The Golden Ocean (3 page)

‘Well then?’

‘But—you’ll never be furious now, nor wicked?—
they
crept in the right direction, while the great spotted horse went away through the crowd to the river, for he scorned to compete with them, and the little jockey-boy sawing at the bridle in vain in vain. They are probably in the County Tyrone by now.’

‘Did he lose a great deal, Sean?’ asked Peter.

‘He did not,’ said Sean: but from something in his manner Peter took no comfort from his words, and after a second Sean went on, ‘He could not, indeed: at that time he lost nothing at all, the way he had—but you’ll not grow outrageous? Sure you’ll be kind to my uncle and he brokenhearted?’

‘Sean,’ said Peter, laying his hand on his arm, ‘you’ll not tell
me that they had his pocket picked?’ In that moment Peter had divined the fact; and as if Sean had replied he went on, ‘And yet it was hung round his neck.’

‘He had brought it out to be flashing the gold,’ said Sean.

‘Well—’ said Peter; but instead of finishing his remark he took a turn up and down the yard.

‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘there is only the one thing to do. On the eighteenth day of this month I must be in Cork: there is no time to go back, and besides my poor dear father—no, what we must do is to sell Liam’s horse; and I believe that if we find the right man and you ride with care to show him to his best advantage, the creature, we may get two guineas perhaps. It is a grave step to take—why, Sean, what’s the matter?’

‘Gone,’ whispered Sean. ‘Pawned.’

‘And Placidus too?’

Sean nodded. ‘With the gombeen-man of Athy,’ he said. ‘But not sold.’

Peter opened his mouth; but closed it again and paced up and down in the yard.

‘And the baggage too, I suppose?’ he asked after a dozen turns.

Sean nodded. ‘It was his last stroke to win it all back,’ he said.

Peter renewed his pacing. ‘Well,’ he said, pausing on a turn, ‘at least Placidus is not sold: that would have wounded my father’s heart.’

Three turns later he said, ‘And with the luck of the world—thanks be to God—’

‘Thanks on high,’ said Sean.

‘I had shifted into my best clothes, so they are not lost, and I can face the Commodore.’

And after another three turns he suddenly cried, ‘I have it, Sean: I have our salvation. This Mr FitzGerald I am to meet in the evening; he’s sure to be rich—I’ll ask him to lend me five guineas or six. That will bear our charges and unpawn Placidus. Ha ha, Sean—that’s the way of it,’ he exclaimed, clapping Sean on the shoulder.

‘Hoo hoo,’ cried Sean, with a hoot of triumph and relief, his spirits mounting directly. ‘Sure he’ll be delighted to oblige a companion and he the richest man’s son in the West, no doubt, if not close kin to the Deputy.’

‘You have not seen him come to the inn?’ asked Peter, reflecting.

‘I have not,’ replied Sean, ‘but will I ask of the grooms? He’ll surely have servants before and behind, and his horses may be filling the stables at this very minute, the valuable beasts.’

‘Do that thing,’ said Peter, ‘and if you have news of him come and whisper to me privately. I will sit in the great room of the inn.’

H
OPE HAD DIED BY SIX O’CLOCK; BUT STILL PETER SAT ON IN HIS
corner seat, watching the continual coming and going through the wide-open door. There were farmers and graziers of the richer sort, gentlemen of all sizes and shapes and of every age but his own, red-coated officers, periwigged medical men, black lawyers, snuff-coloured merchants and the clergy in cassocks; footmen in liveries of every colour hurried on errands; parties of young men roared through the windows to their acquaintances within; indeed, half Ireland seemed to be in the great room of the Royal George and Harp. But alas it was the half that did not include the one person he really wanted to see; this person, Mr Peregrine FitzGerald, was unknown to Peter except by reputation and name, but he had a clear notion of what to expect and for hours and hours he had been
looking for the arrival of a young fellow about his own age and size, a midshipman in the Royal Navy, who would, Peter supposed, come in and gaze about to find his travelling companion, and who, by his looking about and searching, would advertise his presence.

