In the prettily situated village of Ring, within the beautiful harbour of Cove, lived an old man named Jeremiah Sullivan, who was by profession a boat-builder, and who, being unrivalled in that art, justly regarded himself as one of the most important personages in the said village, if not in the county of Cork itself. It was indeed the conviction of Jerry that the man who, if any such man there were, could surpass him in the plan, the construction, or the finish of a race-gig, must be a wonder, and far above the general standard of human excellence. After his divine art, and the equally divine productions of that art, his daughter Sally Sullivan was next best loved by the enthusiastic and honest old man. Sally had the reputation of a snug little fortune and of an infinite deal of beauty, the latter founded, no doubt, on the possession of a pair of roguish black eyes, a blooming cheek, and a rosy pair of lips, that half disclosed two rows of the prettiest and whitest teeth in the world.
Jerry had one favourite apprentice, to whom he had already imparted some of the most important secrets in his profession, and to whom, at some distant period, he intended to confide the entire, as a legacy richer than the hoarded treasures of a miser; nay, more valuable than even the philosopher’s stone. William Collins (for such was his name) was a fine-looking young fellow, standing about five feet ten inches in height, and possessed of a light, active, muscular, and admirably proportioned figure; indeed, Sally was known to have told her female friend in the strictest confidence that William had the brightest pair of eyes, and the handsomest brown curls, that young man could well be vain of. William, on the other hand, could find no language sufficiently comprehensive to express his ideas of Sally’s beauty; and as for her good qualities, her temper, her cheerfulness, her sweet-toned merry laugh—to describe them was quite an impossibility. The fact was, they were both young, both amiable, both warm-hearted, and very naturally both lovers! Yet poor old Jerry never dreamed what the real state of the case was. Wonderful as was his penetration, deep as was his knowledge, and great as was his skill in all matters appertaining to the building of a boat, in affairs of the heart he was blind and stupid as a mole. He, honest simpleton, could never dream that Sally’s frequent intrusions into the work-yard could be attributed to aught else than that most natural spirit of curiosity common to young people who desired to witness the interesting process of a delightful and important art! Besides, Jerry never wore his spectacles within doors; and, therefore, it must be presumed he never saw the eloquent flushing of his daughter’s cheek, or the additional brilliancy of her dark eye, when he spoke of the young man’s attention to his duty, and of his surprising advancement in the nicer labours of the profession.
Early in the month of May, a gentleman ordered a race-gig from Sullivan, and from time to time sent his man Duggin to see after the progress of the work. This Duggin was held to be the crack oarsman of the harbour, and consequently prided himself not a little on his reputation. He was a powerfully made though not a tall man, and his features were rather good than otherwise, but rendered displeasing from a peculiar expression of cunning about the eyes, and a perpetual sneer on his lip. Duggin had heard of Sally Sullivan’s fame as a beauty; and being quite of a gallant temperament, he conceived the very natural design of rendering himself agreeable to the old boat-builder’s daughter. The moulds were laid down, and soon the outline of the future race-gig began to be formed more distinctly, when Mr Curly Duggin one day entered the work-yard to pass his opinion on what had been already done, and to offer any suggestions as to the future, that his scientific judgment might deem necessary. On his entrance he found the peerless Sally seated on a chair, and apparently employed at some feminine labour—apparently so, for in reality her eyes were fixed on every movement of William Collins, who was busily engaged in the building of this future wonder of the race-gig class. Sally, observing the stranger enter, and not relishing the familiar stare of a pair of wicked-looking optics, nor the too evident admiration they expressed on their master’s part, immediately left the yard, and retired to the neatly painted cottage of her father. As for Collins, looking up from his work at that very instant, he saw, with the quickness of jealousy, the manner of Duggin and the retreat of Sally; and from that hour he felt an unconquerable aversion to the bold looking oarsman.
“Come, now, I’m blessed,” said Duggin, “that’s a nate tidy craft, if I’m a judge in the laste! I say, Mister what’s-your-name, isn’t that purty girl the ould fellow’s daughter?” “Yes, she is,” replied William, with a growl; “that young woman is Miss Sullivan.” “Sartinly she is a beauty without paint! Has she a heap of fine strapping fellows, that’s sweethearts, following of her—has she, my hearty?” “How the devil should I know! What have I to do with any one’s business but my own?—and that gives me enough to mind.” “Why, my fine fellow,” said Duggin, rather annoyed at the reply, “I tell you what, that same ain’t over partiklar civil.” “Isn’t it?—then if you don’t like my civility, I can’t help your liking; so that’s all I care about the matter.”
Duggin made no reply, but marching round and round the half-built boat, he made several slighting observations signifying his utter contempt for the plan, as well as its execution. “Why, blow it!” said he, “look at that. I tell you there’s no living use for that infernally outlandish keel. You might as well turn a lighter, as such a tub as that, in the water!”
