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diff --git a/6295-0.txt b/6295-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..208ddc1 --- /dev/null +++ b/6295-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9305 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook of No Defense, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: No Defense, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6295] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NO DEFENSE, COMPLETE *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +NO DEFENSE + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + + BOOK I. + I. THE TWO MEET + II. THE COMING OF A MESSENGER + III. THE QUARREL + IV. THE DUEL + V. THE KILLING OF ERRIS BOYNE + VI. DYCK IN PRISON + VII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER + VIII. DYCK’S FATHER VISITS HIM + IX. A LETTER FROM SHEILA + + BOOK II + X. DYCK CALHOUN ENTERS THE WORLD AGAIN + XI. WHITHER NOW? + XII. THE HOUR BEFORE THE MUTINY + XIII. TO THE WEST INDIES + XIV. IN THE NICK OF TIME + XV. THE ADMIRAL HAS HIS SAY + + BOOK III + XVI. A LETTER + XVII. STRANGERS ARRIVE + XVIII. AT SALEM + XIX. LORD MALLOW INTERVENES + XX. OUT OF THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES + XXI. THE CLASH OF RACE + XXII. SHEILA HAS HER SAY + XXIII. THE COMING OF NOREEN + XXIV. WITH THE GOVERNOR + XXV. THEN WHAT HAPPENED + + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE TWO MEET + +“Well, good-bye, Dyck. I’ll meet you at the sessions, or before that at +the assizes.” + +It was only the impulsive, cheery, warning exclamation of a wild young +Irish spirit to his friend Dyck Calhoun, but it had behind it the humour +and incongruity of Irish life. + +The man, Dyck Calhoun, after whom were sent the daring words about the +sessions and the assizes, was a year or two older than his friend, and, +as Michael Clones, his servant and friend, said, “the worst and best +scamp of them all”--just up to any harmless deviltry. + +Influenced by no traditions or customs, under control of no stern +records of society, Calhoun had caused some trouble in his time by the +harmless deeds of a scapegrace, but morally--that is, in all relations +of life affected by the ten commandments--he was above reproach. Yet he +was of the sort who, in days of agitation, then common in Ireland, might +possibly commit some act which would bring him to the sessions or +the assizes. There never was in Ireland a cheerier, braver, handsomer +fellow, nor one with such variety of mind and complexity of purpose. + +He was the only child of a high-placed gentleman; he spent all the money +that came his way, and occasionally loaded himself with debt, which his +angry father paid. Yet there never was a gayer heart, a more generous +spirit, nor an easier-tempered man; though, after all, he was only +twenty-five when the words with which the tale opens were said to him. + +He had been successful--yet none too successful--at school and Trinity +College, Dublin. He had taken a pass degree, when he might have captured +the highest honours. He had interested people of place in the country, +but he never used promptly the interest he excited. A pretty face, a +fishing or a shooting expedition, a carouse in some secluded tavern, +were parts of his daily life. + +At the time the story opens he was a figure of note among those who +spent their time in criticizing the government and damning the Irish +Parliament. He even became a friend of some young hare-brained rebels of +the time; yet no one suspected him of anything except irresponsibility. +His record was clean; Dublin Castle was not after him. + +When his young friend made the remark about the sessions and assizes, +Calhoun was making his way up the rocky hillside to take the homeward +path to his father’s place, Playmore. With the challenge and the +monstrous good-bye, a stone came flying up the hill after him and +stopped almost at his feet. He made no reply, however, but waved a hand +downhill, and in his heart said: + +“Well, maybe he’s right. I’m a damned dangerous fellow, there’s no doubt +about that. Perhaps I’ll kill a rebel some day, and then they’ll take me +to the sessions and the assizes. Well, well, there’s many a worse fate +than that, so there is.” + +After a minute he added: + +“So there is, dear lad, so there is. But if I ever kill, I’d like it +to be in open fight on the hills like this--like this, under the bright +sun, in the soft morning, with all the moor and valleys still, and the +larks singing--the larks singing! Hooray, but it’s a fine day, one of +the best that ever was!” + +He laughed, and patted his gun gently. + +“Not a feather, not a bird killed, not a shot fired; but the looking was +the thing--stalking the things that never turned up, the white heels we +never saw, for I’m not killing larks, God love you!” + +He raised his head, looking up into the sky at some larks singing above +him in the heavens. + +“Lord love you, little dears,” he added aloud. “I wish I might die with +your singing in my ears, but do you know what makes Ireland what it +is? Look at it now. Years ago, just when the cotton-mills and the +linen-mills were doing well, they came over with their English +legislation, and made it hard going. When we begin to get something, +over the English come and take the something away. What have we done, we +Irish people, that we shouldn’t have a chance in our own country? Lord +knows, we deserve a chance, for it’s hard paying the duties these days. +What with France in revolution and reaching out her hand to Ireland +to coax her into rebellion; what with defeat in America and drink +in Scotland; what with Fox and Pitt at each other’s throats, and the +lord-lieutenant a danger to the peace; what with poverty, and the cow +and children and father and mother living all in one room, with the +chickens roosting in the rafters; what with pointing the potato at the +dried fish and gulping it down as if it was fish itself; what with the +smell and the dirt and the poverty of Dublin and Derry, Limerick and +Cork--ah, well!” He threw his eyes up again. + +“Ah, well, my little love, sing on! You’re a blessing among a lot of +curses; but never mind, it’s a fine world, and Ireland’s the best part +of it. Heaven knows it--and on this hill, how beautiful it is!” + +He was now on the top of a hill where he could look out towards the bog +and in towards the mellow, waving hills. He could drink in the yellowish +green, with here and there in the distance a little house; and about +two miles away smoke stealing up from the midst of the plantation where +Playmore was--Playmore, his father’s house--to be his own one day. + +How good it was! There, within his sight, was the great escarpment of +rock known as the Devil’s Ledge, and away to the east was the black spot +in the combe known as the Cave of Mary. Still farther away, towards the +south, was the great cattle-pasture, where, as he looked, a thousand +cattle roamed. Here and there in the wide prospect were plantations +where Irish landlords lived, and paid a heavy price for living. Men did +not pay their rents. Crops were spoiled, markets were bad, money was +scarce, yet-- + +“Please God, it will be better next year!” Michael Clones said, and +there never was a man with a more hopeful heart than Michael Clones. + +Dyck Calhoun had a soul of character, originality, and wayward +distinction. He had all the impulses and enthusiasms of a poet, all the +thirst for excitement of the adventurer, all the latent patriotism of +the true Celt; but his life was undisciplined, and he had not ordered +his spirit into compartments of faith and hope. He had gifts. They were +gifts only to be borne by those who had ambitions. + +Now, as he looked out upon the scene where nature was showing herself +at her best, some glimmer of a great future came to him. He did not know +which way his feet were destined to travel in the business of life. It +was too late to join the navy; but there was still time enough to be a +soldier, or to learn to be a lawyer. + +As he gazed upon the scene, his wonderful deep blue eyes, his dark brown +hair thick upon his head, waving and luxuriant like a fine mattress, his +tall, slender, alert figure, his bony, capable hands, which neither sun +nor wind ever browned, his nervous yet interesting mouth, and his long +Roman nose, set in a complexion rich in its pink-and-cream hardness and +health--all this made him a figure good to see. + +Suddenly, as he listened to the lark singing overhead, with his face +lifted to the sky, he heard a human voice singing; and presently there +ran up a little declivity to his left a girl--an Irish girl of about +seventeen years of age. + +Her hat was hanging on her arm by a green ribbon. Her head was covered +with the most wonderful brown, waving hair. She had a broad, low +forehead, Greek in its proportions and lines. The eyes were bluer even +than his own, and were shaded by lashes of great length, which slightly +modified the firm lines of the face, with its admirable chin, and mouth +somewhat large with a cupid’s bow. + +In spite of its ardent and luscious look, it was the mouth of one who +knew her own mind and could sustain her own course. It was open when +Dyck first saw it, because she was singing little bits of wild lyrics +of the hills, little tragedies of Celtic life--just bursts of the Celtic +soul, as it were, cheerful yet sad, buoyant and passionate, eager yet +melancholy. She was singing in Irish too. They were the words of songs +taught her by her mother’s maid. + +She had been tramping over the hills for a couple of hours, virile, +beautiful, and alone. She wore a gown of dark gold, with little green +ribbons here and there. The gown was short, and her ankles showed. +In spite of the strong boots she wore they were alert, delicate, and +shapely, and all her beauty had the slender fullness of a quail. + +When she saw Dyck, she stopped suddenly, her mouth slightly open. She +gave him a sidelong glance of wonder, interest, and speculation. Then +she threw her head slightly back, and all the curls gathered in a bunch +and shook like bronze flowers. It was a head of grace and power, of +charm and allurement--of danger. + +Dyck was lost in admiration. He looked at her as one might look at a +beautiful thing in a dream. He did not speak; he only smiled as he gazed +into her eyes. She was the first to speak. + +“Well, who are you?” she asked with a slightly southern accent in her +voice, delicate and entrancing. Her head gave a little modest toss, her +fine white teeth caught her lower lip with a little quirk of humour; +for she could see that he was a gentleman, and that she was safe from +anything that might trouble her. + +He replied to her question with the words: + +“My name? Why, it’s Dyck Calhoun. That’s all.” + +Her eyes brightened. “Isn’t that enough?” she asked gently. + +She knew of his family. She was only visiting in the district with her +mother, but she had lately heard of old Miles Calhoun and his wayward +boy, Dyck; and here was Dyck, with a humour in his eyes and a touch of +melancholy at his lips. Somehow her heart went out to him. + +Presently he said to her: “And what’s your name?” + +“I’m only Sheila Llyn, the daughter of my mother, a widow, visiting at +Loyland Towers. Yes, I’m only Sheila!” + +She laughed. + +“Well, just be ‘only Sheila,”’ he answered admiringly, and he held out a +hand to her. “I wouldn’t have you be anything else, though it’s none of +my business.” + +For one swift instant she hesitated; then she laid her hand in his. + +“There’s no reason why we should not,” she said. “Your father’s +respectable.” + +She looked at him again with a sidelong glance, and with a whimsical, +reserved smile at her lips. + +“Yes, he’s respectable, I agree, but he’s dull,” answered Dyck. “For an +Irishman, he’s dull--and he’s a tyrant, too. I suppose I deserve that, +for I’m a handful.” + +“I think you are, and a big handful too!” + +“Which way are you going?” he asked presently. + +“And you?” + +“Oh, I’m bound for home.” He pointed across the valley. “Do you see that +smoke coming up from the plantation over there?” + +“Yes, I know,” she answered. “I know. That’s Playmore, your father’s +place. Loyland Towers is between here and there. Which way were you +going there?” + +“Round to the left,” he said, puzzled, but agreeable. + +“Then we must say good-bye, because I go to the right. That’s my nearest +way.” + +“Well, if that’s your nearest way, I’m going with you,” he said, +“because--well, because--because--” + +“If you won’t talk very much!” she rejoined with a little air of +instinctive coquetry. + +“I don’t want to talk. I’d like to listen. Shall we start?” + +A half-hour later they suddenly came upon an incident of the road. + +It was, alas, no uncommon incident. An aged peasant, in a sudden fit of +weakness, had stumbled on the road, and, in falling, had struck his +head on a stone and had lost consciousness. He was an old peasant of the +usual Irish type, coarsely but cleanly dressed. Lying beside him was +a leather bag, within which were odds and ends of food and some small +books of legend and ritual. He was a peasant of a superior class, +however. + +In falling, he had thrown over on his back, and his haggard face was +exposed to the sun and sky. At sight of him Dyck and Sheila ran forward. +Dyck dropped on one knee and placed a hand on the stricken man’s heart. + +“He’s alive, all right,” Dyck said. “He’s a figure in these parts. His +name’s Christopher Dogan.” + +“Where does he live?” + +“Live? Well, not three hundred yards from here, when he’s at home, but +he’s generally on the go. He’s what the American Indians would call a +medicine-man.” + +“He needs his own medicine now.” + +“He’s over eighty, and he must have gone dizzy, stumbled, fallen, and +struck a stone. There’s the mark on his temple. He’s been lying here +unconscious ever since; but his pulse is all right, and we’ll soon have +him fit again.” + +So saying, Dyck whipped out a horn containing spirit, and, while Sheila +lifted the injured head, he bathed the old man’s face with the spirit, +then opened the mouth and let some liquor trickle down. + +“He’s the cleanest peasant I ever saw,” remarked Sheila; “and he’s +coming to. Look at him!” + +Yes, he was coming to. There was a slight tremor of the eyelids, and +presently they slowly opened. They were eyes of remarkable poignancy and +brightness--black, deep-set, direct, full of native intelligence. For an +instant they stared as if they had no knowledge, then understanding came +to them. + +“Oh, it’s you, sir,” his voice said tremblingly, looking at Dyck. “And +very kind it is of ye!” Then he looked at Sheila. “I don’t know ye,” he +said whisperingly, for his voice seemed suddenly to fail. “I don’t know +ye,” he repeated, “but you look all right.” + +“Well, I’m Sheila Llyn,” the girl said, taking her hand from the old +man’s shoulder. + +“I’m Sheila Llyn, and I’m all right in a way, perhaps.” + +The troubled, piercing eyes glanced from one to the other. + +“No relation?” + +“No--never met till a half-hour ago,” remarked Dyck. + +The old man drew himself to a sitting posture, then swayed slightly. The +hands of the girl and Dyck went out behind his back. As they touched his +back, their fingers met, and Dyck’s covered the girl’s. Their eyes met, +too, and the story told by Dyck in that moment was the beginning of a +lifetime of experience, comedy, and tragedy. + +He thought her fingers were wonderfully soft, warm, and full of life; +and she thought that his was the hand of a master-of a master in the +field of human effort. That is, if she thought at all, for Dyck’s warm, +powerful touch almost hypnotized her. + +The old peasant understood, however. He was standing on his feet now. +He was pale and uncertain. He lifted up his bag, and threw it over his +shoulder. + +“Well, I’m not needing you any more, thank God!” he said. + +“So Heaven’s blessing on ye, and I bid ye good-bye. You’ve been kind to +me, and I won’t forget either of ye. If ever I can do ye a good turn, +I’ll do it.” + +“No, we’re not going to leave you until you’re inside your home,” said +Dyck. + +The old man looked at Sheila in meditation. He knew her name and her +history. Behind the girl’s life was a long prospect of mystery. Llyn was +her mother’s maiden name. Sheila had never known her father. Never to +her knowledge had she seen him, because when she was yet an infant her +mother had divorced him by Act of Parliament, against the wishes of her +church, and had resumed her maiden name. + +Sheila’s father’s name was Erris Boyne, and he had been debauched, +drunken, and faithless; so at a time of unendurable hurt his wife had +freed herself. Then, under her maiden name, she had brought up her +daughter without any knowledge of her father; had made her believe he +was dead; had hidden her tragedy with a skilful hand. + +Only now, when Sheila was released from a governess, had she moved out +of the little wild area of the County Limerick where she lived; only +now had she come to visit an uncle whose hospitality she had for so +many years denied herself. Sheila was two years old when her father +disappeared, and fifteen years had gone since then. + +One on either side of the old man, they went with him up the hillside +for about three hundred yards, to the door of his house, which was +little more than a cave in a sudden lift of the hill. He swayed as he +walked, but by the time they reached his cave-house he was alert again. + +The house had two windows, one on either side of the unlocked doorway; +and when the old man slowly swung the door open, there was shown an +interior of humble character, but neat and well-ordered. The floor was +earth, dry and clean. There was a bed to the right, also wholesome and +dry, with horse-blankets for cover. At the back, opposite the doorway, +was a fireplace of some size, and in it stood a kettle, a pot, and a +few small pans, together with a covered saucepan. On either side of +the fireplace was a three-legged stool, and about the middle of the +left-hand wall of the room was a chair which had been made out of a +barrel, some of the staves having been sawn away to make a seat. + +Once inside the house, Christopher Dogan laid his bag on the bed and +waved his hands in a formula of welcome. + +“Well, I’m honoured,” he said, “for no one has set foot inside this +place that I’d rather have here than the two of ye; and it’s wonderful +to me, Mr. Calhoun, that ye’ve never been inside it before, because +there’s been times when I’ve had food and drink in plenty. I could have +made ye comfortable then and stroked ye all down yer gullet. As for you, +Miss Llyn, you’re as welcome as the shining of the stars of a night when +there’s no moon. I’m glad you’re here, though I’ve nothing to give ye, +not a bite nor sup. Ah, yes--but yes,” he suddenly cried, touching his +head. “Faith, then, I have! I have a drap of somethin’ that’s as good +as annything dhrunk by the ancient kings of Ireland. It’s a wee cordial +that come from the cellars of the Bishop of Dunlany, when I cured his +cook of the evil-stone that was killing her. Ah, thank God!” + +He went into a corner on the left of the fireplace, opened an old jar, +thrust his arm down, and drew out a squat little bottle of cordial. The +bottle was beautifully made. It was round and hunched, and of glass, +with an old label from which the writing had faded. + +With eyes bright now, Christopher uncorked the bottle and smelled the +contents. As he did so, a smile crinkled his face. + +“Thank the Lord! There’s enough for the two of ye--two fine +tablespoonfuls of the cordial that’d do anny man good, no matter how bad +he was, and turn an angel of a woman into an archangel. Bless yer Bowl!” + +When Christopher turned to lift down two pewter pots, Calhoun reached up +swiftly and took them from the shelf. He placed them in the hands of the +old man, who drew a clean towel of coarse linen from a small cupboard in +the wall above his head. + +She and Dyck held the pots for the old man to pour the cordial into +them. As he said, there was only a good porridge-spoon of liqueur for +each. He divided it with anxious care. + +“There’s manny a man,” he said, “and manny and manny a lady, too, born +in the purple, that’d be glad of a dhrink of this cordial from the +cellar of the bishop. + +“Alpha, beta, gamma, delta is the code, and with the word delta,” he +continued, “dhrink every drop of it, as if it was the last thing you +were dhrinking on earth; as if the Lord stooped down to give ye a cup of +blessing from His great flagon of eternal happiness. Ye’ve got two kind +hearts, but there’s manny a day of throuble will come between ye and the +end; and yet the end’ll be right, God love ye! Now-alpha, beta, gamma, +delta!” + +With a merry laugh Dyck Calhoun turned up his cup and drained the liquid +to the last drop. With a laugh not quite so merry, Sheila raised her mug +and slowly drained the green happiness away. + +“Isn’t it good--isn’t it like the love of God?” asked the old man. +“Ain’t I glad I had it for ye? Why I said I hadn’t annything for ye to +dhrink or eat, Lord only knows. There’s nothing to eat, and there’s only +this to dhrink, and I hide it away under the bedclothes of time, as one +might say. Ah, ye know, it’s been there for three years, and I’d almost +forgot it. It was a little angel from heaven whispered it to me whir +ye stepped inside this house. I dunno why I kep’ the stuff. Manny’s the +time I was tempted to dhrink it myself, and manny’s the time something +said to me, ‘Not yet.’ The Lord be praised, for I’ve had out of it more +than I deserve!” + +He took the mugs from their hands, and for a minute stood like some +ancient priest who had performed a noble ritual. As Sheila looked at +him, she kept saying to herself: + +“He’s a spirit; he isn’t a man!” + +Dyck’s eye met that of Sheila, and he saw with the same feeling what was +working in her heart. + +“Well, we must be going,” he said to Christopher Dogan. “We must get +homeward, and we’ve had a good drink--the best I ever tasted. We’re +proud to pay our respects to you in your own house; and goodbye to you +till we meet again.” + +His hand went out to the shoulder of the peasant and rested there for a +second in friendly feeling. Then the girl stretched out her hand also. +The old man took the two cups in one hand, and, reaching out the other, +let Sheila’s fingers fall upon his own. He slowly crooked his neck, and +kissed her fingers with that distinction mostly to be found among those +few good people who live on the highest or the lowest social levels, or +in native tents. + +“Ah, please God we meet again! and that I be let to serve you, Miss +Sheila Llyn. I have no doubt you could do with a little help some time +or another, the same as the rest of us. For all that’s come between +us three, may it be given me, humble and poor, to help ye both that’s +helped me so!” + +Dyck turned to go, and as he did so a thought came to him. + +“If you hadn’t food and drink for us, what have you for yourself, +Christopher?” he asked. “Have you food to eat?” + +“Ah, well--well, do ye think I’m no provider? There was no food cooked +was what I was thinking; but come and let me show you.” + +He took the cover off a jar standing in a corner. “Here’s good flour, +and there’s water, and there’s manny a wild shrub and plant on the +hillside to make soup, and what more does a man want? With the scone +cooked and inside ye, don’t ye feel as well as though ye’d had a pound +of beef or a rasher of bacon? Sure, ye do. I know where there’s clumps +of wild radishes, and with a little salt they’re good--the best. God +bless ye!” + +A few moments later, as he stood in his doorway and looked along the +road, he saw two figures, the girl’s head hardly higher than the man’s +shoulder. They walked as if they had much to get and were ready for it. + +“Well, I dunno,” he said to himself. “I dunno about you, Dyck Calhoun. +You’re wild, and ye have too manny mad friends, but you’ll come all +right in the end; and that pretty girl--God save her!--she’ll come with +a smile into your arms by and by, dear lad. But ye have far to go and +much to do before that.” + +His head fell, his eyes stared out into the shining distance. + +“I see for ye manny and manny a stroke of bad luck, and manny a wrong +thing said of ye, and she not believing wan of them. But oh, my God, but +oh!”--his clenched hands went to his eyes. “I wouldn’t like to travel +the path that’s before ye--no!” + +Down the long road the two young people travelled, gossiping much, both +of them touched by something sad and mysterious, neither knowing why; +both of them happy, too, for somehow they had come nearer together than +years of ordinary life might have made possible. They thought of the old +man and his hut, and then broke away into talk of their own countryside, +of the war with France, of the growing rebellious spirit in Ireland, of +riots in Dublin town, of trouble at Limerick, Cork, and Sligo. + +At the gate of the mansion where Sheila was visiting, Dyck put into her +hands the wild flowers he had picked as they passed, and said: + +“Well, it’s been a great day. I’ve never had a greater. Let’s meet +again, and soon! I’m almost every day upon the hill with my gun, and +it’d be worth a lot to see you very soon.” + +“Oh, you’ll be forgetting me by to-morrow,” the girl said with a little +wistfulness at her lips, for she had a feeling they would not meet on +the morrow. Suddenly she picked from the bunch of wild flowers he had +given her a little sprig of heather. + +“Well, if we don’t meet--wear that,” she said, and, laughing over her +shoulder, turned and ran into the grounds of Loyland Towers. + + + + +CHAPTER II. THE COMING OF A MESSENGER + +When Dyck entered the library of Playmore, the first words he heard were +these: + +“Howe has downed the French at Brest. He’s smashed the French fleet and +dealt a sharp blow to the revolution. Hurrah!” + +The words were used by Miles Calhoun, Dyck’s father, as a greeting to +him on his return from the day’s sport. + +Now, if there was a man in Ireland who had a narrow view and kept his +toes pointed to the front, it was Miles Calhoun. His people had lived in +Connemara for hundreds of years; and he himself had only one passion in +life, which was the Protestant passion of prejudice. He had ever been +a follower of Burke--a passionate follower, one who believed the French +Revolution was a crime against humanity, a danger to the future of +civilization. + +He had resisted more vigorously than most men the progress of +revolutionary sentiments in Ireland. He was aware that his son had far +less rigid opinions than himself; that he even defended Wolfe Tone and +Thomas Emmet against abuse and damnation. That was why he had delight in +slapping his son in the face, whenever possible, with the hot pennant of +victory for British power. + +He was a man of irascible temperament and stern views, given to fits +of exasperation. He was small of stature, with a round face, eyes that +suddenly went red with feeling, and with none of the handsomeness of his +son, who resembled his mother’s family. + +The mother herself had been a beautiful and remarkable woman. Dyck was, +in a sense, a reproduction of her in body and mind, for a more cheerful +and impetuous person never made a household happier or more imperfect +than she made hers. + +Her beauty and continual cheerfulness had always been the joy of Dyck’s +life, and because his mother had married his father--she was a woman of +sense, with all her lightsome ways--he tried to regard his father with +profound respect. Since his wife’s death, however, Miles Calhoun had +deteriorated; he had become unreasonable. + +As the elder Calhoun made his announcement about the battle of Brest and +the English victory, a triumphant smile lighted his flushed face, and +under his heavy grey brows his eyes danced with malicious joy. + +“Howe’s a wonder!” he said. “He’ll make those mad, red republicans hunt +their holes. Eh, isn’t that your view, Ivy?” he asked of a naval captain +who had evidently brought the news. + +Captain Ivy nodded. + +“Yes, it’s a heavy blow for the French bloodsuckers. If their ideas +creep through Europe and get hold of England, God only knows what the +end will be! In their view, to alter everything is the only way to +put things right. No doubt they’ll invent a new way to be born before +they’ve finished.” + +“Well, that wouldn’t be a bad idea,” remarked Dyck. “The present way has +its demerits.” + +“Yes, it throws responsibility upon the man, and gives a heap of trouble +to the woman,” said Captain Ivy with a laugh; “but they’ll change it +all, you’ll see.” + +Dyck poured himself a glass of port, held it up, sniffed the aroma, +and looked through the beautiful red tinge of the wine with a happy and +critical eye. + +“Well, the world could be remade in a lot of ways,” he declared. “I +shouldn’t mind seeing a bit of a revolution in Ireland--but in England +first,” he hastened to add. “They’re a more outcast folk than the +Irish.” His father scoffed. + +“Look out, Dyck, or they’ll drop you in jail if you talk like that!” he +chided, his red face growing redder, his fingers nervously feeling +the buttons on his picturesque silk waistcoat. “There’s conspiracy in +Ireland, and you never truly know if the man that serves you at your +table, or brings you your horse, or puts a spade into your ground, isn’t +a traitor.” + +At that moment the door opened, and a servant entered the room. In his +hand he carried a letter which, with marked excitement, he brought to +Miles Calhoun. + +“Sure, he’s waiting, sir,” he said. + +“And who’s he?” asked his master, turning the letter over, as though to +find out by looking at the seal. + +“Oh, a man of consequence, if we’re to judge by the way he’s clothed.” + +“Fit company, then?” his master asked, as he opened the heavily sealed +letter. + +“Well, I’m not saying that, for there’s no company good enough for us,” + answered the higgledy-piggledy butler, with a quirk of the mouth; “but, +as messengers go, I never seen one with more style and point.” + +“Well, bring him to me,” said Miles Calhoun. “Bring him to me, and I’ll +form my own judgment--though I have some confidence in yours.” + +“You could go further and fare worse, as the Papists say about +purgatory,” answered the old man with respectful familiarity. + +Captain Ivy and Dyck grinned, but the head of the house seemed none too +pleased at the freedom of the old butler. + +“Bring him as he is,” said Miles Calhoun. “Good God!” he added, for +he just realized that the stamp of the seal was that of the +Attorney-General of Ireland. + +Then he read the letter and a flush swept over his face, making its red +almost purple. + +“Eternal damnation--eternal damnation!” he declared, holding the paper +at arm’s length a moment, inspecting it. He then handed it to Dyck. +“Read that, lad. Then pack your bag, for we start for Dublin by daylight +or before.” + +Dyck read the brief document and whistled softly to himself. + +“Well, well, you’ve got to obey orders like that, I suppose,” Dyck said. +“They want to question us as to the state of the country here.” + +“I think we can tell them something. I wonder if they know how wide your +travel is, how many people you see; and if they know, how did they come +to know? There’s spies all over the place. How do I know but the man +who’s just left this room isn’t a spy, isn’t the enemy of all of us +here?” + +“I’d suspect Michael Clones,” remarked Dyck, “just as soon as Mulvaney.” + +“Michael Clones,” said his father, and he turned to Captain Ivy, +“Michael Clones I’d trust as I’d trust His blessed Majesty, George III. +He’s a rare scamp, is Michael Clones! He’s no thicker than a cardboard, +but he draws the pain out of your hurt like a mustard plaster. A man +of better sense and greater roguery I’ve never met. You must see him, +Captain Ivy. He’s only about twelve years older than my son, but, like +my son, there’s no holding him, there’s no control of him that’s any +good. He does what he wants to do in his own way--talks when he wants +to talk, fights when he wants to fight. He’s a man of men, is Michael +Clones.” + +At that moment the door opened and the butler entered, followed by a +tall, thin, Don Quixote sort of figure. + +“His excellency,” said Mulvaney, with a look slightly malevolent, for +the visitor had refused his name. Then he turned and left the room. + +At Mulvaney’s words, an ironical smile crossed the face of the newcomer. +Then he advanced to Miles Calhoun. Before speaking, however, he glanced +sharply at Captain Ivy, threw an inquisitive look at Dyck, and said: + +“I seem to have hurt the feelings of your butler, sir, but that cannot +be helped. I have come from the Attorney-General. My name is Leonard +Mallow--I’m the eldest son of Lord Mallow. I’ve been doing business in +Limerick, and I bring a message from the Attorney-General to ask you to +attend his office at the earliest moment.” + +Dyck Calhoun, noting his glance at a bottle of port, poured out a glass +of the good wine and handed it over, saying: + +“It’ll taste better to you because you’ve been travelling hard, but it’s +good wine anyhow. It’s been in the cellar for forty years, and that’s +something in a land like this.” + +Mallow accepted the glass of port, raised it with a little gesture of +respect, and said: + +“Long life to the King, and cursed be his enemies!” So saying he flung +the wine down his throat--which seemed to gulp it like a well--wiped his +lips with a handkerchief, and turned to Miles Calhoun again. + +“Yes, it’s good wine,” he said; “as good as you’d get in the cellars of +the Viceroy. I’ve seen strange things as I came. I’ve seen lights on the +hills, and drunken rioters in the roads and behind hedges, and once a +shot was fired at me; but here I am, safe and sound, carrying out my +orders. What time will you start?” he added. + +He took it for granted that the summons did not admit of rejection, and +he was right. The document contained these words: + + Trouble is brewing; indeed, it is at hand. Come, please, at once to + Dublin, and give the Lord-Lieutenant and the Government a report + upon your district. We do not hear altogether well of it, but no + one has the knowledge you possess. In the name of His Majesty you + are to present yourself at once at these offices in Dublin, and be + assured that the Lord-Lieutenant will give you warm welcome through + me. Your own loyalty gives much satisfaction here. I am, sir, + Your obedient servant, + JOHN MCNOWELL. + +“You have confidence in the people’s loyalty here?” asked Mallow. + +“As great as in my own,” answered Dyck cheerily. “Well, you ought to +know what that is. At the same time, I’ve heard you’re a friend of one +or two dark spirits in the land.” + +“I hold no friendships that would do hurt to my country,” answered Dyck +sharply. + +Mallow smiled satirically. “As we’re starting at daylight, I suppose, I +think I’ll go to bed, if it may be you can put me up.” + +“Oh, Lord, yes! We can put you up, Mr. Mallow,” said the old man. “You +shall have as good a bed as you can find outside the Viceregal Lodge--a +fourposter, wide and long. It’s been slept in by many a man of place +and power. But, Mr. Mallow, you haven’t said you’ve had no dinner, and +you’ll not be going to bed in this house without your food. Did you +shoot anything to-day, Dyck?” he asked his son. + +“I didn’t bring home a feather. There were no birds to-day, but there +are the ducks I shot yesterday, and the quail.” + +“Oh, yes,” said his father, “and there’s the little roast pig, too. This +is a day when we celebrate the anniversary of Irish power and life.” + +“What’s that?” asked Mallow. + +“That’s the battle of the Boyne,” answered his host with a little +ostentation. + +“Oh, you’re one of the Peep-o’-Day Boys, then,” remarked Mallow. + +“I’m not saying that,” answered the old man. “I’m not an Ulsterman, but +I celebrate the coming of William to the Boyne. Things were done that +day that’ll be remembered when Ireland is whisked away into the Kingdom +of Heaven. So you’ll not go to bed till you’ve had dinner, Mr. Mallow! +By me soul, I think I smell the little porker now. Dinner at five, +to bed at eight, up before daylight, and off to Dublin when the light +breaks. That’s the course!” He turned to Captain Ivy. “I’m sorry, +captain, but there’s naught else to do, and you were going to-morrow at +noon, anyhow, so it won’t make much difference to you.” + +“No difference whatever,” replied the sailorman. “I have to go to +Dublin, too, and from there to Queenstown to join my ship, and from +Queenstown to the coast of France to do some fighting.” + +“Please God!” remarked Miles Calhoun. “So be it!” declared Mallow. + +“Amen!” said Dyck. + +Once again Dyck looked the visitor straight in the eyes, and back in the +horizon of Mallow’s life-sky there shone the light of an evil star. + +“There’s the call to dinner,” remarked Miles Calhoun, as a bell began +ringing in the tower outside. “Come with me, Mr. Mallow, and I’ll show +you your room. You’ve had your horse put up, I hope?” + +“Yes, and my bag brought in.” + +“Well, come along, then. There’s no time to lose. I can smell the porker +crawling from the oven.” + +“You’re a master of tempting thoughts,” remarked Mallow +enthusiastically. + +“Sheila--Sheila!” said Dyck Calhoun to himself where he stood. + + + + +CHAPTER III. THE QUARREL. + +The journey to Dublin was made by the Calhouns, their two guests, and +Michael Clones, without incident of note. Arrived there, Miles Calhoun +gave himself to examination by Government officials and to assisting +the designs of the Peep-o’-Day Boys; and indeed he was present at the +formation of the first Orange Lodge. + +His narrow nature, his petty craft and malevolence, were useful in a +time of anxiety for the State. Yet he had not enough ability to develop +his position by the chances offered him. He had not a touch of genius; +he had only bursts of Celtic passion, which he had not mind enough to +control. + +Indeed, as days, weeks and months went on, his position became less +valuable to himself, and his financial affairs suffered from his own and +his agent’s bad management. In his particular district he was a power; +in Dublin he soon showed the weaker side of his nature. He had a bad +habit of making foes where he could easily have made friends. In his +personal habits he was sober, but erratic. + +Dyck had not his father’s abstention from the luxuries of life. He +drank, he gamed, he went where temptation was, and fell into it. He +steadily diminished his powers of resistance to self-indulgence until +one day, at a tavern, he met a man who made a great impression upon him. + +This man was brilliant, ebullient, full of humour, character and life, +knowing apparently all the lower world of Dublin, and moving with an +assured step. It was Erris Boyne, the divorced husband of Mrs. Llyn and +the father of Sheila Llyn; but this fact was not known to Dyck. There +was also a chance of its not becoming known, because so many years had +passed since Erris Boyne was divorced. + +One day Erris Boyne said to Dyck: + +“There’s a supper to-night at the Breakneck Club. Come along and have a +skinful. You’ll meet people worth knowing. They’re a damned fine lot of +fellows for you to meet, Calhoun!” + +“The Breakneck Club isn’t a good name for a first-class institution,” + remarked Dyck, with a pause and a laugh; “but I’ll come, if you’ll fetch +me.” + +Erris Boyne, who was eighteen years older than Dyck, laughed, flicked a +little pinch of snuff at his nose with his finger. + +“Dear lad, of course I’ll come and fetch you,” he said. “There’s many +a man has done worse than lead a gay stripling like you into pleasant +ways. Bring along any loose change you have, for it may be a night of +nights.” + +“Oh, they play cards, do they, at the Breakneck Club?” said Dyck, alive +with interest. + +“Well, call it what you like, but men must do something when they +get together, and we can’t be talking all the time. So pocket your +shillings.” + +“Are they all the right sort?” asked Dyck, with a little touch of +malice. “I mean, are they loyal and true?” + +Erris Boyne laid a hand on Dyck’s arm. + +“Come and find out. Do you think I’d lead you into bad company? Of +course Emmet and Wolfe Tone won’t be there, nor any of that lot; but +there’ll be some men of the right stamp.” He watched Dyck carefully out +of the corner of his eye. “It’s funny,” he added, “that in Ireland the +word loyal always means being true to the Union Jack, standing by King +George and his crowd.” + +“Well, what would you have?” said Dyck. “For this is a day and age when +being loyal to the King is more than aught else in all the Irish world. +We’re never two days alike, we Irish. There are the United Irishmen and +the Defenders on one side, and the Peepo’-Day Boys, or Orangemen, on the +other--Catholic and Protestant, at each other’s throats. Then there’s +a hand thrust in, and up goes the sword, and the rifles, pikes, and +bayonets; and those that were ready to mutilate or kill each other fall +into each other’s arms.” + +Erris Boyne laughed. “Well, there’ll soon be an end to that. The Irish +Parliament is slipping into disrepute. It wouldn’t surprise me if +the astute English bribe them into a union, to the ruin of Irish +Independence. Yet maybe, before that comes, the French will have a try +for power here. And upon my word, if I have to live under foreign rule, +I’d as leave have a French whip over me as an English!” He came a step +nearer, his voice lowered a little. “Have you heard the latest news from +France? They’re coming with a good-sized fleet down to the south coast. +Have you heard it?” + +“Oh, there’s plenty one hears one doesn’t believe is gospel,” answered +Dyck, his eyes half closing. “I’m not believing all I hear, as if it +was a prayer-meeting. Anything may happen here; Ireland’s a woman--very +uncertain.” + +Dyck flicked some dust from his waistcoat, and dropped his eyes, because +he was thinking of two women he had known; one of them an angel now in +company of her sister angels--his mother; the other a girl he had met +on the hills of Connemara, a wonderfully pretty girl of seventeen. How +should he know that the girl was Erris Boyne’s daughter?--although there +were times when some gesture of Boyne, some quick look, some lifting of +the eyebrows, brought back the memory of Sheila Llyn, as it did now. + +Since Dyck left his old home he had seen her twice; once at Loyland +Towers, and once at her home in Limerick. The time he had spent with her +had been very brief, but full of life, interest, and character. She was +like some piquant child, bold, beautiful, uncertain, caressing in her +manner one instant, and distant at another. + +She had said radiant things, had rallied him, had shown him where a +twenty-nine-pound salmon had been caught in a stream, and had fired +at and brought down a pheasant outside the covert at Loyland Towers. +Whether at Loyland Towers, or at her mother’s house in Limerick, there +was no touch of forwardness in her, or in anything she said or did. She +was the most natural being, the freest from affectation, he had ever +known. + +As Erris Boyne talked to him, the memory of Sheila flooded his mind, +and on the flood his senses swam like swans. He had not her careful +composure. He was just as real, but he had the wilfulness of man. She +influenced him as no woman had ever yet done; but he saw no happy ending +to the dream. He was too poor to marry; he had no trade or profession; +his father’s affairs were in a bad way. He could not bring himself to +join the army or the navy; and yet, as an Irishman moved by political +ideals, with views at once critical and yet devoted to the crown, he was +not in a state to settle down. + +He did not know that Erris Boyne was set to capture him for the rebel +cause. How could he know that Boyne was an agent of the most evil forces +in Ireland--an agent of skill and address, prepossessing, with the face +of a Celtic poet and the eye of an assassin? + +Boyne’s object was to bring about the downfall of Dyck Calhoun--that +is, his downfall as a patriot. At the Breakneck Club this bad business +began. Dyck had seen many people, representing the gaiety and deviltry +of life; but it was as though many doubtful people, many reckless ones, +all those with purposes, fads, and fancies, were there. Here was an +irresponsible member of a Government department; there an officer of +His Majesty’s troops; beyond, a profligate bachelor whose reputation for +traitorous diplomacy was known and feared. Yet everywhere were men known +in the sporting, gaming, or political world, in sea life or land life, +most of whom had a character untouched by criticism. + +It was at this club that Dyck again met that tall, ascetic messenger +from the Attorney-General, who had brought the message to Miles Calhoun. +It was with this man--Leonard Mallow, eldest son of Lord Mallow--that +Dyck, with three others, played cards one afternoon. + +The instinctive antipathy which had marked their first introduction was +carried on to this later meeting. Dyck distrusted Mallow, and allowed +his distrust exercise. It was unfortunate that Mallow won from him +three-fourths of the money he had brought to the club, and won it with a +smile not easy to forgive. + +Dyck had at last secured sudden success in a scheme of his cards when +Mallow asked with a sneer: + +“Did you learn that at your home in heaven?” + +“Don’t they teach it where you live in hell?” was Dyck’s reply. + +At this Mallow flicked Dyck across the face with his handkerchief. + +“That’s what they teach where I belong.” + +“Well, it’s easy to learn, and we’ll do the sum at any time or place you +please.” After a moment Dyck continued: “I wouldn’t make a fuss over it. +Let’s finish the game. There’s no good prancing till the sport’s ready; +so I’ll sit and learn more of what they teach in hell!” + +Dyck had been drinking, or he would not have spoken so; and when he +was drunk daring was strong in him. He hated profoundly this man-so +self-satisfied and satanic. + +He kept a perfect coolness, however. Leonard Mallow should not see that +he was upset. His wanton wordiness came to his rescue, and until the +end of the game he played with sang-froid, daring, and skill. He loved +cards; he loved the strife of skill against skill, of trick against +trick, of hand against hand. He had never fought a duel in his life, but +he had no fear of doing so. + +At length, having won back nearly all he had lost, he rose to his feet +and looked round. + +“Is there any one here from whom I can ask a favour?” + +Several stepped forward. Dyck nodded. One of them he knew. It was Sir +Almeric Foyle. + +“Thank you, Sir Almeric,” he said; “thank you. Shall it be swords or +pistols?” he asked his enemy, coolly. + +“Swords, if you please,” remarked Mallow grimly, for he had a gift with +the sword. + +Dyck nodded again. + +“As you will. As you will!” + + + + +CHAPTER IV. THE DUEL + +It was a morning such as could only be brought into existence by the +Maker of mornings in Ireland. It was a day such as Dublin placed away +carefully into the pantechnicon of famous archives. + +The city of Dublin was not always clean, but in the bright, gorgeous sun +her natural filth was no menace to the eye, no repulse to the senses. +Above the Liffey, even at so early an hour, the heat shimmers like a +silver mist. The bells of churches were ringing, and the great cathedral +bells boomed in thrilling monotony over the peaceful city. Here and +there in the shabby yet renowned streets, horsemen moved along; now +and then the costermonger raised his cry of fresh fruit, flowers, and +“distinguished vegetables.” + +People moved into church doorways on their way to mass or +confession--some bright and rather gorgeous beings, some in deep +mourning, shy, reserved, and obscure. Here and there, also, in certain +streets--where officials lived or worked--were soldiers afoot; soldiers +with carbines and long bayonets, with tall, slightly peaked hats, smart +red coats, belts crossing their breasts, knee-breeches and leggings, and +all with epaulets shining. They were in marked contrast to the peasant +folk with the high-peaked soft hat, knee-breeches, rough tail-coat, and +stockings, some with rifles, some with pikes, some with powder-horns +slung under their arms or in the small of the back. + +Besides this show of foot-soldiers--that is, regulars and irregulars of +the Cornwallis Regiment, and men of the Defenders and the Peep-o’-Day +Boys--there were little groups of cavalry making their way to the +parade-ground, the castle, the barracks, or the courts. + +Beyond these there was the jaunting-car trundling over the rough +cobblestone street, or bumping in and out of dangerous holes. Whips +cracked, and the loud voices of jarveys shouted blatant humour and Irish +fun at horse and passenger. Here and there, also, some stately coach, +bedizened with arms of the quality, made its way through the chief +streets, or across the bridges of the Liffey. + +Then came the general population, moving cheerfully in the inspiriting +sun; for Irishmen move so much in a moist atmosphere that on a sunshiny +day all tristesse of life seems changed, as in a flash, into high +spirits and much activity. Not that the country, at its worst, is +slow-footed or depressed; for wit is always at the elbow of want. + +Never in all Ireland’s years had she a more beautiful day than that +in which Dyck Calhoun and the Hon. Leonard Mallow met to settle their +account in a secluded corner of Phoenix Park. It was not the usual +place for duels. The seconds had taken care to keep the locale from the +knowledge of the public; especially as many who had come to know of the +event at the Breakneck Club were eager to be present. + +The affair began an hour after sunrise. Neither Dyck nor Leonard Mallow +slept at home the night before, but in separate taverns near Phoenix +Park. Mallow came almost jauntily to the obscure spot. Both men had +sensitiveness, and both entered the grounds with a certain sense of +pleasure. + +Dyck moved and spoke like a man charged with some fluid which had +abstracted him from life’s monotonous routine. He had to consider the +chance of never leaving the grounds alive; yet as he entered the place, +where smooth grass between the trees made good footing for the work to +be done, the thrill of the greenery, the sound of the birds, the flick +of a lizard across the path, and the distant gay leap of a young deer, +brought to his senses a gust of joyous feeling. + +“I never smelled such air!” he said to one of the seconds. “I never saw +the sun so beautiful!” He sniffed the air and turned his face towards +the sun. “Well, it’s a day for Ireland,” he added, in response to a +gravely playful remark of Sir Almeric Foyle. “Ireland never was so +sweet. Nature’s provoking us!” + +“Yes, it’s a pity,” said Sir Almeric. “But I’m not thinking of bad luck +for you, Calhoun.” + +Dyck’s smile seemed to come from infinite distance. He was not normal; +he was submerged. He was in the great, consuming atmosphere of the +bigger world, and the greater life. He even did not hate Mallow at the +moment. The thing about to be done was to him a test of manhood. It was +a call upon the courage of the soul, a challenge of life, strength, and +will. + +As Mallow entered the grounds, the thought of Sheila Llyn crossed Dyck’s +mind, and the mental sight of her gladdened the eyes of his soul. For +one brief instant he stood lost in the mind’s look; then he stepped +forward, saluted, shook hands with Mallow, and doffed his coat and +waistcoat. + +As he did so, he was conscious of a curious coldness, even of dampness, +in the hand which had shaken that of Mallow. Mallow’s hand had a clammy +touch--clammy, but firm and sure. There was no tremor in the long, thin +fingers nor at the lips--the thin, ascetic lips, as of a secret-service +man--but in his eyes was a dark fire of purpose. The morning had touched +him, but not as it had thrown over Dyck its mantle of peace. Mallow +also had enjoyed the smell and feeling of it all, but with this +difference--it had filled him with such material joy that he could not +bear the thought of leaving it. It gave him strength of will, which +would add security to his arm and wrist. Yet, as he looked at Dyck, he +saw that his work was cut out for him; for in all his days he had never +seen a man so well-possessed, so surely in hand. + +Dyck had learned swordsmanship with as skilled a master as Ireland had +known, and he had shown, in getting knowledge of the weapon, a natural +instinct and a capacity worthy of the highest purpose. He had handled +the sword since he was six, and his play was better than that of most +men; but this was, in fact, his first real duel. In the troubled state +of Ireland, with internal discord, challenge, and attack, he had more +than once fought, and with success; but that was in the rough-and-tumble +of life’s chances, as it were, with no deliberate plan to fight +according to the rules. Many times, of course, in the process of +his training, he had fought as men fight in duels, but with this +difference--that now he was permitted to disable or kill his foe. + +It was clear that one or the other would not leave this ground--this +verdant, beautiful piece of mother earth--exactly as he entered it. He +would leave it wounded, incapable, or dead. Indeed, both might leave +it wounded, and the chances of success were with the older man, Mallow, +whose experience would give him an advantage. + +Physically, there was not a vast deal to choose between the two men. +Mallow was lank and tall, nervously self-contained, finely concentrated, +and vigorous. Dyck was broad of shoulder, well set up, muscular, and +with a steadier eye than that of his foe. Also, as the combat developed, +it was clear that he had a hand as steady as his eye. What was more, his +wrist had superb strength and flexibility; it was as enduring and vital +as the forefoot and ankle of a tiger. As a pair they were certainly +notable, and would give a good account of themselves. + +No one of temperament who observed the scene could ever forget it. The +light was perfect--evenly distributed, clear enough to permit accuracy +of distance in a stroke. The air was still, gently bracing, and, like +most Irish air, adorably sweet. + +The spot chosen for the fight was a sort of avenue between great trees, +whose broad leaves warded off the direct sun, and whose shade had as +yet no black shadows. The turf was as elastic to the foot as a firm +mattress. In the trees, birds were singing with liveliness; in the +distance, horned cattle browsed, and a pair of horses stood gazing at +the combatants, startled, no doubt, by this invasion of their pasturage. +From the distance came the faint, mellow booming of church-bells. + +The two men fighting had almost the air of gladiators. Their coats were +off, and the white linen of their shirts looked gracious; while the +upraised left hand of the fighters balancing the sword-thrust and the +weight of the body had an almost singular beauty. Of the two, Dyck was +the more graceful, the steadier, the quicker in his motions. + +Vigilant Dyck was, but not reckless. He had made the first attack, on +the ground that the aggressor gains by boldness, if that boldness is +joined to skill; and Dyck’s skill was of the best. His heart was warm. +His momentary vision of Sheila Llyn remained with him--not as a vision, +rather as a warmth in his inmost being, something which made him +intensely alert, cheerful, defiant, exactly skilful. + +He had need of all his skill, for Mallow was set to win the fight. He +felt instinctively what was working in Dyck’s mind. He had fought a +number of duels, and with a certain trick or art he had given the end +to the lives of several. He became conscious, however, that Dyck had a +particular stroke in mind, which he himself was preventing by masterful +methods. It might be one thing or another, but in view of Dyck’s +training it would perhaps be the Enniscorthy touch. + +Again and again Dyck pressed his antagonist backward, seeking to muddle +his defence and to clear an opening for his own deadly stroke; but the +other man also was a master, and parried successfully. + +Presently, with a quick move, Mallow took the offensive, and tried to +unsettle Dyck’s poise and disorganize his battle-plan. For an instant +the tempestuous action, the brilliant, swift play of the sword, +the quivering flippancy of the steel, gave Dyck that which almost +disconcerted him. Yet he had a grip of himself, and preserved his +defence intact; though once his enemy’s steel caught his left shoulder, +making it bleed. The seconds, however, decided that the thrust was not +serious, and made no attempt to interrupt the combat. + +Dyck kept singularly cool. As Mallow’s face grew flushed, his own grew +paler, but it was the paleness of intensity and not of fear. Each man’s +remarkable skill in defence was a good guarantee against disaster due to +carelessness. Seldom have men fought so long and accomplished so little +in