it became known among the passengers on the moldavian, an hour or so before bedtime on sunday evening, april 23, 1865, that the lights to be seen in the larboard distance were really on the irish coast. the intelligence ran swiftly through all quarters of the vessel. its truth could not be doubted; the man on the bridge said that it truly was ireland; and if he had not said so, the ship’s barber had.
excitement over the news reached its highest point in the steerage, two-thirds of the inmates of which hung now lovingly upon the port rail of the forward deck, to gaze with eager eyes at the far-off points of radiance glowing through the soft northern spring night.
farther down the rail, from the obscurity of the jostling throng, a stout male voice sent up the opening bars of the dear familiar song, “the cove of cork.” the ballad trembled upon the air as it progressed, then broke into something like sobs, and ceased.
“ah, barney,” a sympathetic voice cried out, “’tis no longer the cove; ’tis queenstown they’re after calling it now. small wandher the song won’t listen to itself be sung!”
“but they haven’t taken the cove away—god bless it!” the other rejoined, bitterly. “’tis there, beyant the lights, waitin’ for its honest name to come back to it when—when things are set right once more.”
“is it the cove you think you see yonder?” queried another, captiously. “thim’s the fastnet and cape clear lights. we’re fifty miles and more from cork.”
“thin if ’twas daylight,” croaked an old man between coughs, “we’d be in sight of the o’mahony’s castles, or what bloody cromwell left of them.”
“it’s mad ye are, martin,” remonstrated a female voice. “the’re laygues beyant on dunmanus bay. wasn’t i born mesilf at durrus?”
“the o’mahony of murrisk is on board,” whispered some one else, “returnin’ to his estates. i had it this day from the cook’s helper. the quantity of mate that same o’mahony’s been ’atin’! an’ dhrink, is it? faith, there’s no english nobleman could touch him!”
on the saloon deck, aft, the interest excited by these distant lights was less volubly eager, but it had sufficed to break up the card-games in the smoking-room, and even to tempt some malingering passengers from the cabins below. such talk as passed among the group lounging along the rail, here in the politer quarter, bore, for the most part, upon the record of the moldavian on this and past voyages, as contrasted with the achievements of other steamships. no one confessed to reverential sensations in looking at the lights, and no one lamented the change of name which sixteen years before, had befallen the cove of cork; but there was the liveliest speculation upon the probabilities of the bahama, which had sailed from new york the same day, having beaten them into the south harbor of cape clear, where, in those exciting war times, before the cable was laid, every ocean steamer halted long enough to hurl overboard its rubber-encased budget of american news, to be scuffled for in the swell by the rival oarsmen of the cape, and borne by the successful boat to the island, where relays of telegraph clerks then waited day and night to serve europe with tidings of the republic’s fight for life.
this concentration of thought upon steamer runs and records, to the exclusion of interest in mere europe, has descended like a mantle upon the first-cabin passengers of our own later generation. but the voyagers in the moldavian had a peculiar warrant for their concern. they had left america on saturday, april 15, bearing with them the terrible news of lincoln’s assassination in ford’s theatre, the previous evening, and it meant life-long distinction—in one’s own eyes at least—to be the first to deliver these tidings to an astounded old world. eight days’ musing on this chance of greatness had brought them to a point where they were prepared to learn with equanimity that the rival bahama had struck a rock outside, somewhere. one of their number, a little jew diamond merchant, now made himself quite popular by relating his personal recollections of the calamity which befel her sister ship, the anglia, eighteen months ago, when she ran upon blackrock in galway harbor.
one of these first-cabin passengers, standing for a time irresolutely upon the outskirts of this gossiping group, turned abruptly when the under-sized hebrew addressed a part of his narrative to him, and walked off alone into the shadows of the stern. he went to the very end, and leaned over the taff-rail, looking down upon the boiling, phosphorescent foam of the vessel’s wake. he did not care a button about being able to tell europe of the murder of lincoln and seward—for when they left the secretary was supposed, also, to have been mortally wounded. his anxieties were of a wholly different sort.
he, the o’mahony of muirisc, was plainly but warmly clad, with a new, shaggy black overcoat buttoned to the chin, and a black slouch hat drawn over his eyes. his face was clean shaven, and remarkably free from lines of care and age about the mouth and nostrils, though the eyes were set in wrinkles. the upper part of the face was darker and more weather-beaten, too, than the lower, from which a shrewd observer might have guessed that until very recently he had always worn a beard.