Poor William’s feelings were almost too great for words, so indignant was he at this coarse and vulgar attack on the object of his zealous labours. He, however, merely said, “She’s very unlike a tub, for the matter of that; and as for the keel, that will give her a sure grip of the water, and make her hold her way.” “Who’s the out-and-out judge that said them wise things, I’d like to know?” asked Duggin, with a mocking sneer on his lip. “Them that’s as fine judges as any in the harbour,” replied Collins; “there’s Dan Magrath, and Ned Desmond, and Mark Brien, down at the ferry; and there aren’t better men to be found at handling an oar.” “Bother!” said Duggin, “little I’d give for a score of ’em; and as for that fellow Magrath, he’s a regular lubber, that isn’t no more fit in a race than I’m fit to bite a piece out of this anchor at my feet!” “I know nothing about biting the anchor,” said Collins; “but I tell you what: the four of us will try you at the regatta for the ten-pound cup!” “Done! done! my hearty: mind ye don’t go back, and be forgetting yer promise!” said Duggin, with the air of one already certain of the prize. “Don’t be afraid of me,” Collins replied; “I never broke my word yet, and I don’t intend to begin now.” Again did Duggin criticise the boat, and declare himself dissatisfied with nearly every point about her. The temper of the young builder was severely tried; but rather than turn away a customer from his master’s yard, he with difficulty succeeded in curbing his rising passion. Scarcely had Duggin, however, left the yard, when a piercing shriek rang from the house, through which lay the general passage. William heard it, and flinging aside the plane he was then using, he rushed in to ascertain its cause. What was his amazement at beholding Sally struggling violently to release herself from the arms of the gallant Duggin, who was endeavouring in vain to snatch a kiss from the maiden’s rosy mouth! “Ha! you villain!—there, take that!” said Collins, as with one fierce spring he gripped him by the throat, and flung him headlong on the floor.
Duggin was for a moment nearly stunned by the fall, but when in a measure recovered from its effects, he rose from the ground, and eyeing the pair with a fiendish expression of malice and revenge, he said, “Collins, mark my word for it, if I was to go to hell for it, I’ll be into you for that fall! Mind you keep a look-out, my tidy fellow! Good morning to you, Sally—good morning, purty Sally! Don’t forget the race, unless you’re afraid, Collins!” So saying, Duggin left the house; and no sooner had he gone, than Sally, frightened by his brutal insolence, burst into a flood of tears; but she at length allowed herself to be consoled by William, who used the most persuasive and powerful arguments in order to soothe her ruffled spirits.
As might be anticipated, the gig was disliked, and left on old Sullivan’s hands. Jerry was a little peevish on the subject, and was continually regretting his unfortunate attack of the gout, which prevented himself from superintending the work, and of a consequence rendering it a model of perfection. But poor William bore up manfully against all, and even had the audacity to prophesy, for the old man’s comfort, that in two days after the coming regatta, he would procure for the gig no less a sum than two-and-twenty guineas! The boat was finished, launched, and christened “the Darling Sally;” her fair namesake worked with her own pretty fingers a white silken flag, that was intended to adorn the beautifully-moulded bow.
It was summer, and the sun was in his meridian glory, pouring a flood of light and beauty over one of the loveliest combinations of landscape—the tree-clad hill, the many-coloured rock, and the widely-extended water—that can by possibility be found within the limits of the British empire. The month was glorious July, and the scene was the far-famed Cove of Cork. How beautiful did all appear on the last day of the regatta, as a fleet of fairy-like yachts, yielding to the light breeze that just broke the surface of the sea into tiny waves, dashed aside from their bows the silver spray, and skimmed like sea-birds over the bosom of the Cove. The sea actually blazed with light, and the islands seemed like emeralds set in gold. Green were the hills that encircled in their embrace the beauteous sheet of water, and cloudless was the heaven that overhung the loveliness of earth. A stately man-of-war rode at anchor nearly opposite the town of Cove, and gay were the flags and streamers that enlivened by their hues the dark maze of rigging rising from the nobly proportioned hull. Several merchantmen were also there, and decked in like manner as the floating citadel—the seaman’s pride. The marine picture was finished by myriads of boats of all sizes and shapes, from the one-oared punt and the light wherry, to the family whaler or the well-manned race-gig, that were ever gliding to and fro, imparting life and animation to the beautiful scene.
On the Regatta Quay might be observed hundreds of elegantly dressed females, with their attentive cavaliers; some of the latter arrayed in divers fantastic styles of costume, intended to resemble the garb of the sailor, and resembling it about as much as their affectation and the swagger of their gait resembled his manner. Naval and military officers added by their brilliant uniforms to the liveliness of the picture. On an erected platform was stationed a brass band, that from time to time played some fine pieces of music and exhilarating airs—a fitting accompaniment to the soft murmur of the wave, the harmony of nature.