Chapter III: Part 3

So what should he do now? The mist, reinforced by a light rain, had become so dense below him that the remaining descent of the cliff, in these conditions, would be almost foolhardy until some sunlight worked its way through. In any event, what with this delay, it seemed improbable that he could make his way to the Old House before sunset. And, judging from the silent hunters far below, to knock at the gate of the Old House after sunset might be highly imprudent. Logan did not relish the thought of being taken for the big man with the pistol, supposing that person still to be in the land of the living. Besides, the quarry might be doubling back across the valley by this time, and for Logan to descend unknown into that scene from the Inferno, with bullets flying, wasn’t the best policy for a rising man of law. Everything considered, he had better creep back along the dim path to Dalcruach, and there spend another night in the black house, even though this must mean he had taken a full week to reach Lady MacAskival. He could make a safer start early in the morning; perhaps Lady MacAskival’s demoniac gillies did not hunt before breakfast. And there was a queasy feeling at the pit of his stomach. It was thoroughly improbable that any man would try to make his way over the cliff to Dalcruach this evening, what with fog, wind, and the clammy emptiness of the dead clachan in the cul-de-sac.

So Logan, still marvelling, shuffled carefully back toward Dalcruach, where he could enjoy the peat fire, and eat his remaining sandwiches, and write some memoir of this past week to post to Duncan MacAskival when the business was accomplished. He had found a kerosene lamp on one of the shelves, with fuel still in it. He might even read a bit in old Balmullo, for the sake of settling his nerves. Though the hasp was torn loose, the heavy door could be barred from within by a balk of sea-worn timber that fitted into holes on either side of the door-frame; and Logan did bar it. Now no one could get at him suddenly except through the thatch of the roof. And if folk outside did not know Logan to be unarmed, they would think twice about bursting blindly through the roof. Lighting the lamp, Logan took some sheets of paper--somewhat blurred and dampened by water--from a pad in his pack, settled himself at the table, and began to write with his ball-point pen.

He would save the sandwiches until he had finished writing. He was hungry, though; and despite the moist air, his throat felt dry. Logan put down his pen, threw his oilskin over his shoulders, and went out to the spring that bubbled only ten yards from the door. Coming back with a full pail, he drank deep and put the rest of the water--tasting faintly of peat--by the shelves. He drew up the chair and resumed his writing.

Then a deep voice spoke behind him. “Will you be a writer, or a philosophist?” the voice said.

Upsetting his chair, Logan sprang nimbly round to face the voice. He saw a very big man in a drenched ragged overcoat; and in the man’s massive fist was a little old pistol, held steadily. The big man was bareheaded and bald-headed: a sloping dome of a head, with strong flattish features, battered and seared, and a broad, full-lipped mouth. Blood was caked all down one cheek of that hard face, and seemed still to be oozing from a gash high on the bald skull, where a little flap of skin fell away from the bone.

Logan’s visitor stood gigantic in the shadows, close by the boxed bed; probably he had hidden there. “Don’t move your hands,” the deep voice said. “I’m Seamus Donley: so don’t move your hands. I said to you, ‘Will you be a writer, or a philosophist?’ Or, now, will you be a police-detective?”

Immobile, Logan thought he detected some humor in that wide mouth. “Good evening, Mr. Donley,” Logan said. “Put away that toy, and eat a sandwich with me.”

“Turn round, Mr. Police-Detective,” Donley told him, “and hold your hands high.” There was nothing else Logan could do; besides, if the man had meant to shoot him in the back, he could have done that already. Donley’s rough hands ran over and into Logan’s pockets. “Now where might your gun be, Mr. Police-Detective? Your friend Seamus has looked in your rucksack and in the bed already.” This was a wild Irishman: the brogue was pronounced, and possibly a little exaggerated, as if Donley strove for effect.

“I have no gun, Mr. Donley.”

“Swing round again and let me look at you,” Donley grunted. He had stepped back a pace, by way of precaution, but in the lamp-light Logan saw clearly enough the reckless, not ill-natured face of a man in late middle age; and below that face an immense barrel-chest and powerful arms. The gun man must stand nearly six feet six. “Faith,” Donley went on, “I come near to believing you. You’ve the look of innocence. But whatever were they thinking of to send an acolyte of a police-detective after Jackman’s fellows? Now listen to me, Mr. Police-Detective: if you’ve a gun about you, fetch it out, for you need it as much as yours truly, Seamus Donley. Would the lads in the Republican Army ever have believed that old Seamus should be asking a police-detective to help him? Sure, it’s your life, man, as much as mine. We can’t tell but Jackman’s chaps might be at the door this living minute.”

“I don’t understand you, Mr. Donley, and I didn’t bring a gun.”

Donley scowled. “Saints in heaven! Now’s no time for playing little games, Mr. Police-Detective. This is not London. Those fellows would put you over the cliff as quick as myself. That’s what they did with Lagg; but you can’t know that. You know me: any police-detective knows Seamus Donley, that lay in Derry gaol four hard years, breaking out last Christmas. Do you think it’s myself would be telling you my own name, and showing you my own face, if we’d no need for standing back to back? A fine young police-detective you are! Here, now: I’ll send Meg to bed.” He thrust the gun back inside his coat. “There, I’m trusting you, Mr. Police-Detective, and you must be after trusting me. We’ll put out the light, for ’tis a standing invite to Jackman and his bully boys.” Donley blew out the wick. “And we’ll trample the turfs.” Donley crushed under his boots most of the peats, and tossed ashes over the rest of the fire, leaving only a faint glow. “These three days gone, Mr. Police-Detective, Jackman’s gang have let me be after dark, but they might change; and there’s others might come.”

