No Defense, Complete - Gilbert Parker
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!"
CHAPTER V
THE KILLING OF ERRIS BOYNE
"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?"