Charles Lever - The Fortunes Of Glencore

Upton moved a chair to the bedside, and sat down without a word.

“Ye think an artery is like a canal, with a lock-gate to it, I believe,” said Billy, in a low, grumbling voice, to Upton, “and you forget all its vermicular motion, as ould Fabricius called it, and that it is only by a coagalum, a kind of barrier, like a mud breakwater, that it can be plugged. Be off out of that, ye spalpeens! be off, every one of yez, and leave us tranquil and paceable!”

This summary command was directed to the various servants, who were still moving about the room in imaginary occupation. The room was at last cleared of all save Upton and Billy, who sat by the bedside, his hand still resting on the sick man’s forehead. Soothed by the stillness, and reduced by the loss of blood, Glencore sank into a quiet sleep, breathing softly and gently as a child.

“Look at him now,” whispered Billy to Upton, “and you ‘ll see what philosophy there is in ascribin’ to the heart the source of all our emotions. He lies there azy and comfortable just because the great bellows is working smoothly and quietly. They talk about the brain, and the spinal nerves, and the soliar plexus; but give a man a wake, washy circulation, and what is he? He’s just like a chap with the finest intentions in the world, but not a sixpence in his pocket to carry them out! A fine well-regulated, steady-batin’ heart is like a credit on the bank, – you draw on it, and your draft is n’t dishonored!”

“What was it brought on this attack?” asked Upton, in a whisper.

“A shindy he had with the boy. I was n’t here; there was nobody by. But when I met Master Charles on the stairs, he flew past me like lightning, and I just saw by a glimpse that something was wrong. He rushed out with his head bare, and his coat all open, and it sleetin’ terribly! Down he went towards the lough, at full speed, and never minded all my callin’ after him.”

“Has he returned?” asked Upton.

“Not as I know, sir. We were too much taken up with the lord to ask for him.”

“I ‘ll just step down and see,” said Sir Horace, who arose, and left the room on tiptoe.

To Upton’s inquiry all made the same answer. None had seen the young lord, – none could give any clew as to whither he had gone. Sir Horace at once hastened to Harcourt’s room, and, after some vigorous shakes, succeeded in awakening the Colonel, and by dint of various repetitions at last put him in possession of all that had occurred.

“We must look after the lad,” cried Harcourt, springing from his bed, and dressing with all haste. “He is a rash, hot-headed fellow; but even if it were nothing else, he might get his death in such a night as this.”

The wind dashed wildly against the window-panes as he spoke, and the old timbers of the frame rattled fearfully.

“Do you remain here, Upton. I’ll go in search of the boy. Take care Glencore hears nothing of his absence.” And with a promptitude that bespoke the man of action, Harcourt descended the stairs and set out.

The night was pitch dark; sweeping gusts of wind bore the rain along in torrents, and the thunder rolled incessantly, its clamor increased by the loud beating of the waves as they broke upon the rocks. Upton had repeated to Harcourt that Billy saw the boy going towards the sea-shore, and in this direction he now followed. His frequent excursions had familiarized him with the place, so that even at night Harcourt found no difficulty in detecting the path and keeping it. About half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to the side of the lough, and the narrow flight of steps cut in the rock, which descended to the little boat-quay. Here he halted, and called out the boy’s name several times. The sea, however, was running mountains high, and an immense drift, sweeping over the rocks, fell in sheets of scattered foam beyond them; so that Harcourt’s voice was drowned by the uproar. A small shealing under the shelter of the rock formed the home of a boatman; and at the crazy door of this humble cot Harcourt now knocked violently.

The man answered the summons at once, assuring him that he had not heard or seen any one since the night closed in; adding, at the same time, that in such a tempest a boat’s crew might have landed without his knowing it.

“To be sure,” continued he, after a pause, “I heard a chain rattlin’ on the rock soon after I went to bed, and I ‘ll Just step down and see if the yawl is all right.”

Scarcely had he left the spot, when his voice was heard calling out from below, —

“She’s gonel the yawl is gone! the lock is broke with a stone, and she’s away!”

“How could this be? No boat could live in such a sea,” cried Harcourt, eagerly.

“She could go out fast enough, sir. The wind is northeast, due; but how long she’ll keep the say is another matter.”

“Then he ‘ll be lost!” cried Harcourt, wildly.

“Who, sir, – who is it?” asked the man.

“Your master’s son!” cried he, wringing his hands in anguish.

“Oh, murther! murther!” screamed the boatman; “we ‘ll never see him again. ‘T is out to say, into the wild ocean, he’ll be blown!”

“Is there no shelter, – no spot he could make for?”

“Barrin’ the islands, there’s not a spot between this and America.”

“But he could make the islands, – you are sure of that?”

“If the boat was able to live through the say. But sure I know him well; he ‘ll never take in a reef or sail, but sit there, with the helm hard up, just never carin’ what came of him! Oh, musha! musha! what druv him out such a night as this!”

“Come, it’s no time for lamenting, my man; get the launch ready, and let us follow him. Are you afraid?”

“Afraid!” replied the man, with a touch of scorn in his voice; “faix, it’s little fear troubles me. But, may be, you won’t like to be in her yourself when she’s once out. I ‘ve none belongin’ to me, – father, mother, chick or child; but you may have many a one that’s near to you.”

“My ties, are, perhaps, as light as your own,” said Harcourt. “Come, now, be alive. I’ll put ten gold guineas in your hand if you can overtake him.”

“I’d rather see his face than have two hundred,” said the man, as, springing into the boat, he began to haul out the tackle from under the low half-deck, and prepare for sea.

“Is your honor used to a boat, or ought I to get another man with me?” asked the sailor.

“Trust me, my good fellow; I have had more sailing than yourself, and in more treacherous seas too,” said Harcourt, who, throwing off his cloak, proceeded to help the other, with an address that bespoke a practised hand.

The wind blew strongly off the shore, so that scarcely was the foresail spread than the boat began to move rapidly through the water, dashing the sea over her bows, and plunging wildly through the waves.

“Give me a hand now with the halyard,” said the boatman; “and when the mainsail is set, you ‘ll see how she ‘ll dance over the top of the waves, and never wet us.”

“She ‘s too light in the water, if anything,” said Harcourt, as the boat bounded buoyantly under the increased press of canvas.

“Your honor’s right; she’d do better with half a ton of iron in her. Stand by, sir, always, with the peak halyards; get the sail aloft in, when I give you the word.”

“Leave the tiller to me, my man,” said Harcourt, taking it as he spoke. “You ‘ll soon see that I ‘m no new hand at the work.”

“She’s doing it well,” said the man. “Keep her up! keep her up! there’s a spit of land runs out here; in a few minutes more we’ll have say room enough.”

The heavier roll of the waves, and the increased force of the wind, soon showed that they had gained the open sea; while the atmosphere, relieved of the dark shadows of the mountain, seemed lighter and thinner than in shore.