After breakfast Donald Ward led his party along the road up which M’Cracken’s force must march to reach Antrim. At about noon he met the advance guard of United Irishmen. Several of Donald’s companions were recognised by these men, and his party were led back to where M’Cracken himself marched with the central division of his army. It was then that Neal first saw this leader—a tall, fair-haired, gentle-faced man, dressed in a white and green uniform, armed with a sword. He spoke to Donald Ward, and then calling Neal, questioned him about the condition of the town of Antrim. Neal repeated all that Lord Dunseveric had said, and told how he had been shown a copy of the proclamation.
“You will not tell anyone else what you have told me, Mr. Ward,” said M’Cracken, “the news that our plans are known to the enemy might be discouraging to the men. It does not alter my determination to take Antrim to-day. Now I must give you your orders and your posts.” He called Donald Ward to him. “You will take charge of our two pieces of cannon,” he said. “They are at the rear of the force. Neal Ward, you will join the first division of the army—the musketeers—and place yourself under James Hope’s command. I think this is what both you and he would wish. Felix Matier and James Bigger will do likewise. Moylin, you and your two friends will march with the pikemen, whom I lead myself. Some of the men have arms for you.”
The party had fallen somewhat to the rear of the column during this conversation with M’Cracken. Neal and his two companions hurried forward at once in order to reach the division of musketeers which was in the van. They had opportunity as they passed along to admire the steady march and the determined bearing of the men. Green flags were everywhere displayed. The long pikes, iron spear-heads fastened on stout poles, were formidable weapons in the hands of strong men. An almost unbroken silence was preserved in the ranks. The northern Irishmen are not great talkers at any time. Set to work of deadly earnest, they become very silent, very grim.
There were men in the little army belonging to some of the finest fighting stocks in the world. There were descendants of the fiery Celtic tribes to whom Owen Roe O’Neill taught patience and discipline; who, under him, if he had lived, might well have broken even Cromwell’s Ironsides and sent the mighty Puritan back to his England a beaten man. Despised, degraded, enslaved for more than a century, these had yet in them the capacity for fighting. There were also the great-grandsons of the citizen soldiers of Derry—of the men who stood at bay so doggedly behind their walls, whom neither French military art nor Celtic valour, nor the long suffering of famine and disease, could cow into surrender. There were others—newcomers to the soil of Ireland—who brought with them to Ulster the traditions of the Scottish Covenantors, memories of many a fierce struggle against persecution, of conflict with the dragoons of Claverhouse. All these, whose grandfathers had stood in arms for widely different causes, marched together on Antrim, an embodiment of Wolfe Tone’s dream of a united Ireland. Their flags were green, vividly symbolic of the blending of the Protestant orange with the ancient Irish blue. M’Cracken, with such troops behind him, might march hopefully, even though he knew that the cavalry, infantry, and artillery were hurrying against him along the banks of the Six Mile Water, from Blaris Camp and Carrickfergus.
James Hope greeted Neal warmly.
“There is a musket for you,” he said, “and your own share of the cartridges you helped to save. There’s a lad here, a slip of a boy, who is carrying them for you.”
He looked round and pointed out the boy to Neal.
“There he is; you may march in the ranks along with him.”
Neal took his place beside a boy with bright red hair and a pleasant smiling face, who handed him a musket and a pouch of cartridges.
“Them’s yours, Neal Ward. Jemmy Hope bid me bring them for you.”
“But what are you to do?” said Neal. “You have no musket for yourself.”
“Faith I couldn’t use it if I had. I never shot off one of them guns in my life. I’d be as like to hit myself as any one. I’ll just go along with you, I have a sword, and I’ll be able to use that if I get the chance.”
Neal looked at the lad beside him, noted his smooth face and sparkling eyes.
“You must be very young,” he said, “too young for this work.”
“I might be older than you now, young as I look. But is thon Mr. Matier coming till us? Go you and talk to him if you want. I won’t have him here, marching along with me.”
At about half-past one Hope halted his musketeers. He was in sight of Antrim, and he waited for orders. It was clear that the town was held by English troops. Their red coats were visible in the main street, but, without that, the houses which burnt here and there gave sufficient evidence of the presence of a ravishing army.
M’Cracken made a speech to his men—an eloquent speech. Now-a-days we are inclined to look with some contempt on men who make eloquent speeches. We are so accustomed to the perpetual flow of our Sunday oratory that we have come to think of speeches as mere preliminaries to copious draughts of porter in public-houses—a sort of grace before drink, to which no sensible man attaches any particular importance. But the orators of M’Cracken’s day spoke seriously, with a sense of responsibility, because all of them—Flood, Grattan, and the rest—spoke to armed men, who might at any time draw swords to give effect to the speaker’s words. M’Cracken spoke to men with swords already drawn and muskets loaded. Therefore, he had some right to be eloquent, and his hearers had some right to cheer.
