cruising around the North Seas, with a crew of foreigners, and a
shipmaster she doesn't know.... I'll bring the bi--the boat in...."
§ 12
They left the city of strange ugly women, with great spirit in their
faces, and great bearing to the body of them, and of slim cat-like men,
who had great power in their eyes.... A very beautiful city of churches
and hammered brass ... a place of high rarefied thinking and savage
animal passion.... They left it on a July morning with the sun high....
And they sailed east, sou'east down the Gulf of Finland, until Dago
Island was on their port quarter....
And they rolled down the Baltic Sea, sailing sou'-sou'west, until they
passed Gotland, and they edged west again, leaving Bornholm to port....
And they sailed past Malmö into the Sound, heading north for the
Cattegat.... They turned the Skaw and swung her into the Skage-Rack....
And the wind held....
And once out of there, they pointed her nose nor'west by nor' as though
Iceland were only a buoy in a yacht-race.... And the wind held.... The
summer nights of the North were on them, the unearthly beauty of the
light.... There was no world.... They were sailing on the Milky Way....
Only the gurgle of the water at the bows, the _whush_ of the wake
beneath the counter, held them as by a thin umbilical cord to the world
of men.... The _whap-whap-whap_ of the cordage.... The _ting-ting-ting_
of the helmsman's bell.... The cry for'a'd: "The lights are burning
bright, sir!" ...
§ 13
The gaunt Shetlands were on their starboard beam now, the dun Orkneys
off the port bow. Sumburgh Head dropped away, and they headed due
west.... The waves were laughing, the sun rose in a great explosion
abaft of them.... The world was a very small place.... The universe so
large.... At dawn the gulls chattered and whined, and screamed until
they felt immense loneliness.... One seemed to be intruding in a world
of white feathers and cold inimical eyes, and complaints in a language
one could not understand.... So lonely ... so undefiled ... the home of
the great whale.... Here was the world as God first made it ... clean
and beautiful and absolute.... Up here steam engines seemed ridiculous
toys.... In winter the sleek seal and the great white bear.... And the
great crying of the gulls.... One thought of Adelina Patti's great
singing and wondered did it matter a lot.
And they swung sou'west by sou' to leave the Hebrides to port. They were
on the last leg of the voyage, and the wind still held....
"O Shane, it's wonderful...." She had come on deck in her man's
clothing.... She was so tall, so slim, her legs so long, it seemed some
pleasant feminine fancy of hers, not a material adaptation of the life
on board ship. "The wind will hold until we get there."
"I don't like it," Shane grumbled.
"Why, Shane? Why don't you like it?"
"We're too lucky."
"It isn't luck, Shane. It's the will of God."
"Hmm!"
"Granya!"
"Yes, Shane."
"I've just been thinking. Why couldn't you conspirators have chosen a
better time of the year than August for landing your arms? There's only
about two hours of night."
"Because, Shane, the arms must be ready for autumn, when the harvest is
in. That's the best time for a revolution. And the arms must be
distributed. And the men must drill a little. Now is our only time."
"Hmm."
"O Shane, I wish you would be a little enthusiastic."
"Enthusiastic? At forty-nine!"
"Are you forty-nine, Shane? You don't seem thirty-nine. None could tell
but for the little gray in your hair.... And Shane...."
"Yes!"
"I like your hair rumpled a little with the sea-air ... much better than
when it is sleek in Antrim.... Shane, you don't know how well you look
on board ship."
"Ooh, be damned to that.... Mr. Janseen, get them to lay aft, and see if
you can't get a little more out of that mizzen.... A little more pocket
in the luff." ...
§ 14
They passed the Butt of Lewis, sailing due sou'west.... To port they
left the Seven Hunters, changing the course to sou'west by sou'.... The
Hebrides passed them like islands in a dream, purple, gleaming strangely
in the sunlight, now a black shower whipping over them, now sunshine
pouring in great floods.... Lewis went by, and then Harris.... North
Uist where the winds blow so hard they have an old word: _Is traugh fear
na droiche air mhachair Uistibh_: 'Tis a pity of the slut's husband on
the plains of Uist.... You'll be needing buttons on your coat there....
They passed Rona of the Seals, and Benbecula.... They passed South Uist
and Eriskay.... They passed the Ponboy Isles.... The islands of the Cat
they called them in Gaelic.... Faintly they saw the mists of Hecla ...
heard the curlews.... They saw fishing-boats with great brown sails....
