CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
ON THE BLACK HILL ROAD.
This, then, was the mystery which for eighteen years had hung overKilgorman. My mother's letter cleared up a part of it, but the rest itplunged into greater mystery still. That Maurice Gorman was a villainand a usurper was evident. But who was the rightful heir my mother,either through negligence or of set purpose, had failed to state. Wasit Tim? or I?
I recalled all I could of my mother's words and acts to us both--how shetaught us our letters; how she sang to us; how, when need be, she chidus; how, with a hand for each, she took us as children to church; howshe kissed us both at nights, and gave us our porridge when we startedfor the hills in the morning. In all this she never by a sign betrayedthat one of us was her son and the other a stranger. Even to the last,on the day she died, the words she spoke to me, I was convinced, shewould equally have spoken to Tim, had he, not I, been there to hearthem.
Could it be possible that she did not herself know? Any mother whoreads this will, I think, scoff at the notion; and yet I think it wasso. Weak and ill as she was when it all happened, bewildered and dazedby the murder of her master and the terrible suspicion thrown on herhusband, lying for weeks after in a half swoon, and believing herself atthe gate of death, I think, in spite of all the mothers in Ireland, thatwhen at last she came back to life, and looked on the two little fellowsnestled in the bed at her side, she knew not the one from the other.
My father, I was sure, if he even knew that one of us was not his ownboy, neither knew nor concerned himself which was which, so long as hekept his honour in good-humour.
But as regarded Biddy McQuilkin, it was different. She was not ill orblind or in mortal fear when it all happened. If any one could tell, itwas she. And she, unless all reports were false, slept in the pit ofthe guillotine in Paris, beside her last master and mistress. It wasnot likely that the Republic One and Indivisible, when it swept away theold couple, would overlook their faithful and inseparable attendant.
So, after all, it seemed that mystery was to hang over Tim and me still.I could have been happy had the paper said outright, "Tim is the son ofTerence Gorman." But to feel that as much might, with equalprobability, be said of me, paralysed my purpose and obscured my path.How was I to set wrong right? As for Tim, it was evident from his briefnote, written at a time when he did not know if I had survived the wreckof the _Kestrel_ or not, that the matter concerned him little comparedwith the rebellious undertaking on which he was just now unhappilyembarked.
Tim was, I knew, more of a natural gentleman than I, which might meangentler blood. On the other hand, I, of the two of us, was less likeMike Gallagher in looks. Who was to decide between us? And meanwhilethis Maurice Gorman--
That reminded me with a start of last night's business. This very man,robber of the widow, unnatural brother, and oppressor of the fatherless,was appointed for death that very morning, and might already be on hisway to meet it. I confess, as I then felt, I could almost have let himrun on his doom; yet when I recalled the vision in the kitchen lastnight of Paddy Corkill shouldering the borrowed gun, my humanityreasserted itself. How could I stand idle with a human life, howeverworthless, at stake? As to his being Miss Kit's father, that at themoment did not enter into my calculations; but as soon as it did, iturged my footsteps to a still more rapid stride as I made across thebleak tract for the Black Hill.
The morning was grey and squally, and the mists hung low on the hill-tops, and swept now and then thickly up the valleys. But I knew the waywell. Tim and I had often as boys walked there to look at the spotwhere Terence Gorman fell, and often, in the Knockowen days, I haddriven his honour's gig past the spot on the way to Malin.
The road ascends steeply some little way up the hill between high rocks.Half-way up it takes a sharp turn inward, skirting the slope on thelevel, and so comes out on to the open bog-road beyond. Just at theangle is a high boulder that almost overhangs the road, affordingcomplete cover to any one waiting for a traveller, and commanding a viewof him both as he walks his horse up the slope and as he trots forwardon the level. It needed not much guessing to decide that it was herethat Terence Gorman's murderer had lurked that fatal night, and thathere Paddy Corkill would come to find his victim this morning.
As I came to the top of a hill that gave a distant view of the road bywhich the traveller would approach, my heart leaped to my mouth. Forthere, not a mile and a half away, appeared, in a break of the mist, ablack speck, which I knew well enough to be his honour's gig. In half-an-hour or less it would reach the fatal spot, and I could barely hopeto reach it before him. The ground in front of me was littered withboulders, and in places was soft with bog. Rapid progress wasimpossible. A false step, a slip might lame me, and so stop mealtogether. Yet on every moment hung the fate of _her_ father!
It was a wild career I made that morning--down hollows, over rocks,through swamps, and up banks. I soon lost all sight of the road, andknew I should not see it again till I came above the boulder behindwhich the assassin probably lurked. Once I fancied I heard the clatterof the hoofs very near; and once, on the hill before me, I seemed tocatch the gleam of a gun-barrel among the rocks.
A minute more brought me in view of the boulder and the road below.Stretched on the former, with his gun levelled, lay Corkill, waiting themoment when his victim should reach the corner. On the road, stilltoiling up the hill, came the gig, and to my horror and dismay, not onlyhis honour in it, but Miss Kit herself.
Even in that moment of terror I could not help noticing how beautifulshe looked, her face intent on the horse she was driving as she sat,inclined a little forward, gently coaxing him up the hill. His honour,aged and haggard, leaned back in his seat, glancing uneasily now andthen at the rocks on either side, and now and then uttering an impatient"tchk" at the panting animal.
