Part 87 (1/2)

”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 ca.n.a.l 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 pa.s.s 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 att.i.tude of stony immobility.

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

It was Soane, his cap c.o.c.ked aslant on his curly head, his green jacket unb.u.t.toned, 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!