Logan groped about the table in the dark. “I’m afraid I can’t offer you much refreshment, Seamus Donley, but there are two sandwiches left, and most of a bottle of whiskey. Why do you take me for a detective?”

“I’d have eaten and drunk your victuals before now, Mr. Police-Detective, but you gave me no time. I’d but a moment to slip through your door and into your bed while you were at the well. A fine young police-detective you are! But Donley’s not the man to let his host go hungry.” He handed back half a sandwich to Logan, wolfing the others. “And the poteen: that’s the medicine for myself when I’ve been three days and nights in caves and bogs. One morning I caught a rabbit and ate it raw, and another time I cut a sheep’s throat and had a supper of the bloody ribs; but for the rest, it was birds’ eggs got on the cliffs and sucked on the run, and a few shellfish I pulled from the rocks on this very beach.”

Logan--his eyes had adjusted fairly well to the dark now--brought two tumblers from the shelves and filled them with whiskey. “Your health, Mr. Seamus Donley.”

The Irishman chuckled. “There’s this to be said, young fellow my lad: you’re a cool police-detective. And how do I know you’re a police-detective? Why, what else might you be? It’s not an Englishman that you are, though--there’s that for you. I’m thinking you’ll be an Edinburgh man.”

He might get more information out of Donley, Logan reflected, if he did not try to dispel this illusion. “More whiskey, Mr. Donley? Of course. And what is it I can do for you?”

Donley drained at a gulp his second tumbler of whiskey. He had taken a chair opposite Logan, and sat relaxed, though watchful: a hardened customer. “Why, just this, Mr. Police-Detective: first we’ll take those oars of yours out of this hovel, and then we’ll launch that boat of yours between the two of us, with myself inside, and then it’s Seamus for Scotland and Mr. Police-Detective back to his but-and-ben in Carnglass--back to Hell, that is.”

Upon the thatch the rain fell heavily now, and the wind has risen. “You have turned daft, Seamus Donley,” Logan said. “Listen to that wind. You’d never get over the skerries in that little old boat this night, let alone row to the mainland. Daldour would be the best you might hope for.”

“Daldour?” Donley snorted. “And land among the heathens? Why not the Cannibal Isles? Besides, there I would rot in Daldour till you, Mr. Police-Detective, might choose to come for me in the police-launch. No, it’s not Derry gaol for Seamus. It’s a Kerry man I am, and as good a boatman as any in these islands--born by Bantry Bay. No, I’ll be hid in Glasgow or Birmingham or Liverpool before you report to the Chief Constable, my boy--supposing that ever you get clear from Carnglass, which I do very much misdoubt.”

“If you must be fool enough to go boating this night, Mr. Donley, then wait an hour on the chance of the wind falling. The boat’s light enough for you and me to get her afloat, even so: the tide must be up beyond her now. The risk of this wind is greater than the risk of low water on the skerries.”

Bending forward, Donley gave Logan a light approving tap on the shoulder. “For a police-detective, you’re a decent sort. What would your name be?”

Logan told him.

“See here, Mr. Detective Logan: I’ll wait that hour, but no more. Never would I have guessed a police-detective would have a regard for Seamus Donley’s skin. And see here: you’d best come with me. If you’ll give myself your word of honor bright--you’re no Englishman, that I’ll say--to grant myself twelve hours pursuit-free once we set foot ashore, then it’s Seamus who’ll set you in Scotland safe, Mr. Scots Detective, and shake your hand at parting.”

“No, thank you, Seamus Donley,” Logan answered, “but I’ve business in Carnglass. Lady MacAskival will see that I get to Oban or Glasgow, when the business is done.”

“Lady MacAskival! Do you think they’d let you see her, or that the Old One gives orders today? And even were they all saints in Carnglass, they’ve no boat to put at the service of one Mr. Logan, Police-Detective, with a face like the cherubim. Was it not my fire that fetched you here?”

“What fire?”

A note of pique came into Donley’s voice. “Then you will have known of Jackman’s doings earlier, and I’ve had half my labor in vain. I might have told Jackman that what with his crew, the police were sure to find him out. ’Tis this: I burnt the yacht and wrecked the launch three nights gone. That was for spiting and hindering Jackman. And I had hopes of folk spying the fire and sending word to shore.”

“Then they’ve had no communication with the mainland for three days?” This, Logan thought, could explain the confusion of Dowie and Gare.

“Three days? What with the storm, Jackman’s sent no messages, nor got any, all this week. The wireless is a wreck. Jackman will be raging like an imp from the Pit, that oily limb of Satan. Oh, he’ll be cursing the day he crossed Seamus Donley.”

He might worm the whole story gradually out of Donley, Logan hoped: it was clear enough that Donley assumed he already knew a good deal of it. “Tell me this, Mr. Donley, while we’re waiting here: what state are matters in at the Old House?”

“Do you take me for an informer?” The heavy voice, there in the smoky darkness, took on an ominous tone. It never would do to forget that Donley must be a thoroughly dangerous man.

“I take you for a man who’s been tricked, Mr. Seamus Donley, and who needs what aid he can find. While we’re on that topic, I’ll do what I can for that bloody spot on your head. Did a bullet come close to finishing you?” A little light shone from the peats, and by it Logan set to washing the wound and bandaging it with two clean handkerchiefs from his knapsack. Donley, gritting his teeth, seemed to trust Logan sufficiently to let him do the job, though he kept one hand upon the pistol within his coat. Logan put back the flap of skin upon the skull and improvised a kind of scarf-bandage that probably would not endure long; he washed the caked blood from Donley’s lined face.

