CHAPTER XVII

It was ten o’clock in the forenoon. Peter Walsh, having breakfasted,

strolled down the street towards the quay. When he reached it he

surveyed the boats which lay there with a long, deliberate stare. The

Blue Wanderer was at her moorings. The Tortoise, with a new iron on her

rudder, had gone out at seven o’clock. There were three boats from the

islands and one large hooker lying at the quay. Peter Walsh made quite

sure that there was nothing which called for comment or investigation in

the appearance of any of these. Then he lit his pipe and took his seat

on one of the windows of Brannigan’s shop. Four out of the six habitués

of this meeting place were already seated. Peter Walsh made the fifth.

The sixth man had not yet arrived.

At half past ten Timothy Sweeny left his shop and walked down to the

quay. Timothy Sweeny, though not the richest, was the most important man

in Rosnacree. His public house was in a back street and the amount

of business which he did was insignificant compared to that done by

Brannigan. But he was a politician of great influence and had been

made a Justice of the Peace by a government anxious to popularise the

administration of the law in Ireland. The law itself, as was recognised

on all sides, could not possibly be made to command the respect of any

one; but it was hoped that it might excite less active hostility if it

were modified to suit the public convenience by men like Sweeny who had

some personal experience of the unpleasantness of the penalties which it

ordained.

It was seldom that Timothy Sweeny left his shop. He was a man of

corpulent figure and flabby muscles. He disliked the smell of fresh air

and walking was a trouble to him. The five loafers on Brannigan’s window

sills looked at him with some amazement when he approached them.

“Is Peter Walsh here?” said Sweeny.

“I am here,” said Peter Walsh. “Where else would I be?”

“I’d be glad,” said Sweeny, “if you’d step up to my house with me

for two minutes the way I could speak to you without the whole town

listening to what we’re saying.”

Peter Walsh rose from his seat with quiet dignity and followed Sweeny up

the street.

“You’ll take a sup of porter,” said Sweeny, when they reached the bar of

the public house.

Peter finished the half pint which was offered to him at a draught.

“They tell me,” said Sweeny, “that the police sergeant was up at the

big house again this morning. I don’t know if it’s true but it’s what

they’re after telling me.”

“It is true,” said Peter. “I’ll say that much for whoever it was that

told you. It’s true enough. The sergeant was off last night after dark.

He thinks he’s damned smart that sergeant, and it was after dark he went

the way nobody would see him; but he was seen, for Patsy the smith was

on the side of the road, mortal sick after the way that Joseph Antony

Kinsella made him turn to making a rudder iron and him as drunk at the

time as any man ever you seen. It was him told me about the sergeant and

where he went last night.”

“Well,” said Sweeny, “and what did he tell you?”

“He told me that the sergeant went along the road till he met with the

gentleman that does be going about the country and has the two ladies

with him, the one of them that might be his wife and the other has Jimmy

Kinsella engaged to row her round the bay while she’d be bathing.”

“There’s too many going round the country and the bay and that’s a fact.

We could do with less.”

“We could, surely. But there’s no harm in them ones. What the sergeant

said to the gentleman Patsy the smith couldn’t hear but it was maybe

half an hour after when the sergeant went home again and he had a look

on him like a man that was middling well satisfied. Patsy the smith saw

him for he was in the ditch when he passed, terrible sick, retching the

way he thought the whole of his liver would be out on the road before

he’d done. Well, there was no more happened last night; but it wasn’t

more than nine o’clock this morning before that same sergeant was off

up to the big house and I wouldn’t wonder but it was to tell the strange

gentleman that’s there whatever it was he heard him last night. He had

that kind of a look about him anyway.”

“I don’t like the way things is going on,” said Sweeny. “What is it

that’s up at the big house at all?”

“They tell me,” said Walsh, “that he’s a mighty high up gentleman

whoever he is.”

“He may be, but I’d be glad if I knew what he’s doing here, for I don’t

like the looks of him.”

Patsy the smith, pallid after the experience of the night before, walked

into the shop.

“If Peter Walsh is there,” he said, “the sergeant is down about the quay

looking for him.”

“You better go to him,” said Sweeny, “and mind now what you say to him.”

“You’ll not say much,” said Patsy the smith, “for he’ll have you whipped

off into one of the cells in the barrack before you’ve time to speak.

He’s terrible determined.”

