Old Glory

by Christopher Nicole

  ‘Fit to appear before the King,’ Sally McGann said. ‘May God grant the poor German sinner some sense before he dies.’

  Harry winked, took the heavy satchel, and slung it over his shoulder.

  ‘You’ve not polished your shoes,’ Sally pointed out.

  ‘There’s no point, the roads are that muddy,’ he reminded her, and closed the door behind him.

  Bridget was waiting on the street. ‘Oh, you’re the handsomest devil in Ireland, I do declare, Harry McGann.’

  ‘Me, handsome?’ The great, craggy features broke into their usual grin.

  ‘’Tis not the face that matters,’ she pointed out.

  ‘So tell me what does?’

  She stuck out her tongue at him. ‘Well … you’ve wonderful eyes, Harry. So blue and clear … like you could see forever.’

  ‘Seaman’s eyes,’ he reminded her. ‘You’re not finished.’

  ‘That I have, you Irish rogue. Now mind you take only one glass with the squire. Ma’s expecting you to dinner.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ He blew her a kiss and set off up the road leading away from the harbour, Boru as ever close behind, waving to those he met on the way, but relishing the sudden peace of the country road as the village was left behind. Here even the noise was quiet and peaceful, the soughing of the wind in the close-clustered trees, and of the river as it ran by the road, the singing of the birds and the rustle of the leaves; and utterly silent but yet more beautiful than anything else, the slow drifting of the clouds across the heavens. Every so often he splashed through a puddle or squelched in some mud, but even this was an aspect of the April charm which had brought the landscape out in such brilliant greens and purples and yellows, and gave every tree and every bush the delicious smell of being alive.

  He whistled as he walked, and found himself wondering if even Bridget, dear sweet Bridget who could think so well of his eyes, had any idea of the pleasure he found in silently communing with nature, or in seriously considering the outside world, thoughts and ideas and adventures beyond his experience, but brought to life by men who had lived on a scale he could hardly imagine, and who had left accounts of their progress. Probably Bridget, least of all. Certainly his shipmates, Bridget’s brother Brian, Tom Pollock, perhaps even Calhoun himself, regarded his ability to read, and the pleasure he found in doing so, with a certain scepticism. Oh, they knew how to read … but to no more purpose than to check the reckoning in his father’s inn.

  For him, it had seemed fundamental. One needed to learn to read in order properly to learn to navigate; one needed to learn to navigate in order to become a proper ship-master. No matter that he would never be a proper shipmaster; he would, shortly, he was sure, graduate to the captaincy of the Bonaventure, and he intended to be master of her, in every possible respect.

  From reading pilot books and studying charts and tide tables, it had been a brief step actually to reading books. His father seldom indulged, save for the family Bible which Harry had read from cover to cover several times, but Seamus McGann’s father, a white-haired old man whom Harry only just remembered, had been a reader and, tucked away in the attic of the inn, Harry had come across, only a few years before, a yellow and dog-eared edition of Walter Raleigh’s History of the World. No matter that Father O’More dismissed it, quite apart from being the work of a Protestant devil who had brought as much evil on Ireland as any other man, Cromwell not excluded, as a totally untrue and scurrilous collection of fables. If Raleigh’s tales were all fables, they could yet stir the blood. And if they were not fables … because Raleigh had himself adventured, had himself sailed the seas, and might well have been recounting things that he had seen. Sure he was an enemy to any true-born Irishman, who it would be Harry’s own pleasure to knock down should his spirit ever dare to set foot in Tramore. That did not mean he could not be learned from.

  That world, that fabulous world as described by Raleigh, of course bore no resemblance whatsoever to the world of 1769, at least so far as Harry could tell. This modern world was crowded with tight-fisted merchants, prizeseeking customs officers, rapacious whores, aggressive redcoated soldiers — or bluecoated ones if you happened to be in France — and disease infested cities. He had never been to Dublin; Pa had, and going on what Pa had to say it was no place to be. He had been to Nantes and Le Havre and Cherbourg, and had not been impressed. So, Raleigh was for dreams and country walks. Common sense dictated that Harry McGann’s future lay right here where his present and past were so firmly rooted, in Tramore, and the waters of the English Channel and the Irish Sea. Commonsense dictated that he set his sights no higher than skippering the Bonaventure, and in time hand her over to his own son, as he would succeed his father as Tramore innkeeper. And the son would be the child of Bridget O’More. More than common sense dictated that course, even if Bridget had never even read the Bible right through, so far as he knew — she was still the most lovely and the most loving girl in Tramore, and she was his betrothed. And what greater ambition could a man have than to be, as he already was, the uncrowned king of his own small community?