“No, that was a damned fall this afternoon, when Ferd was shooting at me, Mr. Detective Logan. In all my years with the I.R.A., I never came so close to my end. But I’ll even scores, trust Seamus for that.”

The man had not winced much during the bandaging. “Keep your hand in, my boy, and in no time you’ll be as fine a doctor as any at Dublin, or as Jackman himself. Jackman will be no true physician, but I’ll not need to be telling you that, Mr. Police-Detective. ’Tis a doctor of philosophy he’ll be, University of Leningrad, or Moscow. Yet I’m not the man to be stinting anyone of his praise: Jackman’s clever with splints and medicines, and all else under the sun. A clever child, Edmund Jackman. Jackman it was that drew me out of Derry gaol, he having use for me. Jackman it was, sure, but not for Seamus’ sake. For doing the Devil’s work, there’ll be none better than Jackman.”

“And what,” Logan continued as he adjusted the clumsy bandage, “is life like at the Old House?”

“Well, now, Mr. Detective Logan, do you mind that bit in Dante’s Inferno where old Dante and Vergil observe the stewing of the frauds in the chasms? That’ll be your reception at the Old House, and if you’ve a brain in your skull, Mr. Logan, you’ll be jumping into the little boat with Seamus and making for your headquarters. You’ll require a dozen constables with rifles, or more, to take Jackman’s gang.”

Despite his brogue--which, Logan suspected, was in part the affectation of a virulent Irish nationalist, or of whimsy--Donley had not spoken like an unschooled man; and this literary allusion confirmed Logan’s surmise. “I think you’re what you Irish call a ‘spiled praist,’ Seamus Donley.”

“Sure, never a praist,” Donley answered, grinning, “not myself. Yet I had some inclination after being a monk, and a lay-brother I was for nine praying months, in Sligo, till the love of the drink and the love of the girls undid me. Jackman was after calling me ‘Father Seamus’: he’s eyes in his head, more eyes by one than most men. His boy Ferd was for giving me a third eye for myself.” Here the gunman gingerly touched his bandaged forehead. “Ferd will be the deadliest of Jackman’s imps, as you’ll find to your sorrow; do you watch sharp for him. ’Tis the Maltese Cat I call him. Swift with a gun, and swift with a knife. And Jackman sent him to the Old One for a cook at the Old House! Ferd has virtue as a cook, no denying: the father of him keeps a little eating-house in Soho. But Ferd’s better at murthering than cooking.”

“How many others are in the Old House?”

Again Donley filled his tumbler of whiskey. “Jackman himself, and that walking cadaver Royall, that he calls his secretary--the only other political man in the lot. Then there will be five manservants, or a set of cutthroats that Jackman pawned off on the Old One for servants: butler, footman, gardener, gardener’s boy (a broth of a boy!) and a fellow that passes for stableman or cowman. I was the keeper or gillie. Then there are three men for the yacht and the launch, all Jackman’s pick: I singed the whiskers of one of them, Harry Till, a Liverpool longshoreman, and he may be at death’s door, praise be to the saints. Because Jackman told them so, the Old One and the Young One turned off all the old servants, even the laborers at the farm; Lagg sent his wife back to Galloway, and at the end, he was living in a room or two by himself at the New House. Except for the Old One and the Young One, there’s but one woman in Carnglass, and that’s a poor shawlie, old Agnes with the arthritis, fit for no better than scrubbing floors and carrying trays to the Old One. So the odds will be ten or eleven to one against Mr. Police-Detective, as they’ve been against myself these three days past. Come away, Mr. Detective Logan: yourself would last two days less than Seamus has.”

“Do you mean that Lagg is dead?”

Donley shifted uneasily. “Mind this, Mr. Logan: ’tis no doing of mine. What could be done to help Lagg, the old toad, I did. Nor did I see him die. They took him beyond the Chapel, to the highest of the cliffs, and they did not bring him back. ’Twas Seamus was meant to do the job, but I was one too many for even Dr. Edmund Jackman. Should ever there be a trial, and should yourself and myself come alive out of this, Mr. Logan, you’ll bear that in memory.”

“If I’m to bear witness for you, Seamus, perhaps you’ll tell me the details of your part in the business.”

Donley sighed. “Never did I think myself would turn informer, but that comes of the keeping of ill company. Not that Jackman and Royall will be common criminals: they’re uncommon enough. The rest will not be politicals, only hard cases that Jackman has some clutch upon. As for myself, Mr. Detective Logan, I never took a penny that was not mine, unless on Army orders.”

Getting up abruptly, Donley went to the door and put his ear against it. “The wind is high still,” he said, “and sure they never will come to us in such dark as this--not Jackman’s town crew. But ’tis my nerves that are on edge, Mr. Logan: three days with next to nothing in my belly, mind, so that there have been times when I thought more people than Jackman’s were walking in Carnglass. A damned island. Well, then, my autobiography, or a bit of it, Mr. Police-Detective. Much good may the telling of it do you, or myself.” Thrusting his chair toward the smouldering fire, Donley warmed his boots. What little light there was played upon his scarred face. And Hugh Logan listened.

5

“Belfast it was where I met with Davie Anderson,” Donley began, “a Glasgow razor-slasher of blasphemous conversation. Taking up with him was folly, Mr. Logan, but I’d small choice. The Republican Army--mollycoddles they are these days, to a man--would do nothing for me but hide me a week or two, and that with ill grace.