the way of blood-letting. At length, however, Dyck’s tactics changed. +Once again he became aggressive, and he drove his foe to a point where +the skill of both men was tried to the uttermost. It was clear the time +had come for something definite. Suddenly Dyck threw himself back with +an agile step, lunged slightly to one side, and then in a gallant +foray got the steel point into the sword-arm of his enemy. That was +the Enniscorthy stroke, which had been taught him by William Tandy, +the expert swordsman, and had been made famous by Lord Welling, of +Enniscorthy. It succeeded, and it gave Dyck the victory, for Mallow’s +sword dropped from his hand. + +A fatigued smile came to Mallow’s lips. He clasped the wounded arm with +his left hand as the surgeon came forward. + +“Well, you got it home,” he said to Dyck; “and it’s deftly done.” + +“I did my best,” answered Dyck. “Give me your hand, if you will.” + +With a wry look Mallow, now seated on the old stump of a tree, held out +his left hand. It was covered with blood. + +“I think we’ll have to forego that courtesy, Calhoun,” he said. “Look +at the state of my hand! It’s good blood,” he added grimly. “It’s damned +good blood, but--but it won’t do, you see.” + +“I’m glad it was no worse,” said Dyck, not touching the bloody hand. +“It’s a clean thrust, and you’ll be better from it soon. These great +men”--he smiled towards the surgeons--“will soon put you right. I got +my chance with the stroke, and took it, because I knew if I didn’t you’d +have me presently.” + +“You’ll have a great reputation in Dublin town now, and you’ll deserve +it,” Mallow added adroitly, the great paleness of his features, however, +made ghastly by the hatred in his eyes. + +Dyck did not see this look, but he felt a note of malice--a distant +note--in Mallow’s voice. He saw that what Mallow had said was fresh +evidence of the man’s arrogant character. It did not offend him, +however, for he was victor, and could enter the Breakneck Club or Dublin +society with a tranquil eye. + +Again Mallow’s voice was heard. + +“I’d have seen you damned to hell, Calhoun, before I’d have apologized +at the Breakneck Club; but after a fight with one of the best swordsmen +in Ireland I’ve learned a lot, and I’ll apologize now--completely.” + +The surgeon had bound up the slight wound in Dyck’s shoulder, had +stopped the bleeding, and was now helping him on with his coat. The +operation had not been without pain, but this demonstration from his +foe was too much for him. It drove the look of pain from his face; it +brought a smile to his lips. He came a step nearer. + +“I’m as obliged to you as if you’d paid for my board and lodging, +Mallow,” he said; “and that’s saying a good deal in these days. +I’ll never have a bigger fight. You’re a greater swordsman than +your reputation. I must have provoked you beyond reason,” he went on +gallantly. “I think we’d better forget the whole thing.” + +“I’m a Loyalist,” Mallow replied. “I’m a Loyalist, and if you’re one, +too, what reason should there be for our not being friends?” + +A black cloud flooded Calhoun’s face. + +“If--if I’m a Loyalist, you say! Have you any doubt of it? If you +have--” + +“You wish your sword had gone into my heart instead of my arm, eh?” + interrupted Mallow. “How easily I am misunderstood! I meant nothing by +that ‘if.’” He smiled, and the smile had a touch of wickedness. “I +meant nothing by it-nothing at all. As we are both Loyalists, we must be +friends. Good-bye, Calhoun!” + +Dyck’s face cleared very slowly. Mallow was maddening, but the look of +the face was not that of a foe. “Well, let us be friends,” Dyck answered +with a cordial smile. “Good-bye,” he added. “I’m damned sorry we had to +fight at all. Good-bye!” + + + + +CHAPTER V. THE KILLING OF ERRIS BOYNE + +“There’s many a government has made a mess of things in Ireland,” said +Erris Boyne; “but since the day of Cromwell the Accursed this is the +worst. Is there a man in Ireland that believes in it, or trusts it? +There are men that support it, that are served by it, that fill their +pockets out of it; but by Joseph and by Mary, there’s none thinks there +couldn’t be a better! Have a little more marsala, Calhoun?” + +With these words, Boyne filled up the long glass out of which Dyck +Calhoun had been drinking--drinking too much. Shortly before Dyck had +lost all his cash at the card-table. He had turned from it penniless and +discomfited to see Boyne, smiling, and gay with wine, in front of him. + +Boyne took him by the arm. + +“Come with me,” said he. “There’s no luck for you at the tables to-day. +Let’s go where we can forget the world, where we can lift the banner of +freedom and beat the drums of purpose. Come along, lad!” + +Boyne had ceased to have his earlier allurement for Dyck Calhoun, but +his smile was friendly, his manner was hospitable, and he was on the +spot. The time was critical for Dyck--critical and dangerous. He had +lost money heavily; he had even exhausted his mother’s legacy. + +Of late he had seen little of his father, and the little he had seen +was not fortunate. They had quarrelled over Dyck’s wayward doings. Miles +Calhoun had said some hard things to him, and Dyck had replied that he +would cut out his own course, trim his own path, walk his own way. He +had angered his father terribly, and Miles, in a burst of temper, had +disclosed the fact that his own property was in peril. They had been, +estranged ever since; but the time had come when Dyck must at least +secure the credit of his father’s name at his bank to find the means of +living. + +It was with this staring him in the face that Erris Boyne’s company +seemed to offer at least a recovery of his good spirits. Dissipated as +Boyne’s look was, he had a natural handsomeness which, with good care of +himself personally, well-appointed clothes, a cheerful manner, and witty +talk, made him palatable to careless-living Dublin. + +This Dublin knew little of Boyne’s present domestic life. It did not +know that he had injured his second wife as badly as he had wronged his +first--with this difference, however, that his first wife was a lady, +while his second wife, Noreen, was a beautiful, quick-tempered, lovable +eighteen-year-old girl, a graduate of the kitchen and dairy, when he +took her to himself. He had married her in a mad moment after his first +wife--Mrs. Llyn, as she was now called--had divorced him; and after +the first thrill of married life was over, nothing remained with Boyne +except regret that he had sold his freedom for what he might, perhaps, +have had without marriage. + +Then began a process of domestic torture which alienated Noreen from +him, and roused in her the worst passions of human nature. She came to +know of his infidelities, and they maddened her. They had no children, +and in the end he had threatened her with desertion. When she had +retorted in strong words, he slapped her face, and left her with an ugly +smile. + +The house where they lived was outside Dublin, in a secluded spot, +yet not far from stores and shops. There was this to be said for +Noreen--that she kept her home spotlessly clean, even with two +indifferent servants. She had a gift for housewifery, which, at its +best, was as good as anything in the world, and far better than could be +found in most parts of Ireland. + +Of visitors they had few, if any, and the young wife was left alone to +brood upon her wrongs. Erris Boyne had slapped her face on the morning +of the day when he met Dyck Calhoun in the hour of his bad luck. He did +not see the look in her face as he left the house. + +Ruthless as he was, he realized the time had come when by bold effort he +might get young Calhoun wholly into his power. He began by getting Dyck +into the street. Then he took him by an indirect route to what was, +reputedly, a tavern of consequence. There choice spirits met on +occasion, and dark souls, like Boyne, planned adventures. Outwardly it +was a tavern of the old class, superficially sedate, and called the Harp +and Crown. None save a very few conspirators knew how great a part +it played in the plan to break the government of Ireland and to ruin +England’s position in the land. + +The entrance was by two doors--one the ordinary public entrance, the +other at the side of the house, which was on a corner. This could be +opened by a skeleton key owned by Erris Boyne. + +He and Dyck entered, however, by the general entrance, because Boyne had +forgotten his key. They passed through the bar-parlour, nodding to one +or two habitues, and presently were bestowed in a room, not large, but +well furnished. It was quiet and alluring on this day when the world +seemed disconcerting. So pleasantly did the place affect Dyck’s spirits +that, as he sat down in the room which had often housed worse men than +himself, he gave a sigh of relief. + +They played cards, and Dyck won. He won five times what he had lost at +the club. This made him companionable. + +“It’s a poor business-cards,” he said at last. “It puts one up in the +clouds and down in the ditch all at the same time. I tell you this, +Boyne--I’m going to stop. No man ought to play cards who hasn’t a +fortune; and my fortune, I’m sorry to say, is only my face!” He laughed +bitterly. + +“And your sword--you’ve forgotten that, Calhoun. You’ve a lot of luck in +your sword.” + +“Well, I’ve made no money out of it so far,” Dyck retorted cynically. + +“Yet you’ve put men with reputations out of the running, men like +Mallow.” + +“Oh, that was a bit of luck and a few tricks I’ve learned. I can’t start +a banking-account on that.” + +“But you can put yourself in the way of winning what can’t be bought.” + +“No--no English army for me, thank you--if that’s what you mean.” + +“It isn’t what I mean. In the English army a man’s a slave. He can +neither eat, nor drink, nor sleep without being under command. He has to +do a lot of dirty work without having voice in the policy. He’s a child +of discipline and order.” + +“And a damned good thing that would be for most of us!” retorted Dyck. +“But I’m not one of the most.” + +“I know that. Try a little more of this marsala, Calhoun. It’s the best +in the place, and it’s got a lot of good stuff. I’ve been coming to the +Harp and Crown for many years, and I’ve never had a bad drink all that +time. The old landlord is a genius. He doesn’t put on airs. He’s a good +man, is old Swinton, and there’s nothing good in the drink of France +that you can’t get here.” + +“Well, if that’s true, how does it happen?” asked Dyck, with a little +flash of interest. “Why should this little twopenny, one-horse place--I +mean in size and furnishments--have such luck as to get the best there +is in France? It means a lot of trouble, eh?” + +“It means some trouble. But let me tell you”--he leaned over the table +and laid a hand on Dyck’s, which was a little nervous--“let me speak as +an old friend to you, if I may. Here are the facts. For many a year, you +know as well as I do, ships have been coming from France to Ireland +with the very best wines and liquors, and taking back the very best +wool--smuggled, of course. Well, our little landlord here is the +damnedest rogue of all. The customs never touch him. From the coast +the stuff comes up to Dublin without a check, and, as he’s a special +favourite, he gets the best to be had in la belle France.” + +“Why is he such a favourite?” asked Dyck. + +Erris Boyne laughed, not loudly, but suggestively. “When a lady kisses a +man on the lips, of her own free will, and puts her arm around his neck, +is it done, do you think, because it’s her duty to do it or die? No, +it’s because she likes the man; because the man is a good friend to +her; because it’s money in her pocket. That’s the case with old Swinton. +France kisses him, as it were, because”--he paused, as though debating +what to say--“because France knows he’d rather be under her own +revolutionary government than under the monarchy of England.” + +His voice had resonance, and, as he said these words, it had insistence. + +“Do you know, Calhoun, I think old Swinton is right. We suffer here +because monarchy, with its cruel hand of iron, mistrusts us, brutalizes +us.” + +He did not see enlightenment come into the half-drunken eyes of Dyck. +He only realized that Dyck was very still, and strangely, deeply +interested. + +“I tell you, Calhoun, we need in Ireland something of the spirit that’s +alive in France to-day. They’ve cleaned out the kings--Louis’s and +Marie’s heads have dropped into the basket. They’re sweeping the dirt +out of France; they’re cleaning the dark places; they’re whitewashing +Versailles and sawdusting the Tuileries; they’re purging the +aristocratic guts of France; they’re starting for the world a +reformation which will make it clean. Not America alone, but England, +and all Europe, will become republics.” + +“England?” asked Dyck in a low, penetrating voice. “Aye, England, +through Ireland. Ireland will come first, then Wales, Scotland, and +England. Dear lad, the great day is come--the greatest the world has +ever known. France, the spirit of it, is alive. It will purge and +cleanse the universe!” + +The suspicious, alert look passed from Dyck’s eyes, but his face had +become flushed. He reached out and poured himself another glass of wine. + +“What you say may be true, Boyne. It may be true, but I wouldn’t put +faith in it--not for one icy minute. I don’t want to see here in Ireland +the horrors and savagery of France. I don’t want to see the guillotine +up on St. Stephen’s Green.” + +Boyne felt that he must march carefully. He was sure of his game; but +there were difficulties, and he must not throw his chances away. Dyck +was in a position where, with his inflammable nature, he could be +captured. + +“Well, I’ll tell you, Calhoun. I don’t know which is worse--Ireland +bloody with shootings and hangings, Ulster up in the north and Cork +in the south, from the Giant’s Causeway to Tralee; no two sets of feet +dancing alike, with the bloody hand of England stretching out over the +Irish Parliament like death itself; or France ruling us. How does the +English government live here? Only by bribery and purchases. It buys its +way. Isn’t that true?” + +Dyck nodded. “Yes, it’s true in a way,” he replied. “It’s so, because +we’re what we are. We’ve never been properly put in our places. The heel +on our necks--that’s the way to do it.” + +Boyne looked at the flushed, angry face. In spite of Dyck’s words, he +felt that his medicine was working well. + +“Listen to me, Calhoun,” he said softly. “You’ve got to do something. +You’re living an idle life. You’re in debt. You’ve ruined your +independent fortune at the tables. There are but two courses open to +you. One is to join the British forces--to be a lieutenant, a captain, +a major, a colonel, or a general, in time; to shoot and cut and hang and +quarter, and rule with a heavy rod. That’s one way.” + +“So you think I’m fit for nothing but the sword, eh?” asked Dyck with +irony. “You think I’ve got no brains for anything except the army.” + +Boyne laughed. “Have another drink, Calhoun.” He poured out more wine. +“Oh, no, not the army alone; there’s the navy--and there’s the French +navy! It’s the best navy in the world, the freest and the greatest, and +with Bonaparte going at us, England will have enough to do--too +much, I’m thinking. So there’s a career in the French navy open. And +listen--before you and I are two months older, the French navy will +be in the harbours of Ireland, and the French army will land here.” He +reached out and grasped Dyck’s arm. “There’s no liberty of freedom under +the Union Jack. What do you think of the tricolour? It’s a great flag, +and under it the world is going to be ruled--England, Spain, Italy, +Holland, Prussia, Austria, and Russia--all of them. The time is ripe. +You’ve got your chance. Take it on, dear lad, take it on.” + +Dyck did not raise his head. He was leaning forward with both arms on +the table, supporting himself firmly; his head was bowed as though +with deep interest in what Boyne said. And, indeed, his interest was +great--so great that all his manhood, vigour, all his citizenship, were +vitally alive. Yet he did not lift his head. + +“What’s that you say about French ships in the harbours of Ireland?” he +said in a tone that showed interest. “Of course, I know there’s been a +lot of talk of a French raid on Ireland, but I didn’t know it was to be +so soon.” + +“Oh, it’s near enough! It’s all been arranged,” replied Boyne. “There’ll +be ships-war-ships, commanded by Hoche. They’ll have orders to land +on the coast, to join the Irish patriots, to take control of the +operations, and then to march on--” + +He was going to say “march on Dublin,” but he stopped. He was playing a +daring game. If he had not been sure of his man, he would not have been +so frank and fearless. + +He did not, however, mislead Dyck greatly. Dyck had been drinking a good +deal, but this knowledge of a French invasion, and a sense of what Boyne +was trying to do, steadied his shaken emotions; held him firmly in the +grip of practical common sense. He laughed, hiccuped a little, as though +he was very drunk, and said: + +“Of course the French would like to come to Ireland; they’d like to +seize it and hold it. Why, of course they would! Don’t we know all +that’s been and gone? Aren’t Irishmen in France grown rich in industry +there after having lost every penny of their property here? Aren’t there +Irishmen there, always conniving to put England at defiance here by +breaking her laws, cheating her officers, seducing her patriots? Of +course; but what astounds me is that a man of your standing should +believe the French are coming here now to Ireland. No, no, Boyne; I’m +not taking your word for any of these things. You’re a gossip; you’re a +damned, pertinacious, preposterous gossip, and I’ll say it as often as +you like.” + +“So it’s proof you want, is it? Well, then, here it is.” + +Boyne drew from his pocket a small leather-bound case and took from it a +letter, which he laid on the table in front of Dyck. + +Dyck looked at the document, then said: + +“Ah, that’s what you are, eh?--a captain in the French artillery! Well, +that’d be a surprise in Ireland if it were told.” + +“It isn’t going to be told unless you tell it, Calhoun, and you’re too +much of a sportsman for that. Besides: + +“Why shouldn’t you have one of these if you want it--if you want it!” + +“What’d be the good of my wanting it? I could get a commission here in +the army of George III, if I wanted it, but I don’t want it; and any +man that offers it to me, I’ll hand it back with thanks and be damned to +you!” + +“Listen to me, then, Calhoun,” remarked Boyne, reaching out a hand to +lay it on Dyck’s arm. + +Dyck saw the motion, however, and carefully drew back in his chair. “I’m +not an adventurer,” he said; “but if I were, what would there be in it +for me?” + +Boyne misunderstood the look on Dyck’s face. He did not grasp the +meaning behind the words, and he said to him: + +“Oh, a good salary--as good as that of a general, with a commission and +the spoils of war! That’s the thing in the French army that counts for +so much--spoils of war. When they’re out on a country like this, they +let their officers loose--their officers and men. Did you ever hear tell +of a French army being pinched for fodder, or going thirsty for drink, +or losing its head for poverty or indigence?” + +“No, I never did.” + +“Well, then, take the advice of an officer of the French army resident +now in Dublin,” continued Boyne, laughing, “who has the honour of being +received as the friend of Mr. Dyck Calhoun of Playmore! Take your hand +in the game that’s going on! For a man as young as you, with brains and +ambition, there’s no height he mightn’t reach in this country. Think +of it--Ireland free from English control; Ireland, with all her dreams, +living her own life, fearless, independent, as it was in days of yore. +Why, what’s to prevent you, Dyck Calhoun, from being president of the +Irish Republic? You have brains, looks, skill, and a wonderful tongue. +None but a young man could take on the job, for it will require +boldness, skill, and the recklessness of perfect courage. Isn’t it good +enough for you?” + +“What’s the way to do it?” asked Dyck, still holding on to his old self +grimly. “How is it to be done?” He spoke a little thickly, for, in spite +of himself, the wine was clogging his senses. It had been artistically +drugged by Boyne. + +“Listen to me, Calhoun,” continued Boyne. “I’ve known you now some time. +We’ve come in and gone out together. This day was inevitable. You were +bound to come to it one way or another. Man, you have a heart of iron; +you have the courage of Caesar or Alexander; you have the chance of +doing what no Englishman could ever do--Cromwell, or any other. Well, +then, don’t you see the fateful moment has come in Irish life and +history? Strife everywhere! Alone, what can we do? Alone, if we try to +shake off the yoke that binds us we shall be shattered, and our last +end be worse than our first. But with French ships, French officers and +soldiers, French guns and ammunition, with the trained men of the French +army to take control here, what amelioration of our weakness, what +confidence and skill on our side! Can you doubt what the end will be? +Answer me, man, don’t you see it all? Isn’t it clear to you? Doesn’t +such a cause enlist you?” + +With a sudden burst of primitive anger, Dyck got to his feet, staggering +a little, but grasping the fatal meaning of the whole thing. He looked +Erris Boyne in the eyes. His own were bloodshot and dissipated, but +there was a look in them of which Boyne might well take heed. + +Boyne had not counted on Dyck’s refusal; or, if it had occurred to +him, the remedy, an ancient one, was ready to his fingers. The wine was +drugged. He had watched the decline of Dyck’s fortunes with an eye of +appreciation; he had seen the clouds of poverty and anxiety closing +in. He had known of old Miles Calhoun’s financial difficulties. He had +observed Dyck’s wayside loitering with revolutionists, and he had taken +it with too much seriousness. He knew the condition of Dyck’s purse. + +He was not prepared for Dyck’s indignant outburst. + +“I tell you this, Erris Boyne, there’s none has ever tried me as you +have done! What do you think I am--a thing of the dirty street-corner, +something to be swept up and cast into the furnace of treason? Look you, +after to-day you and I will never break bread or drink wine together. +No--by Heaven, no! I don’t know whether you’ve told me the truth or not, +but I think you have. There’s this to say--I shall go from this place +to Dublin Castle, and shall tell them there--without mentioning your +name--what you’ve told about the French raid. Now, by God, you’re a +traitor! You oughtn’t to live, and if you’ll send your seconds to me +I’ll try and do with you as I did with Leonard Mallow. Only mark me, +Erris Boyne, I’ll put my sword into your heart. You understand--into +your filthy heart!” + +At that moment the door of the room opened, and a face looked in for +an instant-the face of old Swinton, the landlord of the Harp and Crown. +Suddenly Boyne’s look changed. He burst into a laugh, and brought his +fists down on the table between them with a bang. + +“By Joseph and by Mary, but you’re a patriot, Calhoun! I was trying to +test you. I was searching to find the innermost soul of you. The French +fleet, my commission in the French army, and my story about the landlord +are all bosh. If I meant what I told you, do you think I’d have been so +mad as to tell you so much, damn it? Have you no sense, man? I wanted to +find out exactly how you stood-faithful or unfaithful to the crown--and +I’ve found out. Sit down, sit down, Calhoun, dear lad. Take your hand +off your sword. Remember, these are terrible days. Everything I said +about Ireland is true. What I said about France is false. Sit down, man, +and if you’re going to join the king’s army--as I hope and trust you +will--then here’s something to help you face the time between.” He threw +on the table a packet of notes. “They’re good and healthy, and will buy +you what you need. There’s not much. There’s only a hundred pounds, but +I give it to you with all my heart, and you can pay it back when the +king’s money comes to you, or when you marry a rich woman.” + +He said it all with a smile on his face. It was done so cleverly, +with so much simulated sincerity, that Dyck, in his state of +semi-drunkenness, could not, at the instant, place him in his true +light. Besides, there was something handsome and virile in Boyne’s +face--and untrue; but the untruth Dyck did not at the moment see. + +Never in his life had Boyne performed such prodigies of dissimulation. +He was suddenly like a schoolboy disclosing the deeds of some +adventurous knight. He realized to the full the dangers he had run in +disclosing the truth; for it was the truth that he had told. + +So serious was the situation, to his mind, that one thing seemed +inevitable. Dyck must be kidnapped at once and carried out of Ireland. +It would be simple. A little more drugged wine, and he would be asleep +and powerless--it had already tugged at him. With the help of his +confreres in the tavern, Dyck could be carried out, put on a lugger, and +sent away to France. + +There was nothing else to do. Boyne had said truly that the French fleet +meant to come soon. Dyck must not be able to give the thing away before +it happened. The chief thing now was to prime him with the drugged wine +till he lost consciousness, and then carry him away to the land of the +guillotine. Dyck’s tempestuous nature, the poetry and imagination of +him, would quickly respond to French culture, to the new orders of the +new day in France. Meanwhile, he must be soaked in drugged drink. + +Already the wine had played havoc with him; already stupefaction was +coming over his senses. With a good-natured, ribald laugh, Boyne +poured out another glass of marsala and pushed it gently over to Dyck’s +fingers. + +“My gin to your marsala,” he said, and he raised his own glass of gin, +looking playfully over the top to Dyck. + +With a sudden loosening of all the fibres of his nature, Dyck raised the +glass of marsala to his lips and drained it off almost at a gulp. + +“You’re a prodigious liar, Boyne,” he said. “I didn’t think any one +could lie so completely.” + +“I’ll teach you how, Calhoun. It’s not hard. I’ll teach you how.” + +He passed a long cigar over the table to Dyck, who, however, did not +light it, but held it in his fingers. Boyne struck a light and held it +out across the small table. Dyck leaned forward, but, as he did so, the +wine took possession of his senses. His head fell forward in sleep, and +the cigar dropped from his fingers. + +“Ah, well--ah, well, we must do some business now!” remarked Boyne. He +leaned over Dyck for a moment. “Yes, sound asleep,” he said, and laughed +scornfully to himself. “Well, when it’s dark we must get him away. He’ll +sleep for four or five hours, and by that time he’ll be out on the way +to France, and the rest is easy.” + +He was about to go to the door that led into the business part of the +house, when the door leading into the street opened softly, and a woman +stepped inside. She had used the key which Boyne had forgotten at his +house. + +At first he did not hear her. Then, when he did turn round, it was too +late. The knife she carried under her skirt flashed out and into Boyne’s +heart. He collapsed on the floor without a sound, save only a deep sigh. + +Stooping over, Noreen drew the knife out with a little gurgling cry--a +smothered exclamation. Then she opened the door again--the side-door +leading into the street-closed it softly, and was gone. + +Two hours afterwards the landlord opened the door. Erris Boyne lay in +his silence, stark and still. At the table, with his head sunk in his +arms, sat Dyck Calhoun, snoring stertorously, his drawn sword by his +side. + +With a cry the old man knelt on the floor beside the body of Erris +Boyne. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. DYCK IN PRISON + +When Dyck Calhoun waked, he was in the hands of the king’s constables, +arrested for the murder of Erris Boyne. It was hard to protest his +innocence, for the landlord was ready to swear concerning a quarrel +he had seen when he opened the door for a moment. Dyck, with sudden +caution, only said he would make all clear at the trial. + +Dublin and Ireland were shocked and thrilled; England imagined she had +come upon one of the most violent episodes of Irish history. One journal +protested that it was not possible to believe in Dyck Calhoun’s guilt; +that his outward habits were known to all, and were above suspicion, +although he had collogued--though never secretly, so far as the world +knew--with some of the advanced revolutionary spirits. None of the loyal +papers seemed aware of Erris Boyne’s treachery; and while none spoke of +him with approval, all condemned his ugly death. + +Driven through the streets of Dublin in a jaunting-car between two of +the king’s police, Dyck was a mark for abuse by tongue, but was here and +there cheered by partizans of the ultra-loyal group to which his father +adhered. The effect of his potations was still upon him, and his mind +was bemused. He remembered the quarrel, Boyne’s explanation, and the +subsequent drinking, but he could recall nothing further. He was sure +the wine had been drugged, but he realized that Swinton, the landlord, +would have made away with any signs of foul play, as he was himself an +agent of active disloyalty and a friend of Erris Boyne. Dyck could not +believe he had killed Boyne; yet Boyne had been found with a wound in +his heart, and his own naked sword lying beside him on the table. The +trouble was he could not absolutely swear innocence of the crime. + +The situation was not eased by his stay in jail. It began with a +revelation terribly repugnant to him. He had not long been lodged in the +cell when there came a visit from Michael Clones, who stretched out his +hands in an agony of humiliation. + +“Ah, you didn’t do it--you didn’t do it, sir!” he cried. “I’m sure you +never killed him. It wasn’t your way. He was for doing you harm if he +could. An evil man he was, as all the world knows. But there’s one thing +that’ll be worse than anything else to you. You never knew it, and I +never knew it till an hour ago. Did you know who Erris Boyne was? Well, +I’ll tell you. He was the father of Miss Sheila Llyn. He was divorced by +Mrs. Llyn many years ago, for having to do with other women. She took to +her maiden name, and he married again. + +“Good God! Good God!” Dyck Calhoun made a gesture of horror. “He Sheila +Llyn’s father! Good God!” + +Suddenly a passion of remorse roused him out of his semi-stupefaction. + +“Michael, Michael!” he said, his voice hoarse, broken. “Don’t say such a +thing! Are you sure?” Michael nodded. + +“I’m sure. I got it from one that’s known Erris Boyne and his first wife +and girl--one that was a servant to them both in past days. He’s been +down to Limerick to see Mrs. Llyn and the beautiful daughter. I met him +an hour ago, and he told me. He told me more. He told me Mrs. Llyn spoke +to him of your friendship with Erris Boyne, and how she meant to tell +you who and what he was. She said her daughter didn’t even know her +father’s name. She had been kept in ignorance.” + +Dyck seated himself on the rough bed of the cell, and stared at Michael, +his hands between his knees, his eyes perturbed. + +“Michael,” he said at last, “if it’s true--what you’ve told me--I don’t +see my way. Every step in front of me is black. To tell the whole truth +is to bring fresh shame upon Mrs. Llyn and her daughter, and not to tell +the whole truth is to take away my one chance of getting out of this +trouble. I see that!” + +“I don’t know what you mean, sir, but I’ll tell you this--none that +knows you would believe you’d murder Erris Boyne or anny other man.” + +Dyck wiped the sweat from his forehead. + +“I suppose you speak the truth, Michael, but it isn’t people who’ve +known me that’ll try me; and I can’t tell all.” + +“Why not, if it’ll help you?” + +“I can’t--of course I can’t. It would be disgrace eternal.” + +“Why? Tell me why, sir!” + +Dyck looked closely, firmly, at the old servant and friend. Should he +tell the truth--that Boyne had tried to induce him to sell himself to +the French, to invoke his aid against the English government, to share +in treason? If he could have told it to anybody, he would have done +so to Michael; but if it was true that in his drunken blindness he had +killed Boyne, he would not seek to escape by proving Boyne a traitor. + +He believed Boyne was a servant of the French; but unless the facts came +out in the trial, they should not have sure origin in himself. He would +not add to his crime in killing the father of the only girl who had ever +touched his heart, the shame of proving that father to be one who should +have been shot as a traitor. + +He had courage and daring, but not sufficient to carry him through that +dark chapter. He would not try to save himself by turning public opinion +against Erris Boyne. The man had been killed by some one, perhaps--and +the thing ached in his heart--by himself; but that was no reason why the +man’s death should not be full punishment for all the wrong he had done. + +Dyck had a foolish strain in him, after all. Romance was his deadly foe; +it made him do a stupid, if chivalrous, thing. Meanwhile he would warn +the government at once about the projected French naval raid. + +“Michael,” said Dyck, rising again, “see my father, but you’re not +to say I didn’t kill Boyne, for, to tell the truth, I don’t know. My +head”--he put his hand to it with a gesture of despair--“my head’s a +mass of contradictions. It seems a thousand years since I entered that +tavern! I can’t get myself level with all that’s happened. That Erris +Boyne should be the father of the sweet girl at Limerick shakes +me. Don’t you see what it means? If I killed him, it spoils +everything--everything. If I didn’t kill him, I can only help myself by +blackening still more the life of one who gave being to--” + +“Aye, to a young queen!” interrupted Michael. + +“God knows, there’s none like her in Ireland, or in any other country at +all!” + +Suddenly Dyck regained his composure; and it was the composure of one +who had opened the door of hell and had realized that in time--perhaps +not far off--he also would dwell in the infernal place. + +“Michael, I have no money, but I’m my father’s heir. My father will not +see me starve in prison, nor want for defence, though my attitude shall +be ‘no defence.’ So bring me decent food and some clothes, and send to +me here Will McCormick, the lawyer. He’s as able a man as there is in +Dublin. Listen, Michael, you’re not to speak of Mrs. Llyn and Miss Llyn +as related to Erris Boyne. What will come of what you and I know and +don’t know, Heaven only has knowledge; but I’ll see it through. I’ve +spoiled as good chances as ever a young man had that wants to make his +way; but drink and cards, Michael, and the flare of this damned life at +the centre--it got hold of me. It muddled, drowned the best that was in +me. It’s the witch’s kitchen, is Dublin. Ireland’s the only place in the +world where they make saints of criminals and pray to them; where they +lose track of time and think they’re in eternity; where emotion is +saturnine logic and death is the touchstone of life. Michael, I don’t +see any way to safety. Those fellows down at the tavern were friends of +Erris Boyne. They’re against me. They’ll hang me if they can!” + +“I don’t believe they can do it, master. Dublin and Ireland think more +of you than they did of Erris Boyne. There’s nothing behind you except +the wildness of youth--nothing at all. If anny one had said to me at +Playmore that you’d do the things you’ve done with drink and cards since +you come to Dublin, I’d have swore they were liars. Yet when all’s said +and done, I’d give my last drop of blood as guarantee you didn’t kill +Erris Boyne!” + +Dyck smiled. “You’ve a lot of faith in me, Michael--but I’ll tell you +this--I never was so thirsty in my life. My mouth’s like a red-hot iron. +Send me some water. Give the warder sixpence, if you’ve got it, and send +me some water. Then go to Will McCormick, and after that to my father.” + +Michael shook his head dolefully. + +“Mr. McCormick’s aisy--oh, aisy enough,” he said. “He’ll lep up at the +idea of defendin’ you, but I’m not takin’ pleasure in goin’ to Miles +Calhoun, for he’s a hard man these days. Aw, Mr. Dyck, he’s had a lot of +trouble. Things has been goin’ wrong with Playmore. ‘Pon honour, I don’t +know whether anny of it’ll last as long as Miles Calhoun lasts. There’ll +be little left for you, Mr. Dyck. That’s what troubles me. I tell you +it’d break my heart if that place should be lost to your father and you. +I was born on it. I’d give the best years of the life that’s left me to +make sure the old house could stay in the hands of the Calhouns. I say +to you that while I live all I am is yours, fair and foul, good and +bad.” He touched his breast with his right hand. “In here is the soul +of Ireland that leps up for the things that matter. There’s a +song--but never mind about a song; this is no place for songs. It’s a +prison-house, and you’re a prisoner charged--” + +“Not charged yet, not charged,” interrupted Dyck; “but suspected of and +arrested for a crime. I’ll fight--before God, I’ll fight to the last! +Good-bye, Michael; bring me food and clothes, and send me cold water at +once.” + +When the door closed softly behind Michael Clones, Dyck sat down on the +bed where many a criminal patriot had lain. He looked round the small +room, bare, unfurnished, severe-terribly severe; he looked at the blank +walls and the barred window, high up; he looked at the floor--it was +discoloured and damp. He reached out and touched it with his hand. He +looked at the solitary chair, the basin and pail, and he shuddered. + +“How awful--how awful!” he murmured. “But if it was her father, and if I +killed him”--his head sank low--“if I killed her father!” + +“Water, sir.” + +He looked up. It was the guard with a tin of water and a dipper. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. MOTHER AND DAUGHTER + +“I don’t believe he’s guilty, mother.” + +The girl’s fine eyes shone with feeling--with protest, indignation, +anguish. As she spoke, she thrust her head forward with the vigour of +a passionate counsel. Sheila Llyn was a champion who would fight to the +last gasp for any cause she loved. + +A few moments before, she had found her mother, horror-stricken, gazing +at a newspaper paragraph sent from Dublin. + +Sheila at once thought this to be the cause of her mother’s agitation, +and she reached out a hand for it. Her mother hesitated, then handed +the clipping to her. Fortunately it contained no statement save the bare +facts connected with the killing of Erris Boyne, and no reference to +the earlier life of the dead man. It said no more than that Dyck Calhoun +must take his trial at the sessions. + +It also stated that Dyck, though he pleaded “not guilty,” declared +frankly, through Will McCormick, the lawyer, that he had no memory of +aught that happened after he had drunk wine given him by Erris Boyne. He +said that he and Boyne had quarrelled, but had become reconciled again, +and that the drink was a pledge of their understanding. From the time +he had taken the drink until he waked in the hands of the king’s +constables, he had no memory; but he was sure he had not killed +Boyne. The fact that there was no blood on his sword was evidence. +Nevertheless, he had been committed for trial. + +Mrs. Llyn was sorely troubled. She knew of her daughter’s interest +in Dyck Calhoun, and of Dyck’s regard for Sheila. She had even looked +forward to marriage, and she wished for Sheila no better fate, because +nearly all she knew of Dyck was to his credit. She was unaware that his +life in Dublin had been dissipated. + +If Dyck was guilty--though she could not believe it--there would be +an end of romance between him and Sheila, and their friendship must be +severed for ever. Her daughter did not know that Erris Boyne was her +father, and she must not know--in any case not yet; but if Dyck was +condemned, it was almost sure he would be hanged. + +She wondered about Boyne’s widow, whose name did not appear in the +paragraph she had seen. She knew that Noreen was beautiful, but that +he had married far beneath him socially. She had imagined Erris Boyne +living in suburban quiet, not drawing his wife into his social scheme. + +That is what had happened. The woman had lived apart from the daily +experiences of her husband’s life in Dublin; and it had deepened her +bitterness against him. When she had learned that Erris Boyne was no +more faithful to her than he had been to his previous wife, she had gone +mad; and Dyck Calhoun was paying the price of her madness. + +Mrs. Llyn did not know this. She was a woman of distinguished bearing, +though small, with a wan, sad look in her eyes always, but with a +cheerful smile. She was not poor, but well-to-do, and it was not +necessary to deny herself or her daughter ordinary comforts, and even +many of the luxuries of life. + +Her hair was darker than her daughter’s, black and wavy, with here and +there streaks of grey. These, however, only added dignity to a head +beautifully balanced, finely moulded, and, in the language of the day, +most genteelly hung. She was slender, buoyant in movement yet composed, +and her voice was like her daughter’s, clear, gentle, thrilling. + +Her mind and heart were given up to Sheila and Sheila’s future. That was +why a knowledge of the tragedy that had come to Dyck Calhoun troubled +her as she had not been troubled since the day she first learned of +Erris Boyne’s infidelity to herself. + +“Let us go to Dublin, mother,” said Sheila with a determined air, after +reading the clipping. + +“Why, my dear?” + +The woman’s eyes, with their long lashes, looked searchingly into her +daughter’s face. She felt, as the years went on, that Sheila had gifts +granted to few. She realized that the girl had resources which would +make her a governing influence in whatever sphere of life she should be +set. Quietly, Sheila was taking control of their movements, and indeed +of her own daily life. The girl had a dominating skill which came +in part from herself, and also to a degree from her father; but her +disposition was not her father’s-it was her mother’s. + +Mrs. Llyn had never known Sheila to lie or twist the truth in all her +days. No one was more obedient to wise argument; and her mother had a +feeling that now, perhaps, the time had come when they two must have a +struggle for mastery. There was every reason why they should not go to +Dublin. There Sheila might discover that Erris Boyne was her father, and +might learn the story of her mother’s life. + +Sheila had been told by her mother that her father had passed away +abroad when she was a little child. She had never seen her father’s +picture, and her mother had given her the impression that their last +days together had not been happy. She had always felt that it was better +not to inquire too closely into her father’s life. + +The years had gone on and then had come the happy visit to Loyland +Towers, where she had met Dyck Calhoun. Her life at that moment had been +free from troublesome emotions; but since the time she had met Dyck at +the top of the hill, a new set of feelings worked in her. + +She was as bonny a lass as ever the old world produced--lithe, with a +body like that of a boy, strong and pleasant of face, with a haunting +beauty in the eyes, a majesty of the neck and chin, and a carriage which +had made Michael Clones call her a queen. + +She saw Dyck only as, a happy, wild son of the hilltop. To her he was a +man of mettle and worth, and irresponsible because he had been given +no responsibility. He was a country gentleman of Ireland, with all the +interest and peril of the life of a country gentleman. + +“Yes, we ought to go to Dublin, mother. We could help him, perhaps,” + Sheila insisted. + +The mother shook her head mournfully. + +“My child, we could do him no good at all--none whatever. Besides, I +can’t afford to visit Dublin now. It’s an expensive journey, and the +repairs we’ve been doing here have run me close.” + +A look of indignation, almost of scorn, came into the girl’s face. + +“Well, if I were being tried for my life, as Dyck Calhoun is going to +be, and if I knew that friends of mine were standing off because of a +few pounds, shillings, and pence, I think I’d be a real murderer!” + +The mother took her daughter’s hand. She found it cold. + +“My dear,” she said, clasping it gently, “you never saw him but three +times, and I’ve never seen him but twice except in the distance; but I +would do anything in my power to help him, if I could, for I like him. +The thing for us to do--” + +“Yes, I know--sit here, twist our thumbs, and do nothing!” + +“What more could we do if we went to Dublin, except listen to gossip, +read the papers and be jarred every moment? My dear, our best place is +here. If the spending of money could be of any use to him, I’d spend +it--indeed I would; but since it can’t be of any use, we must stay in +our own home. Of one thing I’m sure--if Dyck Calhoun killed Erris Boyne, +Boyne deserved it. Of one thing I’m certain beyond all else--it was +no murder. Mr. Calhoun wasn’t a man to murder any one. I don’t +believe”--her voice became passionate--“he murdered, and I don’t believe +he will be hanged.” + +The girl looked at her mother with surprise. “Oh, dearest, dearest!” she +said. “I believe you do care for him. Is it because he has no mother, +and you have no son.” + +“It may be so, beloved.” + +Sheila swept her arms around her mother’s neck and drew the fine head to +her breast. + +At that moment they heard the clatter of hoofs, and presently they saw a +horse and rider pass the window. + +“It’s a government messenger, mother,” Sheila said. + +As Sheila said, it was a government messenger, bearing a packet to Mrs. +Llyn--a letter from her brother in America, whom she had not seen for +many years. + +The brother, Bryan Llyn, had gone out there as a young man before the +Revolutionary War. He had prospered, taking sides against England in the +war, and become a man of importance in the schemes of the new republican +government. Only occasionally had letters come from him to his sister, +and for nearly eleven years she had not had a single word from him. + +When she opened the packet now, she felt it would help to solve--she +knew not how--the trouble between herself and her daughter. The letter +had been sent to a firm in Dublin with which Bryan Llyn had done +business, with instructions that it should be forwarded to his sister. +It had reached the hands of a government official, who was a brother of +a member of the firm, and he had used the government messenger, who was +going upon other business to Limerick, to forward it with a friendly +covering note, which ended with the words: + + The recent tragedy you have no doubt seen in the papers must have + shocked you; but to those who know the inside the end was + inevitable, though there are many who do not think Calhoun is + guilty. I am one of them. Nevertheless, it will go hard with him, + as the evidence is strong against him. He comes from your part of + the country, and you will be concerned, of course. + +Sheila watched her mother reading, and saw that great emotion possessed +her, though the girl could not know the cause. Presently, however, +Mrs. Llyn, who had read the letter from her brother, made a joyful +exclamation. + +“What is it, mother dear?” Sheila asked eagerly. “Tell me!” + +The mother made a passionate gesture of astonishment and joy; then she +leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, with the letter--which was +closely written, in old-fashioned punctiliousness--in her hands. + +“Oh, my dear, my dear!” she said. “How strange it all is! Your Uncle +Bryan is immensely rich. He has no children and no family; his health is +failing.” + +She seemed able to get no further. + +“Well, what is it, mother?” asked Sheila again. + +For an instant Mrs. Llyn hesitated; then she put the letter into +Sheila’s hands. + +“Read it, my child,” she said. “It’s for you as much as for me--indeed, +more for you than for me.” Sheila took the letter. It ran as follows: + + DEAREST SISTER: + + It is eleven years since I wrote to you, and yet, though it may seem + strange, there have not been eleven days in all that time in which I + have not wished you and Sheila were here. Sheila--why, she is a + young woman! She’s about the age you were when I left Ireland, and + you were one of the most beautiful and charming creatures God ever + gave life to. The last picture I have of you was a drawing made + soon after your marriage--sad, bad, unhappy incident. I have kept + it by me always. It warms my heart in winter; it cools my eyes in + summer. + + My estate is neither North nor South, but farther South than North. + In a sense it is always summer, but winter on my place would be like + summer in Norway--just bitingly fresh, happily alert. I’m writing + in the summer now. I look out of the window and see hundreds of + acres of cotton-fields, with hundreds upon hundreds of negroes at + work. I hear the songs they sing, faint echoes of them, even as I + write. Yes, my black folk do sing, because they are well treated. + + Not that we haven’t our troubles here. You can’t administer + thousands of acres, control hundreds of slaves, and run an estate + like a piece of clockwork without creaks in the machinery. I’ve + built it all up out of next to nothing. I landed in this country + with my little fortune of two thousand pounds. This estate is worth + at least a quarter of a million now. I’ve an estate in Jamaica, + too. I took it for a debt. What it’ll be worth in another twenty + years I don’t know. I shan’t be here to see. I’m not the man I was + physically, and that’s one of the reasons why I’m writing to you + to-day. I’ve often wished to write and say what I’m going to say + now; but I’ve held back, because I wanted you to finish your girl’s + education before I said it + + What I say is this: I want you and Sheila to come here to me, to + make my home your home, to take control of my household, and to let + me see faces I love about me as the shadows enfold me. + + Like your married life, mine was unsuccessful, but not for the same + reason. The woman I married did not understand--probably could not + understand. She gave me no children. We are born this way, or + that. To understand is pain and joy in one; to misconceive is to + scatter broken glass for bare feet. Yet when I laid her away, a few + years ago, I had terrible pangs of regret, which must come to the + heart that has striven in vain. I did my best; I tried to make her + understand, but she never did. I used at first to feel angry; then + I became patient. But I waked up again, and went smiling along, + active, vigorous, getting pleasure out of the infinitely small + things, and happy in perfecting my organization. + + This place, which I have called Moira, is to be yours--or, rather, + Sheila’s. So, in any case, you will want to come and see the home I + have made this old colonial mansion, with its Corinthian pillars and + verandah, high steps, hard-wood floors polished like a pan, every + room hung in dimity and chintz, and the smell of fruit and flowers + everywhere. You will want to see it all, and you’ll want to live + here. + + There’s little rain here, so it’s not like Ireland, and the green is + not so green; but the flowers are marvellously bright, and the birds + sing almost as well as they sing in Ireland, though there’s no lark. + Strange it is, but true, the only things that draw me back to + Ireland in my soul are you, and Sheila, whom I’ve never seen, and + the lark singing as he rises until he becomes a grey-blue speck, and + then vanishing in the sky. + + Well, you and the lark have sung in my heart these many days, and + now you must come to me, because I need you. I have placed to your + credit in the Bank of Ireland a thousand pounds. That will be the + means of bringing you here--you and Sheila--to my door, to Moira. + Let nothing save death prevent your coming. As far as Sheila’s eye + can see-north, south, east, and west--the land will be hers when I’m + gone. Dearest sister, sell all things that are yours, and come to + me. You’ll not forget Ireland here. Whoever has breathed her air + can never forget the hills and dells, the valleys and bogs, the + mountains, with their mists of rain, the wild girls, with their bare + ankles, their red petticoats, and their beautiful, reckless air. + None who has ever breathed the air of Ireland can breathe in another + land without memory of the ancient harp of Ireland. But it is as a + memory-deep, wonderful, and abiding, yet a memory. I sometimes + think I have forgotten, and then I hear coming through this Virginia + the notes of some old Irish melody, the song of some wayfarer of + Mayo or Connemara, and I know then that Ireland is persuasive and + perpetual; but only as a memory, because it speaks in every pulse + and beats in every nerve. + + Oh, believe me, I speak of what I know! I have been away from + Ireland for a long time, and I’m never going back, but I’ll bring + Ireland to me. Come here, colleen, come to Virginia. Write to me, + on the day you get this letter, that you’re coming soon. Let it be + soon, because I feel the cords binding me to my beloved fields + growing thinner. They’ll soon crack, but, please God, they won’t + crack before you come here. + + Now with my love to you and Sheila I stretch out my hand to you. + Take it. All that it is has worked for is yours; all that it wants + is you. + + Your loving brother, + + BRYAN. + +As Sheila read, the tears started from her eyes; and at last she could +read no longer, so her mother took the letter and read the rest of it +aloud. When she had finished, there was silence--a long warm silence; +then, at last, Mrs. Llyn rose to her feet. + +“Sheila, when shall we go?” + +With frightened eyes Sheila sprang up. + +“I said we must go to Dublin!” she murmured. + +“Yes, we will go to Dublin, Sheila, but it will be on our way to Uncle +Bryan’s home.” + +Sheila caught her mother’s hands. + +“Mother,” she said, after a moment of hesitation, “I must obey you.” + +“It is the one way, my child-the one thing to do. Some one in prison +calls--perhaps; some one far away who loves you, and needs us, +calls--that we know. Tell me, am I not right? I ask you, where shall we +go?” + +“To Virginia, mother.” + +The girl’s head dropped, and her eyes filled with tears. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. DYCK’S FATHER VISITS HIM + +In vain Dyck’s lawyer, Will McCormick, urged him to deny absolutely +the killing of Erris Boyne. Dyck would not do so. He had, however, +immediately on being jailed, written to the government, telling of the +projected invasion of Ireland by the French fleet, and saying that it +had come to him from a sure source. The government had at once taken +action. + +Regarding the death of Boyne, the only thing in his favour was that his +own sword-point was free from stain. His lawyer made the utmost of this, +but to no avail. The impression in the court was that both men had been +drinking; that they had quarrelled, and that without a duel being fought +Dyck had killed his enemy. + +That there had been no duel was clear from the fact that Erris Boyne’s +sword was undrawn. The charge, however, on the instigation of the +Attorney-General, who was grateful for the information about France, had +been changed from murder to manslaughter; though it seemed clear that +Boyne had been ruthlessly killed by a man whom he had befriended. + +On one of the days of the trial, Dyck’s father, bowed, morose, and +obstinate, came to see him. That Dyck and Boyne had quarrelled had been +stated in evidence by the landlord, Swinton, and Dyck had admitted it. +Miles Calhoun was bent upon finding what the story of the quarrel was; +for his own lawyer had told him that Dyck’s refusal to give the cause +of the dispute would affect the jury adversely, and might bring him +imprisonment for life. After the formalities of their meeting, Miles +Calhoun said: + +“My son, things are black, but they’re not so black they can’t be +brightened. If you killed Erris Boyne, he deserved it. He was a bad man, +as the world knows. That isn’t the point. Now, there’s only one kind of +quarrel that warrants non-disclosure.” + +“You mean about a woman?” remarked Dyck coldly. + +The old man took a pinch of snuff nervously. “That’s what I mean. Boyne +was older than you, and perhaps you cut him out with a woman.” + +A wry smile wrinkled the corners of Dyck’s mouth. “You mean his wife?” + he asked with irony. “Wife--no!” retorted the old man. “Damn it, no! He +wasn’t the man to remain true to his wife.” + +“So I understand,” remarked Dyck; “but I don’t know his wife. I never +saw her, except at the trial, and I was so sorry for her I ceased to be +sorry for my self. She had a beautiful, strange, isolated face.” + +“But that wouldn’t influence Boyne,” was the reply. “His first wife +had a beautiful and interesting face, but it didn’t hold him. He went +marauding elsewhere, and she divorced him by act of parliament. I +don’t think you knew it, but his first wife was one of your +acquaintances--Mrs. Llyn, whose daughter you saw just before we left +Playmore. He wasn’t particular where he made love--a barmaid or a +housekeeper, it was all the same to him.” + +“I hope the daughter doesn’t know that Erris Boyne was her father,” said +Dyck. + +“There’s plenty can tell her, and she’ll hear it sooner or later.” + +Miles Calhoun looked at his son with dejection. + +His eyes wandered over the grimly furnished cell. His nose smelled the +damp of it, and suddenly the whole soul of him burst forth. + +“You don’t give yourself a chance of escape, Dyck You know what Irish +juries are. Why don’t you tell the truth about the quarrel? What’s the +good of keeping your mouth shut, when there’s many that would profit by +your telling it?” + +“Who would profit?” asked Dyck. + +“Who would profit!” snarled the old man. “Well, you would profit first, +for it might break the dark chain of circumstantial evidence. Also, your +father would profit. I’d be saved shame, perhaps; I’d get relief from +this disgrace. Oh, man, think of others beside yourself! + +“Think of others!” said Dyck, and a queer smile lighted his haggard +face. “I’d save myself if I honourably could.” + +“The law must prove you guilty,” the old man went on. “It’s not for you +to prove yourself innocent. They haven’t proved you guilty yet.” + +The old man fumbled with a waistcoat button. His eyes blinked hard. + +“You don’t see,” he continued, “the one thing that’s plain to my eyes, +and it’s this--that your only chance of escape is to tell the truth +about the quarrel. If the truth were told, whatever it is, I believe +it would be to your credit--I’ll say that for you. If it was to your +credit, even if they believe you guilty of killing Erris Boyne, they’d +touch you lightly. Ah, in the name of the mother you loved, I ask you to +tell the truth about that quarrel! Give it into the hands of the jury, +and let them decide. Haven’t you got a heart in you? In the name of +God--” + +“Don’t speak to me like that,” interrupted Dyck, with emotion. “I’ve +thought of all those things. I hold my peace because--because I hold my +peace. To speak would be to hurt some one I love with all my soul.” + +“And you won’t speak to save me--your father--because you don’t love me +with all your soul! Is that it?” asked Miles Calhoun. + +“It’s different--it’s different.” + +“Ah, it’s a woman!” + +“Never mind what it is. I will not tell. There are things more shameful +than death.” + +“Yes,” snarled the other. “Rather than save yourself, you bring +dishonour upon him who gave you birth.” + +Dyck’s face was submerged in colour. + +“Father,” said he, “on my honour I wouldn’t hurt you if I could help it, +but I’ll not tell the world of the quarrel between that man and myself. +My silence may hurt you, but some one else would be hurt far more if I +told.” + +“By God, I think you’re some mad dreamer slipped out of the ancient +fold! Do you know where you are? You’re in jail. If you’re found guilty, +you’ll be sent to prison at least for the years that’ll spoil the making +of your life; and you do it because you think you’ll spare somebody. +Well, I ask you to spare me. I don’t want the man that’s going to +inherit my name, when my time comes, to bring foulness on it. We’ve been +a rough race, we Calhouns; we’ve done mad, bad things, perhaps, but none +has shamed us before the world--none but you.” + +“I have never shamed you, Miles Calhoun,” replied his son sharply. “As +the ancients said, ‘alis volat propriis’--I will fly with my own wings. +Come weal, come woe, come dark, come light, I have fixed my mind, and +nothing shall change it. You loved my mother better than the rest of the +world. You would have thought it no shame to have said so to your own +father. Well, I say it to you--I’ll stand by what my conscience and +my soul have dictated to me. You call me a dreamer. Let it be so. I’m +Irish; I’m a Celt. I’ve drunk deep of all that Ireland means. All that’s +behind me is my own, back to the shadowy kings of Ireland, who lost life +and gave it because they believed in what they did. So will I. If I’m to +walk the hills no more on the estate where you are master, let it be so. +I have no fear; I want no favour. If it is to be prison, then it shall +be prison. If it is to be shame, then let it be shame. These are +days when men must suffer if they make mistakes. Well, I will suffer, +fearlessly if helplessly, but I will not break the oath which I have +taken. And so I will not do it--never--never--never!” + +He picked up the cloak which the old man had dropped on the floor, and +handed it to him. + +“There is no good in staying longer. I must go into court again +to-morrow. I have to think how my lawyer shall answer the evidence +given.” + +“But of one thing have you thought?” asked his father. “You will not +tell the cause of the quarrel, for the reason that you might hurt +somebody. If you don’t tell the cause, and you are condemned, won’t that +hurt somebody even more?” + +For a moment Dyck stood silent, absorbed. His face looked pinched, his +whole appearance shrivelled. Then, with deliberation, he said: + +“This is not a matter of expediency, but of principle. My heart tells me +what to do, and my heart has always been right.” + +There was silence for a long time. At last the old man drew the cloak +about his shoulders and turned towards the door. + +“Wait a minute, father,” said Dyck. “Don’t go like that. You’d better +not come and see me again. If I’m condemned, go back to Playmore; if I’m +set free, go back to Playmore. That’s the place for you to be. You’ve +got your own troubles there.” + +“And you--if you’re acquitted?” + +“If I’m acquitted, I’ll take to the high seas--till I’m cured.” + +A moment later, without further words, Dyck was alone. He heard the door +clang. + +He sat for some time on the edge of his bed, buried in dejection. +Presently, however, the door opened. “A letter for you, sir,” said the +jailer. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. A LETTER FROM SHEILA + +The light of the cell was dim, but Dyck managed to read the letter +without great difficulty, for the writing was almost as precise as +print. The sight of it caught his heart like a warm hand and pressed it. +This was the substance of the letter: + + MY DEAR FRIEND: + + I have wanted to visit you in prison, but my mother has forbidden + it, and so, even if I could be let to enter, I must not disobey her. + I have not read the papers giving an account of your trial. I only + know you are charged with killing a bad man, notorious in Dublin + life, and that many think he got his just deserts in being killed. + + I saw Christopher Dogan only a week ago, before we came to Dublin. + His eyes, as he talked of you, shone like the secret hill-fires + where the peasants make illegal drink. + + “Look you,” he said to me, “I care not what a jury decides. I know + my man; and I also know that if the fellow Boyne died by his hand, + it was in fair fight. I have read Dyck Calhoun’s story in the + stars; and I know what his end will be. It will be fair, not foul; + good, not bad; great, not low. Tell him that from me, miss,” was + what he said. + + I also will not believe that your fate is an evil one, that the law + will grind you between the millstones of guilt and dishonour; but if + the law should call you guilty, I still will not believe. Far away + I will think of you, and believe in you, dear, masterful, madman + friend. Yes, you are a madman, for Michael Clones told me--faith, + he loves you well!--that you’ve been living a gay life in Dublin + since you came here, and that the man you are accused of killing + was in great part the cause of it. + + I think I never saw my mother so troubled in spirit as she is at + this time. Of course, she could not feel as I do about you. It + isn’t that which makes her sad and haggard; it is that we are + leaving Ireland behind. + + Yes, she and I are saying good-bye to Ireland. That’s why I think + she might have let me see you before we went; but since it must not + be, well, then, it must not. But we shall meet again. In my soul + I know that on the hills somewhere far off, as on the first day we + met, we shall meet each other once more. Where are we going? Oh, + very far! We are going to my Uncle Bryan--Bryan Llyn, in Virginia. + A letter has come from him urging us to make our home with him. You + see, my friend-- + +Then followed the story which Bryan Llyn had told her mother and +herself, and she wrote of her mother’s decision to go out to the new, +great home which her uncle had made among the cotton-fields of the +South. When she had finished that part of the tale, she went on as +follows: + + We shall know your fate only through the letters that will follow + us, but I will not believe in your bad luck. Listen to me--why + don’t you come to America also? Oh, think it over! Don’t believe + the worst will come. When they release you from prison, innocent + and acquitted, cross the ocean and set up your tent under the Stars + and Stripes. Think of it! Nearly all those men in America who + fought under Washington and won were born in these islands. They + took with them to that far land the memory and love of these old + homes. You and I would have fought for England and with the British + troops, because we detest revolution. Here, in Ireland, we have + seen its evils; and yet if we had fought for the Union Jack beyond + the mountains of Maine and in the lonely woods, we should, I + believe, in the end have said that the freedom fought for by the + American States was well won. + + So keep this matter in your mind, for my mother and I will soon be + gone. She would not let me come to you,--I think I have never seen + her so disturbed as when I asked her, and she forbade me to write to + you; but I disobey her. Well, this is a sad business. I know my + mother has suffered. I know her married life was unhappy, and that + her husband--my father-died many a year ago, leaving a dark trail of + regret behind him; but, you see, I never knew my father. That was + all long ago, and it is a hundred times best forgotten. + + Our ship sails for Virginia in three days, and I must go. I will + keep looking back to the prison where lies, charged with an evil + crime, of which he is not guilty, a young man for whom I shall + always carry the spirit of good friendship. + + Do not believe all will not go well. Let us keep the courage of + our hearts and the faith of our souls--and I hope I always shall! + I believe in you, and, believing, I say good-bye. I say farewell in + the great hope that somehow, somewhere, we shall help each other on + the way of life. God be with you! + I am your friend, + SHEILA LLYN. + + P. S.--I beg you to remember that America is a good place for a + young man to live in and succeed. + +Dyck read the letter with a wonderful slowness. He realized that by +happy accident--it could be nothing else--Mrs. Llyn had been able to +keep from her daughter the fact that the man who had been killed in the +tavern by the river was her father. It was clear that the girl was kept +much to herself, read no newspapers, and saw few people, and that +those whom she saw had been careful to hold their peace about her close +relationship to Erris Boyne. None but the evil-minded would recall the +fact to her. + +Sheila’s ignorance must not be broken by himself. He had done the right +thing--he had held his peace for the girl’s sake, and he would hold it +to the end. Slowly he folded up the letter, pressed it to his lips, and +put it in the pocket over his heart. + + + + +CHAPTER X. DYCK CALHOUN ENTERS THE WORLD AGAIN + +“Is it near the time?” asked Michael Clones of his friend, as they stood +in front of the prison. + +His companion, who was seated on a stone, wrapped in dark-green +coverings faded and worn, and looking pinched with cold in the dour +November day, said, without lifting his head: + +“Seven minutes, an’ he’ll be out, God bless him!” + +“And save him and protect him!” said Michael. “He deserved punishment +no more than I did, and it’s broke him. I’ve seen the grey gather at his +temples, though he’s only been in prison four years. He was condemned +to eight, but they’ve let him free, I don’t know why. Perhaps it was +because of what he told the government about the French navy. I’ve seen +the joy of life sob itself down to the sour earth. When I took him the +news of his father’s death, and told him the creditors were swallowing +what was left of Playmore, what do you think he did?” + +Old Christopher Dogan smiled; his eyes twinkled with a mirth which had +more pain than gaiety. “God love you, I know what he did. He flung out +his hands, and said: ‘Let it go! It’s nothing to me.’ Michael, have I +said true?” + +Michael nodded. + +“Almost his very words you’ve used, and he flung out his hands, as you +said. + +“Aye, he’ll be changed; but they’ve kept the clothes he had when he went +to prison, and he’ll come out in them, I’m thinking--” + +“Ah, no!” interrupted Michael. “That can’t be, for his clothes was +stole. Only a week ago he sent to me for a suit of my own. I wouldn’t +have him wear my clothes--he a gentleman! It wasn’t fitting. So I sent +him a suit I bought from a shop, but he wouldn’t have it. He would leave +prison a poor man, as a peasant in peasant’s clothes. So he wrote to +me. Here is the letter.” He drew from his pocket a sheet of paper, and +spread it out. “See-read it. Ah, well, never mind,” he added, as old +Christopher shook his head. “Never mind, I’ll read it to you!” Thereupon +he read the note, and added: “We’ll see him of the Calhouns risin’ high +beyant poverty and misfortune some day.” + +Old Christopher nodded. + +“I’m glad Miles Calhoun was buried on the hilltop above Playmore. He had +his day; he lived his life. Things went wrong with him, and he paid the +price we all must pay for work ill-done.” + +“There you’re right, Christopher Dogan, and I remember the day the +downfall began. It was when him that’s now Lord Mallow, Governor of +Jamaica, came to summon Miles Calhoun to Dublin. Things were never the +same after that; but I well remember one talk I had with Miles Calhoun +just before his death. ‘Michael,’ he said to me, ‘my family have had +many ups and downs, and some that bear my name have been in prison +before this, but never for killing a man out of fair fight.’ ‘One of +your name may be in prison, sir,’ said I, ‘but not for killing a man out +of fair fight. If you believe he did, there’s no death bad enough for +you!’ He was silent for a while; then at last he whispered Mr. Dyck’s +name, and said to me: ‘Tell him that as a Calhoun I love him, and as his +father I love him ten times more. For look you, Michael, though we never +ran together, but quarrelled and took our own paths, yet we are both +Calhouns, and my heart is warm to him. If my son were a thousand times a +criminal, nevertheless I would ache to take him by the hand.’” + +“Hush! Look at the prison gate,” said his companion, and stood up. + +As the gates of the prison opened, the sun broke through the clouds and +gave a brilliant phase to the scene. Out of the gates there came slowly, +yet firmly, dressed in peasant clothes, the stalwart but faded figure of +Dyck Calhoun. + +Terribly changed he was. He had entered prison with the flush upon his +cheek, the lilt of young manhood in his eyes, with hair black and hands +slender and handsome. There was no look of youth in his face now. It was +the face of a middle-aged man from which the dew of youth had vanished, +into which life’s storms had come and gone. Though the body was held +erect, yet the head was thrust slightly forward, and the heavy eyebrows +were like a pent-house. The eyes were slightly feverish, and round +the mouth there crept a smile, half-cynical but a little happy. All +freshness was gone from his hands. One hung at his side, listless, +corded; the other doffed his hat in reply to the salute of his two +humble friends. + +As the gates closed behind him he looked gravely at the two men, who +were standing not a foot apart. There swept slowly into his eyes, +enlarging, brightening them, the glamour of the Celtic soul. Of all +Ireland, or all who had ever known him, these two were the only ones +welcoming him into the world again! Michael Clones, with his oval red +face, big nose, steely eye, and steadfast bearing, had in him the soul +of great kings. His hat was set firmly on his head. His knee-breeches +were neat, if coarse; his stockings were clean. His feet were well shod, +his coat worn, and he had still the look that belongs to the well-to-do +peasant. He was a figure of courage and endurance. Dyck’s hand went out +to him, and a warm smile crept to his lips. + +“Michael--ever--faithful Michael!” + +A moisture came to Michael’s eyes. He did not speak as he clasped the +hand Dyck offered him. Presently Dyck turned to old Christopher with a +kindly laugh. + +“Well, old friend! You, too, come to see the stag set loose again? +You’re not many, that’s sure.” A grim, hard look came into his face, but +both hands went out and caught the old man’s shoulders affectionately. +“This is no day for you to be waiting at prison’s gates, Christopher; +but there are two men who believe in me--two in all the world. It isn’t +the killing,” he added after a moment’s silence--“it isn’t the killing +that hurts so. If it’s true that I killed Erris Boyne, what hurts most +is the reason why I killed him.” + +“One way or another--does it matter now?” asked Christopher gently. + +“Is it that you think nothing matters since I’ve paid the price, sunk +myself in shame, lost my friends, and come out with not a penny left?” + asked Dyck. “But yes,” he added with a smile, wry and twisted, “yes, I +have a little left!” + +He drew from his pocket four small pieces of gold, and gazed ironically +at them in his palm. + +“Look at them!” He held out his hand, so that the two men could see the +little coins. “Those were taken from me when I entered prison. They’ve +been in the hands of the head of the jail ever since. They give them to +me now--all that’s left of what I was.” + +“No, not all, sir,” declared Michael. “There’s something left from +Playmore--there’s ninety pounds, and it’s in my pocket. It was got from +the sale of your sporting-kit. There was the boat upon the lake, the +gun, and all kinds of riffraff stuff not sold with Playmore.” + +Dyck nodded and smiled. “Good Michael!” + +Then he drew himself up stiffly, and blew in and out his breath as if +with the joy of living. For four hard years he had been denied the free +air of free men. Even when walking in the prison-yard, on cold or fair +days, when the air was like a knife or when it had the sun of summer in +it, it still had seemed to choke him. + +In prison he had read, thought, and worked much. They had at least done +that for him. The Attorney-General had given him freedom to work with +his hands, and to slave in the workshop like one whose living depended +on it. Some philanthropic official had started the idea of a workshop, +and the officials had given the best of the prisoners a chance to learn +trades and make a little money before they went out into the world. All +that Dyck had earned went to purchase things he needed, and to help his +fellow prisoners or their families. + +Where was he now? The gap between the old life of nonchalance, +frivolity, fantasy, and excitement was as great as that between heaven +and hell. Here he was, after four years of prison, walking the highway +with two of the humblest creatures of Ireland, and yet, as his soul +said, two of the best. + +Stalking along in thought, he suddenly became conscious that Michael and +Christopher had fallen behind. He turned round. + +“Come on. Come on with me.” But the two shook their heads. + +“It’s not fitting, you a Calhoun of Playmore!” Christopher answered. + +“Well, then, list to me,” said Dyck, for he saw the men could not bear +his new democracy. “I’m hungry. In four years I haven’t had a meal +that came from the right place or went to the right spot. Is the little +tavern, the Hen and Chickens, on the Liffeyside, still going? I mean the +place where the seamen and the merchant-ship officers visit.” + +Michael nodded. + +“Well, look you, Michael--get you both there, and order me as good a +meal of fish and chops and baked pudding as can be bought for money. +Aye, and I’ll have a bottle of red French wine, and you two will have +what you like best. Mark me, we’ll sit together there, for we’re one of +a kind. I’ve got to take to a life that fits me, an ex-jailbird, a man +that’s been in prison for killing!” + +“There’s the king’s army,” said Michael. “They make good officers in +it.” + +A strange, half-sore smile came to Dyck’s thin lips. + +“Michael,” said he, “give up these vain illusions. I was condemned for +killing a man not in fair fight. + +“I can’t enter the army as an officer, and you should know it. The king +himself could set me up again; but the distance between him and me is +ten times round the world and back again!” But then Dyck nodded kindly. +It was as if suddenly the martyr spirit had lifted him out of rigid, +painful isolation, and he was speaking from a hilltop. “No, my friends, +what is in my mind now is that I’m hungry. For four years I’ve eaten the +bread of prison, and it’s soured my mouth and galled my belly. Go you to +that inn and make ready a good meal.” + +The two men started to leave, but old Christopher turned and stretched a +hand up and out. + +“Son of Ireland, bright and black and black and bright may be the +picture of your life, but I see for you brightness and sweet faces, and +music and song. It’s not Irish music, and it’s not Irish song, but the +soul of the thing is Irish. Grim things await you, but you will conquer +where the eagle sways to the shore, where the white mist flees from the +hills, where heroes meet, where the hand of Moira stirs the blue and the +witches flee from the voice of God. There is honour coming to you in the +world.” + +Having said his say, with hand outstretched, having thrilled the air +with the voice of one who had the soul of a prophet, the old man turned. +Head bent forward, he shuffled away with Michael Clones along the stony +street. + +Dyck watched them go, his heart beating hard, his spirit overwhelmed. + +It was not far to the Castle, yet every footstep had a history. Now and +again he met people who knew him. Some bowed a little too profoundly, +some nodded; but not one stopped to speak to him, though a few among +them were people he had known well in days gone by. Was it the clothes +he wore, or was it that his star had sunk so low that none could keep +it company? He laughed to himself in scorn, and yet there kept ringing +through his brain all the time the bells of St. Anselm’s, which he was +hearing: + + “Oh, God, who is the sinner’s friend, + Make clean my soul once more!” + +When he arrived at the Castle walls he stood and looked long at them. + +“No, I won’t go in. I won’t try to see him,” he said at last. “God, how +strange Ireland is to me! The soil of it, the trees of it, the grass of +it, are dearer than ever, but--I’ll have no more of Ireland. I’ll ask +for nothing. I’ll get to England. What’s Ireland to me? I must make +my way somewhere. There’s one in there”--he nodded towards the +Castle--“that owes me money at cards. He should open his pockets to me, +and see me safe on a ship for Australia; but I’ve had my fill of every +one in Ireland. There’s nothing here for me but shame. Well, back I’ll +go to the Hen and Chickens, to find a good dinner there.” + +He turned and went back slowly along the streets by which he had come, +looking not to right nor left, thinking only of where he should go and +what he should do outside of Ireland. + +At the door of the inn he sniffed the dinner Michael had ordered. + +“Man alive!” he said as he entered the place and saw the two men with +their hands against the bright fire. “There’s only one way to live, and +that’s the way I’m going to try.” + +“Well, you’ll not try it alone, sir, if you please,” said Michael. “I’ll +be with you, if I may.” + +“And I’ll bless you as you go,” said Christopher Dogan. + + + + +CHAPTER XI. WHITHER NOW? + +England was in a state of unrest. She had, as yet, been none too +successful in the war with France. From the king’s castle to the poorest +slum in Seven Dials there was a temper bordering on despair. Ministries +came and went; statesmen rose and fell. The army was indifferently +recruited and badly paid. England’s battles were fought by men of whom +many were only mercenaries, with no stake in England’s rise or fall. + +In the army and navy there were protests, many and powerful, against the +smallness of the pay, while the cost of living had vastly increased. In +more than one engagement on land England had had setbacks of a serious +kind, and there were those who saw in the blind-eyed naval policy, in +the general disregard of the seamen’s position, in the means used for +recruiting, the omens of disaster. The police courts furnished the navy +with the worst citizens of the country. Quota men, the output of the +Irish prisons--seditious, conspiring, dangerous--were drafted for the +king’s service. + +The admiralty pursued its course of seizing men of the mercantile +marine, taking them aboard ships, keeping them away for months from the +harbours of the kingdom, and then, when their ships returned, denying +them the right of visiting their homes. The press-gangs did not confine +their activities to the men of the mercantile marine. From the streets +after dusk they caught and brought in, often after ill-treatment, torn +from their wives and sweethearts, knocked on the head for resisting, +tradesmen with businesses, young men studying for the professions, +idlers, debtors, out-of-work men. The marvel is that the British fleets +fought as well as they did. + +Poverty and sorrow, loss and bereavement, were in every street, peeped +mournfully out of every window, lurked at street corners. From all parts +of the world adventurers came to renew their fortunes in the turmoil +of London, and every street was a kaleidoscope of faces and clothes and +colours, not British, not patriot, not national. + +Among these outlanders were Dyck Calhoun and Michael Clones. They +had left Ireland together in the late autumn, leaving behind them the +stirrings of the coming revolution, and plunging into another revolt +which was to prove the test and trial of English character. + +Dyck had left Ireland with ninety pounds in his pocket and many tons’ +weight of misery in his heart. In his bones he felt tragedies on foot in +Ireland which concession and good government could not prevent. He had +fled from it all. When he set his face to Holyhead, he felt that he +would never live in Ireland again. Yet his courage was firm as he made +his way to London, with Michael Clones--faithful, devoted, a friend +and yet a servant, treated like a comrade, yet always with a little +dominance. + +The journey to London had been without event, yet as the coach rolled +through country where frost silvered the trees; where, in the early +morning, the grass was shining with dew; where the everlasting green +hedges and the red roofs of villages made a picture which pleased the +eye and stirred the soul, Dyck Calhoun kept wondering what would be his +future. He had no profession, no trade, no skill except with his sword; +and as he neared London Town--when they left Hendon--he saw the smoke +rising in the early winter morning and the business of life spread out +before him, brave and buoyant. + +As from the heights of Hampstead he looked down on the multitudinous +area called London, something throbbed at his heart which seemed like +hope; for what he saw was indeed inspiring. When at last, in the Edgware +Road, he drew near to living London, he turned to Michael Clones and +said: + +“Michael, my lad, I think perhaps we’ll find a footing here.” + +So they reached London, and quartered themselves in simple lodgings in +Soho. Dyck walked the streets, and now and then he paid a visit to the +barracks where soldiers were, to satisfy the thought that perhaps in the +life of the common soldier he might, after all, find his future. It was, +however, borne in upon him by a chance remark of Michael one day--“I’m +not young enough to be a recruit, and you wouldn’t go alone without me, +would you?”--that this way to a livelihood was not open to him. + +His faithful companion’s remark had fixed Dyck’s mind against entering +the army, and then, towards the end of the winter, a fateful +thing happened. His purse containing what was left of the ninety +pounds--two-fifths of it--disappeared. It had been stolen, and in all +the bitter days to come, when poverty and misery ground them down, no +hint of the thief, no sign of the robber, was ever revealed. + +Then, at last, a day when a letter came from Ireland. It was from the +firm in which Bryan Llyn of Virginia had been interested, for the letter +had been sent to their care, and Dyck had given them his address in +London on this very chance. It reached Dyck’s hands on the day after +the last penny had been paid out for their lodgings, and they faced +the streets, penniless, foodless--one was going to say friendless. The +handwriting was that of Sheila Llyn. + +At a street corner, by a chemist’s shop where a red light burned, Dyck +opened and read the letter. This is what Sheila had written to him. + + MY DEAR FRIEND: + + The time is near (I understand by a late letter to my mother from an + official) when you will be freed from prison and will face the world + again. I have not written you since your trial, but I have never + forgotten and never shall. I have been forbidden to write to you or + think of you, but I will take my own way about you. I have known + all that has happened since we left Ireland, through the letters my + mother has received. I know that Playmore has been sold, and I am + sorry. + + Now that your day of release is near, and you are to be again a free + man, have you decided about your future? Is it to be in Ireland? + No, I think not. Ireland is no place for a sane and level man to + fight for honour, fame, and name. I hear that things are worse + there in every way than they have been in our lifetime. + + After what has happened in any case, it is not a field that offers + you a chance. Listen to me. Ireland and England are not the only + places in the world. My uncle came here to Virginia a poor man. + He is now immensely rich. He had little to begin with, but he was + young like you--indeed, a little older than you--when he first came. + He invested wisely, worked bravely, and his wealth grew fast. No + man needs a fortune to start the business of life in this country. + He can get plenty of land for almost nothing; he can get credit for + planting and furnishing his land, and, if he has friends, the credit + is sure. + + All America is ready for “the likes of you.” Think it over, and + meanwhile please know there has been placed with the firm in Dublin + money enough to bring you here with comfort. You must not refuse + it. Take it as a loan, for I know you will not take it as a gift. + + I do not know the story of the killing, even as it was told in + court. Well, some one killed the man, but not you, and the truth + will out in time. If one should come to me out of the courts of + heaven, and say that there it was declared you were a rogue, I + should say heaven was no place for me. No, of one thing I am sure-- + you never killed an undefended man. Wayward, wanton, reckless, + dissipated you may have been, but you were never depraved--never! + + When you are free, lift up your shoulders to all the threats of + time, then go straight to the old firm where the money is, draw it, + take ship, and come here. If you let me know you are coming, I will + be there to meet you when you step ashore, to give you a firm hand- + clasp; to tell you that in this land there is a good place for you, + if you will win it. + + Here there is little crime, though the perils of life are many. + There is Indian fighting; there are Indian depredations; and not a + dozen miles from where I sit men have been shot for crimes + committed. The woods are full of fighters, and pirates harry the + coast. On the wall of the room where I write there are carbines + that have done service in Indian wars and in the Revolutionary War; + and here out of the window I can see hundreds of black heads-slaves, + brought from Africa and the Indies, slaves whose devotion to my + uncle is very great. I hear them singing now; over the white-tipped + cotton-fields there flows the sound of it. + + This plantation has none of the vices that belong to slavery. Here + life is complete. The plantation is one great workshop where trades + are learned and carried out-shoeing, blacksmithing, building, + working in wood and metal. + + I am learning here--you see I am quite old, for I am twenty-one now + --the art of management. They tell me that when my uncle’s day is + done--I grieve to think it is not far off--I must take the rod of + control. I work very, very hard. I have to learn figures and + finance; I have to see how all the work is done, so that I shall + know it is done right. I have had to discipline the supervisors and + bookkeepers, inspect and check the output, superintend the packing, + and arrange for the sale of the crop-yes, I arranged for the sale of + this year’s crop myself. So I live the practical life, and when I + say that you could make your home here and win success, I do it with + some knowledge. + + I beg you take ship for the Virginian coast. Enter upon the new + life here with faith and courage. Have no fear. Heaven that has + thus far helped you will guide you to the end. + + I write without my mother’s permission, but my uncle knows, and + though he does not approve, he does not condemn. + + Once more good-bye, my dear friend, and God be with you. + + SHEILA LLYN. + + P. S.--I wonder where you will read this letter. I hope it will + find you before your release. Please remember that she who wrote it + summons you from the darkness where you are to light and freedom + here. + +Slowly Dyck folded up the letter, when he had read it, and put it in his +pocket. Then he turned with pale face and gaunt look to Michael Clones. + +“Michael,” said he, “that letter is from a lady. It comes from her new +home in Virginia.” + +Michael nodded. + +“Aye, aye, sir, I understand you,” he said. “Then she doesn’t know the +truth about her father?” Dyck sighed heavily. “No, Michael, she doesn’t +know the truth.” + +“I don’t believe it would make any difference to her if she did know.” + +“It would make all the difference to me, Michael. She says she wishes +to help me. She tells me that money’s been sent to the big firm in +Dublin-money to take me across the sea to Virginia.” + +Michael’s face clouded. + +“Yes, sir. To Virginia--and what then?” + +“Michael, we haven’t a penny in the world, you and I, but if I took +one farthing of that money I should hope you would kill me. I’m hungry; +we’ve had nothing to eat since yesterday; but if I could put my hands +upon that money here and now I wouldn’t touch it. Michael, it looks as +if we shall have to take to the trade of the footpad.” + + + + +CHAPTER XII. THE HOUR BEFORE THE MUTINY + +In the days when Dyck Calhoun was on the verge of starvation in +London, evil naval rumours were abroad. Newspapers reported, one with +apprehension, another with tyrannous comment, mutinous troubles in the +fleet. + +At first the only demand at Spithead and the Nore had been for an +increase of pay, which had not been made since the days of Charles II. +Then the sailors’ wages were enough for comfortable support; but in 1797 +through the rise in the cost of living, and with an advance of thirty +per cent. on slops, their families could barely maintain themselves. It +was said in the streets, and with truth, that seamen who had fought with +unconquerable gallantry under Howe, Collingwood, Nelson, and the other +big sea-captains, who had borne suffering and wounds, and had been in +the shadow of death--that even these men damned a system which, in its +stern withdrawal of their class for long spaces of time from their own +womenfolk, brought evil results to the forecastle. + +The soldier was always in touch with his own social world, and he had +leave sufficient to enable him to break the back of monotony. He drank, +gambled, and orated; but his indulgences were little compared with the +debauches of able-bodied seamen when, after months of sea-life, they +reached port again. A ship in port at such a time was not a scene of +evangelical habits. Women of loose class, flower-girls, fruit-sellers, +and costermongers turned the forecastle into a pleasure-house where +the pleasures were not always secret; where native modesty suffered no +affright, and physical good cheer, with ribald paraphrase, was notable +everywhere. + +“How did it happen, Michael?” + +As he spoke, Dyck looked round the forecastle of the Ariadne with a +restless and inquisitive expression. Michael was seated a few feet away, +his head bent forward, his hands clasped around his knees. + +“Well, it don’t matter one way or ‘nother,” he replied; “but it was like +this. The night you got a letter from Virginia we was penniless; so at +last I went with my watch to the pawnbroker’s. You said you’d wait till +I got back, though you knew not where I was goin’. When I got back, you +were still broodin’. You were seated on a horse-block by the chemist’s +lamp where you had read the letter. It’s not for me to say of what you +were thinkin’; but I could guess. You’d been struck hard, and there had +come to you a letter from one who meant more to you than all the rest of +the world; and you couldn’t answer it because things weren’t right. As +I stood lookin’ at you, wonderin’ what to do, though, I had twelve +shillin’s in my pocket from the watch I’d pawned, there came four men, +and I knew from their looks they were recruitin’ officers of the navy. I +saw what was in their eyes. They knew--as why shouldn’t they, when they +saw a gentleman like you in peasant clothes?--that luck had been agin’ +us. + +“What the end would have been I don’t know. It was you that solved the +problem, not them. You looked at the first man of them hard. Then you +got to your feet. + +“‘Michael,’ says you quietly, ‘I’m goin’ to sea. England’s at war, and +there’s work to do. So let’s make for a king’s ship, and have done with +misery and poverty.’ + +“Then you waved a hand to the man in command of the recruitin’ gang, and +presently stepped up to him and his friends. + +“‘Sir,’ I said to you, ‘I’m not going to be pressed into the navy.’ + +“‘There’s no pressin’, Michael,’ you answered. ‘We’ll be quota men. +We’ll do it for cash--for forty pounds each, and no other. You let them +have you as you are. But if you don’t want to come,’ you added, ‘it’s +all the same to me.’ + +“Faith, I knew that was only talk. I knew you wanted me. Also I knew the +king’s navy needed me, for men are hard to get. So, when they’d paid +us the cash--forty pounds apiece--I stepped in behind you, and here we +are--here we are! Forty pounds apiece--equal to three years’ wages of +an ordinary recruit of the army. It ain’t bad, but we’re here for three +years, and no escape from it. Yes, here we are!” + +Dyck laughed. + +“Aye, here we’re likely to remain, Michael. There’s only this to be +said--we’ll be fighting the French soon, and it’s easy to die in the +midst of a great fight. If we don’t die, Michael, something else will +turn up, maybe.” + +“That’s true, sir! They’ll make an officer of you, once they see you +fight. This is no place for you, among the common herd. It’s the dregs +o’ the world that comes to the ship’s bottom in time of peace or war.” + +“Well, I’m the dregs of the world, Michael. I’m the supreme dregs.” + +Somehow the letter from Virginia had decided Dyck Calhoun’s fate for +him. Here he was--at sea, a common sailor in the navy. He and Michael +Clones had eaten and drunk as sailors do, and they had realized that, as +they ate and drank on the River Thames, they would not eat and drink +on the watery fairway. They had seen the tank foul with age, from which +water was drawn for men who could not live without it, and the smell of +it had revolted Dyck’s senses. They had seen the kegs of pickled meat, +and they had been told of the evil rations given to the sailors at sea. + +The Ariadne had been a flag-ship in her day, the home of an admiral and +his staff. She carried seventy-four guns, was easily obedient to her +swift sail, and had a reputation for gallantry. From the first hour +on board, Dyck Calhoun had fitted in; with a discerning eye he had +understood the seamen’s needs and the weaknesses of the system. + +The months he had spent between his exit from prison and his entrance +into the Ariadne had roughened, though not coarsened, his outward +appearance. From his first appearance among the seamen he had set +himself to become their leader. His enlistment was for three years, and +he meant that these three should prove the final success of this naval +enterprise, or the stark period in a calendar of tragedy. + +The life of the sailor, with its coarseness and drudgery, its inadequate +pay, its evil-smelling food, its maggoty bread, its beer drawn from +casks that once had held oil or fish, its stinking salt-meat barrels, +the hideous stench of the bilge-water--all this could in one sense be +no worse than his sufferings in jail. In spite of self-control, jail +had been to him the degradation of his hopes, the humiliation of his +manhood. + +He had suffered cold, dampness, fever, and indigestion there, and it +had sapped the fresh fibre of life in him. His days in London had been +cruel. He had sought work in great commercial concerns, and had almost +been grateful when rejected. When his money was stolen, there seemed +nothing to do, as he said to Michael Clones, but to become a footpad or +a pirate. Then the stormy doors of the navy had opened wide to him; and +as many a man is tempted into folly or crime by tempestuous nature, +so he, forlorn, spiritually unkempt, but physically and mentally +well-composed, in a spirit of bravado, flung himself into the bowels of +the fleet. + +From the moment Dyck arrived on board the Ariadne he was a marked +man. Ferens, a disfranchised solicitor, who knew his story, spread the +unwholesome truth about him among the ship’s people, and he received +attentions at once offensive and flattering. The best-educated of the +ship’s hands approached him on the grievances with which the whole navy +was stirring. + +Something had put a new spirit into the life of his majesty’s ships; it +was, in a sense, the reflection of the French Revolution and Tom Paine’s +Age of Reason. What the Americans had done in establishing a republic, +what France was doing by her revolution, got into the veins and minds of +some men in England, but it got into the veins and minds of the sailor +first; for, however low his origin, he had intercourse not given to the +average landsman. He visited foreign ports, he came in touch with other +elements than those of British life and character. + +Of all the ships in the navy the Ariadne was the best that Dyck Calhoun +could have entered. Her officers were humane and friendly, yet firm; and +it was quite certain that if mutiny came they would be treated well. The +agitation on the Ariadne in support of the grievances of the sailors was +so moderate that, from the first, Dyck threw in his lot with it. Ferens, +the former solicitor, first came to him with a list of proposals, which +only repeated the demands made by the agitators at Spithead. + +“You’re new among us,” said Ferens to Dyck. “You don’t quite know what +we’ve been doing, I suppose. Some of us have been in the navy for two +years, and some for ten. There are men on this ship who could tell +you stories that would make your blood run cold--take my word for it. +There’s a lot of things goin’ on that oughtn’t to be goin’ on. The time +has come for reform. Have a look at this paper, and tell me what you +think.” + +Dyck looked at the pockmarked face of Ferens, whose record in the courts +was a bad one, and what he saw did not disgust him. It was as though +Ferens had stumbled and been badly hit in his fall, but there were +no signs of permanent evil in his countenance. He was square-headed, +close-cropped, clear-eyed, though his face was yellow where it was not +red, and his tongue was soft in his head. + +Dyck read the paper slowly and carefully. Then he handed it back without +a word. + +“Well, what have you got to say?” asked Ferens. “Nothing? Don’t you +think that’s a strong list of grievances and wrongs?” + +Dyck nodded. “Yes, it’s pretty strong,” he said, and he held up his +hand. “Number One, wages and cost of living. I’m sure we’re right there. +Cost of living was down in King Charles’s time, and wages were down +accordingly. Everything’s gone up, and wages should go up. Number Two, +the prize-money scandal. I’m with you there. I don’t see why an officer +should get two thousand five hundred times as much as a seaman. There +ought to be a difference, but not so much. Number Three, the food +ought to be better; the water ought to be better. We can’t live on rum, +maggoty bread, and foul water--that’s sure. The rum’s all right; it’s +powerful natural stuff, but we ought to have meat that doesn’t stink, +and bread that isn’t alive. What’s more, we ought to have lots of +lime-juice, or there’s no protection for us when we’re out at sea with +the best meat taken by the officers and the worst left to us; and with +foul water and rotten food, there’s no hope or help. But, if we’re going +in for this sort of thing, we ought to do it decently. We can’t slap +a government in the mouth, and we can’t kick an admiral without paying +heavy for it in the end. If it’s wholesome petitioning you’re up to, I’m +with you; but I’m not if there’s to be knuckle-dusting.” + +Ferens shrugged a shoulder. + +“Things are movin’, and we’ve got to take our stand now when the time is +ripe for it, or else lose it for ever. Over at Spithead they’re gettin’ +their own way. The government are goin’ to send the Admiralty Board down +here, because our admiral say to them that it won’t be safe goin’ unless +they do.” + +“And what are we going to do here?” asked Dyck. “What’s the game of the +fleet at the Nore?” + +Ferens replied in a low voice: + +“Our men are goin’ to send out petitions--to the Admiralty and to the +House of Commons.” + +“Why don’t you try Lord Howe?” + +“He’s not in command of a fleet now. Besides, petitions have been sent +him, and he’s taken no notice.” + +“Howe? No notice--the best admiral we ever had! I don’t believe it,” + declared Dyck savagely. “Why, the whole navy believes in Howe. They +haven’t forgotten what he did in ‘94. He’s as near to the seaman as the +seaman is to his mother. Who sent the petitions to him?” + +“They weren’t signed by names--they were anonymous.” + +Dyck laughed. + +“Yes, and all written by the same hand, I suppose.” Ferens nodded. + +“I think that’s so.” + +“Can you wonder, then, that Lord Howe didn’t acknowledge them? But I’m +still sure he acted promptly. He’s a big enough friend of the sailor to +waste no time before doing his turn.” + +Ferens shook his head morosely. + +“That may be,” he said; “but the petitions were sent weeks ago, and +there’s no sign from Lord Howe. He was at Bath for gout. My idea is he +referred them to the admiral commanding at Portsmouth, and was told +that behind the whole thing is conspiracy--French socialism and English +politics. I give you my word there’s no French agent in the fleet, and +if there were, it wouldn’t have any effect. Our men’s grievances are not +new. They’re as old as Cromwell.” + +Suddenly a light of suspicion flashed into Ferens’s face. + +“You’re with us, aren’t you? You see the wrongs we’ve suffered, and how +bad it all is! Yet you haven’t been on a voyage with us. You’ve only +tasted the life in harbour. Good God, this life is heaven to what we +have at sea! We don’t mind the fightin’. We’d rather fight than eat.” + An evil grin covered his face for a minute. “Yes, we’d rather fight than +eat, for the stuff we get to eat is hell’s broil, God knows! Did you +ever think what the life of the sailor is, that swings at the top of a +mast with the frost freezin’ his very soul, and because he’s slow, owin’ +to the cold, gets twenty lashes for not bein’ quicker? Well, I’ve seen +that, and a bad sight it is. Did you ever see a man flogged? It ain’t a +pretty sight. First the back takes the click of the whip like a damned +washboard, and you see the ridges rise and go purple and red, and the +man has his breath knocked clean out of him with every blow. Nearly +every stroke takes off the skin and draws the blood, and a dozen will +make the back a ditch of murder. Then the whipper stops, looks at the +lashes, feels them tender like, and out and down it comes again. When +all the back is ridged and scarred, the flesh, that looked clean and +beautiful, becomes a bloody mass. Some men get a hundred lashes, and +that’s torture and death. + +“A man I knew was flogged told me once that the first blow made his +flesh quiver in every nerve from his toe-nails to his finger-nails, and +stung his heart as if a knife had gone through his body. There was agony +in his lungs, and the time between each stroke was terrible, and yet the +next came too soon. He choked with the blood from his tongue, lacerated +with his teeth, and from his lungs, and went black in the face. I +saw his back. It looked like roasted meat; yet he had only had eighty +strokes. + +“The punishments are bad. Runnin’ the gauntlet is one of them. Each +member of the crew is armed with three tarry rope-yarns, knotted at +the ends. Then between the master-at-arms with a drawn sword and two +corporals with drawn swords behind, the thief, stripped to the waist, +is placed. The thing is started by a boatswain’s mate givin’ him a dozen +lashes. Then he’s slowly marched down the double line of men, who flog +him as he passes, and at the end of the line he receives another dose +of the cat from the boatswain’s mate. The poor devil’s body and head +are flayed, and he’s sent to hospital and rubbed with brine till he’s +healed. + +“But the most horrible of all is flogging through the fleet. That’s +given for strikin’ an officer, or tryin’ to escape. It’s a sickenin’ +thing. The victim is lashed by his wrists to a capstan-bar in the ship’s +long-boat, and all the ship’s boats are lowered also, and each ship +in harbour sends a boat manned by marines to attend. Then, with the +master-at-arms and the ship’s surgeon, the boat is cast off. The +boatswain’s mate begins the floggin’, and the boat rows away to the +half-minute bell, the drummer beatin’ the rogue’s march. From ship to +ship the long-boat goes, and the punishment of floggin’ is repeated. If +he faints, he gets wine or rum, or is taken back to his ship to recover. +When his back is healed he goes out to get the rest of his sentence. +Very few ever live through it, or if they do it’s only for a short time. +They’d better have taken the hangin’ that was the alternative. Even a +corpse with its back bare of flesh to the bone has received the last +lashes of a sentence, and was then buried in the mud of the shore with +no religious ceremony. + +“Mind you, there’s many a man gets fifty lashes that don’t deserve them. +There’s many men in the fleet that’s stirred to anger at ill-treatment, +until now, in these days, the whole lot is ready to see the thing +through--to see the thing through--by heaven and by hell!” + +The pockmarked face had taken on an almost ghastly fervour, until it +looked like a distorted cartoon-vindictive, fanatical; but Dyck, on +the edge of the river of tragedy, was not ready to lose himself in the +stream of it. + +As he looked round the ship he felt a stir of excitement like nothing +he had ever known, though he had been brought up in a country where men +were by nature revolutionists, and where the sword was as often outside +as inside the scabbard. There was something terrible in a shipboard +agitation not to be found in a land-rising. On land there were a +thousand miles of open country, with woods and houses, caves and cliffs, +to which men could flee for hiding; and the danger of rebellion was +less dominant. At sea, a rebellion was like some beastly struggle in one +room, beyond the walls of which was everlasting nothingness. The thing +had to be fought out, as it were, man to man within four walls, and God +help the weaker! + +“How many ships in the fleet are sworn to this agitation?” Dyck asked +presently. + +“Every one. It’s been like a spread of infection; it’s entered at every +door, looked out of every window. All the ships are in it, from the +twenty-six-hundred-tonners to the little five-hundred-and-fifty-tonners. +Besides, there are the Delegates.” + +He lowered his voice as he used these last words. “Yes, I know,” Dyck +answered, though he did not really know. “But who is at the head?” + +“Why, as bold a man as can be--Richard Parker, an Irishman. He was once +a junior naval officer, and left the navy and went into business; now he +is a quotaman, and leads the mutiny. Let me tell you that unless there’s +a good round answer to what we demand, the Nore fleet’ll have it out +with the government. He’s a man of character, is Richard Parker, and the +fleet’ll stand by him.” + +“How long has he been at it?” asked Dyck. + +“Oh, weeks and weeks! It doesn’t all come at once, the grip of the +thing. It began at Spithead, and it worked right there; and now it’s +workin’ at the Nore, and it’ll work and work until there isn’t a ship +and there isn’t a man that won’t be behind the Delegates. Look. Half the +seamen on this ship have tasted the inside of a jail; and the rest come +from the press-gang, and what’s left are just the ragged ends of street +corners. But”--and here the man drew himself up with a flush--“but +there’s none of us that wouldn’t fight to the last gasp of breath for +the navy that since the days of Elizabeth has sailed at the head of all +the world. Don’t think we mean harm to the fleet. We mean to do it good. +All we want is that its masters shall remember we’re human flesh and +blood; that we’re as much entitled to good food and drink on sea as on +land; and that, if we risk our lives and shed our blood, we ought to +have some share in the spoils. We’re a great country and we’re a great +people, but, by God, we’re not good to our own! Look at them there.” + +He turned and waved a hand to the bowels of the ship where sailors +traded with the slop-sellers, or chaffered with women, or sat in groups +and sang, or played rough games which had no vital meaning; while here +and there in groups, with hands gesticulating, some fanatics declared +their principles. And the principles of every man in the Nore fleet so +far were embraced in the four words--wages, food, drink, prize-money. + +Presently Ferens stopped short. “Listen!” he said. + +There was a cry from the ship’s side not far away, and then came little +bursts of cheering. + +“By Heaven, it’s the Delegates comin’ here!” he said. He held up a +warning palm, as though commanding silence, while he listened intently. +“Yes, it’s the Delegates. Now look at that crowd of seamen!” He swung +his hand towards the bowels of the ship. Scores of men were springing to +their feet. Presently there came a great shouting and cheers, and then +four new faces appeared on deck. They were faces of intelligence, but +one of them had the enlightened look of leadership. + +“By Judas, it’s our leader, Richard Parker!” declared Ferens. + +What Dyck now saw was good evidence of the progress of the agitation. +There were officers of the Ariadne to be seen, but they wisely took no +notice of the breaches of regulation which followed the arrival of the +Delegates. Dyck saw Ferens speak to Richard Parker after the men had +been in conference with Parker and the Delegates, and then turn towards +himself. Richard Parker came to him. + +“We are fellow countrymen,” he said genially. “I know your history. +We are out to make the navy better--to get the men their rights. I +understand you are with us?” + +Dyck bowed. “I will do all possible to get reforms in wages and food put +through, sir.” + +“That’s good,” said Parker. “There are some petitions you can draft, +and some letters also to the Admiralty and to the Houses of Lords and +Commons.” + +“I am at your service,” said Dyck. + +He saw his chance to secure influence on the Ariadne, and also to do +good to the service. Besides, he felt he might be able to check the +worst excesses of the