“In that case, you must try it. Take three men with you, and the large yawl; put some provisions and water on board; perhaps a little ballast, too.”
“That we will, Sir. She’ll take a ton more, at least, to carry sail in this weather.”
“Are you afraid to go?” asked Luttrell, and his voice was harsh, and his manner stern.
“Afraid! devil a bit afraid!” said the man, boldly, and as though the imputation had made him forget his natural respect.
“I’d not ask you to do what I’d not venture on myself.”
“We all know that well, Sir,” said the boatman, recovering his former manner. “‘Tis only that, maybe, we’ll be more time about it than your honour thinks. We’ll have to make a long stretch out beyond Spanish Bay, perhaps, near ‘the Cobbles.’”
“I don’t care how you do it, but mind that these two letters reach Westport by Monday night, on Tuesday morning at farthest. This is for the post, this for the person whose name is on it, and who will be at Carrick’s Hotel. Give it if you can into his own hands, and say that there is no answer required.”
“You bade me remind you, Sir, that the next time the boat went over to Westport, that I was to take Master Harry, and get him measured for some clothes; but of course you’d not like to send him in this weather.”
“I think not; I think there can be no doubt of that,” cried Luttrell, half angrily. “It’s not when the strong easterly gales have set in, and a heavy sea is coming up from the south’ard, that I’d tell you to take a boy – ” He stopped suddenly, and turning fiercely on the sailor, said, “You think I have courage enough to send you and a boat’s crew out, and not to send my son. Speak out, and say it. Isn’t that what you mean?”
“It is not, Sir. If you towld me to take the child, I wouldn’t do it.”
“You wouldn’t do it?” cried Luttrell, passionately. “I would not, Sir, if you never gav’ me another day’s pay.” “Leave the room – leave the house, and prepare to give up your holding. I’ll want that cabin of yours this day month. Do you hear me?” “I do, Sir,” said the man, with a lip pale and quivering. “Send Sam Joyce here.” “He’s only up out of the fever since Monday, Sir.”
“Tell Maher I want him, then; and mind me, Sir,” added he, as the man was leaving the room, “no story-telling, no conspiring, for if Dan Maher refuses to obey my orders, whatever they are, he’ll follow you, and so shall every man of you, if I leave the island without a family except my own.”
“Don’t send your child out, anyways,” said the man.
“Leave the room, Sir,” said Luttrell, imperiously; and the man, cowed and crestfallen, closed the door and withdrew.
As though to carry corroboration to the sailor’s warning, a fierce blast struck the window at the moment, making the old woodwork rattle, and threatening to smash it in, while the dark sky grew darker, and seemed to blend with the leaden-coloured sea.
“I want you to go over to Westport, Maher,” said Luttrell to a hard-featured, weather-beaten man of about fifty, who now stood wet and dripping at the door.
“Very well, Sir,” was the answer.
“Take the big yawl, and any crew you please. Whenever all is ready, come up here for your orders.”
“Very well, Sir,” said the man, and retired.
“Where’s Master Harry, Molly?” cried Luttrell, advancing into the passage that led toward the kitchen.
“He’s out on the rocks, Sir, watching the sea.”
“Call him in here. I want to speak to him. What are you doing here, Sir? I told you to leave this.” This stern speech was addressed to Hennesy, who, with evident signs of sorrow on his face, stood half hid beside the door.
“I was hopin’ your honour wouldn’t torn me out after nine years’ sarvice, when I never did or said one word to displaze you.”
“Away with you – be off – I have no time to parley with fellows like you. Come in here, Harry,” and he laid his hand on the boy’s shoulder, and led him into his room. “I’m sending a boat over to Westport; would you like to go in her?”
“Wouldn’t I?” said the boy, as his eyes flashed wildly.
“You are in want of clothes, and you could go to Sweeney’s and get measured for a suit.”
“I do not care for the clothes; but I’d like the sail. Isn’t Tim Hennesy to go?”
“Hennesy is not to go. Maher is to command the boat.”
“I’d rather have Tim; but I don’t care.”
“Be ready, then, in half an hour.”
“I’m ready now.”
“I mean, get another coat, something warmer, for you’ll be out one night at least; and put your woollen wrapper round your throat. Molly will give it to you.”
“There’s thunder!” cried the boy; “I hope it won’t lull the wind. It’s blowing fiercely now.”
“You’re a good swimmer, ain’t you?”
“I can beat every one but Tim.”
“And what would you do if you were upset?”
“Hold on by the boat, or a spar.”
“Till you were picked up? But if none came to pick you up?”
“Hold on still, till I was near enough to swim.”
“And if you didn’t get near enough?”
“Go down, I suppose,” said the boy, with a laugh. “One can always do that!”
Luttrell nodded, and after a moment said, “Get ready now, for here’s Maher coming for orders.”
CHAPTER XVII. THE NOR’-WESTER
The day – a dark and stormy one – was drawing to a close as the yawl got under weigh. She was manned by a stout crew of five hardy islanders; for although Maher had selected but three to accompany him, Tim Hennesy volunteered, and, indeed, jumped on board, as the boat sheered off, without leave asked or given. Luttrell had parted with his boy in his habitual impassive way – reminded him that he was under Tom Maher’s orders, equally on shore as on board – that he trusted to hear a good account of him on his return, and then said a cold “good-by,” and turned away.
When Harry, who rarely had so long an interview with his father, left the room, he felt a sort of relief to think it was over; he had been neither punished nor scolded, even the warning that was given was very slight, and uttered in no unkindness.
“Give me a kiss, Molly, and throw an old shoe after me, for luck!” cried he, gaily, as he reached the door. “We’ve got the big yawl, and though Tom has put two reefs in the mainsail, won’t I make him shake them out when we’re well out to sea!”
“I’ll just go and tell the master this minit, then,” said she, eagerly, “and you’ll see what he’ll say to you.”
“Will you be quiet?” said he, catching hold of her apron to detain her; “wasn’t I only joking? I’m to be under Tom’s orders, and of course I’ll obey him.”
There was a waggish drollery in the way he said this that by no means reassured her, but taking his hand, she walked down to the beach beside him, telling him to be careful of himself, and do nothing rash, and to mind what Tom Maher said, and, above all, to remember he was the last of the family, and if anything was to happen to him there was an end of the name for ever.
“And don’t you think, Molly, that the world would continue to go round, even if it lost us, great as we are?”
“Ah, ye’re a young imp! that’s what ye are;” said she, wiping a tear from her eye as she spoke. “‘Tis wishin’