“‘You’re impulsive, Donley,’ said they to me. I do believe they wished me back in Derry gaol. And who was it that blew the bridge ten years past? And who was it that was at the lighting of the fires in Belfast, to show the Luftwaffe where to drop their bombs? Why, Seamus Donley, none other. The Germans were nothing to myself, nor Jackman and his politics, neither; but it was enough for me that the English would catch it.

“No, the I.R.A. never sent the files that took me out of Derry gaol, nor the money, nor the motorcar, though at the time I took it for their work. Jackman it was: Jackman knew Seamus Donley for a man to handle the explosives.” He poured more whiskey.

“When Davie Anderson came to me, I said I would do Jackman’s work for Jackman’s pay. A month ago it was that they brought me to Carnglass, and made me gamekeeper, and showed me the explosives, and told me the work I was to do, when the time came. Davie Anderson! Davie Anderson! Once let me come in reach of you, Davie Anderson, and you’ll seduce no more honest rebels.”

“Does Davie Anderson have a brother Jock, in the Gallowgate of Glasgow?” Logan put in.

“That has he, Mr. Detective Logan. I perceive you’re not so innocent as you seem, not by half. A bad case, either Davie or Jock, like all Jackman’s lot. Nine-tenths criminals, and but one-tenth politicals. And that political tenth not my patriotic politics. ’Tis a rough life I’ve led, Mr. Logan, and I’m no man for small scruples. But needless murthering, unpolitical murthering, never suited my fancy. And in the murthering of women I will have no part, not even the murthering of old witches. And Jackman’s plan it was, or I’m a Black and Tan, to lay the slaughter to Seamus Donley’s account.”

“What good would killing women be to Jackman?” Logan asked.

“There’s no need for you to play the cherub with me, Mr. Police-Detective. ’Twas the money, of course: all that money. ’Tis not for his own self’s sake Jackman seeks the money, but to ingratiate himself again with his party. Sure, and didn’t they cast him out for a premature deviationist, and for the wild things he’d done? But the money, and the spying about the islands, and the explosives under the new installations--faith, if that thing might be done, the party would take him back, soon enough. A risky work it is, but if Jackman does it well, all’s kisses. And the party is all Jackman’s life, he being a political through and through: that I’ll say for him. Jackman and his boys never told me, for never did they trust me, nor I them. But I’ve eyes in my head, Mr. Detective Logan, and a brain for right reasoning. When the time came, the women must die. And if ever it came to the prisoner in the box, who would they have for scapegoat? Why, old Seamus Donley, that’s a fugitive from English justice.”

“And did Lagg know of this?”

“Tam Lagg took Jackman’s money two years and more. Yet the murthering never came into Lagg’s thick wits, I do believe, until a month ago. To help Jackman to bully the Old One into making him her heir was one thing; to plot murther was another. And treason, too. Lagg’s was no stomach for such tactics. But where could Tam Lagg turn? He could not get ashore, nor even post a letter, without Jackman’s leave. When Lagg saw what I had seen, and thought the thoughts I had thought--concerning the plot for murther, I mean--he took fright. Jackman sees through a man as if flesh were glass, and Jackman will have known this month past that Lagg could be trusted no more.

“Then Jackman was the cat, and Lagg the mouse. And Jackman and his boys watched Lagg by day and by night. When they caught Lagg lighting the fire behind the hill, they made an end of him.”

“What sort of fire, Donley?”

“Why, the fire that might have been seen by folk in Daldour, to bring them over from curiosity; but it never came to a blaze. That afternoon I sat by my cottage at the New House, mending rabbit-snares--for they had lodged me in the keeper’s cottage, as if they feared to have me much about the Old House, near the gelignite--when Jackman came striding up, and with him Royall and Davie Anderson and Rab, that holy terror of a boy. Three days ago it was, but for old Seamus it seems like three years, what with the hiding and the running and the starving since.

“‘Donley,’ Jackman says to me, in his quiet wicked way, ‘come along. We’re hunting today.’

“‘Then I’ll be wanting my shotgun, Dr. Jackman,’ I say to him. But he shakes his misbegotten head.

“‘No, Donley, you old ruffian,’ says he, ‘we’ve guns enough for this hunting of ours.’ And I see that Rab and Davie have rifles slung over their shoulders. Jackman himself carries no weapon ever, they say; and sure I’ve not seen him with any. ’Tis terror that he carries.

“So up I get, as you see me now, bareheaded and in my coat, and tramp round with Jackman and his boys to the shoulder of the hill they call Mucaird, and over the shoulder till we come close up to the broken farmhouse there. And from within the house, smoke is beginning to rise.

“‘Hush, gentlemen,’ whispers Jackman. ‘We must not disturb the factor at his little games.’ In through the empty doorway we creep; and there crouches that fat toad Lagg, his back to us, feeding a fire in a corner, pouring petrol on a heap of trash, so as to set the whole ruin ablaze. A noble beacon it would have made.

“Jackman grins his devil-grin. ‘Good day, Mr. Lagg,’ says he. ‘You’re a warm friend, Mr. Lagg.’

“Tam Lagg squeals like a pig when you come with the butchering-knife, and jumps round: a gross ugly man in corduroys, his face red and puffy always, but now white as a cadaver’s. ‘Dr. Jackman!’ he squeals. ‘Dr. Jackman!’ And he can say no more, for there is no more to be said.