It would have been easier, Peter reflected when first he took his seat, if they had both been in the land service, for a red coat would show up at once: but in the Navy the officers wore what they chose, and apart from the King’s cockade there was no way of recognising them at all. But that reflection had taken place a long while ago. The sad change from lively expectation to no hope at all had taken place by six in the afternoon, when the rain began: but when the tall clock coughed and said eight, Peter was still looking earnestly at the door; he was still spinning out his mug of tepid porter and making it last, and he was still assuring himself that clocks in public places were very often made to run fast on purpose.

‘Mr Palafox?’ asked a voice at his side, and the dregs of the porter splashed on the floor as Peter jumped up. ‘Your servant, sir,’ said the thin figure before him, with an elegant bow. ‘My name is FitzGerald.’

‘Servant,’ cried Peter, making a leg, and quite red with pleasure. ‘May I beg you to sit down and take—and take—’He had meant to add, ‘a glass of wine,’ but the sudden recollection that he was quite unable to pay for a small pot of ale, let alone a bottle of claret, pierced into his mind, and he finished with a wave of his hand to an empty chair.

‘You are very good, sir,’ said FitzGerald, sitting down. ‘But first I must make my excuses …’ And while he explained why he was so late—no idea the time had been running so fast—much taken up with seeing the races, the town, various friends—Peter gazed at him with the utmost attention that civility would permit. FitzGerald was nothing like what he had expected: for one thing he was wearing a bottle-green coat, and for another he was very much older. And yet on closer inspection he was not so ancient in fact: he wore his own hair (which was red), but it was powdered, and powdered
hair, like a wig, made a man appear of an indeterminate age. On second thoughts Peter judged FitzGerald to be about his own age, though indeed his urbane and fashionable air, his very rich clothes and his general ease, made him appear five years older at least.

FitzGerald talked on in the most agreeable way; but there were two things that prevented Peter from taking much share in the conversation, or indeed from absorbing much of what FitzGerald said. The first was extreme and raging hunger: Peter had had nothing since breakfast, and what with the excitement of the races, the disaster and the long-drawn-out waiting he was so hollow within that if he had been anywhere else he would have gnawed his craubeen with unspeakable joy. The second was the manner and form in which he should frame his request.

It had seemed so easy when he cried, ‘I’ll ask him for five guineas or six,’ but now it appeared insuperably hard.

‘… and then Culmore assured me on his oath that the filly was sore of the near fore-foot—said his groom had it from hers, they being twins of a birth—and so I did not back
her
, either, ha, ha.’

‘Ha, ha,’ echoed Peter, suddenly aware that a response was called for, and wondering what FitzGerald’s topic had been.

‘But the truth of the matter, you know,’ said FitzGerald confidentially, ‘is that those stables are quite unfit to be used. I know my father would not even put one of the tenants into them, and …’

‘Now if I were to say to him, “Mr FitzGerald, please will you lend me some money?” ’ thought Peter; and he was still thinking when the explosion occurred.

He did not see the beginning: there was a crowd filing along by their table, a great deal of talking, noise, laughter. And he was bent over the table, trying to hear FitzGerald through the din, and trying to think at the same time. Then there was a sharp cry, the crash of FitzGerald’s chair as it fell; the crowd was spread open, and a wig fell plump into Peter’s little puddle of porter. FitzGerald was out there on the wide floor,
holding a young officer by the nose. The officer was pulling madly at his sword, but FitzGerald, with wonderful promptness, had his other hand on the hilt.

From the wild hubbub of voices Peter gathered that Burke—the officer’s name—had trodden on FitzGerald’s foot. ‘Pull harder, your honour,’ cried Sean, with boundless delight, and then the two were heaved apart by a surge of violent peacemakers. For a moment FitzGerald and Burke were still attached, the grasping hand of the one extended to its utmost and the nose of the other to a great deal more than the usual length: then there was a wall of men between the two and FitzGerald, with a flush on his face and a brilliant gleam in his green eyes, was sitting down.

‘As I was saying,’ he said, ‘the course was entirely too soft for a horse with an action like that, so …’

‘My wig, sir, I believe,’ said a frosty-faced gentleman to Peter, very sharply.