  True, Raleigh sometimes suggested that there was more, much more. His descriptions of such things as the court of Queen Elizabeth of England left a man breathless — but perhaps those too were only fantasies. And yet … He was on his way to look at a fantasy now. Squire O’Rourke was not a king; he was not even a nobleman. But he was a wealthy man, and the Manor House was a place of great beauty; inside it was stuffed with the most exquisite carpets and tapestries, paintings and silver, cutlery and panelled woods. And Harry had only ever penetrated as far as the pantry, and peered through the curtain at the wonders beyond; what might truly await him in the drawing room or the upper floors was unimaginable, save that he knew it had to be better than anything he had seen. To live on such a scale … And yet, Squire O’Rourke was no better than any other man, and a great deal less than most. Legally, he was responsible for everything that happened in Tramore. Therefore legally, he should have stamped out smuggling years ago, or died in the attempt. Instead he would be waiting now for his bribe of three bottles of Armagnac and his wife’s sachet of perfume, now bumping against Harry’s shoulder, and would smile at the news that there were four cases of best claret available for him to purchase at a fraction of the price he would have to pay for them out of a London warehouse. Without his venality, the McGanns could not hope to flourish as they did. With his venality, was he worth attempting to emulate, even if he did dine off silver and crystal?

  Harry doubted that.

  Boru gave a joyous bark and set off into the brush after a rabbit, while Harry whistled to bring him back. They were on the squire’s estate now, and he had no wish to see the dog’s paw mangled in a trap. Then frowned, as he listened to the drumming of hooves. That would not in itself be unusual, save that this was accompanied by the rasp of wheels, and also by a chorus of screams.

  ‘Boru!’ he shouted, and ran forward, pausing at the next shallow bend in the lane to gaze at the trap careering towards him, the pony clearly frightened and out of control. Of the occupants, both young ladies, one clung desperately to the reins, her hat blown away, her auburn hair flowing in the wind, her normally cheerfully ugly face pink with exertion, while the other clung to the side of the vehicle, fearful of being thrown out to break at least a leg. Her hat had been secured beneath her chin with a ribbon, and had merely slipped on to the back of her head. Harry had a brief glimpse of turbulent golden hair, white face and blue gown.

  It was necessary to make a very quick decision. Here the river ran within a foot of the road, and was therefore a threat to sudden movement, of at least a ducking. But not to stop the trap might be to see each of the occupants with a broken neck, were they overturned on the bends behind him. And now Annie O’Rourke, straining at the reins, had seen him. ‘Help, MrMcGann,’ she screamed. ‘Oh, help!’

  ‘You’ll be killed,’ shouted the other girl as Harry threw the satchel of wine into the nearest bush and stepped
into the middle of the roadway. But he avoided the maddened pony with a simple sidestep, and closed his hands on the traces. The trap continued moving, forcing him backwards a few paces, then his enormous strength took control and the pony came foaming to a halt. Not in time for the girls, unfortunately; as the pony slewed and reared, Harry’s hands tight on its bridle, the trap swung to the left, its nearside wheel hit a stone, and it pitched over. The blonde girl gave a despairing wail and plunged, it seemed head first, into the river. Annie O’Rourke was only fractionally behind her, holding the reins long enough to check herself to a certain extent, but still landing on her hands and knees in the shallows with an enormous splash.

  ‘Holy Mother!’ Harry grunted, and released the pony to follow them into the water. Annie was clearly all right, however disarrayed by the accident; she was kneeling and spluttering more in amusement than alarm or pain. The other girl was in deeper water, and although Harry had no doubt it was shallow enough for her to stand up, she had panicked and was floundering, beating the surface and disappearing for a second time.

