pledge on the day o’ our meetin’,” Vinnie said finally.
“You’ll take it this night or there’s no meetin’.”
“He’ll tan the livin’ hide off me,” the boy said.
“You’ll put them back without him knowin’ it.”
“And how’ll I do that and him stretched there over the bag o’ them?”
“You’ll get the one to distract him was partners with you in the first place. She’s a grand distraction to a man.”
“She’d laugh at me, Dennis, was I to ast her.”
“Oh worry the chains that bind us!” Dennis cried. “You’ll part wi’ them sovereigns or part with me, and you can find your own way to it while I’m gropin’ here in the dark.”
“I’ll distribute the worth o’ them t’ the poor when we’re landed,” the boy tried again, having been so counseled by more than one priest in confession.
“You’ll distribute them to the man who owns them and there’s an end of it.”
“I wisht they was in the bottom o’ the sea,” Vinnie said. “I’d better go now. The priest got us up a while and if I’m clapped out it’ll be worse nor if I was clapped in.”
“There’s a word I want you to take up with you,” Dennis said. “I want you to go to the one behavin’ himself a priest in the mornin’. You’re to tell him for me, he’s to get me out o’ here afore nightfall or I’ll unfrock him before man and God.”
“E-e-e, Dennis, I couldn’t say that to him. He’d ha’ me on me knees, haily-holyin’ all the way to New York.”
“Say it. I give yous my word, it’ll cost you no penance.”
“Yer off yer nut truly,” the boy said, “but I’ll tell him you sent me. Can ye turn me now the way I’ll find the ladder?”
Dennis put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and taking measure of where they stood, faced him toward the ladder. “God be with you, Vinnie Dunne, and bless you for what you’ve done this night.”
“And make me an honest man,” the boy added fervently.
8
A NORTHEAST WIND BLEW up before morning lifting the fog and filling one after another of the sails unfurled to it in the dawn. Every man of the crew sucked its freshness into his lungs and gave thanks. The Valiant had been wasting for days in the natural bed of a hurricane and in the season, but no storm had taken her. Now she rose up as might a maid in flight and scattered the foam about her like petticoat frills. The strong wind holding, a tall man could spit with it to the shore before the week was out.
Lavery, who got his first decent meal—a chunk of salt meat and molasses on his biscuit—and a civil word from his jailer, thought Vinnie had been marvelously quick in carrying his message to Farrell. That Farrell was thick with the captain, he did not doubt. As thick as treacle, he told himself, licking the plate for the last of its sweetness. It was the way with Young Ireland, a pack of gentlemen shaking hands with the poor to get the feel of them and poking snuff up their noses to be rid of the smell of them. Oh, they were up to snuff all right.
His next visitor took the shackle from his leg. “I’ll be catchin’ me death o’ cold without that,” Lavery said.
“You’ll catch something if you’re as free with your tongue to the captain. Up you go there, lad!”
“Are ye springin’ me?”
“Eh?” the sailor said. “Springing you, that’s bloody good. But let me give you a bit of advice, my lad. Don’t try it on the captain. He likes his humor from his equals, he does. Even the mate don’t make a joke to him. Leastaways before the men he don’t. Move along there, can’t you?”
I can and I can’t, Dennis thought, thankful for the palaver which covered his weakness. Suddenly, the daylight closing his eyes on him as he met it at the foot of the ladder, he was beset by withering fear. A dozen terrors stabbed at him like the pains in his eyes—fear of the light itself, of people, his first moment back amongst his fellow passengers with his head matted and his
“You’ll take it this night or there’s no meetin’.”
“He’ll tan the livin’ hide off me,” the boy said.
“You’ll put them back without him knowin’ it.”
“And how’ll I do that and him stretched there over the bag o’ them?”
“You’ll get the one to distract him was partners with you in the first place. She’s a grand distraction to a man.”
“She’d laugh at me, Dennis, was I to ast her.”
“Oh worry the chains that bind us!” Dennis cried. “You’ll part wi’ them sovereigns or part with me, and you can find your own way to it while I’m gropin’ here in the dark.”
“I’ll distribute the worth o’ them t’ the poor when we’re landed,” the boy tried again, having been so counseled by more than one priest in confession.
“You’ll distribute them to the man who owns them and there’s an end of it.”
“I wisht they was in the bottom o’ the sea,” Vinnie said. “I’d better go now. The priest got us up a while and if I’m clapped out it’ll be worse nor if I was clapped in.”
“There’s a word I want you to take up with you,” Dennis said. “I want you to go to the one behavin’ himself a priest in the mornin’. You’re to tell him for me, he’s to get me out o’ here afore nightfall or I’ll unfrock him before man and God.”
“E-e-e, Dennis, I couldn’t say that to him. He’d ha’ me on me knees, haily-holyin’ all the way to New York.”
“Say it. I give yous my word, it’ll cost you no penance.”
“Yer off yer nut truly,” the boy said, “but I’ll tell him you sent me. Can ye turn me now the way I’ll find the ladder?”
Dennis put his hands on the boy’s shoulders, and taking measure of where they stood, faced him toward the ladder. “God be with you, Vinnie Dunne, and bless you for what you’ve done this night.”
“And make me an honest man,” the boy added fervently.
8
A NORTHEAST WIND BLEW up before morning lifting the fog and filling one after another of the sails unfurled to it in the dawn. Every man of the crew sucked its freshness into his lungs and gave thanks. The Valiant had been wasting for days in the natural bed of a hurricane and in the season, but no storm had taken her. Now she rose up as might a maid in flight and scattered the foam about her like petticoat frills. The strong wind holding, a tall man could spit with it to the shore before the week was out.
Lavery, who got his first decent meal—a chunk of salt meat and molasses on his biscuit—and a civil word from his jailer, thought Vinnie had been marvelously quick in carrying his message to Farrell. That Farrell was thick with the captain, he did not doubt. As thick as treacle, he told himself, licking the plate for the last of its sweetness. It was the way with Young Ireland, a pack of gentlemen shaking hands with the poor to get the feel of them and poking snuff up their noses to be rid of the smell of them. Oh, they were up to snuff all right.
His next visitor took the shackle from his leg. “I’ll be catchin’ me death o’ cold without that,” Lavery said.
“You’ll catch something if you’re as free with your tongue to the captain. Up you go there, lad!”
“Are ye springin’ me?”
“Eh?” the sailor said. “Springing you, that’s bloody good. But let me give you a bit of advice, my lad. Don’t try it on the captain. He likes his humor from his equals, he does. Even the mate don’t make a joke to him. Leastaways before the men he don’t. Move along there, can’t you?”
I can and I can’t, Dennis thought, thankful for the palaver which covered his weakness. Suddenly, the daylight closing his eyes on him as he met it at the foot of the ladder, he was beset by withering fear. A dozen terrors stabbed at him like the pains in his eyes—fear of the light itself, of people, his first moment back amongst his fellow passengers with his head matted and his
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