Honk-honk of wild ganders in the distance, and occasionally the _chugh_
of a diving bird.... The wind blew from the nor'west.... The foam
snarled beneath the bows....
"I don't like it.... I don't like it...."
"Shane, it is wonderful.... God is with us."
"Hunh...." He saw the weather leaches flick.... "Don't let her come up,"
he roared at the helmsman. "Steer her, you Swede bastard.... Where the
hell did you ever steer before? On a canal?"
"Shane!"
"What is it, Granya?"
"Your language, Shane!"
"Listen, Granya.... I'm not playing a comedy.... I'm sailing a ship ...
that's on an errand I don't like.... If you don't like my language, get
below...."
"Sorry, Shane!" She said with a meek courtesy. She stayed....
They passed Skerryvore.... They passed Dhu Heartach, Colonsay, Islay of
McCrimmin.... Iristrahull was on the weather beam.... They swung
eastward.... Irishowen Head showed off the port bow.... On an August
afternoon, they slipped into Lough Foyle....
§ 15
The soft luminosity of a summer night was in it ... and a little moon,
which Shane damned.... Before them rose the outline of Donegal.... On
each beam they could see faintly the outlines of the bay's arms.... The
schooner moved under jibs and mizzen.... From the bow was the splash of
the lead....
"By the mark, fine!"
"Luff her a little, a little more ... steady!"
"Four fathoms, no bottom!"
"Keep her off a point!"
"By the deep, four!"
"How's the bottom?"
"Clean and sandy, sir!"
"No bottom at three!"
"Ready for'a'd to let go?"
"All ready, sir!"
"The mark three, no bottom!"
"Lee--o!... Hold her!"
The long swish of oars, the rattle of oar-locks.... A voice rapping out:
"Rest on the oars!" And then: "Schooner ahoy!"
Shane's heart sank. He gave no answer.
"What ship is that?" The voice rang over the little bay ... found a
grotesque echo in some cliff....
"Who are you?"
"His Majesty's coast-guards. Stand by. Coming aboard. Lay on your oars,
men!"
And then ... a long instant.... "Toss oars!"
"Bring her into the wind!" Shane ordered....
A scramble alongside, and some one was coming over the waist rail.... A
firm step on deck.... Some one was smiling....
"My name's Flannagan, Lieutenant Flannagan.... Sorry, Mr. Campbell, we
can't let you land ... your cargo or your passenger...."
"I don't understand."
"Well, sir, we know what your cargo is, and my orders are not to let you
land. And I was to tell you, sir, that you couldn't land anywhere."
"By God! I knew it would end like this.... Are we under arrest?"
"No, sir.... You are just not to land. I'm sorry, sir, but.... Orders!"
"Then what the blazes am I going to do?"
"Jove, I don't know. Can't you bring the cargo back where you got it?"
"I suppose I'll have to do that. But my passenger.... I can put her
ashore."
"I'm sorry, sir. But your passenger can't go ashore, anywhere, any time,
in her Majesty's dominions."
"Hmm!"
He heard her quick step on the companionway.
"Shane."
"Shane, are you there?"
"Shane, Shane, what's wrong?" She came into the shrouded light of the
binnacle. "Shane, who--who is this?"
"My name's Flannagan, Miss O'Malley--royal navy--I'm sorry; you can't
land."
"What does it mean, Shane?"
"You're beaten, Granya."
"Are we prisoners?"
"No, Miss O'Malley, just you can't land. And I'm very distressed to tell
you.... You may not land anywhere, any time, in her Majesty's
dominions."
"That doesn't shut out Mr. Campbell, does it?"
"I've no orders against him, Miss O'Malley, barring his landing his
cargo or you...."
She laid her hand on Shane's arm....
"I'm sorry, Shane.... I'm very sorry, my dear--dear friend.... You were
so good.... There are few--would have sacrificed their time and
profession, and everything--to help a woman on a wild-goose ideal!--like
mine was.... So please forgive me!"
"There's nothing to forgive, Granya...."
"I want to do this ..." she leaned forward and kissed him.... The
lieutenant turned away. "And now good-by."
"Why good-by? I'm not going ashore. I'll stick."
"Dear Shane, you would." She caught his hand, pressed, dropped it. Her
voice rang out: "But I'm going ashore...." She had swung over the
taffrail and dropped into the water with the soft splash of a fish....
"My God ...!" Shane swore with rage. "Wait. I'll get her. Will you stand
by with your boat?"
