[CHAPTER XIII]
Return to Ireland—Illness—Conditions on the Great Liners—The Quay at Cork "of a Saturday Evening"—En Route Once more—The Old Lady and the Donkey—Barracks at Fermoy—Killshening House, Abandoned Seat of the Roche Family—Fethard—Quaint Customs—The Man in the Coffin—"Curraghmore House"—Its great Kennels—Its Legends and Ghosts and History—Lady Waterford—Oliver Cromwell at the Castle—The Marquis in the Dungeon.
A year has rolled away since I wrote my last line about this Emerald Isle,—a year of sickness and suffering, brought about, most seem to think, by the bubbling springs and cool wells of this same island; at least B., who drank whiskey and soda, passed scathless, while typhoid for the second time seized upon my system and worked its will for months and months. But that is over and gone, and for another year at least I am immune. Still I think that during this visit I shall hold to soda and some whiskey, at least I am so advised by a last telegram as my ship moves out to sea.
If the Board of Trade knew of the state of affairs on the great liners they would scarcely permit it. Think of one hundred and sometimes one hundred and fifty stewards crowded into a confined space below the saloon with one bathroom only. They are only allowed on deck way back amongst the emigrants, and from there they come to the main saloon to wait on the first-class passengers, running the risk of carrying all sorts of contagious diseases; no air, no ventilation to speak of. The deck stewards are somewhat better off, being only six in a room, but no better ventilated than the pen referred to. If things are so on an English ship, what must they not be upon an Italian!
It blew great guns, and rained in torrents as we landed at Queenstown. The Campania came in just behind the Baltic and between the two nearly two thousand passengers were landed. The accommodations both in tenders and at the custom house are in every way inadequate, and the confusion was appalling.
However, all was passed and done at last, and ten P. M. finds me at the Imperial in Cork, which is in this rainy weather even more mouldy than last year, but where B. and a whiskey and soda make matters assume a more cheerful tone. However as the house is crowded to suffocation an excursion into the outer darkness has its attractions. On our way out we remark to the barmaid that it is rather stupid here to-night, and she suggests that this being Saturday evening if we will go down to the quay we may find some diversion. Knowing that she would be correct in her surmise as to other towns on that night and at such places we conclude to try it in Cork and sally forth, only to fall into the clutches of a car boy, who absolutely refuses either to be left behind or to allow us to walk. Hence we are shortly mounted on that characteristic Irish vehicle, a jaunting-car, and en route for wherever its owner may see fit to take us.
Our suggestion of "the quay" evidently meets with his approbation, and with a twinkle in his eye and a blow for his horse, we set forth. The pace is one which causes us to clutch the swinging car for safety. That the streets are crowded matters not at all to our jehu, and many is the anathema hurled at our heads from the scattering populace—until finally the crowd becomes so dense that our pace is reduced perforce to a walk, and at last we stop altogether. Just before us is a half-grown boy celebrating the approach of the day of rest to the best of his ability, and an odder figure I have never seen. His tattered trousers are rolled up above a pair of brogans which would fit the Cardiff giant, the tails of what once was a black coat of great size trail on the ground behind him, while his dirty mug of a face has the stump of a pipe fixed somewhere in the middle—I can see no mouth—and is crowned by what was once a silk hat, now by numerous blows and whacks more resembling an opera hat semi-collapsed. In his hand he twirls a shillalah, and as he croons a ditty he wheels ever and anon to attack any one who treads on the tails of his coat. Before we have fully appreciated all of his good points our attention is attracted by increased shouts and the rush of the crowd down the quay, where evidently Pat and Dinnis are at it hard and fast.
How the hats fly! You can hear the whacks of the shillalahs even from here. The dancing, jeering, hooting, and howling crowd takes first one side and then the other, "fightin aich uther fur konciliation and hatin aich uther fur the love o' God." Just about this time we think best to retire, as good hats are too attractive in free fights.
It has turned stormy again and the wind blows in great gusts up the river from the sea. Shortly after we start homeward a fishwife carrying her loaded basket comes out from a doorway and up a few steps onto the pavement, when the wind taking her broadside blows her over backwards, her legs sticking up in the air like two great lighthouses. Of course the contents of her basket are attacked by every gamin in sight, but the old woman gets all the fish but one and she has a firm hold on one end of that, while a sturdy boy holds tight on to the tail. Then begins a tug of war, resulting in an upset for the boy with half the fish clutched in his fist. Quick as lightning she seizes him and thoroughly washes his face with the other half. The last glimpse I have of them as we roll away she has turned him over her knees and there is no indication of "konciliation" on her face.