Part 26

"That brick hotel," said Renoux, "is one of those places outside town limits, where law is defied and license straddles the line. It's run by McDermott, one of the two men aboard the power-boat."

"Where is their boat?" inquired Westmore.

Renoux turned and pointed to the southwest.

"Over there in a cove--about a mile south of us. If they leave the tavern we can get to the boat first and block their road."

"We'll be between two fires then," observed Barres, "from the boat's deck and from Skeel's gang."

Renoux nodded coolly:

"Two on the boat and five in the hotel make seven. We are five."

"Then we can hold them," said Westmore.

"That's all I want," rejoined Renoux briskly. "I just want to check them and hold them until your Government can send its agents here. I know I have no business to do this--probably I'll get into trouble. But I can't sit still and twirl my thumbs while people blow up a canal belonging to an ally of France, can I?"

"Hark!" motioned Barres. "They're singing! Poor devils. They're like Cree Indians singing their death song."

"I suppose," said Westmore sombrely, "that deep in each man's heart there remains a glimmer of hope that he, at least, may come out of it."

Renoux shrugged:

"Perhaps. But they are brave, these Irish--brave enough without a skinful of whiskey. And with it they are entirely reckless. No sane man can foretell what they will attempt." He turned to include Alost and Souchez: "I think there can be only one plan of action for us, gentlemen. We should string out here along the edges of the woods. When they leave the tavern we should run for the landing and get into the shack that stands there--a rickety sort of boat-house on piles," he explained to Westmore and Barres. "There is the path through the woods." He pointed to the left, where a trodden way bisected the wood-road. "It runs straight to the landing," he added.

Alost, at a sign from him, started off westward through the woods. Souchez followed. Renoux leaned back against a big walnut tree and signified that he would remain there.

So Barres and Westmore moved forward to the right, very cautiously, circling the rear of the old brick hotel where a line of ruined horse-sheds and a rickety barn screened them from view of the hotel's south windows.

So close to the tavern did they pass that they could hear the noisy singing very distinctly and see through the open windows the movement of shadowy figures under the paling light of a ceiling lamp.

Westmore ventured nearer in hopes of getting a better view from the horse-sheds; and Barres crept after him through the rank growth of swale and weeds.

"Look at them!" whispered Westmore. "They're in a sort of uniform, aren't they?"

"They've got on green jackets and stable-caps! Do you see that stack of rifles in the corner of the tap-room?"

"There's Skeel!" muttered Westmore, "the man in the long cloak sitting by the fireplace with his face buried in his hands!"

"He looks utterly done in," whispered Barres. "Probably he can't manage that gang and he begins to realise it. Hark! You can hear every word of that thing they're singing."

Every word, indeed, was a yell or a shout, and distinct enough at that. They were roaring out "Green Jackets":

"_Oh, Irish maids love none but those Who wear the jackets green!_"

--all lolling and carousing around a slopping wet table--all save Murtagh Skeel, who, seated near the empty fireplace with his white face buried between his fingers, never stirred from his attitude of stony immobility.

"There's Soane!" whispered Barres, "that man who just got up!"

It was Soane, his cap cocked aslant on his curly head, his green jacket unbuttoned, a tumbler aloft in his unsteady clutch.

"Whurroo!" he yelled. "_Gu ma slan a chi mi!--fear a' Bhata!_" And he laid a reckless hand on Skeel's cloaked shoulder. But the latter never stirred; and Soane, winking at the company, flourished his tumbler aloft and broke into "The Risin' o' the Moon":

"Oh, then tell me, Shawn O'Ferrall, Phwere the gatherin' is to be! In th' ould shpot be the river;-- Sure it's known to you an' me!"

And the others began to shout the words:

"_Death to every foe and traitor! Forward! Strike the marchin' tune, And hurrah, me lads, for freedom! 'Tis the risin' of the moon!_

"At the risin' of the moon, At the risin' of the moon, And a thousand blades are flashin' At the risin' of the moon!"

"Here's to Murtagh Skeel!" roared Soane, "_An gille dubh ciardubh!_ Whurroo!"

Skeel lifted his haggard visage, slowly looked around, got up from his stool.