"Right-o!" Flannagan answered cheerily.
Shane kicked off his shoes, slipped out of his coat.... "This damned
woman!" he thought as he dropped astern, came out, began to cast for
direction like an otter-hound.... He heard her soft rhythmical strokes
ahead.... He tore after her ... caught up ... reached her shoulder....
"Come back, Granya!"
"No, Shane."
He had decided, once he reached her, to turn her back by force, but the
strange gentle voice restrained him. All this matter of Ireland, all
this expedition of opera bouffe, took on again a strange dimension when
she spoke.... All the time he had been foolish, he knew, and, worse,
looked like a fool, but some strange magic of her voice made it seem
natural ... the naïve brave gestures.... One levitated above common
ground.... Even this moon-madness did not seem trivial and a thing for
laughter.... A dignity of ancient stories was on it.... The blue Irish
hills, soft as down, the little moon, and the tide hurrying out of the
lough to the great Atlantic.... A wrench of the will and he gripped her
shoulder:
"Shane, please don't!"
"You're coming back, Granya."
"I'm not, Shane, and please don't hold me. I'm getting weak."
"You'll never make it, Granya. And if you did, where would you go on the
Donegal hills?"
"I don't know, Shane. But please let me go, I implore you.... Even if I
do go down.... Don't you see? There is nothing for me but this, or
death.... My life.... O Shane, let me go!"
"Quiet, Granya!" He caught her wrist.
"Please, Shane. Please. I pray of you...." She began to twist.... "O
Shane, you hurt."
"Quiet, Granya. Boat--o!"
The lantern of the coast-guards' cutter came nearer.... The measured
swish of the oars ... the creak.... She began to struggle fiercely....
"Granya, if you don't keep quiet, I'll have to hit you...."
"O Shane!" she whimpered....
"All right Get her on board. Steady, there. Trim a little. Good!"
Flannagan and a great bearded coast-guard had her.... The silence was
broken with her little sobs.... He helped her over the waist of the
schooner....
"Go below, Granya, and get into some dry clothes.... Mr. Flannagan, I'll
take the boat back to St. Petersburg.... If Miss O'Malley doesn't land
neither do I. May I send a letter ashore? It's only about business, and
the place in the glens...."
"I'll take it and have it sent."
"Another thing; we want to get some provisions and water."
"Of course, sir.... That's all right."
"Do you think one of the country girls could be persuaded to come on
board as Miss O'Malley's maid?"
"I think so. We'll ask the local priest."
"Oh, yes, the priest.... Another thing: do you think you could dig out a
parson around here somewhere and bring him on board?"
"O Shane, what do you want that for?" She hadn't gone below, but waited
in the companionway.
"You don't think you're going wandering around with me, casually, like
this?"
"But it's only to St. Petersburg, Shane!"
"And then where do you go? What do you do?"
"I--I--I don't know."
"Better get the parson, Mr. Flannagan."
"Oh, but Shane--" she protested.
"Go below, Granya, and get those wet things off.... And get into women's
clothes.... Granya!"
"Yes, Shane.... Very well, Shane...."
PART SEVEN
THE KINGDOM AND THE POWER AND THE GLORY
§ 1
He felt a little ashamed, a little shy, what with his gray hairs, his
paternity, that there should still be a thrill in his heart, a sense of
flight in him. At fifty-eight to feel like a schoolboy going home, it
seemed--well, not indecent, indecorous. This thing of returning to
Antrim had been a matter of pure reason, and then suddenly his heart had
spread forgotten wings.
Without, the sound of Broadway had changed subtly, with the coming of
the September dusk. The quick-pacing people had given way to the
_clop-clop-clop_ of hansom-cabs, and the tram-cars with their tired
horses came less frequently now. One felt that a giant had been at work
all day, and was now stretching himself, not lazily, but a little
relaxingly. Soon the great lamps would flare, and the crowds would be
going to the playhouses: to Tony Pastor's to see the new play, "Dreams,"
or to Harrigan & Hart's to see "Investigation," or to Mr. Bartley
Campbell's latest, "Separation," at the Grand Opera-house. He would miss
all this in Antrim, but Antrim called him.... Antrim, our mother....
