CHAPTER XXXI. THE BRANNOCK ISLANDS
A little to the northwest of the island of Innishmore are scattered anumber of small islets, some scarcely more than barren rocks, calledthe Brannocks. One of these alone was inhabited, and that by a singlefamily. No isolation could be more complete than that of these poorpeople, who thus dwelt amid the wide waste of waters, never seeing theface of a stranger, and only at long intervals visiting the mainland.Indeed the only intercourse they could be said to maintain with theirfellow-men was when by chance they fell in with some homeward-bound shipat sea, and sold the little produce of their nets; for they lived byfishing, and had no other subsistence.
The largest of these islands was called "Brannock-buoy," or the YellowBrannock, from the flower of a kind of crocus which grew profusely overit. It was a wild, desolate spot, scarcely rising above the waves aroundit, save in one quarter, where a massive column of rock rose to theheight of several hundred feet, and formed the only shelter against theswooping wind, which came without break or hindrance from the far-awayshores of Labrador. At the foot of this strong barrier--so small andinsignificant as to escape notice from the sea--stood the little cabinof Owen Joyce. Built in a circular form, the chimney in the middle, therude structure resembled some wigwam of the prairies rather than thehome of civilized beings.
Certain low partitions within subdivided the space into differentchambers, making the centre the common apartment of the family, wherethey cooked and ate and chatted; for, with all their poverty andprivation, theirs was a life not devoid of its own happiness, nor didthey believe that their lot was one to repine at.
Seasons of unprofitable labor, years of more or less pressure, they hadindeed experienced, but actual want had never visited them; sickness,too, was almost as rare. Owen Joyce was, at the time we speak of,upwards of eighty; and although his hair was white as snow, his cheekwas ruddy, his white teeth were perfect, and his eye--like that ofMoses--"was not dim." Surrounded by his children and grandchildren, theold man lived happy and contented, his daily teaching being to impressupon them the blessings they derived from a life so sheltered from allthe accidents of fortune; to have, as he called the island, "the littlecraft all their own."
The traits of race and family, the limited range of their intercoursewith the world, served to make them all wonderfully alike, not only infeature but expression; so that even the youngest child had something ofthe calm, steadfast look which characterized the old man. The jet-blackhair and eyes and the swarthy skin seemed to indicate a Spanish origin,and gave them a type perfectly distinctive and peculiar.
In the midst of them moved one who, though dressed in the light-bluewoollen kirtle, the favorite costume of the islands, bore in her freshbright features the traces of a different blood; her deep blue eye, softand almost sleepy, her full, well-curved lips, were strong contrasts tothe traits around her. The most passing glance would have detectedthat she was not "one of them," nor had she been long an inmate of thisdwelling.
It chanced that some short time before, one of Joyce's sons, in boardingan outward-bound American ship, had heard of a young countrywomanwho, having taken her passage for New York, no sooner found herself atsea--parted, as she deemed it, forever from home and country--than shegave way to the most violent grief; so poignant, indeed, was her sorrowthat the captain compassionately offered to relinquish her passage-moneyif Joyce would take charge of her, and re-land her on the shores ofIreland. The offer was accepted, and the same evening saw her safelydeposited on the rocky island of Brannock. Partly in gratitude to herdeliverer, partly in the indulgence of a secret wish, she asked leaveto remain with them and be their servant; the compact was agreed to, andthus was she there.
Theirs was not a life to engender the suspicions and distrusts whichare current in the busier walks of men. None asked her a reason for herself-banishment, none inquired whether the cause of her exile wascrime or misfortune. They had grown to feel attachment to her for thequalities of her gentle, quiet nature, a mild submissive temper, and adisposition to oblige, that forgot nothing save herself. Her habits hadtaught her resources and ways which their isolated existence had deniedthem, and she made herself useful by various arts, which, simple as theywere, seemed marvellous to the apprehension of her hosts; and thus, dayby day, gaining on their love and esteem, they came at length to regardher with an affection mingled with a sort of homage.
