Gervase slept soundly that night on board the Phoenix, and in the morning the mate insisted on his making use of his shore-going suit, into which Gervase was able to get with some difficulty. When he came on deck the day was bright and cloudless, with a warm sweet air blowing from the north-west and the sea hardly broken by a ripple. The ships lay at anchor near them; the Dartmouth with her rows of guns showing through the open ports; beyond lay the Swallow and a little further away the Mountjoy, both of which vessels Gervase had seen before.

But his first glance was toward the city lying far up the river, and he was filled with joy when he caught sight of the crimson flag still flying from the Cathedral Tower.

The master was early astir and met Gervase on the deck, with his red face freshly shaven and clad in his best suit which had been brought out for the occasion. He was very contrite over his last night´s potations, and made many polite inquiries as to how his guest had passed the night. The anxiety of Gervase to be put on board the Swallow to deliver his message to Kirke, was so great that he could hardly restrain his impatience during the breakfast to which the master and himself sat down together. But they had assured him that the Colonel had not slept off the fumes of his last night´s excesses, and that of all men he was the least approachable in the morning. It was necessary to find Kirke in good humour; so Gervase stifled his impatience, though his feelings were so strong and so bitter that he doubted whether a less fitting messenger than himself could have been found for his errand.

“Ye´ll just tell him your plain story like a plain man,” said the mate, “and leave the rest in the hands of the Almighty. I know ye´ll find it hard to shorten sail, but ´tis the only way ye´ll make the port after all.”

“I don´t understand the matter at all,” Gervase answered. “Here am I with a message to yon sluggard that should make his ears tingle for the duty he has neglected and the days he has wasted in useless waiting. One would think ´twas a favour I was begging at his hands. When His Majesty hears----”

“Tut, man, His Majesty--God bless him! will never come to know the rights of it. Just put your pride in your pocket and take as a favour--when ye get it--what should come to you by right. I don´t see myself that the thing is as easy as ye make it. A ship´s timbers are dainty enough, and yon boom´s an ugly sort of thing; not to speak of the cannon in the forts and the channel--that´s ticklish at the best of times.”

“When a kingdom´s at stake, one might run a little danger without being foolhardy.”

“I´m not saying that he mightn´t and I would willingly try it myself if I had the chance, but you must make allowances. I hear they had a parson aboard there the other day who gave them some plain speech and got a flea in his ear for his pains. Fair and softly will carry for many a mile. I´ll go with you myself and maybe put in a good word if I can. The boats are ready and we´ll be alongside in a twinkling.”

As they rowed towards the Swallow, which carried Kirke´s flag, Gervase´s mind was full of the way in which he should deliver his message, while Douglas sat beside him pouring his homely counsel into his ear. It was evident that the latter stood in no little dread of the commander who had won for himself an unenviable notoriety for cruelty and severity, and was clearly doubtful of the reception that awaited an envoy who knew so little regarding the character of the man with whom he had to deal. But Gervase had determined that if all else failed he would speak out his mind without any fear of the consequences. He had not undertaken this perilous journey and faced so many dangers to shrink from plain speech if that would serve his purpose.

The master of the Phoenix on the news being brought that Kirke would receive them immediately in the gunroom, was like to have turned tail incontinently and left Gervase to face the redoubtable soldier alone. “The boatswain yonder is an old crony of mine,” he said, “and we don´t often have a chance of a quiet word. I wish you all luck, but I think I´ll step forward and have a bit of speech while you do your errand.”

“By your leave, but the General must see you both, Master Douglas,” said the man who had brought the message; “if you don´t come now I´ll have to fetch you by the ears by-and-by. He hath ten thousand blue devils tearing his liver this morning, so that we cannot bind or hold him. But you have seen the General after a wet night with a head wind in the morning.”

“I was a fool to come aboard,” Douglas muttered. “Speak to him fair and soft, Mr. Orme,” he continued, taking Gervase by the arm, “if ye would have the tyke listen to ye, but for God´s sake don´t cross him.”

“I´ll tell him a plain story that wants no gloss,” Gervase answered. “You need not be afraid that I shall speak outside my commission. Now, sir, I am at your service.”

“He´ll get a flea in his ear,” muttered Douglas, letting go his arm, and dropping behind. “Send me well out of this.”

