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!”
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!”
“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.