"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 Sw.i.l.l.y, 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."

"G.o.d 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."

I seized his hand so eagerly at this news as almost to startle him.

"Watch her helm, she's falling away," said he, almost sharply. "Ay, she's back, but no nearer your reach for that. I hear Gorman has become a rich man since. The English estates that belonged to the master of Kilgorman have yielded a great profit, and besides that he has got hold of the Lestrange property too. The young lady is an heiress, and this Captain Lestrange you spoke of, who saved them out of Paris, is not likely to lose the chance of getting a wife and his family estates back into the bargain. Don't be a fool, Barry. You and I are only sailor lads. It does not become us to be hankering after heiresses. But the freedom of Ireland we may and must strive for; and, Barry, brother,"

(and what a whack he caught me on my back), "we'll get it!"

I turned in that night with my head in a whirl. It seemed as if every joy I had was destined to crumble in my hand. No sooner had I found my little lady in Paris than a cruel hand swept us asunder. No sooner had I found my brother than I found him estranged from me in a hopeless cause. No sooner had I heard of the safety of her I loved than I heard she was lifted further out of my reach than ever. I could have wished I had never met Tim again. I should at least have slept better had I lain in my bunk with no thought but that of the French coast dropping league by league astern. Now, even Ireland seemed to have its terrors ahead.

But sleep came to my rescue, and with sleep came courage and hope. Why should I be afraid? What had I to hang my head at? Was I, who had come through a reign of terror, going to mope at troubles in advance?

Sufficient unto the day should be the evil thereof!

So I met Tim with a smile in the morning, and asked him to report me to Captain Keogh.

That worthy officer had quite slept off the debauch of last night, and was apparently looking forward to the next, for a bottle of rum stood on the cabin table. He had not the slightest recollection of me, but when he heard I was his lieutenant's brother, he poured out three gla.s.ses and proposed luck all round.

"Sit down, Gallagher," said he to Tim. "I can't ask your brother to sit, for the sake of the discipline of the ship; but I'm pleased to see him, and if he's a handy lad like you I'll make a seaman of him."

"Barry's worth any dozen of the likes of me," said Tim, "when it comes to sailing. If any one can get an extra tack out of the old _Kestrel_, he can."

"Don't talk disrespectfully of your ship, lieutenant," said Captain Keogh. "To be sure, the carpenter has been pestering me this morning about the timbers; but I told him he'd probably only make things worse by patching. You can't put new wine into old bottles, you know,"--here he poured himself out a fresh gla.s.s--"and we shall hold well enough together till we reach Bantry."

"Sligo," said Tim.

"Well, Sligo. We must keep clear of French privateers and give the coast a wide berth. That's the very thing. This wind must have been turned on to suit us. I positively thought the _Kestrel_ was sailing fast to-day."

"She's well enough as she is, but if we get into dirty weather, we ought to run in for the nearest port we can reach."

"We are much more likely to run into dead calms, and have to sit whistling for the wind--dry work at best, but in this weather terrible."

And he gulped down his rum, and nodded a dismissal.

The captain's forecast, as it turned out, was pretty near the mark. Off the Cornish coast we fell into a succession of calms, which kept us practically motionless for half a week. Even the light breezes which would have sufficed to send the _Arrow_ spinning through the water, failed utterly to put way upon our cranky tub; and every day the carpenter was growing more persistent in his complaints. At last Captain Keogh ordered him to do what he pleased so long as he held his peace, whereupon the sound of hammering and tinkering might be heard for a day across the still water.

During these lazy days, Tim and I talked a great deal. He was full of visions and hopes of an emanc.i.p.ated Ireland, and all the glories which should belong to her.

"Think of it, Barry. Every man's land will be his own. We shall have our own army and navy. There will be no England to tax us and bleed us to death. We shall have open arms for the friends of liberty all the world over. Irishmen will stay at home instead of carrying their manhood to foreign climes. Nay, we shall stand with our heel on the neck of England, and she who for centuries has ground the spirit out of us will sue to us for quarter."

"How will you manage all this?" said I.

"The people are armed, only waiting the signal to rise and throw off the yoke. England is not ready, she is beset on all sides, her fleet is discontented, her armies are scattered over Europe, her garrison in Ireland is half asleep. Our leaders are only waiting their time, and meanwhile Irishmen are flocking to the banner daily. And more than that, Barry," added he, with a thump on the bulwark, "at the first blow from us, France will be ready to strike for our liberty too. I know that for certain, my boy."

"France!" said I. "If there are innocents to be slaughtered, and blood to flow, and fiends to be let loose, you may depend on her."

"She at least is more our friend than men like Gorman, who one day, when they are poor, with nothing to lose, are for the people, and the next, when they are rich, are for the crown and the magistrates and the Protestant ascendency. It will be a sorry look-out for such as these when we come into our own.--There comes a breeze surely!"

"South-easterly," said I; "that will suit us."

It was a moderate breeze only, but it brought us on our way opportunely, until one day, as we looked out, there was land on our weather-beam.

Then fell another calm, longer and more dead than the last. The sea was like gla.s.s, the horizon hazy, and the heat oppressive. The carpenter, as now and again he looked up at the lifeless sails, muttered between his teeth.

"I hear," said Tim, "our timbers above the water-line have sprung here and there. The old tub is quite rotten, and every day we lie idle like this she grows worse."