When they entered the gunroom, Gervase saw a small knot of officers seated at breakfast, which was nearly over. At the head of the table was the man he had come so far to seek and who carried the destiny of the city in his hands. His dark brow was blotched and seamed by excesses, his eyes were prominent and bloodshot, and his jaws, heavy and coarse, gave to his face an expression of ferocity and obstinacy. He lay back lazily in his chair, his throat divested of his cravat, and his richly-laced waistcoat unbuttoned and thrown open. For a time he did not seem to notice the new-comers, but continued his conversation in a languid way with the gentleman who sat on his left hand. Gervase who had come into the centre of the room, stood silent for a minute or two, waiting for some sign of recognition, but Kirke, studiously ignoring his presence, never once looked up. Then Gervase stung into action by what seemed merely studied insult, quietly came forward and laid Walker´s letter on the table.

“I was charged, sir, to deliver this into your hand without fail at the earliest moment. It brooks of no delay.”

“And who the devil are you, sir?”

“A humble gentleman who with some peril to himself has succeeded in escaping from the city and finding his way thither. But the letter I carry will tell its own tale.”

“They might have chosen a messenger with better manners,” said Kirke, taking up the missive, “but these citizens know no better.”

“These citizens, sir, have set you a lesson which you have not been fain to follow,” cried Gervase, disregarding all the hints he had received and giving vent to the indignation that had become ungovernable. “For nine weeks they have served His Majesty as king was never served before; spent themselves in his service; seen their wives and children dying before them; and now they want to know what you have done and what you purpose doing?”

For a moment or two the general, who was not accustomed to such speech in the mouth of a rough seaman, as Gervase seemed, sat astonished and aghast. Then he leapt to his feet and pushed over the chair he had been sitting on. “God´s wounds! I´ll teach you to use such words to me if there´s a yard-arm on the ship. Who are you that dares to question me in my own vessel. You hear him, gentlemen, you hear him, by ----”

“They have heard us both, sir, and I wish His Majesty could have heard us also,” cried Gervase, who saw that there was only one way to deal with the hectoring bully of whom most men stood in awe. “They have heard us and they may judge between us. I hold the King´s commission like yourself, and can answer for my conduct in any fitting time or place. But this matter is of more importance than your dignity or mine. The salvation of some thousand lives depends upon it, and the last hold of His Majesty upon Ulster and Ireland. Colonel Walker hath bidden me place this letter in your hands without delay. I have only done my duty, and am no whit afraid of you or of any other man living.”

Gervase had spoken quietly and with a fine glow on his cheeks. The gentlemen at the table who had preserved an expectant silence, looked at one another with a chuckle of amusement as Kirke broke the envelope without a word. In the reading he glanced once or twice at Gervase, and when he had finished he threw the paper with an oath across the table. “Read that, Leake,” he said. “This parson in the buff coat thinks that round shot can be cooked like peas, and that a ship´s sides are harder than stone walls. To hear him one would think that we had no more than an hour´s sail to find ourselves at the quay, with meat and mutton to fill these yokels´ bellies.”

The gentleman to whom he had thrown the letter, a bluff, red-faced sailor, with a frank brave look that met you honestly, read the letter in silence, and then spread it open before him. “You had better hear what the young gentleman has to say. Colonel Walker seems to trust him implicitly, and I should like to hear how he came from the city. ´Twas a bold feat and deserves a better reception than you have given him.”

“My reception hath not closed yet,” said Kirke savagely. “But I am ready to hear what he hath to say, and if I find him tripping, fore God----”

“I have faced death too often during these three weeks,” said Gervase gravely, “to fear the threats of any man, and I will speak what is on my mind boldly----”

“And briefly, for I am not a patient man.”

“We in the city trusting to the expectation of speedy succour from England, have made our defence as I think defence was never made before. We have lost seven thousand men; those who remain are but living skeletons, stricken with sore diseases. We are distraught with our afflictions, and almost fear rather to live than to die. We can do no more. On Wednesday morning there will not be a pound of meat in the magazines, and the last stronghold of faith and freedom in Ireland will have fallen. And this is what they say yonder and--and what I say here. In the Lough are ships and men and food and guns, and a water-way to the city walls. A little courage, a bold push, and the boom that you seem to fear would snap like a thread. And they know not how to use their guns. We who have listened to their music for months have ceased to fear them.”

“And the boom,” cried Leake; “how know you that?”

“This I know, that there never was wood yet that could resist the edge of an axe if there were strong arms to will it. You have long boats and men courageous enough to try it. With your leave I´ll show them how it can be done myself.”

“By Heaven, the lad is right If we were once past Culmore----”

“There is no great danger there,” said Gervase, feeling that he had met a spirit as bold and resolute as his own, “their balls fly as innocent as wild duck. Let the frigate hold by the fort, so that under her shelter the smaller vessels may pass unscathed.”

“We want none of your lessons,” cried Kirke; “you have listened to sermons so long that you have caught the trick of preaching yourself.”

