Chapter 2: For James Or William.
Chapter 3: The King In Ireland.
Chapter 4: The Siege Of Derry.
Chapter 5: The Relief Of Derry.
Chapter 6: Dundalk.
Chapter 7: The Coming Battle.
Chapter 8: Boyne Water.
Chapter 9: Pleasant Quarters.
Chapter 10: A Cavalry Raid.
Chapter 11: The First Siege Of Limerick.
Chapter 12: Winter Quarters.
Chapter 13: A Dangerous Mission.
Chapter 14: Athlone.
Chapter 15: A Fortunate Recognition.
Chapter 16: Peace.
Preface.
The subject of Ireland is one which has, for some years, been a very
prominent one, and is likely, I fear, for some time yet to occupy a large
share of public attention. The discontent, manifested in the troubles of
recent years, has had its root in an old sense of grievance, for which
there was, unhappily, only too abundant reason. The great proportion of
the soil of Ireland was taken from the original owners, and handed over
to Cromwell's followers, and for years the land that still remained in
the hands of Irishmen was subject to the covetousness of a party of
greedy intriguers, who had sufficient influence to sway the proceedings
of government. The result was the rising of Ireland, nominally in defence
of the rights of King James, but really as an effort of despair on the
part of those who deemed their religion, their property, and even their
lives threatened, by the absolute ascendency of the Protestant party in
the government of the country. I have taken my information from a variety
of sources; but, as I wished you to see the matter from the Irish point
of view, I have drawn most largely from the history of those events by
Mr. O'Driscol, published sixty years ago. There is, however, but little
difference of opinion between Irish and English authors, as to the
general course of the war, or as to the atrocious conduct of William's
army of foreign mercenaries towards the people of Ireland.
G. A. Henty.
Chapter 1: A Shipwreck.
A few miles to the south of Bray Head, on the crest of a hill falling
sharply down to the sea, stood Castle Davenant, a conspicuous landmark to
mariners skirting the coast on their way from Cork or Waterford to Dublin
Bay. Castle Davenant it was called, although it had long since ceased to
be defensible; but when it was built by Sir Godfrey Davenant, who came
over with Strongbow, it was a place of strength. Strongbow's followers
did well for themselves. They had reckoned on hard fighting, but the
Irish were too much divided among themselves to oppose any serious
resistance to the invaders. Strongbow had married the daughter of Dermid,
Prince of Leinster, and at the death of that prince succeeded him, and
the greater portion of Leinster was soon divided among the knights and
men-at-arms who had followed his standard. Godfrey Davenant, who was a
favourite of the earl, had no reason to be dissatisfied with his share,
which consisted of a domain including many square miles of fertile land,
stretching back from the seacoast.
Here for many generations his descendants lived, for the most part taking
an active share in the wars and disturbances which, with scarcely an
interval of rest, agitated the country.
The castle had continued to deserve its name until forty years before the
time this story commences, when Cromwell's gunners had battered a breach
in it, and left it a heap of smoking ruins. Walter Davenant had died,
fighting to the last, in his own hall. At that time, the greater part of
his estate was bestowed upon officers and soldiers in Cromwell's army,
among whom no less than four million acres of Irish land were divided.
Had it not been that Walter Davenant's widow was an Englishwoman, and a
relation of General Ireton, the whole of the estate would have gone; but
his influence was sufficient to secure for her the possession of the
ruins of her home, and a few hundred acres surrounding it. Fortunately,
the dowry which Mrs. Davenant had brought her husband was untouched, and
a new house was reared within the ruins of the castle, the new work being
dovetailed with the old.
The family now consisted of Mrs. Davenant, a lady sixty-eight years old;
her son Fergus, who was, when Cromwell devastated the land, a child of
five years; his wife Katherine, daughter of Lawrence McCarthy, a large
landowner near Cork; and their two sons, Walter, a lad of sixteen, and
Godfrey, twelve years old.