"In God's name," he said hoarsely, "if you're not utterly shameless, take your rifles and follow me. Look at the sun! Have you lads gone stark mad? What will McDermott think? What will Kelly Walsh say? It's too late to weigh anchor now; but it isn't too late to go aboard and sober up, and wait for dark.

"If you've a rag of patriotism left you'll quit your drinking and come with me!"

"Ah, sure, then, Captain dear," cried Soane, "is there anny harrm in a bite an' a sup f'r dyin' lads befoor they go whizzin' up to glory?"

"I tell you we should be aboard! _Now!_"

Another said:

"Aw, the cap's right. To hell with the booze. Come on, youse!" And he began to button his green jacket. Another got up on unsteady legs:

"Sure," he said, "there do be time f'r to up anchor an' shquare away for Point Dalhousie. Phwat's interferin', I dunno."

"A Canadian cruiser," said Skeel with dry bitterness. "Get aboard, anyway. We'll have to wait for dark."

There was a reluctant shuffle of feet, a careless adjusting of green jackets and caps, a reaching for rifles.

"Come on," whispered Barres, "we've got to get to the landing before they do."

They turned and moved off swiftly among the trees. Renoux saw them coming, understood, turned and hurried southward to warn Alost and Souchez. Barres and Westmore caught glimpses of them ahead, striding along the trodden path under the trees, and ran to overtake them.

"They're going aboard," said Barres to Renoux. "But they will probably wait till dark before starting."

"They will unless they're stark mad," said Renoux, hurrying out to the southern borders of the wood. But no sooner had he arrived on the edge of the open swale country than he uttered an exclamation of rage and disgust, and threw up his hands helplessly.

It was perfectly plain to the others what was happening--and what now could not be prevented.

There lay the big, swift power boat, still at anchor; there stood the ramshackle wharf and boat-house. But already a boat had put off from the larger craft and was being rowed parallel with the shore toward the mouth of a marshy creek.

Two men were rowing; a third steered.

But what had suddenly upset Renoux was the sight of a line of green jackets threading the marsh to the north, led by Skeel, who was already exchanging handkerchief signals with the men in the boat.

Renoux glanced at his prey escaping by an avenue of which he had no previous knowledge. It was death to go out into the open with pistols and face the fire of half a dozen rifles. No man there had any delusions concerning that.

Souchez had field-glasses slung around his neck. Renoux took them, gazed at the receding boat, set his teeth hard.

"Ferez!" he growled.

"What!" exclaimed Westmore, turning a violent red.

"The man steering is Ferez Bey." Renoux handed the binoculars to Westmore with a shrug.

Barres, bending double, had gone out into the swale. A thicket of cat-tails screened him and he advanced very carefully, keeping his eyes on the green-jacketed men whose heads, shoulders and rifles were visible above the swampy growth beyond.

Suddenly Renoux, who was watching him in bitter silence, saw him turn and beckon violently.

"Quick!" he said in a low, eager voice. "He may have found a ditch to shelter us!"

Renoux was correct in his surmise: Barres stood with drawn pistol, awaiting them in a muddy ditch which ran through the reeds diagonally across the marsh. It was shin-deep in water.

"We could make a pretty good stand in a ditch like this, couldn't we?" he demanded excitedly.

"You bet we can!" replied Renoux, jumping down beside him, followed by Westmore, Alost and Souchez in turn.

Barres, leading, ran down the ditch as fast as he could, spattering himself and the others with mud and water at every step.

"Here!" panted Renoux, clambering nimbly out of the ditch and peering ahead through the reeds. Then he suddenly stood upright:

"Halt!" he shouted. "It's all up with you, Skeel! Keep away from that boat, or I order my men to fire!"

There was a dead silence for a moment; then Skeel's voice:

"Better not bother us, my good man. We know our business and you'd better learn yours."

"Skeel," retorted Renoux, "my business is other people's business, sometimes. It's yours just now. I warn you to keep away from that boat!" He turned and hailed the boat in the next breath: "Boat ahoy! Keep off or we open fire!"

The metallic bang of a rifle cut him short and his straw hat was jerked from his head. Then came Skeel's voice, calmly dangerous:

"I know you, Renoux! You have no standing here. Keep away or I'll kill you!"

"What lawful standing have you--leading an armed expedition from the United States into Canada!" retorted Renoux, red with anger and looking about for his hat.

