if the pickin’s is good.”
He watched the color drain from Farrell’s face and enjoyed the sight of it. It was a fine feeling to bring up the gall in a man and to see him stand in it, petrified. The devil a fist would Farrell raise. There, Lavery thought, measuring more of his own wisdom: he had Young Ireland by the tail. As long as they could shoot with their mouths there was no battle they wouldn’t charge into, but they were as shy of a real fight as a bat of daylight.
“So long as the pickings are good,” Farrell said, his voice quivering, “you don’t care whether they come from the feast or the gutter?”
Lavery grinned, thinking it would further provoke the man. “The devil care I, so long as me bag is full o’ them.”
Farrell looked at him for a long moment. Uneasy under the gaze, Lavery turned from him, and measured the distance from the rope to the rail below. He leaned on the rope, arched a spit over the rail and into the sea, and turned back drying his beard on the ragged sleeve of his jacket. Farrell’s expression changed. He threw back his head and laughed aloud.
“I wish you great good luck in America, Dennis Lavery,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’ll have it, and not be beholden even for the wish. Take a laugh at that while you’re howlin’.” He dug one hand into the palm of the other behind his back.
“You’re acting a child,” Farrell said, “which is why I laughed. If I offended you, I’m sorry.”
Dennis tried a laugh himself. “It’s a wonderful thing, collectin’ the apology of a gentleman. It’s somethin’ I’ll be tellin’ my grand-childer’.”
“If you live to have them,” Farrell said. “I know very few gentlemen who wouldn’t knock you down for that.”
“Would you have a try at it, sir?”
“I would not. You’d better go below now.”
“Ah, for the guts of Young Ireland,” he sneered.
He saw Farrell take the steps between them, almost dancing steps and he gathered into his muscles the strength he knew of yore, the joy of it quick and brief, for as he thrust his shoulders forward, he saw that Farrell was not before him at all, but waist-high to him. He felt in the same instant the thrust as of a wedge, parting his knees, and a great clamp around his thigh and under one buttock. He was off his feet and doing a backward somersault down. He landed on his back in a stretch of ship’s sail which a quartet of seamen were mending. They bounced him out of it into the arms of the emigrants who flocked from the rail at the excitement.
Hellos and how-are-yous, thanksgivings and commiserations flooded over him and drowned his sense of time and direction. Farrell, when he looked up, was still at the bridge, and catching his victim’s eye in search of him, lifted his hand in salute. Dennis put his thumb to his nose to him, and Farrell laughed. Dennis could hear the laughter above the rumble and mumble of the people and the deprecations of the sailors whose work he had flown into; and playing an obbligato to it, another laugh chased after Farrell’s. She was at the rail apart, a book in her hand. While Dennis watched her, she lifted the book as she might a kerchief in a gesture of greeting to the man above. Farrell saw her and bowed.
“Father! Father, come down quick!”
It was Norah Hickey calling up to Farrell. Vinnie Dunne was beside her, holding a bucket.
“He’s no priest,” Lavery shouted. “Aye, worse than that if he had his way there’d be no priesthood at all and no church in Ireland!”
The eyes that had welcomed him a moment before turned cold on him now, cold and pitying as though he’d taken leave of his senses. To Farrell they looked back with pleading and affection.
“Will you come, Father?” Norah said again, and others added a pleading.
The man on the bridge came quickly down the steps and made his way through the people to the emigrants’ hold.
Lavery ran to Norah and caught her arm. “It’s the truth I said,
He watched the color drain from Farrell’s face and enjoyed the sight of it. It was a fine feeling to bring up the gall in a man and to see him stand in it, petrified. The devil a fist would Farrell raise. There, Lavery thought, measuring more of his own wisdom: he had Young Ireland by the tail. As long as they could shoot with their mouths there was no battle they wouldn’t charge into, but they were as shy of a real fight as a bat of daylight.
“So long as the pickings are good,” Farrell said, his voice quivering, “you don’t care whether they come from the feast or the gutter?”
Lavery grinned, thinking it would further provoke the man. “The devil care I, so long as me bag is full o’ them.”
Farrell looked at him for a long moment. Uneasy under the gaze, Lavery turned from him, and measured the distance from the rope to the rail below. He leaned on the rope, arched a spit over the rail and into the sea, and turned back drying his beard on the ragged sleeve of his jacket. Farrell’s expression changed. He threw back his head and laughed aloud.
“I wish you great good luck in America, Dennis Lavery,” he said, extending his hand.
“I’ll have it, and not be beholden even for the wish. Take a laugh at that while you’re howlin’.” He dug one hand into the palm of the other behind his back.
“You’re acting a child,” Farrell said, “which is why I laughed. If I offended you, I’m sorry.”
Dennis tried a laugh himself. “It’s a wonderful thing, collectin’ the apology of a gentleman. It’s somethin’ I’ll be tellin’ my grand-childer’.”
“If you live to have them,” Farrell said. “I know very few gentlemen who wouldn’t knock you down for that.”
“Would you have a try at it, sir?”
“I would not. You’d better go below now.”
“Ah, for the guts of Young Ireland,” he sneered.
He saw Farrell take the steps between them, almost dancing steps and he gathered into his muscles the strength he knew of yore, the joy of it quick and brief, for as he thrust his shoulders forward, he saw that Farrell was not before him at all, but waist-high to him. He felt in the same instant the thrust as of a wedge, parting his knees, and a great clamp around his thigh and under one buttock. He was off his feet and doing a backward somersault down. He landed on his back in a stretch of ship’s sail which a quartet of seamen were mending. They bounced him out of it into the arms of the emigrants who flocked from the rail at the excitement.
Hellos and how-are-yous, thanksgivings and commiserations flooded over him and drowned his sense of time and direction. Farrell, when he looked up, was still at the bridge, and catching his victim’s eye in search of him, lifted his hand in salute. Dennis put his thumb to his nose to him, and Farrell laughed. Dennis could hear the laughter above the rumble and mumble of the people and the deprecations of the sailors whose work he had flown into; and playing an obbligato to it, another laugh chased after Farrell’s. She was at the rail apart, a book in her hand. While Dennis watched her, she lifted the book as she might a kerchief in a gesture of greeting to the man above. Farrell saw her and bowed.
“Father! Father, come down quick!”
It was Norah Hickey calling up to Farrell. Vinnie Dunne was beside her, holding a bucket.
“He’s no priest,” Lavery shouted. “Aye, worse than that if he had his way there’d be no priesthood at all and no church in Ireland!”
The eyes that had welcomed him a moment before turned cold on him now, cold and pitying as though he’d taken leave of his senses. To Farrell they looked back with pleading and affection.
“Will you come, Father?” Norah said again, and others added a pleading.
The man on the bridge came quickly down the steps and made his way through the people to the emigrants’ hold.
Lavery ran to Norah and caught her arm. “It’s the truth I said,
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