Two miles west of the castle stood a square-built stone house, surrounded
by solidly-constructed barns and outbuildings. This was the abode of old
Zephaniah Whitefoot, the man upon whom had been bestowed the broad lands
of Walter Davenant. Zephaniah had fought stoutly, as lieutenant in one of
Cromwell's regiments of horse, and had always considered himself an
ill-treated man, because, although he had obtained all the most fertile
portion of the Davenant estate, the old family were permitted to retain
the castle, and a few hundred acres by the sea.
He was one of those who contended that the Amalekites should be utterly
destroyed by the sword, and he considered that the retention of the
corner of their domains, by the Davenants, was a direct flying in the
face of the providence who had given them into the hands of the faithful.
Not that, had he obtained possession of the ruined castle, Zephaniah
Whitefoot would have repaired it or set up his abode there. The followers
of Cromwell had no eyes for the beautiful. They were too much in earnest
to care aught for the amenities of life, and despised, as almost sinful,
anything approximating to beauty, either in dress, person, or
surroundings. The houses that they reared, in this land of which they had
taken possession, were bare to the point of ugliness, and their interior
was as cold and hard as was the exterior. Everything was for use, nothing
for ornament. Scarce a flower was to be seen in their gardens, and
laughter was a sign of levity, to be sternly repressed.
Their isolation, in the midst of a hostile population, caused them no
concern whatever. They cared for no society or companionship, save that
of their own households, which they ruled with a rod of iron; and an
occasional gathering, for religious purposes, with the other settlers of
their own faith. They regarded the Irish as Papists, doomed to
everlasting perdition, and indeed consigned to that fate all outside
their own narrow sect. Such a people could no more mix with the
surrounding population than oil with water. As a rule, they tilled as
much ground in the immediate vicinity of their houses as they and their
families could manage, and the rest of the land which had fallen into
their possession they let, either for a money payment, or, more often,
for a portion of the crops raised upon it, to such natives as were
willing to hold it on these terms.
The next generation had fallen away somewhat from their fathers'
standards. It is not in human nature to stand such a strain as their
families had been subjected to. There is an innate yearning for joy and
happiness, and even the sternest discipline cannot keep man forever in
the gloomy bonds of fanaticism. In most cases, the immediate descendants
of Cromwell's soldiers would gladly have made some sort of compromise,
would have surrendered much of their outlying land to obtain secure and
peaceful possession of the rest, and would have emerged from the life of
gloomy seclusion, in which they found themselves; but no whisper of any
such feeling as this would be heard in the household of Zephaniah
Whitefoot, so long as he lived.
He was an old man now, but as hard, as gloomy, and as unlovable as he had
been when in his prime. His wife had died very many years before, of no
disease that Zephaniah or the doctor he called in could discover, but, in
fact, of utter weariness at the dull life of repression and gloom which
crushed her down. Of a naturally meek and docile disposition, she had
submitted without murmuring to her husband's commands, and had, during
her whole married life, never shocked him so much as she did the day
before her death, when, for the first time, she exhibited the possession
of an opinion of her own, by saying earnestly:
"You may say what you like, Zephaniah, but I do think we were meant to
have some happiness and pleasure on earth. If we were intended to go
through life without laughing, why should we be able to laugh? Oh, how I
should like to hear one hearty, natural laugh again before I die, such as
I used to hear when I was a girl!"
Jabez Whitefoot inherited his mother's docility of disposition, and, even
when he grew to middle age, never dreamt of disputing his father's
absolute rule, and remained strictly neutral when his wife, the daughter
of an old comrade of his father, settled a few miles away, fought stoutly
at times against his tyranny.
"You are less than a man, Jabez," she would say to him, indignantly, "to
put up, at your age, with being lectured as if you were a child. Parental
obedience is all very well, and I hope I was always obedient to my
father; but when it comes to a body not being permitted to have a soul of
his own, it is going too far. If you had told me that, when I became your
wife, I was to become the inmate of a dungeon for the rest of my
existence, I wouldn't have had you, not if you had been master of all the
broad lands of Leinster."
But, though unable to rouse her husband into making an effort for some
sort of freedom, Hannah Whitefoot had battled more successfully in behalf
of her son, John.
