From the wild hubbub of voices Peter gathered that Burke—the officer’s name—had trodden on FitzGerald’s foot. ‘Pull harder, your honour,’ cried Sean, with boundless delight, and then the two were heaved apart by a surge of violent peacemakers. For a moment FitzGerald and Burke were still attached, the grasping hand of the one extended to its utmost and the nose of the other to a great deal more than the usual length: then there was a wall of men between the two and FitzGerald, with a flush on his face and a brilliant gleam in his green eyes, was sitting down.
‘As I was saying,’ he said, ‘the course was entirely too soft for a horse with an action like that, so …’
‘My wig, sir, I believe,’ said a frosty-faced gentleman to Peter, very sharply.
‘… so although there is not his match over a measured mile on high, champaigne country,’ continued FitzGerald, ‘it would scarcely be wise to lay evens when he is to run in a plashy bottom like Derrynacaol after a week of rain.’
‘Just so,’ said Peter earnestly. ‘I am of your opinion entirely.’
At this point two red coats approached the table. ‘We are from Burke, of course,’ said the elder, after the exchange of formal politeness.
‘My friend here will act,’ said FitzGerald. ‘Allow me to name Mr Palafox, of the Royal Navy—Captain Marney.’
‘Shall we discuss the details in an hour’s time?’ suggested the soldier. ‘I propose the Butler Arms.’
‘Charmed,’ said Peter, with a creditable appearance of phlegm, and Captain Marney walked away with his companion, humming the tune called Greensleeves.
‘I am sorry to wish this on you,’ said FitzGerald. ‘But I promise you it will not be long. We will come out at dawn: I will line his vitals with steel: and in five minutes we shall be on our way—it will serve to get us up early, which shows that even an oaf like Burke has his uses. Let’s have a bottle and drink to his slow recovery.’ He called the waiter.
‘I did not see what he did,’ said Peter.
‘Trod on my foot.’
‘So you must get up at half-past five and push a sword into him?’
‘Exactly so. He did it on purpose, you know. He has been seeking a quarrel with me ever since I fought his brother, and that was the only thing his boorish mind could find to do. However let us not talk about him. There are much more agreeable subjects.’ He paused. ‘So we are to be companions on the road? Well, I am very glad of it.’
‘So am I,’ said Peter, wondering if FitzGerald were really quite the ideal fellow-traveller. They sat contemplating one another, and after a pause FitzGerald repeated, ‘I am very glad of it, not only for the pleasure of your conversation, but because we have some desperate lonely country ahead of us, with a desperate number of thieves in it. But you have two servants with you, sir, I believe? And a band of four should be safe from any attempt.’
‘Not exactly—’ began Peter, meaning to set this misunderstanding straight right away; but he was interrupted by the coming in of a servant.
‘Mr Lyon’s compliments,’ said the man, ‘and he regrets he cannot oblige Mr FitzGerald.’
‘Oh,’ he said, looking a little blank. He felt in his pocket, and the servant’s smile grew. ‘However,’ he said, bringing his hand out again and waving it, ‘it does not signify. Thankee.’
A long silence followed the servant’s departure, and eventually FitzGerald broke it by saying, as he filled his glass with a mixture of water and wine, ‘Let us drink to the confusion of Timothy Lyon. Do you know,’ he added, drawing his chair nearer, ‘that man has made his fortune out of my family, and now he has the monstrous assurance to decline an advance of a small note of hand.’
‘Well,’ said Peter, thoughtfully sipping his wine, ‘that’s very bad, I am sure.’
‘It is the blackest ingratitude,’ said FitzGerald. Then, fiddling with the stem of his glass, he said, ‘Mr Palafox,’ and stopped. Peter was surprised to detect a nervous tone in his voice, but he was so much occupied with his own problems and with his hurry of spirits at the recent quarrel and its approaching result, that it came as a complete surprise when FitzGerald continued, ‘Mr Palafox, it would oblige me infinitely if you could let me have ten guineas, just until we reach England.’
He gaped at FitzGerald, hardly believing his ears, and FitzGerald hurried on, ‘You see, I made a foolish mistake at the races today, and I have left myself quite high and dry. It would be—’
‘But I was just going to ask you,’ broke in Peter. ‘I was going to say the very same words.’
‘Oh,’ said FitzGerald; and there was a short silence.
‘I am very sorry, indeed,’ said Peter, hesitantly.
FitzGerald smiled. ‘It is of no consequence,’ he said. ‘But I confess I had hoped you would be rich, being so well attended.’
‘It is only Liam and Sean,’ said Peter; then, feeling the necessity of an explanation, he went on, ‘Liam farms my father’s glebe at Ballynasaggart: he is not what you would call a servant at all, but he does all kinds of things, like selling the pig, and he was going with me as far as Cork and he would take back the horses. And Sean came of his own notion, to see the world: he is Liam’s nephew and the son of my nurse. It was Liam who had the purse, you see, being cautious and used to the world: but it went at the races, and the horses are pawned.’
‘My poor shipmate,’ said FitzGerald, shaking him by the hand very cheerfully. ‘What a sad way you are in. And there was I imagining a Croesus—I was ill with expecting you. But tell me, you could not send home?’
‘I could not,’ replied Peter, ‘for I know very well there is not a gold piece left in the house. We are quite poor, you know,’ he added, simply.
‘I beg your pardon,’ said FitzGerald, flushing. ‘I did not intend to be impertinent. For myself I cannot send home either, and for much the same reason.’ He carefully shared out the last of the wine. ‘I cannot accept such ingenuous candour,’ he said, ‘without offering my explanations in turn.’ And Peter learned that he was the son of Edward FitzGerald of Ardnacruish, a gentleman who had almost ruined himself by pursuing three law-suits at once about a right of way through his demesne. ‘It was not so bad until the first affair came to the House of Lords,’ said FitzGerald. ‘But when that failed the poor old gentleman (who was in the wrong from the start, by the by) came to me with tears in his eyes and said, “Terence, my boy (my name is Peregrine, but he was thinking of my brother), Terence, my boy, I am vexed to the soul, but I cannot buy you the pair of colours I promised. Not even in a marching regiment,” says he, shedding tears. “So I suppose you will have to be a crossing-sweeper, if we can find someone to sell you a broom on credit.” “Stuff,” says my Aunt Tabitha. “Why will you not write to Cousin Wager, as I have said these five years gone?” “Sure, Tab,” says he, “it would be kinder to the boy to drown him in a stable bucket than to have him cooped up in a ship. There never was a FitzGerald who could do anything if he was not on a horse; and sweeping his crossing he will at least be within nodding distance of the creatures.” “Stuff,” says my aunt—and so it went on; but in the end the letter was written to Cousin Wager, who is something grand in the Admiralty, and the answer came back and my father borrowed twenty guineas from the tailor to carry me over. It is true that he had to order clothes to the tune of nigh on a hundred to do it, but they will always come in. And if only that slug of a horse had run faster this afternoon I might have been able to pay for them all out of hand: still, I have my appointment, and once I am aboard the Centurion—’
‘The Centurion?’ cried Peter.
‘Yes. You’ll not say it is your ship as well?’
‘It is, though,’ said Peter. ‘My father’s old friend Mr Walter is chaplain, and he begged me the place.’
‘Well,