the sun was shining brightly in a clear sky next morning, when the people of muirisc finally got up out of bed, and, still rubbing their eyes, strolled forth to note the ravages of last night’s storm, and talk with one another about it.
there was much to marvel at and discuss at length in garrulous groups before the cottage doors. one whole wing of the ancient convent structure—that which tradition ascribed to the pious building fervor of cathal an diomuis, or “the haughty”—had been thrown down during the night, and lay now a tumbled mass of stones and timber piled in wild disorder upon the d茅bris of previous ruins. but inasmuch as the fallen building had long been roofless and disused, and its collapse meant only another added layer of chaos in the deserted convent-yard, muirisc did not worry its head much about it, and even yawned in cormac o’daly’s face as he wandered from one knot of gossips to another, relating legends about cathal the proud.
what interested them considerably more was the report, confirmed now by o’daly himself, that just before the crash came, six people in the reception hall of the convent had distinctly heard the voice of the hostage from the depths below the cloistral building. everybody in muirisc knew all about the hostage. they had been, so to speak, brought up with him. prolonged familiarity with the pathetic story of his death in exile, here at muirisc, and constant contact with his name as perpetuated in the title of their unique convent, made him a sort of oldest inhabitant of the place. their lively imaginations now quickly built up and established the belief that he was heard to complain, somewhere under the convent, once every fifty years. old ellen dumphy was able to fix the period with exactness because when the mysterious sound was last heard she was a young woman, and had her face bound up, and was almost “disthracted wid the sore teeth.”
but most interesting of all was the fact that there, before their eyes, riding easily upon the waters of the muirisc, lay the hen hawk, as peacefully and safely at anchor as if no gale had ever thundered upon the cliffs outside. the four men of her crew, when they made their belated appearance in the morning sunlight out-of-doors, were eagerly questioned, and they told with great readiness and a flowering wealth of adjectives the marvelous story of how the o’mahony aimed her in pitch darkness at the bar, and hurled her over it at precisely the psychological moment, with just the merest scraping of her keel. to the seafaring senses of those who stood now gazing at the vessel there was more witchcraft in this than in the subterranean voice of the hostage even.
“ah, thin, ’tis our o’mahony’s the grand divil of a man!” they murmured, admiringly.
no work was to be expected, clearly, on the day after such an achievement as this. the villagers stood about, and looked at the squat coaster, snugly raising and sinking with the lazy movement of the tide, and watched for the master of muirisc to show himself. they had never before been conscious of such perfect pride in and affection for this strange americanized chieftain of theirs. by an unerring factional instinct, they felt that this apotheosis of the o’mahony in their hearts involved the discomfiture of o’daly and the nuns, and they let the hereditary bard feel it, too.
“ah, now, cormac o’daly,” one of the women called out to the poet, as he hung, black-visaged and dejected, upon the skirts of the group, “tell me man, was it anny of yer owld diarmids and cathals ye do be perplexin’ us wid that wud a-steered that boat beyond over the bar at black midnight, wid a gale outside fit to blow mountains into the say? sure, it’s not botherin’ his head wid books, or delutherin’ his moind wid ancestral mummeries, or wearyin’ the bones an’ marrow out of the saints wid attendin’ their business instead of his own, that our o’mahony do be after practicin’.”
the bard opened his lips to reply. then the gleam of enjoyment in the woman’s words which shone from all the faces roundabout, dismayed him. he shook his head, and walked away in silence. meanwhile the o’mahony, after a comfortable breakfast, and a brief consultation with jerry, had put on his hat and strolled out through the pretentious arched doorway of his tumble-down abode. from the outer gate he saw the clustered villagers upon the wharf, and guessed what they were saying and thinking about him and his boat. he smiled contentedly to himself, and lighted a cigar. then, sucking this with gravity, hands in pockets and hat well back on head, he turned and sauntered across the turreted corner of his castle into the ancient church-yard, which lay between it and the convent. the place was one crowded area of mortuary wreckage—flat tombstones sunken deep into the earth; monumental tablets, once erect, now tipping at every crazy angle; pre-historic, weather-beaten runic crosses lying broken and prone; more modern and ambitious sarcophagi of brick and stone, from which sides or ends had fallen away, revealing to every eye their ghostly contents; the ground covered thickly with nettles and umbrageous weeds, under which the unguided foot continually encountered old skulls and human bones—a grave-yard such as can be seen nowhere in the world save in western ireland.