Patsy’s face was yellow--a witness to the fact that his liver was still

in him--and he was inclined to take a pessimistic view of life. Peter

Walsh paid no attention to his prophecy. Sweeny looked anxious.

The sergeant was standing outside the door of Bran-nigan’s shop. He

accosted Peter Walsh as soon as he caught sight of him.

“Sir Lucius bid me tell you,” he said, “that you’re to have the Tortoise

ready for him at twelve o’clock, and that his lordship will be going

with him, so he won’t be needing you in the boat.”

“It would fail me to do that,” said Peter, “for she’s out, Miss

Priscilla and the young gentleman with the sore leg has her.”

“Sir Lucius was partly in doubt,” said the sergeant, “but it might be

the way you say, for I told him myself that the boat was gone. But his

lordship wouldn’t be put off, and you’re to hire another boat.”

“What boat?”

“It was Joseph Antony Kinsella’s he mentioned,” said the sergeant, “when

I told him it was likely he’d be in with another load of gravel. But

sure one boat’s as good as another so long as it is a boat. His lordship

wouldn’t be turned aside from going.”

“Them ones,” said Peter Walsh, “must have their own way whatever

happens. It’s pleasure sailing they’re for, I’m thinking, among the

islands?”

“It might be,” said the sergeant “I didn’t ask.”

“You could guess though.”

“And if I could, do you think I’d tell you? It’s too fond of asking

questions you are, Peter Walsh, about what doesn’t concern you.”

The sergeant turned his back and walked away. Peter Walsh watched him

enter the barrack. Then he himself went back to Sweeny’s shop.

“They’re wanting a boat,” he said. “Joseph Antony Kinsella’s or

another.”

“And what for?”

“Unless it’s to go out to Inishbawn,” said Peter, “I don’t know what

for.”

“Bedamn then,” said Sweeny, “there’s no boat for them.”

“I was thinking that myself.”

“I wouldn’t wonder,” said Sweeney, “but something might stop Joseph

Antony Kinsella from coming in today after all, thought he’s due with

another load of gravel.”

“He mightn’t come,” said Patsy the smith. “There’s many a thing could

happen to prevent him.”

“What time were they thinking of starting?” said Sweeny.

“Twelve o’clock,” said Peter Walsh.

“Patsy,” said Sweeny, “let you take Brannigan’s old punt and go down as

far as the stone perch to try can you see Joseph Antony Kinsella coming

in.”

Patsy the smith was in a condition of great physical misery; but the

occasion demanded energy and self-sacrifice. He staggered down to the

slip, loosed the mooring rope of Brannigan’s dilapidated punt and drove

her slowly down the harbour, waggling one oar over her stern.

“Let you go round the town,” said Sweeny to Peter Walsh, “and find out

where the fellows is that came in with the boats that’s at the quay this

minute. It’s time they were off out of this.”

Peter Walsh left the shop. In a minute or two he came back again.

“There’s Miss Priscilla’s boat,” he said, “the Blue Wanderer. You’re

forgetting her.”

“They’d never venture as far as Inishbawn in her,” said Sweeny.

“They might then. The wind’s east and she’d run out easy enough under

the little lug.”

“They’d have to row back.”

“The likes of them ones,” said Peter Walsh, “wouldn’t think about how

they’d get back till the time came. I’m uneasy about that boat, so I

am.”

“Tell me this now,” said Sweeny, after a moment’s consideration. “Did

the young lady say e’er a word to you about giving the boat a fresh lick

of paint?”

“She did not. Why would she? Amn’t I just after painting the boat?”

“Are you sure now she didn’t say she’d be the better of another coat?”

“She might then, some time that I wouldn’t be paying much attention to

what she said. I’m a terrible one to disremember things anyway.”

“You’d better do it then,” said Sweeny. “There’s plenty of the same

paint you had before in Brannigan’s, and it will do the boat no harm to

get a lick with it.”

Peter Walsh left the shop again and walked in a careless way down the

street. Sweeny followed him at a little distance and spoke to the men

who were sitting on Brannigan’s window sills. They rose at once and

walked down to the slip. In a few minutes the Blue Wanderer was dragged

from her moorings and carried up to a glassy patch of waste land at

the end of the quay. Her floor boards were taken out of her, her oars,

rudder and mast were laid on the grass. The boat herself was turned

bottom upwards.