"You have had the management of your son, sir, and I will manage mine,"
she said. "I will see that he does not grow up a reprobate or a Papist,
but at least he shall grow up a man, and his life shall not be as hateful
as mine is, if I can help it."
Many battles had already been fought on this point, but in the end Hannah
Whitefoot triumphed. Although her husband never, himself, opposed his
father's authority, he refused absolutely to use his own to compel his
wife to submission.
"You know, sir," he said, "you had your own way with my mother and me,
and I say nothing for or against it. Hannah has other ideas. No one can
say that she is not a good woman, or that she fails in her duty to me.
All people do not see life from the same point of view. She is just as
conscientious, in her way, as you are in yours. She reads her Bible and
draws her own conclusions from it, just as you do; and as she is the
mother of the child, and as I know she will do her best for it, I shall
not interfere with her way of doing it."
And so Hannah won at last, and although, according to modern ideas, the
boy's training would have been considered strict in the extreme, it
differed very widely from that which his father had had before him.
Sounds of laughter, such as never had been heard within the walls of the
house, since Zephaniah laid stone upon stone, sometimes issued from the
room where Hannah and the child were together alone, and Zephaniah was
out with Jabez about the farm; and Hannah herself benefited, as much as
did the child, by her rebellion against the authorities. Jabez, too, was
conscious that home was brighter and pleasanter than it had been, and
when Zephaniah burst into a torrent of indignation, when he discovered
that the child had absolutely heard some fairy stories from its mother,
Jabez said quietly:
"Father, I wish no dispute. I have been an obedient son to you, and will
continue so to my life's end; but if you are not satisfied with the
doings of my wife, I will depart with her. There are plenty who will be
glad to let me a piece of land; and if I only work there as hard as I
work here, I shall assuredly be able to support her and my boy. So let
this be the last word between us."
This threat put an end to the struggle. Zephaniah had, like most of his
class, a keen eye to the main chance, and could ill spare the services of
Jabez and his thrifty and hard-working wife; and henceforth, except by
pointed references, in the lengthy morning and evening prayers, to the
backsliding in his household, he held his peace.
Between the Castle and Zephaniah Whitefoot there had never been any
intercourse. The dowager Mrs. Davenant hated the Cromwellite occupier of
her estate, not only as a usurper, but as the representative of the man
who had slain her husband. She never alluded to his existence, and had
always contrived, in her rides and walks, to avoid any point from which
she could obtain so much as a distant view of the square, ugly house
which formed a blot on the fair landscape. She still spoke of the estate
as if it extended to its original boundaries, and ignored absolutely the
very existence of Zephaniah Whitefoot, and all that belonged to him. But
when her son and Jabez grew to man's estate, at about the same period,
they necessarily at times crossed each other's paths; and as in them the
prejudices and enmities of their elders were somewhat softened, they
would, when they met on the road, exchange a passing nod or a brief "Good
morning."
Another generation still, and the boys of the two houses met as friends.
Thanks to his mother's successful rebellion, John Whitefoot grew up a
hearty, healthy boy, with a bright eye, a merry laugh, and a frank, open
bearing.
"One would think," his grandfather remarked angrily one day, as the boy
went out, whistling gaily, to fetch in a young colt Jabez was about to
break, "that John was the son of a malignant, or one of the men of
Charles Stuart, rather than of a God-fearing tiller of the soil."
"So long as he fears God, and walks in the right way, he is none the
worse for that, father," Jabez said stoutly; "and even you would hardly
say that his mother has failed in her teachings in that respect. I do not
know that, so long as one has the words of Scripture in his heart, he is
any the better for having them always on his lips; in other respects, I
regret not that the boy should have a spirit and a fire which I know I
lack myself. Who can say what may yet take place here! The Stuarts are
again upon the throne, and, with James's leaning towards Papacy, there is
no saying whether, some day, all the lands which Cromwell divided among
his soldiers may not be restored to their original possessors, and in
that case our sons may have to make their way in other paths of life than
ours; and, if it be so, John will assuredly be more likely to make his
way than I should have done."
"We would never surrender, save with our lives, what our swords have won.