the o’mahony picked his way across this village golgotha, past the ruins of the ancient church, and into the grounds to the rear of the convent buildings, clambering as he went over whole series of tumbled masonry heaped in weed-grown ridges, until he stood upon the edge of the havoc wrought by this latest storm.
no rapt antiquary ever gazed with more eagerness upon the remains of a pre-aryan habitation than the o’mahony now displayed in his scrutiny of the destruction worked by last night’s storm, and of the group of buildings its fury had left unscathed. he took a paper from his pocket, and compared a rude drawing upon it with various points in the architecture about him which he indicated with nods of the head. people watching him might have differed as to whether he was a student of antiquities, a builder or an insurance agent. probably none would have guessed that he was striving to identify some one of the numerous chimneys-before him with a certain fireplace which he knew of, five-and-twenty feet underground.
as he stood thus, absorbed in calculation, he felt a little hand steal into his big palm, and nestle there confidingly. his face put on a pleased smile, even before he bent it toward the intruder.
“hello, skeezucks, is that you?” he said, gently. “well, they’ve gone an’ busted your ole convent up the back, here, in great shape, ain’t they?”
every one of the score of months that had passed since these two first met, seemed to have added something to the stature of little kate o’mahony. she had grown, in truth, to be a tall girl for her age—and an erect girl, holding her head well in air, into the bargain. her face had lost its old shy, scared look—at least in this particular company. it was filling out into the likeness of a pretty face, with a pleasant glow of health upon the cheeks, and a happy twinkle in the big, dark eyes.
for answer, the child lifted and swung his hand, and playfully butted her head sidewise against his waist.
“’tis i that wouldn’t mind if it all came down,” she said, in the softest west carbery brogue the ear could wish.
“what!” exclaimed the other, in mock consternation. “well, i never! why, here’s a gal that don’t want to go to school, or learn now to read an’ cipher or nothin’! p’r’aps you’d ruther work in the lobster fact’ry?”
“no, i’d sail in the boat with you,” said kate, promptly and with confidence.
the o’mahony laughed aloud.
“i guess you’d a got your fill of it yisterday, sis,” he remarked.
“it’s that i’d have liked best of all,” she pursued. “ah! take me with you, o’mahony, whin next the waves are up and the wind’s tearin’ fit to bust itsilf. i’ll not die till i’ve been out in the thick of it, wance for all.”
“why, gal alive, you’d a-be’n smashed into sausage-meat!” chuckled the man. “still, you’re right, though. they ain’t nothin’ else in the world fit to hold a candle to it. egad! some time i will take you, sis!”
the child spoke more seriously:
“sure, we’re the o’mahonys of the coast of white foam, according to o’heerin’s old verse, and it’s in my blood as well as yours.”
“right you are, sis!” he responded, smiling, as he added under his breath: “an’ mebbe a trifle more.” then, after a moment’s pause, he changed the subject.
“see here; you’re up on these things—in fact, they don’t seem to learn you anything else—hain’t i heerd o’daly tell about the old o’mahonys luggin’ round a box full o’ saints’ bones when they went on a rampage, to sort o’ give ’em luck! i got to thinkin’ about it last night after i went to bed, but i couldn’t jest git it straight in my head.”
“it’s the cathach” (she pronounced it caha) “you mane,” kate answered. “sometimes it contained bones, but more often ’twas a crozieror a holy book from the saint’s own pen, or a part of his vest-mints.”
“no; i like the bones notion best," said the o’mahony. “there’s something substantial an’ solid about bones. if you’ve got a genuine saint’s bones, it’s a thing he’s bound to take an interest in, an’ see through; whereas, them other things—his books an’ his clo’se an’ so on—why, he may a-been sick an’ tired of ’em years ’fore he died.”
it was the girl’s turn to laugh.
“it’s a strange new fit of piety ye’ve on yeh, o’mahony,” she said, with the familiarity of a spoiled pet. “sure, when i tell the nuns, they’ll be lookin’ to see you build up a whole foine new convint for ‘em without delay.”
“no; i’m savin’ that till you git to be the boss nun,” said the o’mahony, dryly, and with a grin.
