Complete works of hall c.., p.255
Complete Works of Hall Caine, page 255
At the next instant he had left the Governor, and was face to face with the fishermen.
“Fishermen,” he cried, lifting both hands before him, “let there be no trouble here to-day, no riot, for God’s sake, no bloodshed. Listen to me. I am the grandson of a fisherman; I have been a fisherman myself; I love the fishermen. As long as I live I will stand by you. Your rights shall be my rights, your sins my sins, and where you go I will go too.”
Then, swinging back to the Governor, he bowed low, and said in a deferential voice —
“Your Excellency, these men mean no harm; they wish to speak to you; they have a petition to make; they will be loyal and peaceable.”
But the Governor, having recovered from his first fear, was now in a flame of anger.
“No,” he said, with the accent of authority; “this is no time and no place for petitions.”
“Forgive me, your Excellency,” said Philip, with a deeper bow; “this is the time of all times, the place of all places.”
There had been a general surging of the Keys and clergy towards the steps, and now one of them cried out of their group, “Is Tynwald Court to be turned into a bear-garden?” And another said in a cynical voice, “Perhaps your Excellency has taken somebody else’s seat.”
Philip raised himself to his full height, and answered, with his eyes on the speakers, “We are free-born men on this island, your Excellency. We did not come to Tynwald to learn order from the grandson of a Spanish pirate, or freedom from the son of a black chief.”
“Hould hard, boys!” cried Pete, lifting one hand against his followers, as if to keep them quiet. He was boiling with a desire to shout till his throat should crack.
The Governor had exchanged rapid looks and low whispers with the captain. He saw that he was outwitted, that he was helpless, that he was even in personal danger. The captain was biting his leg with vexation that he had not reckoned more seriously with this rising — that he had not drawn up his men in column.
“Your Excellency will hear the fishermen?” said Philip.
“No, no, no,” said the Governor. He was at least a brave man, if a vain and foolish one.
There was silence for a moment. Then, standing erect, and making an effort to control himself, Philip said, “May it please your Excellency, you fill a proud position here; you are the ruler of this island under your sovereign lady our Queen. But we, your subjects, your servants, are in a prouder position still. We are Manxmen. This is the Court of our country.”
“Hould hard,” cried Pete again.
“For a thousand years men with our blood and our names have stood on this hill to hear the voice of the people, and to do justice between man and man. That’s what the place was meant for. If it has lost that meaning, root it up — it is a show and a sham.”
“Bravo!” cried Pete; he could hold himself in no longer, and his word was taken up with a shout, both on the hill and on the green beneath.
Philip’s voice had risen to a shrill cry, but it was low and meek as he added, bowing yet lower while he spoke —
“Your Excellency will hear the fishermen?”
The Governor rolled in his seat. “Go on,” he said impatiently.
The men made their petition. Three or four of them spoke briefly and to the point. They had had harbours, their fathers’ harbours, which had been freed to them forty years before; don’t ask them to pay harbour dues until proper harbours were provided:
The Governor gave his promise. Then he rose, the band struck up “God save the Queen,” and the Legislature filed back to the chapel.
Philip went with them. He had fought a great battle, and he had prevailed. Through purging fires the real man had emerged, but he had paid the price of his victory. His eye burned like live coal, his cheek-bones seemed to have upheaved. He walked alone; his ancient colleague had stepped ahead of him. But now and again, as he passed down the long path to the church-door, fishermen and farmers pushed between the rifles of the guards, and said in husky voices, “Let me shake you by the hand, Dempster.”
The scene was repeated with added emotion half an hour afterwards, when, the court being adjourned and the Governor gone in ominous silence, Philip came out, white and smiling, and leaning on the arm of his old master, the Clerk of the Rolls. He could scarcely tear himself through the thick-set hedge of people that lined the path to the gate. As he got into the carriage his smile disappeared. Sinking into the seat, he buried himself in the corner and dropped his head on his breast. The people began to cheer.
“Drive on,” he cried.
The cheering became loud.
“Drive, drive,” he cried.
