The Golden Ocean. Patrick O’Brian

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СКАЧАТЬ houses and tap them for five guineas apiece.’

      ‘Listen,’ said Peter, in a pitying voice. ‘Do you really think there is a parsonage in all the West with five guineas in it at one time?’

      ‘There are two in Derrynacaol,’ said FitzGerald. ‘My cousin is the Bishop of Clonfert, and I know the value of the livings there. There are a couple of charming snug places in Derry: I wish I had gone into the Church. But not hereabouts, ‘tis true,’ he said, looking forward to the thin and deserted country that lay far before them. ‘Here they live somehow on twenty or thirty a year.’

      ‘Perhaps I should go back and try,’ said Peter, standing in the road.

      ‘No,’ said FitzGerald, ‘it would not do at all. They would nab you at once and then it would be days and days of finding surety of good behaviour and all that. You would never reach Queenstown in time, to say nothing of being arrested for debt at the inn. I am sorry, upon my honour, for it is all in my quarrel: but a second is as much troubled as a principal in a duel.’

      They walked on in silence. Peter thought of Placidus. He thought of Liam. And he thought, with a sudden gasp of realisation, that his whole prayed-for, cherished, unexpectedly lucky chance of a career in the Navy was at stake. If he could not reach Queenstown in time to sail on the transport in which he was ordered to sail, everything would be lost. He knew little about the Navy, but he did know that a midshipman’s appointment was made by a captain to the ship he commanded—to that ship and none other. He knew that it was not a general commission, but a particular and a revocable appointment: if the Centurion sailed without him, he would no longer be a midshipman, and he would no longer have any way into the career that he longed for.

      There was a sudden, strangely unexpected thrumming of feet behind, and a man passed them, running with a steady, high-paced gait: he was dressed in a yellow-and-scarlet livery, and he carried a long, silver-headed cane.

      ‘Good day, Thomas,’ cried FitzGerald, as he went by, and ‘Good day, Mr FitzGerald, sir,’ called the man, waving his hat but never wavering in his stride. Peter was too desperately worried to take much notice, yet he did say, ‘What’s that?’

      ‘It is Culmore’s running footman: and I think it means good news.’

      ‘What is a running footman?’

      ‘Why, a footman that runs. That stands to reason. But come, let us not break our winds racing along like this. Sit down on this stone.’

      ‘No, no, no,’ cried Peter. ‘I will not. How can we sit down when every minute counts for so much?’

      ‘Why, what a fret you are in,’ said FitzGerald coolly, sitting down and resting his feet. ‘But listen to me for a minute. That was Culmore’s running footman: he runs in front of his master’s coach. So that means Culmore will be along in a little while. If I cannot borrow twenty guineas from Culmore, you may call me an ass—after all, I know how well he did at the races. Therefore I can see no point at all in blazing along the road and making it more difficult for our salvation to catch up with us.’

      Peter hesitated. He was extremely unwilling to stop for a moment: but FitzGerald seemed so calmly certain that he was almost convinced. He hesitated. Then Sean said, ‘There’s the dust of a coach far behind us, so there is,’ and Peter sat down.

      Now he saw the dust himself, white, a slowly-travelling plume. He took off his battered shoes and cooled his feet in the grass. They were all very tired, and they sat quite still.

      The coach rolled up. On the box the coachman gathered the reins in one hand while he disentangled a horse-pistol: behind, one of the footmen had a blunderbuss ready. A face with its wig awry peered out of the window.

      ‘Good day, my lord,’ said FitzGerald, advancing and making a beautiful bow.

      ‘Why, upon my soul, it’s young FitzGerald,’ said Lord Culmore. ‘What are you doing in this horrible place?’

      ‘I am airing my friends,’ replied FitzGerald. ‘May I name Mr Palafox, of the Navy—Lord Culmore.’

      ‘Your servant, my lord,’ said Peter, making a leg.

      ‘Your most humble, sir,’ said Lord Culmore, bowing to the sill. ‘How is your father?’ he asked FitzGerald, coming out of the coach. ‘I hope you left him well?’

      ‘Not as well as I could wish, but low in spirits. He was talking of hanging himself on the Boyne apple-tree.’

      ‘That is the old crooked one, ain’t it, in front of the house?’

      ‘Yes, that’s the tree.’

      ‘Then it will not serve his purpose. I would lay seven to one that the branches would break under fifteen stone. Ten to one,’ he added, after consideration.

      ‘No takers, my lord,’ said FitzGerald, ‘for I am of your opinion.’

      ‘Where are your horses?’ asked Culmore, looking about. ‘Do you still ride that chestnut?’

      ‘Oh, we left them—we left them some way behind,’ said FitzGerald, ‘and as for the mare, I let Stafford have her at last. Johnny Stafford.’

      ‘I know him’ said Culmore, smiling. ‘I won five and twenty guineas from him a month ago. He thought some young fellow among his tenants could run against my Thomas. Ha, flesh. I would back my Thomas against any two of them—any two men in the kingdom. But can I take you with me? Can I be of any service? Command me. There is all the room in the world in the coach.’

      ‘You are very kind, my lord,’ said FitzGerald in a low voice, ‘and you can put me exceedingly in your debt if you wish …’ They moved a little way along the road, Lord Culmore wearing a perturbed expression. Peter withdrew in the other direction, whispering fiercely to Sean, ‘Don’t stare, for all love, you ill-shaped great cow.’

      ‘Well,’ said FitzGerald, as the dust rose again behind the vanishing coach, ‘now you may call me an ass if you wish.’

      ‘Oh?’ said Peter, closing his eyes.

      ‘Yes. The sordid old screw would not part with better than ten.’

      ‘Ten guineas? Hoo! Glory above,’ cried Sean.

      ‘Will you close your mouth now?’ said Peter, with a great smile spreading in spite of all he could do to look sober and grave.

      But Sean would not be quiet yet. He continued, ‘Had I known his honour could lay a gold piece, sure I would have begged to run against that Thomas at even odds.’

      ‘Why, and so you could, too,’ said Peter, reflecting.

      ‘Can he run?’ asked FitzGerald.

      ‘Can he run?’ said Peter, dusting his hands. ‘Can he run? He could run that poor stick-carrying creature into the earth and back again without drawing breath.’

      ‘Is it true?’ cried FitzGerald.

      ‘Yes, it is,’ said Peter, with staggering positiveness. ‘And have I not seen him take up a hare in his hand, and the hare running on a hill the way hares go their fastest?’

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