“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 emancipated 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!”