We will hold the inheritance which the Lord has given us," the old man
said fiercely.
"Yes, father; and so said those whose lands we have inherited. So said
Walter Davenant, of whose lands we are possessed. It will be as God wills
it. He has given to us the lands of others, and it may be that he will
take them away again. The times have changed, father, and the manners;
and I am well pleased to see that John, while I am sure he is as true to
the faith as I am myself, will take broader and, perhaps, happier views
of life than I have done."
Zephaniah gave a snort of displeasure. He grieved continually at the
influence which his daughter-in-law exercised over her son, and which now
extended clearly to her husband; but Jabez was now a man of
five-and-forty, and had lately shown that, in some respects at least, he
intended to have his way, while Zephaniah himself, though still erect and
strong, was well-nigh eighty.
"Remember, Jabez," he said, "that it goes hard with those who, having set
their hands to the plough, turn aside."
"I shall not turn aside, father," Jabez said quietly. "I have gone too
long along a straight furrow to change now; but I am not ill pleased that
my son should have a wider scope. I trust and believe that he will drive
his furrow as straight as we have done, although it may not be exactly in
the same line."
But neither Zephaniah nor old Mrs. Davenant knew that their respective
grandsons had made friends, although both the boys' fathers knew, and
approved of it, although for somewhat different reasons.
"The Whitefoot boy," Mr. Davenant had said to his wife, "is, I fancy from
what I have seen of him, of a different type to his father and
grandfather. I met him the other day when I was out, and he spoke as
naturally and outspokenly as Walter himself. He seems to have got rid of
the Puritanical twang altogether. At any rate, he will do Walter no harm;
and, indeed, I should say that there was a solid good sense about him,
which will do Master Walter, who is somewhat disposed to be a madcap,
much good. Anyhow, he is a better companion for the boy than the lads
down in the village; and there is no saying, wife, how matters may go in
this unhappy country. It may be that we may come to our own again. It may
be that we may lose what is left to us. Anyhow, it can do no harm to
Walter that he should have, as a friend, one in the opposite camp."
Somewhat similar was the talk between Hannah and Jabez, although, in
their case, the wife was the speaker.
"John has told me, Jabez, that he has several times met young Davenant,
and that the boy is disposed to be friendly with him; and he has asked me
to speak with you, to know whether you have any objection to his making a
friend of him."
"What do you say, Hannah?" Jabez asked cautiously. "My father, I fear,
would not approve of it."
"Your father need know nothing about it, Jabez. He is an old man and a
good man, but he clings to the ways of his youth, and deems that things
are still as they were when he rode behind Cromwell. I would not deceive
him did he ask; but I do not see that the matter need be mentioned in his
presence. It seems to me that it will be good for John to be friends with
this boy. He is almost without companionship. We have acquaintance, it is
true, among the other settlers of our faith, but such companionship as he
has there will not open his mind or broaden his views. We are dull people
here for a lad. Had we had other children it might have been different.
"I have heard my mother speak of her life as a girl, in England, and
assuredly it was brighter and more varied than ours; and it seems not to
me that the pleasures which they had were sinful, although I have been
taught otherwise; but, as I read my Bible, I cannot see that innocent
pleasures are in any way denied to the Lord's people; and such pleasure
as the companionship of the young Davenant can give John will, I think,
be altogether for his good."
"But the lad is a Papist, Hannah."
"He is, Jabez; but boys, methinks, do not argue among themselves upon
points of doctrine; and I have no fear that John will ever be led from
the right path, nor indeed, though it is presumption for a woman to say
so, do I feel so sure as our ministers that ours is the only path to
heaven. We believe firmly that it is the best path, but others believe as
firmly in their paths; and I cannot think, Jabez, that all mankind, save
those who are within the fold of our church, can be condemned by the good
Lord to perdition."
"Your words are bold, Hannah, and I know not what my father and the
elders of the church would say, were they to hear them. As to that I will
not argue, but methinks that you are right in saying that the
companionship of the young Davenant will do our boy no harm.