Felix Matier had somehow laid hands on Phelim, the blind piper, and set him playing. A hundred voices, voices of marching men, caught the tune, whistled, and sang it. Matier’s own voice rang out clearest and loudest of all. It was, the “Marseillaise” they sang—a not inappropriate anthem for soldiers about to fight for the liberty of man. But James Hope had something else in his mind besides the storming of a French Bastille and the guillotining of a French aristocracy. He believed that he was fighting: for Ireland, and the foreign tune was not to his mind. Laying his hand on Matier’s shoulder he commanded silence. Then whispering to Phelim, he set a fresh tune going on the pipes. An ancient Irish war march shrilled through the ranks—a tune with a rush in it—a tune which sends the battle fever through men’s veins. Now and then the passion of it reaches a climax, and the listeners, almost in spite of themselves, must shout aloud. It is called “Brian Boroimhe’s March,” and it may be that his warriors shouted when the pipers played it marching on Clontarf against the Danes. Hope’s musketeers heard it, whistled it as the piper played, hummed it in deep voices, and always, when the moment came, shouted aloud.
The musketeers halted, and the pikemen passed them by. The broad, straight street lay before them, and at the end of it, half sheltered by the market house, were the English infantry. Behind them, blocking the end of the street, splitting it as it were into two roads, which run to the right and left, was the wall of Lord Massereene’s demesne. Across the bridge the English cannon, almost too late, were being hurried by an escort of sweating dragoons. There was work with them for Hope’s musketeers and Donald Ward’s two brass six-pounders. But between the infantry and M’Cracken’s men was a body of cavalry, sitting in shelter behind the wall which surrounded the church. These would cut the musketeers to pieces. The pikemen must face them first.
The horsemen wheeled from their shelter and charged. The long pikes were lowered, steadied, held in bristling line. There was trampling, shouting, cursing, torn horses, wounded men, dust, and confusion. Then the horsemen turned back, musket bullets followed them, men reeled from the saddles, horses stumbled, the pikemen at the lower end of the street shook themselves and cheered. They had tasted victory. A louder cheer followed. Another body of pikemen, true almost to the moment of their time, marched in along the Carrickfergus Road and joined M’Cracken. The whole body moved forward together. Down the street to meet them thundered the dragoons who had brought the cannon in across the bridge. Hope’s musketeers fired again, but no bullets could stop the furious charge. The dragoons were on the pikes—among the pike men, There was stabbing and cutting, pike and sabre clashed. Again the cavalry were driven back, again the musket bullets followed them—musket bullets fired by marksmen. M’Cracken, at the head of his men, pushed forward. The dragoons took shelter, the English artillery and infantry opened fire. The street was swept with grape-shot and bullets.
Neal, in the front rank of Hope’s men, was loading and firing rapidly. He heard a shout behind him.
“Way there, make way!”
He turned. Donald Ward and two men with him had got one of their six-pounders mounted on a country cart. They dragged the gun to the middle of the road. Donald, sweating and dusty, but calm and alert, with a grim smile on his face, laid the gun, loaded, fired. Again he fired. The gun was well aimed. His shot ploughed its way among the men who served the English guns, but at the second discharge a round shot flung it from its carriage and laid it useless on the road. The man who stood beside it cursed and flung his hands up in despair. Donald Ward turned quickly.
“Back,” he said, “get the other gun.”
The pikemen pressed on against the storm of grape and cannister and bullets. The guns ceased firing to let the dragoons charge. Again the pikemen knelt to receive them, and flung them back. At last the wall of the churchyard was reached. The pikemen leaped into the churchyard and breathed in safety. A flag was raised above the wall, a green flag. A wild cheer greeted it. Hope shouted an order to his men. They rushed forward along the ground that had been so hardly won, and took their places with their comrades behind the wall. Leaning over it, or finding loopholes in the rough masonry, they opened fire on the infantry before them. A large body of pikemen crossed the road and entered a lane. They pressed along behind the houses of the street to turn the flank of the English infantry who were drawn up against the demesne wall. The English commander saw his danger, and sent dragoons charging down the street again. But Hope’s musketeers were in the churchyard this time. They fired at close range. The dragoons hesitated. The remaining pikemen rushed out on them. The colonel reeled in his saddle, struck by a bullet. His men wavered. In one instant the pikemen were among them. Three horsemen shouted to the men to rally, and with the flats of their swords struck at those who were retreating. But the dragoons had had too much of the pikes. They turned and fled up the street. Sweeping to the left they galloped in confusion from the battle. The three horsemen who did not fly were surrounded. The main body of the pikemen pressed forward; the flanking party joined them. The English infantry and gunners were driven through the gates and took shelter behind the walls of the demesne.