‘… so although there is not his match over a measured mile on high, champaigne country,’ continued FitzGerald, ‘it would scarcely be wise to lay evens when he is to run in a plashy bottom like Derrynacaol after a week of rain.’

‘Just so,’ said Peter earnestly. ‘I am of your opinion entirely.’

At this point two red coats approached the table. ‘We are from Burke, of course,’ said the elder, after the exchange of formal politeness.

‘My friend here will act,’ said FitzGerald. ‘Allow me to name Mr Palafox, of the Royal Navy—Captain Marney.’

‘Shall we discuss the details in an hour’s time?’ suggested the soldier. ‘I propose the Butler Arms.’

‘Charmed,’ said Peter, with a creditable appearance of phlegm, and Captain Marney walked away with his companion, humming the tune called Greensleeves.

‘I am sorry to wish this on you,’ said FitzGerald. ‘But I promise you it will not be long. We will come out at dawn: I will line his vitals with steel: and in five minutes we shall be on our way—it will serve to get us up early, which shows that
even an oaf like Burke has his uses. Let’s have a bottle and drink to his slow recovery.’ He called the waiter.

‘I did not see what he did,’ said Peter.

‘Trod on my foot.’

‘So you must get up at half-past five and push a sword into him?’

‘Exactly so. He did it on purpose, you know. He has been seeking a quarrel with me ever since I fought his brother, and that was the only thing his boorish mind could find to do. However let us not talk about him. There are much more agreeable subjects.’ He paused. ‘So we are to be companions on the road? Well, I am very glad of it.’

‘So am I,’ said Peter, wondering if FitzGerald were really quite the ideal fellow-traveller. They sat contemplating one another, and after a pause FitzGerald repeated, ‘I am very glad of it, not only for the pleasure of your conversation, but because we have some desperate lonely country ahead of us, with a desperate number of thieves in it. But you have two servants with you, sir, I believe? And a band of four should be safe from any attempt.’

‘Not exactly—’ began Peter, meaning to set this misunderstanding straight right away; but he was interrupted by the coming in of a servant.

‘Mr Lyon’s compliments,’ said the man, ‘and he regrets he cannot oblige Mr FitzGerald.’

‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little blank. He felt in his pocket, and the servant’s smile grew. ‘However,’ he said, bringing his hand out again and waving it, ‘it does not signify. Thankee.’

A long silence followed the servant’s departure, and eventually FitzGerald broke it by saying, as he filled his glass with a mixture of water and wine, ‘Let us drink to the confusion of Timothy Lyon. Do you know,’ he added, drawing his chair nearer, ‘that man has made his fortune out of my family, and now he has the monstrous assurance to decline an advance of a small note of hand.’

‘Well,’ said Peter, thoughtfully sipping his wine, ‘that’s very bad, I am sure.’

‘It is the blackest ingratitude,’ said FitzGerald. Then, fiddling with the stem of his glass, he said, ‘Mr Palafox,’ and stopped. Peter was surprised to detect a nervous tone in his voice, but he was so much occupied with his own problems and with his hurry of spirits at the recent quarrel and its approaching result, that it came as a complete surprise when FitzGerald continued, ‘Mr Palafox, it would oblige me infinitely if you could let me have ten guineas, just until we reach England.’

He gaped at FitzGerald, hardly believing his ears, and FitzGerald hurried on, ‘You see, I made a foolish mistake at the races today, and I have left myself quite high and dry. It would be—’

‘But I was just going to ask you,’ broke in Peter. ‘I was going to say the very same words.’

‘Oh,’ said FitzGerald; and there was a short silence.

‘I am very sorry, indeed,’ said Peter, hesitantly.

FitzGerald smiled. ‘It is of no consequence,’ he said. ‘But I confess I had hoped you would be rich, being so well attended.’

‘It is only Liam and Sean,’ said Peter; then, feeling the necessity of an explanation, he went on, ‘Liam farms my father’s glebe at Ballynasaggart: he is not what you would call a servant at all, but he does all kinds of things, like selling the pig, and he was going with me as far as Cork and he would take back the horses. And Sean came of his own notion, to see the world: he is Liam’s nephew and the son of my nurse. It was Liam who had the purse, you see, being cautious and used to the world: but it went at the races, and the horses are pawned.’