"But the lad must have his father's consent. Though I reckon that we
could count pounds where they could count shillings, yet, in the opinion
of the world, they assuredly stand above us. Moreover, as it is only in
human nature that they should regard us as those who have despoiled them,
John must have no dealings with their son without their consent. If that
be given, I have nought to say against it."
And so John told Walter, next time they met, and learned in reply that
Walter had already obtained his father's consent to going out rambles
with him; so the boys became companions and friends, and each benefited
by it. To John, the bright, careless ease and gaiety of Walter's talk and
manner were, at first, strange indeed, after the restraint and gloom of
his home; but in time he caught something of his companion's tone, until,
as has been said, his altered manner and bearing struck and annoyed his
grandfather.
On the other hand, the earnestness and solidity of John's character was of
benefit to Walter; and his simple truthfulness, the straightforwardness of
his principles, and his blunt frankness in saying exactly what he thought,
influenced Walter to quite as large an extent as he had influenced John.
So the companionship between the lads had gone on for two years. In fine
weather they had met once or twice a week, and had taken long rambles
together, or, throwing themselves down on the slopes facing the sea, had
talked over subjects of mutual interest. Walter's education was far in
advance of that of his companion, whose reading, indeed, had been
confined to the Scriptures, and the works of divines and
controversialists of his own church, and whose acquirements did not
extend beyond the most elementary subjects.
To him, everything that Walter knew was novel and strange; and he eagerly
devoured, after receiving permission from his mother, the books which
Walter lent him, principally histories, travels, and the works of Milton
and Shakespeare. As to the latter, Hannah had at first some scruples; and
it was only after setting herself, with great misgivings as to the
lawfulness of the act, to peruse the book, that she suffered her son to
read it. The volume only contained some ten of Shakespeare's plays; and
Hannah, on handing the book to her son, said:
"I do not pretend, John, to understand all that is written there, but I
cannot see that there is evil in it. There are assuredly many noble
thoughts, and much worldly wisdom. Did I think that your life would be
passed here, I should say that it were better for you not to read a book
which gives a picture of a life so different from what yours would be;
but none can say what your lot may be. And, although I have heard much
about the wickedness of the stage, I can see no line in this book which
could do harm to you. I do not see it can do you much good, John, but
neither do I see that it can do you any harm; therefore, if you have set
your mind on it, read it, my boy."
It was a stormy evening in the first week of November, 1688. The wind was
blowing in fierce gusts, making every door and casement quiver in
Davenant Castle, while, between the gusts, the sound of the deep roar of
the sea on the rocks far below could be plainly heard. Mrs. Davenant was
sitting in a high-backed chair, on one side of the great fireplace, in
which a pile of logs was blazing. Her son had just laid down a book,
which he could no longer see to read, while her daughter-in-law was
industriously knitting. Walter was wandering restlessly between the fire
and the window, looking out at the flying clouds, through which the moon
occasionally struggled.
"Do sit down, Walter," his mother said at last. "You certainly are the
most restless creature I ever saw."
"Not always, mother; but I cannot help wondering about that ship we saw
down the coast, making for the bay. She was about ten miles out, and
seemed to be keeping her course when I saw her last, half an hour ago;
but I can see, by the clouds, that the wind has drawn round more to the
north, and I doubt much whether she will be able to gain the bay."
"In that case, Walter," his father said, "if her captain knows his
business, he will wear round and run down for Waterford.
"I agree with you," he continued, after walking to the window and
watching the clouds, "that a vessel coming from the south will hardly
weather Bray Head, with this wind."
He had scarcely spoken when the door opened, and one of the servants
entered.
"Your honour, a boy has just come up from the village. He says that John
Considine sent him to tell you that a large ship is driving in to shore,
and that he thinks she will strike not far from the village."
"Why, on earth," Mr. Davenant exclaimed, "doesn't he tack and stand out
to sea!"
"The boy says her foremast is gone, and they have lost all management of
her."
"In that case, God help them! There is little chance for them on this
rocky coast. However, I will go down at once, and see if anything can be
done.
"Katherine, do you see that there are plenty of hot blankets ready, in
case any of the poor fellows are washed ashore. I shall, of course, send
them up here.
