“Why, how should I do that Master Harry?” asked Ferghal. “I’ve not the learning beyond the reading and writing I have from the schoolroom the Squire has made for us all.”
“I should like to join the navy.” Harry glanced at his companion. “Would you not join with me? We could then share our adventures and see all manner of wonders together.”
“My Da’ would not be happy.” A frown creased his brow. “He says there’s no sense in the sea. He prefers the horses and the dry land under him.”
“But he would not be the one going to sea,” said Harry with the logic of his nine summers. “And we could tell them our tales of adventure when we come home to visit.”
“But why would we be wanting to go to the navy, Master Harry?” asked Ferghal. “Our fathers have both been for soldiering.”
“They have, but I have listened to my father’s tales of winter campaigning, of the smell of the foe and the thirst that cannot be quenched in the heat of the march. All well if you are in garrison. But if I must travel, I prefer it to be in a vessel that bears me the thousand leagues rather than having to walk them,” declared Harry with conviction. “I have a cousin in London who is entered in the navy this year. His father writes to my father that it is a fine life. Look yonder, how smoothly the boats move under sail; would you not wish to be on one?”
“Oh, aye, it looks good enough from here,” Ferghal agreed. “But my cousins fish out of Donaghadee, and they tell of hard living on the sea.”
“I think it is different in the big ships, Ferghal,” countered Harry with an air of certainty. “Why, the fishing smacks in Donaghadee are barely larger than a ship’s boats. I saw it myself when my father took me to see the Captain of the Lutine laying off Bangor. A fine big frigate she is, and her cutter is as large as yonder smack.”
Ferghal grinned, and held his peace. Harry had talked of nothing else since the visit to the frigate, and already plans were being made to send him to the naval school in Belfast to prepare for his bid to become a midshipman.
They continued along the shore, oblivious of the time, arguing and exclaiming as they went. Reaching the little ruined enclosure and the tower fortress built in good Queen Bess’s time during the plantation of Ulster, they found their way inside and climbed the spiral steps to the top. From here the view was the length of the Lough, and the debate about the merits of shipboard life continued between moments of exploration and speculation on the life of those who had once manned this small fortified enclosure and its tower. Away in the distance to the south they could see a small group of red coats moving slowly along the road as if searching for something, but, beyond noting their presence, the boys ignored them. Soldiers were a sight all too common in this time of unrest and war.
Of more immediate interest to Harry was the sight of a small schooner at anchor a little further down the Lough and, at his instigation, Ferghal reluctantly agreed to accompany him to a point where they could investigate her. “Master Harry, we should eat the luncheon Mistress Ferson gave you and then be going home. We shall be late else, and your father will be angry. I must needs return to help my Da’ with the horses later too.”
“It will not take us long to reach the point yonder, and then we can eat and afterward turn homeward,” Harry countered, his determination plain.
The point was farther than Harry thought, and they were tired and hungry when they reached it. Having satisfied himself that the trim little cutter was a naval patrol, and further arguing his ideas for an idyllic life afloat in her, they found a spot from which to watch her as they ate from Harry’s satchel some of the cheese and bread and a little of the fruit Mistress Ferson had put up for them. She had, as usual, provided far more than they could consume, so the rest was carefully replaced in the satchel. This done, the pair turned their faces back along the shore for the long walk home.
“We’ll be very late home, Master Harry.” Ferghal was clearly worried, and tried to hurry his friend along.
Harry, at last aware of the position of the sun, conceded. “You’re right, and I am sorry for it. It is my fault, and I shall tell my father so.” Hurrying to keep up with his friend, he added, “I know it was my desire to see the cutter more clearly. The punishment must fall on me, not on you.”
They had almost reached the ruined tower when they stumbled upon a wild-looking man who rose from the cover of a small clump of brush and seized Ferghal’s arm in a vice-like grip. “Now then, my lad,” he rasped. “Tell me quick—are there soldiers about? Quick now—speak!”
“Let me go,” cried Ferghal struggling to release himself. “There are none nearby that we’ve seen today.”