In the course of the next half hour the owners of the boats which lay

alongside the quay sauntered down one by one. Brown lugsails were run up

on the smaller boats. The mainsail of the hooker was slowly hoisted. At

half past eleven there was not a single boat of any kind left afloat in

the harbour. Peter Walsh, his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, was

laying long stripes of green paint on the already shining bottom of the

Blue Wanderer. He worked with the greatest zeal and earnestness. Timothy

Sweeny looked at the empty harbour with satisfaction. Then he went back

to the shop and dosed comfortably behind his bar.

Patsy the smith stood in the stern of the punt and waggled his oar with

force and skill. He disliked taking this kind of exercise very much

indeed. His nature craved for copious, cooling drafts of porter, drawn

straight from the cask and served in large thick tumblers. He had

intended to spend the morning in taking this kind of refreshment. The

day was exceedingly hot. When he reached the end of the quay his mouth

was quite dry inside and his legs were shaking under him. He looked

round with eyes which were strikingly bloodshot. There was no sign of

Joseph Antony Kinsella’s boat on the long stretch of water between him

and the stone perch. If he could have articulated at all he would have

sworn. Being unable to swear he groaned deeply and took his oar again.

The punt wobbled forward very much as a fat duck walks.

When he reached Delgipish he looked round again. A mile out beyond the

stone perch he saw a boat moving slowly towards him. His eyes served him

badly and although he could see the splash of the oars in the water

he could not make out who the rower was. A man of weaker character,

suffering the same physical torture, would have allowed himself to drift

on the shore of Delginish and there would have awaited the coming of the

boat he had seen. But Patsy the smith was brave. He was also nerved by

the extreme importance of his mission. It was absolutely necessary that

something should happen to prevent Joseph Antony bringing his boat to

Rosnacree harbour. The sight of one brown sail and then another stealing

round the end of the quay gave him fresh courage. Timothy Sweeny and

Peter Walsh had done their work on shore. He was determined not to fail

in carrying through his part of a masterly scheme.

For twenty minutes Patsy the smith sculled on. It seemed to him

sometimes as if each sway of his body, each tug of his tired arms must

be the last possible. Yet he succeeded in going on. He dared not look

round lest the boat he had seen should prove after all not to be the one

he sought. Such a disappointment would, he knew, be more than he could

bear. At last the splash of oars reached his ears and he heard himself

hailed by name. The voice was Kinsella’s. The relief was too much for

Patsy. He sat down on the thwart behind him and was violently sick.

Kinsella laid his boat alongside the punt and looked calmly at his

friend. Not until the worst spasms were over did he speak.

“Faith, Patsy,” he said, “it must have been a terrible drenching you

gave yourself last night, and the stuff was good too, as good as ever I

seen. What has you in the state you’re in at all?”

The sickness had to some extent revived Patsy the smith. He was able to

speak, though with difficulty.

“Go back out of that,” he said.

“And why would I go back?”

“Timothy Sweeny says you’re to go back, for if you come in to the quay

today there’ll be the devil and all if not worse.”

“If that’s the way of it I will go back; but I’d be glad, so I would, if

I knew what Sweeny means by it. It’s a poor thing to be breaking my back

rowing a boatload of gravel all the way from Inishbawn and then to be

told to turn round and go back; and just now too, when the wind has

dropped and it’s beginning to look mighty black over to the eastward.”

“You’re to go back,” said Patsy, “because the strange gentleman that’s

up at the big house is wanting your boat.”

“Let him want!”

“He’ll get it, if so be that you go in to the quay, and when he has it

the first thing he’ll do is to go out to Inishbawn. It’s there he wants

to be and it’s yourself knows best what he’d find if he got there. Go

back, I tell you.”

“If you’ll take my advice,” said Kinsella, “you will go back yourself.

There’s thunder beyond there coming up, and there’ll be a breeze setting

towards it from the west before another ten minutes is over our heads.

I don’t know will you care for that in the state you’re in this minute,

with that old punt and only one oar. The tide’ll be running strong

against the breeze and there’ll be a kick-up at the stone perch.”