"I suppose, Walter, you will come down with me."
But Walter had already disappeared, having slipped off as soon as he had
heard the message.
"Don't let that boy get into mischief, Fergus," old Mrs. Davenant said.
"I am afraid, mother, he is beyond me," her son said, with a smile. "No
Davenant yet could ever keep out of mischief, and Walter is no exception.
However, fortunately for us, we generally get out of scrapes as easily as
we get into them."
"Not always, Fergus," she said, shaking her head.
"No, not always, mother; but exceptions, you know, prove the rule."
"Well, Godfrey, do you want to go?" he asked the younger boy, who had
risen from the table, and was looking eagerly at him. "Of course you do;
but, mind, you must keep close to me.
"Ah, Father John!" he broke off, as an ecclesiastic, muffled up to the
throat in wrappings, entered the room. "Are you going down, too?"
"Assuredly I am, Fergus. You don't think a trifle of wind would keep me
from doing my duty?"
In another two minutes, the two men and Godfrey sallied out. They
staggered as the wind struck them, and Godfrey clung to his father's arm.
Not a word was spoken as they made their way down the steep descent to
the village, which consisted of about a dozen fishermen's huts. Indeed,
speaking would have been useless, for no word would have been heard above
the howling of the storm.
The vessel was visible to them, as they made their way down the hill. She
was a complete wreck. The light of the moon was sufficient for them to
see that she had, as the boy said, lost her foremast. Her sails were in
ribbons, and she was labouring heavily in the sea, each wave that struck
her breaking over her bows and sweeping along her deck. There was no hope
for her. She could neither tack nor wear, and no anchor would hold for a
moment on that rocky bottom, in such a sea.
On reaching the village, they joined a group of fishermen who were
standing under the shelter of the end of a cottage.
"Can nothing be done, Considine?" Mr. Davenant shouted, in the ear of one
of the fishermen.
"Not a thing, yer honour. She has just let drop one of her anchors."
"But they could not hope it would hold there," Mr. Davenant said.
"Not they, your honour, onless they were mad. They hoped it would hoult
so as to bring her head round; but the cable went, as soon as the strain
came. I saw her head go sharp up to the wind, and then fall off again;
not that it would have made much difference in the end, though it would
have given them half an hour longer of life."
"Could we get a boat off with a line, if she strikes?"
"Look at the sea, yer honour. Mr. Walter has been asking us; but there's
no boat could get through that surf, not if all Ireland dipinded on it."
"Where is Walter?"
"Sure and I can't tell ye, yer honour. He was here a few minutes since;
but what's come of him is more nor I can tell ye."
"He went off with Larry Doolan," a boy, who was standing next to the
fisherman, shouted.
"Then, as sure as fate, they are up to some mischief," Mr. Davenant said.
"Walter is bad enough by himself, but with Larry to help him, it would
take a regiment to look after them."
"They can't be in much mischief tonight, yer honour," the fisherman said.
"Look, sir, she's coming in fast. She draws a power of water, and she
will strike in a minute or two."
"She seems crowded with men. Can nothing be done to help them?" the
priest asked.
"Nothing, your reverence. Praying for them is the only thing that can
help the poor sowls now."
"You are sure it's not possible to launch a boat, Considine?"
"Look for yourself, yer honour. There's not a boat on the coast that
could get through them breakers."
"There she goes."
Even above the noise of the storm, a loud cry was heard, and the crash of
breaking timber as, with the shock, the main and mizzen masts, weakened
by the loss of the foremast, went over the sides. The next great wave
drove the vessel forward two or three fathoms.
"That's her last move," Considine said. "The rocks will be through her
bottom, now."
"They are off," a boy shouted, running up.
"Who are off?" Considine asked.
"The young squire and Larry Doolan."
"Off where?" Mr. Davenant exclaimed.
"Off in the curragh, yer honour. Me and Tim Connolly helped them carry it
round the Nose, and they launched her there. There they are. Sure you can
see them for yourself."
The party rushed out from the shelter, and there, a quarter of a mile
along on the right, a small boat was seen, making its way over the waves.