  He reached her in ten long strides, thrusting the water to either side; it only came to just above his waist. Then he stretched out his hand and found her flesh, located an arm, and jerked her back to the surface. She gasped, water pouring out of her hair, which was plastered to her head like a yellow skullcap; her hat had finally come off. Her eyes blinked water, her mouth opened to spit water. Yet, despite all, he stood and stared at her. Yellow hair was not uncommon in Ireland, although more often than not it had a reddish tint; this was purest gold. And pretty girls were common enough. But true beauty was rare. Here were the most splendid features, perhaps made the more attractive by their rapidly changing expressions, for he had a notion that in repose her face might be a trifle cold. But the straight nose, the high forehead, the widest grey eyes, the flat mouth, the pointed chin might all have come out of a painting by some Italian master. And while she was clearly hardly older than Annie O’Rourke, who he knew was the same age as Bridget, she had a height which was even more unusual in Ireland. Now that he set her on her feet, he discovered that she came to his shoulder, where Bridget only came to a level with his heart.

  ‘You’re safe, miss,’ he said. ‘Quite safe.’

  She slowly got her breathing under control, and only then remembered to push herself away from him. ‘I owe you my life, sir,’ she said. He realised that she was not Irish at all, but English, although her voice had a curiously nasal intonation.

  ‘It was my great pleasure,’ he said. ‘You are too lovely a creature to drown.’

  Now she stared at him in turn, and a quick flush brightened her cheeks.

  ‘And you have no hand for me, Harry McGann?’ Annie O’Rourke demanded, kneeling in the shallows.

  ‘Of course, Miss Annie.’ Harry put his arm round the English girl’s waist, she was still too bemused to protest, and half carried her through the water to the bank. Then he put a hand on each set of ribs, and lifted her up to sit on the dry land, before turning back to do the same for the squire’s daughter.

  ‘You’re a sight for sore eyes, Harry,’ Annie remarked. ‘But then, you always are.’ It pleased her to flirt with him, perhaps because she knew that he held her father in no great respect, and yet, as an innkeeper’s son, he had to show respect to the entire O’Rourke family. But he also had a notion that Annie O’Rourke would not scream for help were circumstances ever to throw them even more intimately together. Not that that was either likely or desirable; Annie’s features suffered from the family disability of resembling those of a pig, and her figure was equally dumpy.

  She smiled at him as he set her beside her friend. ‘Now look,’ she said. ‘Your coat is ruined.’

  ‘That it is,’ he agreed. ‘And I was on my way to see your dad. Maybe you’d take that satchel home for me, Miss Annie? And tell him there’s four cases of claret waiting at the inn, if he has the mind.’

  ‘You’ve been smuggling again,’ Annie said, standing up to squeeze water from her gown. ‘Oh, I really am wet.’

  Her friend was attempting to scoop hair from her neck. ‘We’ll have to go home. Is that pony safe, Mr … ?’

  ‘McGann,’ Harry said, ‘Harry McGann.’ He made to raise his tricorne and discovered that it wasn’t there; it was, in fact, floating down the river, keeping company with the girl’s own bonnet, now over a hundred yards away. His best coat, and his best hat, all in one morning. He sighed. Yet it did not seem important.

  ‘McGann,’ the girl said, staring at him.

  ‘And you are … ?’

  ‘This is Miss Elizabeth Bartlett, Harry,’ Annie said, stamping now to get the water out of her shoes. ‘She’s on a visit. And she’s English,’ she added, spitefully, just to remind him where his loyalties ought to lie. ‘But my dearest friend.’

  ‘My pleasure, Miss Bartlett,’ Harry said.

  ‘Is the pony safe?’ she asked again, revealing an unusually direct mind.

  Harry looked over her head. The animal stood docilely enough. ‘What started the rout?’

  ‘I think a bee stung her,’ Annie said.

  ‘Aye. Well, she looks as though she’s recovered. I’ll just set the cart up, shall I?’

  He leaned on the vehicle, exerted his muscles, and heaved it straight, bent to check the wheel, while the pony turned its head to gaze at him.

  ‘They say he’s the strongest man in Ireland,’ Annie said in a clearly audible whisper. ‘Maybe the world.’

  ‘Oh, really, Annie, the things you say,’ Elizabeth Bartlett remarked. Now she also got to her feet, gave a little cry, and fell again. Harry rushed back to catch her, inches from the ground.