there were half a dozen shrewd observers on board the moldavian among its cabin passengers—men of obvious irish nationality, whose manner with one another had a certain effect of furtiveness, and who were described on the ship’s list by distinctively english names, like potter, cooper and smith; and they had watched the o’mahony of muirisc very closely during the whole voyage, but none of them had had doubts about the beard, much less about the man’s identity. in truth, they looked from day to day for him to give some sign, be it never so slight, that his errand to ireland was a political one. they were all fenians—among the advance guard of that host of irishmen who returned from exile at the close of the american war—and they took it for granted that the solitary and silent o’mahony was a member of the brotherhood. the more taciturn he grew, the more he held aloof, the firmer became their conviction that his rank in the society was exalted and his mission important. the very fact that he would not be drawn into conversation and avoided their company was proof conclusive. they left him alone, but watched him with lynx-like scrutiny.
the o’mahony had been conscious of this ceaseless observation, and he mused upon it now as he watched the white whirl of churned waters below. the time was close at hand when he should know whether it had meant anything or not; there was comfort in that, at all events. he was less a coward than any other man he knew, but, all the same, this unending espionage had worn upon his nerve. doubtless, that was in part because sea-voyaging was a novelty to him. he had not been ill for a moment. in fact, he could not remember to have ever eaten and drunk more in any eight days of his life. if it had not been for the confounded watchfulness of the irishmen, he would have enjoyed the whole experience immensely. but it was evident that they were all in collusion—“in cahoots,” he phrased it in his mind—and had a common interest in noting all his movements. what could it mean? strange as it may seem, the o’mahony had never so much as heard of the fenian brotherhood.
he rose from his lounging meditation presently, and sauntered forward again along the port deck. the lights from the coast were growing more distinct in the distance, and, as he paused to look, he fancied he could discern a dark line of shore below them.
“i suppose your ancistral estates are lyin’ further west, sir,” spoke a voice at his side. the o’mahony cast a swift half-glance around, and recognized one of the suspected spies.
“yes, a good deal west,” he growled, curtly.
the other took no offense.
“sure,” he went on, pleasantly, “the o’mahonys and the o’driscolls, not to mintion the mccarthys, chased each other around that counthry yonder at such a divil of a pace it’s hard tellin’ now which belonged to who.”
“yes, we did hustle round considerable,” assented the o’mahony, with frigidity.
“you’re manny years away from ireland, sir?” pursued the man.
“why?”
“i notice you say ‘yes’ and ‘no.’ it takes a long absence to tache an irishman that.”
“i’ve been away nearly all my life,” said the o’mahony, sharply—“ever since i was a little boy and turning on his heel, he walked to the companionway and disappeared down the stairs.
“faith, i’m bettin’ it’s the gineral himself!” said the other, looking after him.
to have one’s waking vision greeted, on a soft, warm april morning, by the sight of the head of kinsale in the sunlight—with the dark rocks capped in tenderest verdure and washed below by milkwhite breakers; with the smooth water mirroring the blue of the sky upon its bosom, yet revealing as well the marbled greens of its own crystalline depths; with the balmy scents of fresh blossoms meeting and mingling in the languorous air of the gulf stream’s bringing—can there be a fairer finish to any voyage over the waters of the whole terrestrial ball!
the o’mahony had been up on deck before any of his fellow-passengers, scanning the novel details of the scene before him. the vessel barely kept itself in motion through the calm waters. the soft land breeze just availed to turn the black column of smoke rising from the funnel into a sort of carboniferous leaning tower. the pilot had been taken on the previous evening. they waited now for the tug, which could be seen passing roche’s point with a prodigious spluttering and splashing of side-paddles. before its arrival, the moldavian lay at rest within full view of the wonderful harbor—her deck thronged with passengers dressed now in fine shore apparel and bearing bags and rugs, who bade each other good-bye with an enthusiasm which nobody believed in, and edged along as near as possible where the gang-plank would be.
the o’mahony walked alone down the plank, rebuffing the porters who sought to relieve him of his heavy bags. he stood alone at the prow of the tug, as it waddled and puffed on its rolling way back again, watching the superb amphitheatre of terraced stone houses, walls, groves and gardens toward which he had voyaged these nine long days, with an anxious, almost gloomy face. the fenians, still closely observing him, grew nervous with fear that this depression forboded a discovery of contra-brand arms in his baggage.