"If you don't get back I shall surely kill you!" replied Skeel. "I count three, Renoux:--one--two--three." Bang! went another rifle, and Renoux shrugged and dropped reluctantly back into the ditch.

"They're crazy," he said. "Barres, fire across that boat out yonder."

Westmore also fired, aiming carefully at Ferez. It was too far; they both knew it. But the ricochetting bullets seemed to sting the rowers to frantic exertion, and Ferez, at the rudder, ducked and squatted flat, the tip of his hat alone showing over the gunwale.

"We can't stop them," said Renoux desperately. "They're certain to reach that boat."

Now, suddenly, Skeel's six rifles cracked viciously and the bullets came screaming over the ditch.

Renoux fairly gnashed his teeth:

"If a bluff won't stop them, then I'm through," he said bitterly. "I haven't any authority. I haven't the audacity to fire on them--to so insult your Government. And yet, by God!--there's the canal to remember!"

Another volley from the Green Jackets, and again the whizzing scream of bullets through the cat-tails above their heads.

"Look!" cried Barres. "They're embarking already! There isn't a chance of holding them."

It was true. Pell-mell through the shallow water and into the boat leaped the Green Jackets, holding their rifles high in the early sunshine; Skeel sprang in last of all; the oars flashed.

Pistols hanging helplessly, Renoux and his men stood there foolishly on the edge of their ditch and watched the boat pull back to the big power-craft.

Nobody said anything. The Green Jackets climbed aboard with a derisive cheer. So near was the power-boat that Skeel, Ferez, and Soane were easily distinguishable there in the brilliant sunshine, on deck.

"Anyway," burst out Renoux, "they'll not dare lie there at anchor and wait for dark, now."

Even as he spoke the anchor came up.

Very deliberately the small boat was hoisted to the davits; the big craft began to move, swinging her nose north by west, the spray breaking under the bows. She was already under way, already headed for the open sea.

And then, without any warning whatever, out of the northeast, almost sheering the jutting point which had concealed her, rushed a Canadian patrol boat, her forward deck a geyser of spouting foam.

A red lance of flame leaped from her forward gun; the sharp crack shattered the summer stillness; the shell went skittering away over the water, across the bows of the power-boat; a string of signals broke from the cruiser's mast.

Then an amazing thing happened; the power-boat's after deck suddenly swarmed with Green Jackets; there came a flash and a report, and a shell burst over the Canadian patrol cruiser, cutting her halliards to ribbons.

"Well--by--God!" gasped Renoux. Barres and Westmore stood petrified; but the three Frenchmen, with one accord, and standing up very straight, uncovered in the presence of these men who were about to die.

Suddenly the power-boat broke out a flag at her masthead--a bright green flag bearing a golden harp.

Again the small gun flashed from her after-deck; another gun spoke with a splitting report from the starboard bow; both the shells exploded close to the patrol cruiser, showering her superstructure with steel fragments.

And, as the concussions subsided, and the landward echoes of the shots died away, far and clear from the power-boat's decks, across the water, came the defiant chorus:

"I saw the Shannon's purple tide Roll by the Irish town, As I stood in the breach by Donal's side When England's flag went down!--"

They were singing "Green Jackets," these doomed men. Barres could hear them cheering, too, for a moment only--then every gun aboard the flimsy little craft spat flame at the big Canadian, and the bursting shells splashed the water all around her with their pigmy fragments.

Now, from the cruiser, a single gun bellowed. Instantly a red glare wrapped the launch; there was a heavy report, a fountain of rushing smoke and debris.

Against the infernal flare of light Skeel's tall figure showed in silhouette, standing there with hat lifted as though cheering. Again, from the cruiser, a gun crashed. Where the burning launch had been a horrible flare shot up; and the shocking detonation rocked land and sky. On the water a vast black cloud rested, almost motionless; and all around rained charred things that had been wood and steel and clothing, perhaps--perhaps fragments of living creatures.

* * * * *

So passed into eternity Murtagh Skeel and his Green Jackets, hurled skyward in the twinkling of an eye on the roaring blast of their own magazine. What was left of their green flag attained an altitude unparalleled that sunny morning. But their souls soared higher into that blinding light which makes all things clear at last, solves all questions, all perplexities--which consoles all griefs and quiets at last the bitter mirth of those who have laughed at Death for conscience's sake.