Patsy the smith saw the wisdom of this advice. Tired as he was he seized

his one oar and began sculling home. Kinsella watched him go and then

did a peculiar thing. He took the shovel which lay amidships in his

boat and began to heave his cargo of gravel into the sea. As he worked

a faint breeze from the west rose, fanned him and died away. Another

succeeded it and then another. Kinsella looked round him. The four boats

which had drifted out from the quay before the easterly breeze of the

morning, had hauled in their sheets. They were awaiting a wind from

the west. The heavy purple thunder cloud was rapidly climbing the sky.

Kinsella shovelled hard at his gravel. His boat, lightened of her load,

rose in the water, showing inch by inch more free board. A steady breeze

from the west succeeded the light occasional puffs. It increased in

strength. The four boats inside him stooped to it. They sped across

and across the channel towards the stone perch in short tacks. Kinsella

hoisted his sail and took the tiller. The boat swung up into the wind

and coursed away to the south west, close hauled to a stiff west wind.

The thunder cloud burst over Rosnacree.

Sir Lucius and Lord Torrington drove into the town and pulled up in

front of Brannigan’s shop at a quarter to twelve. They looked round the

empty harbour in some surprise. Sir Lucius went at once into the shop.

Lord Torrington, being an Englishman with a proper belief in the

forces of law and order, walked a few yards back and entered the police

barracks.

“Brannigan,” said Sir Lucius, “where’s my boat? and where’s that ruffian

Peter Walsh?”

“Your boat, is it?” said Brannigan.

“I sent down word to Peter Walsh to have her ready for me at twelve, or,

if my daughter had taken her out----”

“It would be better,” said Brannigan, “if you were to see Peter Walsh

yourself. Sure I don’t know what’s happened to your boat.”

“Where’s Peter Walsh?”

“He’s down at the end of the quay putting an extra coat of paint on Miss

Priscilla’s boat. I don’t know what sense there is in doing the like,

but of course he wouldn’t care to go contrary to what the young lady

might say.”

Sir Lucius left the shop abruptly. At the door he ran into Lord

Torrington and the police sergeant.

“Damn it all, Lentaigne,” said Lord Torrington, “how are we going to get

out?”

“There was boats in it,” said the police sergeant, “plenty of them, when

I gave your lordship’s message to Peter Walsh.”

“Where are they now?” said Lord Torrington. “What’s the good of telling

me they were here when they’re not?”

The police sergeant looked cautiously round.

“I wouldn’t say,” he said at last, “but they’re gone out of it, every

one of the whole lot of them.”

Peter Walsh, his paint brush in his hand, and an expression of

respectful regret, on his face, came up to Sir Lucius and touched his

hat.

“What’s the meaning of this?” said Sir Lucius. “Didn’t I send you word

to have a boat, either my own or some other, ready for me at twelve?”

“The message the sergeant gave me,” said Peter Walsh, “was to engage

Joseph Antony Kinsella’s boat for your honour if so be that Miss

Priscilla had your own took out.”

“And why the devil didn’t you?” said Lord Torrington.

“Because she’s not in it, your honour; nor hasn’t been this day. I was

waiting for her and the minute she came to the quay I’d have been in

her, helping Joseph Antony to shovel out the gravel the way she’d be fit

for two gentlemen like yourselves to go in her.”

“Is there no other boat to be got?” said Lord Torrington.

“Launch Miss Priscilla’s at once,” said Sir Lucius.

“Sure the paint’s wet on the bottom of her.”

“Launch her,” said Sir Lucius, “paint or not paint.”

“I’ll launch her if your honour bids me,” said Peter Walsh. “But what

use will she be to you when she’s in the water? She’ll not work to

windward for you under the little lug that’s in her, and it’s from the

west the wind’s coming now.”

He looked round the sky as he spoke.

“Glory be to God!” he said. “Will you look at what’s coming. There’s

thunder in it and maybe worse.”

Sir Lucius took Lord Torrington by the arm and led him out of earshot of

the police sergeant and Peter Walsh.

“We’d better not go today, Torrington. There’s a thunder storm coming.

We’d simply get drenched.”

“I don’t care if I am drenched.”

“And besides we can’t go. There isn’t a boat. We couldn’t get anywhere

in that little thing of Priscilla’s. After all if she’s on an island

today she’ll be there tomorrow.”

“If that fool of a sergeant told us the truth this morning,” said Lord

Torrington, “and there’s some man with her I want to break every bone in

his body as soon as I can.”

“He’ll be there tomorrow,” said Sir Lucius, “and I’ll see that there’s a

boat here to take us out.”