In the middle of the street the three horsemen fought for their lives against a handful of men who had held back from the main charge. Neal recognised two of them—saw with horror Lord Dun-severic and Maurice cutting at the pikes with their swords. He leaped the wall and rushed to their help. The third horseman—the unfortunate Lord O’Neill—was separated far from them. He fell from his saddle, ripped by a pike thrust. Lord Dunseveric’s horse was stabbed, and threw its rider to the ground. Maurice leaped down and raised his father. The two stood back to back while the pikemen pressed on them. Then Neal reached them. With his musket clubbed he beat down two of the pikes. The men cursed him, and, furious at his interference, thrust at him. A sword flashed suddenly beside him, and a pike, which would have pierced him, was turned aside. Neal saw that the red-haired boy who marched with him in the morning had followed him from the churchyard and was fighting fiercely by his side. The pikemen realised that they were attacking their friends. Leaving Neal and his protector, they ran to join their comrades.
“Yield yourselves,” shouted Neal. “You are my prisoners. Yield and you are safe.”
Lord Dunseveric bowed.
“Thank you, Neal,” he said, quietly, “we yield to you.”
A bullet struck the ground at their feet, and then another. The soldiers behind the demesne wall were firing at them. The boy who had saved Neal from the pike thrust gave a sudden cry and sank on the ground.
“I think,” said Lord Dunseveric, “you had better pick up that boy and walk in front of us. It is possible that our men will cease firing when they see that Maurice and I are between them and you.”
Neal stooped and raised the boy.
“I can walk fine,” he said, “if you let me put my arm round your neck.”
There was a pause in the fighting. The English infantry drawn up on the terrace behind the wall would not fire on Lord Dunseveric and his son. Hope’s musketeers in the churchyard watched in silence while the little procession approached them. Neal, with his arm round the wounded boy, walked first. Lord Dunseveric, following, drew his snuff-box from his pocket, tapped it, and took a pinch, drawing the powder into his nostrils with deliberate enjoyment.
“It seems, Maurice,” he said, with a slight smile, “that we are people of considerable importance. Two armies are looking on while we march to captivity, and yet we do not appear in a very heroic light. We are the prisoners of one badly-armed young man and a wounded boy.”
“Neal saved us,” said Maurice.
“Yes,” said Lord Dunseveric, “that is, no doubt, the way to look at it. We should certainly have been piked if it had not been for Neal.”
Neal lifted the wounded boy over the churchyard wall and knelt beside him on the grass.
“Where are you hit?” he said.
“It’s my leg, the calf of my leg, but it’s no that bad, I could get along a bit, yet.”
The English infantry opened a furious fire on M’Cracken’s pikemen, who stood around the cannon they captured. Hope’s musketeers replied, firing rapidly. Many of them had fallen. There were muskets to spare, and the wounded men, crawling round their comrades, loaded for them, and passed the guns up to those who still could shoot. The whole churchyard was full of smoke, and a heavy cloud of it hung in the still air before the wall. It became impossible to see plainly what was happening. Neal was aware that Felix Matier stood beside him, and that Lord Dunseveric was somewhere behind him watching, with cool interest, the progress of the fight. Suddenly Felix Matier shouted—
“We’re blinded with this smoke. We must see to shoot. We must see to aim. Follow me who dare!”
He leaped into the street, and knelt down. The air was clearer there than in the churchyard. He aimed steadily, fired, loaded, and fired again. The bullets of the infantry splashed on the ground around him like rain drops in a heavy shower. His clothes were cut by them. It seemed a miracle that he did not fall. He began to sing, and this time there was no one to forbid his “Marseillaise.” Then, while his voice rose to its highest, while he seemed, out there alone in the bullet-swept street, a very incarnation of the battle spirit—the end came for him. He flung up his arms, rose, staggered towards the shelter of the churchyard, turned half round in the direction of the men who fired at him, and dropped dead.
Lord Dunseveric stepped forward and tapped Neal on the shoulder.
“Listen,” he said.
From the Belfast Road, along which the United Irishmen had marched in the morning, came the sound of drums. Through the smoke it was possible to discern dimly that a large body of troops was approaching the town. There could be no doubt as to who they were. No reinforcements for M’Cracken’s army could be looked for from the south. Neal grasped the meaning of what he saw. Hope’s men in the graveyard, which they had held so long, were caught between the soldiers in the demesne and these fresh troops who marched on them. Others besides Neal saw what was happening. The firing slackened. Here and there a man dropped his musket and stared wildly around. At the top of the street the dragoons who had fled appeared again. They attacked M’Cracken’s pike-men once more, and this time victoriously. Shaken by the fire of the soldiers behind the wall, disheartened by the appearance of the enemy in their rear, these men, who had fought so well, could fight no more. Some fled, some, with their leader, faced the dragoons and, their pikes still forming a bristling hedge in front of them, retired sullenly eastwards from the town.