Poor Joan Landy--for we have not to explain that it was she--washappy,--happier than ever she had been before. The one great sorrow ofher life was, it is true, treasured in her heart; her lost home,her blighted hope, her severed affection--for she actually lovedMagennis--were griefs over which she wept many an hour in secret;but there was a sense of duty, a conscious feeling of rectitude,that supported her in her sacrifice, and as she thought of her oldgrandfather's death-bed, she could say to her heart, "I have been trueto my word with him."
The unbroken quiet, the unchanging character of the life she led,--itsvery duties following a routine that nothing ever disturbed,--gave herample time for thought; and thought, though tinged with melancholy, hasits own store of consolation; and if poor Joan sorrowed, she sorrowedlike one who rather deplored the past than desired to re-live it! Astime wore on, a dreamy indistinctness seemed to spread itself over thememory of her former life: it appeared little other than a mind-drawnpicture. Nothing actual or tangible remained to convince her of itsreality. It was only at rare intervals, and in the very clearestweather, the outline of the mountains of the mainland could be seen; andwhen she did behold them, they brought only some vague recollection toher; and so, too, the memories of her once home came through the haze ofdistance, dim and indistinct.
It was at the close of a day in June that the Joyces sat in front ofthe little cabin, repairing their nets, and getting their tackle inreadiness for the sea. For some time previous the weather had beenbroken and unfavorable. Strong west winds and heavy seas--far frominfrequent in these regions, even in midsummer--had rendered fishingimpracticable; but now the aspect of a new moon, rising full an hourbefore sunset, gave promise of better, and old Joyce had got the launchdrawn up on shore to refit, and sails were spread out upon the rocks todry, and coils of rope, and anchors, and loose spars littered the littlespace before the door. The scene was a busy and not an unpicturesqueone. There was every age, from the oldest to very infancy, all active,all employed. Some were calking the seams of the boat, others overhauledsails and cordage; some were preparing the nets, attaching cork floatsor sinkers; and two chubby urchins, mere infants, laughing, fed thefire that blazed beneath a large pitch-pot, the light blue smoke risingcalmly into the air, and telling those far away that the lone rockwas not without inhabitants. To all seeming, these signs of life andhabitation bad attracted notice; for a small boat which had quittedInnishmore for the mainland some time before, now altered her course,and was seen slowly bearing up towards the Brannocks. Though the sea wascalm and waveless, the wind was only sufficient to waft her along at theslowest rate; a twinkling flash of the sea at intervals showed, however,that her crew were rowing, and at length the measured beat of the oarscould be distinctly heard.
Many were the speculations of those who watched her course. They knewshe was not a fishing-craft; her light spars and white sails weresufficient to refute that opinion. Neither was she one of therevenue-boats. What could she be, then, since no large ship was in sightto which she could have belonged? It is only to those who have at someone period or other of life sojourned in some lone spot of earth, awayfrom human intercourse, that the anxiety of these poor people could beintelligible. If, good reader,--for to you we now appeal,--it has notbeen your lot to have once on a time lived remote from the world andits ways, you cannot imagine how intensely interesting can become thecommonest of those incidents which mark ordinary existence. They assume,indeed, very different proportions from the real, and come charged withinnumerable imaginings about that wondrous life, far, far away, wherethere are thoughts and passions and deeds and events which never enterint
o the dreamland of exile! It was a little after sunset that the boatglided into the small creek which formed the only harbor of the island;and the moment after, a young girl sprang on the shore, and hastenedtowards them.
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Before the Joyces had recovered from their first surprise, they saw Joanburst from the spot, and, rushing down the slope, throw herself at thestranger's feet.
"And have I found you at last, dear Joan?" cried a soft, low voice,while the speaker raised her tenderly from the ground, and took her handkindly within both her own.
"Oh, Miss Mary, to think you 'd come after me this far! over the say!"burst out Joan, sobbing through her joy; for joy it was that now litup her features, and made her eyes sparkle even through the fresh tearsthat filled them.
"They told me you had sailed from Galway," resumed Mary, "and I wroteto the ship-agent and found it was correct: your name was in the list ofpassengers, and the date of the day you sailed; but, I know not how itwas, Joan, I still clung to the notion that you had contrived this planto escape being discovered, and that you were concealed somewhere alongthe coast or in the islands. I believe I used to dream of this at first,but at last I thought of it all day long."