“’tis older than methusalem ye’ll be thin!” asked the child, laughingly. and with that she seized his hand once more and dragged him forward to a closer inspection of the ruins.
some hours later, having been driven across country to dunmanway by malachy, and thence taken the local train onward, the o’mahony found himself in the station at ballineen, with barely time enough to hurry across the tracks and leap into the train which was already starting westward. in this he was borne back over the road he had just traversed, until a stop was made at manch station. the o’mahony alighted here, much pleased with the strategy which made him appear to have come from the east. he took an outside car, and was driven some two miles into the bleak, mountainous country beyond toome, to a wayside inn known as kearney’s retreat. here he dismounted, bidding the carman solace himself with drink, and wait.
entering the tavern, he paused at the bar and asked for two small bottles of porter to be poured in one glass. two or three men were loitering about the room, and he spoke just loud enough to make sure that all might hear him. then, having drained the glass, and stood idly conversing for a minute or two with the woman at the bar, he made his way through a side door into the adjoining ball alley, where some young fellows of the neighborhood chanced to be engaged in a game.
he stood apart, watching their play, for only a few moments. then one of the men whom he had seen but not looked closely at in the bar, came up to him, and said from behind, in an interrogative whisper:
“captain harrier, i believe?”
“yes,” said the o’mahony, “captain harrier—” with a vague notion of having heard that voice before.
then he turned, and in the straggling roof-light of the alley beheld the other’s face. it taxed to the utmost every element of self-possession in him to choke down the exclamation which sprang to his lips.
the man before him was linsky!—linsky risen from the dead, with the scarred gash visible on his throat, and the shifty blue-green eyes still bloodshot, and set with reddened eyelids in a freckled face.
“yes—captain—harrier,” he repeated, lingering upon each word, as his brain fiercely strove to assert mastery over amazement, apprehension and perplexity.
the new-comer looked full into the the o’mahony’s face without any sign whatever of recognition.
“thin i’m to place mesilf at your disposal,” he said, briefly. “you know more of what’s in the air than i do, no doubt. everything is arranged, i hear, for rising in both cork an’ tralee to-morrow, an’ in manny places in both counties besides. officially, however, i know nothing of this—an’ have no right to know. i’m just to put mysilf at your command, and deliver anny messages you desire to sind to other cinters in your district. here’s me papers.”
the o’mahony barely glanced at the inclosures of the envelope handed him. they took the familiar form of a business letter of introduction, and a commercial contract, signed by a firm-name which to the uninitiated bore no significance. he noted that the name given was “major lynch.” he observed also, with satisfaction, that his hand, as it held the papers, was entirely steady. “everybody’s been notified,” he said, after a time, instinctively assuming a slight hoarseness of speech. “i’ve been all over the ground, myself. you can meet me—let’s see—say at the bottom of the black rock jest overlookin’ the marteller tower at——at eleven o’clock, sharp, to-morrow forenoon. the rocks behind the tower, mind—t’other side of the coast-guard houses. you’ll see me land from my boat.”
“i’ll not fail,” said the other. “i can bring a gun—moryah, i’m shooting at say-gulls.”
“they ain’t much need of that,” responded the o’mahony. “you might git stopped an’ questioned. there’ll be guns enough. of course, the takin’ of the tower’ll be as easy as rollin’ off a log. the thing’ll be to hold it afterward.”
“we’ll howld whatever we take, sir, all ireland over,” said major lynch, with enthusiasm.
“i hope so! good-bye. mind, eleven sharp,” was the response, and the two men separated.
the o’mahony did not wait for the finish of the game of ball, but sauntered out of the alley through the end door, walked to his car, and set off direct for toome. at this place he decided to drive on to dunmanway station. dismissing the carman at the door, and watching his departure, he walked over to the hotel, joined the waiting malachy, and soon was well on his jolting way back to muirisc.
curiously enough, the bearing of linsky’s return upon his own personal fortunes and safety bore a very small part in the o’mahony’s meditations, as he clung to his seat over the rough homeward road. all that might take care of itself, and he pushed it almost contemptuously aside in his mind. what he did ponder upon unceasingly, and with growing distrust, was the suspicion with which the manner of the man’s offer to deliver messages had inspired him.