The musketeers were left alone. Their position seemed desperate. Neal stopped firing, and looked round. Hope stood bare-headed, his sword in his hand.
“We have fought a good fight, men, and we’ll fight again, but we must get out of this now. Load and reserve your fire till I give the order. Follow me.”
He stepped into the street. His men, gaining courage from the cool confidence of his voice, loaded their muskets and went after him.
“Neal,” said Lord Dunseveric, “this is madness. Stay. There are at least a thousand men in front of you. You can’t cut your way through them.”
But Neal did not listen. To him, for the moment, it was enough that Hope was leading.
“Neal, Neal, don’t leave me.”
It was the voice of the boy who had stood by him in the street and turned the pikes aside.
“See, I have bound up my leg. I can walk.”
Neal took him by the arm, and together they joined the remnant of Hope’s musketeers in their march against the fresh troops who approached them.
Lord Dunseveric, heedless of the bullets which still swept the street from the demesne, stood on the graveyard wall. He was excited at last.
“Maurice,” he cried, “these men are going to certain destruction, but, by God, their courage is glorious. Look, they are out of the town. They have halted. They fire. Now, if the English officer has any horse he can cut them to pieces. He should advance, cavalry or no cavalry. A charge with the bayonets would settle it. See, Maurice, the red coats have halted. They are forming a square; they expect to be charged. The rebels have turned. They are satisfied with having checked the advance. They are making back into the town. Are they mad? No, by God, they wheel to their right. They are off. They have escaped.”
The meaning of Hope’s manoeuvre broke suddenly on Lord Dunseveric. There was a road at the end of the town leading north-east to Done-gore. By going along it Hope could join M’Cracken and the remains of the army. But to keep it open he had to check the advance of the English reinforcements. He feinted against them, calculating that their commander would not know how the fight had gone in Antrim, and must of necessity move cautiously. He risked the utter destruction of his little force in making his bid for safety. He reaped the reward of courage and skill, extricating his musketeers from what seemed an impossible position.
General Clavering seemed in no way disconcerted by the escape of Hope’s musketeers. He marched through the town with drums beating and colours flying, having very much the air of a victorious general. Lord Dunseveric stepped out of the graveyard and saluted him.
“Accept my congratulations,” he said, “on your timely arrival. You have released me and my son from what might have been an unpleasant and uncomfortable captivity.”
“I am glad,” said the general, “to have been of any service to your lordship. I trust you suffered no ill-usage at the hands of the rebels. If you did——-, well, we have an opportunity of settling our scores with them now.”
He smiled, but the look on his face was by no means pleasant to see.
“I received no ill-usage at all,” said Lord Dunseveric. “On the contrary, I was treated with as much courtesy as was possible under the circumstances. I would ask your forbearance towards any prisoners you may take, and your kindness to the wounded. There are many of them in the churchyard.”
“You may be sure that your lordship’s recommendation shall have due weight with me.”
The words were civil, but Lord Dunseveric detected a sneer in the voice which uttered them. He was not well pleased.
“I trust, sir,” he said coldly, “that I am to take your words literally and not interpret them in accordance with the tone in which they are spoken.”
“If you want plain speaking, Lord Dunseveric,” said the general, “I shall deal with the rebels, whole or wounded, as rebels deserve. I mean to make these Antrim farmers as tame as gelt cats before I’ve done with them.”
He beckoned to an officer of his staff, and gave some orders. In a few minutes several companies of mounted yeomen and dragoons trotted out of the town.
“It is a good job,” said General Clavering, “that the rebels succeeded in getting away. If we had cut off their retreat we might have had some hard fighting. There is nothing nastier than tackling a rat in a corner. It is a much simpler business to cut up flying men. All beaten troops straggle and desert. Irregulars, operating in their own country, simply melt away after a defeat. They sneak off home, hide their arms in hay stacks, and pretend they never left their ploughs. I know their ways, and, by God, I’ll track them. I’ll ferret them out.”
General Clavering’s estimate of the conduct of irregular troops had something in it. Even James Hope’s influence failed to keep his men from straggling. They had fought well while there was any chance of victory, but war was strange to them. The horrors of wounds and death, the bitter disappointment of defeat, the hopeless outlook of the future, depressed them. Their homes were near at hand. Within a few miles of them were the familiar cottages, the waiting, anxious wives, the little children with eager faces. There was always the chance for each man that he might escape unknown, that his share in the rising might be forgotten. One and another dropped out of the ranks, slipped across the fields, sought to get home again along by-paths. It was not possible for Hope to delay his march in order to reason with his men—to hearten and steady them. He knew that the enemy would be swift in pursuit, that he must press on if he were to meet M’Cracken at Donegore. He did what he could. He went to and fro through the ranks, speaking quiet, brave words. Donald Ward, cool and determined as ever, talked of the American war.