"Thought of _me_ all day long?" broke in Joan, sobbing.
"And why not, poor child? Was I not the cause of your leaving yourhome? Was it not my persuasion that induced you to leave the roof thatsheltered you? I have often wondered whether I had right and reason onmy side. I know at the time I believed I had such. At all events, butfor me you had never quitted that home; but see, Joan, how what we areled to do with an honest purpose, if it fail to effect what we had inview, often leads to better and happier ends than we ever dreamed of.I only thought of conveying to you the last message of your poorgrandfather. I little imagined how so simple an act could influenceall your future fortune in life; and such it has done. Mr. Magennis,suspecting or discovering what share I had in your flight, has begun alaw proceeding against me, and to give him a rightful claim for redress,has declared you to be--all that you wish, dear Joan--his lawful, weddedwife."
It was some time before the poor girl could stifle the sobbing whichburst from her very heart. She kissed Mary's hands over and over withrapture, and cried out at length, in broken, faltering accents, "Didn't they say well that called you a saint from heaven? Didn't they telltruth that said, God gave you as a blessing to us?"
"My poor Joan, you are grateful to me for what I have no share in. I amnothing but the bearer of good tidings. But tell me, how have you faredsince we parted? Let me hear all that has happened to you."
Joan told her simple story in a few words, never deviating from thenarrative, save to speak her heartfelt gratitude to the poor people whohad sheltered and befriended her.
"There they are!" cried she, pointing to the group, who, with a delicacyof sentiment that might have graced the most refined class, satapart, never venturing by a look to obtrude upon the confidence of theothers,--"there they are; and if the world was like them, life would n'thave many crosses!"
Mary rose, and drew nigh the old man, who stood up respectfully toreceive her.
"He does n't know much English, Miss Mary," whispered Joan in her ear.
"Nor am I well skilled in Irish," said Mary, smiling; "but I 'll do mybest to thank him."
However imperfectly she spoke the native tongue, the words seemed toact like a charm on those who heard them; and as, young and old, theygathered around her, their eager looks and delighted faces beamed with atriumphant joy. They had learned from the boatmen that it was the youngprincess--as in the language of the people she was called--was beforethem, and their pride and happiness knew no bounds.
Oh, if courtiers could feel one tithe of the personal devotion to thesovereign that did these poor peasants to her they regarded as theirchief, what an atmosphere of chivalry would breathe within the palaceof royalty! There was nothing they would not have done or dared at herbidding; and as she crossed their threshold, and sat down beside theirhearth, the tears of joy that rose to every eye showed that this was anevent to be treasured till memory could retain no more!
If Mary did not speak the native dialect fluently, there was a grace anda charm about the turn of the expressions she used that never failed todelight those who heard her. That imaginative thread that runs throughthe woof of Irish nature in every rank and condition of life--moreconspicuous, probably, in the very humblest--imparted an intensepleasure to hearing and listening to her; and she, on her side, rousedand stimulated by the adventurous character of the incident, the strangewild spot, the simple people, their isolation and their innocence, spokewith a warmth and an enthusiasm that were perfectly captivating.
She had seen much of the peasantry,--known them in the most unfrequentedtracts, remote from all their fellow-men,--in far-away glens, by drearymountains, where no footpaths led; but anything so purely simple andunsophisticated as these poor people she had never met with. The sonshad been--and that rarely, too--on the mainland, but the children andtheir mothers had never left the Brannocks; they had never beheld atree, nor even a flower, save the wild crocus on their native rock. Withwhat eager delight, then, did they hear Mary describe the gardens of thecastle,--pictures that glowed with all the gorgeous colors of a fairytale. "You shall all come and see me, some of these days. I'll send youa messenger, to say the time," said Mary; "and I'll promise that whatyou 'll witness will be far above my description of it!"