“‘Yes, your old patron, Dr. Jackman,’ that Beelzebub tells him. ‘I assume that you’re weary of our company, Mr. Lagg.’ Davie and Rab tramp out the fire in the damp roofless room, while Lagg crouches by the wall like a trapped hare.

“‘Even the fondest of friends must part, Mr. Lagg,’ says Jackman, cheery as a cat with a rotten mackerel, ‘and you’re come to the end of your tether, my good and faithful servant.’ Then Davie and Rab take Lagg by the arms and fling him upon the rubbish, and Davie unslings his rifle.

“‘For God’s sake, Dr. Jackman,’ says Lagg, puffing and weeping, ‘I’ve an auld wifie in Galloway, by Gatehouse of Fleet, and four bairns. And this is a civilized land.’

“‘Why, Donley’s compatriots have a phrase that fits your situation, Mr. Lagg,’ smiles Jackman. ‘“What’s all the world to a man,” the Irish say, “when his wife’s a widdy?” You’ll never be missed, Lagg. You’ll have been lost at sea, merrily fishing. These are wild waters round Carnglass. And as for civilized lands--why, “had ye been where I ha’ been, and seen wha’ I ha’ seen”--eh, Thomas Lagg? This is the end of an old refrain for you. I never took to your red face. And even if I wished to spare you, still there would be the problem of morale among my associates here, wouldn’t there? There’s nothing like an execution or two to encourage the others. And Lady MacAskival will be so obliging as to write to the police concerning your sad disappearance at sea.’ He’s in love with dying--other men’s dying--is Jackman.

“It came to me then, Mr. Logan, that when my usefulness to Jackman was done, Jackman and his boys would crowd old Seamus into some such corner. There’s no honor among the lot of them. Lagg and Seamus were outsiders. And that man Lagg did cry so, lying there in the smouldering rubbish. David pokes him with the muzzle of his rifle, and Jackman gloats, like a sloat down a rabbit’s burrow. I was standing behind the crowd of them. ‘Though the creature’s a Presbyterian,’ I say to Jackman, ‘at the least you’ll grant him a moment for his prayers.’ And that said, I whisk out Meg here.” Donley patted the revolver inside his coat. “Jackman’s lot never had known I kept Meg under my arm.

“They all turn to face me, Davie with the rifle half raised. ‘Davie Anderson,’ say I, ‘drop it!’ And Davie lets the gun fall, for he knows the reputation of Seamus Donley. Rab’s rifle is slung over his shoulder; Royall’s pistol is in his pocket. Yet it is four to one. Jackman’s devil-grin never changes.

“‘Why, Father Seamus,’ he says, genteel as Brian Boru, ‘I presume you aspire to the role of confessor.’

“‘No, I’m no priest, Jackman,’ say I. ‘Yet you’ll have the grace to grant Lagg a moment for repentance, or ’tis myself will have another Englishman’s life on my conscience.’

“‘I’ll humor your piety, Father Seamus,’ Jackman says, though his black eyes are like hell-coals. ‘Mr. Lagg, to your devotions.’

“Lagg grovels in the dirt, moaning; and if he prays, the words run all together; and as for myself, I am too bent on watching Jackman and the rest to listen to him. A long minute it was, Mr. Logan.

“Jackman looks at his wrist-watch. ‘_Pax vobiscum_,’ says he, ever so sneering. ‘And now, Father Seamus, seeing that you have your little gun conveniently in your Fenian paw, perhaps you will be so kind as to administer the _coup de grace_ to our old comrade here.’ The eyes of those four murtherers are turned on myself like dogs round a badger.

“‘Jackman,’ I tell him, ‘may I screech in Hell if I lift a finger in this bloody business.’

“‘Perhaps, in any event, Mr. Lagg would prefer a cold plunge,’ Jackman says, smoothly. Lagg does no more than look at me, gasping and choking, as if I were the king of glory. But the odds are four to one, Mr. Logan, and Seamus has himself to think of, and Lagg was a tricky old toad.

“‘Being but one man, Jackman,’ say I, ‘I cannot hinder you. Yet you’ll not harm the rascal in my sight.’

“‘As you wish, Reverend Father.’ And Jackman nods to Rab and Davie. They take Lagg by the arms, he screaming out my name the while, and drag him through the doorway; and Royall picks up Davie’s rifle, though careful not to lift it high nor point it toward old Seamus. ‘Donley,’ Jackman murmurs, as he follows them out the door, ‘go back to your cottage. You and I must have a serious conversation later.’

“And they lead Lagg along the hill toward St. Merin’s Chapel and the cliffs, he weak as water, while I watch them from an empty window, being cautious not to show much of myself, lest Rab or Davie be inclined toward a lucky shot. And soon the bracken swallows them. Seamus has given Tam Lagg his minute of grace, and now Lagg must give Seamus Donley his hour for action.

“Jackman is cunning, think I to myself; but this once he’s reckoned without his man. There were two things that I might try: first, to get clean away from Carnglass, which would leave Jackman with no good hand for the explosives, and no scapegoat; or second, to send up a signal like the signal Lagg meant to make of that farmhouse, to call heed to strange doings in Carnglass. Now being a runaway gaolbird, I preferred the first method, Mr. Logan; and besides, ’tis the surer method; and it might save the women, since what with Seamus gone to the mainland and talking with whom he might, sure Jackman would think twice before doing more murther.

“So soon, then, as Jackman and the rest were out of sight, I ran down the track toward the New House and Askival harbor--and the boats. Two craft there were in the harbor, both Lady MacAskival’s, though she’d scant need of them for her own self: a sixty-foot sailing yacht, old but with an auxiliary engine, and a fast motor-launch, half decked. Could I but get aboard either, and take it out of harbor--the motor-launch would be the better--I might make land somewhere and be out of sight before either Jackman or you darling police might say Daniel O’Connell.

