“I saw him. So did Peter Walsh. So did Joseph Antony Kinsella. You heard Peter Walsh talking about him this morning. I saw him yesterday. I was bathing at the time and he ran his boat on a rock off the point of Delginish. If it hadn’t been for me he’d have been there still, only drowned, of course, for his boat floated away from him. I wish now that I’d left him there, but, of course, I didn’t know at the time that he was a spy. That idea only came to me afterwards. I say, Cousin Frank, wouldn’t it be absolutely spiffing if it turned out that he really was?”
It was impossible for any one to deny that such a thing would be spiffing in the very highest possible degree.
“If he is,” said Priscilla, “and I don’t see any reason why he shouldn’t—anyhow it’s jolly good sport to pretend—and if he is, it’s our plain duty to hunt him down at any risk. Sylvia Courtney says that Wordsworth’s ‘Ode to Duty’ is quite the most thrillingly impressive poem in the whole ‘Golden Treasury’ so you won’t want to go back on it.”
Frank’s prize had been won for Greek Iambics, not for English literature. He was not in a position to discuss the value of Wordsworth’s “Ode to Duty” as a guide to conduct in ordinary life.
“My plan,” said Priscilla, “is to begin at the south of the bay and work across to the north, investigating every island until we light on the one where he is. That’s the reason I had to take the Tortoise. The Blue Wanderer wouldn’t have done it for us. She won’t go to windward. But the Tortoise is a racing boat. Father bought her cheap at Kingstown because she never won any races, which is the reason why he called her the Tortoise. But she can sail faster than Flanagan’s old boat, anyhow. And that’s the one which the spy has got.”
Frank was not inclined to discuss the appropriateness of the Tortoise’s new name. He was just beginning to recover from the feeling of bewildered annoyance induced by the sudden introduction of Wordsworth’s poem into the conversation.
“But what makes you say he’s a spy?” he said. “I know there are spies, and I saw about the capture of that one in Lough Swilly. But why should this man be one?”
“I don’t say he is,” said Priscilla. “All I say is that until we’ve hunted him down we can’t possibly be sure that he isn’t. You never can be sure about anything until you’ve actually tried it. And, anyway, what else can he be? You can’t deny that there’s some mystery about him. Remember what Peter Walsh said about his looking as innocent as a child. That’s the way spies always look. Besides, I don’t think his clothes really belonged to him. I could see that at a glance. He had a pair of white flannel trousers with creases down the fronts of the legs, quite as swagger as yours, if not swaggerer, and a white sweater. He didn’t look a bit comfortable in them, not as if they were the kind of clothes he was accustomed to wear. That’s Rossmore head on the left there, Cousin Frank. He’s not there. I didn’t expect he would be, and he isn’t. I don’t expect he’s in that bay to the southwest of it either. But we’ll just run in a bit and make sure.”
The breeze had freshened a little, and the Tortoise made good way through the calm water. Frank began to feel some little trust in Priscilla. She handled the boat with an air of confidence which was reassuring. His conscience was troubling him less than it did. There is nothing in the world equal to sailing as a means of quieting anxious consciences. A man may be suffering mental agonies from the recollection of some cruel and cold-blooded murder which he happens to have committed. On land his life would be a burden to him. But let him go down to the sea in a small white sailed ship, and in forty-eight hours or less, he will have ceased to feel any remorse for his victim. This may be the reason why all Protestant nations are maritime powers. Having denied themselves the orthodox anaesthetic of the confessional, these peoples have been obliged to take to the sea as a means of preventing their consciences from harrying them. Driven forth across the waves by the clamorous importunity of the voice within, they, of very necessity, acquire a certain skill in the management of boats, a skill which sooner or later leads to the burdensome possession of a navy and so to maritime importance. It is interesting to see how this curious law works out in quite modern times.
The Italian navy is now considerable, but it has only become so since the people were driven to the sea as a consequence of the anti-clerical feeling which led them to desert the confessional. It is quite possible that the Portuguese, having in their new Republic developed a strong antipathy to sacraments and so laid up for themselves a future of spiritual disquiet, may see their ancient maritime glories revived, and in seeking relief beyond the mouth of the Tagus from the gnawings of their consciences, may give birth to some reincarnation of Vasco da Gama or Prince Henry, the Navigator.