agitation, if he got power under Parker. He was +free from any wish for mutiny, but he was the friend of an agitation +which might end as successfully as the trouble at Spithead. + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. TO THE WEST INDIES + +A fortnight later the mutiny at the Nore shook and bewildered the +British Isles. In the public journals and in Parliament it was declared +that this outbreak, like that at Spithead, was due partly to political +strife, but more extensively to agents of revolution from France and +Ireland. + +The day after Richard Parker visited the Ariadne the fleet had been put +under the control of the seamen’s Delegates, who were men of standing +in the ships, and of personal popularity. Their first act was to declare +that the fleet should not leave port until the men’s demands were +satisfied. + +The King, Prime Minister, and government had received a shock greater +than that which had come with the announcement of American independence. +The government had armed the forts at Sheerness, had sent troops and +guns to Gravesend and Tilbury, and had declared war upon the rebellious +fleet. + +At the head of the Delegates, Richard Parker, with an officer’s +knowledge, became a kind of bogus admiral, who, in interview with the +real admirals and the representatives of the Admiralty Board, talked +like one who, having power, meant to use it ruthlessly. The government +had yielded to the Spithead mutineers, giving pardon to all except the +ringleaders, and granting demands for increased wages and better food, +with a promise to consider the question of prize-money; but the Nore +mutineers refused to accept that agreement, and enlarged the Spithead +demands. Admiral Buckner arrived on board his flag-ship, the Sandwich, +without the deference due to an admiral, and then had to wait three +hours for Parker and the Delegates on the quarter-deck. At the interview +that followed, while apologizing to the admiral for his discourtesy, +Parker wore his hat as quasi-admiral of the fleet. The demands of the +Delegates were met by reasoning on the part of Buckner, but without +effect: for the seamen of the Nore believed that what Spithead could get +by obstinacy the Nore could increase by contumacy; and it was their firm +will to bring the Lords of the Admiralty to their knees. + +The demands of the Nore Delegates, however, were rejected by the +Admiralty, and with the rejection two regiments of militia came from +Canterbury to reinforce the Sheerness garrison. The mutineers were +allowed to parade the town, so long as their conduct was decent, as +Admiral Buckner admitted it to be; but Parker declared that the presence +of the militia was an insult to the seamen in the Nore fleet. + +Then ensued the beginning of the terror. When Buckner presented the +Admiralty’s refusal to deal with the Delegates, there came quick +response. The reply of the mutineers was to row into Sheerness harbour +and take away with them eight gunboats lying there, each of which fired +a shot at the fort, as if to announce that the mutineers were now the +avowed enemies of the government. + +Thereupon the rebels ordered all their ships together at the Great Nore, +ranging them into two crescents, with the newly acquired gunboats at the +flanks. The attitude of the authorities gave the violent mutineers their +opportunity. Buckner’s flag was struck from the mainmast-head of the +Sandwich, and the red flag was hoisted in its place. + +The Delegates would not accept an official pardon for their mutiny +through Buckner. They demanded a deputation from the Admiralty, Parker +saying that no accommodation could occur without the appearance of +the Lords of the Admiralty at the Nore. Then followed threatening +arrangements, and the Delegates decided to blockade the Thames and the +Medway. + +It was at this time that Dyck Calhoun--who, by consent of Richard +Parker, had taken control of the Ariadne--took action which was to alter +the course of his own life and that of many others. + +Since the beginning of the mutiny he had acted with decision, judgment, +and strength. He had agreed to the Ariadne joining the mutinous ships, +and he had skilfully constructed petitions to the Admiralty, the House +of Commons, and the King. His habit of thought, his knowledge of life, +made him a power. He believed that the main demands of the seamen were +just, and he made a useful organization to enforce them. It was only +when he saw the mutineers would not accept the terms granted to the +Spithead rebels that a new spirit influenced him. + +He had determined to get control of the Ariadne. His gift as a speaker +had conquered his fellow-sailors, and the fact that he was an ex-convict +gave them confidence that he was no friend of the government. + +One of the first things he did, after securing his own pre-eminence on +the ship, was to get the captain and officers safely ashore. This he did +with skill, and the crew of the ship even cheered them as they left. + +None of the regular officers of the Ariadne were left upon her, +except Greenock, the master of the ship, whose rank was below that of +lieutenant, and whose duties were many and varied under the orders of +the captain. Greenock chose to stay, though Dyck said he could go if he +wished. Greenock’s reply was that it was his duty to stay, if the ship +was going to remain at sea, for no one else could perform his duties or +do his work. + +Then, by vote, Dyck became captain of the ship. He did not, however, +wear a captain’s uniform--blue coat, with white cuffs, flat +gold buttons; with lace at the neck, a white-sleeved waistcoat, +knee-breeches, white silk stockings, and a three-cornered black hat +edged with gold lace and ornamented with a cockade; with a black cravat, +a straight dress sword, a powdered cue tied with a black-silk ribbon, +and epaulets of heavy gold stuff completing the equipment. Dyck, to the +end of his career at sea, wore only the common seaman’s uniform. + +Dyck would not have accepted the doubtful honour had he not had long +purposes in view. With Ferens, Michael Clones, and two others whom +Ferens could trust, a plan was arranged which Dyck explained to his +fellow-seamen on the Ariadne. + +“We’ve come to the parting of the ways, brothers,” he said. “We’ve all +become liable to death for mutiny. The pardon offered by the King has +been refused, and fresh demands are made. There, I think, a real wrong +has been done by our people. The Ariadne is well supplied with food and +water. It is the only ship with sufficiency. And why? Because at +the beginning we got provisions from the shore in time; also we got +permission from Richard Parker to fill our holds from two stopped +merchant-ships. Well, the rest of the fleet know what our food and drink +fitment is. They know how safe we are, and to-day orders have come to +yield our provisions to the rest of the fleet. That is, we, who have +taken time by the forelock, must yield up our good gettings to bad +receivers. I am not prepared to do it. + +“On shore the Admiralty have stopped the supply of provisions to us and +to all the fleet. Our men have been arrested at Gravesend, Tilbury, and +Sheerness. The fleet could not sail now if it wished; but one ship can +sail, and it is ours. The fleet hasn’t the food to sail. On Richard +Parker’s ship, the Sandwich, there is food only for a week. The others +are almost as bad. We are in danger of being attacked. Sir Erasmus +Gower, of the Neptune, has a fleet of warships, gunboats, and amateur +armed vessels getting ready to attack us. The North Sea fleet has come +to help us, but that doesn’t save us. I’ll say this--we are loyal men +in this fleet, otherwise our ships would have joined the enemy in the +waters of France or Holland. They can’t go now, in any case. The men +have lost heart. Confidence in our cause has declined. The government +sent Lords of the Admiralty here, and they offered pardon if we accepted +the terms of the Spithead settlement. We declined the terms. That was a +bad day for us, and put every one of our heads in a noose. + +“For the moment we have a majority in men and ships; but we can’t +renew our food or drink, or ammunition. The end is sure against us. Our +original agitation was just; our present obduracy is madness. This ship +is suspected. It is believed by the rest of the fleet--by ships like the +Invincible--that we’re weak-kneed, selfish, and lacking in fidelity to +the cause. That’s not true; but we have either to fight or to run, and +perhaps to do both. + +“Make no mistake. The government are not cowards; the Admiralty are +gentlemen of determination. If men like Admiral Howe support the +Admiralty--Howe, one of the best friends the seaman ever had--what do +you think the end will be? Have you heard what happened at Spithead? The +seamen chivvied Admiral Alan Gardner and his colleagues aboard a ship. +He caught hold of a seaman Delegate by the collar and shook him. +They closed in on him. They handled him roughly. He sprang on the +hammock-nettings, put the noose of the hanging-rope round his neck, and +said to the men who advanced menacingly: + +“‘If you will return to your duty, you may hang me at the yard-arm!’ + +“That’s the kind of stuff our admirals are made of. We have no quarrel +with the majority of our officers. They’re straight, they’re honest, +and they’re true to their game. Our quarrel is with Parliament and the +Admiralty; our struggle is with the people of the kingdom, who have +not seen to it that our wrongs are put right, that we have food to eat, +water to drink, and money to spend.” + +He waved a hand, as though to sweep away the criticisms he felt must be +rising against him. + +“Don’t think because I’ve spent four years in prison under the sternest +discipline the world offers, and have never been a seaman before, that +I’m not fitted to espouse your cause. By heaven, I am--I am--I am--I +know the wrongs you’ve suffered. I’ve smelled the water you drink. I’ve +tasted the rotten meat. I’ve seen the honest seaman who has been for +years upon the main--I’ve seen the scars upon his back got from a brutal +officer who gave him too big a job to do, and flogged him for not doing +it. I know of men who, fevered with bad food, have fallen, from the +mainmast-head, or have slipped overboard, glad to go, because of the +wrongs they’d suffered. + +“I’ll tell you what our fate will be, and then I’ll put a question +to you. We must either give up our stock of provisions or run for it. +Parker and the other Delegates proclaim their comradeship; yet they have +hidden from us the king’s proclamation and the friendly resolutions of +the London merchants. I say our only hope is to escape from the Thames. +I know that skill will be needed, but if we escape, what then? I say if +we escape, because, as we sail out, orders will be given for the other +mutiny ships to attack us. We shall be fired on; we shall risk our +lives. You’ve done that before, however, and will do it again. + +“We have to work out our own problem and fight our own fight. Well, what +I want to know is this--are we to give in to the government, or do we +stand to be hammered by Sir Erasmus Gower? Remember what that means. +It means that if we fight the government ships, we must either die in +battle, or die with the ropes round our necks. There is another way. +I’m not inclined to surrender, or to stand by men who have botched our +business for us. I’m for making for the sea, and, when I get there, I’m +for striking for the West Indies, where there’s a British fleet fighting +Britain’s enemies, and for joining in and fighting with them. I’m for +getting out of this river and away from England. It’s a bold plan, but +it’s a good one. I want to know if you’re with me. Remember, there’s +danger getting out, and there’s danger when and if we get out. The other +ships may pursue us. The Portsmouth fleet may nab us. We may be caught, +and, if we are, we must take the dose prepared for us; but I’m for +making a strong rush, going without fear, and asking no favour. I won’t +surrender here; it’s too cowardly. I want to know, will you come to the +open sea with me?” + +There were many shouts of assent from the crowd, though here and there +came a growl of dissent. + +“Not all of you are willing to come with me,” Dyck continued vigorously. +“Tell me, what is it you expect to get by staying here? You’re famished +when you’re not poisoned; you’re badly clothed and badly fed; you’re +kept together by flogging; you’re treated worse than a convict in +jail or a victim in a plague hospital. You’re not paid as well as your +grandfathers were, and you’re punished worse. Here, on the Ariadne, +we’re not skulkers. We don’t fear our duty; we are loyal men. Many of +you, on past voyages, fighting the enemy, lived on burgoo and molasses +only, with rum and foul water to drink. On the other ships there +have been terrible cruelty and offence. Surgeons have neglected and +ill-treated sick men and embezzled provisions and drinks intended for +the invalids. Many a man has died because of the neglect of the ship’s +surgeons; many have been kicked about the head and beaten, and haven’t +dared to go on the sick list for fear of their officers. The Victualling +Board gets money to supply us with food and drink according to measure. +They get the money for a full pound and a full gallon, and we get +fourteen ounces of food and seven pints of liquor, or less. Well, what +do you say, friends, to being our own Victualling Board out in the open +sea, if we can get there? + +“We may have to fight when we get out; but I’m for taking the Ariadne +into the great world battle when we can find it. This I want to +ask--isn’t it worth while making a great fight in our own way, and +showing that British seamen can at once be mutineers and patriots? We +have a pilot who knows the river. We can go to the West Indian Islands, +to the British fleet there. It’s doom and death to stay here; and it may +be doom and death to go. If we try to break free, and are fired on, the +Admiralty may approve of us, because we’ve broken away from the rest. +See now, isn’t that the thing to do? I’m for getting out. Who’s coming +with me?” + +Suddenly a burly sailor pushed forward. He had the head of a viking. His +eyes were strong with enterprise. He had a hand like a ham, with long, +hairy fingers. + +“Captain,” said he, “you’ve put the thing so there can be only one +answer to it. As for me, I’m sick of the way this mutiny has been +bungled from first to last. There’s been one good thing about +it only--we’ve got order without cruelty, we’ve rebelled without +ravagement; but we’ve missed the way, and we didn’t deal with the +Admiralty commissioners as we ought. So I’m for joining up with the +captain here”--he waved a hand towards Dyck--“and making for open sea. +As sure as God’s above, they’ll try to hammer us; but it’s the only +way.” + +He held a handkerchief-a dirty, red silk thing. “See,” he continued, +“the wind is right to take us out. The other ships won’t know what we’re +going to do until we start. I’m for getting off. I’m a pressed man. I +haven’t seen my girl for five years, and they won’t let me free in port +to go and see her. Nothing can be worse than what we have to suffer now, +so let’s make a break for it. That’s what I say. Come, now, lads, three +cheers for Captain Calhoun!” + +A half-hour later, on the captain’s deck, Dyck gave the order to pass +eastward. It was sunset when they started, and they had not gone a +thousand yards before some of the mutineering ships opened fire on the +Ariadne. The breeze was good, however, and she sailed bravely through +the leaden storm. Once twice--thrice she was hit, but she sped on. Two +men were killed and several were wounded. Sails were torn, and the high +bulkheads were broken; but, without firing a shot in reply, the Ariadne +swung clear at last of the hostile ships and reached safe water. + +On the edge of the open sea Dyck took stock of the position. The Ariadne +had been hit several times, and the injury done her was marked. Before +morning the dead seamen were sunk in watery graves, and the wounded were +started back to health again. By daylight the Ariadne was well away from +the land. + +The first thing Dyck had done, after escaping from the river, was to +study the wants of the Ariadne and make an estimate for the future with +Greenock, the master. He calculated they had food and water enough to +last for three months, even with liberal provisioning. Going among the +crew, he realized there was no depression among them; that they seemed +to care little where they were going. It was, however, quite clear they +wished to fight--to fight the foes of England. + +He knew his task was a hard one, and that all efforts at discipline +would have dangers. He knew, also, that he could have no authority, +save personality and success. He set himself, therefore, to win the +confidence of Greenock and the crew, and he began discipline at once. +He knew that a reaction must come; that the crew, loose upon their own +trail, would come to regret the absence of official command. He realized +that many of them would wish to return to the fleet at the Nore, but +while the weather was good he did not fear serious trouble. The danger +would come in rough weather or on a becalmed sea. + +They had passed Beachy Head in the mist. They had seen no battle-ship, +and had sighted no danger, as they made their way westward through the +Channel. There had been one moment of anxiety. That was when they passed +Portsmouth, and had seen in the far distance, to the right of them, the +mastheads of Admiral Gardner’s fleet. + +It was here that Dyck’s orderly, Michael Clones, was useful. He brought +word of murmuring among the more brutish of the crew, that some of them +wished to join Gardner’s fleet. At this news, Dyck went down among the +men. It was an unusual thing to do, but it brought matters to an issue. + +Among the few dissatisfied sailors was one Nick Swaine, who had been +the cause of more trouble on the Ariadne than any other. He had a +quarrelsome mind; he had been influenced by the writings of Wolfe Tone, +the Irish rebel. One of the secrets of Dyck’s control of the crew was +the fact that he was a gentleman, and was born in the ruling class, and +this was anathema to Nick Swaine. His view of democracy was ignorance +controlling ignorance. + +By nature he was insolent, but under the system of control pursued by +the officers of the Ariadne, previous to the mutiny, he had not been +able to do much. The system had bound him down. He had been the slave of +habit, custom, and daily duty. His record, therefore, was fairly clean +until two days after the escape from the Thames and the sighting of the +Portsmouth fleet. Then all his revolutionary spirit ran riot in him. +Besides, the woman to whom he had become attached at the Nore had been +put ashore on the day Dyck gained control. It roused his enmity now. + +When Dyck came down, he had the gunners called to him, admonishing them +that drill must go on steadily, and promising them good work to do. Then +he turned to the ordinary seamen. + +At this moment Nick Swaine strode forward within a dozen feet of Dyck. + +“Look there!” he said, and he jerked a finger towards the distant +Portsmouth fleet. “Look there! You’ve passed that.” + +Dyck shrugged a shoulder. + +“I meant to pass it,” he said quietly. + +“Give orders to make for it,” said Nick with a sullen eye. + +“I shall not. And look you, my man, keep a civil tongue to me, who +command this ship, or I’ll have you put in irons.” + +“Have me put in irons!” Swaine cried hotly. “This isn’t Dublin jail. You +can’t do what you like here. Who made you captain of this ship?” + +“Those who made me captain will see my orders carried out. Now, get you +back with the rest, or I’ll see if they still hold good.” Dyck waved a +hand. “Get back when I tell you, Swaine!” + +“When you’ve turned the ship to the Portsmouth fleet I’ll get back, and +not till then.” + +Dyck made a motion of the hand to some boatswains standing by. Before +they could arrest him, Swaine flung himself towards Dyck with a knife in +his hand. + +Dyck’s hand was quicker, however. His pistol flung out, a shot was +fired, and the knife dropped from the battered fingers of Nick Swaine. + +“Have his wounds dressed, then put him in irons,” Dyck commanded. + +From that moment, in good order and in good weather, the Ariadne sped on +her way westward and southward. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. IN THE NICK OF TIME + +Perhaps no mutineer in the history of the world ever succeeded, as did +Dyck Calhoun, in holding control over fellow-mutineers on the journey +from the English Channel to the Caribbean Sea. As a boy, Dyck had been +an expert sailor, had studied the machinery of a man-of-war, and his +love of the sea was innate and deep-seated; but his present success +was based upon more than experience. Quite apart from the honour of his +nature, prison had deepened in him the hatred of injustice. In soul he +was bitter; in body he was healthy, powerful, and sane. + +Slowly, sternly, yet tactfully, he had broken down the many customs +of ship life injurious to the welfare of the men. Under his system the +sailors had good coffee for breakfast, instead of a horrible mixture +made of burnt biscuits cooked in foul water. He gave the men pea-soup +and rice instead of burgoo and the wretched oatmeal mess which was the +staple thing for breakfast. He saw to it that the meat was no longer a +hateful, repulsive mass, two-thirds bone and gristle, and before it +came into the cook’s hands capable of being polished like mahogany. He +threatened the cook with punishment if he found the meals ill-cooked. + +In all the journey to the West Indian seas there had been only three +formal floggings. His attitude was not that of the commander who +declared: + +“I will see the man’s backbone, by God!” + +He wished to secure discipline without cruelty. His greatest difficulty, +at the start, was in making lieutenants. That he overcame by appointing +senior midshipmen before the Ariadne was out of the Channel. He offered +a lieutenancy to Ferens, who had the courage to decline it. + +“Make me purser,” remarked Ferens. “Make me purser, and I’ll do the job +justly.” + +As the purser of the Ariadne had been sent to the sick-bay and was +likely to die (and did die subsequently), Ferens was put into his +uniform-three-cornered cocked hat, white knee-breeches, and white +stockings. The purser of a man-of-war was generally a friend of the +captain, going with him from ship to ship. + +Of the common sailors, on the whole, Dyck had little doubt. He had +informed them that, whatever happened, they should not be in danger; +that the ship should not join the West Indian fleet unless every man +except himself received amnesty. If the amnesty was not granted, then +one of two things should happen--the ship must make for a South American +port, or she must fight. Fighting would not frighten these men. + +It was rather among the midshipmen that Dyck looked for trouble. +Sometimes, with only two years’ training at Gosport, a youngster became +a midshipman on first going to sea, and he could begin as early as +eleven years of age. A second-rate ship like the Ariadne carried +eighteen midshipmen; and as six lieutenants were appointed from them, +only twelve remained. From these twelve, in the dingy after-cockpit, +where the superficial area was not more than twelve square feet; where +the air was foul, and the bilges reeked with a pestilential stench; +where the purser’s store-room near gave out the smell of rancid butter +and poisonous cheese; where the musty taint of old ropes came to them, +there was a spirit of danger. + +Dyck was right in thinking that in the midshipmen’s dismal berth the +first flowers of revolt to his rule would bloom. + +Sailors, even as low as the pig-sty men, had some idea of fair play; and +as the weeks that had passed since they left the Thames had given them +better food and drink, and lessened the severity of those above them, +real obedience had come. + +It was not strange that the ship ran well, for all the officers under +the new conditions, except Dyck himself, had had previous experience. +The old lieutenants had gone, but midshipmen, who in any case were +trained, had taken their places. The rest of the ship’s staff were the +same, except the captain; and as Dyck had made a friend of Greenock +the master, a man of glumness, the days were peaceful enough during the +voyage to the Caribbean Sea. + +The majority saw that every act of Dyck had proved him just and capable. +He had rigidly insisted on gun practice; he had keyed up the marines to +a better spirit, and churlishness had been promptly punished. He was, +in effect, what the sailors called a “rogue,” or a “taut one”--seldom +smiling, gaunt of face but fearless of eye, and with a body free from +fatigue. + +As the weather grew warmer and the days longer, and they drew near to +the coast of Jamaica, a stir of excitement was shown. + +“You’d like to know what I’m going to do, Michael, I suppose?” said Dyck +one morning, as he drank his coffee and watched the sun creeping up the +sky. + +“Well, in three days we shall know what’s to become of us, and I have +no doubt or fear. This ship’s a rebel, but it’s returning to duty. +We’ve shown them how a ship can be run with good food and drink and fair +dealing, and, please God, we’ll have some work to do now that belongs to +a man-of-war!” + +“Sir, I know what you mean to do,” replied Michael. “You mean to get all +of us off by giving yourself up.” + +“Well, some one has to pay for what we’ve done, Michael.” A dark, +ruthless light came into Dyck’s eyes. “Some one’s got to pay.” A grim +smile crossed his face. “We’ve done the forbidden thing; we’ve mutinied +and taken to the open sea. We were fired on by the other mutiny ships, +and that will help our sailors, but it won’t help me. I’m the leader. We +ought, of course, to have taken refuge with the nearest squadron of the +king’s ships. Well, I’ve run my luck, and I’ll have to pay.” + +He scratched his chin with a thumb-nail-a permanent physical trait. “You +see, the government has pardoned all the sailors, and will hang only the +leaders. I expect Parker is hung already. Well, I’m the leader on the +Ariadne. I’m taking this ship straight to his majesty’s West Indian +fleet, in thorough discipline, and I’ll hand it over well-found, +well-manned, well-officered, on condition that all go free except +myself. I came aboard a common sailor, a quota man, a prison-bird, +penniless. Well, have I shown that I can run a ship? Have I learned the +game of control? During the weeks we’ve been at sea, bursting along, +have I proved myself?” + +Michael smiled. “What did I say to you the first night on board, sir? +Didn’t I say they’d make an officer of you when they found out what +brains you had? By St. Patrick, you’ve made yourself captain with the +good-will of all, and your iron hand has held the thing together. You’ve +got a great head, too, sir.” + +Dyck looked at him with a face in which the far future showed. + +“Michael, I’ve been lucky. I’ve had good men about me. God only knows +what would have happened to me if the master hadn’t been what he is--a +gentleman who knows his job-aye, a gentleman through and through! If he +had gone against me, Michael”--he flicked a finger to the sky--“well, +that much for my chances! I’d have been dropped overboard, or stabbed in +my cabin, as was that famous Captain Pigot, son of an admiral, who had +as much soul as you’d find in a stone-quarry. When two men had dropped +from the masts, hurrying to get down because of his threat that the last +man should be thrashed--when the two men lay smashed to pieces at his +feet, Pigot said: ‘Heave the lubbers overboard.’ That night, Michael, +the seamen rose, crept to his cabin, stabbed him to death, pitched his +body overboard, put his lieutenants to sea in open boats, and then ran +away to South America. Well, I’ve escaped that fate, because this was a +good ship, and all the officers knew their business, and did it without +cruelty. I’ve been well served. It was a great thing making the new +lieutenants from the midshipmen. There never was a better lot on board a +ship.” + +Michael’s face clouded. “Sir, that’s true. The new lieutenants have +done their work well, but them that’s left behind in the midshipmen’s +berth--do you think they’re content? No, sir. The only spot on board +this ship where there lurks an active spirit against you is in the +midshipmen’s berth. Mischief’s there, and that’s what’s brought me to +you now.” + +Dyck smiled. “I know that. I’ve had my eye on the midshipmen. I’ve never +trusted them. They’re a hard lot; but if the rest of the ship is with +me, I’ll deal with them promptly. They’re not clever or bold enough +to do their job skilfully. They’ve got some old hands down +there--hammock-men, old stagers of the sea that act as servants to them. +What line do they take?” + +Michael laughed softly. + +“What I know I’ve got from two of them, and it is this--the young +gentlemen’ll try to get control of the ship.” + +The cynicism deepened in Dyck’s face. + +“Get control of the ship, eh? Well, it’ll be a new situation on a king’s +ship if midshipmen succeed where the rest dare not try. Now, mark what +I’m going to do.” + +He called, and a marine showed himself. + +“The captain’s compliments to the master, and his presence here at once. +Michael,” he continued presently, “what fools they are! They’re scarcely +a baker’s dozen, and none of them has skill to lead. Why, the humblest +sailor would have more sense than to start a revolt, the success of +which depends upon his personal influence, and the failure of which +must end in his own ruin. Does any one think they’re the kind to lead a +mutiny within a mutiny? Listen to me I’m not cruel, but I’ll put an end +to this plot. We’re seven hundred on this ship, and she’s a first-class +sailer. I warrant no ship ever swam the seas that looks better going +than she does. So we’ve got to see that her, record is kept clean as a +mutineer.” + +At that moment the master appeared. He saluted. “Greenock,” said +Dyck, “I wonder if you’ve noticed the wind blowing chilly from the +midshipmen’s berth.” A lurking devilish humour shot from Greenock’s +eyes. + +“Aye, I’ve smelled that wind.” + +“Greenock, we’re near the West Indian Islands. Before we eat many meals +we’ll see land. We may pass French ships, and we may have to fight. +Well, we’ve had a good running, master; so I’ll tell you what I mean to +do.” + +He then briefly repeated what he had said to Michael, and added + +“Greenock, in this last to-do, I shall be the only man in danger. The +king’s amnesty covers every one except the leaders--that lets you off. +The Delegate of the Ariadne is aboard the Invincible, if he’s not been +hanged. I’m the only one left on the Ariadne. I’ve had a good time, +Greenock--thanks to you, chiefly. I think the men are ready for anything +that’ll come; but I also think we should guard against a revolt of +the midshipmen by healthy discipline now. Therefore I’ll instruct the +lieutenants to spread-eagle every midshipman for twelve hours. There’s +a stiff wind; there’s a good stout spray, and the wind and spray should +cool their hot souls. Meanwhile, though without food, they shall have +water as they need it. If at the end of the twelve hours any still seems +to be difficult, give him another twelve. Look!” + +He stretched out a hand to the porthole on his right. “Far away in front +are islands. You cannot see them yet, but those little thickening +mists in the distance mean land. Those are the islands in front of +the Windward Passage. I think it would be a good lesson for the young +gentlemen to be spread-eagled against the mists of their future. It +shall be’ done at once; and pass the word why it’s done.” + +An hour later there was laughter in every portion of the ship, for the +least popular members of the whole personnel were being dragooned into +discipline. The sailors had seen individual midshipmen spread-eagled +and mastheaded, while all save those they could bribe were forbidden to +bring them drink or food; but here was a whole body of junior officers, +punished en masse, as it were, lashed to the rigging and taking the wind +and the spray in their teeth. + +Before the day was over, the whole ship was alive with anticipation, +for, in the far distance, could be seen the dark blue and purplish +shadows which told of land; and this brought the minds of all to the end +of their journey, with thoughts of the crisis near. + +Word had been passed that all on board were considered safe--all except +the captain who had manoeuvred them to the entrance of the Caribbean +Sea. Had he been of their own origin, they would not have placed so much +credence in the rumour; but coming as he did of an ancient Irish family, +although he had been in jail for killing, the traditional respect for +the word of a gentleman influenced them. When a man like Ferens, on the +one hand, and the mutineer whose fingers had been mutilated by Dyck in +the Channel, on the other--when these agreed to bend themselves to the +rule of a usurper, some idea of Calhoun’s power may be got. + +On this day, with the glimmer of land in the far distance, the charges +of all the guns were renewed. Also word was passed that at any moment +the ship must be cleared for action. Down in the cockpit the tables +were got ready by the surgeon and the loblolly-boys; the magazines were +opened, and the guards were put on duty. + +Orders were issued that none should be allowed to escape active share +in the coming battle; that none should retreat to the orlop deck or the +lower deck; that the boys should carry the cartridge-cases handed to +them from the magazine under the cover of their coats, running hard +to the guns. The twenty-four-pounders-the largest guns in use at the +time-the eighteen-pounders, and the twelve-pounder guns were all in good +order. + +The bags of iron balls called grape-shot-the worst of all--varying +in size from sixteen to nine balls in a bag, were prepared. Then the +canister, which produced ghastly murder, chain-shot to bring down masts +and spars, langrel to fire at masts and rigging, and the dismantling +shot to tear off sails, were all made ready. The muskets for the +marines, the musketoons, the pistols, the cutlasses, the boarding-pikes, +the axes or tomahawks, the bayonets and sailors’ knives, were placed +conveniently for use. A bevy of men were kept busy cleaning the round +shot of rust, and there was not a man on the ship who did not look with +pride at the guns, in their paint of grey-blue steel, with a scarlet +band round the muzzle. + +To the right of the Ariadne was the coast of Cuba; to the left was the +coast of Haiti, both invisible to the eye. Although the knowledge that +they were nearing land had already given the officers and men a feeling +of elation, the feeling was greatly intensified as they came through the +Turk Island Passage, which is a kind of gateway to the Windward Passage +between Cuba and Haiti. The glory of the sunny, tropical world was upon +the ship and upon the sea; it crept into the blood of every man, and the +sweet summer weather gave confidence to their minds. It was a day which +only those who know tropical and semitropical seas can understand. It +had the sense of soaking luxury. + +In his cabin, with the ship’s chart on the table before him, Dyck +Calhoun studied the course of the Ariadne. The wind was fair and good, +the sea-birds hovered overhead. From a distant part of the ship came the +sound of men’s voices in song. They were singing “Spanish Ladies”: + + “We hove our ship to when the wind was sou’west, boys, + We hove our ship to for to strike soundings clear; + Then we filled our main tops’l and bore right away, boys, + And right up the Channel our course did we steer. + + “We’ll rant and we’ll roar like true British sailors, + We’ll range and we’ll roam over all the salt seas, + Until we strike soundings in the Channel of old England + From Ushant to Scilly ‘tis thirty-five leagues.” + +Dyck raised his head, and a smile came to his lips. + +“Yes, you sing of a Channel, my lads, but it’s a long way there, as +you’ll find. I hope to God they give us some fighting!... Well, what is +it?” he asked of a marine who appeared in his doorway. + +“The master of the ship begs to see you, sir,” was the reply. + +A moment afterwards Greenock entered. He asked Dyck several questions +concerning the possible fighting, the disposition of ammunition and all +that, and said at last: + +“I think we shall be of use, sir. The ship’s all right now.” + +“As right as anything human can be. I’ve got faith in my star, master.” + +A light came into the other man’s dour face. “I wish you’d get into +uniform, sir.” + +“Uniform? No, Greenock! No, I use the borrowed power, but not the +borrowed clothes. I’m a common sailor, and I wear the common sailor’s +clothes. You’ve earned your uniform, and it suits you. Stick to it; and +when I’ve earned a captain’s uniform I’ll wear it. I owe you the success +of this voyage so far, and my heart is full of it, up to the brim. Hark, +what’s that?” + +“By God, it’s guns, sir! There’s fighting on!” + +“Fighting!” + +Dyck stood for a minute with head thrust forward, eyes fixed upon the +distant mists ahead. The rumble of the guns came faintly through the +air. An exultant look came into his face. + +“Master, the game’s with us--it is fighting! I know the difference +between the two sets of guns, English and French. Listen--that quick, +spasmodic firing is French; the steady-as-thunder is English. Well, +we’ve got all sail on. Now, make ready the ship for fighting.” + +“She’s almost ready, sir.” + +An hour later the light mist had risen, and almost suddenly the Ariadne +seemed to come into the field of battle. Dyck Calhoun could see the +struggle going on. The two sets of enemy ships had come to close +quarters, and some were locked in deadly conflict. Other ships, still +apart, fired at point-blank range, and all the horrors of slaughter +were in full swing. From the square blue flag at the mizzen top +gallant masthead of one of the British ships engaged, Dyck saw that the +admiral’s own craft was in some peril. The way lay open for the Ariadne +to bear down upon the French ship, engaged with the admiral’s smaller +ship, and help to end the struggle successfully for the British cause. + +While still too far away for point-blank range, the Ariadne’s guns began +upon the French ships distinguishable by their shape and their colours. +Before the first shot was fired, however, Dyck made a tour of the decks +and gave some word of cheer to the men, The Ariadne lost no time in +getting into the thick of the fight. The seamen were stripped to the +waist, and black silk handkerchiefs were tightly bound round their heads +and over their ears. + +What the French thought of the coming of the Ariadne was shown by the +reply they made presently to her firing. The number of French ships in +action was greater than the British by six, and the Ariadne arrived just +when she could be of greatest service. The boldness of her seamanship, +and the favour of the wind, gave her an advantage which good fortune +helped to justify. + +As she drew in upon the action, she gave herself up to great danger; +she was coming in upon the rear of the French ships, and was subject +to fierce attack. To the French she seemed like a fugitive warrior +returning to his camp just when he was most needed, as was indeed the +case. Two of her shots settled one of the enemy’s vessels; and before +the others could converge upon her, she had crawled slowly up against +the off side of the French admiral’s ship, which was closely engaged +with the Beatitude, the British flagship, on the other side. + +The canister, chain-shot, and langrel of the French foe had caused much +injury to the Ariadne, and her canvas was in a sore plight. Fifty of her +seamen had been killed, and a hundred and fifty were wounded by the time +she reached the starboard side of the Aquitaine. She would have lost +many more were it not that her onset demoralized the French gunners, +while the cheers of the British sailors aboard the Beatitude gave +confidence to their mutineer comrades. + +On his own deck, Dyck watched the progress of the battle with the joy +of a natural fighter. He had carried the thing to an almost impossible +success. There had only been this in his favour, that his was an +unexpected entrance--a fact which had been worth another ship at least. +He saw his boarders struggle for the Aquitaine. He saw them discharge +their pistols, and then resort to the cutlass and the dagger; and +the marines bringing down their victims from the masts of the French +flag-ship. + +Presently he heard the savagely buoyant shouts of the Beatitude men, +and he realized that, by his coming, the admiral of the French fleet had +been obliged to yield up his sword, and to signal to his ships--such as +could--to get away. That half of them succeeded in doing so was because +the British fleet had been heavily handled in the fight, and would have +been defeated had it not been for the arrival of the Ariadne. + +Never, perhaps, in the history of the navy had British ships clamped +the enemy as the Aquitaine was clamped by the Beatitude and the Ariadne. +Certain it is that no admiral of the British fleet had ever to perform +two such acts in one day as receiving the submission of a French admiral +and offering thanks to the captain of a British man-of-war whom, while +thanking, he must at once place under arrest as a mutineer. What might +have chanced further to Dyck’s disadvantage can never be known, because +there appeared on the deck of the Beatitude, as its captain under the +rear-admiral, Captain Ivy, who, five years before, had visited Dyck and +his father at Playmore, and had gone with them to Dublin. + +The admiral had sent word to the Ariadne for its captain to come to the +Beatitude. When the captain’s gig arrived, and a man in seaman’s clothes +essayed to climb the side of the flag-ship, he was at first prevented. +Captain Ivy, however, immediately gave orders for Dyck to be admitted, +but without honours. + +On the deck of the Beatitude, Dyck looked into the eyes of Captain Ivy. +He saluted; but the captain held out a friendly hand. + +“You’re a mutineer, Calhoun, but your ship has given us victory. I’d +like to shake hands with one that’s done so good a stroke for England.” + +A queer smile played about Calhoun’s lips. + +“I’ve brought the Ariadne back to the fleet, Captain Ivy. The men have +fought as well as men ever did since Britain had a navy. I’ve brought +her back to the king’s fleet to be pardoned.” + +“But you must be placed under arrest, Calhoun. Those are the +orders--that wherever the Ariadne should be found she should be seized, +and that you should be tried by court-martial.” + +Dyck nodded. “I understand. When did you get word?” + +“About forty-eight hours ago. The king’s mail came by a fast frigate.” + +“We took our time, but we came straight from the Channel to find this +fleet. At the mouth of the Thames we willed to find it, and to fight +with it--and by good luck so we have done.” + +“Let me take you to the admiral,” said Captain Ivy. + +He walked beside Dyck to the admiral’s cabin. “You’ve made a terrible +mess of things, Calhoun, but you’ve put a lot right to-day,” he said at +the entrance to the cabin. “Tell me one thing honestly before we part +now--did you kill Erris Boyne?” Dyck looked at him long and hard. + +“I don’t know--on my honour I don’t know! I don’t remember--I was drunk +and drugged.” + +“Calhoun, I don’t believe you did; but if you did, you’ve paid the +price--and the price of mutiny, too.” In the clear blue eyes of Captain +Ivy there was a look of friendliness. “I notice you don’t wear uniform, +Calhoun,” he added. “I mean a captain’s uniform.” Dyck smiled. “I never +have.” + +The next moment the door of the admiral’s cabin was opened. + +“Mr. Dyck Calhoun of the Ariadne, sir,” said Captain Ivy. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. THE ADMIRAL HAS HIS SAY + +The admiral’s face was naturally vigorous and cheerful, but, as he +looked at Dyck Calhoun, a steely hardness came into it, and gave a +cynical twist to the lips. He was a short man, and spare, but his +bearing had dignity and every motion significance. + +He had had his high moment with the French admiral, had given his +commands to the fleet and had arranged the disposition of the captured +French ships. He was in good spirits, and the wreckage in the fleet +seemed not to shake his nerve, for he had lost in men far less than the +enemy, and had captured many ships--a good day’s work, due finally to +the man in sailor’s clothes standing there with Captain Ivy. The admiral +took in the dress of Calhoun at a glance--the trousers of blue cloth, +the sheath-knife belt, the stockings of white silk, the white shirt with +the horizontal stripes, the loose, unstarched, collar, the fine black +silk handkerchief at the throat, the waistcoat of red kerseymere, the +shoes like dancing-pumps, and the short, round blue jacket, with the +flat gold buttons--a seaman complete. He smiled broadly; he liked this +mutineer and ex-convict. + +“Captain Calhoun, eh!” he remarked mockingly, and bowed satirically. +“Well, you’ve played a strong game, and you’ve plunged us into great +difficulty.” + +Dyck did not lose his opportunity. “Happily, I’ve done what I planned +to do when we left the Thames, admiral,” he said. “We came to get the +chance of doing what, by favour of fate, we have accomplished. Now, +sir, as I’m under arrest, and the ship which I controlled has done good +service, may I beg that the Ariadne’s personnel shall have amnesty, +and that I alone be made to pay--if that must be--for the mutiny at the +Nore.” + +The admiral nodded. “We know of your breaking away from the mutinous +fleet, and of their firing on you as you passed, and that is in your +favour. I can also say this: that bringing the ship here was masterly +work, for I understand there were no officers on the Ariadne. She always +had the reputation of being one of the best-trained ships in the navy, +and she has splendidly upheld that reputation. How did you manage it, +Mr. Calhoun?” + +Dyck briefly told how the lieutenants were made, and how he himself had +been enormously indebted to Greenock, the master of the ship, and all +the subordinate officers. + +The admiral smiled sourly. “I have little power until I get instructions +from the Admiralty, and that will take some time. Meanwhile, the Ariadne +shall go on as she is, and as if she were--and had been from the first, +a member of my own squadron.” + +Dyck bowed, explained what reforms he had created in the food and +provisions of the Ariadne, and expressed a hope that nothing should be +altered. He said the ship had proved herself, chiefly because of his +reforms. + +“Besides, she’s been badly hammered. She’s got great numbers of wounded +and dead, and for many a day the men will be busy with repairs.” + +“For a man without naval experience, for a mutineer, an ex-convict and a +usurper, you’ve done quite well, Mr. Calhoun; but my instructions were, +if I captured your ship, and you fell into my hands, to try you, and +hang you.” + +At this point Captain Ivy intervened. + +“Sir,” he said, “the instructions you received were general. They could +not anticipate the special service which the Ariadne has rendered to the +king’s fleet. I have known Mr. Calhoun; I have visited at his father’s +house; I was with him on his journey to Dublin, which was the beginning +of his bad luck. I would beg of you, sir, to give Mr. Calhoun his parole +on sea and land until word comes from the Admiralty as to what, in the +circumstances, his fate shall be.” + +“To be kept on the Beatitude on parole!” exclaimed the admiral. + +“Land or sea, Captain Ivy said. I’m as well-born as any man in the +king’s fleet,” declared Dyck. “I’ve as clean a record as any officer in +his majesty’s navy, save for the dark fact that I was put in prison +for killing a man; and I will say here, in the secrecy of an admiral’s +cabin, that the man I killed--or was supposed to kill--was a traitor. If +I did kill him, he deserved death by whatever hand it came. I care not +what you do with me”--his hands clenched, his shoulders drew up, his +eyes blackened with the dark fire of his soul--“whether you put me on +parole, or try me by court-martial, or hang me from the yard-arm. I’ve +done a piece of work of which I’m not ashamed. I’ve brought a mutinous +ship out of mutiny, sailed her down the seas for many weeks, disciplined +her, drilled her, trained her, fought her; helped to give the admiral of +the West Indian squadron his victory. I enlisted; I was a quota man. I +became a common sailor--I and my servant and friend, Michael Clones. I +shared the feelings of the sailors who mutinied. I wrote petitions and +appeals for them. I mutinied with them. Then at last, having been made +leader of the ship, with the captain and the lieutenants sent safely +ashore, and disagreeing with the policy of the Delegates in not +accepting the terms offered, I brought the ship out, commanding it from +the captain’s cabin, and have so continued until to-day. If I’m put +ashore at Jamaica, I’ll keep my parole; if I stay a prisoner here, I’ll +keep my parole. If I’ve done you service, admiral, be sure of this, it +was done with clear intent. My object was to save the men who, having +mutinied and fled from Admiralty control, are subject to capital +punishment.” + +“Your thinking came late. You should have thought before you mutinied,” + was the sharp reply. + +“As a common sailor I acted on my conscience, and what we asked for the +Admiralty has granted. Only by mutiny did the Admiralty yield to our +demands. What I did I would do again! We took our risks in the Thames +against the guns that were levelled at us; we’ve taken our risks down +here against the French to help save your squadron, and we’ve done it. +The men have done it, because they’ve been loyal to the flag, and from +first to last set to make the Admiralty and the people know they have +rights which must be cherished. If all your men were as faithful to the +Crown as are the men on the Ariadne, then they deserve well of the King. +But will you put for me on paper the written word that every man now +aboard the Ariadne shall be held guiltless in the eyes of the admiral +of this fleet; that the present officers shall remain officers, that the +reforms I have made shall become permanent? For myself, I care not; but +for the men who have fought under me, I want their amnesty. And I want +Michael Clones to be kept with me, and Greenock, the master, and Ferens, +the purser, to be kept where they are. Admiral, I think you know my +demands are just. Over there on the Ariadne are a hundred and fifty +wounded at least, and fifty have been killed. Let the living not +suffer.” + +“You want it all on the nail, don’t you?” + +“I want it at this moment when the men who have fought under me have +helped to win your battle, sir.” There was something so set in Dyck’s +voice that the admiral had a sudden revulsion against him, yet, after a +moment of thought, he made a sign to Captain Ivy. Then he dictated the +terms which Dyck had asked, except as to the reforms he had made, which +was not in his power to do, save for the present. + +When the document had been signed by the admiral, Dyck read the contents +aloud. It embodied nearly all he had asked. + +“Now I ask permission for one more thing only, sir--for the new captain +of the Ariadne to go with me to her, and there I will read this paper +to the crew. I will give a copy of it to the new captain, whoever he may +be.” + +The admiral stood for a moment in thought. Then he said: + +“Ivy, I transfer you to the Ariadne. It’s better that some one who +understands, as you do, should be in control after Calhoun has gone. +Go with him now, and have your belongings sent to you. I appoint you +temporary captain of the Ariadne, because I think no one could deal +with the situation there so wisely. Ivy, every ship in the squadron must +treat the Ariadne respectfully. Within two days, Mr. Calhoun, you shall +be landed at Jamaica, there to await the Admiralty decree. I will say +this: that as the sure victory of our fleet has come through you, you +shall not suffer in my report. Fighting is not an easy trade, and to +fight according to the rules is a very hard trade. Let me ask you to +conduct yourself as a prisoner of war on parole.” + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. A LETTER + +With a deep sigh, the planter raised his head from the table where he +was writing, and looked out upon the lands he had made his own. They +lay on the Thomas River, a few hours’ horseback travelling from Spanish +Town, the capital, and they had the advantage of a plateau formation, +with mountains in the far distance and ravines everywhere. + +It was Christmas Day, and he had done his duty to his slaves and the +folk on his plantation. He had given presents, had attended a seven +o’clock breakfast of his people, had seen festivities of his negroes, +and the feast given by his manager in Creole style to all who +came--planting attorneys, buccras, overseers, bookkeepers, the +subordinates of the local provost-marshal, small planters, and a few +junior officers of the army and navy. + +He had turned away with cynicism from the overladen table, with its +shoulder of stewed wild boar in the centre; with its chocolate, coffee, +tea, spruce-beer, cassava-cakes, pigeon-pies, tongues, round of beef, +barbecued hog, fried conchs, black crab pepper-pod, mountain mullet, +and acid fruits. It was so unlike what his past had known, so “damnable +luxurious!” Now his eyes wandered over the space where were the +grandilla, with its blossom like a passion-flower, the black Tahiti +plum, with its bright pink tassel-blossom, and the fine mango trees, +loaded half with fruit and half with bud. In the distance were the +guinea cornfields of brownish hue, the cotton-fields, the long ranges +of negro houses like thatched cottages, the penguin hedges, with their +beautiful red, blue, and white convolvuluses; the lime, logwood, +and breadfruit trees, the avocado-pear, the feathery bamboo, and the +jack-fruit tree; and between the mountains and his own sugar-estates, +negro settlements and pens. He heard the flight of parrots chattering, +he watched the floating humming-bird, and at last he fixed his eyes upon +the cabbage tree down in the garden, and he had an instant desire for +it. It was a natural and human taste--the cabbage from the tree-top +boiled for a simple yet sumptuous meal. + +He liked simplicity. He did not, as so many did in Jamaica, drink claret +or punch at breakfast soon after sunrise. In a land where all were +bon-vivants, where the lowest tradesmen drank wine after dinner, and +rum, brandy and water, or sangaree in the forenoon, a somewhat lightsome +view of table-virtues might have been expected of the young unmarried +planter. For such was he who, from the windows of his “castle,” saw his +domain shimmering in the sun of a hot December day. + +It was Dyck Calhoun. + +With an impatient air he took up the sheets that he had been reading. +Christmas Day was on his nerves. The whole town of Kingston, with its +twenty to thirty thousand inhabitants, had but one church. If he entered +it, even to-day, he would have seen no more than a hundred and fifty to +two hundred people; mostly mulattoes--“bronze ornaments”--and peasants +in shag trousers, jackets of coarse blue cloth, and no waistcoats, with +one or two magistrates, a dozen gentlemen or so, and probably twice +that number of ladies. It was not an island given over to piety, or to +religious habits. + +Not that this troubled Dyck Calhoun; nor, indeed, was he shocked by +the fact that nearly every unmarried white man in the island, and many +married white men, had black mistresses and families born to the black +women, and that the girls had no married future. They would become the +temporary wives of white men, to whom they were on the whole faithful +and devoted. It did not even vex him that a wretched mulatto might be +whipped in the market-square for laying his hands upon a white man, and +that if he was a negro-slave he could be shot for the same liberty. + +It all belonged to the abnormal conditions of an island where black and +white were in relations impossible in the countries from which the white +man had come. It did not even startle Dyck that all the planters, and +the people generally in the island, from the chief justice and custos +rotulorum down to the deckswabber, cultivated amplitude of living. + +But let Dyck tell his own story. The papers he held were sheets of a +letter he was writing to one from whom he had heard nothing since the +night he enlisted in the navy, and that was nearly three years before. +This was the letter: + + MY DEAR FRIEND: + + You will see I address you as you have done me in the two letters I + have had from you in the