“But somewhere there would be seven more of Jackman’s boys: Sam Tompkins, a Cockney, with the grand title of butler--though he’s little better than a pickpocket, and not to be dreaded; Ferd, the Cat o’ Malta; a tinker-like fellow called Niven, that they’d made gardener; a Lancashire rough, Simmons, the stableman. Then the three boatmen, all out of Liverpool: Jim Powert, Harry Till, and Bill Carruthers. If the gang should be at the Old House, all of them, well and good: I never would try for the Old House, that being a strong place with but one gate. And if there should be but a man or two at the harbor, my little Meg and myself, between the two of us, might do their business. Now I’d a shotgun at my cottage, and like enough Lagg had a gun or two in the New House, unless Jackman had taken precautions. A shotgun or a rifle in the hands of such a one as myself is worth half a dozen men, Mr. Detective Logan, as I fancy you’ve heard tell. So it was to my cottage that I ran first, not looking back toward St. Merin’s Chapel, nor liking to think what might be done there on the cliffs.

“All the way, I met no man. And my cottage was empty; but the shotgun was gone. ‘Oho,’ say I to myself, ‘then Jackman will have a suspicion of old Seamus, and will have left orders to keep a weather eye on him.’ I stuffed my coat pockets with biscuits from a tin, for there was no saying when I might dine again; and then, very quiet, I had a look about the New House, which has a little fir-plantation between it and the gamekeeper’s cottage.

“As bad cess would have it, three men--Ferd, and Niven, and Simmons--came out of the back gate of the New House when I looked that way from the firs. They not spying me, I knelt there silent, and they walked on toward the Old House, having locked the door behind them. Simmons was carrying my own shotgun. These are dull dogs, Mr. Logan, with no talent for hide-and-seek--though Ferd is sharp enough, but being a Soho spiv, he’s out of his element in Carnglass. Once they were gone, I trotted on to the harbor, just beyond the New House; they would have taken the guns from the New House, for Ferd and Niven, too, had been carrying weapons. Now it must be the boats for Seamus Donley, with no help but little Meg. The night was coming down, praise be, and I might creep along the quay safe enough, keeping behind a little low breakwater that has a walk between it and the outer edge of the quay.

“On the yacht a light was burning, and she lay hard up against the stone quay, with the launch moored just beyond her. Two men were on deck, worse luck, and there might be a third below; I thought I heard his voice. And one of the men--Powert, I thought--had a rifle across his knees as he sat there. ‘Seamus,’ say I in my head, ‘this must be neatly done, if ’tis to be done at all.’ So back along the quay to the harbor-head I make my way, like a mouse, and to the shed by the quayside. They had forgot to lock the door.

“Now if I might keep the men aboard the yacht with their hands full of work, I might hope to take the launch; or, failing that, I might burn both boats, making a beacon to be seen in Daldour or out to sea, and vexing Jackman’s damned soul. In the shed, along with ropes and paints and such, I found what I had hoped for, a tin of petrol and a brace of empty bottles. And there were some oily bits of waste and rags on the floor. You’ll have made a Molotov cocktail, Mr. Detective Logan? Now that would have been a fine present for Dr. Jackman, considering his political tastes; but I hadn’t the proper ingredients. And the real explosives were tucked away at the Old House, beyond my reach. So the bottles filled with petrol, and the waste and rags stuffed into the mouths, would have to serve me. The matches I already had in my pocket.

“With the bottles in my coat, back I go along the quay, keeping out of sight. But close to the yacht, my foot strikes a stone, that tumbles into the harbor with a splash. Powert and Carruthers, sitting on deck, seem to be nervous as pregnant cats, for Powert springs up with his rifle and calls out, ‘Who’s there?’ And he catches a glimpse of my bald head above the dyke. ‘Donley,’ he sings, ‘if that’s you, show yourself.’

“What with Powert’s rifle in his hands, it was a risky stratagem. Yet I bob up from behind the dyke and lob the first burning bottle right for the open hatch, Powert firing at me on the moment. Powert misses, but the bottle sails true. Right down the companionway it falls, and in a second flames come bursting up. And up comes another thing: Till, who has been below decks. I see him as I toss the second bottle. His hair and shirt are all afire, and him screaming like a mad thing.

“The second bottle goes down the hatch, too, and more flames shoot up; and then Carruthers takes panic and dives over the side into the harbor, for I have lugged out Meg and sent a shot across the deck. Powert runs aft for a fire-extinguisher, while Till rolls screaming by the deck-house; but I try another shot at Powert, and he follows Carruthers over the side, rifle and all, though I do not think I hit him. If those three had kept their heads about them, they could have put out the flames, but now it is too late. And now Seamus will have his try at the launch; for below decks in the yacht, the fire from the spattered petrol is gaining fine. Powert and Carruthers will have struck out for the far side of the harbor, not liking the bark of little old Meg in my paw.

“It was down the slimy old quayside steps and into the launch I went then. Ferd and the rest from the Old House would be upon me in a matter of minutes, seeing the fire from the yacht; and then, too, the yacht might explode, if there were fuel in her tanks, though she did not burn so hard and fast as I might have liked. The mist being heavy that night, it was odds against the fire being seen from land, unless from Daldour, for Askival harbor lies snug among the cliffs; and the weather was too much for any chance aircraft.