And three months ago he had never thought this possible. He had drilled
himself into a mature philosophy, saying: "It doesn't matter that I
never see Ireland again. I am happy here with Granya and young Alan and
Robin Beg, little Robin. All the folks are kindly and the country is a
great country, and when my time comes to die there are sweet little
places on Long Island where they can lay me within sound of the sea, and
the gentle snow will come and cover me in winter and in summer somewhere
about me the dogwood will blow, and the very green grass come. And
perhaps some young children will come and play around my grave, and I
shall hear their little gurgling laughter, sweet as the voices of
pigeons.... And one day Granya will come.... Nothing is more certain
than that, that Granya will come...."
But all the philosophy in the world could not shut from his ears the
little piping of Antrim. He would say: "'Tis little thought I gave to
Antrim and I a young man! And what is a town or so to me, who have seen
all great cities?" And again he said: "Didn't you give up Antrim gladly
when you got Granya? Wasn't she worth a hundred Antrims?" And his heart
and mind answered: "Yes, a thousand Antrims!" But, a very queer thing,
the little haunting melody of the glens would not be stilled.
And it came to him thus: I am no longer a young man. For all I look
forty-five, as they tell me, yet I am fifty-eight. The life of the body
is over now. That had passed, as a mood passes. And the mind is fixed.
In what remains of life to me, I must think, divine, weigh. One
prepares.... And thoughts must not be disturbed. To grow old in a city
that is ever young, that is in its twenties itself as it were--it makes
an old man cold and afraid. Old buildings he has known to go down, old
streets are obliterated. It is a very terrible thing to be lonely when
old, and to feel everything passes, dies.... All I have loved is thrown
away, is of no use.... Everything old is in the way, and I am old....
The hawk-eyed commercial men go about so that the streets are filled
with them.... And all the sweet things that were said in Galilee seem
only a casual all-but-forgotten melody, and no revelation.... And then
comes a horrible memory of stark Ecclesiastes: "The dead know not
anything, neither have they any more a reward; for the memory of them is
forgotten. Also their love, and their hatred, and their envy, is now
perished; neither have they any more a portion for ever in any thing
that is done under the sun." And old men remember the sorrowful things
of their life, and how little happiness measured up to the misery and
toil of life, and they had hoped.... But there were the words of the
preacher: "Neither have they any more a reward".... And secretly and
quietly old men weep....
But to grow old with the mountains and the eternal sea, and to watch the
delicate bells of the heather, to know the quiet companionship of
dogs--there is a revelation in it. No, nothing dies. And the moon rises
and the mountains nod: Yes, I remember you when you were a schoolboy,
running to be on time. And the green waves make a pleasant laughter: We
are here. When you arise in the morning you may be certain we are here.
The friends of one's young days die, scatter, are lost. But the
mountains and the water are friends forever. One can speak to them. One
can speak to ancient trees. And the leaves rustle....
And Granya had sensed it.... He might have known she would. Conceal it
as he might try, a mysterious telepathy was between them.... She
knew....
It was she who had gone to the British embassy in Washington, telling
Shane nothing. He had heard of it afterward. She hadn't pleaded or given
any promises. She had just flared in to the startled envoy.
"I wish to go back to Ireland."
"Unfortunately, the privy council had the matter of Miss O'Malley--"
"I am not Miss O'Malley. I am Shane Campbell's wife."
"But you are a dangerous enemy to the empire!"
"Am I? I had forgotten completely about the empire."
"There was a little matter of a shipload of rifles--"
"And now it is a matter of a husband and two children."
"Sure, Miss O'Malley?"
"I am not Miss O'Malley. I am Shane Campbell's wife. And I'm absolutely
sure."
It had been so easy after all.
And now when it was true, it was hard to credit. Within two weeks the
ship would swing to port around Donegal, and they would enter the bay
they had entered seven years ago, seven years and a month ago, to be
exact. He wondered whether it would be a foggy morning, or a great
golden afternoon. It was a pity it had to be on board a steamship,
though. He would liefer have luffed in on board a boat of his own, a
great suit of snowy canvas drawing joyously the Irish wind.
§ 2
Upstairs he could hear and distinguish the feet in the nursery. There
was the patter of little Alan's feet, and the stumble of Robin Beg's.
There was the shuffle of the nurse-maid, and the firm light tread of
Granya. Soon she would come down, after the children were safely to bed,
and little Alan's prayers were heard. And they would go out to dinner in
New York for the last time. It was a little pang to leave New York....
Ah, but Antrim!
He picked up his paper and read while waiting.... It was queer how he
could hardly focus his attention on it, impatient for her as a schoolboy
for his first love.... Always when she entered a room came beauty....