past. You will never read this letter, but + I write it as if you would. For you must know I may never hope for + personal intercourse with you. I was imprisoned for killing your + father, Erris Boyne, and that separates us like an abysss. It + matters little whether I killed him or not; the law says I did, and + the law has taken its toll of me. I was in prison for four years, + and when freed I enlisted in the king’s navy, a quota man, with my + servant-friend, Michael Clones. That was the beginning of painful + and wonderful days for me. I was one of the mutineers of the Nore, + and-- + +Here followed a description of the days he had spent on the Ariadne and +before, and of all that happened down to the time when he was arrested +by the admiral in the West Indian Sea. He told how he was sent over to +the Ariadne with Captain Ivy to read the admiral’s letter to the seamen, +and then, by consent of the admiral, to leave again with Michael +Clones for Jamaica, where he was set ashore with twenty pounds in his +pocket--and not on parole, by the admiral’s command. Here the letter +shall again take up the story, and be a narrative of Dyck Calhoun’s life +from that time until this Christmas Day. + + What to do was the question. I knew no one in Jamaica--no one at + all except the governor, Lord Mallow, and him I had fought with + swords in Phoenix Park five years before. I had not known he was + governor here. I came to know it when I first saw him riding over + the unpaved street into Kingston from Spanish Town with his suite, + ornate with his governorship. He was a startling figure in scarlet, + with huge epaulets on his lieutenant-general’s uniform, as big a pot + as ever boiled on any fire-chancellor, head of the government and of + the army, master of the legislature, judging like one o’clock in the + court of chancery, controller of the affairs of civil life, and + maker of a policy of which he alone can judge who knows what + interests clash in the West Indies. + + English, French, Spanish, and Dutch are all hereabout. All struggle + for place above the other in the world of commerce and society, + though chiefly it is the English versus the French in these days; + and the policy of the governor is the policy of the country. He + never knows whether there will be a French naval descent or whether + the blacks in his own island will do as the blacks in St. Domingo + did--massacre the white people in thousands. Or whether the free + blacks, the Maroons, who got their freedom by treaty with Governor + Trelawney, when the British commander changed hats with Cudjoe, the + Maroon chief, as the sealing of the bargain--whether they will rise + again, as they before have risen, and bring terror into the white + settlement; and whether, in that case, all negro-slaves will join + them, and Jamaica become a land of revolution. + + Of what good, then, will be the laws lately passed regulating the + control of slaves, securing them rights never given before, even + forbidding lashes beyond forty-nine! Of what use, then, the + punishment of owners who have ill-used the slaves? The local + councils who have power to punish never proceed against white men + with rigour; and to preserve a fair balance between the white man up + above and the black down below is the responsibility of the fair- + minded governor. If, like Mallow, he is not fair-minded, then is + the lash the heavier, and the governor has burdens greater than + could easily be borne in lands where the climate is more friendly. + + Lord Mallow did not see me when I passed him in the street, but he + soon came to know of me from the admiral and Captain Ivy, who told + him all my story since I was freed from jail. Then he said I should + be confined in a narrow space near to Kingston, and should have no + freedom; but the admiral had his way, and I was given freedom of the + whole island till word should come from the Admiralty what should be + done with me. To the governor’s mind it was dangerous allowing me + freedom, a man convicted of crime, who had been imprisoned, had been + a mutineer, had stolen one of his majesty’s ships, and had fled to + the Caribbean Sea. He thought I should well be at the bottom of the + ocean, where he would soon have put me, I make no doubt, if it had + not been for the admiral, and Captain Ivy--you do not know him, I + think--who played a good part to me, when men once close friends + have deserted me. + + Well, we had, Michael and I, but twenty pounds between us; and if + there was not plenty of free food in the island, God knows what + would have become of us! But there it was, fresh in every field, by + every wayside, at every doorway. We could not starve, or die of + thirst, or faint for lack of sleep, since every bush was a bed in + spite of the garapatos or wood-ticks, the snore of the tree-toad, + the hoarse shriek of the macaw, and the shrill gird of the guinea- + fowl. Every bed was thus free, and there was land to be got for a + song, enough to grow what would suffice for two men’s daily wants. + But we did not rest long upon the land--I have it still, land which + cost me five pounds out of the twenty, and for the rest there was an + old but on the little place--five acres it was, and good land too, + where you could grow anything at all. Heaven knows what we might + have become in that tiny plantation, for I was sick of life, and the + mosquitos and flying ants, and the chattering parroquets, the grim + gallinazo, and the quatre, or native bed--a wooden frame and canvas; + but one day at Kingston I met a man, one Cassandro Biatt, who had an + obsession for adventure, and he spoke to me privately. He said he + knew me from people’s talk, and would I listen to him? What was + there to do? He was a clean-cut rogue, if ever there was one, but + a rogue of parts, as he proved; and I lent an ear. + + Now, what think you was his story? Well, but this--that off the + coast of Haiti, there was a ship which had been sunk with every man + on board, and with the ship was treasure without counting-jewels + belonging once to a Spaniard of high place, who was taking them to + Paris. His box had been kept in the captain’s cabin, and it could + be found, no doubt, and brought to the surface. Even if that were + not possible, there was plenty of gold on the ship, and every piece + of it was good money. There had been searching for the ship, but + none had found it; but he, Cassandro Biatt, had sure knowledge, got + from an obi-man, of the place where it lay. It would not be an + expensive business, but, cheap as it was, he had no means of raising + cash for the purpose; while I could, no doubt, raise the needed + money if I set about it. That was how he put it to me. Would I do + it? It was not with me a case of “no shots left in the locker, no + copper to tinkle on a tombstone.” I was not down to my last + macaroni, or quarter-dollar; but I drank some sangaree and set about + to do it. I got my courage from a look towards Rodney’s statue in + its temple--Rodney did a great work for Jamaica against Admiral de + Grasse. + + Why should I tell Biatt the truth about myself? He knew it. + Cassandro was an accomplished liar, and a man of merit of his kind. + This obi-man’s story I have never believed; yet how Biatt came to + know where that treasure-ship was I do not know now. + + Yes, out we went through the harbour of Kingston, beyond the + splendid defences of Port Royal and the men-of-war there, past the + Palisadoes and Rock Fort, and away to the place of treasure-trove. + We found it--that lost galleon; and we found the treasure-box of the + captain’s cabin. We found gold too; but the treasure-box was the + chief thing; and we made it ours after many a hard day. Three + months it was from the day Biatt first spoke to me to the day when, + with an expert diver, we brought the box to the surface and opened + it. + + How I induced one of the big men of Jamaica to be banker and skipper + for us need not be told; but he is one of whom men have dark + sayings--chiefly, I take it, because he does bold, incomprehensible + things. That business paid him well, for when the rent of the ship + was met, and the few men on it paid--slaves they were chiefly--he + pocketed ten thousand pounds, while Biatt and I each pouched forty + thousand, and Michael two thousand. Aye, to be sure, Michael was in + it! He is in all I do, and is as good as men of ten times his birth + and history. Michael will be a rich man one day. In two years his + two thousand have grown to four, and he misses no chance. + + But those days when Biatt and I went treasure-ship hunting were not + without their trials. If we had failed, then no more could this + land have been home or resting-place for us. We should only have + been sojourners with no name, in debt, in disgrace, a pair of + braggart adventurers, who had worked a master-man of the island for + a ship, and money and men, and had lost all except the ship! Though + to be sure, the money was not a big thing--a few hundred pounds; + but the ship was no flea-bite. It was a biggish thing, for it could + be rented to carry sugar--it was, in truth, a sugar-ship of four + hundred tons--but it never carried so big a cargo of sugar as it did + on the day when that treasure-box was brought to the surface of the + sea. + + I’m bound to say this--one of the straightest men I ever met, liar + withal, was Cassandro Biatt. He took his jewels and vanished up the + seas in a flourish. He would not even have another try at the gold + in the bowels of the ship. + + “I’ve got plenty to fill my paunch, and I’ll go while I’ve enough. + It’s the men not going in time that get left in the end”--that’s + what he said. + + And he was right; for other men went after the gold and got some of + it, and were caught by French and South American pirates and lost + all they had gained. Still another group went and brought away ten + thousand pounds, and lost it in fighting with Spanish buccaneers. + So Biatt was right, and went away content, while I stayed here-- + because I must--and bought the land and house where I have my great + sugar-plantation. It is an enterprise of volume, and all would be + well if I were normal in mind and body; but I am not. I have a past + that stinks to heaven, as Shakespeare says, and I am an outlaw of + the one land which has all my soul and name and heritage. Yes, that + is what they have done to me--made a convict, an outlaw of me. I + may live--but not in the British Isles; and if any man kills me, he + is not liable to the law. + + Men do not treat me badly here, for I have property and money, and + this is a land where these two things mean more than anywhere else, + even more than in a republic like that where you live. Here men + live according to the law of the knife, fork, and bottle, yet + nowhere in the world is there deeper national morality or wider + faith or endurance. It is a land where the sea is master, where + naval might is the chief factor, and weighs down all else. + + Here the navies of the great powers meet and settle their disputes, + and every being in the island knows that life is only worth what a + hundred-ton brig-of-war permits. I have seen here in Jamaica the + off-scourings of the French and Spanish fleets on parole; have seen + them entering King’s House like loyal citizens; have even known of + French prisoners being used as guards at the entrance of King’s + House, and I have informed the chief justice of dismal facts which + ought to have moved him. But what can you expect of a chief justice + who need not be a lawyer, as this one is not, and has other means of + earning income which, though not disloyal, are lowering to the + status of a chief justice? And not the chief justice alone. I have + seen French officers entertained at Government House who were guilty + of shocking inhumanities and cruelties. The governor, Lord Mallow, + is much to blame. On him lies the responsibility; to him must go + the discredit. For myself, I feel his enmity on every hand. I + suffer from his suggestions; I am the victim of his dark moods. + + If I want a concession from a local council, his hand is at work + against me; if I see him in the street, I get a courtesy tossed, as + you would toss a bone to a dog. If I appear at the king’s ball, + which is open to all on the island who are respectable, I am treated + with such disdain by the viceroy of the king that all the island is + agog. I went one day to the king’s ball the same as the rest of the + world, and I went purposely in dress contrary to the regulations. + Here was the announcement of the affair in the Royal Gazette, which + was reproduced in the Chronicle, the one important newspaper in the + island: + + KING’S HOUSE, + October 27th, 1797. + + KING’S BALL. + + There will be a Ball given by His Honour the Lieutenant- + Governor, on Tuesday evening, the 6th day of December next, + in honour of + + HIS MAJESTY’S BIRTHDAY. + + To prevent confusion, Ladies and Gentlemen are requested to + order their carriages to come by the Old Court House, and go + off by the Long Room. + + N.B.--No gentlemen can possibly be admitted in boots, or + otherwise improperly dressed. + + Well, in a spirit of mutiny--in which I am, in a sense, an expert-- + I went in boots and otherwise “improperly dressed,” for I wore my + hair in a queue, like a peasant. What is more, I danced with a + negress in the great quadrille, and thereby offended the governor + and his lady aunt, who presides at his palace. It matters naught to + me. On my own estate it was popular enough, and that meant more to + me than this goodwill of Lord Mallow. + + He does not spare me in his recitals to his friends, who carry his + speech abroad. His rancour against me is the greater, I know, + because of the wealth I got in the treasure-ship, to prevent which + he tried to prohibit my leaving the island, through the withholding + of a leave-ticket to me. His argument to the local authorities was + that I had no rights, that I am a murderer and a mutineer, and + confined to the island, though not on parole. He almost succeeded; + but the man to whom I went, the big rich man intervened, + successfully--how I know not--and I was let go with my permit- + ticket. + + What big things hang on small issues! If my Lord Mallow had + prevented me leaving the island, I shouldn’t now own a great + plantation and three hundred negroes. I shouldn’t be able to pay + my creditors in good gold Portuguese half-johannes and Spanish + doubloons, and be free of Spanish silver, and give no heed to the + bitt, which, as you perhaps know, is equal to fivepence in British + money, such as you and I used to spend when you were Queen of + Ireland and I was your slave. + + Then I worshipped you as few women have been worshipped in all the + days of the world--oh, cursed spite of life and time that I should + have been jailed for killing your bad father! Aye, he was a bad + man, and he is better in his grave than out of it, but it puts a + gulf between you and me which nothing will ever bridge--unless it + should some day be known I did not kill him, and then, no doubt, it + will be too late. + + On my soul, I don’t believe I put my sword into him; but if I did, + he well deserved it, for he was worse than faithless to your mother, + he was faithless to his country--he was a traitor! I did not tell + that story of his treachery in court--I did not tell it because of + you. You did not deserve such infamy, and the truth came not out at + the trial. I, in my view, dared not, lest it might injure you, and + you had suffered enough--nay, more than enough--through him. + + I wonder how you are, and if you have changed--I mean in appearance. + I am sure you are not married; I should have felt it in my bones, + if you were. No, no, my sweet lass, you are not married. But + think--it is more than seven long years since we met on the hills + above Playmore, and you put your hand in mine and said we should be + friends for all time. It is near three years since a letter came to + me from you, and in the time I have made progress. + + I did not go to the United States, as you asked me to do. Is it not + plain I could not? My only course was to avoid you. You see, your + mother knows the truth--knows that I was jailed for killing your + father and her divorced husband. Therefore, the only way to do was + as I did. I could not go where you were. There should be hid from + you the fact that Erris Boyne was a traitor. This is your right, in + my mind. Looking back, I feel sure I could have escaped jail if I + had told what I knew of Erris Boyne; and perhaps it would have been + better, for I should, no doubt, have been acquitted. Yet I could + not have gone to you, for I am not sure I did not kill him. + + So it is best as it is. We are as we are, and nothing can make all + different for us. I am a dissolute planter of Jamaica who has + snatched from destiny a living and some riches. I have a bad name + in the world. Yet by saving the king’s navy from defeat out here I + did a good turn for my country and the empire. + + So much to the good. It brought me freedom from the rope and pardon + for my chief offence. Then, in company with a rogue, I got wealth + from the depths of the sea, and here I am in the bottom of my + luxury, drunken and obscene--yes, obscene, for I permit my overseers + and my manager to keep black women and have children by them. That + I do not do so myself is no virtue on my part, but the virtue of a + girl whom I knew in Connemara. I fill myself with drink. I have a + bottle of madeira or port every night, and pints of beer or claret. + I am a creature of low habits, a man sodden with self-indulgence. + And when I am in drink, no slaver can be more cruel and ruthless. + + Yet I am moderate in eating. The meals that people devour here + almost revolt me. They eat like cormorants and drink like dry + ground; but at my table I am careful, save with the bottle. This + is a land of wonderful fruits, and I eat in quantities pineapple, + tamarind, papaw, guava, sweet-sop, star-apple, granadilla, hog-plum, + Spanish-gooseberry, and pindal-nut. These are native, but there are + also the orange, lemon, lime, shaddock, melon, fig, pomegranate, + cinnamon, and mango, brought chiefly from the Spanish lands of South + America. The fruit-market here is good, Heaven knows, and I have my + run of it. Perhaps that is why my drink does not fatten me greatly. + Yes, I am thin--thinner even than when you saw me last. How + wonderful a day it was! You remember it, I’m sure. + + We stood on the high hills, you and I, looking to the west. It was + a true Irish day. A little in front of us, in the sky, were great + clusters of clouds, and beyond them, as far as eye could see, were + hills so delicately green, so spotted with settlements, so misty and + full of glamour, and so cheerful with the western light. And the + storm broke--do you remember it? It broke, but not on us. It fell + on the middle of the prospect before us, and we saw beyond it the + bright area of sunny country where men work and prophesy and slave, + and pray to the ancient gods and acclaim the saints, and die and + fructify the mould; where such as Christopher Dogan live, and men a + thousand times lower than he. Christopher came to the jail the day + I was released--with Michael Clones he came. He read me my bill of + life’s health--what was to become of me--the black and the white of + it, the good and the bad, the fair and the foul. Even the good + fortune of the treasure from the sea he foresaw, and much else that + has not come to me, and, as I think, will never come; for it is too + full a cup for me so little worthy of it. + + It seems strange to me that I am as near to the United States here + in Jamaica, or almost as near, as one in London is to one in Dublin; + and yet one might as well be ten thousand leagues distant for all it + means to her one loves in the United States. Yes, dear Sheila, I + love you, and I would tear out the heart of the world for you. I + bathe my whole being in your beauty and your charm. I hunger for + you--to stand beside you, to listen to your voice, to dip my prison + fingers into the pure cauldron of your soul and feel my own soul + expand. I wonder why it is that to-day I feel more than I ever felt + before the rare splendour of your person. + + I have always admired you and loved you, always heard you calling + me, as if from some sacred corner of a perfect world. Is it that + yesterday’s dissipation--yes, I was drunk yesternight, drunk in a + new way. I was drunk with the thought of you, the longing for you. + I picked a big handful of roses, and in my mind gave them into your + hands. And I thought you smiled and said: + + “Well done, good and faithful servant. Enter Paradise.” So I + followed you to your home there in the Virginian country. It was a + dream, all except the roses, and those I laid in front of the box + where I keep your letters and a sketch I made of you when we were + young and glad--when I was young and glad. For I am an old man, + Sheila, in all that makes men old. My step is quick still, my eye + is sharp, and my brain beats fast, but my heart is ancient. I am an + ancient of days, without hope or pleasure, save what pleasure comes + in thinking of one whom I worship, yet must ever worship from afar. + + I wonder why I seem to feel you very near to-day! Perhaps it’s + because ‘tis Christmas Day. I am not a religious man but Christmas + is a day of memories. + + Is it because of the past in Ireland? Am I only--God, am I only to + be what I am for the rest of my days, a planter denied the pleasure + of home by his own acts! Am I only a helpless fragment of a world + of lost things? + + I have no friends--but yes, I have. I have Michael Clones and + Captain Ivy, though he’s far away-aye, he’s a friend of friends, is + Captain Ivy. These naval folk have had so much of the world, have + got the bearings of so many seas, that they lose all littleness, and + form their own minds. They are not like the people who knew me in + Ireland--the governor here is one of them--and who believe the worst + of me. The governor--faugh, he was made for bigger and better + things! He is one of the best swordsmen in the world, and he is + out against me here as if I was a man of importance, and not a + commonplace planter on an obscure river. I have no social home + life, and yet I live in what is called a castle. A Jamaica castle + has none of the marks of antiquity, chivalry, and distinction which + castles that you and I know in the old land possess. + + What is my castle like? Well, it is a squarish building, of + bungalow type, set on a hill. It has stories and an attic, with a + jutting dormer-window in the front of the roof; and above the lowest + story there is a great verandah, on which the livingrooms and + bedrooms open. It is commodious, and yet from a broad standpoint it + is without style or distinction. It has none of those Corinthian + pillars which your homesteads in America have. Yet there is in it a + simple elegance. It has no carpets, but a shining mahogany floor, + for there are few carpets in this land of heat. It is a place where + music and mirth and family voices would be fitting; but there are no + family voices here, save such as speak with a negro lisp and + oracularly. + + I can hear music at this moment, and inside my castle. It comes + from the irrepressible throats of my cook and my housemaid, who have + more joy in the language of the plantation than you could have in + the songs of St. Angelus. The only person in this castle out of + spirits is its owner. + + My castle is embowered in a loose grove of palms and acacias, + pimento shrubs, splendid star-apples, and bully-trees, with wild + lemon, mahogany, dogwood, Jerusalem-thorn, and the waving plumes of + bamboo canes. There is nothing British in it--nothing at all. It + stands on brick pillars, is reached by a stair of marble slabs, and + has a great piazza on the front. You enter a fine, big hall, dark- + you will understand that, though it is not so hot in Virginia, for + the darkness makes for coolness. From the hall the bedrooms open + all round. We are not so barbaric here as you might think, for my + dining-room, which lies beyond the hall, with jalousies or movable + blinds, exposed to all the winds, is comfortable, even ornate. + There you shall see waxlights on the table, and finger-glasses with + green leaves, and fine linen and napkins, and plenty of silver--even + silver wine-coolers, and beakers of fame and beauty, and flowers, + flowers everywhere, and fruit of exquisite charm. I have to live + in outward seeming as do my neighbours, even to keeping a black + footman, gorgeously dressed, with bare legs. + + Here at my window grows a wild aloe, and it is in flower. Once only + in fifty years does this aloe flower, and I pick its sweet verdure + now and offer it to you. There it lies, beside this letter that I + am writing. It is typical of myself, for only once has my heart + flowered, and it will be only once in fifty years. The perfume of + the flower is like an everlasting bud from the last tree of Time. + See, my Sheila, your drunken, reckless lover pulls this sweet + offering from his garden and offers it to you. He has no virtues; + and yet he would have been a thousand times worse, if you had not + come into his life. He had in him the seeds of trouble, the + sproutings of shame, for even in the first days of his love there in + Dublin he would not restrain himself. He drank, he played cards, he + fought and went with bad company--not women, never that; but he kept + the company of those through whom he came at last to punishment for + manslaughter. + + Yet, without you, who can tell what he might have been? He might + have fallen so low that not the wealth of ten thousand treasure- + boxes could give him even the appearance of honesty. And now he + offers you what you cannot accept--can never accept--a love as deep + as the life from which he came; a love that would throttle the world + for you, that would force the doors of hell to bring you what you + want. + + What do you want? I know not. Perhaps you have inherited the vast + property to which you were the heir. If you have, what can you want + that you have not means to procure? Ah, I have learned one thing, + my friend ‘one can get nearly everything with money. It is the + hidden machinery which makes the world of success go round. With + brains, you say? Yes, money and brains, but without the money + brains seldom win alone. Do not I know? When I was in prison, with + estate vanished and home gone and my father in his grave, who was + concerned about me? + + Only the humblest of all God’s Irish people; but with them I have + somehow managed to win back lost ground. I am a stronger man than I + was in all that men count of value in the world. I have an estate + where I work like any youth who has everything before him. I have + nothing before me, yet I shall go on working to the end. Why? + Because I have some faculties which are more than bread and butter, + and I must give them opportunity. + + Yet I am not always sane. Sometimes I feel I could march out and + sweep into the sea one of the towns that dot the coast of this + island. I have the bloody thirst, as said the great Spanish + conquistador. I would like--yes, sometimes I would like to sweep + to a watery grave one of the towns that are a glory to this island, + as Savanna la Mar was swept to oblivion in the year 1780 by a + hurricane. You can still see the ruins of the town at the bottom of + the sea--I have sailed over it in what is now the harbour, and there + beneath, on the deep sands, lost to time and trouble, is the slain + and tortured town of Savanna la Mar. Was the Master of the World + angry that day when, with a besom of wind and a tidal wave, He swept + the place into the sea? Or was it some devil’s work while the Lord + of All slept? As the Spanish say, Quien sabe? + + Then there was that other enormous incident which made a man to be + swallowed by an earthquake, then belched out again into the sea and + picked up and restored to life again, and to live for many years. + Indeed, yes, it is so. His tombstone may be seen even at this day + at Green Bay, Kingston. His name was Lewis Galdy, and he is held in + high repute in this land. + + I feel sometimes as Beelzebub may feel, and I long to do what + Beelzebub might do as part of his mission. Sometimes a madness + of revolt comes over me, and I long to ravage all the places I see, + all the people I know--or nearly all. Why I do not have negroes + thrashed and mutilated, as some do, I know not. Over against the + southern shore in the parish of St. Elizabeth is an estate called + Salem, owned, it is said, by an American, where the manager does + such things. I am told that savageries are found there. There + are too many absentee owners of land in this island, and the wrongs + done by agents who have no personal honour at stake are all too + plentiful. If I could, I would have no slavery, would set all the + blacks free, making full compensation to the owners, and less to the + absentee owners. + + I look out on a world of summer beauty and of heat. I see the sheep + in hundreds on the far hills of pasturage--sheep with short hair, + small and sweet as any that ever came from the South Downs. I see + the natives in their Madras handkerchiefs. I see upon the road some + planter in his ketureen--a sort of sedan chair; I see a negro + funeral, with its strange ceremony and its gumbies of African drums. + I see yam-fed planters, on their horses, making for the burning, + sandy streets of the capital. I see the Scots grass growing five + and six feet high, food unsurpassed for horses--all the foliage too + --beautiful tropical trees and shrubs, and here and there a huge + breeding-farm. Yet I know that out beyond my sight there is the + region known as Trelawney, and Trelawney Town, the headquarters of + the Maroons, the free negroes--they who fled after the Spanish had + been conquered and the British came, and who were later freed and + secured by the Trelawney Treaty. I know that now they are ready to + rise, that they are working among the slaves; and if they rise the + danger is great to the white population of the island, who are + outnumbered ten to one. + + The governor has been warned, but he gives no heed, or treats it all + lightly, pointing out how few the Maroons are. He forgets that a + few determined men can demoralize a whole state, can fight and + murder and fly to dark coverts in the tropical woods, where they + cannot be tracked down and destroyed; and, if they have made + supporters of the slaves, what consequences may not follow! + + What do the Maroons look like? They are ferocious and isolated, + they are proud and overbearing, they are horribly cruel, but they + are potent, and are difficult to reach. They are not small and + meagre, but are big, brawny fellows, clothed in wide duck trousers + and shirts, and they are well-armed--cutlass, powder-horn, + haversack, sling, shot-gun, and pouch for ball. They dress as the + country requires, and they are strong fighters against our soldiers + who are burdened with heavy muskets, and who defy the climate, with + their stuffed coats, their weighty caps, and their tight cross- + belts. The Maroons are not to be despised. They have brains, the + insolence of freedom among natives who are not free, and vast + cruelty. They can be mastered and kept in subjection, can be made + allies, if properly handled; but Lord Mallow goes the wrong way + about it all. He permits things that inflame the Maroons. + + One thing is clear to me--only by hounds can these people be + defeated. So sure am I upon this point, that I have sent to Cuba + for sixty hounds, with which, when the trouble comes--and it is not + far off--we shall be able to hunt the Maroons with the only weapon + they really fear--the dog’s sharp tooth. It may be the governor may + intervene on the arrival of the dogs; but I have made friends with + the provost-marshal-general and some members of the Jamaica + legislature; also I have a friend in the deputy of the provost- + marshal-general in my parish of Clarendon here, and I will make a + good bet that the dogs will be let come into the island, governor + or no governor. + + When one sets oneself against the Crown one must be sure of one’s + ground, and fear no foe, however great and high. Well, I have won + so far, and I shall win in the end. Mallow should have some respect + for one that beat him at Phoenix Park with the sword; that beat him + when he would have me imprisoned here; that beat him in the matter + of the ship for Haiti, and that will beat him on every hazard he + sets, unless he stoops to underhand acts, which he will not do. + That much must be said for him. He plays his part in no small way, + and he is more a bigot and a fanatic loyalist than a rogue. + Suppose--but no, I will not suppose. I will lay my plans, I will + keep faith with people here who trust me, and who know that if I am + stern I am also just, and I will play according to the rules made by + better men than myself. + +But what is this I see? Michael Clones--in his white jean waistcoat, +white neckcloth and trousers, and blue coat--is coming up the drive in +hot haste, bearing a letter. He rides too hard. He has never carried +himself easily in this climate. He treats it as if it was Ireland. He +will not protect himself, and, if penalty followed folly, should now be +in his grave. I like you, Michael. You are a boon, but-- + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. STRANGERS ARRIVE + +Dyck Calhoun’s letter was never ended. It was only a relic of the years +spent in Jamaica, only a sign of his well-being, though it gave no real +picture of himself. He did not know how like a tyrant he had become in +some small ways, while in the large things he remained generous, urbane, +and resourceful. He was in appearance thin, dark-favoured, buoyant in +manner, and stern of face, with splendid eyes. Had he dwelt on Olympus, +he might have been summoned to judge and chastise the sons of men. + +When Michael Clones came to the doorway, Dyck laid down his quill-pen +and eyed the flushed servant in disapproval. + +“What is it, Michael? Wherefore this starkness? Is some one come from +heaven?” + +“Not precisely from heaven, y’r honour, but--” + +“But--yes, Michael! Have done with but-ing, and come to the real +matter.” + +“Well, sir, they’ve come from Virginia.” + +Dyck Calhoun slowly got to his feet, his face paling, his body +stiffening. From Virginia! Who should be come from Virginia, save she to +whom he had just been writing? + +“Who has come from Virginia?” He knew, but he wanted it said. + +“Sure, you knew a vessel came from America last night. Well, in her was +one that was called the Queen of Ireland long ago.” + +“Queen of Ireland--well, what then?” Dyck’s voice was tuneless, his +manner rigid, his eyes burning. “Well, she--Miss Sheila Llyn and her +mother are going to the Salem Plantation, down by the Essex Valley +Mountain. It is her plantation now. It belonged to her uncle, Bryan +Llyn. He got it in payment of a debt. He’s dead now, and all his lands +and wealth have come to her. Her mother, Mrs. Llyn, is with her, and +they start to-morrow or the next day for Salem. There’ll be different +doings at Salem henceforward, y’r honour. She’s not the woman to see +slaves treated as the manager at Salem treated ‘em.” + +Dyck Calhoun made an impatient gesture at this last remark. + +“Yes, yes, Michael. Where are they now?” + +“They’re at Charlotte Bedford’s lodgings in Spanish Town. The governor +waited on them this morning. The governor sent them flowers and--” + +“Flowers--Lord Mallow sent them flowers! Hell’s fiend, man, suppose he +did?” + +“There are better flowers here than in any Spanish Town.” + +“Well, take them, Michael; but if you do, come here again no more while +you live, for I’ll have none of you. Do you think I’m entering the lists +against the king’s governor?” + +“You’ve done it before, sir, and there’s no harm in doing it again. One +good turn deserves another. I’ve also to tell you, sir, that Lord Mallow +has asked them to stay at King’s House.” + +“Lord Mallow has asked Americans to stay at King’s House!” + +“But they’re Irish, and he knew them in Ireland, y ‘r honour.” + +“Well, he knew me in Ireland, and I’m proscribed!” + +“Ah, that’s different, as you know. There’s no war on now, and they’re +only good American citizens who own land in this dominion of the king; +so why shouldn’t he give them courtesy?” + +“From whom do you get your information?” asked Dyck Calhoun with an air +of suspicion. + +“From Darius Boland, y’r honour,” answered Michael, with a smile. “Who +is Darius Boland, you’re askin’ in y’r mind? Well, he’s the new manager +come from the Llyn plantations in Virginia; and right good stuff he is, +with a tongue that’s as dry as cut-wheat in August. And there’s humour +in him, plenty-aye, plenty. When did I see him, and how? Well, I saw him +this mornin’, on the quay at Kingston. He was orderin’ the porters about +with an air--oh, bedad, an air! I saw the name upon the parcels--Miss +Sheila Llyn, of Moira, Virginia, and so I spoke to him. The rest was +aisy. He looked me up and down in a flash, like a searchlight playin’ on +an enemy ship, and then he smiled. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘who might you be? +For there’s queer folks in Jamaica, I’m told.’ So I said I was Michael +Clones, and at that he doffed his hat and held out a hand. ‘Well, here’s +luck,’ said he. ‘Luck at the very start! I’ve heard of you from my +mistress. You’re servant to Mr. Dyck Calhoun--ain’t that it?’ And I +nodded, and he smiled again--a smile that’d cost money anywhere else +than in Jamaica. He smiled again, and give a slow hitch to his breeches +as though they was fallin’ down. Why, sir, he’s the longest bit of +man you ever saw, with a pointed beard, and a nose that’s as long as a +midshipman’s tongue-dry, lean, and elastic. He’s quick and slow all at +once. His small eyes twinkle like stars beatin’ up against bad weather, +and his skin’s the colour of Scots grass in the dead of summer-yaller, +he’d call it if he called it anything, and yaller was what he called the +look of the sky above the hills. Queer way of talk he has, that man, as +queer as--” + +“I understand, Michael. But what else? How did you come to talk about +the affairs of Mrs. and Miss Llyn? He didn’t just spit it out, did he?” + +“Sure, not so quick and free as spittin’, y’r honour; but when he’d +sorted me out, as it were, he said Miss Llyn had come out here to take +charge of Salem; her own estate in Virginia bein’ in such good runnin’ +order, and her mind bein’ active. Word had come of the trouble with +the manager here, and one of the provost-marshal’s deputies had written +accounts of the flogging and ill-treatment of slaves, and that’s why she +come--to put things right at Salem!” + +“To put things wrong in Jamaica, Michael, that’s why she’s come. To +loose the ball of confusion and free the flood of tragedy--that’s why +she’s come! Man, Michael, you know her history--who she was and what +happened to her father. Well, do you think there’s no tragedy in her +coming here? I killed her father, they say, Michael. I was punished for +it. I came here to be free of all those things--lifted out and away from +them all. I longed to forget the past, which is only shame and torture; +and here it is all spread out at my door again like a mat, which I must +see as I go in and out. Essex Valley--why, it’s less than a day’s ride +from here, far less than a day’s ride! It can be ridden in four or five +hours at a trot. Michael, it’s all a damnable business. And here she is +in Jamaica with her Darius Boland! There was no talk on Boland’s part of +their coming here, was there Michael?” + +“None at all, sir, but there was that in the man’s eye, and that in his +tone, which made me sure he thought Miss Llyn and you would meet.” + +“That would be strange, wouldn’t it, in this immense continent!” Dyck +remarked cynically. + +“She knew I was here before she came?” + +“Aye, she knew. She had seen your name in the papers--English and +Jamaican. She knew you had regained your life and place, and was a man +of mark here.” + +“A marked man, you mean, Michael--a man whom the king has had to pardon +of a crime because of an act done that served the State. I am forbidden +to return to the British Isles or to the land of my birth, forbidden +free traffic as a citizen, hammered out of recognition by the strokes of +enmity. A man of mark, indeed! Aye, with the broad arrow on me, with the +shame of prison and mutiny on my name!” + +“But if she don’t believe?” + +“If she don’t believe! Well, she must be told the truth at last. I +wonder her mother let her come here. Her mother knew part of the truth. +She hid it all from the girl--and now they are here! I must see it +through, but it’s a wretched fate, Michael.” + +“Perhaps her mother didn’t know you were here, sir.” + +Dyck laughed grimly. “Michael, you’ve a lawyer’s mind. Perhaps you’re +right. The girl may have hid from her mother all newspapers referring +to me. That may well be; but it’s not the way that will bring +understanding.” + +“I think it’s the truth, sir, for Darius Boland spoke naught of the +mother--indeed, he said only what would make me think the girl came with +her own ends in view. Faith, I’m sure the mother did not know.” + +“She will know now. Your Darius Boland will tell her.” + +“By St. Peter, it doesn’t matter who tells her, sir. The business must +be faced.” + +“Michael, order my horse, and I will go to Spanish Town. This matter +must be brought to a head. The truth must be told. Order my horse!” + +“It is the very heat of the day, sir.” + +“Then at five o’clock, after dinner, have my horse here.” + +“Am I to ride with you, sir?” + +Dyck nodded. “Yes, Michael. There’s only one thing to do--face all the +facts with all the evidence, and you are fact and evidence too. You know +more of the truth than any one else.” + +Several hours later, when the sun was abating its force a little, after +travelling the burning roads through yams and cocoa, grenadillas and +all kinds of herbs and roots and vagrant trees, Dyck Calhoun and Michael +Clones came into Spanish Town. Dyck rode the unpaved streets on his +horse with its high demipicque Spanish saddle, with its silver stirrups +and heavy bit, and made his way towards Charlotte Bedford’s lodgings. + +Dyck looked round upon the town with new eyes. He saw it like one for +the first time visiting it. He saw the people passing through the wide +verandahs of the houses, like a vast colonnade, down the street, to +be happily sheltered from the fierce sun. As he had come down from the +hills he thought he had never seen the houses look more beautiful in +their gardens of wild tamarinds, kennips, cocoa-nuts, pimentos, and +palms, backed by negro huts. He had seen all sorts of people at the +draw-wells of the houses-British, Spanish, French, South American, +Creoles, and here and there a Maroon, and the everlasting negro who sang +as he worked: + + “Come along o’ me, my buccra brave, + You see de shild de Lord he gave: + You drink de sangaree, + I make de frichassee--” + +Here a face peeped out from the glazed sash of the jalousies of the +balconies above--a face that could never be said to be white, though it +had only a tinge of black in its coaxing beauty. There a workman with +long hair and shag trousers painted the prevailing two-storied house the +prevailing colour, white and green. There was a young naval officer in +full dress, gold-buckled shoes, white trousers, short jacket with gold +swab on shoulders, dress-sword and smart gait making for supper at +King’s House. + +A long-legged “son of a gun” of a Yankee had a “clapper-claw,” or +handshake, with a planting attorney in a kind of four-posted gig, +canopied in leather and curtained clumsily. The Yankee laughed at the +heavy straight shafts and the mule that drew the volante, as the gig was +called, and the vehicle creaked and cried as it rolled along over the +road, which was like a dry river-bed. There a French officer in Hessian +boots, white trousers, blue uniform, and much-embroidered scarlet cuffs +watched with amusement a slave carrying a goglet, or earthen jar, upon +his head like an Egyptian, untouched by the hand, so adding dignity to +carriage. He was holding a “round-aboutation” with an old hag who was +telling his fortune. + +As they passed King’s House, they saw troops of the viceroy’s guests +issuing from the palace-officers of the king’s navy and army, officers +and men of the Jamaica militia, pale-faced, big-eyed men of the Creole +class, mulattoes, quadroons and octoroons, Samboes with their wives in +loose skirts, white stockings, and pinnacle hats. There also passed, in +the streets, black servants with tin cases on their heads, or carrying +parcels in their arms, and here and there processions of servants, each +with something that belonged to their mistresses, who would presently be +attending the king’s ball. + +Snatches of song were heard, and voices of men who had had a full meal +and had “taken observations”--as looking through the bottom of a glass +of liquor was called by people with naval spirit--were mixed in careless +carousal. + +All this jarred on Dyck Calhoun and gave revolt to his senses. Yet he +was only half-conscious of the great sensuousness of the scene as he +passed through it. Now and then some one doffed a hat to him, and very +occasionally some half-drunken citizen tossed at him a remark meant to +wound; but he took no notice, and let things pleasant and provocative +pass down the long ranges of indifference. + +All was brought to focus at last, however, by their arrival at Charlotte +Bedford’s lodgings, which, like most houses in the town, had a +lookout or belfry fitted with green blinds and a telescope, and had a +green-painted wooden railing round it. + +At the very entrance, inside the gate, in the garden, they saw Sheila +Llyn, her mother, and Darius Boland, who seemed to be enduring from the +mother some sharp reprimand, to the amusement of the daughter. As the +gate closed behind Dyck and Michael, the three from Virginia turned +round and faced them. As Dyck came forward, Sheila flushed and trembled. +She was no longer a young girl, but her slim straightness and the soft +lines of her figure, gave her a dignity and charm which made her young +womanhood distinguished--for she was now twenty-five, and had a carriage +of which a princess might have been proud. Yet it was plain that the +entrance of Dyck at this moment was disturbing. It was not what she had +foreseen. + +She showed no hesitation, however, but came forward to meet her visitor, +while Michael fell back, as also did Darius Boland. Both these seemed to +realize that the less they saw and heard the better; and they presently +got together in another part of the garden, as Dyck Calhoun came near +enough almost to touch Sheila. + +Surely, he thought, she was supreme in appearance and design. She was +like some rare flower of the field, alert, gentle, strong, intrepid, +with buoyant face, brown hair, blue eyes and cream-like skin. She +was touched by a rose on each cheek and made womanly by firm and yet +generous breasts, tenderly imprisoned by the white chiffon of her blouse +in which was one bright sprig of the buds of a cherry-tree-a touch of +modest luxuriance on a person sparsely ornamented. It was not tropical, +this picture of Sheila Llyn; it was a flick of northern life in a summer +sky. It was at once cheerful and apart. It had no August in it; no oil +and wine. It was the little twig that grew by a running spring. It +was fresh, dominant and serene. It was Connemara on the Amazon! It was +Sheila herself, whom time had enriched with far more than years and +experience. It was a personality which would anywhere have taken place +and held it. It was undefeatable, persistent and permanent; it was the +spirit of Ireland loose in a world that was as far apart from Ireland as +she was from her dead, dishonoured father. + +And Dyck? At first she felt she must fly to him--yes, in spite of the +fact that he had suffered prison for manslaughter. But a nearer look at +him stopped the impulse at its birth. Here was the Dyck Calhoun she had +known in days gone by, but not the Dyck she had looked to see; for this +man was like one who had come from a hanging, who had seen his dearest +swinging at the end of a rope. His face was set in coldness; his hair +was streaked with grey; his forehead had a line in the middle; his +manner was rigid, almost frigid, indeed. Only in his eyes was there that +which denied all that his face and manner said--a hungry, absorbing, +hopeless look, the look of one who searches for a friend in the denying +desert. + +Somehow, when he bowed low to her, and looked her in the eyes as no one +in all her life had ever done, she had an almost agonized understanding +of what a man feels who has been imprisoned--that is, never the same +again. He was an ex-convict, and yet she did not feel repelled by him. +She did not believe he had killed Erris Boyne. As for the later crime +of mutiny, that did not concern her much. She was Irish; but, more than +that, she was in sympathy with the mutineers. She understood why Dyck +Calhoun, enlisting as a common sailor, should take up their cause and +run risk to advance it. That he had advanced it was known to all the +world; that he had paid the price of his mutiny by saving the king’s +navy with a stolen ship had brought him pardon for his theft of a ship +and mutiny; and that he had won wealth was but another proof of the +man’s power. + +“You would not come to America, so I came here, and--” She paused, +her voice trembling slightly. “There is much to do at Salem,” he added +calmly, and yet with his heart beating, as it had not beaten since the +day he had first met her at Playmore. + +“You would not take the money I sent to Dublin for you--the gift of a +believing friend, and you would not come to America!” + +“I shall have to tell you why one day,” he answered slowly, “but I’ll +pay my respects to your mother now.” So saying he went forward and bowed +low to Mrs. Llyn. Unlike her daughter, Mrs. Llyn did not offer her hand. +She was pale, distraught, troubled--and vexed. She, however, murmured +his name and bowed. “You did not expect to see me here in Jamaica,” he +said boldly. + +“Frankly, I did not, Mr. Calhoun,” she said. + +“You resent my coming here to see you? You think it bold, at least.” + +She looked at him closely and firmly. “You know why I cannot welcome +you.” + +“Yet I have paid the account demanded by the law. And you had no regard +for him. You divorced him.” + +Sheila had drawn near, and Dyck made a gesture in her direction. “She +does not know,” he said, “and she should not hear what we say now?” + +Mrs. Llyn nodded, and in a low tone told Sheila that she wished to be +alone with Dyck for a little while. In Dyck’s eyes, as he watched Sheila +go, was a thing deeper than he had ever known or shown before. In her +white gown, and with her light step, Sheila seemed to float away--a +picture graceful, stately, buoyant, “keen and small.” As she was about +to pass beyond a clump of pimento bushes, she turned her head towards +the two, and there was that in her eyes which few ever see and seeing +are afterwards the same. It was a look of inquiry, or revelation, of +emotion which went to Dyck’s heart. + +“No, she does not know the truth,” Mrs. Llyn said. “But it has been +hard hiding it from her. One never knew whether some chance remark, some +allusion in the papers, would tell her you had killed her father.” + +“Did I kill her father?” asked Dyck helplessly. “Did I? I was found +guilty of it, but on my honour, Mrs. Llyn, I do not know, and I do not +think I did. I have no memory of it. We quarrelled. I drew my sword on +him, then he made an explanation and I madly, stupidly drank +drugged wine in reconciliation with him, and then I remember nothing +more--nothing at all.” + +“What was the cause of your quarrel?” + +Dyck looked at her long before answering. “I hid that from my father +even, and hid it from the world--did not even mention it in court at +the trial. If I had, perhaps I should not have gone to jail. If I had, +perhaps I should not be here in Jamaica. If I had--” He paused, a +flood of reflection drowning his face, making his eyes shine with black +sorrow. + +“Well, if you had!... Why did you not? Wasn’t it your duty to save +yourself and save your friends, if you could? Wasn’t that your plain +duty?” + +“Yes, and that was why I did not tell what the quarrel was. If I had, +even had I killed Erris Boyne, the jury would not have convicted me. Of +that I am sure. It was a loyalist jury.” + +“Then why did you not?” + +“Isn’t it strange that now after all these years, when I have settled +the account with judge and jury, with state and law--that now I feel +I must tell you the truth. Madam, your ex-husband, Erris Boyne, was a +traitor. He was an officer in the French army, and he offered to make me +an officer also and pay me well in French Government money, if I would +break my allegiance and serve the French cause--Ah, don’t start! He knew +I was on my last legs financially. He knew I had acquaintance with young +rebel leaders like Emmet, and he felt I could be won. So he made his +proposal. Because of your daughter I held my peace, for she could bear +it less than you. I did not tell the cause of the quarrel. If I had, +there would have been for her the double shame. That was why I held my +peace--a fool, but so it was!” + +The woman seemed almost robbed of understanding. His story overwhelmed +her. Yet what the man had done was so quixotic, so Celtic, that her +senses were almost paralysed. + +“So mad--so mad and bad and wild you were,” she said. “Could you not see +it was your duty to tell all, no matter what the consequences. The man +was a villain. But what madness you were guilty of, what cruel madness! +Only you could have done a thing like that. Erris Boyne deserved +death--I care not who killed him--you or another. He deserved death, and +it was right he should die. But that you should kill him, apart from +all else--why, indeed, oh, indeed, it is a tragedy, for you loved my +daughter, and the killing made a gulf between you! There could be no +marriage in such a case. She could not bear it, nor could you. But +please know this, Mr. Calhoun, that she never believed you killed Erris +Boyne. She has said so again and again. You are the only man who has +ever touched her mind or her senses, though many have sought her. +Wherever she goes men try to win her, but she has no thought for +any. Her mind goes back to you. Just when you entered the garden I +learned--and only then-that you were here. She hid it from me, but +Darius Boland knew, and he had seen your man, Michael Clones, and she +had then made him tell me. I was incensed. I was her mother, and yet +she had hid the thing from me. I thought she came to this island for the +sake of Salem, and I found that she came not for Salem, but for you.... +Ah, Mr. Calhoun, she deserves what you did to save her, but you should +not have done it.” + +“She deserves all that any better man might do. Why don’t you marry her +to some great man in your Republic? It would settle my trouble for me +and free her mind from anxiety. Mrs. Llyn, we are not children, you and +I. You know life, and so do I, and--” + +She interrupted him. “Be sure of this, Mr. Calhoun, she knows life even +better than either of us. She is, and has always been, a girl of sense +and judgment. When she was a child she was my master, even in Ireland. +Yet she was obedient and faithful, and kept her head in all vexed +things. She will have her way, and she will have it as she wants it, +and in no other manner. She is one of the world’s great women. She is +unique. Child as she is, she still understands all that men do, and does +it. Under her hands the estates in Virginia have developed even more +than under the hands of my brother. She controls like another Elizabeth. +She has made those estates run like a spool of thread, and she will do +the same here with Salem. Be sure of that.” + +“Why does she not marry? Is there no man she can bear? She could have +the highest, that’s sure.” He spoke with passion and insistence. If she +were married his trouble would be over. The worst would have come to +him--like death. His eyes were only two dark fires in a face that was +as near to tragic pain crystallized as any the world has seen. Yet there +was in it some big commanding thing, that gave it a ghastly handsomeness +almost; that bathed his look in dignity and power, albeit a reckless +power, a thing that would not be stayed by any blandishments. He had the +look of a lost angel, one who fell with Belial in the first days of sin. + +“There is no man she can bear--except here in Jamaica. It is no use. +Your governor, Lord Mallow, whom she knew in Ireland, who is distant +kin of mine, he has already made advances here to her, as he did in +Ireland--you did not know that. Even before we left for Virginia he came +to see us, and brought her books and flowers, and here, on our arrival, +he brought her choicest blooms of his garden. She is rich, and he +would be glad of an estate that brings in scores of thousands of pounds +yearly. He has asked us to stay at King’s House, but we have declined. +We start for Salem in a few hours. She wants her hand on the wheel.” + +“Lord Mallow--he courts her, does he?” His face grew grimmer. “Well, she +might do worse, though if she were one of my family I would rather see +her in her grave than wedded to him. For he is selfish--aye, as few men +are! He would eat and keep his apple too. His theory is that life is but +a game, and it must be played with steel. He would squeeze the life out +of a flower, and give the flower to his dog to eat. He thinks first and +always of himself. He would--but there, he would make a good husband as +husbands go for some women, but not for this woman! It is not because he +is my enemy I say this. It is because there is only one woman like your +daughter, and that is herself; and I would rather see her married to +a hedger that really loved her than to Lord Mallow, who loves only one +being on earth--himself. But see, Mrs. Llyn, now that you know all, now +that we three have met again, and this island is small and tragedy is +at our doors, don’t you think your daughter should be told the truth. +It will end everything for me. But it would be better so. It is now only +cruelty to hide the truth, harsh to continue a friendship which will +only appal her in the end. If we had not met again like this, then +silence might have been best; but as she is not cured of her tender +friendship made upon the hills at Playmore, isn’t it well to end it all? +Your conscience will be clearer, and so will mine. We shall have done +the right thing at last. Why did you not tell her who her father was? +Then why blame me! You held your peace to save your daughter, as you +thought. I held my tongue for the same reason; but she is so much a +woman now, that she will understand, as she could not have understood +years ago in Limerick. In God’s name, let us speak. One of us should +tell her, and I think it should be you. And see, though I know I did +right in withholding the facts about the quarrel with Erris Boyne, yet +I favour telling her that he was a traitor. The whole truth now, or +nothing. That is my view.” + +He saw how lined and sunken was her face, he noted the weakness of her +carriage, he realized the task he was putting on her, and his heart +relented. “No, I will do it,” he added, with sudden will, “and I will do +it now, if I may.” + +“Oh, not to-day-not to-day!” she said with a piteous look. “Let it not +be to-day. It is our first day here, and we are due at King’s House +to-night, even in an hour from now.” + +“You want her at her glorious best, is that it?” It seemed too strange +that the pure feminine should show at a time of crisis like this, but +there it was. It was this woman’s way. But he added presently: “When she +asks you what we have talked about, what will you say?” + +“Is it not easy? I am a mother,” she said meaningly. + +“And I am an ex-convict, and a mutineer--is that it?” + +She inclined her head. “It should not be difficult to explain. When you +came I was speaking as I felt, and she will not think it strange if I +give that as my reason.” + +“But is it wise? Isn’t it better to end it all now? Suppose Lord Mallow +tells her.” + +“He did not before. He is not likely now,” was the vexed reply. “Is it a +thing a gentleman will speak of to a lady?” + +“But you do not know Mallow. If he thought she had seen me to-day, he +would not hesitate. What would you do if you were Lord Mallow?” + +“No, not to-day,” she persisted. “It is all so many years ago. It can +hurt naught to wait a little longer.” + +“When and where shall it be?” he asked gloomily. “At Salem--at Salem. We +shall be settled then--and steady. There is every reason why you should +consider me. I have suffered as few women have suffered, and I do not +hate you. I am only sorry.” + +Far down at the other end of the garden he saw Sheila. Her face was in +profile--an exquisite silhouette. She moved slowly among the pimento +bushes. + +“As you wish,” he said with a heavy sigh. The sight of the girl +anguished his soul. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. AT SALEM + +The plantation of Salem was in a region below the Pedro Plains in the +parish of St. Elizabeth, where grow the aloe, and torch-thistle, and +clumps of wood which alter the appearance of the plain from the South +Downs of England, but where thousands of cattle and horses even in those +days were maintained. The air of the district was dry and elastic, and +it filtered down to the valleys near like that where Salem was with its +clusters of negro huts and offices, its mills and distilleries where +sugar and rum were made. Salem was situated on the Black River, +accessible by boats and canoes. The huts of negro slaves were near +the sugar mills, without regard to order, but in clusters of banana, +avocado-pear, limes and oranges, and with the cultivated land round +their huts made an effective picture. + +One day every fortnight was allowed the negroes to cultivate their +crops, and give them a chance to manufacture mats for beds, bark-ropes, +wicker-chairs and baskets, earthen jars, pans, and that kind of thing. +The huts themselves were primitive to a degree, the floor being earth, +the roof, of palm-thatch or the leaves of the cocoa-nut tree, the sides +hard-posts driven in the ground and interlaced with wattle and plaster, +and inside scarcely high enough for its owner to walk upright. The +furniture was scant--a quatre, or bed, made of a platform of boards, +with a mat and a blanket, some low stools, a small table, an earthen +water-jar, and some smaller ones, a pail and an iron pot, and calabashes +which did duty for plates, dishes and bowls. In one of the two rooms +making the hut, there were always the ashes of the night-fire, without +which negroes could not sleep in comfort. + +These were the huts of the lowest grade of negro-slaves of the fields. +The small merchants and the domestics had larger houses with boarded +floors, some even with linen sheets and mosquito nets, and shelves with +plates and dishes of good ware. Every negro received a yearly allowance +of Osnaburgh linen, woollen, baize and checks for clothes, and some +planters also gave them hats and handkerchiefs, knives, needles and +thread, and so on. + +Every plantation had a surgeon who received a small sum for attendance +on every slave, while special cases of midwifery, inoculation, etc., had +a particular allowance. The surgeon had to attend to about four hundred +to five hundred negroes, on an income of L150 per annum, and board and +lodging and washing, besides what he made from his practice with the +whites. + +Salem was no worse than some other plantations on the island, but it was +far behind such plantations as that owned by Dyck Calhoun, and had been +notorious for the cruelties committed on it. To such an estate a lady +like Sheila Llyn would be a boon. She was not on the place a day before +she started reforms which would turn the plantation into a model scheme. +Houses, food, treatment of the negroes, became at once a study to her, +and her experience in Virginia was invaluable. She had learned there +not to work the slaves too hard in the warm period of the day; and she +showed her interest by having served at her own table the favourite olio +the slaves made of plantains, bananas, yams, calalue, eddoes, cassavi, +and sweet potatoes boiled with salt fish and flavoured with cayenne +pepper. This, with the unripe roasted plantain as bread, was a native +relish and health-giving food. + +Ever since the day when she had seen Dyck Calhoun at Spanish Town she +had been disturbed in mind. Dyck had shown a reserve which she felt was +not wholly due to his having been imprisoned for manslaughter. In one +way he looked little older. His physique was as good, or better than +when she first saw him on the hills of Playmore. It was athletic, +strenuous, elastic. Yet there was about it the abandonment of +despair--at least of recklessness. The face was older, the head more +powerful, the hair slightly touched with grey-rather there was one spot +in the hair almost pure white; a strand of winter in the foliage of +summer. It gave a touch of the bizarre to a distinguished head, it lent +an air of the singular to a personality which had flare and force--an +almost devilish force. That much was to be said for him, that he had not +sought to influence her to his own advantage. She was so surrounded in +America by men who knew her wealth and prized her beauty, she was so +much a figure in Virginia, that any reserve with regard to herself was +noticeable. She was enough feminine to have pleasure in the fact that +she was thought desirable by men; yet it played an insignificant part in +her life. + +It did not give her conceit. It was only like a frill on the skirts of +life. It did not play any part in her character. Certainly Dyck Calhoun +had not flattered her. That one to whom she had written, as she had +done, should remove himself so from the place of the deserving friend, +one whom she had not deserted while he was in jail as a criminal--that +he should treat her so, gave every nerve a thrill of protest. Sometimes +she trembled in indignation, and then afterwards gave herself to +the work on the estate or in the household--its reform and its +rearrangement; though the house was like most in Jamaica, had adequate +plate, linen, glass and furniture. At the lodgings in Spanish Town, +after Dyck Calhoun had left, her mother had briefly said that she had +told Dyck he could not expect the conditions of the Playmore friendship +should be renewed; that, in effect, she had warned him off. To this +Sheila had said that the killing of a man whose life was bad might +be punishable. In any case, that was in another land, under abnormal +conditions; and, with lack of logic, she saw no reason why he should be +socially punished in Jamaica for what he had been legally punished for +in Ireland. As for the mutiny, he had done what any honest man of spirit +would do; also, he had by great bravery and skill brought victory to the +king’s fleet in West Indian waters. + +Then it was she told her mother how she had always disobeyed her +commands where Dyck was concerned, that she had written to him while he +was in jail; that she had come to Jamaica more to see him than to reform +Salem; that she had the old Celtic spirit of brotherhood, and she would +not be driven from it. In a sudden burst of anger her mother had charged +her with deceit; but the girl said she had followed her conscience, and +she dismissed it all with a gesture as emphatic as her mother’s anger. + +That night they had dined with Lord Mallow, and she saw that his +attentions had behind them the deep purpose of marriage. She had not +been overcome by the splendour of his retinue and table, or by the +magnificence of his guests; though the military commander-in-chief and +the temporary admiral on the station did their utmost to entertain her, +and some of the local big-wigs were pompous. Lord Mallow had ability and +knew how to use it; and he was never so brilliant as on this afternoon, +for they dined while it was still daylight and hardly evening. He +told her of the customs of the country, of the people; and slyly and +effectively he satirized some of his grandiloquent guests. Not unduly, +for one of them, the most renowned in the island, came to him after +dinner as he sat talking to Sheila, and said: “I’m very sorry, your +honour, but good Almighty God, I must go home and cool coppers.” Then he +gave Sheila a hot yet clammy hand, and bade her welcome as a citizen +to the island, “alien but respected, beautiful but capable!” Sheila +had seen a few of the Creole ladies present at their best-large-eyed, +simple, not to say primitive in speech, and very unaffected in manner. +She had learned also that the way to the Jamaican heart was by a full +table and a little flattery. + +One incident at dinner had impressed her greatly. Not far away from +her was a young lady, beautiful in face and person, and she had seen a +scorpion suddenly shoot into her sleeve and ruthlessly strike and strike +the arm of the girl, who gave one cry only and then was still. Sheila +saw the man next to the girl--he was a native officer--secure the +scorpion, and then whip from his pocket a little bag of indigo, dip it +in water, and apply the bag to the wounded arm, immediately easing the +wound. This had all been done so quickly that it was over before the +table had been upset, almost. + +“That is the kind of thing we have here,” said Lord Mallow. “There is a +lady present who has seen in one day a favourite black child bitten by +a congereel, a large centipede in her nursery, a snake crawl from under +her child’s pillow, and her son nearly die from a bite of the black +spider with the red spot on its tail. It is a life that has its +trials--and its compensations.” + +“I saw a man’s head on a pole on my way to King’s House. You have to use +firm methods here,” Sheila said in reply. “It is not all a rose-garden. +You have to apply force.” + +Lord Mallow smiled grimly. “C’est la force morale toujours.” + +“Ah, I should not have thought it was moral force always,” was the +ironical reply. + +“We have criminals here,” declared the governor with aplomb, “and they +need some handling, I assure you. We have in this island one of the +worst criminals in the British Empire.” + +“Ah, I thought he was in the United States!” answered the girl sedately. + +“You mean General George Washington,” remarked the governor. “No, it is +one who was a friend and fellow-countryman of yours before he took to +killing unarmed men.” + +“You refer to Mr. Dyck Calhoun, I doubt not, sir? Well, he is still a +friend of mine, and I saw him today--this afternoon, before I came here. +I understood that the Crown had pardoned his mutiny.” + +The governor started. He was plainly annoyed. + +“The crime is there just the same,” he replied. “He mutinied, and he +stole a king’s ship, and took command of it, and brought it out here.” + +“And saved you and your island, I understand.” + +“Ah, he said that, did he?” + +“He said nothing at all to me about it. I have been reading the Jamaica +Cornwall Chronicle the last three years.” + +“He is ever a source of anxiety to me,” declared the governor. + +“I knew he was once in Phoenix Park years ago,” was the demure yet sharp +reply, “but I thought he was a good citizen here--a good and well-to-do +citizen.” + +Lord Mallow flushed slightly. “Phoenix Park--ah, he was a capable +fellow with the sword! I said so always, and I’d back him now against a +champion; but many a bad man has been a good swordsman.” + +“So, that’s what good swordsmanship does, is it? I wondered what it was +that did it. I hear you fight him still--but with a bludgeon, and he +dodges it.” + +“I do not understand,” declared Lord Mallow tartly. “Ah, wasn’t there +some difference over his going for the treasure to Haiti? Some one +told me, I think, that you were not in favour of his getting his +ticket-of-leave, or whatever it is called, and that the provost-marshal +gave it to him, as he had the right to do.” + +“You have wide sources of information in this case. I wonder--” + +“No, your honour need not wonder. I was told that by a gentleman on the +steamer coming here. He was a native of the island, I think--or perhaps +it was the captain, or the mate, or the boatswain. I can’t recall. Or +maybe it came to me from my manager, Darius Boland, who hears things +wherever he is, one doesn’t know how; but he hears them. He is to me +what your aide-de-camp is to you,” she nodded towards a young man near +by at the table. + +“And do you dress your Darius Boland as I dress my aide in scarlet, with +blue facings and golden embroidery, and put a stiff hat with a feather +on his head?” + +“But no, he does not need such things. I am a Republican now. I am a +citizen of the United States, where men have no need of uniform to tell +the world what they are. You shall see my Darius Boland--indeed, you +have seen him. He was there to-day when you gave me the distinction of +your presence.” + +“That dry, lean, cartridge of a fellow, that pair of pincers with a +face!” + +“And a tongue, your honour. If you did not hear it yet, you will hear +it. He is to be my manager here. So he will be under your control--if I +permit him.” + +“If you permit him, mistress?” + +“If I permit him, yes. You are a power, but you are not stronger than +the laws and rules you make. For instance, there was the case of Mr. +Dyck Calhoun. When he came, you were for tying him up in one little +corner of this island--the hottest part, I know, near to Kingston, where +it averages ninety degrees in the shade at any time of the year. But the +King you represent had not restricted his liberties so, and you +being the King, that is, yourself, were forced to abide by your own +regulations. So it may be the same with Darius Boland. He may want +something, and you, high up, looking down, will say, ‘What devilry +is here!’ and decline. He will then turn to your chief-justice or +provost-marshal-general, or a deputy of the provost-marshal, and they +will say that Darius Boland shall have what he wants, because it is the +will of the will you represent.” + +Almost the last words the governor used to her were these: “Those only +live at peace here who are at peace with me”; and her reply had been: +“But Mr. Dyck Calhoun lives at peace, does he not, your honour?” + +To that he had replied: “No man is at peace while he has yet desires.” + He paused a minute and then added: “That Erris Boyne killed by Dyck +Calhoun--did you ever see him that you remember?” + +“Not that I remember,” she replied quickly. “I never lived in Dublin.” + +“That may be. But did you never know his history?” She shook her head +in negation. His eyes searched her face carefully, and he was astonished +when he saw no sign of confusion there. “Good God, she doesn’t know. +She’s never been told!” he said to himself. “This is too startling. I’ll +speak to the mother.” + +A little later he turned from the mother with astonishment. “It’s +madness,” he remarked to himself. “She will find out. Some one will +tell her.... By heaven, I’ll tell her first,” he hastily said. “When she +knows the truth, Calhoun will have no chance on earth. Yes, I’ll tell +her myself. But I’ll tell no one else,” he added; for he felt that +Sheila, once she knew the truth, would resent his having told abroad the +true story of the Erris Boyne affair. + +So Sheila and her mother had gone to their lodgings with depression, but +each with a clear purpose in her mind. Mrs. Llyn was determined to tell +her daughter what she ought to have known long before; and Sheila was +firm to make the one man who had ever interested her understand that he +was losing much that was worth while keeping. + +Then had followed the journey to Salem. Yet all the while for Sheila +one dark thought kept hovering over everything. Why should life be so +complicated? Why should this one man who seemed capable and had the +temperament of the Irish hills and vales be the victim of punishment and +shame--why should he shame her? + +Suddenly, without her mother’s knowledge, she sent Darius Boland through +the hills in the early morning to Enniskillen, Dyck Calhoun’s place, +with a letter which said only this: “Is it not time that you came to +wish us well in our new home? We shall expect you to-morrow.” + +When Dyck read this note he thought it was written by Sheila, but +inspired by the mother; and he lost no time in making his way down +across the country to Salem, which he reached a few hours after sunrise. +At the doorway of the house he met Mrs. Llyn. + +“Have you told her?” he asked in anxiety. Astonished at his presence +she could make no reply for a moment. “I have told her nothing,” she +answered. “I meant to do so this morning. I meant to do it--I must.” + +“She sent me a letter asking if it was not time I came to wish you well +in your house, and you and she would expect me to-day.” + +“I knew naught of her writing you,” was the reply--“naught at all. But +now that you are here, will you not tell her all?” + +Dyck smiled grimly. “Where is she?” he asked. “I will tell her.” + +The mother pointed down the garden. “Yonder by the clump of palms I saw +her a moment ago. If you go that way you will find her.” + +In another moment Dyck Calhoun was on his way to the clump of palms, and +before he reached it, the girl came out into the path. She was dressed +in a black silk skirt with a white bodice and lace, as he had seen her +on her arrival in Kingston, and at her throat was a sprig of the wild +pear-tree. When she saw him, she gave a slight start, then stood still, +and he came to her. + +“I have your letter,” he said, “and I came to say what I ought to say +about your living here: you will bring blessings to the place.” + +She looked at him steadfastly. “Shall we talk here,” she said, “or +inside the house? There is a little shelter here in the trees”--pointing +to the right--“a shelter built by the late manager. It has the covering +of a hut, but it is open at two sides. Will you come?” As she went +on ahead, he could not fail to notice how slim and trim she was, how +perfectly her figure seemed to fit her gown-as though she had been +poured into it; and yet the folds of her skirt waved and floated like +silky clouds around her! Under cover of the shelter, she turned and +smiled at him. + +“You have seen my mother?” + +“I have just come from her,” he answered. “She bade me tell you what +ought to have been told long ago, and you were not, for there seemed no +reason that you should. You were young and ignorant and happy. You had +no cares, no sorrows. The sorrows that had come to your mother belonged +to days when you were scarce out of the cradle. But you did not know. +You were not aware that your mother had divorced your father for crime +against marital fidelity and great cruelty. You did not know even who +that father was. Well, I must tell you. Your father was a handsome man, +a friend of mine until I knew the truth about him, and then he died--I +killed him, so the court said.” + +Her face became ghastly pale. After a moment of anguished bewilderment, +she said: “You mean that Erris Boyne was my father?” + +“Yes, I mean that. They say I killed him. They say that he was found +with no sword drawn, but that my open sword lay on the table beside me +while I was asleep, and that it had let out his life-blood.” + +“Why was he killed?” she asked, horror-stricken and with pale lips. + +“I do not know, but if I killed him, it was because I revolted from the +proposals he made to me. I--” He paused, for the look on her face was +painful to see, and her body was as that of one who had been struck by +lightning. It had a crumpled, stricken look, and all force seemed to be +driven from it. It had the look of crushed vitality. Her face was set in +paleness, her eyes were frightened, her whole person was, as it were, in +ghastly captivity. His heart smote him, and he pulled himself together +to tell her all. + +“Go on,” she said. “I want to hear. I want--to know all. I ought to have +known--long ago; but that can’t be helped now. Continue--please.” + +Her words had come slowly, in gasps almost, and her voice was so frayed +he could scarcely recognize it. All the pride of her nature seemed +shattered. + +“If I killed him,” he said presently, “it was because he tried to tempt +me from my allegiance to the Crown to become a servant of France, to--” + +He stopped short, for a cry came from her lips which appalled him. + +“My God--my God!” she said with bloodless lips, her eyes fastened on his +face, her every look and motion the inflection of despair. “Go on--tell +all,” she added presently with more composure. + +Swiftly he described what happened in the little room at the traitor’s +tavern, of the momentary reconciliation and the wine that he drank, +drugged wine poured out but not drunk by Erris Boyne, and of his later +unconsciousness. At last he paused. + +“Why did these things not come out at the trial?” she asked in hushed +tones. + +He made a helpless gesture. “I did not speak of them because I thought +of you. I hid it--I did not want you to know what your father was.” + +Something like a smile gathered at her pale lips. “You saved me for +the moment, and condemned yourself for ever,” she said in a voice of +torture. “If you had told what he was--if you had told that, the jury +would not have condemned you, they would not have sent you to prison.” + +“I believe I did the right thing,” he said. “If I killed your father, +prison was my proper punishment. But I can’t remember. There was no +other clue, no other guide to judgment. So the law said I killed him, +and--he had evidently not drawn his sword. It was clear he was killed +defenceless.” + +“You killed a defenceless man!” Her voice was sharp with agony. “That +was mentioned at the trial--but I did not believe it then--in that long +ago.” She trembled to her feet from the bench where she was sitting. +“And I do not believe it now--no, on my soul, I do not.” + +“But it makes no difference, you see. I was condemned for killing your +father, and the world knows that Erris Boyne was your father, and +here Lord Mallow, the governor, knows it; and there is no chance of +friendship between you and me. Since the day he was found dead in the +room, there was no hope for our friendship, for anything at all between +us that I had wished to be there. You dare not be friends with me--” + +Her face suddenly suffused and she held herself upright with an effort. +She was about to say, “I dare, Dyck--I do dare!” but he stopped her with +a reproving gesture. + +“No, no, you dare not, and I would not let you if you would. I am an +ex-convict. They say I killed your father, and the way to understanding +between us is closed.” + +She made a protesting gesture. “Closed! Closed!--But is it closed? No, +no, some one else killed him, not you. You couldn’t have done it. +You would have fought him--fought him as you did Lord Mallow, and in +fighting you might have killed him, but your sword never let out his +life when he was defenceless--never.” + +A look of intense relief, almost of happiness, came to Dyck’s face. +“That is like you, Sheila, but it does not cure the trouble. You and I +are as far apart as noon and midnight. The law has said the only thing +that can be said upon it.” + +She sank down again upon the wooden bench. “Oh, how mad you were, not +to tell the whole truth long ago! You would not have been condemned, and +then--” + +She paused overcome, and his self-control almost deserted him. With +strong feeling he burst out: “And then, we might have come together? +No, your mother--your friends, myself, could not have let that be. See, +Sheila, I will tell you the whole truth now--aye, the whole absolute +truth. I have loved you since the first day I saw you on the hills when +you and I rescued Christopher Dogan. Not a day has passed since then +when you were not more to me than any other woman in all the world.” + +A new light came into her face, the shadows left her eyes, and the +pallor fled from her lips. “You loved me?” she said in a voice grown +soft-husky still, but soft as the light in a summer heaven. “You loved +me--and have always loved me since we first met?” + +Her look was so appealing, so passionate and so womanly, that he longed +to reach out his arms to her, and say, “Come--come home, Sheila,” but +the situation did not permit that, and only his eyes told the story of +what was in his mind. + +“I have always loved you, Sheila, and shall do so while I have breath +and life. I have always given you the best that is in me, tried to do +what was good for us both, since my misfortune--crime, Lord Mallow calls +it, as does the world. Never a sunrise that does not find you in the +forefront of all the lighted world; never a flower have I seen that does +not seem sweeter--it brings thoughts of you; never a crime that does not +deepen its shame because you are in the world. In prison, when I used +to mop my floor and clean down the walls; when I swept the dust from the +corners; when I folded up my convict clothes; when I ate the prison food +and sang the prison hymns; when I placed myself beside the bench in the +workshop to make things that would bring cash to my fellow-prisoners in +their need; when I saw a minister of religion or heard the Litany; when +I counted up the days, first that I had spent in jail and then the days +I had still to spend in jail; when I read the books from the prison +library of the land where you had gone, and of the struggle there; when +I saw you, in my mind’s eye, in the cotton-fields or on the verandah of +your house in Virginia--I had but one thought, and that was the look in +your face at Playmore and Limerick, the sound of your voice as you came +singing up the hill just before I first met you, the joyous beauty of +your body.” + +“And at sea?” she whispered with a gesture at once beautiful and +pathetic, for it had the motion of helplessness and hopelessness. What +she had heard had stirred her soul, and she wanted to hear more--or +was it that she wished to drain the cup now that it was held to her +lips?-drain it to the last drop of feeling. + +“At sea,” he answered, with his eyes full of intense feeling--“at sea, I +was free at last, doomed as I thought, anguished in spirit, and yet with +a wild hope that out of it would come deliverance. I expected to lose +my life, and I lived each day as though it would be my last. I was chief +rogue in a shipful of rogues, chief sinner in a hell of sinners, and yet +I had no remorse and no regret. I had done all with an honest purpose, +with the good of the sailors in my mind; and so I lived in daily touch +with death, honour, and dishonour. Yet I never saw a sailor in the +shrouds, or heard the night watch call ‘All’s well!’ in the midst of +night and mutiny, that I did not long for a word from you that would +take away the sting of death. Those days at sea for ten long weeks were +never free from anxiety, not anxiety for myself, only for the men who +had put me where I was, had given me captain’s rank, had--” + +Suddenly he stopped, and took from his pocket the letter he was writing +on the very day she landed in Jamaica. He opened it and studied it for a +moment with a dark look in his face. + +“This I wrote even as you were landing in Jamaica, and I knew naught of +your coming. It was an outbreak of my soul. It was the truth written to +you and for you, and yet with the feeling that you would never see it. +I was still writing it when Michael Clones came up the drive to tell me +you and your mother were here. Now, I know not what Christopher Dogan +would say of it, but I say it is amazing that in the hour you were first +come to this land I should be moved to tell you the story of my +life since I left prison; since, on receiving your letter in London, +forwarded from Dublin, I joined the navy. But here it is with all the +truth and terror in it.--Aye, there was terror, for it gave the soul of +my life to one I never thought to see again; and, if seeing, should be +compelled to do what I have done--tell her the whole truth at once and +so have it over. + +“But do not think that in telling it now I repent of my secrecy. I +repent of nothing; I would not alter anything. What was to be is, and +what is has its place in the book of destiny. No, I repent nothing, yet +here now I give you this to read while still my story of the days of +which you know is in your ears. Here it is. It will tell the whole +story; for when you have read it and do understand, then we part to meet +no more as friends. You will go back to Virginia, and I will stay here. +You will forgive the unwilling wrong I have done you, but you will make +your place in life without thought of me. You will marry some one--not +worthy of you, for that could not be; but you will take to yourself some +man from among the men of this world. You will set him apart from all +other men as yours, and he will be happy, having been blessed beyond +deserving. You will not regret coming here; but you will desire our +friendship to cease; and what has been to be no more, while the tincture +of life is in your veins. Sheila, read this thing, for it is the rest of +the story until now.” + +He handed her the papers, and she took them with an inclination of the +head which said: “Give it to me. I will read it now while my eyes can +still bear to read it. I have laid on my heart the nettle of shame, and +while it is still burning there I will read all that you have to teach +me.” + +“I will go out in the garden while you read it,” he said. “In a +half-hour I will come back, and then we can say good-bye,” he added, +with pain in his voice, but firmly. + +“No, do not go,” she urged. “Sit here on the bench--at the end of it +here,” she said, motioning with her hand. + +He shook his head in negation. “No, I will go and say to your mother +that I have told you, and ease her mind, for I know she herself meant to +tell you.” + +As he went he looked at her face closely. It was so young, so pathetic, +so pale, yet so strangely beautiful, and her forehead was serene. That +was one of her characteristics. In all her life, her forehead remained +untroubled and unlined. Only at her mouth and in her eyes did misery or +sorrow show. He looked into her eyes now, and he was pleased with what +he saw; for they had in them the glow of understanding and the note of +will which said: “You and I are parted, but I believe in you, and I will +not show I am a weak woman by futile horror. We shall meet no more, but +I shall remember you.” + +That was what he saw, and it was what he wished to see. He knew her +character would stand the test of any trial, and it had done so. Horror +had struck her, but had not overwhelmed her. She had cried out in +her agony, but she had not been swept out into chaos. She had no weak +passions and no futilities. But as he turned away now, it was with the +sharp conviction that he had dealt a blow from which the girl would +recover, but would never be the same again. She was rich “beyond the +dreams of avarice,” but that would not console her. She had resources +within herself, had what would keep her steady. Her real power and +force, her real hope, were in her regnant soul which was not to be +cajoled by life’s subterfuges. Her lips opened now, as though she would +say something, but nothing came from them. She only shook her head +sadly, as if to say: “You understand. Go, and when you come again, it +will be for us to part in peace--at least in peace.” + +Out in the garden he found her mother. After the first agitated +greeting-agitated on her part, he said: “The story has been told, and +she is now reading--” + +He told her the story of the manuscript, and added that Sheila had +carried herself with courage. Presently the woman said to him: “She +never believed you killed Erris Boyne. Well, it may not help the +situation, but I say too, that I do not believe you did. I cannot +understand why you did not deny having killed him.” + +“I could not deny. In any case, the law punished me for it, and the book +is closed for ever.” + +“Have you never thought that some one--” + +“Yes, I have thought, but who is there? The crowd at the Dublin hotel +where the thing was done were secret, and they would lie the apron off a +bishop. No, there is no light, and, to tell the truth, I care not now.” + +“But if you are not guilty--it is not too late; there is my girl! If the +real criminal should appear--can you not see?” + +The poor woman, distressedly pale, her hair still abundant, her eyes +still bright, her pulses aglow, as they had ever been, made a gesture of +appeal with hands that were worn and thin. She had charm still, in a way +as great as her daughter’s. + +“I can see--but, Mrs. Llyn, I have no hope. I am a man whom some men +fear--” + +“Lord Mallow!” she interjected. + +“He does not fear me. Why do you say that?” + +“I speak with a woman’s intuition. I don’t know what he fears, but he +does fear you. You are a son of history; you had a duel with him, +and beat him; you have always beaten him, even here where he has been +supreme as governor--from first to last, you have beaten him.” + +“I hope I shall be even with him at the last--at the very last,” was +Dyck Calhoun’s reply. “We were made to be foes. We were from the first. +I felt it when I saw him at Playmore. Nothing has changed since then. He +will try to destroy me here, but I will see it through. I will try and +turn his rapier-points. I will not be the target of his arrows without +making some play against him. The man is a fool. I could help him here, +but he will have none of it, and he is running great risks. He has been +warned that the Maroons are restive, that the black slaves will rise if +the Maroons have any initial success, and he will listen to no advice. +He would not listen to me, but, knowing that, I got the provost-marshal +to approach him, and when he knew my hand was in it, he stiffened. He +would have naught to do with it, and so no preparations are made. And +up there”--he turned and pointed--“up there in Trelawney the Maroons are +plotting and planning, and any day an explosion may occur. If it occurs +no one will be safe, especially if the blacks rise too--I mean the black +slaves. There will be no safety then for any one.” + +“For us as well, you mean?” + +“For you as well as all others, and you are nearer to Trelawney than +most others. You are in their path. So be wise, Mrs. Llyn, and get back +to Virginia as soon as may be. It is a better place than this.” + +“My daughter is mistress here,” was the sorrowful reply. “She will have +her own way.” + +“Your daughter will not care to stay here now,” he answered firmly. + +“She will do what she thinks her duty in spite of her own feelings, or +yours, or mine. It is her way, and it has always been her way.” + +“I will tell her what I fear, and she may change her mind.” + +“But the governor may want her to stay,” answered Mrs. Llyn none too +sagely, but with that in her mind which seemed to justify her. + +“Lord Mallow--oh, if you think there is any influence in him to keep +her, that is another question,” said Dyck with a grim smile. “But, +nevertheless, I think you should leave here and go back to Virginia. +It is no safe place for two ladies, in all senses. Whatever Lord Mallow +thinks or does, this is no place for you. This place is your daughter’s +for her to do what she chooses with it, and I think she ought to sell +it. There would be no trouble in getting a purchaser. It is a fine +property.” + +“But the governor might not think as you do; he might not wish it sold.” + +Mrs. Llyn was playing a bold, indeed a reckless game. She wanted to show +Dyck there were others who would interest themselves in Sheila even if +he, Dyck, were blotted from the equation; that the girl could look high, +if her mind turned towards marriage. Also she felt that Dyck should know +the facts before any one else, so that he would not be shocked in the +future, if anything happened. Yet in her deepest heart she wished him +well. She liked him as she had never liked any of Sheila’s admirers, +and if the problem of Erris Boyne had been solved, she would gladly have +seen him wedded to Sheila. + +“What has the governor to do with it!” he declared. “It is your +daughter’s own property, and she is free to hold or to part with it. +There is no Crown consent to ask, no vice-regal approval needed.” + +Suddenly he became angry, almost excited. His blood pounded in his +veins. Was this man, Mallow, to come between his and her fate always, +come into his problem at the most critical moment? “God in heaven!” he +said in a burst of passion, “is this a land of the British Empire or is +it not? Why should that man break in on every crisis? Why should he +do this or that--say yea or nay, give or take away! He is the king’s +representative, but he is bound by laws as rigid as any that bind you or +me. What has he to do with your daughter or what concerns her? Is there +not enough trouble in the world without bringing in Lord Mallow? If +he--” + +He stopped short, for he saw coming from the summerhouse, Sheila with +his paper in her hand. She walked slowly and with dignity. She carried +her head high and firmly, and the skin of her face was shining with +light as she came on. Dyck noticed how her wide skirts flicked against +the flowers that bordered the path, and how her feet seemed scarcely to +touch the ground as she walked--a spirit, a regnant spirit of summer she +seemed. But in her face there was no summer, there was only autumn and +winter, only the bright frost of purpose. As she came, her mother turned +as though to leave Dyck Calhoun. She called to her to wait, and Mrs. +Llyn stood still, anxious. As Sheila came near she kept her eyes fixed +on Dyck. When she reached them, she held out the paper to him. + +“It is wonderful,” she said quietly, “that which you have written, but +it does not tell all; it does not say that you did not kill my father. +You are punished for the crime, and we must abide by it, even though you +did not kill Erris Boyne. It is the law that has done it, and we cannot +abash the law.” + +“We shall meet no more then!” said Dyck with decision. + +Her lips tightened, her face paled. “There are some things one may not +do, and one of them is to be openly your friend--at present.” + +He put the letter carefully away in his pocket, his hand shaking, then +flicking an insect from the collar of his coat, he said gently, yet with +an air of warning: “I have been telling Mrs. Llyn about the Maroons up +there”--he pointed towards Trelawney--“and I have advised your going +back to Virginia. The Maroons may rise at any moment, and no care is +being taken by Lord Mallow to meet the danger. If they rise, you, here, +would be in their way, and I could not guarantee your safety. Besides, +Virginia is a better place--a safer place than this,” he added with +meaning. + +“You wish to frighten me out of Jamaica,” she replied with pain in her +voice. “Well, I will not go till I have put this place in order and +brought discipline and good living here. I shall stay here in Jamaica +till I have done my task. There is no reason why we should meet. This +place is not so large as Ireland or America, but it is large enough to +give assurance we shall not meet. And if we meet, there is no reason why +we should talk. As for the Maroons, when the trouble comes, I shall +not be unprepared.” She smiled sadly. “The governor may not take your +advice, but I shall. And remember that I come from a land not without +its dangers. We have Red Indians and black men there, and I can shoot.” + +He waved a hand abruptly and then made a gesture--such as an ascetic +might make-of reflection, of submission. “I shall remember every word +you have said, and every note of your voice will be with me in all the +lonely years to come. Good-bye--but no, let me say this before I go: I +did not know that Erris Boyne was your father until after he was dead. +So, if I killed him, it was in complete ignorance. I did not know. But +we have outlived our friendship, and we must put strangeness in its +place. Good-bye--God protect you!” he added, looking into Sheila’s eyes. + +She looked at him with sorrow. Her lips opened but no words came forth. +He passed on out of the garden, and presently they heard his horse’s +hoofs on the sand. + +“He is a great gentleman,” said Mrs. Llyn. + +Her daughter’s eyes were dry and fevered. Her lips were drawn. “We must +begin the world again,” she said brokenly. Then suddenly she sank upon +the ground. “My God--oh, my God!” she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. LORD MALLOW INTERVENES + +Two months went by. In that time Sheila and Dyck did not meet, though +Dyck saw her more than once in the distance at Kingston. Yet they had +never met since that wonderful day at Salem, when they had parted, as +it might seem, for ever. Dyck had had news of her, however, for Darius +Boland had come and gone between the two plantations, and had won +Michael Clones’ confidence. He knew more perhaps than he ever conveyed +to Dyck, who saw him and talked with him, gave him advice as to the +customs of Jamaica, and let him see the details in the management of +Enniskillen. + +Yet Dyck made no inquiries as to how Mrs. Llyn and Sheila were; first +because he chose not to do so, and also because Darius Boland, at one +time or another, would of his own accord tell what Mrs. Llyn and Sheila +were doing. One day Boland brought word that the governor had, more than +once, visited Salem with his suite; that he had sat in judgment on a +case in Kingston concerning the estate of Salem, and had given decision +in its favour; and that Mrs. Llyn and Sheila visited him at Spanish Town +and were entertained at King’s House at second breakfast and dinner--in +short, that Lord Mallow was making hay in Salem Plantation. This was no +surprise to Dyck. He had full intuition of the foray the governor would +make on Sheila, her estate and wealth. + +Lord Mallow had acted with discretion, and yet with sufficient passion +to warrant some success. He was trying to make for himself a future +which might mean the control of a greater colony even. If he had wealth, +that would be almost a certainty, and he counted Sheila’s gold as a +guarantee of power. He knew well how great effect could be produced at +Westminster and at the Royal Palace by a discreet display of wealth. He +was also aware that no scandal could be made through an alliance with +Sheila, for she had inherited long after the revolutionary war and with +her skirts free from responsibility. England certainly would welcome +wealth got through an Irish girl inheriting her American uncle’s +estates. So, steadily and happily, he pressed his suit. At his +dinner-parties he gave her first place nearly always, and even broke the +code controlling precedence when his secretary could be overruled. Thus +Sheila was given honour when she did not covet it, and so it was that +one day at Salem when the governor came to court her she was able to +help Dyck Calhoun. + +“Then you go to Enniskillen?” Lord Mallow said to Darius Boland, as he +entered the plantation, being met by the astute American. + +“Sometimes, your honour,” was the careful reply. “I suppose you know +what Mr. Calhoun’s career has been, eh?” + +“Oh, in a way, your honour. They tell me he is a good swordsman.” + +The governor flushed. “He told you that, did he?” + +“No, no, your honour, never. He told me naught. He does not boast. He’s +as modest as a man from Virginia. He does not brag at all.” + +“Who told you, then?” + +“Ah, well, I heard it in the town! They speak of him there. They all +know that Kingston and Spanish Town, and all the other places, would +have been French by now, if it hadn’t been for him. Oh, they talk a lot +about him in Kingston and thereabouts!” + +“What swordsmanship do they speak of that was remarkable?” + +“Has your honour forgotten, then? Sure, seven years is a poor limit for +a good memory.” The blow was a shrewd one, for Darius Boland knew that +Phoenix Park must be a galling memory to his honour. But Darius did not +care. He guessed why the governor was coming to Salem, and he could not +shirk having his hand in it. He had no fear of the results. + +“Aye, seven years is a poor limit,” he repeated. + +The governor showed no feeling. He had been hit, and he took it as part +of the game. “Ah, you mean the affair in Phoenix Park?” he said with no +apparent feeling. + +Darius tossed his head a little. “Wasn’t it a clever bit of work? Didn’t +he get fame there by defeating one of the best swordsmen--in Ireland?” + +Lord Mallow nodded. “He got fame, which he lost in time,” he answered. + +“You mean he put the sword that had done such good work against a +champion into a man’s bowels, without ‘by your leave,’ or ‘will you draw +and fight’?” + +“Something like that,” answered the governor sagely. + +“Is it true you believed he’d strike a man that wasn’t armed, sir?” + +The governor winced, but showed nothing. “He’d been drinking--he is a +heavy drinker. Do you never drink with him?” + +Darius Boland’s face took on a strange look. Here was an intended insult +to Dyck Calhoun. Right well the governor knew their relative social +positions. Darius pulled at the hair on his chin reflectively. “Yes, +I’ve drunk his liquor, but not as you mean, your honour. He’d drink with +any man at all: he has no nasty pride. But he doesn’t drink with me.” + +“Modest enough he is to be a good republican, eh, Boland?” + +“Since your honour puts it so, it must stand. I’ll not dispute it, me +being what I am and employed by whom I am.” + +Darius Boland had a gift of saying the right thing in the right way, +and he had said it now. The governor was not so dense as to put this man +against him, for women were curious folk. They often attach importance +to the opinion of a faithful servant and let it weigh against great men. +He had once lost a possible fortune by spurning a little terrier of the +daughter of the Earl of Shallow, and the lesson had sunk deep into his +mind. He was high-placed, but not so high as to be sure of success where +a woman was concerned, and he had made up his mind to capture Sheila +Llyn, if so be she could be caught flying, or settled, or sleeping. + +“Ah, well, he has drunk with worse men than republicans. Boland. He was +a common sailor. He drank what was given him with whom it chanced in the +fo’castle.” + +Darius sniffed a little, and kept his head. “But he changed all that, +your honour, and gave sailormen better drink than they ever had, I +hear. In Jamaica he treats his slaves as though they were men and not +Mohicans.” + +“Well, he’ll have less freedom in future, Boland, for word has come from +London that he’s to keep to his estate and never leave it.” + +Darius looked concerned, and his dry face wrinkled still more. “Ah, and +when was this word come, your honour?” + +“But yesterday, Boland, and he’ll do well to obey, for I have no choice +but to take him in hand if he goes gallivanting.” + +“Gallivanting--here, in Jamaica! Does your honour remember where we +are?” + +“Not in a bishop’s close, Boland.” + +“No, not in a bishop’s close, nor in an archdeacon’s garden. For of +all places on earth where they defy religion, this is the worst, your +honour. There’s as much religion here as you’ll find in a last year’s +bird’s-nest. Gallivanting--where should he gallivant?” + +The governor waved a contemptuous hand. “It doesn’t need ingenuity to +find a place, for some do it on their own estate. I have seen it.” + +Darius spoke sharply. “Your honour, there’s naught on Mr. Calhoun’s +estate that’s got the taint, and he’s not the man to go hunting for it. +Drink--well, suppose a gentleman does take his quartern, is it a crime? +I ask your honour, is that a crime in Jamaica?” + +“It’s no crime, Boland; nevertheless, your Mr. Calhoun will have to +take his fill on his own land from the day I send him the command of the +London Government.” + +“And what day will that be, your honour?” + +To be questioned by one who had been a revolutionary was distasteful to +the governor. “That day will be when I find the occasion opportune, my +brave Boland,” he said sourly. + +“Why ‘brave,’ your honour?” There was an ominous light in Darius’ eye. + +“Did you not fight with George Washington against the King of +England--against King George? And if you did, was that not brave?” + +“It was true, your honour,” came the firm reply. “It was the one right +good thing to do, as we proved it by the victory we had. We did what we +set out to do. But see, if you will let a poor man speak his mind, if I +were you I’d not impose the command on Mr. Calhoun.” + +“Why, Boland?” + +Darius spoke courageously. “Your honour, he has many friends in Jamaica, +and they won’t stand it. Besides, he won’t stand it. And if he contests +your honour, the island will be with him.” + +“Is he popular here as all that?” asked the governor with a shrug of the +shoulders. + +“They don’t give their faith and confidence to order, your honour,” + answered Darius with a dry inflection. + +The burr in the voice did not escape the other’s attentive ear. He swung +a glance sharply at Darius. “What is the secret of his popularity--how +has it been made?” he asked morosely. + +Darius’ face took on a caustic look. “He’s only been in the island a +short time, your honour, and I don’t know that I’m a good judge, but +I’ll say the people here have great respect for bravery and character.” + +“Character! Character!” sniffed the governor. “Where did he get that?” + +“Well, I don’t know his age, but it’s as old as he is--his character. +Say, I’m afraid I’m talking too much, your honour. We speak our minds in +Virginia; we never count the cost.” + +The governor waved a deprecating hand. “You’ll find the measure of your +speech in good time, Boland, I’ve no doubt. Meanwhile, you’ve got the +pleasure of hunting it. Character, you say. Well, that isn’t what the +judge and jury said.” + +Darius took courage again. Couldn’t Lord Mallow have any decency? + +“Judge and jury be damned, your honour,” he answered boldly. “It was an +Irish verdict. It had no sense. It was a bit of ballyhack. He did not +kill an unarmed man. It isn’t his way. Why, he didn’t kill you when he +had you at his mercy in Phoenix Park, now, did he, governor?” + +A flush stole up the governor’s face from his chin. Then he turned to +Boland and looked him straight in the eyes. “That’s true. He had me at +his mercy, and he did not take my life.” + +“Then, why do you head the cabal against him? Why do you take joy in +commanding him to stay on his estate? Is that grateful, your honour?” + +The governor winced, but he said: “It’s what I am ordered to do, my man. +I’m a servant of the Crown, and the Crown has ordained it.” + +Again Darius grew stronger in speech. “But why do you have pleasure in +it? Is nothing left to your judgment? Do you say to me that if he keeps +the freedom such as he has enjoyed, you’d punish him? Must the governor +be as ruthless as his master? Look, your honour, I wouldn’t impose that +command--not till I’d taken his advice about the Maroons anyway. There’s +trouble brewing, and Mr. Calhoun knows it. He has warned you through +the provost-marshal. I’d heed his warning, your honour, or it may injure +your reputation as a ruler. No, I’d see myself in nethermost hell before +I’d meddle with Mr. Calhoun. He’s a dangerous man, when he’s moved.” + +“Boland, you’ll succeed as a schoolmaster, when all else fails. You +teach persistently.” + +“Your honour is clever enough to know what’s what, but I’d like to see +the Maroons dealt with. This is not my country, but I’ve got interests +here, or my mistress has, and that’s the same to me.... Does your honour +travel often without a suite?” + +The governor waved a hand behind him. “I left them at the last +plantation, and rode on alone. I felt safe enough till I saw you, +Boland.” + +He smiled grimly, and a grimmer smile stole to the lean lips of the +manager of Salem. “Fear is a good thing for forward minds, your honour,” + he said with respect in the tone of his voice and challenge in the +words. + +“I’ll say this, Boland, your mistress has been fortunate in her staff. +You have a ready tongue.” + +“Oh, I’m readier in other things, your honour, as you’d find on +occasion. But I thank you for the compliment in a land where compliments +are few. For a planter’s country it has few who speak as well as they +entertain. I’ll say this for the land you govern, the hospitality is +rich and rare.” + +“In what way, Boland?” + +“Why, your honour, it is the custom for a man and his whole family to +go on a visit to a neighbour, perhaps twenty or forty miles away, bring +their servants--maybe a dozen or more--and sit down on their neighbour’s +hearthstone. There they eat his food, drink his wine, exhaust his +fowl-yard and debilitate his cook--till all the resources of the place +are played out; then with both hands round his friend’s neck the man and +his people will say adieu, and go back to their own accumulated larder +and await the return visit. The wonder is Jamaica is so rich, for truly +the waste is harmful. We have the door open in Virginia, but not in that +way. We welcome, but we don’t debauch.” + +The governor smiled. “As you haven’t old friends here, you should +make your life a success--ah, there is the open door, Boland, and your +mistress standing in it. But I come without my family, and with no +fell purposes. I will not debilitate the cook; I will not exhaust the +fowl-yard. A roasted plantain is good enough for me.” + +Darius’ looks quickened, and he jerked his chin up. “So, your honour, +so. But might I ask that you weigh carefully the warning of Mr. Calhoun. +There’s trouble at Trelawny. I