'Do what I'm telling you,' said the gentleman. 'Go down now and tell
the shopman and his wife to come up here to play a game of cards
with me, for it's lonesome I am this evening.'
When the boy was gone he mixed a vomit and poured the lot of it into
a few naggins of whiskey, and he put a strong cloth on the table
under the cards.
The man came up with his wife and they began to play.
The shopman won the first game and the gentleman made them drink a
sup of the whiskey.
They played again and the shopman won the second game. Then the
gentleman made him drink a sup more of the whiskey.
As they were playing the third game the shopman and his wife got
sick on the cloth, and the boy picked it up and carried it into the
yard, for the gentleman had let him know what he was to do. Then he
found the heart of the bird and he ate it, and the next morning when
he turned in his bed there was a purse of gold under him.
That is my story.
When the steamer is expected I rarely fail to visit the boat-slip,
as the men usually collect when she is in the offing, and lie
arguing among their curaghs till she has made her visit to the south
island, and is seen coming towards us.
This morning I had a long talk with an old man who was rejoicing
over the improvement he had seen here during the last ten or fifteen
years.
Till recently there was no communication with the mainland except by
hookers, which were usually slow, and could only make the voyage in
tolerably fine weather, so that if an islander went to a fair it was
often three weeks before he could return. Now, however, the steamer
comes here twice in the week, and the voyage is made in three or
four hours.
The pier on this island is also a novelty, and is much thought of,
as it enables the hookers that still carry turf and cattle to
discharge and take their cargoes directly from the shore. The water
round it, however, is only deep enough for a hooker when the tide is
nearly full, and will never float the steamer, so passengers must
still come to land in curaghs. The boat-slip at the corner next the
south island is extremely useful in calm weather, but it is exposed
to a heavy roll from the south, and is so narrow that the curaghs
run some danger of missing it in the tumult of the surf.
In bad weather four men will often stand for nearly an hour at the
top of the slip with a curagh in their hands, watching a point of
rock towards the south where they can see the strength of the waves
that are coming in.
The instant a break is seen they swoop down to the surf, launch
their curagh, and pull out to sea with incredible speed. Coming to
land Is attended with the same difficulty, and, if their moment is
badly chosen, they are likely to be washed sideways and swamped
among the rocks.
This continual danger, which can only be escaped by extraordinary
personal dexterity, has had considerable influence on the local
character, as the waves have made it impossible for clumsy,
foolhardy, or timid men to live on these islands.
When the steamer is within a mile of the slip, the curaghs are put
out and range themselves - there are usually from four to a dozen - in
two lines at some distance from the shore.
The moment she comes in among them there is a short but desperate
struggle for good places at her side. The men are lolling on their
oars talking with the dreamy tone which comes with the rocking of
the waves. The steamer lies to, and in an instant their faces become
distorted with passion, while the oars bend and quiver with the
strain. For one minute they seem utterly indifferent to their own
safety and that of their friends and brothers. Then the sequence is
decided, and they begin to talk again with the dreamy tone that is
habitual to them, while they make fast and clamber up into the
steamer.
While the curaghs are out I am left with a few women and very old
men who cannot row. One of these old men, whom I often talk with,
has some fame as a bone-setter, and is said to have done remarkable
cures, both here and on the mainland. Stories are told of how he has
been taken off by the quality in their carriages through the hills
of Connemara, to treat their sons and daughters, and come home with
his pockets full of money.
Another old man, the oldest on the island, is fond of telling me
anecdotes - not folktales - of things that have happened here in his
lifetime.
He often tells me about a Connaught man who killed his father with
the blow of a spade when he was in passion, and then fled to this
island and threw himself on the mercy of some of the natives with
whom he was said to be related. They hid him in a hole - which the
old man has shown me - and kept him safe for weeks, though the police
came and searched for him, and he could hear their boots grinding on
the stones over his head. In spite of a reward which was offered,
the island was incorruptible, and after much trouble the man was
safely shipped to America.
This impulse to protect the criminal is universal in the west.
