Read Ebook: Kilgorman: A Story of Ireland in 1798 by Reed Talbot Baines Stacey W S Walter S Illustrator

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Ebook has 2461 lines and 108487 words, and 50 pages

It was no light task, for the dog was lame, and the wind carried back our shouts into our very teeth. The flock had straggled far and wide in search of the scanty grass, and neither Tim nor I had our hearts in the work.

Presently Tim took a stone to dislodge one stubborn ewe, where it hid beside a rock, and, as luck would have it, struck not her but my cheek, which received a sharp cut.

"Faith, and you'll make a fine soldier when you're grown," said I, in a temper, "if that's the best you can shoot."

Tim often said he would be a soldier when he came to be a man, and was touchy on the point.

"Shoot, is it?" said he, picking up another stone; "you blackguard, stand where ye are and I'll show yez."

And he let fly and struck me again on the self-same place; and I confess I admired his skill more than his brotherly love.

I picked up the stone and flung it back. But the wind took it so that it struck not Tim but the ewe. Whereat Tim laughed loudly and called me a French spalpeen. That was more than I could bear.

"I'll fight you for that," said I, flinging my cap on the ground and stamping a foot on it.

"Come on wid ye," retorted Tim, giving his buckle a hitch.

And there, on the lonely, wind-swept cliff, we two brothers stood up to one another. Con, the dog, limped between us with a whine.

"You might tie the dog to the gate till we're done, Barry," said Tim.

"You're right, Tim," said I; "I will."

It took no long time, but 'twas long enough to cool my blood, and when I returned to Tim I had less stomach for the fight than before.

"Was it 'Frenchman' you said?" asked I, hoping he might say no.

"Troth and I did," said he.

But it seemed to me he too was less fiery than when he spoke last.

So we fought. And I know not how it went. We were a fair match. What I lacked in strength I made up for in quickness, and if Tim hit me hard I hit him often.

But it was a miserable business, and our hearts were sorer than our bodies. For we loved one another as we loved our own lives. And on a day like this, when mother lay dying at home, and father was out with the trawlers in the tempest, we lacked spirit to fight in earnest. Only when Tim called me "Frenchman" it was not in me to stand meekly by.

I know that when it was over, and we parted sulky and bruised each his own way, I flung myself on my face at the edge of the cliff and wished I had never been born.

How long I lay I know not.

When I looked up the day was dark with tempest. The whistle of the wind about my ears mingled with the hoarse thunder of the surf as it broke on the beach, four hundred feet below me, and swept round the point into the lough. The taste of brine was on my lips, and now and again flakes of foam whirled past me far inland. From Dunaff to Malin the coast was one long waste of white water. And already the great Atlantic rollers, which for a day past had brought their solemn warning in from the open, were breaking miles out at sea, and racing in on the shore like things pursued.

As for me, my spirits rose as I looked out and saw it all. For I loved the sea in its angry moods. And this promise of tempest seemed somehow to accord with the storm that was raging in my own breast. It made me forget Tim and the sheep, and even mother.

I tried to get up on my feet, but the wind buffeted me back before I reached my knees, and I was fain to lie prone, with my nose to the storm, blinking through half-closed eyes out to sea.

For a long time I lay thus. Then I seemed to descry at the point of the bay windward a sail. It was a minute or more before I could be certain I saw aright. Yes, it was a sail.

What craft could be mad enough in such weather to trust itself to the mercies of the bay? Even my father, the most daring of helmsmen, would give Fanad Head a wide berth before he put such a wind as this at his back. This stranger must be either disabled or ignorant of the coast, or she would never drive in thus towards a lee-shore like ours. Boy as I was, I knew better seamanship than that.

Yet as I watched her, she seemed to me neither cripple nor fool. She was a cutter-rigged craft, long and low in the water, under close canvas, and to my thinking wonderfully light and handy in the heavy sea. She did not belong to these parts--even I could tell that--and her colours, if she had any, had gone with the wind.

The question was, would she on her present tack weather Fanad Head and win the lough? And if not, how could she escape the rocks on which every moment she was closing?

At first it seemed that nothing could save her, for she broke off short of the point, and drove in within half-a-mile of the rocks. Then, while I waited to see the end of her, she suddenly wore round, and after staggering a moment while the sea broke over her, hauled up to the wind, and careening over, with her mainsail sweeping the water, started gaily on the contrary tack.

It was so unlike anything any of our clumsy trawler boats were capable of, that I was lost in admiration at the suddenness and daring of the manoeuvre. But Fanad was still to be weathered, and close as she sailed to the wind, it seemed hardly possible to gain sea-room to clear it.

Yet she cleared it, even though the black rocks frowned at her not a cable's length from her lee-quarter, and the wind laid her over so that her mast-head seemed almost to touch them as it passed. Then, once clear, up went her helm as she turned again into the wind, and slipped, with the point on her weather-quarter, into the safe waters of the lough.

I was so delighted watching this adventure from my lonely perch that I did not notice the October afternoon was nearly spent, and that the light was beginning to fade. The storm gathered force every moment, so that when at last I turned to go home I had to crawl a yard or two to shelter before I could stand on my feet.

As for the sheep, unless Tim had driven them in, which was not likely, they would have to shift for themselves for this night. It was too late to see them, and Con, who limped at my heels, had not a yap left in him.

As I staggered home, leaning my back against the wind, I could not help wondering what this strange boat might be, and why she should make for the lough on so perilous a course. She might be a smuggler anxious to avoid the observation of the revenue officers. If so, her cargo must be precious indeed to make up for the risk she ran. Or she might be a foreigner, driven in by one of the king's cruisers, which had not dared to follow her into the bay.

Whatever she was, she was a pretty sailer, and prettily handled. I wondered if ever I, when I grew to be a man, should be able to weather a point as skilfully.

It was night before I reached our cabin, and all there was dark. Neither Tim nor father was home, the fire was out on the hearth, and the poor fevered sufferer lay tossing and breathing hard on the bed.

She was worse, far worse than when we left her in the morning; and I could have died of shame when I came to think that all those hours she had lain alone and untended. I struck a light and put it in the window.

"Is that Barry?" said she faintly.

"Ay, mother, it's Barry," said I, going to the bed and bending over her.

"Bring the light, and let me look at you," she said.

I obeyed. She scrutinised my face eagerly, and then turned her head wearily on the pillow.

"Barry," said she presently.

"Well?" said I, as I took the hot worn hand in mine.

She lay silent a long while, so that I thought she had fallen asleep, then she said,--

"Where is father?"

"Away with the boats."

"And Tim?"

"I can't say. Tim and I fought the day, and--"

"Fought? Ay, there'll be fighting enough before wrong's made right, Barry. Listen! I'm dying, son, but I must see him before I go."

"No." Then she lifted herself in her bed, and her face was wild and excited as she clutched my hand. "Barry, it's Gorman I must see-- Maurice Gorman. Fetch him to me. Make him come. Tell him I'm a dying woman, and must speak before I go. There's time yet--go, Barry!"

"Ay, and quickly--or it will be too late."

Knockowen was across the lough, five miles up above Dunree. It would be hours on a night like this before he could be here. But my mother continued to moan, "Go, Barry--make haste." So, much against my will, I put on my cap and prepared to leave her alone. At the door she called me back.

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