The crew of the _Kestrel_ consisted of less than fifty men, most of them
Irishmen. While the work of setting sails and making all snug lasted I
had little chance of looking about me, but the impression I formed was
that the schooner was not at all worthy of the praise her tipsy captain
had bestowed upon her. She was an old craft, with a labouring way of
sailing that compared very unfavourably with the _Cigale_ or the
_Arrow_. Her guns, about a dozen in all, were of an antiquated type,
and badly mounted, and her timbers were old and faulty. As long as we
had a sharp east wind astern we had not much to concern us, but I had my
misgivings how she would behave in dirty weather with a lee-shore on her
quarter.
That, however, concerned me less just then than my impatience to get a
glimpse of the face of the lieutenant. I volunteered for an extra watch
for this purpose, and longed for some excuse to take me aft.
Sure enough it came. The same voice rang out again through the
darkness:--
"Hand there! come and set the stern light."
"Ay, ay, sir," cried I, hurrying to the place.
For the first hour or so after slipping our moorings off Havre the
_Kestrel_ had remained in perfect darkness. But now that we were beyond
sight of the lights ashore there was no occasion for so dangerous a
precaution. I unlashed the lantern and took it down to the galley for a
light, and then returned with it to the helm.
As I did so I could not help turning it full on the face of the man at
the tiller.
Sure enough it was Tim, grown into a man, with down on his chin, and the
weather wrinkles at the corner of his eyes. Every inch a sailor and a
gentleman he looked as he stood there in his blue flannel suit and
peaked cap; the same easy-going, gusty, reckless Tim I had fought with
many a time on Fanad cliffs, loving him more for every blow I gave him.
When I thought I had lost him, it seemed as if I had lost a part of
myself. Now I had found him, I had found myself.
"Look alive, my lad," said he.
Without a word I fixed the light in its place. I had never, I think,
felt so shy and at a loss in my life.
At last I could stand it no longer.
"Tim, old man, is that really you?"
He staggered at the sound of my voice, just as I had staggered at the
sound of his, and let go the helm.
"Saint Patrick! it's Barry."
And I felt his hand on my shoulder, and heard him give a little laugh of
wonder.
"Fetch that light! Let me have a look at you!"
I obeyed, and it would be hard to say which side of the lantern, as it
swung between us, witnessed the greatest wonder.
"Look to the helm," said I. "She's falling off a point or two."
"Ha, ha!" said the joyous Tim, "to think of me manning the helm with you
on the ship. Take you it, you dog you, and spin us your yarn."
"Not till you tell me how you came to life again. I heard the _Cigale_
was lost with all hands."
"Except one," said Tim. "Father might have escaped too, but he was so
ashamed to have run the ship on the rock that nothing would drag him
from her. I held on to a spar for a whole day, and drifted to within a
swim of Tory Island, where for a whole month I waited to get across. I
heard you had been drowned in the Swilly, and Knockowen was empty, so I
made my way to Sligo, and Keogh, an old mate of father's, gave me a
berth on this crock of a boat. As I could talk French and knew
something of the business, he called me lieutenant--me that hates the
sea like the very mischief, and French lace worse than that! I tell
you, Barry, even if I hadn't found you, this would have been my last
voyage. There's other work for you and me."
"What work is that?"
"The work of Ireland! There's a new age dawning there, and you and I
will be in it. The chains are dropping right and left, and the poor
prisoner is struggling from his knees to his feet. We shall live in a
free country of our own before long, Barry, my boy--free because she has
learned to help herself, and will remain the plaything or the slave of
others no longer. France is free; she has learned to help herself. We
in Ireland have our Bastille to storm and our feudalism to destroy."
He spoke with a glow on his cheeks and a fire in his eyes that quite
took me aback, and made it hard to recognise the Tim of old days.
"I could tell you something about this glorious freedom in France," said
I, with a jerk of my head in the direction of that accursed land.
"You shall; and mark me, Ireland will not be a pace behind her."
"God forbid!" said I.
"But you haven't told me your story yet," said he, carrying the lamp
back to its place, as if he were the seaman and I at the helm the
officer.
Then I told him all, not omitting my love for Miss Kit, or my disgust
for the Republic One and Indivisible.
He heard me with evident disquiet.
"I am sorry about the girl," said he bluntly. "She may be all you say,
but Ireland wants you heart and soul just now. It is no time for
dancing attendance on ladies."
"For all I know she lies buried under the guillotine," said I.
"Oh no, she does not," said Tim. "She and her mother are back at
Knockowen, so I was told a month ago, before we sailed on this voyage."