  ‘Miss Bartlett?’

  ‘I think I must have twisted my ankle,’ she gasped.

  ‘I’ll just set you in the trap,’ Harry decided. He put one arm round her shoulders, the other under her knees, and swept her from the ground. They squelched against each other, but it seemed the most glorious feeling in the world.

  ‘Are you sure she’s not too heavy for you?’ Annie remarked, more spitefully yet. Much as she obviously enjoyed being rescued by the famous Harry McGann, she was clearly bitterly regretting the presence of her ‘dearest friend’.

  Harry ignored the gibe. ‘Maybe I’d best come back with you after all,’ he said, carrying Elizabeth towards the trap, making himself look at her face rather than at the gown sticking to her body like a second skin. ‘You could encounter those bees again.’

  ‘You’d catch your death of cold,’ she said softly. ‘But it would be most kind of you, Mr McGann.’

  ‘Just what do you think you are doing with that young lady, you great Irish lout?’ a man demanded.

  Harry checked, and turned. The newcomer had been walking through the woods, and had obviously been careful to make as little noise as possible during his final approach. Harry recognised him immediately as Sean O’Rourke, Annie’s elder brother, for all that he was seldom seen in Tramore nowadays; he had become a lieutenant in His Majesty’s Navy, which for an Irishman born and bred could be considered close to treason, however it might be the road to advancement beyond the range of a country squire. But Harry was surprised by more than the man’s presence, or the instant feeling of alarm caused by the sight of the blue coat and vest, the white breeches and knee-length silk stockings — that uniform pronounced ‘enemy’ to any man who earned his livelihood by smuggling; it was the greeting that was more unusual than anything else, for it was a long time since any man had raised his voice to Harry McGann save in approbation.

  He decided to treat it as a joke. ‘Top of the morning to you, Master O’Rourke,’ he said. ‘And if I am a great Irish lout, are you not one of the smallest there is?’

  ‘Why, you scoundrel, I’ll make you eat those words. Put down that lady, sir. Put her down.’

  ‘That I shall,’ Harry agreed, carefully setting Elizabeth on the leather cushion of the trap.

  ‘Be careful,’ she whispered. ‘He is a b
ad tempered fellow.’

  ‘Not with me,’ Harry promised her. ‘We’ve known each other too long.’ He turned back to assist Annie.

  ‘You’ll not touch my sister, villain,’ Sean O’Rourke commanded, advancing, his left hand dropping to the hilt of his sword, while his right hand slapped a gold-hilted cane against his calf.

  ‘Then maybe you’ll assist her yourself,’ Harry suggested.

  ‘Nonsense,’ Annie declared. ‘You shall help me, Harry, just the way you helped Miss Bartlett.’ She half turned to facilitate being lifted from the ground. ‘And Sean, run away and practise giving orders to the trees. You are a most inopportune fellow. Do you not recognise Harry McGann? Harry?’

  Harry obeyed, lifting her from the ground in turn, although there was clearly nothing the matter with either of her ankles, and carried her to the trap.

  ‘Why thank you, sir,’ she smiled as he sat her beside Elizabeth. ‘You are so … oh, look out!’ she shouted.

  Harry turned, in time to see Sean O’Rourke swinging his cane at his back. He swept his left arm round and brushed the cane aside, knocking it from O’Rourke’s hand into the bushes, and sending O’Rourke himself tumbling against a tree. ‘Are you mad?’ he inquired in utter bewilderment. No one in his right mind ever raised a hand to Harry McGann.

  ‘You ill mannered, smuggling lout,’ O’Rourke shouted regaining his balance, looking for a moment after his cane, and then whipping his sword from his scabbard. ‘Oh, yes, I remember you well, Harry McGann. And I know all about your scurvy ways. Strike me, would you? You’ll dance for that, by God!’

  ‘Sean, you cannot,’ Annie shrieked. ‘He’s unarmed.’

  Elizabeth Bartlett grasped the side of the trap, her bodice heaving.

  Harry still stared at the squire’s son, with whom, many years ago, he had hunted rabbits, unable to grasp that the fellow actually sought to hurt him, when there was a low growl of suppressed fury, and Boru, returned from his rabbit hunt, launched himself out of the bushes at the man threatening his master.