“Better and better. Do you not know your own kin?” His captor grinned, a ghastly rictus of his face. Harry attempted to pummel him, but he wasn’t strong enough for the man, who sent the boy spinning to the ground.
“Uncle Declan,” said Ferghal going pale. “We heard you were taken in Mayo with the French.”
“Leave Ferghal in peace,” Harry said through gritted teeth, tears staining his face as he scrambled to his feet and warily approached the gaunt and bedraggled figure. “He has done you no harm!”
“Indeed, my fine young cock. You’ll be the Squire’s youngest, I expect—a fine young bantam too.” He lunged forward and managed to grab a fistful of Harry’s coat. “Got you. Nay, you’ll be my passport to freedom, my young friend. You and my nephew here,” he snarled. “Now then, let us find somewhere out of the sight of the road.”
He propelled the struggling pair forward and down to the shore with surprising strength for one so gaunt. The receding tide had left the shingle bank exposed, and keeping a firm grip, he forced the reluctant pair along the shore a short way to a ruined hovel.
Pushing them roughly inside, he propelled them into what had been a small and windowless room where they could not escape. He took Harry’s satchel of food then made the boys sit in the corner before he took a position next to the door. Opening the satchel, he helped himself, obviously ravenous, wolfing the food down and barely chewing it in the process.
His hunger now satisfied, he looked at Harry with a malicious gleam in his eye. “A fine plucky lad, aren’t you, my young gentleman. Well, we shall see what your parents will give for your safe return—my life for your’n, I reckon.” He gave a nasty laugh. “An’ my own brother’s son shall be the messenger.”
“I’ll not do it!” protested Ferghal. “This is wrong, Uncle Declan. Let us go—let Harry go. He’ll not betray you, and neither shall I, but if you harm him, neither the Major nor my Da’ will cease until they find you.”
“Do as you’re bid,” snarled Declan. He stalked across the room to haul Ferghal to his feet. “Your father is a traitor to our people and our faith. He took the king’s shilling and served the oppressor, and this whelp is just the same. Get on with you!” He thrust Ferghal forward, causing the lad to stumble. “Go find your father, you clumsy fool, and tell him if the soldiers come after me, this fine young man will be dead before I am.”
“I’ll not let you,” shouted Ferghal, and he aimed a forceful kick at his uncle’s knee. Uttering a fierce oath, the enraged Declan took a wild swing at his small attacker. The distraction allowed Harry to scramble to his feet and rush to the door.
Ferghal ducked the blow and shouted, “Run, Master Harry, run for your life!”
Harry hesitated as the raging man attacked the cowering Ferghal, murder written on his creased and dirty face. With his own temper rising, Harry’s glance fell on a large piece of weathered timber. Snatching it up, he rushed at the man, the lump of timber raised. With his fury now boiling over, he brought the improvised cudgel down with all his childish strength. It landed hard across the back of the man’s head. Staggering to his knees, stunned, Declan O’Connor released his nephew. Ferghal rolled desperately aside, gained his feet and, grabbing Harry, who was still battering the stunned man, propelled him from the ruin.
Terror lent them stren
gth, and they ran, aware that if the fugitive caught them, he would take his revenge. The knowledge sent them rushing blindly along the shingle beach until they were forced to clamber up the bank and resume their flight across the field. At the road, they hurdled the hedge and collided with the soldiers they had seen earlier from the old tower. Grabbing Harry, the Sergeant, a large ruddy faced man with broad shoulders and stern look, said, “Steady now, my fine buck. What mischief have you been in that you must try to run down the Patrol?”
It took several minutes for the story to tumble out of them with sufficient coherence for the Sergeant to make any sense of their tale. The Subaltern accompanying the patrol listened with an expression of disdain at first, then, when Harry’s name was mentioned, took more interest. “Sergeant, send a man with these boys up to the Major’s house. Then form a skirmish line and let us have this brigand. Quickly now.”
Half way up the long slope of the hill, they met the Major and his groom, both mounted and trotting down the slope looking grim.