have it from good sources, and Mr. +Calhoun has made preparations against the sure risings. I’d take heed +of what he says. He knows. Your honour, it is not my mistress in the +doorway, it is Mrs. Llyn; she is shorter than my mistress.” + +The governor shaded his brow with his hands. Then he touched up his +horse. “Yes, you are right, Boland. It is Mrs. Llyn. And look you, +Boland, I’ll think over what you’ve said about the Maroons and Mr. +Calhoun. He’s doing no harm as he is, that’s sure. So why shouldn’t he +go on as he is? That’s your argument, isn’t it?” + +Boland nodded. “It’s part of my argument, not all of it. Of course he’s +doing no harm; he’s doing good every day. He’s got a stiff hand for the +shirker and the wanton, but he’s a man that knows his mind, and that’s a +good thing in Jamaica.” + +“Does he come here-ever?” + +“He has been here only once since our arrival. There are reasons why he +does not come, as your honour kens, knowing the history of Erris Boyne.” + +A quarter of an hour later Darius Boland said to Sheila: “He’s got an +order from England to keep Mr. Calhoun to his estate and to punish him, +if he infringes the order.” + +Sheila started. “He will infringe the order if it’s made, Boland. But +the governor will be unwise to try and impose it. I will tell him so.” + +“But, mistress, he should not be told that this news comes from me.” + +“No, he should not, Boland. I can tempt him to speak of it, I think. He +hates Mr. Calhoun, and will not need much prompting.” + +Sheila had changed since she saw Dyck Calhoun last. Her face was +thinner, but her form was even fuller than it was when she had bade him +good-bye, as it seemed to him for ever, and as it at first seemed +to her. Through anxious days and nights she had fought with the old +passion; and at last it seemed the only way to escape from the torture +was by making all thought of him impossible. How could this be done? +Well, Lord Mallow would offer a way. Lord Mallow was a man of ancient +Irish family, was a governor, had ability, was distinguished-looking +in a curious lean way; and he had a real gift with his tongue. He stood +high in the opinion of the big folk at Westminster, and had a future. He +had a winning way with women--a subtle, perniciously attractive way with +her sex, and to herself he had been delicately persuasive. He had the +ancient gift of picturesqueness without ornamentation. He had a strong +will and a healthy imagination. He was a man of mettle and decision. + +Of all who had entered her field outside of Dyck Calhoun he was the most +attractive; he was the nearest to the possible husband which she must +one day take. And if at any day at all, why not now when she needed +a man as she had never done--when she needed to forget? The sardonic +critic might ask why she did not seek forgetfulness in flight; why she +remained in Jamaica where was what she wished to forget. There was no +valid reason, save a business one, why she should remain in Jamaica, and +she was in a quandary when she put the question. There were, however, +other reasons which she used when all else failed to satisfy her +exigeant mind. There was the question of vessels to Virginia or New +York. They were few and not good, and in any case they could have no +comfortable journey to the United States for several weeks at least, +for, since the revolutionary war, commerce with the United States was +sparse. + +Also, there was the question of Salem. She did not feel she ought to +waste the property which her Uncle Bryan had nurtured with care. In +justice to his memory, and in fairness to Darius Boland, she felt she +ought to stay--for a time. It did not occur to her that these reasons +would vanish like mist--that a wilful woman would sweep them into the +basket of forgetfulness, and do what she wished in spite of reason: that +all else would be sacrificed, if the spirit so possessed her. Truth was +that, far back in her consciousness, there was a vision of better days +and things. It was as though some angel touched the elbow of her spirit +and said: “Stay on, for things will be better than they seem. You will +find your destiny here. Stay on.” + +So she had stayed. She was deluding herself to believe that what she was +doing was all for the best; that the clouds were rising; that her fate +had fairer aspects than had seemed possible when Dyck Calhoun told her +the terrible tale of the death of her father, Erris Boyne. Yet memory +gave a touch of misery and bitterness to all she thought and did. For +twenty-five years she had lived in ignorance as to her paternity. It +surely was futile that her mother should have suffered all those years, +with little to cheer her, while her daughter should be radiant in health +and with a mind free from care or sadness. Yet the bitterest thing +of all was the thought that her father was a traitor, and had died +sacrificing another man. When Dyck had told her first, she had shivered +with anger and shame--but anger and shame had gone. Only one thing gave +her any comfort--the man who knew Erris Boyne was a traitor, and could +profit by telling it, held his tongue for her own sake, kept his own +counsel, and went to prison for four years as the price of his silence. +He was now her neighbour and he loved her, and, if the shadow of a grave +was not between them, would offer himself in marriage to her. This she +knew beyond all doubt. He had given all a man can give--had saved her +and killed her father--in ignorance had killed her father; in love had +saved herself. What was to be done? + +In a strange spirit Sheila entered the room where the governor sat with +her mother. She had reached the limit of her powers of suffering. Soon +after her mother had left the room, the governor said: + +“Why do you think I have come here to-day?” + +He added to the words a note of sympathy, even of passion in his voice. + +“It was to visit my mother and myself, and to see how Salem looks after +our stay on it, was it not?” + +“Yes, to see your mother and yourself, but chiefly the latter. As for +Salem, it looks as though a mastermind had been at work, I see it in +everything. The slaves are singing. Listen!” + +He held up a finger as though to indicate attention and direction. + + “One, two, three, + All de same; + Black, white, brown, + All de same; + All de same. + One, two, three--” + +They could hear the words indistinctly. + +“What do the words mean?” asked Sheila. “I don’t understand them.” + +“No more do I, but I think they refer to the march of pestilence or +plague. Numbers, colour, race, nothing matters, the plague sweeps all +away. Ah, then, I was right,” he added. “There is the story in other +words. Listen again.” + +To clapping of hands in unison, the following words were sung: + + “New-come buckra, + He get sick, + He tak fever, + He be die; + He be die. + New-come buckra--” + +“Well, it may be a chant of the plague, but it’s lacking in poetry,” she +remarked. “Doesn’t it seem so to you?” + +“No, I certainly shouldn’t go so far as that. Think of how much of a +story is crowded into those few words. No waste, nothing thrown away. +It’s all epic, or that’s my view, anyhow,” said the governor. “If you +look out on those who are singing it, you’d see they are resting from +their labours; that they are fighting the ennui which most of us feel +when we rest from our labours. Let us look at them.” + +The governor stood up and came to the open French windows that faced the +fields of sugar-cane. In the near distance were clumps of fruit trees, +of hedges of lime and flowering shrubs, rows of orange trees, mangoes, +red and purple, forbidden-fruit and grapefruit, the large scarlet +fruit of the acqui, the avocado-pear, the feathering bamboo, and the +Jack-fruit tree, with its enormous fruit like pumpkins. Parrots were +chattering in the acacia and in the Otaheite plum tree, with its bright +pink blossoms like tassels, and flanking the negro huts by the river +were bowers of grenadilla fruit. Around the negro huts were small +individual plantations kept by the slaves, for which they had one day a +fortnight, besides Sundays, free to work on their own account. Here and +there also were patches of “ground-fruit,” as the underground vegetables +were called, while there passed by on their way to the open road leading +to Kingston wains loaded with sugar-casks, drawn by oxen, and in two +cases by sumpter mules. + +“Is there anything finer than that in Virginia?” asked the governor. +“I have never been in Virginia, but I take this to be in some ways like +that state. Is it?” + +“In some ways only. We have not the same profusion of wild fruits and +trees, but we have our share--and it is not so hot as here. It is a +better country, though.” + +“In what way is it better?” the governor asked almost acidly. + +“It is better governed.” + +“What do you mean by that? Isn’t Jamaica well governed?” + +“Not so well that it couldn’t be improved,” was Sheila’s reply. + +“What improvements would you suggest?” Lord Mallow asked urbanely, for +he was set to play his cards carefully to-day. + +“More wisdom in the governor,” was the cheerful and bright reply. + +“Is he lacking in wisdom?” + +“In some ways, yes.” + +“Will you mind specifying some of the things?” + +“I think he is careless.” + +“Careless--as to what?” + +Sheila smiled. “He is indifferent to good advice. He has been told of +trouble among the Maroons, that they mean to rise; he has been advised +to make preparations, and he makes none, and he is deceived by a show +of loyalty on the part of the slaves. Lord Mallow, if the free Maroons +rise, why should not the black slaves rise at the same time? Why do you +not act?” + +“Is everybody whose good opinion is worth having mad?” answered the +governor. “I have sent my inspectors to Trelawney. I have had reports +from them. I have used every care--what would you have me do?” + +“Used every care? Why don’t you ensure the Maroons peaceableness by +advancing on them? Why don’t you take them prisoners? They are enraged +that two of their herdsmen should be whipped by a negro-slave under the +order of one of your captains. They are angry and disturbed and have +ambushed the roads to Trelawney, so I’m told.” + +“Did Mr. Calhoun tell you that when he was here?” + +“It was not that which Mr. Calhoun told me the only time he came here. +But who Erris Boyne was. I never knew till, in his honour, he told me, +coming here for that purpose. I never knew who my father was till he +told me. My mother had kept it from me all my life.” + +The governor looked alert. “And you have not seen him since that day?” + +“I have seen him, but I have not spoken to him. It was in the distance +only.” + +“I understand your manager, Mr. Boland, sees him.” + +“My manager does not share my private interests--or troubles. He is free +to go where he will, to speak to whom he chooses. He visits Enniskillen, +I suppose--it is a well-managed plantation on Jamaican lines, and its +owner is a man of mark.” + +Sheila spoke without agitation of any kind; her face was firm and calm, +her manner composed, her voice even. As she talked, she seemed to be +probing the centre of a flower which she had caught from a basket at +the window, and her whole personality was alight and vivifying, her good +temper and spirit complete. As he looked at her, he had an overmastering +desire to make her his own--his wife. She was worth hundreds of +thousands of pounds; she had beauty, ability and authority. She was +the acme of charm and good bearing. With her he could climb high on +the ladder of life. He might be a really great figure in the British +world-if she gave her will to help him, to hold up his hands. It had +never occurred to him that Dyck Calhoun could be a rival, till he had +heard of Dyck’s visit to Sheila and her mother, till he had heard +Sheila praise him at the first dinner he had given to the two ladies on +Christmas Day. + +On that day it was clear Sheila did not know who her father was; but +stranger things had happened than that she should take up with, and +even marry, a man imprisoned for killing another, even one who had been +condemned as a mutineer, and had won freedom by saving the king’s +navy. But now that Sheila knew the truth there could be no danger! Dyck +Calhoun would be relegated to his proper place in the scheme of things. +Who was there to stand between him and his desire? What was there to +stay the great event? He himself was a peer and high-placed, for it +was a time when the West Indian Islands were a centre of the world’s +fighting, where men like Rodney had made everlasting fame; where the +currents of world-controversy challenged, met and fought for control. + +The West Indies was as much a cock-pit of the fighting powers as ever +Belgium was; and in those islands there was wealth and the power which +wealth buys; the clash of white and black and coloured peoples; the +naval contests on the sea; the horrible massacres and enslavement +of free white peoples, as in St. Domingo and Grenada; the dominating +attacks of people fighting for control--peoples of old empires like +France and Spain, and new empires like that of Britain. These were a +centre of colonial life as important as had been the life in Virginia +and New York and the New England States and Canada--indeed, more +important than Canada in one sense, for the West Indies brought wealth +to the British Isles, and had a big export trade. He lost no time in +bringing matters to an issue. + +He got to his feet and came near to her. His eyes were inflamed with +passion, his manner was impressive. He had a distinguished face, become +more distinguished since his assumption of governorship, and authority +had increased his personality. + +“A man of mark!” he said. “You mean a marked man. Let me tell you I have +an order from the British Government to confine him to his estate; not +to permit him to leave it; and, if he does, to arrest him. That is my +commanded duty. You approve, do you not? Or are you like most women, +soft at heart to bold criminals?” + +Sheila did not reply at once. The news was no news to her, for Darius +Boland had told her; but she thought it well to let the governor think +he had made a new, sensational statement. + +“No,” she said at last, looking him calmly in the eyes. “I have no soft +feelings for criminals as criminals, none at all. And there is every +reason why I should be adamant to this man, Dyck Calhoun. But, Lord +Mallow, I would go carefully about this, if I were you. He is a man who +takes no heed of people, high or low, and has no fear of consequences. +Have you thought of the consequences to yourself? Suppose he resists, +what will you do?” + +“If he resists I will attack him with due force.” + +“You mean you will send your military and police to attack him?” The +gibe was covered, but it found the governor’s breast. He knew what she +was meaning. + +“You would not expect me to do police work, would you? Is that what your +president does? What your great George Washington does? Does he make the +state arrests with his own hand?” + +“I have no doubt he would if the circumstances were such as to warrant +it. He has no small vices, and no false feelings. He has proved +himself,” she answered boldly. + +“Well, in that case,” responded Lord Mallow irritably, “the event will +be as is due. The man is condemned by my masters, and he must submit to +my authority. He is twice a criminal, and--” + +“And yet a hero and a good swordsman, and as honest as men are made in +a dishonest world. Your Admiralty and your government first pardoned the +man, and then gave him freedom on the island which you tried to prevent; +and now they turn round and confine him to his acres. Is that pardon in +a real sense? Did you write to the government and say he ought not to +be free to roam, lest he should discover more treasure-chests and buy +another estate? Was it you?” + +The governor shook his head. “No, not I. I told the government in +careful and unrhetorical language the incident of his coming here, and +what I did, and my reasons for doing it--that was all.” + +“And you being governor they took your advice. See, my lord, if this +thing is done to him it will be to your own discomfiture. It will hurt +you in the public service.” + +“Why, to hear you speak, mistress, it would almost seem you had a +fondness for the man who killed your father, who went to jail for it, +and--” + +“And became a mutineer,” intervened the girl flushing. “Why not say +all? Why not catalogue his offences? Fondness for the man who killed +my father, you say! Yes, I had a deep and sincere fondness for him ever +since I met him at Playmore over seven years ago. Yes, a fondness which +only his crime makes impossible. But in all that really matters I am +still his friend. He did not know he was killing my father, who had no +claims upon me, none at all, except that through him I have life and +being; but it is enough to separate us for ever in the eyes of the +world, and in my eyes. Not morally, of course, but legally and actually. +He and I are as far apart as winter and summer; we are parted for ever +and ever and ever.” + +Now at last she was inflamed. Every nerve in her was alive. All she +had ever felt for Dyck Calhoun came rushing to the surface, demanding +recognition, reasserting itself. As she used the words, “ever and ever +and ever,” it was like a Cordelia bidding farewell to Lear, her father, +for ever, for there was that in her voice which said: “It is final +separation, it is the judgment of Jehovah, and I must submit. It is the +last word.” + +Lord Mallow saw his opportunity, and did not hesitate. “No, you are +wrong, wholly wrong,” he said. “I did not bias what I said in my +report--a report I was bound to make--by any covert prejudice against +Mr. Calhoun. I guarded myself especially”--there he lied, but he was an +incomparable liar--“lest it should be used against him. It would appear, +however, that the new admiral’s report with mine were laid together, and +the government came to its conclusion accordingly. So I am bound to do +my duty.” + +“If you--oh, if you did your duty, you would not obey the command of the +government. Are there not times when to obey is a crime, and is not this +one of them? Lord Mallow, you would be doing as great a crime as Mr. +Dyck Calhoun ever committed, or could commit, if you put this order +into actual fact. You are governor here, and your judgment would be +accepted--remember it is an eight weeks’ journey to London at the least, +and what might not happen in that time! Are you not given discretion?” + +The governor nodded. “Yes, I am given discretion, but this is an order.” + +“An order!” she commented. “Then if it should not be fulfilled, break +it and take the consequences. The principle should be--Do what is right, +and have no fear.” + +“I will think it over,” answered the governor. “What you say has immense +weight with me--more even than I have words to say. Yes, I will think it +over--I promise you. You are a genius--you prevail.” + +Her face softened, a new something came into her manner. “You do truly +mean it?” she asked with lips that almost trembled. + +It seemed to her that to do this thing for Dyck Calhoun was the least +that was possible, and it was perhaps the last thing she might ever be +able to do. She realized how terrible it would be for him to be shorn of +the liberty he had always had; how dangerous it might be in many +ways; and how the people of the island might become excited by it--and +troublesome. + +“Yes, I mean it,” answered Lord Mallow. “I mean it exactly as I say it.” + +She smiled. “Well, that should recommend you for promotion,” she said +happily. “I am sure you will decide not to enforce the order, if you +think about it. You shall be promoted, your honour, to a better place,” + she repeated, half-satirically. + +“Shall I then?” he asked with a warm smile and drawing close to her. +“Shall I? Then it can only be by your recommendation. Ah, my dear, +my beautiful dear one,” he hastened to add, “my life is possible +henceforward only through you. You have taught me by your life and +person, by your beauty and truth, by your nobility of mind and character +how life should be lived. I have not always deserved your good opinion +nor that of others. I have fought duels and killed men; I have aspired +to place; I have connived at appointment; I have been vain, overbearing +and insistent on my rights or privileges; I have played the dictator +here in Jamaica; I have not been satisfied save to get my own way; but +you have altered all that. Your coming here has given me a new outlook. +Sheila, you have changed me, and you can change me infinitely more. I +who have been a master wish to become your slave. I want you--beloved, I +want you for my wife.” + +He reached out as though to take her hand, but she drew back from him. +His thrilling words had touched her, as she had seldom been touched, as +she had never been touched by any one save the man that must never be +hers; she was submerged for the moment in the flood of his eloquence, +and his yielding to her on the point of Dyck’s imprisonment gave fresh +accent to his words. Yet she could not, she dared not yet say yes to his +demand. + +“My lord,” she said, “oh, you have stirred me! Yet I dare not reply to +you as you wish. Life is hard as it is, and you have suddenly made it +harder. What is more, I do not, I cannot, believe you. You have loved +many. Your life has been a covert menace. Oh, I know what they said +of you in Ireland. I know not of your life here. I suppose it is +circumspect now; but in Ireland it was declared you were notorious with +women.” + +“It is a lie,” he answered. “I was not notorious. I was no better and no +worse than many another man. I played, I danced attendance, I said soft +nothings, but I was tied to no woman in all Ireland. I was frolicsome +and adventurous, but no more. There is no woman who can say I used her +ill or took from her what I did not--” + +“Atone for, Lord Mallow?” + +“Atone--no. What I did not give return for, was what I was going to +say.” + +The situation was intense. She was in a place from which there was no +escape except by flight or refusal. She did not really wish to refuse. +Somehow, there had come upon her the desire to put all thought of Dyck +Calhoun out of her mind by making it impossible for her to think of him; +and marriage was the one sure and complete way--marriage with this man, +was it possible? He held high position, he was her fellow countryman and +an Irish peer, and she was the daughter of an evil man, who was, above +all else, a traitor to his country, though Lord Mallow did not know +that. The only one she knew possessed of the facts was the man she +desired to save herself from in final way--Dyck Calhoun. Her heart +was for the moment soft to Lord Mallow, in spite of his hatred of Dyck +Calhoun. The governor was a man of charm in conversation. He was born +with rare faculties. Besides, he had knowledge of humanity and of women. +He knew how women could be touched. He had appealed to Sheila more by +ability than by aught else. His concessions to her were discretion in +a way. They opened the route to her affections, as his place and title +could not do. + +“No, no, no, believe me, Sheila, I was a man who had too many +temptations--that was all. But I did not spoil my life by them, and I +am here a trusted servant of the government. I am a better governor than +your first words to me would make you seem to think.” + +Her eyes were shining, her face was troubled, her tongue was silent. She +knew not what to say. She felt she could not say yes--yet she wanted to +escape from him. Her good fortune did not desert her. Suddenly the door +of the room opened and her mother entered. + +“There is a member of your suite here, your honour, asking for you. It +is of most grave importance. It is urgent. What shall I say?” + +“Say nothing. I am coming,” said the governor. “I am coming now.” + + + + +CHAPTER XX. OUT OF THE HANDS OF THE PHILISTINES + +That night the Maroons broke loose upon Jamaica, and began murder and +depredation against which the governor’s activities were no check. +Estates were invaded, and men, women and children killed, or carried +into the mountains and held as hostages. In the middle and western +part of the island the ruinous movements went on without being stayed; +planters and people generally railed at the governor, and said that +through his neglect these dark things were happening. It was said he +had failed to punish offences by the Maroons, and this had given them +confidence, filling them with defiance. They had one advantage not +possessed by the government troops and militia--they were masters of +every square rod of land in the middle and west of the island. Their +plan was to raid, to ambush, to kill and to excite the slaves to rebel. + +The first assault and repulse took place not far from Enniskillen, +Dyck Calhoun’s plantation, and Michael Clones captured a Maroon who was +slightly wounded. + +Michael challenged him thus: “Come now, my blitherin’ friend, tell +us your trouble--why are you risin’? You don’t do this without +cause--what’s the cause?” + +The black man, naked except for a cloth about his loins, and with a +small bag at his hip, slung from a cord over his shoulder, showed his +teeth in a stark grimace. + +“You’re a newcomer here, massa, or you’d know we’re treated bad,” he +answered. “We’re robbed and trod on and there’s no word kept with us. +We asked the governor for more land and he moved us off. We warned +him against having one of our head young men flogged by a slave in the +presence of slaves--for we are free men, and he laughs. So, knowing a +few strong men can bring many weak men to their knees, we rose. I say +this--there’s plenty weak men in Jamaica, men who don’t know right when +they see it. So we rose, massa, and we’ll make Jamaica sick before we’ve +done. They can’t beat us, for we can ambush here, and shoot those that +come after us. We hide, one behind this rock and one behind that, two or +three together, and we’re safe. But the white soldiers come all together +and beat drums and blow horns, and we know where they are, and so we +catch ‘em and kill ‘em. You’ll see, we’ll capture captains and generals, +and we’ll cut their heads off and bury them in their own guts.” + +He made an ugly grimace, and a loathsome gesture, and Michael Clones +felt the man ought to die. He half drew his sword, but, thinking better +of it, he took the Maroon to the Castle and locked him up in a slave’s +hut, having first bound him and put him in the charge of one he could +trust. But as he put the man away, he said: + +“You talk of your people hiding, and men not being able to find you; but +did you never hear of bloodhounds, that can hunt you down, and chew you +up? Did you never hear of them?” + +The man’s face wrinkled like a rag, for there is one thing the native +fears more than all else, and that is the tooth of the hound. But he +gathered courage, and said: “The governor has no hounds. There ain’t +none in Jamaica. We know dat--all of us know dat--all of us know dat, +massa.” + +Michael Clones laughed, and it was not pleasant to hear. “It may be the +governor has no bloodhounds, and would not permit their being brought +into the island, but my master is bringing them in himself--a lot with +their drivers from Cuba, and you Maroons will have all you can do to +hide. Sure, d’ye think every wan in the island is as foolish as the +governor? If you do, y’are mistaken, and that’s all there is to say.” + +“The hounds not here--in de island, massa!” declared the Maroon +questioningly. + +“They’ll be here within the next few hours, and then where will you and +your pals be? You’ll be caught between sharp teeth--nice, red, sharp, +bloody teeth; and you’ll make good steak-better than your best olio.” + +The native gave a moan--it was the lament of one whose crime was come +tete-a-tete with its own punishment. + +“That’s the game to play,” said Michael to himself as he fastened the +door tight. “The hounds will settle this fool-rebellion quicker than +aught else. Mr. Calhoun’s a wise man, and he ought to be governor +here. Criminal? As much as the angel Gabriel! He must put down this +rebellion--no wan else can. They’re stronger, the Maroons, than ever +they’ve been. They’ve planned this with skill, and they’ll need a lot +of handlin’. We’re safe enough here, but down there at Salem--well, they +may be caught in the bloody net. Bedad, that’s sure.” + +A few moments afterwards he met Dyck Calhoun. “Michael,” said Dyck, +“things are safe enough here, but we’ve prepared! The overseers, +bookkeepers and drivers are loyal enough. But there are others not so +safe. I’m going to Salem-riding as hard as I can, with six of our best +men. They’re not so daft at Salem as we are, Michael. They won’t know +how to act or what to do. Darius Boland is a good man, but he’s only had +Virginian experience, and this is different. A hundred Maroons are as +good as a thousand white soldiers in the way the Maroons fight. There +are a thousand of them, and they can lay waste this island, if they get +going. So I shall stop them. The hounds are outside the harbour now, +Michael. The ship Vincent, bringing them, was sighted by a sloop two +days ago, making slowly for Kingston. She should be here before we’ve +time to turn round. Michael, the game is in our hands, if we play it +well. Do you go down to Kingston and--” + +He detailed what Michael was to do on landing the hounds, and laid out +plans for the immediate future. “They’re in danger at Salem, Michael, so +we must help them. The hounds will settle this whole wretched business.” + +Michael told him of his prisoner, and what effect the threat about the +hounds had had. A look of purpose came into Dyck’s face. + +“A hound is as fair as a gun, and hounds shall be used here in Jamaica. +The governor can’t refuse their landing now. The people would kill him +if he did. It was I proposed it all.” + +“Look, sir--who’s that?” asked Michael, as they saw a figure riding +under the palms not far away. + +It was very early morning, and the light was dim yet, but there was +sufficient to make even far sight easy. Dyck shaded his forehead with +his hand. + +“It’s not one of our people, Michael. It’s a stranger.” + +As the rider came on he was stopped by two of the drivers of the estate. +Dyck and Michael saw him hold up a letter, and a moment later he was on +his way to Dyck, galloping hard. Arrived, he dropped to the ground, and +saluted Dyck. + +“A letter from Salem, sir,” he said, and handed it over to Dyck. + +Dyck nodded, broke the seal of the letter and read it quickly. Then he +nodded again and bade the man eat a hearty breakfast and return with him +on one of the Enniskillen horses, as his own would be exhausted. “We’ll +help protect Salem, my man,” said Dyck. + +The man grinned. “That’s good,” he answered. “They knew naught of the +rising when I left. But the governor was there yesterday, and he’d +protect us.” + +“Nonsense, fellow, the governor would go straight to Spanish Town where +he belongs, when there is trouble.” + +When the man had gone, Dyck turned to his servant. “Michael,” he said, +“the news in the letter came from Darius Boland. He says the governor +told him he had orders from England to confine me here at Enniskillen, +and he meant to do it. We’ll see how he does it. If he sends his +marshals, we’ll make Gadarene swine of them.” + +There was a smile at his lips, and it was contemptuous, and the lines +of his forehead told of resolve. “Michael,” he added, “we’ll hunt Lord +Mallow with the hounds of our good fortune, for this war is our war. +They can’t win it without me, and they shan’t. Without the hounds it may +be a two years’ war--with the hounds it can’t go beyond a week or so.” + +“If the hounds get here, sir! But if they don’t?” + +Dyck laid his hand upon the sword at his side. “If they don’t get here, +Michael, still the war will be ours, for we understand fighting, and +the governor does not. Confine me here, will he? If he does, he’ll be a +better man than I have ever known him, Michael. In a few hours I shall +be at Salem, to do what he could not, and would not, do if he could. +His love is as deep as water on a roof, no deeper. He’ll think first of +himself, and afterwards of the owner of Salem or any other. Let me show +you what I mean to do once we’ve Salem free from danger. Come and have a +look at my chart.” + +Some hours later Dyck Calhoun, with his six horsemen, was within a mile +or so of Salem. They had ridden hard in the heat and were tired, +but there was high spirit in the men, for they were behind a trusted +leader--a man who ate little, but who did not disdain a bottle of +Madeira or a glass of brandy, and who made good every step of the way he +went--watchful, alert, careful, determined. They cared little what his +past had been. Jamaica was not a heaven for the good, but it was a haven +for many who had been ill-used elsewhere; where each man, as though he +were really in a new world, was judged by his daily actions and not by +any history of a hidden or an open past. As they came across country, +Dyck always ahead, they saw how he responded to every sign of life +in the bush, how he moved always with discretion where ambush seemed +possible. They knew how on his own estate he never made mistakes of +judgment; that he held the balance carefully, and that his violences, +rare and tremendous, were not outbursts of an unregulated nature. “You +can’t fool Calhoun,” was a common phrase in the language of Enniskillen, +and there were few in the surrounding country who would not have upheld +its truth. + +Now, to-day, he was almost moodily silent, reserved and watchful. None +knew the eddies of life which struggled for mastery in him, nor of his +horrible disappointments. None knew of his love for Sheila. Yet all knew +that he had killed--or was punished for killing--Erris Boyne. None +of them had seen Sheila, but all had heard of her, and the governor’s +courtship of her, and all wondered why Dyck Calhoun should be doing what +clearly the governor should do. + +Somehow, in spite of the criminal record with which Calhoun’s life was +stained, they had a respect for him they did not have for Lord Mallow. +Dyck’s life in Jamaica was clean; and his progress as a planter had been +free from black spots. He even kept no mistress, and none had ever known +him to have to do with women, black, brown, or white. He had never gone +a-Maying, as the saying was, and his only weakness or fault--if it was a +fault--was a fondness for the bottle of good wine which was ever open +on his table, and for tobacco in the smoking-leaf. To-day he smoked +incessantly and carefully. He threw no loose ends of burning tobacco +from cigar or pipe into the loose dry leaves and stiff-cut ground. Yet +they knew the small clouds floating away from his head did not check his +observation. That was proved beyond peradventure when they were within +sight of the homestead of Salem on an upland well-wooded. It was in +apparently happy circumstances, for they could see no commotion about +the homestead; they saw men with muskets, evidently keeping guard--yet +too openly keeping guard, and so some said to each other. + +Presently Dyck reined his horse. Each man listened attentively, and eyed +the wood ahead of them, for it was clear Dyck suspected danger there. +For a moment there seemed doubt in Dyck’s mind what to do, but presently +he had decided. + +“Ride slow for Salem,” he said. “It’s Maroons there in the bush. They +are waiting for night. They won’t attack us now. They’re in ambush--of +that I’m sure. If they want to capture Salem, they’ll not give alarm by +firing on us, so if we ride on they’ll think we haven’t sensed them. If +they do attack us, we’ll know they are in good numbers, for they’ll be +facing us as well as the garrison of Salem. But keep your muskets ready. +Have a drink,” he added, and handed his horn of liquor. “If they see us +drink, and they will, they’ll think we’ve only stopped to refresh, and +we’ll be safe. In any case, if they attack, fire your muskets at them +and ride like the devil. Don’t dismount and don’t try to find them in +the rocks. They’ll catch us that way, as they’ve caught others. It’s +a poor game fighting hidden men. I want to get them into the open down +below, and that’s where they’ll be before we’re many hours older.” + +With this he rode on slightly ahead, and presently put his horse at a +gentle canter which he did not increase as they neared the place where +the black men ambushed. Every man of the group behaved well. None showed +nervousness, even when one of the horses, conscious of hidden Maroons in +the wood, gave a snort and made a sharp movement out of the track, in an +attempt to get greater speed. + +That was only for an instant, however. Yet every man’s heart beat faster +as they came to the place where the ambush was. Indeed, Dyck saw a +bush move, and had a glimpse of a black, hideous face which quickly +disappeared. Dyck’s imperturbable coolness kept them steady. They even +gossiped of idle things loud enough for the hidden Maroons to hear. +No face showed suspicion or alarm, as they passed, while all felt the +presence of many men in the underbrush. Only when they had passed the +place, did they realize the fulness of the danger through which they +had gone. Dyck talked to them presently without turning round, for that +might have roused suspicion, and while they were out of danger now, +there was the future and Dyck’s plan which he now unfolded. + +“They’ll come down into the open before it’s dark,” he said quietly, +“and when they do that, we’ll have ‘em. They’ve no chance to ambush +in the cane-fields now. We’ll get them in the open, and wipe them out. +Don’t look round. Keep steady, and we’ll ride a little more quickly +soon.” + +A little later they cantered to the front door of the Salem homestead. + +The first face they saw there was that of Darius Boland. It had a look +of trouble. Dyck explained. “We thought you might not have heard of the +rise of the Maroons. We have no ladies at Enniskillen. We prepared, and +we’re safe enough there, as things are. Your ladies must go at once to +Spanish Town, unless--” + +“Unless they stay here! Well, they would not be unwise, for though the +slaves under the old management might have joined the Maroons, they will +not do so now. We have got them that far. But, Mr. Calhoun, the ladies +aren’t here. They rode away into the hills this morning, and they’ve not +come back. + +“I was just sending a search party for them. I did not know of the rise +of the Maroons.” + +“In what direction did they go?” asked Dyck with anxiety, though his +tone was even. + +Darius Boland pointed. “They went slightly northwest, and if they go as +I think they meant to do, they would come back the way you came in.” + +“They were armed?” Dyck asked sharply. + +“Yes, they were armed,” was the reply. “Miss Llyn had a small pistol. +She learned to carry one in Virginia, and she has done so ever since we +came here.” + +“Listen, Boland,” said Dyck with anxiety. “Up there in the hills by +which we came are Maroons hidden, and they will invade this place +to-night. We were ready to fight them, of course, as we came, but it’s +a risky business, and we wanted to get them all if possible. We couldn’t +if we had charged them there, for they were well-ambushed. My idea was +to let them get into the open between there and here, and catch them as +they came. It would save our own men, and it would probably do for them. +If Mrs. and Miss Llyn come back that way, they will be in greater danger +than were we, for the Maroons were coming here to capture the ladies and +hold them as hostages; and they would not let them pass. In any case, +the risk is immense. The ladies must be got to Spanish Town, for the +Maroons are desperate. They know we have no ships of the navy here now, +and they rely on their raiding powers and the governor’s weakness. They +have placed their men in every part of the middle and western country, +and they came upon my place last evening and were defeated. Several were +killed and one taken prisoner. They can’t be marched upon like an +army. Their powers of ambush are too great. They must be run down by +bloodhounds. It’s the only way.” + +“Bloodhounds--there are no bloodhounds here!” said Darius Boland. “And +if there were, wouldn’t pious England make a fuss?” + +Dyck Calhoun was about to speak sharply, but he caught sarcasm in Darius +Boland’s face, and he said: “I have the bloodhounds. They’re outside the +harbour now, and I intend to use them.” + +“If the governor allows you!” remarked Darius Boland ironically. “He +does not like you or your bloodhounds. He has his orders, so he says.” + +Dyck made an impatient gesture. “I will not submit to his orders. I +have earned my place in this is land, and he shall not have his way. The +ladies must be brought to Spanish Town, and placed where the governor’s +men can protect them.” + +“The governor’s men! Indeed. They might as well stay here; we can surely +protect them.” + +“Perhaps, for you have skill, Boland, and you are cautious, but is it +fair for ladies to stay in this isolated spot with murderers about? When +the ladies come back, they must be sent at once to Spanish Town. Can’t +you see?” + +Darius Boland bowed. “What you say goes always,” he remarked, “but tell +me, sir, who will take the ladies to Spanish Town?” + +Dyck Calhoun read the inner meaning of Darius Boland’s words. They did +not put him out of self-control. It was not a time to dwell on such +things. It was his primary duty to save the ladies. + +“Come, Boland,” he said sharply, “I shall start now. We must find +the ladies. What sort of a country is it through which they pass?” He +pointed. + +“Bad enough in some ways. There’s an old monastery of the days of +the Spaniards up there”--he pointed or the ruins of one, “and it is a +pleasant place to rest. I doubt not they rested there, if--” + +“If they reached it!” remarked Dyck with crisp inflection. “Yes, +they would rest there--and it would be a good place for ambush by the +Maroons, eh?” + +“Good enough from the standpoint of the Maroons,” was the reply, the +voice slightly choked. + +“Then we must go there. It’s a damnable predicament--no, you must not +come with me! You must keep command here.” + +He hastily described the course to be followed by those of his own men +who stayed to defend, and then said: “Our horses are fagged. If you loan +us four I’ll see they are well cared for, and returned in kind or cash. +I’ll take three of my men only, and loan you three of the best. We’ll +fill our knapsacks and get away, Boland.” + +A few moments later, Calhoun and his three men, with a guide added by +Boland, had started away up the road which had been ridden by Mrs. Llyn +and Sheila. One thing was clear, the Maroons on the hill did not know of +the absence of Sheila and her mother, or they would not be waiting. He +did not like the long absence of the ladies. It was ominous at such a +time. + +Dyck and his small escort got away by a road unseen from where the +Maroons were, and when well away put their horses to a canter and got +into the hills. Once in the woods, however, they rode alertly, and +Dyck’s eyes were everywhere. He was quick to see a bush move, to observe +the flick of a branch, to catch the faintest sound of an animal origin. +He was obsessed with anxiety, for he had a dark fear that some ill had +happened to the two. His blood almost dried in his veins when he thought +of the fate which had followed the capture of ladies in other islands +like Haiti or Grenada. + +It did not seem possible that these beautiful women should have fallen +into the outrageous hands of savages. He knew the girl was armed, and +that before harm might come to her she would end her own life and her +mother’s also; but if she was caught from behind, and the opportunity of +suicide should not be hers--what then? + +Yet he showed no agitation to his followers. His eyes were, however, +intensely busy, and every nerve was keen to feel. Life in the open had +developed in him the physical astuteness of the wild man, and he had all +the gifts that make a supreme open-air fighter. He sensed things; but +with him it was feeling, and not scent or hearing; his senses were such +perfect listeners. He had the intense perception of a delicate plant, +those wonderful warnings which only come to those who live close to +nature, who study from feeling the thousand moods and tenses of living +vegetables and animal life. He was a born hunter, and it was not easy +to surprise him when every nerve was sharp with premonition. He saw +the marks of the hoofs of Sheila’s and her mother’s horses in the road, +knowing them by the freshness of the indentations. An hour, two hours +passed, and they then approached the monasterial ruin of which Boland +had spoken. Here, suddenly, Dyck dropped to the ground, for he saw +unmistakable signs of fright or flurry in the hoofmarks. + +He quickly made examination, and there were signs of women’s feet and +also a bare native foot, but no signs of struggle or disturbance. The +footprints, both native and white, were firmly placed, but the horses’ +hoof-prints showed agitation. Presently the hoofmarks became more +composed again. Suddenly one of Dyck’s supporters exclaimed he had +picked up a small piece of ribbon, evidently dropped to guide those who +might come searching. Presently another token was found in a loose bit +of buckle from a shoe. Then, suddenly, upon the middle of the road was a +little pool of blood and signs that a body had lain in the dust. + +“She shot a native here,” said Dyck to his men coolly. “There are no +signs of a struggle,” remarked the most observant. + +“We must go carefully here, for they may have been imprisoned in the +ruin. You stay here, and I’ll go forward,” he added, with a hand on +his sword. “I’ve an idea they’re here. We have one chance, my lads, +and let’s keep our heads. If anything should happen to me, have a +try yourselves, and see what you can do. The ladies must be freed, if +they’re there. There’s not one of you that won’t stand by to the last, +but I want your oath upon it. By the heads or graves of your mothers, +lads, you’ll see it through? Up with your hands!” + +Their hands went up. “By our mothers’ heads or graves!” they said in low +tones. + +“Good!” he replied. “I’ll go on ahead. If you hear a call, or a shot +fired, forward swiftly.” + +An instant later he plunged into the woods to the right of the road, by +which he would come upon the ruins from the rear. He held a pistol as he +stole carefully yet quickly forward. He was anxious there should be no +delay, but he must not be rash. Without meeting anyone he came near the +ruins. They showed serene in the shade of the trees. + +Then suddenly came from the ruin a Maroon of fierce, yet not cruel +appearance, who laid a hand behind his ear, and looked steadfastly +towards that part of the wood where Dyck was. It was clear he had heard +something. Dyck did not know how many Maroons there might be in the +ruins, or near it, and he did not attack. It was essential he should +know the strength of his foe; and he remained quiet. Presently the +native turned as though to go back into the ruins, but changed his mind, +and began to tour the stony, ruined building. Dyck waited, and presently +saw more natives come from the ruins, and after a moment another three. +These last were having an argument of some stress, for they pulled +at each other’s arms and even caught at the long cloths of their +headdresses. + +“They’ve got the ladies there,” thought Dyck, “but they’ve done them no +harm yet.” He waited moments longer to see if more natives were coming +out, then said to himself: “I’ll make a try for it now. It won’t do to +run the risk of going back to bring my fellows up. It’s a fair risk, but +it’s worth taking.” + +With that he ran softly to the entrance from which he had seen the men +emerge. Looking in he saw only darkness. Then suddenly he gave a soft +call, the call of an Irish bird-note which all people in Ireland--in the +west and south of Ireland--know. If Sheila was alive and in the place +she would answer it, he was sure. He waited a moment, and there was no +answer. Then he called again, and in an instant, as though from a +great distance, there came the reply of the same note, clearer and more +bell-like than his own. + +“She’s there!” he said, and boldly entered the place. It was dark and +damp, but ahead was a break in the solid monotony of ruined wall, and he +saw a clear stream of light beyond. He stole ahead, got over the stone +obstructions, and came on to a biggish room which once had been a +refectory. Looking round it he saw three doors--one evidently led into +the kitchen, one into a pantry, and one into a hall. It was clear the +women were alone, or some one would have come in answer to his call. Who +could tell when they would come? There was no time to be lost. With an +instinct, which proved correct, he opened the door leading into the old +kitchen, and there, tied, and with pale faces, but in no other sense +disordered, were Sheila and her mother. He put his fingers to his lips, +then hastily cut them loose from the ropes of bamboo, and helped them to +their feet. + +“Can you walk?” he whispered to Mrs. Llyn. She nodded assent, and braced +herself. “Then here,” he said, “is a pistol. Come quickly. We may have +to fight our way out. Don’t be afraid to fire, but take good aim first. +I have some men in the wood beyond where you shot the native,” he added +to Sheila. “They’ll come at once if I call, or a shot is fired. Keep +your heads, and we shall be all right. They’re a dangerous crew, but +we’ll beat them this time. Come quickly.” + +Presently they were in the refectory, and a moment after that they were +over the stones, and near the entrance, and then a native appeared, +armed. Without an instant’s hesitation Dyck ran forward, and as he +entered, put his sword into the man’s vitals, and he fell, calling out +as he fell. + +“The rest will be on us now,” said Dyck, “and we must keep going.” + +Three more natives appeared, and he shot two. + +Catching a pistol from Sheila he aimed at the third native and wounded +him, but did not kill him. The man ran into the wood. Presently more +Maroons came--a dozen or more, and rushed for the entrance. They were +met by Dyck’s fire, and now also Sheila fired and brought down her +man. Dyck wounded another, and in great skill loaded again, but at that +moment three of the Maroons rushed down into the ruins. + +They were astonished to see Dyck there, and more astonished to +receive--first one and then another--his iron in their bowels. The third +man made a stroke at Dyck with his lance, and only gashed Dyck’s +left arm. Then he turned and fled out into the open, and was met by +a half-dozen others. They all were about to rush the entrance when +suddenly four shots behind them brought three of them down, and the rest +fled into the wood shouting. In another moment Dyck and the ladies +were in the open, and making for the woods, the women in front, the men +behind, loading their muskets as they ran, and alive to the risks of the +moment. + +The dresses of the ladies were stained and soiled with dust and damp, +but otherwise they seemed little the worse for the adventure, save that +Mrs. Llyn was shaken, and her face was pale. + +“How did you know where we were, and why did you come?” she said, after +they had got under way, having secured the horses which Sheila and her +mother had ridden. + +Briefly Dyck explained how as soon as he had dealt with the revolt of +the Maroons at his own place he came straight to Salem. + +“I knew you were unused to the ways of the country and to our sort of +native here, and I felt sure you would not refuse to take help--even +mine at a pinch. But what happened to you?” he added, turning to Sheila. + +It was only yesterday Sheila had determined to cut him wholly out of her +life by assenting to marry Lord Mallow. Yet here he was, and she could +scarcely bear to look into his face. He was shut off from her by every +fact of human reason. These were days when the traditions of family life +were more intense than now; when to kill one’s own father was not so bad +as to embrace, as it were, him or her who had killed that father. Sheila +felt if she were normal she ought to feel abhorrence against Dyck; yet +she felt none at all, and his saving them had given a new colour to +their relations. If he had killed her father, the traitor, he had saved +themselves from death or freed them from a shameful captivity which +might have ended in black disaster. She kept herself in hand, and did +not show confusion. + +“We had not heard of the rising of the Maroons,” she said. “The governor +was at Salem yesterday and a message came from his staff to say would +he come at once. His staff were not at Salem, but at the next plantation +nearer to Spanish Town. Lord Mallow went. If he suspected the real +trouble he said naught, but was gone before you could realize it. +The hours went by, night came and passed, then my mother and I, this +morning, resolved to ride to the monastery, and then round by the road +you travelled back to Salem.” + +“There are Maroons now on that hill above your place. They were in +ambush when we passed, but we took no notice. It was not wise to invite +trouble. Some of us would have been killed, but--” + +He then told what had been in his mind, and what might be the +outcome--the killing or capture of the whole group, and safety for all +at Salem. + +When he had finished, she continued her story. “We rode for an hour +unchallenged, and then came the Maroons. At first I knew not what to do. +We were surrounded before we could act. I had my pistol ready, and there +was the chance of escape--the faint chance--if we drove our horses on; +but there was also the danger of being fired at from behind! So we +sat still on our horses, and I asked them how they dared attack white +ladies. I asked them if they had never thought what vengeance the +governor would take. They did not understand my words, but they grasped +the meaning, and one of them, the leader, who understood English, was +inclined to have reason. As it was, we stopped what might have been our +murder by saying it would be wiser to hold us as hostages, and that we +were Americans. That man was killed--by you. A shot from your pistol +brought him down as he rushed forward to enter the ruins. But he took +care of us as we went forward, and when I shot one of his followers for +laying his hand upon me in the saddle--he caught me by the leg under my +skirt--he would allow no retaliation. I knew boldness was the safe part +to play. + +“But in the end we were bound with ropes as you found us, while they +waited for more of their people to come, those, no doubt, you found +ambushed on the hill. As we lay, bound as you saw us, the leader said +to us we should be safe if he could have his way, but there were bad +elements among the Maroons, and he could not guarantee it. Yet he knew +the government would pay for our release, would perhaps give the land +for which they had asked with no avail. We must, therefore, remain +prisoners. If we made no efforts to escape, it would be better in the +end. ‘Keep your head steady, missy, try no tricks, and all may go well; +but I have bad lot, and they may fly at you.’ That was the way he spoke. +It made our blood run cold, for he was one man, with fair mind, and he +had around him men, savage and irresponsible. Black and ruthless, they +would stop at nothing except the sword at their throats or the teeth in +their flesh.” + +“The teeth in their flesh!” said Dyck with a grim smile. “Yes, that is +the only way with them. Naught can put the fear of God into them except +bloodhounds, and that Lord Mallow will not have. He has been set against +it until now. But this business will teach him. He may change his mind +now, since what he cares for is in danger--his place and his ladies!” + +Mrs. Llyn roused herself to say: “No, no, Mr. Calhoun, you must not say +that of him. His place may be in danger, but not his ladies. He has no +promise of that.... And see, Mr. Calhoun, I want to say that, in any +case, you have paid your debt, if you owe one to us. For a life taken +you have given two lives--to me and my girl. I speak as one who has +a right to say it! Erris Boyne was naught to me at all, but he was my +daughter’s father, and that made everything difficult. I could make him +cease to be my husband, and I did; but I could not make him cease to be +her father.” + +“I had no love for Erris Boyne,” said Sheila. Misery was heavy on her. +“None at all, but he was my father.” + +“See, all’s well still at Salem,” said Dyck waving a hand as though to +change the talk. “All’s as we left it.” + +There in the near distance lay Salem, serene. All tropical life about +seemed throbbing with life and soaking with leisure. + +“We were in time,” he added. “The Maroons are still in ambush. The sun +is beginning to set though, and the trouble may begin. We shall get +there about sundown--safe, thank God!” + +“Safe, thank God--and you,” said Sheila’s mother. + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. THE CLASH OF RACE + +In the King’s House at Spanish Town the governor was troubled. All his +plans and prophecies had come to naught. He had been sure there would +be no rebellion of the Maroons, and he was equally sure that his career +would be made hugely successful by marriage with Sheila Llyn--but the +Maroons had revolted, and the marriage was not settled! + +Messages had been coming from the provost-marshal-general of reports +from the counties of Middlesex and Cornwall, that the Maroons were +ravaging everywhere and that bands of slaves had joined them with +serious disasters to the plantation people. Planters, their wives and +children had been murdered, and in some districts the natives were in +full possession and had destroyed, robbed and ravaged. He had summoned +his commander of the militia forces, had created special constables, and +armed them, and had sent a ship to the Bahamas to summon a small British +fleet there. He had also mapped out a campaign against the Maroons, +which had one grave demerit--it was planned on a basis of ordinary +warfare and not with Jamaica conditions in mind. The provost-marshal +warned him of the futility of these plans, but he had persisted in +them. He had later been shocked, however, by news that the best of his +colonels had been ambushed and killed, and that others had been made +prisoners and treated with barbarity. From everywhere, except one, had +come either news of defeat or set-back. + +One good thing he immediately did: he threw open King’s House to the +wounded, and set the surgeons to work, thereby checking bitter criticism +and blocking the movement rising against him. For it was well known he +had rejected all warnings, had persisted in his view that trust in the +Maroons and fair treatment of themselves and the slaves were all that +was needed. + +As he walked in the great salon or hall of audience where the wounded +lay--over seventy feet long and thirty wide, with great height, to which +beds and conveniences had been hastily brought--it seemed to him that he +was saving, if barely saving, his name and career. Standing beside one +of the Doric pillars which divided the salon from an upper and lower +gallery of communications, he received the Custos of Kingston. As the +Custos told his news the governor’s eyes were running along the line of +busts of ancient and modern philosophers on the gilt brackets between +the Doric pilasters. They were all in bronze, and his mind had the +doleful imagination of brown slave heroes placed there in honour for +services given to the country. The doors at the south end of the great +salon opened now and then into the council chambers beyond, and he could +see the surgeons operating on the cases returned from the plantations. + +“Your honour,” said the Custos, “things have suddenly improved. The +hounds have come from Cuba and in the charge of ten men--ten men with +sixty hounds. That is the situation at the moment. All the people at +Kingston are overjoyed. They see the end of the revolt.” + +“The hounds!” exclaimed the governor. “What hounds?” + +“The hounds sent for by Dyck Calhoun--surely your honour remembers!” + +Surely his honour did, and recalled also that he forbade the importation +of the hounds; but he could not press that prohibition now. “The +mutineer and murderer, Dyck Calhoun!” he exclaimed. “And they have +come!” + +“Yes, your honour, and gone with Calhoun’s man, Michael Clones, to +Salem.” + +“To Salem--why Salem?” + +“Because Calhoun is there fighting the Maroons in that district. The +Maroons first captured the ladies of Salem as they rode in the woods. +They were beaten at that game by Calhoun and four men; the ladies +then were freed and taken back to Salem. Then the storm burst on +Salem--burst, but did not overwhelm. Calhoun saved the situation +there; and when his hounds arrive at Salem he will range over the whole +country. It is against the ideas of the people of England, but it does +our work in Jamaica as nothing else could. It was a stroke of genius, +the hounds, your honour!” + +Lord Mallow was at once relieved and nonplussed. No doubt the policy of +the hounds was useful, and it might save his own goose, but it was, in +a sense, un-English to hunt the wild man with hounds. Yet was it +un-English? What was the difference between a sword and a good sharp +tooth save that the sword struck and let go and the tooth struck and +held on? It had been said in England that to hunt negroes with hounds +was barbarous and cowardly; but criminals were hunted with bloodhounds +in all civilized countries; and as for cowardice, the man who had sent +for these hounds was as brave as any old crusader! No, Dyck Calhoun +could not be charged with cowardice, and his policy of the hounds might +save the island and the administration in the end. They had arrived in +the very hour of Jamaica’s and Lord Mallow’s greatest peril. They had +gone on to the man who had been sane enough to send for them. + +“Tell me about the landing of the hounds,” said Lord Mallow. + +“It was last night about dusk that word came from the pilot’s station +at Port Royal that the vessel Vincent was making for port, and that she. +came from Cuba. Presently Michael Clones, the servant of Dyck Calhoun, +came also to say that the Vincent was the ship bringing Calhoun’s +hounds from Cuba, and asking permit for delivery. This he did because +he thought you were opposed to the landing. In the light of our position +here, we granted the delivery. + +“When the vessel came to anchor, the hounds with their drivers were +landed. The landing was the signal for a great display on the part of +the people and the militia--yes, the militia shared in the applause, +your honour! They had had a taste of war with the Maroons and the +slaves, and they were well inclined to let the hounds have their chance. +Resolutions were then passed to approach your honour and ask that full +powers be given to Calhoun to pursue the war without thought of military +precedent or of Calhoun’s position. He has no official place in the +public life here, but he is powerful with the masses. It is rumoured you +have an order to confine him to his plantation; but to apply it would +bring revolution in Jamaica. There are great numbers of people who love +his courage, what he did for the King’s navy, and for his commercial +success here, and they would resent harsh treatment of him. They are +aware, your honour, that he and you knew each other in Ireland, and they +think you are hard on him. People judge not from all the facts, but from +what they see and hear.” + +During the Custos’ narrative, Lord Mallow was perturbed. He had the +common sense to know that Dyck Calhoun, ex-convict and mutineer as he +was, had personal power in the island, which he as governor had not been +able to get, and Dyck had not abused that power. He realized that Dyck’s +premonition of an outbreak and sending for the hounds was a stroke +of genius. He recalled with anger Dyck’s appearance, in spite of +regulations, in trousers at the King’s ball and his dancing with a black +woman, and he also realized that it was a cool insult to himself. It was +then he had given the home authorities information which would poison +their mind against Dyck, and from that had come the order to confine him +to his plantation. + +Yet he felt the time had come when he might use Dyck for his own +purposes. That Dyck should be at Salem was a bitter dose, but that could +amount to nothing, for Sheila could never marry the man who had killed +her father, however bad and mad her father was. Yet it gravelled his +soul that Dyck should be doing service for the lady to whom he had +offered his own hand and heart, and from whom he had had no word of +assent. It angered him against himself that he had not at once sent +soldiers to Salem to protect it. He wished to set himself right with +Sheila and with the island people, and how to do so was the question. + +First, clearly, he must not apply the order to confine Dyck to his +plantation; also he must give Dyck authority to use the hounds in +hunting down the Maroons and slaves who were committing awful crimes. +He forthwith decided to write, asking Dyck to send him outline of his +scheme against the rebels. That he must do, for the game was with Dyck. + +“How long will it take the hounds to get to Salem?” he asked the Custos +presently in his office, with deepset lines in his face and a determined +look in his eyes. He was an arrogant man, but he was not insane, and he +wished to succeed. It could only be success if he dragged Jamaica out of +this rebellion with flying colours, and his one possible weapon was the +man whom he detested. + +“Why, your honour, as we sent them by wagons and good horses they should +be in Dyck Calhoun’s hands this evening. They should be there by now +almost, for they’ve been going for hours, and the distance is not +great.” + +The governor nodded, and began to write. A halfhour later he handed to +the Custos what he had written. + +“See what you think of that, Custos,” he said. “Does it, in your mind, +cover the ground as it should?” + +The Custos read it all over slowly and carefully, weighing every word. +Presently he handed back the paper. “Your honour, it is complete and +masterly,” he said. “It puts the crushing of the revolt into the hands +of Mr. Calhoun, and nothing could be wiser. He has the gifts of a +leader, and he will do the job with no mistake, and in a time of crisis +like this, that is essential. You have given him the right to order the +militia to obey him, and nothing could be better. He will organize like +a master. We haven’t forgotten his fight on the Ariadne. Didn’t the +admiral tell the story at the dinner we gave him of how this ex-convict +and mutineer, by sheer genius, broke the power of the French at the +critical moment and saved our fleet, though it was only three-fourths +that of the French?” + +“You don’t think the French will get us some day?” asked the governor +with a smile. + +“I certainly don’t since our defences have been improved. Look at the +sixty big cannon on Fort Augusta! They’d be knocked to smithereens +before they could get into the quiet waters of the harbour. Don’t forget +the narrows, your honour. Then there’s the Apostle’s Battery with its +huge shot, and the guns of Fort Royal would give them a cross-fire that +would make them sick. Besides, we could stop them within the shoals +and reefs and narrow channels before they got near the inner circle. +It would only be the hand of God that would get them in, and it doesn’t +work for Frenchmen these days, I observe. No, this place is safe, and +King’s House will be the home of British governors for many a century.” + +“Ah, that’s your gallant faith, and no doubt you are right, but go on +with your tale of the hounds,” said Lord Mallow. + +“Your honour, as the hounds went away with Michael Clones there was +greater applause than I have ever seen in the island except when Rodney +defeated De Grasse. Imagine a little sloop in the wash of the seas and +the buccaneers piling down on him, and no chance of escape, and then a +great British battleship appearing, and the situation saved--that was +how we were placed here till the hounds arrived. + +“Your honour, this morning’s--this early morning’s exit of the hounds +was like a procession of veterans to Walhalla. There was the sun +breaking over the tops of the hills, a crimsonish, greyish, opaline +touch of soft sprays or mists breaking away from the onset of the +sunrise; and all the trees with night-lips wet sucking in the sun and +drinking up the light like an overseer at a Christmas breakfast; and you +know what that is. And all the shore, rocky and sandy, rough and smooth, +happy and homely, shimmering in the radiance. And hundreds of Creoles +and coloured folk beating the ground in agitation, and slaves a-plenty +carrying boxes to the ships that are leaving, and white folk crowding +the streets, and bugles blowing, and the tramp of the militia, and the +rattle of carts on the cobble-stones, and the voices of the officers +giving orders, and turmoil everywhere. + +“Then, suddenly, the sharp sound of a long whip and a voice calling, and +there rises out of the landing place the procession--the sixty dogs in +three wagons, their ten drivers with their whips, but keeping order by +the sound of their voices, low, soft, and peculiar, and then the horses +starting into a quick trot which presently would become a canter--and +the hounds were off to Salem! There could be no fear with the hounds +loose to do the hunting.” + +“But suppose when they get to Salem their owner is no more.” + +The Custos laughed. “Him, your honour--him no more! Isn’t he the man of +whom the black folk say: ‘Lucky buckra--morning, lucky new-comer!’ If +that’s his reputation, and the coming of his hounds just when the island +most needed them is good proof of it, do you think he’ll be killed by +a lot of dirty Maroons! Ah, Calhoun’s a man with the luck of the devil, +your honour! He has the pull--as sure as heaven’s above he’ll make +success. If you command your staff to have this posted as a proclamation +throughout the island, it will do as much good as a thousand soldiers. +The military officers will not object, they know how big a man he is, +and they have had enough. The news is not good from all over the island, +for there are bad planters and bad overseers, and they’ve poisoned large +fields of men in many quarters of the island, and things are wrong. + +“But this proclamation will put things right. It will stop the slaves +from revolting; it will squelch the Maroons, and I’m certain sure +Calhoun will have Maroons ready to fight for us, not against us, +before this thing is over. I tell you, your honour, it means the way +out--that’s what it means. So, if you’ll give me your order, keeping +a copy of it for the provost-marshal, I’ll see it’s delivered to Dyck +Calhoun before morning--perhaps by midnight. It’s not more than a six +hours’ journey in the ordinary way.” + +At that moment an aide-de-camp entered, and with grave face presented to +the governor the last report from the provost-marshal-general. Then he +watched the governor read the report. + +“Ten more killed and twenty wounded!” said the governor. “It must be +stopped.” + +He gave the Custos the letter to Dyck Calhoun, and a few moments later +handed the proclamation to his aide-de-camp. + +“That will settle the business, your honour,” said the aide-de-camp as +he read the proclamation. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. SHEILA HAS HER SAY + +“Then, tell me please, what you know of the story,” said the governor to +Sheila at King’s House one afternoon two weeks later. “I only get meagre +reports from the general commanding. But you close to the intimate +source of the events must know all.” + +Sheila shrank at the suggestion in the governor’s voice, but she did not +resent it. She had purposes which she must carry out, and she steeled +herself. She wanted to get from Lord Mallow a pledge concerning Dyck +Calhoun, and she must be patient. + +“I know nothing direct from Mr. Calhoun, your honour!” she said, “but +only through his servant, Michael Clones, who is a friend of my Darius +Boland, and they have met often since the first outbreak. You know, +of course, what happened at Port Louise--how the Maroons seized and +murdered the garrison, how families were butchered when they armed +first, how barbarism broke loose and made all men combine to fight the +rebels. Even before Mr. Calhoun came they had had record of a sack of +human ears, cut from the dead rebel-slaves, when they had been killed +by faithful slaves, and good progress was made. But the revolters fixed +their camps on high rocks, and by blowing of shells brought many fresh +recruits to the struggle. It was only when Mr. Calhoun came with his +hounds that anything decisive was done. For the rebels--Maroons and +slaves--were hid, well entrenched and cautious, and the danger was +becoming greater every day. On Mr. Calhoun’s arrival, he was almost +caught in ambush, being misled, and saved himself only by splendid +markmanship. He was attacked by six rebels of whom he killed four, and +riding his wounded horse over the other two he escaped. Then he set the +hounds to work and the rebellion in that district was soon over.” + +“It was gathering strength with increasing tragedy elsewhere,” remarked +the governor. “Some took refuge in hidden places, and came out only to +steal, rob, and murder--and worse. In one place, after a noted slave, +well known for his treachery, had been killed--Khoftet was his name--his +head was cut off by slaves friendly to us and his heart roasted and +eaten. There is but one way to deal with these people. No gaming or +drinking must be allowed, blowing of shells or beating of drums must +be forbidden, and every free negro or mulatto must wear on his arm a +sign--perhaps a cross in blue or red.” + +“Slavery is doomed,” said Sheila firmly. “Its end is not far off.” + +“Well, they still keep slaves in the land of Washington and Alexander +Hamilton. They are better off here at any rate than in their own +country, where they were like animals among whom they lived. Here they +are safe from poverty, cared for in sickness, and have no fear of +being handed over to the keepers of carrion, or being the food of the +gallinaso. They can feed their fill on fricasees of macaca worms and +steal without punishment teal or ring-tailed pigeons and black crabs +from the massa.” + +“But they are not free. They are atoms in heaps of dust. They have no +rights--no liberties.” + +Sheila was agitated, but she showed no excitement. + +She seemed to Lord Mallow like one who had perfect control of herself, +and was not the victim of anticipation. She seemed, save for her dark +searching eyes, like one who had gone through experience which had +disciplined her to control. Only her hands were demonstrative--yet +quietly so. Any one watching her closely would have seen that her hands +were sensitive, expressed even more markedly than her eyes or lips what +were her feelings. Her tragedy had altered her in one sense. She was +paler and thinner than ever she had been, but there was enough of her, +and that delicately made, which gave the governor a thrill of desire +to make her his own for the rest of his life or hers. He had also gone +through much since they had last met, and he had seen his own position +in the balance--uncertain, troubled, insecure. He realized that he had +lost reputation, which had scarcely been regained by his consent to the +use of the hounds and giving Dyck Calhoun a free hand, as temporary head +of the militia. He could not put him over the regular troops, but as the +general commanding was, in effect, the slave of Dyck Calhoun, there was +no need for anxiety. + +Dyck Calhoun had smashed the rebellion, had quieted the island, had +risen above all the dark disturbances of revolt like a master. He had +established barracks and forts at many points in the island, and had +stationed troops in them; he had subdued Maroons and slaves by the +hounds. Yet he had punished only the chief of those who had been in +actual rebellion, and had repressed the violent punishments of the +earlier part of the conflict. He had forbidden any one to be burned +alive, and had ordered that no one should be executed without his first +judging--with the consent of the governor!--the facts of the case. + +Dyck had built up for himself a reputation as no one in all the history +of the island had been able to do. He commanded by more than official +authority--by personality and achievement. There was no one in the +island but knew they had been saved by his prudence, foresight and +skill. It was to their minds stupendous and romantic. Fortunately they +showed no strong feeling against Lord Mallow. By placing King’s House +at disposal as a hospital, and by gifts of food and money to wives and +children of soldiers and civilians, the governor had a little eradicated +his record of neglect. + +Lord Mallow had a way with him when he chose to use it. He was not +without the gift for popularity, and he saw now that he could best +attain it by treating Dyck Calhoun well. He saw troops come and go, he +listened to grievances, he corrected abuses, he devised a scheme for +nursing, he planned security for the future, he gave permission for +buccaneer trading with the United States, he had by legislative order +given the Creoles a better place in the civic organism. This was a time +for broad policy--for distribution of cassavi bread, yams and papaws, +for big, and maybe rough, display of power and generosity. He was not +blind to the fact that he might by discreet courses impress favourably +his visitor. All he did was affected by that thought. He could not but +think that Sheila would judge of him by what he did as much as by what +he said. + +He looked at her now with interest and longing. He loved to hear her +talk, and she had information which was no doubt truer than most he +received--was closer to the brine, as it were. + +“What more can you tell me of Mr. Calhoun and his doings?” he asked +presently. “He is lucky in having so perfect a narrator of his +histories--yet so unexpected a narrator.” + +A flush stole slowly up Sheila’s face, and gave a glow even to the roots +of her hair. She could not endure these references to the dark gulf +between her and Dyck Calhoun. + +“My lord,” she said sharply, “it is not meet that you should say such +things. Mr. Calhoun was jailed for killing my father--let it be at that. +The last time you saw me you offered me your hand and heart. Well, do +you know I had almost made up my mind to accept your hand, when the news +of this trouble was brought to you, and you left us--to ourselves and +our dangers!” + +The governor started. “You are as unfriendly as a ‘terral garamighty,’ +you make me draw my breath thick as the blackamoors, as they say. I +did what I thought best,” he said. “I did not think you would be in any +danger. I had not heard of the Maroons being so far south as Salem.” + +“Yet it is the man who foresees chances that succeeds, as you should +know by now, your honour. I was greatly touched by the offer you made +me--indeed, yes,” she added, seeing the rapt eager look in his face. “I +had been told what had upset me, that Dyck Calhoun was guilty of killing +my father, and all the world seemed dreadful. Yes, in the reaction, it +was almost on my tongue to say yes to you, for you are a good talker, +you had skill in much that you did, and with honest advice from a wife +might do much more. So I was in a mind to say yes. I had had much to +try me, indeed, so very much. Ever since I first saw Dyck Calhoun he had +been the one man who had ever influenced me. He was for ever in my mind +even when he was in prison--oh, what is prison, what is guilt even to a +girl when she loves! Yes, I loved him. There it was. He was ever in +my mind, and I came here to Jamaica--he was here--for what else? Salem +could have been restored by Darius Boland or others, or I could have +sold it. I came to Jamaica to find him here--unwomanly, perhaps, you +will say.” + +“Unusual only with a genius--like you.” + +“Then you do not speak what is in your mind, your honour. You say what +you feel is the right thing to say--the slave of circumstances. I will +be wholly frank with you. I came here to see Dyck Calhoun, for I knew he +would not come to see me. Yes, there it was, a real thing in his heart. +If he had been a lesser man than he is, he would have come to America +when he was freed from prison. But he did not, would not, come. He knew +he had been found guilty of killing my father, and that for him and me +there could be no marriage--indeed he never asked me to marry him. + +“Yet I know he would have done so if he could. When I came to know +what he was jailed for doing, I felt there was no place for him and me +together in the world. Yet my heart kept crying out to him, and I felt +there was but one thing left for me to do, and that was to make it +impossible for me to think of him even, or for him to think of me. Then +you came and offered me your hand. It was a hand most women might have +been glad to accept from the standpoint of material things. And you were +Irish like myself, and like the boy I loved. I was sick of the robberies +of life and time, and I wanted to be out of it all in some secure place. +What place so secure from the sorrow that was eating at my heart as +marriage! It said no to every stir of feeling that was vexing me, to +every show of love or remembrance. So I listened to you. It was not +because you were a governor or a peer--no, not that! For even in +Virginia I had offers from one higher than yourself--and younger, and a +peer also. No, it was not material things that influenced me, but your +own intellectual eminence; for you have more brains than most men, as +you know so well.” + +The governor interrupted her with a gesture. “No, no, I am not so vain +as you think. If I were I should have seen at Salem that you meant to +say yes.” + +“Yet you know well you have gifts, though you have made sad mistakes +here. Do not think it was your personality, your looks that induced me +to think of you, to listen to you. When Mr. Calhoun told me the truth, +and gave me a letter he had written to me--” + +“A letter--to you?” + +There was surprise in the governor’s voice--surprise and chagrin, for +the thing had moved him powerfully. “Yes, a letter to me which he +never meant me to have. It was a kind of diary of his heart, and it was +written even while I was landing on the island on Christmas Day. It was +the most terribly truthful thing, opening his whole soul to the girl +whom he had always loved, but from whom he was separated by a thing +not the less tragical because it was merely technical. He gave it me to +read, and when I read it I saw there was no place for me in the world +except a convent or marriage. The convent could not be, for I was no +Catholic, and marriage seemed the only thing possible. That day you came +I saw only one thing to do--one mad, hopeless thing to do.” + +“Mad and hopeless!” burst out Lord Mallow. “How so? Your very reason +shows that it was sane, well founded in the philosophy of the heart.” + +He was eager to win her yet, and he did not see the end at which she +aimed. He felt he must tell her all the passion and love he felt. But +her look gave no encouragement, her eyes were uninviting. + +Sheila smiled painfully. “Yes, mad and hopeless, for be sure of this: we +cannot kill in one day the growth of years. I could not cure myself of +loving him by marrying you. There had to be some other cure for that. I +never knew and never loved my father. But he was my father, and if Mr. +Calhoun killed him, I could not marry him. But at last I came to know +that your love and affection could not make me forget him--no, never. +I realize that now. He and I can never come together, but I owe him so +much--I owe him my life, for he saved it; he must ever have a place +in my heart, be to me more than any one else can be. I want you to do +something for him.” + +“What do you wish?” + +“I want you to have removed from him the sentence of the British +Government. I want him to be free to come and go anywhere in the +world--to return to England if he wishes it, to be a free man, and not a +victim Off Outlawry. I want that, and you ought to give it to him.” + +“Why?” + +Indignation filled her eyes. “You ask why. He has saved your +administration and the island from defeat and horrible loss. He has +prevented most of the slaves from revolting, and he conquered the +Maroons. The empire is his debtor. Will you do this for one who has done +so much for you?” + +Lord Mallow was disconcerted, but he did not show it. “I can do no +more than I have done. I have not confined him to his plantation as the +Government commanded; I cannot go beyond that.” + +“You can put his case from the standpoint of a patriot.” + +For a moment the governor hesitated, then he said: “Because you ask +me--” + +“I want it done for his sake, not for mine,” she returned with decision. +“You owe it to yourself to see that it is done. Gratitude is not dead in +you, is it?” + +Lord Mallow flushed. “You press his case too hard. You forget what he +is--a mutineer and a murderer, and no one should remember that as you +should.” + +“He has atoned for both, and you know it well. Besides, he was not a +murderer. Even the courts did not say he was. They only said he was +guilty of manslaughter. Oh, your honour, be as gallant as your name and +place warrant.” + +He looked at her for a moment with strange feelings in his heart. Then +he said: “I will give you an answer in twenty-four hours. Will that do, +sweet persuader?” + +“It might do,” she answered, and, strange to say, she had a sure feeling +that he would say yes, in spite of her knowledge that, in his heart of +hearts, he hated Calhoun. + +As she left the room, Lord Mallow stood for a moment looking after her. + +“She loves the rogue in spite of all!” he said bitterly. “But she must +come with me. They are apart as the poles. Yet I shall do as she wishes +if I am to win her.” + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. THE COMING OF NOREEN + +The next day came a new element in the situation: a ship arrived from +England. On it was one who had come to Jamaica to act as governess to +two children of the officer commanding the regular troops in the island. +She had been ill for a week before nearing Kingston, and when the +Regent reached the harbour she was in a bad way. The ship’s doctor +was despondent about her; but he was a second-rate man, and felt that +perhaps an island doctor might give her some hope. When she was carried +ashore she was at once removed to the home of the general commanding at +Spanish Town, and there a local doctor saw her. + +“What is her history?” he asked, after he had seen the haggard face of +the woman. + +The ship’s doctor did not know; and the general commanding was in the +interior at the head of his troops. There was no wife in the general’s +house, as he was a widower; and his daughters, of twelve and fourteen, +under a faithful old housekeeper, had no knowledge of the woman’s life. + +When she was taken to the general’s house she was in great dejection, +and her face had a look of ennui and despair. She was thin and worn, and +her eyes only told of the struggle going on between life and death. + +“What is her name?” asked the resident doctor. “Noreen Balfe,” was the +reply of the ship’s doctor. + +“A good old Irish name, though you can see she comes of the lower ranks +of life.” + +“Married?” + +The ship’s doctor pointed to her hand which had a wedding-ring. “Ah, +yes, certainly... what hope have you of her?” + +“I don’t know what to say. The fever is high. She isn’t trying to live; +she’s got some mental trouble, I believe. But you and I would be of no +use in that kind of thing.” + +“I don’t take to new-fangled ideas of mental cure,” said the ship’s +doctor. “Cure the body and the mind will cure itself.” + +A cold smile stole to the lips of the resident doctor. Those were +days of little scientific medical skill, and no West Indian doctor had +knowledge enough to control a discussion of the kind. “But I’d like to +see some one with brains take an interest in her,” he remarked. + +“I leave her in your hands,” was the reply. “I’m a ship’s medico, and +she’s now ashore.” + +“It’s a pity,” said the resident doctor reflectively, as he watched a +servant doing necessary work at the bedside. “She hasn’t long to go as +she is, yet I’ve seen such cases recover.” + +As they left the room together they met Sheila and one of the daughters +of the house. “I’ve come to see the sick woman from the ship, if I may,” + Sheila said. “I’ve just heard about her, and I’d like to be of use.” + +The resident doctor looked at her with admiration. She was the most +conspicuous figure in the island, and her beauty was a fine support to +her wealth and reputation. It was like her to be kind in this frank way. + +“You can be of great use if you will,” he said. “The fever is not +infectious, I’m glad to say. So you need have no fear of being with +her--on account of others.” + +“I have no fear,” responded Sheila with a friendly smile, “and I will go +to her now--no, if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to go alone,” she added as +she saw the doctor was coming with her. + +The other bowed and nodded approvingly. “The fewer the better,” he said. +“I think you ought to go in alone--quite alone,” he said with gentle +firmness, for he saw the girl with Sheila was also going with her. + +So it was that Sheila entered alone, and came to the bed and looked at +the woman in the extreme depression of fever. “Prepare some lime-juice, +please,” she said to the servant on the other side of the bed. “Keep it +always beside the bed--I know what these cases are.” + +The servant disappeared, and the eyes of the sick woman opened and +looked at Sheila. There shot into them a look of horror and relief in +one, if such a thing might be. A sudden energy inspired her, and she +drew herself up in bed, her face gone ghastly. + +“You are Sheila Boyne, aren’t you?” she asked in a low half-guttural +note. + +“I am Sheila Llyn,” was the astonished reply. “It’s the same thing,” + came the response. “You are the daughter of Erris Boyne.” + +Sheila turned pale. Who was this woman that knew her and her history? + +“What is your name?” she asked--“your real name--what is it?” + +“My name is Noreen Balfe; it was Noreen Boyne.” For a moment Sheila +could not get her bearings. The heavy scent of the flowers coming in at +the window almost suffocated her. She seemed to lose a grip of herself. +Presently she made an effort at composure. “Noreen Boyne! You were then +the second wife of Erris Boyne?” + +“I was his second wife. His first wife was your mother--you are like +your mother!” Noreen said in agitation. + +The meaning was clear. Sheila laid a sharp hand on herself. “Don’t get +excited,” she urged with kindly feeling. “He is dead and gone.” + +“Yes, he is dead and gone.” + +For a moment Noreen seemed to fight for mastery of her emotion, and +Sheila said: “Lie still. It is all over. He cannot hurt us now.” + +The other shook her head in protest. “I came here to forget, and I find +you--his daughter.” + +“You find more than his daughter; you find his first wife, and you find +the one that killed him.” + +“The one that killed him!” said the woman greatly troubled. “How did you +know that?” + +“All the world knows it. He was in prison four years, and since then +he has been a mutineer, a treasure-hunter, a planter, and a saviour of +these islands!” + +The sick woman fell back in exhaustion. At that moment the servant +entered with a pitcher of lime-juice. Sheila took it from her and +motioned her out of the room; then she held a glass of the liquid to the +stark lips. + +“Drink,” she said in a low, kind voice, and she poured slowly into +the patient’s mouth the cooling draught. A moment later Noreen raised +herself up again. + +“Mr. Dyck Calhoun is here?” she asked. + +“He is here, and none to-day holds so high a place in the minds of all +who live here. He has saved the island.” + +“All are here that matter,” said Noreen. “And I came to forget!” + +“What do you remember?” asked Sheila. “I remember all--how he died!” + +Suddenly Sheila had a desire to shriek aloud. This woman--did this woman +then see Erris Boyne die? Was she present when the deed was done? If so, +why was she not called to give evidence at the trial. But yes, she was +called to give evidence. She remembered it now, and the evidence had +been that she was in her own home when the killing took place. + +“How did he die?” she asked in a whisper. + +“One stroke did it--only one, and he fell like a log.” She made a motion +as of striking, and shuddered, covering her eyes with trembling hands. + +“You tell me you saw Dyck Calhoun do this to an undefended man--you tell +me this!” + +Sheila’s anger was justified in her mind. That Dyck Calhoun should + +“I did not see Dyck Calhoun strike him,” gasped the woman. “I did not +say that. Dyck Calhoun did not kill Erris Boyne!” + +“My God!--oh, my God!” said Sheila with ashen lips, but a great light +breaking in her eyes. “Dyck Calhoun did not kill Erris Boyne! Then who +killed him?” + +There was a moment’s pause, then--“I killed him,” said the woman in +agony. “I killed him.” + +A terrible repugnance seized Sheila. After a moment she said in +agitation: “You killed him--you struck him down! Yet you let an innocent +man go to prison, and be kept there for years, and his father go to his +grave with shame, with estates ruined and home lost--and you were the +guilty one--you--all the time.” + +“It was part of my madness. I was a coward and I thought then there were +reasons why I should feel no pity for Dyck Calhoun. His father injured +mine--oh, badly! But I was a coward, and I’ve paid the price.” + +A kinder feeling now took hold of Sheila. After all, what this woman had +done gave happiness into her--Sheila’s-hands. It relieved Dyck Calhoun +of shame and disgrace. A jail-bird he was still, but an innocent +jail-bird. He had not killed Erris Boyne. Besides, it wiped out forever +the barrier between them. All her blind devotion to the man was now +justified. His name and fame were clear. Her repugnance of the woman was +as nothing beside her splendid feeling of relief. It was as though the +gates of hell had been closed and the curtains of heaven drawn for the +eyes to see. Six years of horrible shame wiped out, and a new world was +before her eyes. + +This woman who had killed Erris Boyne must now suffer. She must bear the +ignominy which had been heaped upon Dyck Calhoun’s head. Yet all at once +there came to her mind a softening feeling. Erris Boyne had been rightly +killed by a woman he had wronged, for he was a traitor as well as an +adulterer--one who could use no woman well, who broke faith with all +civilized tradition, and reverted to the savage. Surely the woman’s +crime was not a dark one; it was injured innocence smiting depravity, +tyranny and lust. + +Suddenly, as she looked at the woman who had done this thing, she, whose +hand had rid the world of a traitor and a beast, fell back on the pillow +in a faint. With an exclamation Sheila lifted up the head. If the +woman was dead, then there was no hope for Dyck Calhoun; any story +that she--Sheila--might tell would be of no use. Yet she was no longer +agitated in her body. Hands and fingers were steady, and she felt for +the heart with firm fingers. Yes, the heart was still beating, and the +pulse was slightly drumming. Thank God, the woman was alive! She rang a +bell and lifted up the head of the sick woman. + +A moment later the servant was in the room. Sheila gave her orders +quickly, and snatched up a pencil from the table. Then, on a piece of +paper, she wrote the words: “I, not Dyck Calhoun, killed Erris Boyne.” + +A few moments later, Noreen’s eyes opened, and Sheila spoke to her. “I +have written these words. Here they are--see them. Sign them.” + +She read the words, and put a pencil in the trembling fingers, and, on +the cover of a book Noreen’s fingers traced her name slowly but clearly. +Then Sheila thrust the paper in her bosom, and an instant later a nurse, +sent by the resident doctor, entered. + +“They cannot hang me or banish me, for my end has come,” whispered +Noreen before Sheila left. + +In the street of Spanish Town almost the first person Sheila saw was +Dyck Calhoun. With pale, radiant look she went to him. He gazed at her +strangely, for there was that in her face he could not understand. There +was in it all the faith of years, all the truth of womanhood, all the +splendour of discovery, all that which a man can see but once in a human +face and be himself. + +“Come with me,” she said, and she moved towards King’s House. He obeyed. +For some moments they walked in silence, then all at once under a +magnolia tree she stopped. + +“I want you to read what a woman wrote who has just arrived in the +island from England. She is ill at the house of the general commanding.” + +Taking from her breast the slip of paper, she handed it to him. He read +it with eyes and senses that at first could hardly understand. + +“God in heaven--oh, merciful God!” he said in great emotion, yet with a +strange physical quiet. + +“This woman was his wife,” Sheila said. + +He handed the paper back. He conquered his agitation. The years of +suffering rolled away. “They’ll put her in jail,” he said with a strange +regret. He had a great heart. + +“No, I think not,” was the reply. Yet she was touched by his compassion +and thoughtfulness. + +“Why?” + +“Because she is going to die--and there is no time to lose. Come, we +will go to Lord Mallow.” + +“Mallow!” A look of bitter triumph came into Dyck’s face. “Mallow--at +last!” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. WITH THE GOVERNOR + +Lord Mallow frowned on his secretary. “Mr. Calhoun to see me! What’s his +business?” + +“One can guess, your honour. He’s been fighting for the island.” + +“Why should he see me? There is the general commanding.” + +The secretary did not reply, he knew his chief; and, after a moment, +Lord Mallow said: “Show him in.” When Dyck Calhoun entered the governor +gave him a wintry smile of welcome, but did not offer to shake hands. +“Will you sit down?” he said, with a slow gesture. + +Calhoun made a dissenting motion. “I prefer to stand, your honour.” + +This was the first time the two men had met alone since Dyck had +arrived in Jamaica, or since his trial. Calhoun was dressed in planter’s +costume, and the governor was in an officer’s uniform. They were in +striking contrast in face and figure--the governor long, lanky, ascetic +in appearance, very intellectual save for the riotous mouth, and very +spick and span--as though he had just stepped out of Almack’s; while +Calhoun was tough and virile, and with the air of a thorough outdoor +man. There was in his face the firm fighting look of one who had done +things and could tackle big affairs--and something more; there was in +it quiet exultation. Here he was now at last alone with the man who had +done him great harm, and for whom he had done so much; who had sought to +wipe him off the slate of life and being; who had tried to win the girl +from whom he himself had been parted. + +In spite of it all--of his life in jail, of his stark mutiny, of +the oppression of the governor, he had not been beaten down, but had +prospered in spite of all. He had by his will, wisdom and military +skill, saved the island in its hour of peril, saved its governor from +condemnation; and here he was facing the worst enemy of his life with +the cards of success in his hands. + +“You have done the island and England great service, Mr. Calhoun,” said +the governor at last. + +“It is the least I could do for the land where I have made my home, +where I have reaped more than I have sown.” + +“We know your merit, sir.” + +A sharp satirical look came into Calhoun’s face and his voice rang out +with vigour. “And because you knew my merit you advised the crown to +confine me to my estate, and you would have had me shot if you could. +I am what I am because there was a juster man than yourself in Jamaica. +Through him I got away and found treasure, and I bought land and have +helped to save this island and your place. What do I owe you, your +honour? Nothing that I can see--nothing at all.” + +“You are a mutineer, and but that you showed your courage would have +been hung at the yard-arm, as many of your comrades in England were.” + +A cold smile played at Calhoun’s lips. “My luck was as great as my +courage, I know. I have the luck of Enniscorthy!” + +At the last words the governor winced, for it was by that touch Calhoun +had defeated him in the duel long ago. It galled him that this man whom +he detested could say such things to him with truth. Yet in his heart of +hearts he had for Calhoun a great respect. Calhoun’s invincible will +had conquered the worst in Mallow’s nature, had, in spite of himself, +created a new feeling in him. There was in Mallow the glimmer of +greatness, and only his supreme selfishness had made him what he was. He +laid a hand on himself now, though it was not easy to do so. + +“It was not the luck of Enniscorthy that sent Erris Boyne to his doom,” + he said, however, with anger in his mind, for Dyck’s calm boldness +stirred the worst in him. He thought he saw in him an exultancy which +could only come from his late experiences in the field. It was as though +he had come to triumph over the governor. Mallow said what he had said +with malice. He looked to see rage in the face of Dyck Calhoun, and was +nonplussed to find that it had only a stern sort of pleasure. The eyes +of Calhoun met his with no trace of gloom, but with a valour worthy of a +high cause--their clear blue facing his own with a constant penetration. +Their intense sincerity gave him a feeling which did not belong to +authority. It was not the look of a criminal, whatever the man might +be--mutineer and murderer. As for mutineer, all that Calhoun had fought +for had been at last admitted by the British Government, and reforms had +been made that were due to the mutiny at the Nore. Only the technical +crime had been done by Calhoun, and he had won pardon by his bravery in +the battle at sea. Yes, he was a man of mark, even though a murderer. + +Calhoun spoke slowly. “Your honour, you have said what you have a right +to say to a man who killed Erris Boyne. But this man you accuse did +not do it.” The governor smiled, for the assumption was ridiculous. He +shrugged a shoulder and a sardonic curl came to his lip. + +“Who did it then?” + +“If you will come to the house of the general commanding you will see.” + +The governor was in a great quandary. He gasped. “The general +commanding--did he kill Erris Boyne, then?” + +“Not he, yet the person that did it is in this house. Listen, your +honour. I have borne the name of killing Erris Boyne, and I ought to +have killed him, for he was a traitor. I had proofs of it; but I did +not kill him, and I did not betray him, for he had alive a wife and +daughter, and something was due to them. He was a traitor, and was in +league with the French. It does not matter that I tell you now, for his +daughter knows the truth. I ought to have told it long ago, and if I had +I should not have been imprisoned.” + +“You were a brave man, but a fool--always a fool,” said the governor +sharply. + +“Not so great a fool that I can’t recover from it,” was the calm reply. +“Perhaps it was the best thing that ever happened to me, for now I can +look the world in the face. It’s made a man of me. It was a woman killed +him,” was Calhoun’s added comment. “Will your honour come with me and +see her?” + +The governor was thunderstruck. “Where is she?” + +“As I have told you-in the house of the general commanding.” + +The governor rose abashed. “Well, I can go there now. Come.” + +“Perhaps you would prefer I should not go with you in the street. The +world knows me as a mutineer, thinks of me as a murderer! Is it fair to +your honour?” + +Something in Calhoun’s voice roused the rage of Lord Mallow, but he +controlled it, and said calmly: “Don’t talk nonsense, sir; we shall walk +together, if you will.” + +At the entrance to the house of the general, the man to whom this visit +meant so much stopped and took a piece of paper from his pocket. “Your +honour, here is the name of the slayer of Erris Boyne. I give it to you +now to see, so you may not be astonished when you see her.” + +The governor stared at the paper. “Boyne’s wife, eh?” he said in a +strange mood. “Boyne’s wife--what is she doing here?” + +Calhoun told him briefly as he took the paper back, and added: “It was +accident that brought us all together here, your honour, but the hand of +God is in it.” + +“Is she very ill?” + +“She will not live, I think.” + +“To whom did she tell her story?” + +“To Miss Sheila Llyn.” + +The governor was nettled. + +“Oh, to Miss Llyn When did you see her?” + +“Just before I came to you.” + +“What did the woman look like--this Noreen Boyne?” + +“I do not know; I have not seen her.” + +“Then how came you by the paper with her signature?” + +“Miss Llyn gave it to me.” + +Anger filled Lord Mallow’s mind. Sheila--why now the way would be open +to Calhoun to win--to marry her! It angered him, but he held himself +steadily. + +“Where is Miss Llyn?” + +“She is here, I think. She came back when she left me at your door.” + +“Oh, she left you at my door, did she?... But let me see the woman +that’s come so far to put the world right.” + +A few moments later they stood in the bedroom of Noreen Boyne, they two +and Sheila Llyn, the nurse having been sent out. + +Lord Mallow looked down on the haggard, dying woman with no emotion. +Only a sense of duty moved him. + +“What is it you wished to say to me?” he asked the patient. + +“Who are you?” came the response in a frayed tone. + +“I am the governor of the island--Lord Mallow.” + +“Then I want to tell you that I killed Erris Boyne--with this hand I +killed him.” She raised her skinny hand up, and her eyes became glazed. +“He had used me vilely and I struck him down. He was a bad man.” + +“You let an innocent man bear punishment, you struck at one who did you +no harm, and you spoiled his life for him. You can see that, can’t you?” + +The woman’s eyes sought the face of Dyck Calhoun, and Calhoun said: “No, +you did not spoil my life, Noreen Boyne. You have made it. Not that I +should have chosen the way of making it, but there it is, as God’s in +heaven, I forgive you.” + +Noreen’s face lost some of its gloom. “That makes it easier,” she said +brokenly. “I can’t atone by any word or act, but I’m sorry. I’ve kept +you from being happy, and you were born to be happy. Your father had +hurt mine, had turned him out of our house for debt, and I tried to pay +it all back. When they suspected you I held my peace. I was a coward; +I could not say you were innocent without telling the truth, and that +I could not do then. But now I’ll tell it--I think I’d have told it +whether I was dying or not, though. Yes, if I’d seen you here I’d have +told it, I’m sure. I’m not all bad.” + +Sheila leaned over the bed. “Never mind about the past. You can help a +man back to the good opinion of the world now.” + +“I hurt you too,” said Noreen with hopeless pain. “You were his friend.” + +“I believed in him always--even when he did not deny the crime,” was the +quiet reply. + +“There’s no good going on with that,” said the governor sharply. “We +must take down her statement in writing, and then--” + +“Look, she is sinking!” said Calhoun sharply. The woman’s head had +dropped forward, her chin was on her breast, and her hands became +clenched. + +“The doctor at once-bring in the nurse,” said Calhoun. “She’s dying.” + +An instant later, the nurse entered with Sheila, and in a short time the +doctor came. + +When later the doctor saw Lord Mallow alone he said: “She can’t live +more than two days.” + +“That’s good for her in a way,” answered the governor, and in reply to +the doctor’s question why, he said: “Because she’d be in prison.” + +“In prison--has she broken the law?” + +“She is now under arrest, though she doesn’t know it. + +“What was her crime, your honour?” + +“She killed a man.” + +“What man?” + +“Him for whom Dyck Calhoun was sent to prison--Erris Boyne.” + +“Mr. Calhoun was not guilty, then?” + +“No. As soon as the woman is dead, I mean to announce the truth.” + +“Not till then, your honour?” + +“Not till then.” + +“It’s hard on Calhoun.” + +“Is it? It’s years since he was tried and condemned. Two days cannot +matter now.” + +“Perhaps not. Last night the woman said to me: ‘I’m glad I’m going to +die.’” Then he added: “Calhoun will be more popular than ever now.” + +The governor winced. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. THEN WHAT HAPPENED + +An hour after Noreen Boyne had been laid in her grave, there was a +special issue of the principal paper telling all the true facts of the +death of Erris Boyne. Thus the people of Jamaica came to know that Dyck +Calhoun was innocent of the crime of killing Erris Boyne, and he was +made the object of splashing admiration, and was almost mobbed by +admirers in the street. It all vexed Lord Mallow; but he steeled himself +to urbanity, and he played his part well. He was clever enough to see it +would pay him to be outwardly gracious to Calhoun. So it was he made a +speech in the capital on the return of the general commanding and the +troops from subduing the Maroons, in which he said: “No one in all the +King’s dominions had showed greater patriotism and military skill +than their friend Mr. Dyck Calhoun, who had been harshly treated by a +mistaken Government.” + +A few hours later, in the sweet garden of the house where Sheila and +her mother lodged, Calhoun came upon the girl whose gentle dignity and +beauty seemed to glow. + +At first all she said to him was, “Welcome, old friend,” and at last she +said, “Now you can come to the United States, Dyck, and make a new life +there.” + +Presently he said: “I ought to go where you wish me to go, for you came +to me here when I was rejected of men. I owe you whatever I am that’s +worth while, if anything I am is worth while. Your faith kept me alive +in my darkest days--even when I thought I had wronged you.” + +“Then you will come to Virginia with me--as my husband, Dyck?” She +blushed and laughed. “You see I have to propose to you, for you’ve +never asked me to marry you. I’m throwing myself at your head, sir, you +observe!” + +He gave an honest smile of adoration. “I came to-day to ask you to be +my wife--for that reason only. I could not do it till the governor had +declared my innocence. The earth is sweeter to-day than it has been +since time began.” + +He held out his arms, and an instant later the flowers she carried were +crushed to her breast, with her lips given to his. + +A little later she drew from her pocket a letter. “You must read that,” + she said. “It is from the great Alexander Hamilton--yes, he will be +great, he will play a wondrous part in the life of my new country. Read +it Dyck.” + +After he had read it, he said: “He was born a British subject here in +these islands, and he goes to help Americans live according to British +principles. With all my sane fellow-countrymen I am glad the Americans +succeeded. Do you go to your Virginia, and I will come as soon as I have +put my affairs in order.” + +“I will not go without you--no, I will not go,” she persisted. + +“Then we shall be married at once,” he declared. And so it was, and all +the island was en fete, and when Sheila came to Dyck’s plantation the +very earth seemed to rejoice. The slaves went wild with joy, and ate and +drank their fill, and from every field there came the song: + + “Hold up yo hands, + Hold up yo hands, + Bress de Lord for de milk and honey! + De big bees is a singin’, + My heart is held up and de bells is a ringin’; + Hold up yo hands, + Hold up yo hands!” + +And sweetly solitary the two lived their lives, till one day, three +months later, there came to the plantation the governor and his suite. + +When they had dismounted, Lord Mallow said: “I bring you the pay of the +British Government for something of what you have suffered, sir, and +what will give your lady pleasure too, I hope. I come with a baronetcy +given by the King. News of it came to me only this morning.” + +Calhoun smiled. “Your honour, I can take no title, receive no honour. I +have ended my life under the British flag. I go to live under the Stars +and Stripes.” + +The governor was astounded. “Your lady, sir, do you forget your lady?” + +But Sheila answered: “The life of the new world has honours which have +naught to do with titles.” + +“I sail for Virginia by the first ship that goes,” said Calhoun. “It is +good here, but I shall go to a place where things are better, and where +I shall have work to do. I must decline the baronetcy, your honour. I go +to a land where the field of life is larger, where Britain shall remake +herself.” + +“It will take some time,” said the governor tartly. “They’ll be long +apart.” + +“But they will come together at last--for the world’s sake.” + +There was silence for a moment, and through it came the joy-chant from +the fields: + + “Hold up yo hands, + Hold up yo hands, + Bress de Lord for de milk and honey.” + + + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Beginning of a lifetime of experience, comedy, and tragedy + Wit is always at the elbow of want + Without the money brains seldom win alone + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of No Defense, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK NO DEFENSE, COMPLETE *** + +***** This file should be named 6295-0.txt or 6295-0.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/9/6295/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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