given you that we are men to be trusted?"

"G.o.d forbid else," said Hope. "Whom should we trust if not the brother and son of Micah Ward?"

"Then I'll come straight to the point," said Donald. "Who were the two men that were with you just now?"

"The one of them," said Hope, "was Aeneas Moylin, a Catholic, and a friend of Charlie Teeling. He's a man that has done much to bring the Defender boys from County Down and Armagh into the society. He has a good farm of land near by Donegore."

"And the other?"

"The other you ought to know, Neal Ward. He's from Dunseveric. His name's James Finlay."

"I do know him," said Neal, "but I don't trust him."

"He came to me," said Hope, "with a letter from your father, like the letter you bring yourself. I have trusted him a great deal."

"Trust him no more, then," said Donald, "the man's a spy. My brother was deceived in him."

"These are grave words you speak," said Hope. "Can you make them good?"

Donald told the story of the raid on the Dunseveric meeting-house.

He dwelt on the fact that only five or six people knew of the buried cannon, that of these, only one, James Finlay, had left Dunseveric, that Neal Ward's name had appeared on the list of suspected persons, though Neal had hitherto taken no part and had no knowledge of the doings of the United Irishmen; that his name must have been given to the authorities by some one who had a private spite against him; that James Finlay, and he alone of the people of Dunseveric, had any cause to seek revenge on Neal.

"It's a case of suspicion," said James Hope, "of heavy suspicion, but you've not proven that the man's a traitor."

"No," said Donald, "it's not proven. I know that well, but the man ought to be trusted no more until his character is cleared. He ought to be tried and given a chance of defending himself."

James Hope sat silent. His fingers pushed back the lock of dark hair which hung over his forehead. His face grew stern, and there was a look of determination in his dark eyes. A frown gathered in deep wrinkles on his forehead. At last he spoke.

"You are on your way to Belfast. I shall give you a letter to Felix Matier, who keeps the inn with the sign of Dumouriez in North Street.

You will find him easily. His house is a common meeting-place for members of the society. I shall tell him to have a careful watch kept on Finlay, and to communicate with you."

"I'll deal with the man," said Donald, "as soon as I have anything more than suspicion to go on."

"Deal uprightly, deal justly," said Hope. "Ours is a sacred cause. It may be G.o.d's will that we are to be victorious, or it may be written in His book that we shall fail. He alone knows the issue. But, either way, our hands must not be stained with crime. We must do justly, aye, and love mercy when mercy can be shown without imperilling the lives of innocent men."

"Traitors must be dealt with as traitors are in all civilised States,"

said Donald.

"Ay, truly, when we are sure that they are traitors."

"I shall make sure," said Donald, "and then----"

"Then------," Hope sighed deeply. "Then---- you are right. There is no help for it. But remember, Donald Ward, that you and I must answer for our actions before the judgment seat of G.o.d. Remember, also, that our names and our deeds will be judged by posterity. We must not shrink from stern necessities laid upon us. But let us not give the enemy an excuse to brand us as a.s.sa.s.sins in the time to come."

"G.o.d d.a.m.n it, man, you speak to me as if you thought me a hired murderer. I take such language from no man living, and from you no more than another, James Hope. You shall answer for your words and your insinuations."

Donald stood up as he spoke. His face was deeply flushed. He had drunk heavily during the evening. Even the best men, the leaders of every cla.s.s and section of society drank heavily in those days. He was an exceptional man who always went to bed in full possession of his senses. Donald Ward was no worse than his fellows. But the man whom he challenged was one of the few for whom the wine bottle had no attractions. He was also one of those--rare in any age--who had learnt the mastery of self, whom no words, even insulting words, can drive beyond the limits of their patience.

"If I have spoken anything which hurts or vexes you, Donald Ward, I am sorry for it. I had no wish to do so. Comrades in a great enterprise must not quarrel with each other. I offer you my hand in token that I do not think of you as anything but an honourable man."