It was a sad moment when Mary arose to say good-bye. Joan, too, was toaccompany her, and the grief at parting with her was extreme. Again andagain the children clung round her, entreating her not to leave them;and she herself half faltered in her resolution. That lonely rock, thatrude cabin, had been her refuge in the darkest hour of her life, and shefelt the superstitious terror of her class at now deserting them.
"Come, come, dear Joan, remember that you have a home now that youcan rightfully return to," whispered Mary. "It is not in shame, but inhonor, that you go back to it."
It was already dark ere they left the Brannocks: a long, heavy swell,too, the signs of a storm, coming from the westward, made the boatmeneager to hasten their departure. As yet, however, the air was calm andstill, but it was with that oppressive stillness that forebodes change.They hoisted their sail, but soon saw that they must, for a while atleast, trust to their oars. The unbroken stillness, save by the measuredstroke of the rowers, the dense dark atmosphere, and the reaction, aftera day of toil and an event of a most moving kind, so overcame Mary that,leaning on Joan's shoulder, she fell off fast asleep. For a while Joan,proud of the burden she supported, devoted all her care to watchand protect her from the night air; but at last weariness stole overherself, and she dropped off to slumber.
Meanwhile the sea was rising; heavy waves struck the boat, and washedover her in sheets of spray, although no wind was stirring.
"We 'll have rain, or a gale of wind before long," said one of the men.
"There 's some heavy drops falling now," muttered another.
"Throw that sail over Miss Mary, for it will soon come down heavily."
A loud clap of thunder burst forth, and as suddenly, like a torrent, therain poured down, hissing over the dark sea, and filling the air with adull, discordant noise. Still they slept on, nor heard nor felt aught ofthat gathering storm.
"There now, sure enough, it 's coming," cried a boatman, as the sailshook tremulously; and two great waves, in quick succession, broke overthe bow.
"We'll have to run for Innishmore," said another, "and lucky if we getthere before it comes on worse."
"You ought to wake her up, Loony, and ask her what we are to do."
"I 'll make straight for the harbor of Kilkieran," replied the helmsman."The wind is with us, and she's a good sea-boat. Take in the jib,Maurice, and we'll shorten all sail on her, and--"
The rest of his speech was drowned in the uproar of a tremendous sea,which struck the boat on her quarter and nearly overset her. Not anotherword was now uttered, as, with the i
nstinct of their calling, theyset about to prepare for the coming conflict. The mainsail was quicklylowered and reefed, the oars and loose spars secured, and then, seatingthemselves in the bottom of the boat, they waited in silence. By thistime the rain had passed over, and a strong wind swept over the sea.
"She's going fast through the water, anyway!" said one of the men. Butthough the speech was meant to cheer, none felt or acknowledged theencouragement.
"I 'd rather than own Cro' Martin Castle Miss Mary was safe at home!"said Loony, as he drew the rough sleeve of his coat across his eyes,"for it's thicker it's getting over yonder!"
"It would be a black day that anything happened her!" muttered another.
"Musha! we've wives and childer," said a third, "but she's worth athousand of us!"
And thus, in broken whispers, they spoke; not a thought save of her, nota care save for her safety. They prayed, too, fervently, and her namewas in all their supplications.
"She's singing to herself in her sleep," whispered Loony. And the roughsailors hushed to hear her.
Louder and louder, however, grew the storm, sheets of spray and driftfalling over the boat in showers, and all her timbers quivering as shelabored in the stormy sea. A sailor whispered something in Loony's ear,and he grumbled out in reply,--"Why would I wake her up?"
"But I _am_ awake, Loony," said Mary, in a low, calm voice, "and I seeall our danger; but I see, too, that you are meeting it like brave men,and, better still, like good ones."
"The men was thinking we ought to bear up for Innish-more, Miss Mary,"said Loony, as though ashamed of offering on his own part such counsel.
"You'll do what you think best and safest for us all, Loony."
"But you were always the captain, miss, when you were aboord!" repliedhe, with an effort to smile.
"And so I should be now, Loony, but that my heart is too full to be ascalm and resolute as I ought to be. This poor thing had not been herenow, but for _me_." And she wrapped her shawl around Joan as she spoke."Maybe it's anxiety, perhaps fatigue, but I have not my old courageto-night!"