The people cheered yet louder. They thought that they had seen a grand triumph that day — a man triumphing over the Governor. But there had been a grander triumph which they had not seen — a man triumphing over himself. Only one saw that, and it was God.
XII.
Pete seemed to be beside himself. He laughed until he cried; he cried until he laughed. His resonant voice rang out everywhere.
“Hear him? My gough, it was like a bugle spaking. There’s nobody can spake but himself. When the others are toot-tooting, it’s just ‘Polly, put the kettle on’ (mimicking a mincing treble). See the lil Puffin on his throne of turf there? Looked as if Ould Nick had been thrashing peas on his face for a week.”
Pete’s enthusiasm rose to frenzy, and he began to sweep through the fair, bemoaning his country and pouring mouth-fuls of anathema on his countrymen.
“Mannin veg villish (sweet little Isle of Man), with your English Governors and your English Bishops, and boys of your own worth ten of them. Manninee graihagh (beloved Manxmen), you’re driving them away to be Bishops for others and Governors abroad — and yourselves going to the dogs and the divil, and d —— — you.”
Pete’s prophetic mood dropped to a jovial one. He bought the remaining stock-in-trade of an itinerant toffee-seller, and hammered the lid of the tin hat-box to beat up the children. They followed him like hares hopping in the snow; and he distributed his bounty in inverse relation to size, a short stick to a big lad, a long stick to a little one, and two sticks to a girl. The results were an infantile war. Here, a damsel of ten squaring her lists to fight a hulking fellow of twelve for her sister of six; and there, a mother wiping the eyes of her boy of five, and whispering “Hush, bogh; hush! You shall have the bladder when we kill the pig.”
Pete began to drink. “How do, Faddy? Taking joy of you, Juan. Are you in life, Thom! Half a glass of rum will do no harm, boys. Not the drink at all — just the good company, you know.”
He hailed the women also, but they were less willing to be treated. “I’d have more respect for my quarterly ticket, sir,” said Betsy — she was a Primitive, with her husband on the “Planbeg.” “There’s a hole in your pocket, Capt’n; stop it up with your fist, man,” said Liza — she was a gombeen woman, and when she got a penny in her hand it was a prisoner for life. “Chut! woman,” said Pete, “what’s the good book say ing? ‘Riches have wings;’ let the birds fly then,” and off he went, reeling and tottering, and laughing his formidable laugh.
Pete grew merry. Rooting up the remains of the fishermen’s band, he hired them to accompany him through the fair. They were three little musicians, now exceedingly drunk, and their duty was to play “Hail, Isle of Man,” as he went swaggering along in front of them.
“Hail, Isle of Man,
Swate ocean lan’,
I love thy sea-girt border.”
“Play up, Jackie.”
“The barley sown,
Potatoes down,
We’ll get our boats in order.”
Thus he forged through the fair, capering, laughing, shouting protests over his shoulder when the tipsy music failed, pretending to be very drunk, trying to show that he was carrying on, that he was going it, that he hadn’t a second thought, but watching everything for all that, studying every face, and listening to the talk of everybody.
“Whips of money at him, Liza — whips of it — millions, they’re saying.”— “He’s spending it like flitters then. The Manx chaps isn’t fit for fortunes — no, they aren’t. I wonder in the world what sort of wife there’s at him. I don’t ‘low my husband the purse. Three ha’pence is enough to be giving any man at once.”— “Wife, you’re saying? Don’t you know, woman?” Then some whispering.
“Bass, boy — more bass, I tell thee.”
“We then sought nex’
The soothing sex,
Our swatearts at Port Erin.”
“Who is the man at all?”— “Why, Capt’n Quilliam from Kimberley.”—”’Deed, man! Him that married with some of the Cæsar Glenmooar’s ones?”— “She’s left him, though, and gone off with a wastrel.”— “You don’t say?”— “Well, I saw the young woman myself — —”
“At Quiggin’s Hall
There’s enough for all,
Good beer, and all things proper.”
“Hould,boys!”
Pete had drawn up suddenly, and stopped his musicians with a sweep of the arm.
“Were you spaking, Mr. Corteen?”
“Nothing, Capt’n. No need to stare at all. I was only saying I was at the camp-meeting at Sulby, and I saw — —”
“Go on, Jackie.”