“You’re young at the work, yet,” he said to the disheartened men. “Wait till you’ve been beaten half a dozen times. It was only by being beaten, and standing up to our beatings, that we won in the end. I remember when I was with General Greene in the Carolinas——”
The men listened to him and listened to Hope. Their spirit began to return to them. The ranks closed up. The march grew more regular, but the straggling did not altogether cease. The lure of home, the thought of rest after struggle, was too strong for some of them. Neal marched near the rear of the column. He had no thought of deserting a beaten side, of trying to save himself, but he knew that he could not go on for very long, and that he would not be able to reach Donegore. The boy whom he supported leaned heavily on him, until he almost had to carry him. The strain became more and more severe. He gave his musket to a comrade to carry for him. He lifted the boy upon his back and staggered on.
After nearly an hour’s march Hope called a halt. Half a mile behind them on the road was a body of dragoons advancing rapidly. Hope drew his men up across the road, the few pikemen who were with him kneeling in front, the musketeers behind them. The dragoons came on at a trot. Then a word of command was given by their officer, and they galloped forward. Hope waited, and only at the last moment gave the word to fire. Horses and men fell. The charge was checked. A few staggered forward against the pikes. Most turned and fled. A wild cheer burst from Hope’s men. Without waiting for orders they rushed after the retreating dragoons. The misery of defeat was forgotten for a moment. They tasted the joy of victory again. But the horsemen rallied, turned on their pursuers, and rode through them, cutting with their sabres. Neal, who had sat down on the roadside after firing his musket, saw Hope trying to recall his men, saw Donald Ward far down the road gather a few pikemen round him and stand at bay. The dragoons, who had had enough of charging pikes, dismounted, unslung their carbines, and fired. Neal saw his uncle fall. Hope reformed his men and bade them load again, but the dragoons had no taste for another charge. Their officer was wounded. They turned and rode back towards Antrim.
Hope gave the word to march again, but Neal could carry the boy no more.
“I can’t do it,” he said. “We must stay here and take our chance.”
“Go on,” said the boy, “go you on. I’ve been a sore trouble to you the day, have done with me now.”
“I will not leave you,” said Neal, “we’ll take our chance together.”
He watched Hope’s little force disappear up the road. Then he dragged the boy through the hedge into the meadow beyond it, and lay down in the deep grass.
“Is your leg very bad?” said Neal.
“It’s no that bad, only I canna walk. It’s bled a power, my stocking’s soaked with the blood. Maybe if we could tie it up better we might stop it and I’d get strength to go again.”
Neal dragged the lining from his coat, and tore it into strips. He cut the stocking from the boy’s leg with his pocket-knife, and bandaged a long flesh wound as best he could.
“Rest now,” he said, “and after a while we’ll try and get on a bit.”
They lay in the deep, cool grass. There was pure air round them, and they drew deep breaths of it into throats and lungs parched by the fumes of sulphurous smoke. A delicious silence wrapped them, folded them as if in a tender, kind embrace. A faint breeze stirred the grass, waved the white plumes of the meadow sweet, shook the blue vetch flowers and the purple spears of lusmor. In the hedge the reddening blooms of faded hawthorn still lingered. The honeysuckle fragrance filled the air. Groups of merry-faced dog-daisies nodded in the ditch, and round their stalks were buttercups, and beyond them the rich yellow of marsh marigolds. Neal fancied himself awaking from some hideous nightmare. It became impossible to believe in the reality of the battle, the fierce passion of it, the smoke, the sweat, the wounds, the cries. He was lulled into delicious ease. Rest was for the time the supreme good of life. His eyes closed drowsily. He was back in Dunseveric again, and in his ears the noise of a gentle summer sea.
He was roused by a touch of his companion’s hand.
“I’m afraid there’s a wheen o’ sogers coming up the road.”
Neal rose to his hands and knees and peered cautiously through the hedge. He saw mounted men riding slowly along the road from the direction of Antrim. They were still about half a mile off. Every now and then they halted and peered about them. They rode as if they feared an ambush, or as if they sought something or some one in the fields at each side of the road.
“They’re yeomen,” said Neal, “and they’re coming towards us. We must lie as still as we can. Perhaps they may pass without seeing us.”
“They willna,” said the boy, “they’ll see us. We’ll be kilt at last.”
Neal peered again. The yeomen had reached the spot where Donald and his pikemen had made their stand. They halted and dismounted to examine, perhaps to plunder, the bodies. Neal could see their uniforms plainly. He shivered. They were men of the Kilulta yeomenry, of Captain Twinely’s company.
“Neal Ward, there’s something I want to say to you before they catch us.”
“Well, what is it? Speak at once. They’ll be coming on soon, and then it won’t do to be talking.”
“Ay, but you mustn’t look at me while I tell you.”
Neal turned away and waited. He was impatient of this making of mysteries in a moment of extreme peril.