* * * * *

Very slowly the dull cloud lifted from the sunlit water. Dead fish floated there; others, half-stunned, lay awash with fins quivering, or strove to turn over, shining silver white in the morning sun.

XXIX

ASTHORE

The sun hung low over Northbrook hills as Barres turned his touring car in between the high, white service gates of Foreland Farms, swung around the oval and backed into the garage.

Barres senior, very trim in tweeds, the web-straps of a creel and a fly-book wallet crossing his breast, glanced up from his absorbing occupation of preparing evening casts on a twelve-foot, tapered mist-leader.

"Hello," he said absently, glancing from his son to Westmore through his monocle, "where have you been keeping yourselves all day?"

"I'll tell you all about it later, dad," said Garry, emerging from the garage with Westmore. "Where is mother?"

"In the kennels, I believe.... What do you think of this cast, Jim?--a whirling dun for a dropper, a hare's ear for a----" He checked himself; glanced doubtfully at the two young men.

"You're somewhat muddy," he remarked; and continued to explore his fly-book for new combinations.

Westmore, very weary, started for the house; Garry walked across to the kennel gate, let himself in among a dozen segregated and very demonstrative English setters, walked along the tree-bordered alley behind the garage, and, shutting out the affectionate but quarantined dogs, entered the kennels.

His mother, in smock and apron, and wearing rubber gloves, was seated on the edge of a straw-littered bunk, a bottle in one hand, a medicine-dropper in the other. Her four-footed patient, swathed in blankets, lay on the straw beside her.

"Well, dear," she said, looking up at her son, "where have you been all night, and most of to-day?"

"I'll tell you about it later, mother. There's something else I want to ask you----" He fell silent, watching her measure out fourteen drops of Grover's Specific for distemper.

"I'm listening, Garry," she said, bending over the sick pup and gently forcing open his feverish jaws. Then she dropped her medicine far back on his tongue; the pup gulped, sneezed, looked at her out of dull eyes and feebly wagged his tail.

"I'm going to pull him through, Garry," she said. "The other pups are doing well, too. But your sister and I were up with them all night. I only hope and pray that the distemper doesn't spread."

She looked up at her son:

"Well, dear, what is it you have to ask me?"

"Mother, do you like Dulcie Soane?"

"I scarcely know her yet.... She's very sweet--very young----"

"Do you like her?"

"Why--yes----" She looked intently at her tall, unsmiling son. "But I don't even know who she is, Garry."

Her son bent down beside her and put one arm around her shoulder. She sat quite motionless with the bottle of Grover's Specific in one rubber-gloved hand, the medicine dropper poised in the other.

He said:

"Dulcie's name is Fane, not Soane. Her grandfather was Sir Barry Fane, of Fane Court--an Irishman. His daughter, Eileen, was Dulcie's mother.... Her father--is dead--I believe."

"But--this explains nothing, Garry."

"Is it not explanation enough, mother?"

"Is it enough for you, my son?"

"Yes."

Her head slowly drooped. She sat gazing in silence at the straw-littered floor.

He looked earnestly, anxiously at his mother's face. Her brooding expression remained tranquil but inscrutable.

He said, watching her intently:

"I wasn't sure about myself until last night. I don't know about Dulcie, whether she can care for me--in this new way.... We were friends. But I am in love with her now.... Deeply."

It was one of the moments in his career which remain fixed forever in a young man's memory.

In a mother's memory, too. Whatever she says and does then, he never forgets. She, too, remembers always.

He stood leaning over her in the dim light of the kennel, one arm around her shoulders, waiting. And presently she lifted her head, looked him quietly in the eyes, bent forward very gently, and kissed him.

* * * * *

Dulcie was not in the house, nor was Thessalie.

Barres and Westmore exchanged conversation between their open doors while bathing and dressing.

"You know, Garry," admitted the latter, "I feel all shaken up, yet, over that ghastly business."

"So do I.... If they hadn't died so gamely.... But Skeel was a _man_!"

"You bet he was, crazy or sane!... What a pity!... And that poor devil, Soane! Did you hear them cheering there, at the last? And what superb nerve--breaking out that green flag!"

"And think of their opening on that big patrol boat! They hadn't a chance."