“Well, sirrah?” the Major greeted Harry, relief and anger written large in his face. Acknowledging the salute of the soldier standing with Harry and Ferghal, the Major demanded of his young son, “And what start is this? You are late, sir; you have kept Ferghal from his work, and now I find you under the escort of a soldier. Explain yourself.”
“Sir…Father….” Harry swallowed hard, still breathless and trembling with fright and anger. “It is not Ferghal’s fault; it is my own,” he declared, his jaw jutting in an almost comical imitation of his father. “I wished to see the cutter in the Lough, and we came upon a renegade who detained us. It is not Ferghal’s fault, sir. It is mine, and I wish you will not punish him for my fault, sir.”
The Major studied him for a long moment then smiled slowly. “I see, sir. So you are defiant in the face of my anger and determined to protect your companion in mischief.” He turned to where Sean O’Connor was now standing listening to his son’s urgent explanation. “Do this pair remind you of anyone?” Only then did the Major notice Sean’s stricken look. “What is it?” he asked, concerned.
Sean looked at the soldier, and then at the Major. “Difficult to say here, sir. Perhaps a word in private, sir.”
“Ah! Yes, indeed.” The Major dismounted, handing the reins to the soldier with a quick, “Hold him for me,” and to his son, “Remain here, Harry. Now then, Sean, walk with me while I decide how to punish my son for leading yours so far astray.” He spoke loud enough for Harry and the soldier to hear until he and Sean were a little apart, then he said under his breath, “What is it, man? You look as if the banshee is howling at your heels.”
“Perhaps she is,” exclaimed Sean O’Connor. “My brother Declan is the one who tried to seize the boys. He wanted Ferghal to come up and tell me he had Master Harry, and that Master Harry would die if anyone attempted to seize them.” He looked at the soldier standing talking to Harry and Ferghal, and added in a quiet voice, “The mad bugger will bring us all to ruin if they take him.” He looked bitterly at the Major. “He swore when he went off with McCracken that he would see me damned for being a traitor, as he called me. If they take him now, I have no doubt that he will try to bring me down with him. And it will taint your name, Major, to be known as the man who employed the brother of a traitor.”
“Sean…Sean!” exclaimed the Major. “I have survived worse than that. But you are right; I cannot allow him to cast doubt on you. Take the boys back to the house. I will go with the soldier and see what can be done.” He turned back, his face serious, and called to the soldier, “Private? What is your name?”
“Murdoch, sir!” came the reply.
“Very well, Private Murdoch, do you ride?”
“Ride, sir?” The soldier’s face registered surprise. “Yes, sir!” He responded quickly when he saw the Major’s frown.
“Good, then take my groom’s horse and follow me.” The Major swung into the saddle and set off down the hill at a canter, the soldier following.
It was dark when the Major returned to the house where Sean O’Connor was waiting in the stable, eager to hear the news. He took the reins of both his master’s big hunter and his own mount as the Major dismounted.
“Sean,” the Major said gently, “I am sorry to tell you that your brother is dead. I have arranged for the garrison to take the body to Downpatrick, and I will have it taken from there to be buried where you wish it. I am sorry.”
“It is best so, Major,” replied Sean, who was none too surprised to hear of this latest development. “I warned him McCracken would be the death of us all, and I was right. Ireland will be free of England, but the time is not yet, I’m thinking!”
“We may disagree on that, Sean, but not now. Don’t punish Ferghal; send him to me in the morning. I have in mind a way to teach both boys a lesson. And fear not, I have spoken to the Captain of the patrol. No blame will attach to you or yours.”
HARRY WAS SURE HE WOULD BE CANED FOR HIS ADVENTURE when he came down to report to his father in the morning. In preparation, he took the precaution of wearing an extra pair of breeches and a double layer of underclothes when he made his way down to the study. To his surprise, he found Ferghal, scrubbed, in fresh shirt and patched but clean breeches, and boots oiled with saddle polish and well rubbed to a shine, waiting anxiously in the hall.