“I would I were in Ballinderry,I would I were in Aghalee,I would I were in bonny Ram’s IslandTrysting under an ivy tree—Ochone, Ochone!”
The words were sung very softly, but Neal recognised the voice at once. He turned at the second line and gazed in open-eyed astonishment at the singer.
“Ay, it’s just me, just Peg MacIlrea.” She smiled up at him as she spoke.
“But, Peg, how could you do it? Peg, if I’d only known. Why did you come?”
“It wasna right. It wasna maidenly. If that’s what you want to be saying to me, Neal Ward. The other lassie wouldna have done it. Maybe not. But a’ the lads I knew well were turning out and going to the fight, and what was to hinder a poor, wild lassie, that nobody cared about, from going, too? Ay, and being there at the break, the sore, sore break, in Antrim town?”
Neal heard the tramp of the yeomen’s horses on the road. He heard their voices, their laughter, their oaths.
“Neal,” said Peg, “you’re a brave lad and a kind. I aye said it of ye from thon night when you throttled the dragoon. Do you mind it? D’you mind how I bit him?”
The yeomen were almost opposite their hiding-place now.
“Neal,” whispered Peg, “will ye no gie me a kiss? The other lassie wouldna begrudge it to me now, I’m thinking.”
He bent over her, put his arms round her neck, raised her head, and kissed her lips.
“Hush, Peg, hush,” he whispered.
“There’s a musket on the road in front of you, sergeant.” Neal recognised Captain Twinely’s voice. “There might be some damned croppy lurking in the meadow there. Dismount and beat him up. Hey! but we’ll have some sport hunting him across country if he runs. The earths are all stopped. We’ll have a fine burst, and kill the vermin in the end.”
Neal stood upright.
“I surrender to you, Captain Twinely. I surrender as a prisoner of war.”
It seemed to him the only chance of saving Peg MacIlrea. It was just possible that the yeomen would be satisfied with one prisoner.
“By God,” said the captain, “if it isn’t that damned young Ward again. Come, croppy, come, croppy, I’ll give you a run for your life. I’ll give you two minutes start by my watch, and I’ll hunt you like a fox. It’s a better offer than you deserve.”
Neal stood still, and made no answer.
“To him, sergeant, prick him with your sword. Set him running.”
The sergeant came blundering through the hedge. Neal stepped forward to meet him, in the hope of keeping Peg concealed, but the sergeant caught sight of her.
“There’s another of them, Captain, lying in the grass.”
“Rout him out, rout him out,” said Captain Twinely, “we’ll run the two. We’ll have sport.”
The sergeant stepped forward and kicked Peg. Neal flew at the man and knocked him down.
“Ho, ho,” laughed Captain Twinely, “he’s a game cub. Get through the hedge, men, and take a hold of him. We’ll hunt the other fellow first.”
“The other seems to be wounded, sir,” said one of the men. “He has his leg bandaged.”
“Then slit his throat,” said the captain, “he can’t run, and I’ve no use for wounded men.”
Neal, his arms tightly gripped by two troopers, made a last appeal.
“It’s a girl,” he said, “would you murder a girl?”
Captain Twinely rolled in his saddle with mirth.
“A vixen,” he cried. “Damn your soul, Neal Ward, but you’re a sly one. To think of a true blue Presbyterian like you, a minister’s son, God rot you, lying and cuddling a girl in a field. A vixen, by God. Strip her, sergeant, till we see if he’s telling the truth.”
Neal, with the strength of a furious man, tore himself from the grasp of his guards. He plunged through the hedge and leaped at Captain Twinely. He gripped the horse’s mane with his left hand, and made a wild snatch at the throat of the man above him in the saddle. A blow on the face from the hilt of Twinely’s sword threw him to the ground. He fell half stunned. He heard Peg shriek wildly, and then lost consciousness of what was happening.
He was roused again by a prod of a sword, and bidden to stand up. His hands were tied and the end of the rope made fast to the stirrup iron of one of the trooper’s horses.
“We’re going to take you back into Antrim,” said Captain Twinely. “I don’t deny that I’d rather deal with you here myself, but you’re a fifty-pounder, my lad, and my men won’t hear of losing their share of the reward. It’ll come to the same thing in the end, any way. Clavering isn’t the man to be squeamish about hanging a rebel. Mount men and march.”
“Maybe the young cub would like to see his lass before he leaves her. Her face is a bonny one for kissing now.”
Neal shuddered, and turned sick. Beyond the hedge in the trampled grass, among the meadow sweet and the loose strife, lay unnamable horror. He shut his eyes, dreading lest he should be forced to look, but the suggestion was too brutal even for Captain Twinely.
“Shut your devil’s mouth,” he said to the sergeant, “isn’t what you’ve done enough for you? If the croppy that came on you at Donegore had broken your skull, instead of just cracking it, he would have rid the country of the biggest blackguard in it.”