“I tried the engine of the launch, but she was as dead as Lagg must be. It may be they had taken the plug, or tampered with the wires, Jackman being a man of forethought. Be it whatever, Mr. Logan, I could do nothing with her. If there had been even oars, I would have put to sea with no motor; but the launch was too big for rowing. One thing I did find in the bows, for all that: a spanner. ‘Well, Seamus,’ I think, ‘if you’re not to have her, no more shall they.’ And with that spanner I did abuse the engine so that no man might mend it, paying no heed to the noise I made.

“On the yacht’s deck, Till had made an end of his moaning, and I could not see him; like enough he had fallen overboard, which he should have done the moment my bottle set him afire. But I could hear feet running and voices near the harbor-head.

“With the tide ebbing, it came to my mind that if I were to cast off, the current might carry the launch toward the harbor-mouth, perhaps close enough to the other side of the harbor that I might leap ashore dry. So I cut the painter with my clasp-knife, and no sooner than was needful. The tide began to take the launch the few rods between me and the harbor-mouth. But now four or five men were on the quay I had left, and two rifles were firing. They hit the launch sure enough, and put holes in her, like enough--but not in Seamus Donley. The blessed dark that preserved me! In no time at all the launch had drifted right up against the further quay, on her way to the harbor-mouth, and I had hold of an iron ladder that’s fixed in the stones, and up I went.

“As for the launch, she will have drifted out with the tide, and sunk, what with the holes in her, for when I looked down toward the harbor from the cliffs the next morning, there was no trace of her. You can trust Seamus for a job of sabotage.

“But there was no time for self-congratulations, Mr. Logan. They would have seen me get ashore again, even in the fog, and would be at my heels. The best route for myself was the low ground between the Old House and the empty cottages at Duncambus, and then up to the caves in the cliffs. Oh, I knew the island of Carnglass, what with shooting rabbits and birds over the best part of it, while I played at keeper. There was but one hope for Seamus left, and that was the coming of some one in a boat, such as yourself.

“A man or two set out after me, I think, and there was shooting in the dark; but I showed them my heels, and made my way up the north cliffs; yet a climb it was that none but a drunken man, or a desperate one, would undertake. And before I had got to the foot of the cliffs, there came a great _boom!_ behind me, and I looked round, and the yacht was blazing worse than ever, for her petrol-tanks had blown up. Yet they had been half drained earlier, so the explosion was not all I had hoped for. When I got to the cliff-head, the fire in the yacht was out, so they must have got pumps to working on the quay; Jackman will have been back with his boys by that time, and what he told the boatmen could not have been fit for decent ears. At dawn, when I risked a look at the harbor, I could see the wreck of the yacht settled into the harbor mud, with the water up to her gunwales even at low tide; she must be all awash at high tide, and I doubt she’ll ever sail again. Sure, Jackman can’t repair her.”

Logan had interrupted seldom; that seemed the best policy, when Donley was full of whiskey. Now he asked, “Do you mean you’ve bottled up Jackman’s people altogether, Mr. Donley?”

“And myself with them, Mr. Detective Logan. Even had Jackman means for sending messages to the mainland, he’d say nothing concerning the yacht and the launch, for fear of police coming to investigate. And he has no such means, public or private. There was a wireless in the yacht, but that’s lost; and there was an old wireless in the Old House, but that’s been broken for a fortnight, how no one knows.

“In a matter of days, sure, his agents in Glasgow will begin fretting after Jackman, what with no word from Carnglass, and will send out some boat with trusty men to see what’s wrong. Until he has another big launch, though, Jackman can do no more spying among the islands, under pretext of pleasure-cruising, nor get word from men that he pays in South Uist and other places. And now there’s no Seamus Donley to handle his explosives for him, though Royall and Jackman himself might make shift, if ever they find a good time and place to use them. And Jackman will be fearing that the fire was seen, and that inquiries will be made.”

“How is it, Seamus Donley,” Logan asked him, “that you’ve contrived to keep clear of Jackman on this little island for three whole days?”

Donley chuckled with a deep gratification. “There’ll be a dozen caves in Carnglass; and faint cliff-paths that only a Kerry man could follow; and two ruined villages, and the two empty farmhouses, and the barns and outhouses and the rest. And the mist, the blessed mist. Would you believe, Mr. Logan, that I’m sixty-four years of age? No more would they. But old Seamus is three times the man that the best of them ever was. Oh, I can lay false scents: I broke a window at night in the New House, so they might think me hid inside, though I never entered; and I smashed the lock on the door of this black house--it was kept for a hunting-lodge on this shore--though I’ve not slept inside, to fool them again; and they cannot tell where I lay my head. After dark, they give up the hunt, huddling together in the Old House, for fright of Seamus. And in the day, they dare not seek me in packs of less than three, though I’ve but little Meg here against their rifles. Twice they’ve come near to finishing me, the last time only this evening; but the mist saved me again, and I climbed down the sea-face of the cliffs, and came round to this hut of yours when the tide was low. They’ll be on the scent again so soon as there’s daylight. For if Seamus got away from Carnglass with a whole skin, their game would be played out.

“What they hope, Mr. Detective Logan, is that old Seamus will be worn down by lack of victuals and broken sleep and being run like a hare all day; and then they’ll bag him. And so they might have done, in a day or two more, had you not brought your dinghy to Dalcruach sands, Mr. Logan. But now I’ll take French leave of them.”

In his wild and ruinous way, this was a wonderful man, Logan thought. “I’ve another plan, Seamus Donley,” he said. “It’s this: I suggest that you and I go up to the Old House together, in the morning, and face them down.”