“Ferghal, what brings you to my father? Has there been some further trouble from your uncle?”
“No, Master Harry, there will be no more from Uncle Declan. The soldiers killed him yesterday.” He scowled. “He deserved it, too.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” exclaimed Harry. “He might have been spared, even if only to be transported.”
“My Da’ says it is better this way. He is gone to arrange the burial, and I must attend the Major.” Ferghal shivered. “Thank you for taking my part yesterday. I expected a belting for not bringing you home in time.” He grinned. “All I got was a scrubbing under the wash pump when my Mam was told your father wanted me this morning.”
Further conversation was prohibited when the yard door swung open and the Major strode in, stripping his gloves and his hat as he did so. He spied the boys waiting at his study door and said, “Ah, the partners in crime.” Striding to the door, he opened it. “Inside, now, the pair of you.”
Closing the door behind them, the Major walked to his desk and seated himself. For a long moment, he studied the odd pair standing in front of him, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts, and nothing escaping his gaze as he contemplated them, easily spotting Harry’s extra clothing despite the boy’s care in attempting to hide it.
Concealing his smile, he looked at Ferghal and spoke to him first. “Ferghal, I think you did well yesterday to escape as you did. It will not have been an easy choice for you to make, but I thank you for it.” Pausing, he watched the emotions chase themselves across the boy’s face. “I have promised your father that I have a punishment that fits your escapades and Harry’s, so I will tell you that you are both confined to the house and yard for the next three months. You, Ferghal, will be required to attend Harry in his tuition, and that means that you will be learning as he does.” He smiled at the surprise in the youngster’s face. “What say you to that?” he prompted.
“Thank you, sir,” Ferghal managed, “but how is this punishment?”
“Confined to the house and yard and lessons to attend when you could be out playing? In my day that was punishment indeed.” The Major gave a bark of laughter. “We shall see after that if you should continue with the learning. I have made a promise to your father that, if you show ability, I will endeavour to give you the opportunity you need.” He turned again to his son. “And now, Harry, for your punishment. You placed Ferghal in an invidious position yesterday. You abused your position as my son to make him accompany you where he knew you should not have gone or lingered. What have you to say for yourself, young man?”
“It is my fault, Father.” Harry hung h
is head. “I did not think, and so made Ferghal go with me. And I am sorry for it, and thankful to him for saving me from his uncle.”
“And what punishment would fit this crime, Harry?” asked his father gently.
“I should be beaten, sir,” whispered Harry.
“I did not hear you properly, sir, speak up.”
“I think I should be beaten, sir,” said Harry, his face reddened with shame as he fought back tears of anticipation.
“So you should, young man, but today I will not. As you have heard me tell Ferghal, you are both confined to the house and yard for the next three months except to attend church with the household. I have arranged for a tutor, the Reverend Mister Carrigan from the town, to come out daily. He will teach you mathematics, Latin, Greek and the sciences. If you have done well enough to satisfy him with your progress by the Christmas season, I will consider allowing you to attend the fayre in the town. If not, we will reconsider whether you should be sent to school with James in Jordanstown.”
He studied his surprised son for a long moment, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Then he said, as sternly as he could manage, “You have both learned an important lesson in this escapade. These are dangerous times, and none of us can be sure of who the enemy is any longer. Yesterday you were confronted with a most dangerous position, especially for you, Ferghal, and you managed yourselves very well. Now let us see if we can all learn from it. I have decided to make your punishment into a task for you both. Ferghal, you have the chance now to build upon what you can already do. Harry, if you wish to make your way in this world, you will need to apply yourself to your studies vigorously, especially if you wish to follow your cousin Richard to sea. Now be off with you both. Mister Carrigan will be here shortly; go and make ready. Harry, make sure Ferghal has all he needs.”
When the pair turned to leave, the Major called, “A moment, Harry.” He waited until Ferghal had gone. “You may wish to remove the second pair of breeches and any other additions to your attire. I doubt you will find them comfortable much longer.”
Harry Heron: Midshipman's Journey Page 4