“Thon’s fine talk,” growled the sergeant, “but who bid us strip the wench? Is bloody Twinely turning chicken-hearted at the last?”
Captain Twinely did not choose to hear the sergeant’s words, or the grumbling of the men around him. He put his troop in motion, and trotted off towards Antrim. Neal, running and stumbling, dazed, utterly weary and dejected, was dragged with them.
General Clavering sat at dinner in a private room of the Massereene Arms. He had with him Colonel Durham and several of the officers who had commanded troops during the battle. The landlord, obsequious and frightened, waited on the party himself. He had the best food he could get on the table, and the best wine from the cellar was ready for his guests. In the public room a larger party was gathered—yeomanry officers, captains, and lieutenants of the royal troops, and a few of the country squires who had ridden into the town after the fighting was over. Lord Dunseveric and Maurice were in the room where they had slept the night before. Lord O’Neill lay on one of two beds. Life was in him still, but he was mortally wounded. Lord Dunseveric sat beside him, holding his hand, and speaking to him occasionally. Maurice was at the window. The laughter of the party in the room below reached them, and the noisy talk of the troops who thronged the streets. Jests, curses, snatches of song, and calls for wine mingled with the groans which his extreme pain wrung from the wounded man and the solemn, quiet words about strength and courage which Lord Dunseveric spoke.
A party of horsemen clattered up the street, and halted at the inn door. They had a prisoner with them—a wretched-looking man, with torn clothes, a bruised, bloody face, and hair matted with sweat and grime. But Maurice recognised him. It was Neal Ward. He turned to his father.
“A company of yeomen has just marched in and they have Neal Ward with them. Their officer, I think it was that blackguard Twinely, has asked for General Clavering, and entered the inn.”
“Very well, Maurice.” Lord Dunseveric turned to the wounded man. “I must leave you for a few minutes, my friend; keep quiet and be brave. I shall be back again. Maurice will stay with you, and get you anything you want.”
“Where are you going, Eustace?”
“I’m going to the general, to this Clavering man. He has a prisoner now whom I want to help if I can—the young man I told you about, who saved me from being piked in the street to-day. I would to God he could have saved you, too.”
“That’s past praying for now,” said Lord O’Neill, “but you’re right, Eustace, you’re right. Save him from the hangman if you can. There’s been blood enough shed to-day—Irish blood, Irish blood. There should be no more of it.”
Lord Dunseveric entered the room where General Clavering and his officers sat at dinner. Captain Twinely stood at the end of the table, and Lord Dunseveric heard the orders he received.
“Put him into the market-house to-night. I’ll hang that fellow in the morning, whatever I do with the rest.”
“The market-house is full, sir,” said Captain Twinely, “the officer in command says he can receive no more prisoners.”
“Damn it, man, shut him up somewhere else, then, but don’t stand there talking to me and interrupting my dinner. Here, landlord, have you an empty cellar?”
“Your worship, my lord general, there’s only the wine cellar; but it’s very nigh on empty now.”
A shout of laughter greeted the remark.
“Fetch out the rest of the wine that’s in it,” said the general, “we’ll make a clean sweep of it. Or, stay, leave the poor devil one bottle of decent claret. He’s to be hanged tomorrow morning. He may have a sup of comfort to-night.”
Captain Twinely saluted and withdrew.
“General Clavering,” said Lord Dunseveric, “I ask you to spare this young man’s life. I will make myself personally responsible for his safe keeping, and undertake to send him out of the country at the first opportunity.”
“It can’t be done, Lord Dunseveric. I am sorry to disoblige in a small matter, but it can’t be done.”
“I ask it as a matter of justice,” said Lord Dunseveric. “The man saved my life and my son’s life to-day in the street at the risk of his own. He deserves to be spared.”
“I’ve given my answer.”
Lord Dunseveric hesitated. For a moment it seemed as if he were about to turn and leave the room. Then, with an evident effort, he spoke again.
“I ask this man’s life as a personal favour. I am not one who begs often from the Government, or who asks favours easily, but I ask this.”
“Anything else, my lord, anything in reason, but this I will not grant. This young man has a bad record—a damned bad record. He was mixed up with the hanging of a yeoman in the north———”
“He was not,” said Lord Dunseveric. “I hanged that man.”
“You hanged him,” said General Clavering, Angrily, “and yet you come here asking favours of me. But there’s more, plenty more, against this Neal Ward. He tried to choke a dragoon in the street of Belfast, he took part in a daring capture of some ammunition for the rebels’ use, he helped to murder a loyal man at Donegore last night, he was in arms to-day. There’s not half a dozen deserve hanging more richly than he does, and hanged he’ll be. Never you fret yourself about him, Lord Dunseveric; sit down here and drink a glass with us. We’re going to make a night of it.”