"Be jabers, yer honour, and they have done it," the boatmen said, as Mr.
Davenant gave a cry of alarm.
"I didn't think of the curragh, and if I had, she could not have been
launched here. Mr. Walter has hit on the only place where there was a
chance. Under the shelter of the Nose it might be done, but nowhere
else."
The Nose was a formidable reef of rocks, running off from a point and
trending to the south. Many a ship had gone ashore on its jagged edge,
but, with the wind from the northeast, it formed somewhat of a shelter,
and it was under its lee that Walter and Larry had launched the curragh.
The curragh is still found on the Irish coast. It is a boat whose
greatest width is at the stern, so much so that it looks like a boat cut
in two. The floor is almost flat, and rises so much to the bow that three
or four feet are entirely out of water. They are roughly built, and by no
means fast, but they are wonderfully good sea boats, for their size, and
can live in seas which would swamp a boat of ordinary build.
Walter had, with the assistance of Larry Doolan, built this boat for
going out fishing. It was extremely light, being a mere framework covered
with tarred canvas. As soon as Walter had reached the village, and found
that the fishermen considered that no boat could possibly be put out, he
had found and held a consultation with Larry.
"Do you think the curragh could go out, Larry?"
"Not she, yer honour. She would just be broke up like an eggshell with
them breakers."
"But she might float, if we got beyond them, Larry."
"She might that," Larry agreed, "seeing how light she is."
"Well, will you go with me, Larry?"
"Sure and I would go anywhere with yer honour, but she could never get
out."
"I am thinking, Larry, that if we carry her along beyond the Nose, we
might find it calmer there."
"Well, we might," Larry agreed. "At any rate, we can try."
So, calling together two or three other boys, they had lifted the light
boat and carried it with its oars along the shore, until they got beyond
the Nose; but even here, it was a formidable business to launch her, for,
although the rocks broke the full force of the seas, throwing the spray
hundreds of feet up in the air, the waves poured through the intervals,
and dashed over the lower rocks in such masses that formidable waves
rolled in to the shore.
After much consultation, the boys agreed that their best plan was to
scramble out on the rocks as far as possible, so as to launch the boat
beyond the break of the surf.
It was a hazardous enterprise, and the whole party were, several times,
nearly washed into the water as they struggled out. At last, they reached
a spot beyond which they could go no farther, as a deep passage was here
broken in the rock. But they were now beyond the line of breakers.
After several vain efforts to launch the boat, in each of which she
narrowly escaped destruction, they agreed that the only plan was, after a
wave passed, to drop her on to a flat rock, which then showed above the
water, and to jump into her.
The two boys on shore were to hold the head rope, to prevent her being
dashed towards the land by the next wave, while Larry worked with the
oars to get her away from the ridge. The moment the wave had passed under
them, the head rope was to be thrown off.
This plan was carried out. The two boys had but just time to jump into
the boat and get out their oars, when the next wave lifted the boat high
on its crest. The lads holding the rope were nearly torn from the rock,
but they held on till the strain ceased, then they threw in the rope, and
Walter and Larry bent to their oars.
"Row easy, Larry," Walter said, as the next wave passed under them, "and
put her head to each wave."
Terrible as was the sea, the curragh floated buoyantly over it, though
several times, as she rose to the steep waves, Walter thought that she
would be thrown right over. The worst part of their task was over, when
they got beyond the end of the Nose, for up to that point they were
forced to row across the course of the waves, and continually to turn the
boat, to face the great masses of water which ran between the rocks. But
once beyond the end of the reef they turned her head north, and rowed
straight towards the ship.
"She has struck, Master Walter," Larry said, glancing over his shoulder,
"and her masts are gone."
"Lay out, then, Larry, there's no time to lose."
But, in spite of their efforts, the boat moved but slowly through the
water, for the wind caught her high bow with such force that, at times,
it needed all their strength and skill to keep her head straight. At last
they were close to the ship, which already showed signs of breaking up.
They ranged up alongside of it.
"Fasten a line to a keg and throw it in," Walter shouted.