“A pleasant place,
With beds of aise,
When we are done our supper.”
The unhappy man was deceiving himself at least as much as anybody else. After looking for the light of intelligence in every face, waiting for a word, watching for a glance, expecting every moment that some one from south or north, or east or west, would say, “I’ve seen her;” yet, covering up the burning coal of his anxiety with the ashes of mock merriment, he tried to persuade himself that Kate was not on the island if nobody at Tynwald had seen her; that he had told the truth unwittingly, and that he was as happy as the day was long.
XIII.
A man in a gig came driving a long-horned cow in front of him. Driver, horse, gig, and cow were like animated shapes of dust, but Pete recognised them.
“Is it yourself, Cæsar? So you’re for selling ould Horney?”
“Grieved in my heart I am to do it, sir. Many a good glass of milk she has given to me and mine,” and Cæsar was ready to weep.
“Going falling in fits, isn’t she, Cæsar?”
“Hush, man! hush, man!” said Cæsar, looking about. “A good cow, very; but down twice since I left home this morning.”
“I’d give a bad sixpence to see Cæsar selling that cow,” thought Pete.
Three men were bargaining over a horse. Two were selling, the third (it was Black Tom) was buying.
“Rising five years, sir. Sired by Mahomet. Oh, I’ve got the papers to prove it,” said one of the two.
“What, man? Five?” shouted Black Tom down the horse’s open mouth. “She’ll never see eight the longest day she lives.”
“No use decaiving the man,” said the other dealer, speaking in Manx. “She’s sixteen— ‘low she’s nine, anyway.”
“Fair play, boys; spake English before a poor fellow,” said Black Tom, with a snort.
“This brother of mine lows she’s seven,” said the first of the two.
“You thundering liar,” said Black Tom in Manx. “He says she’s sixteen.”
“Dealing ponies then?” asked Pete.
“Anything, sir; anything. Buying for farmers up Lonan way,” said Black Tom.
“Come on,” said Pete; “here’s Cæsar with a long-horned cow.”
They found the good man tethering a white, long-horned cow to the wheel of the tipped-up gig.
“How do, Cæsar? And how much for the long-horn?” said Black Tom.
“Aw, look at the base (beast), Mr. Quilliam. Examine her for yourself,” said Cæsar.
“Middling fair ewer, good quarter, five calves — is it five, Cæsar?” said Black Tom, holding one of the long horns.
“Three, sir, and calving again for February.”
“No milk fever? No? Kicks a bit at milking? Never? Fits? Ever had fits, Cæsar?” opening wide one of the cow’s eyes.
“Have you known me these years for a dacent man, Mr. Quilliam — —” began Cæsar in an injured tone.
“Well, what’s the figure?”
“Fourteen pound, sir! and she’ll take the road before I’ll go home with a pound less!”
“Fourteen — what! Ten; I’ll give you ten — not a penny more.”
“Good day to you, Mr. Quilliam,” said Cæsar. Then, as if by an afterthought, “You’re an ould friend of mine, Thomas; a very ould friend, Tom — I’ll split you the diff’rance.”
“Break a straw on it,” said Black Tom; and the transaction was complete.
“I’ve had a clane strike here — the base is worth fifteen,” chuckled Black Tom in Pete’s ear as he drove the cow in to a shed beyond.
“I must be buying another cow in place of poor ould Horney,” whispered Cæsar as he dived into the cattle stand.
“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.
“West of the mine,
The day being fine.
The tide against us veering.”
Ten minutes later Pete heard a fearful clamour, which drowned the noise that he himself was making. Within the shed the confusion of tongues was terrific.
“What’s this at all?” he asked, crushing through with an innocent face.
“The man’s cow has fits,” cried Black Tom. “I’ll have my money back. The ould psalm-singing Tommy Noddy! did he think he was lifting the collection? My money! My twelve goolden pounds!”
If Black Tom had not been as bald as a bladder, he would have torn his hair in his mortification. But Pete pacified him.
“Cæsar is looking for another cow — sell him his own back again. Impozz’ble? Who says it’s impozz’ble? Cut off her long horns, and he’ll never be knowing her from her grandmother.”