‘My poor shipmate,’ said FitzGerald, shaking him by the hand very cheerfully. ‘What a sad way you are in. And there was I imagining a Croesus—I was ill with expecting you. But tell me, you could not send home?’

‘I could not,’ replied Peter, ‘for I know very well there is not a gold piece left in the house. We are quite poor, you know,’ he added, simply.

‘I beg your pardon,’ said FitzGerald, flushing. ‘I did not intend to be impertinent. For myself I cannot send home either, and for much the same reason.’ He carefully shared out the last of the wine. ‘I cannot accept such ingenuous candour,’ he said, ‘without offering my explanations in turn.’ And Peter learned that he was the son of Edward FitzGerald of Ardnacruish, a gentleman who had almost ruined himself by pursuing three law-suits at once about a right of way through his demesne. ‘It was not so bad until the first affair came to the House of Lords,’ said FitzGerald. ‘But when that failed the poor old gentleman (who was in the wrong from the start, by the by) came to me with tears in his eyes and said, “Terence, my boy (my name is Peregrine, but he was thinking of my brother), Terence, my boy, I am vexed to the soul, but I cannot buy you the pair of colours I promised. Not even in a marching regiment,” says he, shedding tears. “So I suppose you will have to be a crossing-sweeper, if we can find someone to sell you a broom on credit.” “Stuff,” says my Aunt Tabitha. “Why will you not write to Cousin Wager, as I have said these five years gone?” “Sure, Tab,” says he, “it would be kinder to the boy to drown him in a stable bucket than to have him cooped up in a ship. There never was a FitzGerald who could do anything if he was not on a horse; and sweeping his crossing he will at least be within nodding distance of the creatures.” “Stuff,” says my aunt—and so it went on; but in the end the letter was written to Cousin Wager, who is something grand in the Admiralty, and the answer came back and my father borrowed twenty guineas from the tailor to carry me over. It is true that he had to order clothes to the tune of nigh on a hundred to do it, but they will always come in. And if only that slug of a horse had run faster this afternoon I might have been able to pay for them all out of hand: still, I have my appointment, and once I am aboard the
Centurion
—’

‘The
Centurion
?’ cried Peter.

‘Yes. You’ll not say it is your ship as well?’

‘It is, though,’ said Peter. ‘My father’s old friend Mr Walter
is chaplain, and he begged me the place.’

‘Well, that is capital,’ said FitzGerald, shaking his hand again. ‘So we are to be shipmates in fact. But tell me,’ he said, pausing thoughtfully, ‘you are a great sailor, I dare say?’

‘No,’ said Peter, shaking his head. ‘Not at all. I have played about in our boat, and in the fishermen’s curraghs, but I have never set foot in a ship—a brig was the biggest I ever sailed in.’

‘Is a brig not a ship?’ said FitzGerald, with a smile. ‘But still, I see that you are sailor enough to answer a question that has been puzzling me ever since Cousin Wager wrote back and I began to read voyages. What is this larboard and starboard they are always talking about?’

‘Well,’ said Peter, ‘the starboard is the right as you look towards the front of the ship and the larboard is the other side. Some people say port. Yes, Sean?’ he said, breaking off.

‘If his honour is Mr FitzGerald,’ whispered Sean, bending low over the table, ‘he had best fly like a bird. And you too, a gradh. Will you slip out by the back now, before it’s too late?’

‘Why, what is the matter?’ cried Peter, amazed.

‘Sure, there’s information against you. Someone has sworn the peace against Mr FitzGerald, and the constable is coming to take you both up before the justice, Sir Phelim O’Neil, bad luck to his house.’

That night they lay out on the mountain, on the crest of the line of hills that divides the County Galway from Roscommon, and they slept secure, for, as Sean said, ‘Wisha, your honour, the magistrate’s word goes no further than the edge of the county, and although the dear knows you cannot go back, you may go forward as far as ever you please.’