Donley slapped his hand upon the table, approvingly; and then, remembering his situation, glanced uneasily toward the door. “By St. Patrick and St. Merin--whoever _she_ was--you’ve a heart in your body, Mr. Logan! You’d do honor to the Republican Army. Get thee behind me, Satan Logan. ’Tis a temptation: and I might yield, if only we had a brace of rifles. Mr. Detective Logan to stand for the majesty of the law, and Mr. Seamus Donley for justice outraged! Ah, the pleasure of seeing Jackman’s face, under the circumstances. Now tell me true: have you no gun hid anywhere?”

“I’ve nothing but a walking-stick and a long razor,” Logan said.

Donley shook his bald head. “No, the thing won’t do, sir. Look here: there’s but three bullets left in old Meg.” He swung open the revolver’s cylinder. “The rest were spent, though I had a pocketful of cartridges, in keeping off Jackman’s boys when they came within my range. Fine figures you and I would cut, Mr. Detective, with one little gun to the pair of us, tossing a sixpence for who might have the third shot at Jackman. No, they call me a reckless Irishman, but I’m not the fighting fool you seem to be. ’Tis away in your boat I must be tonight; and if you’ve mind as well as heart, Mr. Logan, you’ll come away with me, and let me set you ashore in safety, to fight another day.”

“I’m thinking of the women’s safety,” Logan said. Donley nodded. “But you can do one thing for me, Seamus Donley: let me write a note or two, and you can carry them with you, and post them the moment you reach a postbox; for I take it that I’ll need help.”

“That I will do,” Seamus Donley said. “And more: the moment I reach a telephone-kiosk, Mr. Detective, I will telephone your damned police, and tell them there is trouble in Carnglass. But promise this much to me, that you’ll not put my name into your letter. And you must hurry, for midnight’s near, and I’ll need the ebbing of the tide to take me clear of the skerries.”

“Give me five minutes,” Logan told him, “and your leave to light the lamp again, and you’ll have my word. You can read the note, for that matter. And then I’ll see you launched in the dinghy. But unless you’re a better boatman than any I’ve met, I can’t understand how you expect to keep clear of the rocks, and fight the currents, let alone cross open water, in an open boat.”

“Seamus Donley,” that modest man said, “is as skilled with boats as with explosives. Trust me, Mr. Logan: I’ll bring your message to land.”

In haste, Logan scribbled a few words to the chief constable, Glasgow, or any police-officer into whose hands the note might come, saying that a man probably had been murdered in Carnglass, and that more trouble might be expected, and that immediate action was required. He put the paper into a soggy envelope, and Donley thrust it into an inner pocket. “Now,” Logan said, “I’m your man, Seamus Donley. But watch for that current just beyond the needle-rocks: with the wind we’ve had for these past four or five hours, the odds are that it may be too strong for you, and smash the boat against the western cliffs.” Logan stripped off shoes, stockings, and trousers, for it would be drenching work to launch the dinghy. And then the two of them went cautiously out of the black house. So far as they could tell, they stood alone on the dark beach.

Though the wind had gone down an hour earlier, and the tide was flowing back toward that lonely sea, still two strong men would be needed to launch even a light boat in that surge on the beach. Neither moon nor stars showed through the blackness. Between them, with much panting and heaving, they dragged the dinghy to the water’s edge, and then pulled her along the beach to a more sheltered spot behind an outcrop of gray, weed-shrouded stone, where there was a good chance of getting her really afloat. They staggered in water up to their waists; once Logan fell, taking in a mouthful of salt water. The dinghy having shipped some sea, Donley bailed her as best he could with her rusty bucket. Now the trial must be made, and they would thrust her against the surf.

Donley flung his overcoat into the boat. “If you’ve no strong objection, Mr. Detective Logan,” he growled, “I’ll take with me the remnant of your good whiskey: I slipped the bottle into my coat pocket as we left the hut. You’ve a brave heart, but no eye for sneak-thieves. Yet I’ll give value for value.” He handed to Logan something dark and weighty: it was the little gun called Meg, in a shoulder-holster with a strap.

Logan fitted the holster under his arm. “That’s generous of you, Seamus Donley.”

“She’s a well-balanced weapon, Mr. Detective, and never was meant for a free gift to a policeman. But how three bullets will prevail against Jackman’s boys, I cannot advise you.”

“Give me your hand,” Logan said. The tremendous grip of the Irishman almost made him cry out.

“We should have been Dominicans together, Mr. Logan,” Donley grinned. He let go Logan’s hand. “Now put your shoulder to the dinghy.”

They forced her bow against the comber, and Donley, rolling his great body over the gunwale, seized the oars. Logan flung his strength against the stern, running up to his nose in the receding wave. Now Donley was plying his oars: the shelter of the rocks helped him; yet only a man of his vast strength could have made head against that surly swell.

Then, suddenly, the crest of a wave was carrying the little boat outward; Donley got her round the rocks that had helped her launching. If he called out anything to Logan at the last, his voice was lost in the noise of waves smashing against stone and sand. The dinghy passed into the Hebridean night, and Logan wished that fierce man good fortune upon his nocturnal sea. A minute later, Logan caught one final glimpse of the boat passing over the inner reef, Donley rowing mightily. After that, the mist settled upon the face of the waters.

6

Some strange bird, perhaps a shearwater, swept high above Logan as he made his way back to the hovel: it shrieked like nothing canny. That cry was a fitting farewell to Seamus Donley.