The Golden Ocean. Patrick O’Brian
vain. They are probably in the County Tyrone by now.’
‘Did he lose a great deal, Sean?’ asked Peter.
‘He did not,’ said Sean: but from something in his manner Peter took no comfort from his words, and after a second Sean went on, ‘He could not, indeed: at that time he lost nothing at all, the way he had—but you’ll not grow outrageous? Sure you’ll be kind to my uncle and he brokenhearted?’
‘Sean,’ said Peter, laying his hand on his arm, ‘you’ll not tell me that they had his pocket picked?’ In that moment Peter had divined the fact; and as if Sean had replied he went on, ‘And yet it was hung round his neck.’
‘He had brought it out to be flashing the gold,’ said Sean.
‘Well—’ said Peter; but instead of finishing his remark he took a turn up and down the yard.
‘Well,’ he said at last, ‘there is only the one thing to do. On the eighteenth day of this month I must be in Cork: there is no time to go back, and besides my poor dear father—no, what we must do is to sell Liam’s horse; and I believe that if we find the right man and you ride with care to show him to his best advantage, the creature, we may get two guineas perhaps. It is a grave step to take—why, Sean, what’s the matter?’
‘Gone,’ whispered Sean. ‘Pawned.’
‘And Placidus too?’
Sean nodded. ‘With the gombeen-man of Athy,’ he said. ‘But not sold.’
Peter opened his mouth; but closed it again and paced up and down in the yard.
‘And the baggage too, I suppose?’ he asked after a dozen turns.
Sean nodded. ‘It was his last stroke to win it all back,’ he said.
Peter renewed his pacing. ‘Well,’ he said, pausing on a turn, ‘at least Placidus is not sold: that would have wounded my father’s heart.’
Three turns later he said, ‘And with the luck of the world—thanks be to God—’
‘Thanks on high,’ said Sean.
‘I had shifted into my best clothes, so they are not lost, and I can face the Commodore.’
And after another three turns he suddenly cried, ‘I have it, Sean: I have our salvation. This Mr FitzGerald I am to meet in the evening; he’s sure to be rich—I’ll ask him to lend me five guineas or six. That will bear our charges and unpawn Placidus. Ha ha, Sean—that’s the way of it,’ he exclaimed, clapping Sean on the shoulder.
‘Hoo hoo,’ cried Sean, with a hoot of triumph and relief, his spirits mounting directly. ‘Sure he’ll be delighted to oblige a companion and he the richest man’s son in the West, no doubt, if not close kin to the Deputy.’
‘You have not seen him come to the inn?’ asked Peter, reflecting.
‘I have not,’ replied Sean, ‘but will I ask of the grooms? He’ll surely have servants before and behind, and his horses may be filling the stables at this very minute, the valuable beasts.’
‘Do that thing,’ said Peter, ‘and if you have news of him come and whisper to me privately. I will sit in the great room of the inn.’
HOPE HAD DIED BY SIX O’CLOCK; BUT STILL PETER SAT ON IN HIS corner seat, watching the continual coming and going through the wide-open door. There were farmers and graziers of the richer sort, gentlemen of all sizes and shapes and of every age but his own, red-coated officers, periwigged medical men, black lawyers, snuff-coloured merchants and the clergy in cassocks; footmen in liveries of every colour hurried on errands; parties of young men roared through the windows to their acquaintances within; indeed, half Ireland seemed to be in the great room of the Royal George and Harp. But alas it was the half that did not include the one person he really wanted to see; this person, Mr Peregrine FitzGerald, was unknown to Peter except by reputation and name, but he had a clear notion of what to expect and for hours and hours he had been looking for the arrival of a young fellow about his own age and size, a midshipman in the Royal Navy, who would, Peter supposed, come in and gaze about to find his travelling companion, and who, by his looking about and searching, would advertise his presence.
It would have been easier, Peter reflected when first he took his seat, if they had both been in the land service, for a red coat would show up at once: but in the Navy the officers wore what they chose, and apart from the King’s cockade there was no way of recognising them at all. But that reflection had taken place a long while ago. The sad change from lively expectation to no hope at all had taken place by six in the afternoon, when the rain began: but when the tall clock coughed and said eight, Peter was still looking earnestly at the door; he was still spinning out his mug of tepid porter and making it last, and he was still assuring himself that clocks in public places were very often made to run fast on purpose.
‘Mr Palafox?’ asked a voice at his side, and the dregs of the porter splashed on the floor as Peter jumped up. ‘Your servant, sir,’ said the thin figure before him, with an elegant bow. ‘My name is FitzGerald.’
‘Servant,’ cried Peter, making a leg, and quite red with pleasure. ‘May I beg you to sit down and take—and take—’He had meant to add, ‘a glass of wine,’ but the sudden recollection that he was quite unable to pay for a small pot of ale, let alone a bottle of claret, pierced into his mind, and he finished with a wave of his hand to an empty chair.
‘You are very good, sir,’ said FitzGerald, sitting down. ‘But first I must make my excuses …’ And while he explained why he was so late—no idea the time had been running so fast—much taken up with seeing the races, the town, various friends—Peter gazed at him with the utmost attention that civility would permit. FitzGerald was nothing like what he had expected: for one thing he was wearing a bottle-green coat, and for another he was very much older. And yet on closer inspection he was not so ancient in fact: he wore his own hair (which was red), but it was powdered, and powdered hair, like a wig, made a man appear of an indeterminate age. On second thoughts Peter judged FitzGerald to be about his own age, though indeed his urbane and fashionable air, his very rich clothes and his general ease, made him appear five years older at least.
FitzGerald talked on in the most agreeable way; but there were two things that prevented Peter from taking much share in the conversation, or indeed from absorbing much of what FitzGerald said. The first was extreme and raging hunger: Peter had had nothing since breakfast, and what with the excitement of the races, the disaster and the long-drawn-out waiting he was so hollow within that if he had been anywhere else he would have gnawed his craubeen with unspeakable joy. The second was the manner and form in which he should frame his request.
It had seemed so easy when he cried, ‘I’ll ask him for five guineas or six,’ but now it appeared insuperably hard.
‘… and then Culmore assured me on his oath that the filly was sore of the near fore-foot—said his groom had it from hers, they being twins of a birth—and so I did not back her, either, ha, ha.’
‘Ha, ha,’ echoed Peter, suddenly aware that a response was called for, and wondering what FitzGerald’s topic had been.
‘But the truth of the matter, you know,’ said FitzGerald confidentially, ‘is that those stables are quite unfit to be used. I know my father would not even put one of the tenants into them, and …’
‘Now if I were to say to him, “Mr FitzGerald, please will you lend me some money?” ’ thought Peter; and he was still thinking when the explosion occurred.
He did not see the beginning: there was a crowd filing along by their table, a great deal of talking, noise, laughter. And he was bent over the table, trying to hear FitzGerald through the din, and trying to think at the same time. Then there was a sharp cry, the crash of FitzGerald’s