I had barely time to whip out my ship's pistol from my belt--luckilyalready loaded--and level it at the assassin. Almost at the instant ofmy discharge his gun went off; and in the moment of silence thatfollowed, I heard the horse start at a gallop along the level road.
Paddy lay on his face, hit in the shoulder, but not, as I judged by hiskicking, fatally so. I was less concerned about him than about theoccupants of the gig. As far as I could see, looking after them,neither was hurt, and the assassin's gun must have gone off harmlesslyin the air. The horse, who seemed to know what all this meant as wellas any one, raced for his life, and I was expecting to see the gigdisappear round the turn, unless it overturned first, when a huge stonerolled down on to the road a few yards ahead, and brought the animal upon his haunches with such suddenness that the two travellers were almostpitched from their seats.
At the same moment two men, armed with clubs, leaped on to the road, onemaking for the horse's head, the other for the step.
All this took less time to happen than it takes me to tell it, andbefore the gig actually came to a standstill I was rushing along theroad to the spot. My discharged pistol was in my hand, but I had notime to reload. I flung myself at the man on the step just as he raisedhis club, and sending him sprawling on to the road, levelled my weaponat his head.
"Move, and you're a dead man!" said I.
Then turning to his honour, I thrust the pistol into his shaking hand,and said,--
"Fire if he tries to get up, your honour. Let me get at the other one."
He was easily disposed of, for the terrified horse was jerking him offhis feet and dragging him here and there in its efforts to get clear. Isoon had him on the road beside his companion, helping him thereto by acrack on the head from his own club; and I then took the horse in hand,and reduced it, after a struggle, to quietness.
Till this was done I had had neither time nor heart to lift my eyes tothe occupants of the gig. His honour, very white, kept his eyes on themen on the road and his finger on the trigger of the pistol. But MissKit had all her eyes for me. At first her look was one of meregratitude to a stranger; then it clouded with be
wilderment and almostalarm; then suddenly it lit up in a blaze of joyful recognition.
"Barry, it's you after all?" she cried.
And the light on her face glowed brighter with the blush that covered itand the tears that sparkled in her eyes.
At the sound of her voice his honour looked round sharply, and afterstaring blankly for a moment, recognised me too.
"How came you here?" he exclaimed, as I thought, with as muchdisappointment as pleasure in his voice.
"I'll tell you that by-and-by, when I've tied up these two scoundrels.--Come, stand up you two, and hands up, if you don't want a taste of coldlead in your heads."
They obeyed in a half-stupid way. One of them I recognised at once asthe man who had acted as secretary at last night's meeting. No doubt heand his fellow had had their misgivings as to Paddy Corkill's ability,and had come here to second him in case of failure.
"So, Mr Larry Flanagan," said I, "there'll be grand news for themeeting to-night!"
"Who are you? I don't know you. Who's told you my name?"
"Never mind. The same as told me that Paddy Corkill borrowed your gunfor this vile deed. Come, back to back now."
I had already got the tether cord from the boot of the gig, and in a fewminutes had the two fastened up back to back as neatly as a sailor cantie knots.
"There," said I, dragging them to the roadside, "you'll do till we sendthe police to fetch you.--Your honour," said I, "I chanced to hear ofthis plot against your life last night. Thank Heaven I was in time tohelp you and the young mistress! Maybe you'll do well to take a braceof police about with you when you travel, and leave the young lady athome. She will be safer there."
"Stay, Gallagher," said his honour, as I saluted and turned to go; "youmust not go like this. I have questions to ask you."
"And I," said Miss Kit. "Don't go, Barry."
"The gig will only hold two," said I; "but if his honour gives me leave,I'll be at Knockowen to-morrow."
"Certainly," said Gorman. "And, Barry, say nothing of this. Leave meto deal with it."
"As your honour pleases. Besides these two by the roadside, you'll finda boy on the top of yonder boulder who wants a lift to the lock-up."
"Don't forget to-morrow, Barry," said my lady with her sweetest smileand wave of the hand, as she gathered the reins together.
I stood cap in hand till they had disappeared round the bend, and thentook a final look at my captives.
"So you are Barry Gallagher?" snarled the secretary.
"What of that?"
"Just this, that unless you let me go, and say not a word, your brotherTim shall swing for a rebel before a week's out."
It must have been satisfaction to him to see how I was staggered bythis. I had never thought that what I had done to-day might recoil onthe head of my own brother. However, I affected not to be greatlyalarmed at the threat.
"Tim can take care of himself," said I, sitting down to load my pistol;"but since that is your game, I'll save the hangman a job."
And I levelled the weapon at his face.
"Mercy, Mr Gallagher," he cried all in a tremble. "Sure, I was onlyjoking. I wouldn't let out on Captain Tim for the world. Come now,won't you believe me?"
His face was such a picture of terror and panic that I was almost sorryfor him. His fellow-prisoner, too, who stood a good chance of the fag-end of my bullet, was equally piteous in his protestations.
"Mark this," said I, lowering the pistol, to their great relief,"there's more eyes on you and your confederates than you think. Murderis no way to help Ireland. Tell on Tim if you dare. My pistol cancarry in the dark, and the first of you that has a word to say againsthim may say his prayers."
And I left them rolling back to back on the roadside. As for PaddyCorkill, when I went to look for him where he had fallen, there was nosign of him but a pool of blood and a track of footsteps, whichpresently lost themselves in the bog.