Well, she would come.... The type took form beneath his eyes.... The
races at Sheepshead Bay: Tom Martin had captured the Twin City
Handicap.... In Ireland they would go to the Curragh and Baldoyle to
see the horses, and the Dublin horse-show, and the hunts on a frosty
morning.... What was this? Heavy bets laid that Cleveland would be next
President. The Irish wouldn't like that. They were all for Blaine. It
was only the other night that Mrs. Delia Parnell, Parnell's mother, had
attended the great Irish rally in the Academy of Music.... That was a
mistake, mixing up Irish politics with American statesmanship. There
would be folk to resent that, and rightly, too.... Too much talk of
dynamite, and that horrible thing in Phoenix Park.... What an
involved, emotional affair all this Irish matter was!... To understand
Ireland one must understand Irishmen, that either hatred or love rule
them.... Parnell, though, looked hopeful. No emotion, all brains and
will.... He could not be side-tracked by preferment, or religion, or
love for women. There was a man whose head was firm on his shoulders; he
would never be wrecked.... Ah, here was something Granya would be glad
to hear: Margaret Mather got a splendid reception in Pittsburg with her
_Lady Macbeth_.... Whew! Cholera at Naples. That was serious! Not an
over-clean people, the Italians.... Li Hung Chang degraded of his
titles. Who the blazes was Li Hung Chang anyway, and what titles did he
have?... And Major Kitchener disperses the Berber tribes.... How
unimportant! Ah, here was something. Great gambling reported on the
_City of Rome_. Ah, there was what he always contended, that steam would
ruin everything. The great sea a resort for gamblers! In the old days,
in sail, when a captain was a captain, he'd have had none of that on
board clean timbers.... He was a little afraid the world was going to
the dogs!
Och! Was that woman never coming down at all, at all?
He smiled to himself at how the Ulster speech came back to him at the
thought of Ulster.... He turned to the paper with an effort of will....
An Indian outbreak feared in western Montana.... Stanley going to
Egypt.... Policeman beaten up in Brooklyn; a tough place, Brooklyn!...
American schooner arrested by Russian corvette for selling rum to Bering
Strait natives: a very strict modern people, the Russians.... Picnics on
Staten Island blamed for ruin of young girls.... And Bismarck and the
pope still sparring. Did that poor German think he could ever get the
better of the subtle Romans ...? Och, what was keeping that woman?
The light had become so dim that he could hardly read. The tempo
without quickened. People were hurrying now, on their way to the
restaurants for the evening meal. From the restaurants to the theater.
Home to sleep. And a new day with the old work facing them. There was a
fascination, a hypnosis to New York. He felt a pang at leaving it. It
had been very friendly to him. And he would never see it again.... Ah,
but he would remember it!
§ 3
It came to him with a sense of revelation that all his life he had been
looking forward: always the new thing. And now he would be looking back.
Always before guessing. Looking back now, knowing, or not quite knowing,
but having before him material from which to draw wisdom, truth. All his
life it seemed he had been gathering something. Now was the time to sort
it, make it.... And then, what was he to do with whatever he had made?
Toward what end? The paper he had in his hands dropped to his knees. His
eyes fixed on the windows where the lights of the city began to shine,
saw a haze, saw nothing. His ears, listening to the _clop-clop-clop_ of
the hansoms, heard only rhythm, then a faint harmony, then nothing....
Himself, within him, seemed to see old scenes, to be in old scenes. The
little boy going down to the sea in ships, seeking an island he had seen
in a mirage ... a mood of wonder.... There were feet, there was the
world. Every tree was an emerald miracle, every house a mystery, all
people were riddles.... Come, little boy, come and look! The instinct of
the salmon for the sea. The river where he was spawned hurries to the
sea, and his instinct is to go with it, not against it.... It deepens
and broadens, and ahead is always a clearer pool, a more shadowy rock, a
softer water-fern. It is pleasant to swim under the sallow-branches, and
rapids whip.... And there is the lull of an estuary, and the
_chush-chush_ of little waves, and he is in the sea.... And now he must
lay his own course.... The lure of the river has brought him so far.
And Shane thought: I was born a salmon in a river. The stupid pretty
trout remained in the river, and the secretive eels.... And the perch
and the roach and the ponderous bream, and the pike that is long of
snout, they remained by the grassy waters.... But those that are born
salmon must go down to the sea....