"They had no chance anyway," said Westmore. "It meant execution if they surrendered--at least, they probably thought so. But how do you suppose that cowardly strangler, Ferez, felt when he realised that Skeel was going to fight?"

"He certainly got what was coming to him, didn't he?" said Barres grimly. "You'll tell Thessa, won't you?"

"As soon as I can find her," nodded Westmore, giving his fresh bow-tie a most killing twist.

He was ready before Barres was, and he lost no time in starting out to find Thessalie.

Barres, following him later, discovered him on the library lounge with Thessalie's fair cheek resting against his.

"I'm s-sorry!" he stammered, backing out, and very conscious of Westmore's unconcealed annoyance. But Thessalie called to him in a perfectly calm voice, and he ventured to come back.

"Are you going to tell Dulcie about this horrible affair?" she asked.

"Not immediately.... Are you feeling all right, Thessa?"

"Yes. I had a horrid night. Isn't it odd how a girl can so completely lose her nerve after a thing is all over?"

"That's the best time to lose it," said Westmore. And to Barres: "She's bruised from head to foot and her neck hurts yet----"

"It is nothing," murmured Thessalie, looking smilingly at her lover. Then they both glanced at Barres.

There was a silence. Side by side on the library lounge they continued to gaze expectantly at Barres. And when he got it into his head that this polite expectancy might express their desire for his early departure, he backed out again, embarrassed and slightly irritated.

Thessalie called to him very sweetly:

"If you are looking for Dulcie, I left her a few minutes ago over by the wall-fountain in the rose arbour."

"Thanks," he said, and turned back through the hall, traversing it to the north veranda.

There was no sign of Dulcie in the garden or on the lawn. He walked slowly across the clipped grass, beyond the pool, and, turning to the right past a sun-dial, stepped into the long rose-arbour. At the further end of the blossoming tunnel he saw her seated on the low wall in the rear of the tea-house. Her head was turned toward the woods beyond.

When he was near her she heard him and looked around, was on the point of rising, but something in his expression held her motionless.

"Where have you been, Garry?"

He ignored the question, seated himself beside her on the wall, and drew both her hands into his. He saw the swift colour stain her face, the lovely, disconcerted eyes lower.

"Last night," he said, "did you come back as you promised?"

"Yes."

"And you found me gone."

She nodded.

"What could you have thought of me, Dulcie?"

"I--my thoughts were--not very clear."

"Are they clearer?"

Her head remained lowered but she raised her grey eyes to his. Her face had become very still and white.

"Dulcie," he said under his breath, "I am in love with you.... What will you do about it?"

And, after a little while:

"W-what shall I do, Garry?" she whispered.

"Love me. Can you?"

She remained silent.

"Will you?--Dulcie Fane!"

Her lips stirred, but no sound came.

"You are so wonderful," he said. "I am just realising that I began to fall in love with you a long time ago."

The declining sun sent a red shaft across the fields, painting every tree-trunk, gilding bramble and brake. A single ray touched the girl's white neck and turned her copper-tinted hair to burning gold.

"Do you love me? Can you love me, that way, Dulcie?"

She rose abruptly, and he rose too, retaining her hands; but as she turned her head from him he saw her mouth quiver.

"Dearest--dearest!" But she interrupted him:

"I want to tell you--that I don't understand why I should be called by my mother's maiden name.... I w-want you to know that I _don't_ understand it ... if that would make a difference--in your c-caring for me.... And I wish you to know that--that I love and worship her memory--and that I am happy and proud--and _proud_--to bear her name."

"My darling----"

"Do you understand?"

"Yes, Dulcie."

"And do you still want me?"

"You adorable child----"

"_Do_ you?"

"Of course I do----" He caught her in his arms, held her close, lifted her flushed face. "Now, tell me whether you can love _me_! Tell me everything that's hidden in your mind and heart!"

"Oh, Garry," she faltered, "I do belong to you. I belong to you anyway, because you made me. And I've always been in love with you--always!--always from the very beginning of the world, _Asthore_! And now--if you want me--this way--Garry _mo veel asthore_----" Her hands crept from his breast to his shoulders; stole up around his neck. "Asthore," she murmured; and their lips met in their first kiss. Then she gravely turned her head and laid her cheek against his; and he heard her murmuring to herself:

"_Drahareen o machree, mo veel asthore!_ This man--this man who takes my heart--and gives me his...."