but no scandal arose. the custom officers searched fruitlessly through the long platforms covered with luggage, with a half perfunctory and wholly whimsical air, as if they knew perfectly well that the revolvers they pretended to be looking for were really in the pockets of the passengers. then other good-byes, distinctly less enthusiastic, were exchanged, and the last bonds of comradeship which life on the moldavian had enforced snapped lightly as the gates were opened.
everybody else seemed to know where to go. the o’mahony stood for so long a time just outside the gates, with his two big valises at his feet and helpless hesitation written all over his face, that even some of the swarm of beggars surrounding him could not wait any longer, and went away giving him up. to the importunities of the others, who buzzed about him like blue-bottles on a sunny window-pane, he paid no heed; but he finally beckoned to the driver of the solitary remaining outside car, who had been flicking his broker, whip invitingly at him, and who now turned his vehicle abruptly round and drove it, with wild shouts of factitious warning, straight through the group of mendicants, overbearing their loud cries of remonstrance with his superior voice, and cracking his whip like mad. he drew up in front of the bags with the air of a lord mayor’s coachman, and took off his shapeless hat in salutation.
“i want to go to the law office of white & carmody,” the o’mahony said, brusquely.
0055
“right, your honor,” the carman answered, dismounting and lifting the luggage to the well of the car, and then officiously helping his patron to mount to his sidelong seat. he sprang up on the other side, screamed “now thin, maggie!” to his poor old horse, flipped his whip derisively at the beggars, and started off at a little dog-trot, clucking loudly as he went.
he drove through all the long ascending streets of queenstown at this shambling pace, traversing each time the whole length of the town, until finally they gained the terraced pleasure-road at the top. here the driver drew rein, and waved his whip to indicate the splendid scope of the view below—the gray roof of the houses embowered in trees, the river’s crowded shipping, the castellated shore opposite, the broad, island-dotted harbor beyond.
“l’uk there, now!” he said, proudly. “have yez annything like that in ameriky?”
the o’mahony cast only an indifferent glance upon the prospect,
“yes—but where’s white & carmody’s office?” he asked. “that’s what i want.”
“right, your honor,” was the reply; and with renewed clucking and cracking of the dismantled whip, the journey was resumed. that is to say, they wound their way back again down the hill, through all the streets, until at last the car stopped in front of the queen’s hotel.
“is it thrue what they tell me, sir, that the prisidint is murdhered?” the jarvey asked, as they came to a halt.
“yes—but where the devil is that law-office?”
“sure, your honor, there’s no such names here at all,” the carman replied, pleasantly. “here’s the hotel where gintleman stop, an’ i’ve shown ye the view from the top, an’ it’s plased i am ye had such a clear day for it—and wud ye like to see smith-barry’s place, after lunch?”
the stranger turned round on his seat to the better comment upon this amazing impudence, beginning a question harsh of purpose and profane in form.
then the spectacle of the ragged driver’s placidly amiable face and roguish eye; of the funny old horse, like nothing so much in all the world as an ancient hair-trunk with legs at the corners, yet which was driven with the noise and ostentation of a six-horse team; of the harness tied up with ropes; the tumble-down car; the broken whip; the beggars—all this, by a happy chance, suddenly struck the o’mahony in a humorous light. even as his angered words were on the air he smiled in spite of himself. it was a gaunt, reluctant smile, the merest curling of the lips at their corners; but it sufficed in a twinkling to surround him with beaming faces. he laughed aloud at this, and on the instant driver and beggars were convulsed with merriment.
the o’mahony jumped off the car.
“i’ll run into the hotel and find out where i want to go,” he said. “wait here.”
two minutes passed.
“these lawyers live in cork,” he explained on his return. “it seems this is only queenstown. i want you to go to cork with me.”
“right, your honor,” said the driver, snapping his whip in preparation.
“but i don’t want to drive; it’s too much like a funeral. we ain’t a-buryin’ anybody.”
“is it maggie your honor manes? sure, there’s no finer quality of a mare in county cork, if she only gets dacent encouragement.”
“yes; but we ain’t got time to encourage her. go and put her out, and hustle back here as quick as you can. i’ll pay you a good day’s wages. hurry, now; we’ll go by train.”
the o’mahony distributed small silver among the beggars the while he waited in front of the hotel.
“that laugh was worth a hundred dollars to me,” he said, more to himself than to the beggars. “i hain’t laughed before since linsky spilt the molasses over his head.”
