Kilgorman

Here, to my vast relief, a window opened above me and a head appeared.

"What's the noise about at all, at all?" called Mr Callan.

"'Deed that's just what I'm asking him," said the watchman. "And since you're awake, Mr Callan, you may see to it. To my thinking the noise is not worth the turnips. So good-night to you."

I was never more glad to see a man's back. In due time Mr Callan came down in his night-cap, lantern in hand.

"Turnips," said he, as he looked first at me, then at the cart. "Whose turnips are they?"

"They're from Knockowen, sir," said I. "My father, Mike Gallagher, bade me tell you there's more where they came from."

He pulled the bolt of his yard gate without a word, and signed to me to back in the cart; which I did, dreading every moment lest the watchman should return.

When we were inside, the gate was shut, and Mr Callan turned his lantern towards me.

"You're a young lad to send with a load like this," said he. "Did no one overhaul you on the road?"

I told him about the two soldiers, and what the man at the inn had said.

He said nothing, but bade me unload.

The turnips were soon taken out. Under them was a layer of sacking, and under that some thirty or forty muskets, with a box or two of ammunition.

These Mr Callan and I carefully carried up to a loft and deposited in a hollow s.p.a.ce which had been prepared in a pile of hay, which was carefully covered up again, so as to leave no trace of the murderous fodder it hid.

"Tell Mr Gorman--tell your father, I mean, that his turnips are in great demand, and I can sell all he's got."

"I will," said I.

"Now put in the horse and take your rest, for you must start back betimes in the morning."

"Plaze, sir," I ventured to say, "I'd sooner eat than sleep, by your leave."

"You shall do both," said he, for he was in great good-humour.

So I got a bite of pork and a scone, and curled myself up in the warm hay and slept like a top.

Before daybreak Mr Callan roused me.

"Make haste now," said he, "or you'll not be home by night. And see here, I've a message for Mr Gorman."

"Mr Gorman?" said I, remembering what I had been told.

"You are right, sonnie. You do not know Mr Gorman," said the tradesman, slapping me on the back and laughing. "If you did know him, I would have bid you tell him that people talk of him here, and say he lacks zeal in a good cause. If lie is resolved to deal in turnips, he must deal in them largely, and not go behind our backs to them that deal in other trades. Mark that."

I confess it sounded very like a riddle, and I had to say the words over many times to myself before I could be sure of carrying them.

Then, my cart being loaded with straw, I bade Mr Callan good-day, and started on my long journey back to Knockowen.

CHAPTER THREE.

WAKING.

Had it not been for what I dreaded to find at home, my journey back from Derry would have been light enough; for now I was rid of my turnips I had nothing to fear from inquisitive wayfarers. Nor had I cause to be anxious as to the way, for my mare knew she was homeward bound, and stepped out briskly with no encouragement from me.

Indeed I had so little to do that about noon, when we had got off the highroad on to the hill-track, I curled myself

At first I thought I was back already at Knockowen, and wondered at the speed the old jade had made while I slept. But as soon as I had rubbed my eyes I found we were still on the hillside, and that my awakers were a handful of soldiers.

They demanded my name and my master's. When I told them Mr Gorman of Knockowen, they were a thought less rough with me; for his honour was known as a friend of the government. Nevertheless they said they must search my cart, and bade me help them to unload the straw.

I could not help laughing as I saw them so busy.

"What's the limb laughing at?" said one angrily. "Maybe he's not so innocent as he looks."

"'Deed, sir," said I, "I was laughing at the soldiers I met at Fahan, who thought I'd got guns under his honour's turnips. I warrant Mr Gorman won't laugh at that. Maybe it's guns you're looking for too.

They're easy hid in a load of straw."

At this they looked rather abashed, although they thought fit to cuff me for an impudent young dog. And when the straw was all out, and nothing found underneath, it was not a little hard on me that they left me to put it in again myself, roundly rating one another for the sorry figure they cut.

I was too glad to be rid of them to raise much clamour about the straw, and loaded it back as best I could, wondering if all his Majesty's servants were as wide-awake as the smuggler-catchers of Donegal.

This was my only adventure till about seven o'clock when I sighted the lights of Knockowen, and knew this tedious journey was at an end.

His honour, I was told, was not at home. He had crossed to Fanad to be present at the wake of my poor mother, who, I heard, had died long before my father and Mr Gorman could reach her yesterday. She was to be buried, they told me, on the next day at Kilgorman; and I could guess why there was all this haste. My father was needed to steer the _Cigale_ out of the lough, and his honour would be keen enough to get the funeral over for that reason.

With a very heavy heart I left the weary horse in the stable and betook myself to his honour's harbour. Only one boat lay there, a little one with a clumsy lug-sail, ill-enough fitted for a treacherous lough like the Sw.i.l.l.y. I knew her of old, however, and was soon bounding over the waves, with the dim outline of Fanad standing out ahead in the moonlight.

My heart sank to my boots as I drew nearer and discerned an unusual glow of light from the cabin window, and heard, carried across the water on the breeze, the sounds of singing and the wail of a fiddle. I dreaded to think of the dear body that lay there heedless of all the noise, whose eyes I should never see and whose voice I should never hear more.

I could not help calling to mind again the strange words she had last spoken--of her longing to see his honour, of her wandering talk about a dead la.s.sie and the hearthstone, and of some danger that threatened my father. It was all a mystery to me. Yet it was a mystery which, boy as I was, I resolved some day to explain.

The landing-place was full of boats, by which I knew that all the lough- side and many from the opposite sh.o.r.e had come to the wake. His honour's boat was there among them. So was one belonging to the _Cigale_.

I felt tempted, instead of entering the cabin, to wander up on to the headland and lie there, looking out to the open sea, and so forget my troubles. But the thought of Tim and my father hindered me, and I clambered up to the cabin.

The door stood open, because, as I thought, so many folk were about it that it would not shut. As I made my way among them I was barely heeded--indeed there were many who did not even know me. I pushed my way into the cabin, in which were stifling heat and smoke and the fumes of whisky. There, on the bed in the corner, where I had seen her last, but now lit up with a glare of candles, lay my poor mother, with her eyes closed and her hands folded across her breast. At the foot of the bed sat my father, haggard and wretched, holding a gla.s.s of whisky in his hand, which now and again he put to his lips to give him the Dutch courage he needed. At the bedside stood Tim with a scowl on his face as he glared, first, on the noisy mourners, and then looked down on the white face on the pillow. At the fireplace sat his honour, buried in thought, and not heeding the talk of the jovial priest who sat and stirred his cup beside him. There, too, among the crowd of dirge- singing, laughing, whisky-drinking neighbours, I could see the outlandish-looking skipper of the _Cigale_.

It was a weird, woeful spectacle, and made me long more than ever for the pure, fresh breezes of the lonely headland. But Tim looked round as I entered, and his face, till now so black and sullen, lit up as he saw me, and he beckoned me to him. When last we parted it had been in anger and shame; now, over the body of our dead mother, we met in peace and brotherly love, and felt stronger each of us by the presence of the other.

My father, half-stupid with sorrow and whisky, roused himself and called out my name.

"Arrah, Barry, my son, are you there? Faith, it's a sore day for the motherless lad. Howl, boys!"

And the company set up a loud wail in my honour, and pressed round me, to pat me on the head or back and say some word of consolation.

Presently his honour motioned me to him.