In a minute, a keg was thrown overboard with a line attached. As soon as
it drifted a little way from the vessel's side, they hauled it into the
boat.
"Now, back, Larry; these waves would sink us in a moment, if we turn our
stern to them."
The wreck lay within a hundred yards of the shore, and the boat backed
until close to the line where the waves toppled over in a torrent of
foam.
"Now, Larry, keep her steady. We are as near as we dare go."
Then Walter stood up in the boat, took the keg and a foot or two of line
in his hand, and waited till the next wave passed under the boat. He
swung the keg round his head, and hurled it towards the shore. Then he
dropped into his seat, and gave two or three vigorous strokes, and, when
safely beyond the line of breakers, sat quiet and watched the result.
"They have missed it the first time," he said. "Look! They are going to
run into the surf for it."
The group on the shore joined hands, and the next time the keg was borne
forward, in the tumble of foam, Considine ran forward and seized it. The
back rush took him from his feet, but the others held on, and before the
next wave came, the line was safely on the beach. A strong cable was soon
pulled ashore and firmly fixed. A light line was attached to it, and the
sailors at once began to pass along.
"Shall we turn back now, Master Walter?"
"We will keep near the wreck for a few minutes longer, Larry. She can't
hold together long, and maybe we can pick somebody up."
The vessel was indeed breaking up fast. Her stern was burst in, and the
waves, as they poured in at the opening, smashed up the deck. Many of the
crew had been washed overboard, and had instantly disappeared.
As the boat approached the wreck, an officer, who had climbed the
shrouds, shouted out:
"Will your boat hold another?"
"Yes," Walter shouted back. "She will hold two more."
"I will try and swim to you," the officer said.
He threw off the long cloak, in which he was wrapped, and unbuckled his
sword and let it drop, unbuttoned and took off his military coat, and,
with some difficulty, got rid of his high boots.
"Can you come a bit nearer?" he shouted.
"We daren't," Walter said. "A touch from one of those floating timbers
would send us to the bottom."
The officer waved his hand, and then sprang head foremost into the sea.
So long was he in the water, that Walter began to think he must have
struck against something, and was not coming up again; when suddenly he
appeared, within twenty yards of the boat. They rowed towards him,
instantly.
"You must get in over the stern," Walter said.
The officer was perfectly cool, and, placing his hands on the stern, drew
himself partly over it, and Walter, grasping his hand, dragged him in. No
sooner was he in, than Walter again hailed the wreck.
"We can carry one more."
But those who were still on board were huddled up in the bow, waiting
their turn for the rope.
"There is a big un coming now," Larry exclaimed. "That will finish her."
A wave, towering far above its fellows, was indeed approaching. Higher
and higher it rose. There was a wild cry from the wreck as it surged over
it. When it had passed, the sea was covered with floating timbers, but
the vessel was gone.
"We can do nothing now," Walter said. "We daren't go in among that
wreckage, and any who get hold of floating planks will drift ashore.
"Now, Larry, back quietly, and let her drift down round the Nose. We must
keep her head to the waves."
Ten minutes, and they were abreast of the reef. As soon as they were past
it, Walter gave the word, and they rowed along, under its shelter, to the
point where they had embarked.
"Now, sir," Walter said, "we will back her up to that rock. When we are
close enough, you must jump."
This was safely accomplished.
"Now, Larry, row alongside when the next wave comes. We must both
scramble out as well as we can."
But by this time help was at hand. The boat had been anxiously watched
from the shore, and when, on the disappearance of the wreck, she was seen
to be making her way back to the Nose, Mr. Davenant, with Considine and
the priest, and the boys who had assisted in getting her afloat, hurried
along the shore to meet her, the rest of the fishermen remaining behind,
to aid any who might be washed up from the wreck.
As soon as it was seen that they intended to land at the spot where they
had started, Considine and Mr. Davenant made their way along the rock,
and joined the officer just as he leapt ashore. The boat came alongside
on the top of the wave, and as this sank it grazed the rock and capsized,
but Walter and Larry grasped the hands stretched out to them, and were
hauled on to the rock, while the next wave dashed the curragh in
fragments on the beach.