“I beg leave to decline your invitation,” said Lord Dunseveric, stiffly. “I have asked for mercy and been refused. I have asked for justice and been refused. I have begged a personal favour and been refused. I bid you good night. If I thought you and your companions were capable of any feeling of common decency I should request you to restrain your mirth a little out of respect to Lord O’Neill, who lies dying within two doors of you. But I should probably only provide you with fresh food for your laughter if I did.”
He bowed coldly, and left the room. The company sat silent for a minute or two. No man cared to look at his neighbour. Lord Dunseveric’s last words had been unpleasant ones to listen to. Besides, Lord Dunseveric was a man of some importance. It is impossible to tell how far the influence of a great territorial lord may stretch. Promotion is sometimes stopped mysteriously by influences which are not very easily baffled. There were colonels at the table who wanted to be generals, and generals who wanted commands. There was a feeling that it might have been wiser to speak more civilly to Lord Dunseveric.
General Clavering himself broke the silence.
“These damned Irishmen are all rebels at heart,” he said. “The gentry want their combs cut as much as the croppies. I’m not going to be insulted at my own table by a cursed Irishman even if he does put lord before his name. I’ll write a report about this Lord Dunseveric. I’ll make him smart with a sharp fine. You heard him boast, gentlemen, boast before a company of men holding His Majesty’s commission, that he hanged a soldier in discharge of his duty.”
“A yeoman,” said Colonel Durham, “and some of the yeomen deserve hanging.”
“God Almighty!” said Clavering, “are you turning rebel, too? I don’t care whether a man deserves it or not, I’ll not have the king’s troops hanged by filthy Irishmen.”
He looked round the table for applause. He got none. General Clavering had boasted too loudly—had gone too far. It was well known that in the existing state of Irish politics Pitt and the English ministers would probably prefer cashiering General Clavering to offending a man like Lord Dunseveric. There were plenty of generals to be got. A great Irish landowner, a man of ability, a peer who commanded the respect of all classes in the country, might be a serious hindrance to the carrying out of certain carefully-matured schemes. General Clavering attempted to laugh the matter off.
“But this,” he said, “is over wine. Men say more than they mean when they are engaged in emptying mine host’s cellar. Come, gentlemen, another bottle. We must hang the damned young rebel, but we’ll do him this much grace—we’ll drink a happy despatch to him, a short wriggle at the end of his rope, and a pleasant journey to a warmer climate.”
Lord Dunseveric returned to his room and sat down again beside Lord O’Neill. He said nothing to Maurice.
“Well,” said Lord O’Neill, “will they spare him?”
“No.”
“More blood, more blood. God help us, Eustace, our lot is cast in evil times. Would it be any use if I spoke, if I wrote! I think I could manage to write.”
“None, my friend, none. Keep quiet, you have enough to bear without taking my troubles and my friend’s troubles on your shoulders.”
For a long time there was silence in the room, broken only by an occasional groan from the wounded man and a word or two murmured low by Lord Dunseveric. Maurice took his place at the window again. He understood that his father’s intercession for Neal had failed, but he was not hopeless. He did not know what was to be said or done next, but he waited confidently. It was not often that Lord Dunseveric was turned back from anything he set his hand to do. It was likely that if he wanted Neal Ward’s release the release would be accomplished whatever General Clavering might think or say.
The evening darkened slowly. Lord O’Neill dropped into an uneasy dose. Lord Dunseveric rose, and crossed the room to Maurice.
“You heard what I said, son? They are to hang Neal Ward to-morrow.”
Maurice nodded.
“I can do no more. Besides, I am tired. I want to rest.”
Maurice looked at his father in surprise. He could not recollect ever having heard before of his being tired or wanting rest.
“I shall sleep here in your bed, Maurice, so as to be at hand if Lord O’Neill wants me. You must go down to the public room of the inn or to the tap-room. You can get James, the groom, to keep you company if you like. You cannot go to bed to-night, you understand. You must sit by the fire till those roisterers have drunk themselves to sleep. James will keep you company, There will be sound sleep for many in this inn to-night, but none for poor Neal, who’s down in some cellar, nor the sentry they post over him, nor for you, Maurice, nor for James. Maybe after all Neal won’t be hanged in the morning. That’s all I have to say to you, my son. A man in my position can’t say more or do more. You understand?”
“I understand,” said Maurice, “and, by God, they’ll not hang——”
“Hush! hush! I don’t want to listen to you. I’m tired. I want to go to sleep. Good night to you, Maurice.”
With a curious half smile on his face Lord Dun-severic shook his son’s hand. It appeared that he had the same kind of confidence in Maurice that Maurice had in him. Like father, like son. When these St. Clairs of Dunseveric wanted anything they generally got it in the end. And none of the race of them had ever been over-scrupulous in dealing with such obstacles as stood in their way, or particularly careful about what those glorified conventions that men call law might have to say about the methods by which they achieved their ends.