“My sermon is not yet finished, General Kirke,” continued Gervase, disregarding the hint the friendly sailor gave him, and determined to unburden his mind once and for all. “You have lain here and done nothing for us. The king, I am told, hath sent you an urgent message that the relief should be undertaken without delay. To-day you may carry out his commands; to-morrow you may return to England and tell him your cowardice hath lost him a kingdom. The lives of the starving souls yonder will be on your head. These are bitter words, but I speak them out of a full heart, and if you will not listen to me now, His Majesty will hear me presently, for as God is my witness, I will carry my story to the foot of the throne.”

“You will carry it into the Lough with a shot at your feet,” cried Kirke, purple with passion.

“You dare do nothing of the sort, sir, here in the sight of these gentlemen and in the full sight of the people of England, who will soon know the whole matter. I am the ambassador of the governor who holds the city for His Majesty, and it is by his authority that I speak the words that I have used. I am a gentleman like yourself holding His Majesty´s commission, and owing you neither respect nor authority.”

Kirke leaped to his feet, his face swollen red, and his eyes blazing with a fierce passion that over-mastered his speech. He caught up the scabbard of the sword that lay beside him and attempted to draw the blade. Then Leake, who was sitting near Gervase, caught the outspoken envoy by the shoulders, and while Kirke still stood swearing incoherently, hurried him out of the gun-room. When they reached the deck he clapped him on the back with his broad palm, and cried with enthusiasm, “I like your spirit, my lad; that was the way to stand by your guns and rake him fore and aft. But it was ticklish work, let me tell you, to tackle him that way. He has got the wolf´s tusk in his mouth (he learnt that in Tangier) and likes to see a pair of heels dancing in the air. But you´ve done the trick, I think, this time, and the old Dartmouth will have a chance of trying her ribs against the iron yonder. Now, clear your mind a bit and just tell me your story like a sensible lad, for you´ve got some common sense, and let me see if I can´t make some use of your knowledge after all.”

“I´ve been a weak fool,” said Gervase, “to forget myself when so much depended on my discretion. I´ve ruined the best cause in the world.”

“You have done nothing of the sort, sir, if I can lay a ship´s head by the compass. You have carried your point and the burghers yonder will hear the roaring of our guns before the day is out. The general hath been told what we dared not tell him in plain speech that there is no mistaking. Now let me know how matters are in the city, and what men and guns they have in the fort yonder at Culmore.”

Then Gervase told his whole story soberly and plainly, without colour or exaggeration, but with such truth and effect that his hearer was so lost in admiration that he never interrupted him till he had drawn his tale to a close. Then he swore many oaths, but swearing with such honest and kindly feeling that Gervase forgave him, that such brave fellows were worth putting their lives in peril for, even if it did not profit His Majesty a farthing. And then he questioned Gervase searchingly, his eye scanning him narrowly all the time, about the forts between the city and the castle of Culmore, and where the cannon were posted and what was the weight of the guns. “Now,” he said, in conclusion, “get you back with Andrew Douglas, who is an honest man and a good mariner, and you´ll see what you will see. If there should be a little more wind and more northing in it, I´ll stake my reputation we´ll try of what strength yon timbers are, and you and I will get our share of the glory! Glory, lad! That stirs the blood. That thought about the long boats was a shrewd one, and I have an idea of my own about the way to draw their teeth at Culmore.”

Douglas was waiting for Gervase in the boat of the Phoenix, and welcomed him with a grim smile as he took his place beside him. He said nothing, but motioned to the two sailors to push off and row to the brig. When they got out of earshot, he burst into a hoarse cackle of laughter that grated unpleasantly on Gervase´s overstrung nerves.

“I wouldn´t have missed it,” he cried, clapping his brown hands on his knees, “for a puncheon of rum. Man, ye gave it to him finely, and ye talked like a book straight up and down. A good wholesail breeze all the way and lying your course as straight as an arrow. It did my heart good to hear you. And he couldn´t get in a word--never a word, but stared at you out of his red bulging eyes, and choked about the jaws like a turkey cock strangling in a passion. You´re a well plucked one and no mistake. I had thought to see you, as he said, at the end of the yard-arm.”

“Yon swaggering bully is an arrant coward,” said Gervase, “and I wonder how he came to be chosen for a work like this. For all his bluster I saw that he was quailing, and I was determined that he should hear the truth for once in his life.”

“He didn´t hear a third of it, but I´m thinking he heard as much as was good for him. Will they move, think ye?”

“Leake says----”

“He´s a man at any rate; I´d like to know what he says.”

“That we´ll see what we´ll see. He thinks my speech hath done little harm, but I know not whether it hath done any good. God grant that it hath.”

“Amen and Amen to that. Now let us go aboard, and let us see whether your adventure has taken away your appetite.”