Then Pete made up to Cæsar and said, “Tom’s got a mailie (hornless) cow to sell, and it’s the very thing you’re wanting.”
“Is she a good mailie?” asked Cæsar.
“Ten quarts either end of the day, Cæsar, and fifteen pounds of butter a week,” said Pete.
“Where’s the base, sir?” said Cæsar.
They met Black Tom leading a hornless, white cow from the shed to the green.
“Are you coming together, Peter?” he said cheerfully.
Cæsar eyed the cow doubtfully for a moment, and then said briskly, “What’s the price of the mailie, Mr. Quilliam?”
“Aw, look at the base first, Mr. Cregeen. Examine her for yourself, sir.”
“Yes — yes — well, yes; a middling good base enough. Four calves, Thomas?”
“Two, sir, and calves again for January. Twenty-four quarts of new milk every day of life, and butter fit to burst the churn for you.”
“No fever at all? No fits? No?”
“Aw, have you known me these teens of years, Mr. Cregeen — —”
“Well, what d’ye say — eleven pounds for the cow, Tom!”
“Thirteen, Cæsar; and if you warn an ould friend — —”
“Hould your hand, Mr. Quilliam; I’m not a man when I’ve got a bargain.... Manx notes or the dust, Thomas? Goold? Here you are, then — one — two — three — four...” (giving the cow another searching glance across his shoulder). “It’s wonderful, though, the straight she’s like ould Horney... five — six — seven... in colour and size, I mane... eight — nine — ten... and if she warn a mailie cow, now... eleven — twelve—” (the money hanging from his thumb). “Will that be enough, Mr. Quilliam? No? Half a one, then? Aw, you’re hard, Tom... thirteen.”
Having paid the last pound, Cæsar stood a moment contemplating his purchase, and then said doubtfully, “Well, if I hadn’t... Grannie will be saying it’s the same base back — —” (the cow began to reel). “Yes, and it — no, surely — a mailie for all — —” (the cow fell). “It’s got the same fits, anyway,” cried Cæsar; and then he rushed to the cow’s head. “It is the same base. The horns are going cutting off at her. My money back! Give me my money back — my thirteen yellow sovereigns — the sweat of my brow!” he cried.
“Aw, no,” said Black Tom. “There’s no money giving back at all. If the cow was good enough for you to sell, she’s good enough for you to buy,” and he turned on his heel with a laugh of triumph.
Cæsar was choking with vexation.
“Never mind, sir,” said Pete. “If Tom has taken a mane advantage of you, it’ll be all set right at the Judgment. You’ve that satisfaction, anyway.”
“Have I? No, I haven’t,” said Cæsar from between his teeth. “The man’s clever. He’ll get himself converted before he comes to die, and then there’ll not be a word about cutting the horns off my cow.”
“Strike up, Jackie,” shouted Pete.
“Hail, Isle of Man,
Swate ocean lan’,
I love thy sea-girt border.”
XIV.
The sky became overcast, rain began to fall, and there was a rush for the carts. In half an hour Tynwald Hill was empty, and the people were splashing off on every side like the big drops of rain that were pelting down.
Pete hired a brake that was going back to the north, and gathered up his friends from Ramsey. When these were seated, there was a rush of helpless and abandoned ones who were going in the same direction — young mothers with children, old men and old women. Pete hauled them up till the seats and the floor were choked, and the brake could hold no more. He got small thanks. “Such crushing and scrooging! I declare my black merino frock, that I’ve only had on once, will be teetotal spoilt.”— “If they don’t start soon I’ll be taking the neuralgy dreadful.”
They got started at length, and, at the tail of a line of stiff carts, they went rattling over the mountain-road. The harebells nodded their washed faces from the hedge, and the talk was brisk and cheerful.
“Our Thorn’s sowl a hafer, and got a good price.”— “What for didn’t you buy the mare of Corlett Beldroma, Juan?”— “Did I want to be killed as dead as a herring?”— “Kicks, does she? Bate her, man; bate her. A horse is like a woman. If you aren’t bating her now and then — —”