"Faix! it will never be fear that will distress you!" said he.
"If you mean for myself and my own safety, Loony, you are right. It isnot for me to repine at the hour that calls me away, but I cannotbear to think how you and others, with so many dear to you, should beperilled just to serve _me!_ And poor Joan, too, at the moment when lifewas about to brighten for her!" She held down her head for a minute ortwo, and then suddenly, as it were, rallying, she cried out, "The boatis laboring too much for'ard, Loony; set the jib on her!"
"To be sure, if you ordher it, Miss Mary; but she has more sail now thanshe can carry."
"Set the jib, Loony. I know the craft well; she 'll ride the waves allthe lighter for it. If it were but daylight, I almost think I 'd enjoythis. We 've been out in as bad before."
Loony shook his head as he went forward to bend the additional sail.
"You see she won't bear it, miss," cried he, as the boat plungedfearfully into the trough of the sea.
"Let us try," said she, calmly. "Stand by, ready to slack off, if Igive the word." And so saying, she took the tiller from the sailor, andseated herself on the weather-gunwale. "There, see how she does it now!Ah, Loony, confess, I am the true pilot. I knew my nerve would come backwhen I took my old post here. I was always a coward in a carriage, if Iwas n't on the box and the reins in my hands; and the same at sea.Sit up to windward, men, and don't move; never mind baling, only keepquiet."
"Miss Mary was right," muttered one of the men; "the head-sail isdrawing her high out of the water!"
"Is that dark mass before us cloud, or the land?" cried she.
"It's the mountains, miss. There to the left, where you see the dip inthe ridge, that's Kilkieran. I think I see the lights on shore now."
"I see them now myself," cried Mary. "Oh, how the sight of land giveslove of life! They called earth truly who named her mother!" said she toherself. "What was that which swept past us, Loony?"
"A boat, miss; and they're hailing us now," cried he, peeping over thegunwale. "They've put her about, and are following our course. They cameout after us."
"It was gallantly done, on such a night as this! I was just thinking tomyself that poor old Mat Landy would have been out, were he living. Youmust take the tiller now, Loony, for I don't understand the lights onshore."
"Because they're shifting every minute, miss. It's torches they have,and they 're moving from place to place; but we 'll soon be safe now."
"Let us not forget this night, men," said Mary, in a fervent voice. Andthen, burying her face within her hands, she spoke no more.
It was already daybreak when they gained the little harbor, well-nighexhausted, and worn out with fatigue and anxiety. As for Mary, wetthrough and cold, she could not rise from her seat without assistance,and almost fainted as she put her foot on shore. She turned one glanceseaward to where the other boat was seen following them, and then,holding Joan's hand, she slowly toiled up the rocky ascent to thevillage. To the crowd of every age that surrounded her she could onlygive a faint, sickly smile of recognition, and they, in deep reverence,stood without speaking, gazing on her wan features and the drippinggarments which clung to her.
"No, not to the inn, Loony," said she, to a question from him. "Thefirst cabin we meet will shelter us, and then--home!" There wassomething of intense sorrow in the thought that passed then through hermind, for her eyes suddenly filled up, and heavy tears rolled along hercheeks. "Have they got in yet?" said she, looking towards the sea.
"Yes, miss; they're close alongside now. It's the revenue boat that wentafter us."
"Wirra, wirra! but that's bad news for her now," muttered a boatman, inconversation with an old woman at his side.
"What's the bad news, Patsey?" said Mary, overhearing him.
But the man did not dare to answer; and though he looked around on everyside, none would speak for him.
"You used to be more frank with me," said Mary, calmly. "Tell me whathas happened."
Still not a word was uttered, a mournful silence brooded over the crowd,and each seemed to shun the task of breaking it.
"You will make me fear worse than the reality, perhaps," said she,tremulously. "Is the calamity near home? No. Is it then my uncle?" Alow faint cry burst from her, and she dropped down on her knees; butscarcely had she joined her hands to pray, than she fell back, fainting,to the ground.
They carried her, still insensible as she was, into a fisherman's cabin,till they went in search of a conveyance to take her to the cottage.
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