Liam O'Flaherty - Land

“Get her ready,” Michael said, breaking an egg. “We’re going to Clash in her, as soon as I finish supper.”

“To Clash, did you say?” Lynch said in astonishment.

“That’s what I said,” Michael answered.

“It might take us half the night to get there in my pucaun,” Lynch said. “It’s nearly dead calm.”

“Get her ready,” Michael said.

“It would take us longer still to get back,” Lynch said. “What wind there is would be against us. If we made any delay at all in Clash, we might miss the meeting.”

“Do what I said,” Michael ordered angrily.

Lynch turned on his heel at once. On his way to the door, he called to another man over his shoulder.

“Come on, Joe,” he said.

Joe Deering, who was sitting on the floor with his back to the wall, got to his feet slowly. He was very tall and so young that the down of adolescence still grew on his unshaven cheeks. He followed Lynch out of the room, moving his hips lazily.

“Come here, William,” Michael said.

William Flatley came over to the table. He was a man of great size, with a barrel-shaped chest and a completely bald head. He was noted for his strength and endurance, even though he was now well over forty years old. He had come from America with Michael. He bent over the table and listened intently to some whispered commands. Then he went out without saying a word.

After a little while, Tim Brady rose from his seat in the hearth corner and approached the table. He was Mag Jordan’s brother, a solemn faced man of fifty-four, with a lame leg. They called him “the soldier” in the village, because he had served in the American Civil War. He and his sister were agents for a Dublin firm of fish-buyers.

“If you want to go to Clash,” he said quietly, “why don’t you go by road? Then you’d surely be back in time for the meeting. By road, it’s only a few miles. By sea, it’s three times the distance and always an uncertain journey.”

“I have my reasons for not going by road,” Michael said angrily.

“Then, in God’s name, don’t go at all,” Brady said. “Tomorrow is a big day for the people of Manister. The whole parish will be gathered in the chapel yard, after eleven o’clock Mass, to elect a Committee and make plans for fighting the landlords. For nearly a month now, Michael, you have been working tooth and nail to organise this meeting. You had a hard struggle, with the parish priest against you. It would be a terrible thing if you were absent when the big moment came.”

He paused, waiting for Michael to reply.

“Nobody is going to get me into a trap,” Michael said suddenly. Then he continued to eat rapidly.

“The Archbishop has put out a pastoral letter,” Brady continued, “condemning the land agitation and the Fenians. Father Costigan is going to read that letter from the altar. He’ll make a big effort to turn the people against the idea of electing a Committee. If you should be absent …”

“I’m not going to put my head in a halter for any man,” Michael said.

“The people might never forgive you,” Brady said, “if you failed them at this moment.”

Michael drank the remainder of the tea in his cup and jumped to his feet.

“You’ve said enough,” he cried.

“Then, let me tell you this,” Brady shouted. “There is nothing more criminal than to rouse innocent people, only to desert them.”

“You’ve said enough,” Michael repeated.

He walked to the door, after beckoning to a young man that sat expectantly on a form by the wall. The young man jumped to his feet and bolted out of the house after his leader. He was called Coleman Kelly, a lad of about Deering’s age. They climbed down to the pier by a rough stairway that was cut into the granite rock. Lynch and Deering had already hoisted the sail on the pucaun.

“In God’s name,” Lynch said to Michael as the latter jumped on board, “won’t you change your mind and go by road?”

“Silence,” Michael said.

Flatley came trotting down the pier with a small sack under his arm. He untied the mooring rope and jumped on board. Deering pushed against the pier wall with a pole. The pucaun veered away suddenly and then halted. Its keel made a rasping sound as it grated against a rock. The tide was so low that even such a shallow craft had difficulty in getting under way. Thick masses of yellow weeds lay on the surface like floating tresses of long hair. They made a moaning sound as they brushed against the boat’s sides. Kelly took another pole and helped Deering push. The pucaun suddenly frolicked like a duck as it found clear water. Lynch put his back to the tiller and began to steer, hauling on the sail ropes. Deering and Kelly, having dropped their poles, each put a foot against the mast and heaved the sail to its full height. The ropes creaked musically as they ran through the blocks. The sail flapped several times. Then it filled with wind and became taut.

Flatley sat by the foot of the mast and opened the sack he had brought. It contained revolvers, a box of cartridges and a whip called the “cat-o’-nine-tails,” because of its nine thongs. He passed around the weapons and the ammunition. He put the whip under the front of his jersey.

“Does the ‘cat’ mean we’re going after an informer?” Lynch said.

“It might,” said Michael.

“Is that all you want to say?” Lynch said.

Michael stripped off all his clothes, throwing them on the ballast stones at the bottom of the hold. Then he jumped into the sea and began to swim away from the boat with powerful strokes. Deering and Kelly looked at one another, smiled and did likewise. The two lads gasped as they began to swim, feeling the coldness of the night water against their white skins.

“Why don’t you try and persuade him to turn back?” Lynch said to Flatley. “What the hell ails him, in any case?”

Flatley shrugged his shoulders and took a pipe from his pocket.

“He thinks there has been a trap laid for him,” he muttered.

“A fine story,” Lynch said. “If a man gets into such a state of nerves that he’s afraid of his own shadow …”

“None of that now,” Flatley said. “If I were you, I’d forget about it.”

He lit the pipe, smoked a little and added:

“Just obey orders. He can be a dangerous man, when he’s in a mood like this.”

“Blood in ounce!” Lynch said. “It’s hard to put up with him at times.”

“Sure,” Flatley said. “It’s better to keep your mouth shut just the same.”

He handed Lynch the pipe after a while, adding:

“I’ve seen him do a lot more queer things than this. I’d go to hell for him just the same. He’s that sort of a leader.”

“I suppose he is,” Lynch said, drawing on the pipe. “Sure. I’d follow him to hell if he asked me. At the same time …”

Deering and Kelly came back to the boat after a while. They rubbed themselves dry with their trousers. They were shivering even after they had put on their clothes. The pucaun had passed the headland and turned north before Michael came on board. He had been swimming for nearly an hour. Yet he showed no sign of cold or weariness. He put on his clothes without drying his skin. Then he took the tiller from Lynch. The two lads began to sing, as they stood by the bowsprit, clinging to the sail ropes.

It was long after midnight when they reached Clash Harbour. They moored the pucaun to a deserted wharf and marched through the silent streets to Sabina Hart’s eating-house. It was a two-storied building, standing at the corner of a narrow cobbled lane. There was a light in the ground-floor window. Michael left Lynch, Deering and Kelly on guard outside. He and Flatley went to the door.