‘No,’ said Peter.
‘Listen—’
‘I will not. Sean, bring me the ass.’
‘And is it an ass, Peter a gradh?’ said Sean, with a real tear in his eye, ‘And they putting the mock on us from Dublin to Ballynasaggart? I have not deserved it, your honour.’
‘Oh, well …’ said Peter, and they compromised on a sort of an elderly horse; but at least it had a leg at each corner, and it drew the little cart and its load of bonnets, ribbon, a large piece of Juan Fernandez, eight green parrots, one fruit bat (torpid) from Sunda, two terrapins (thought to be alive), one shivering ape, some crocodile’s teeth, a curious Chinese tree, a porcelain pagoda, a keepsake from Miss Anne Elliot (in Peter’s own bosom—but the cart also carried him) a Cape Hottentot’s drum, a small dolphin in an advanced state of decay, and a large number of hideous shawls, besides miscellaneous objects of doubtful charm or utility; and a very handy ballast of gold. The horse drew the cart briskly across Ireland, stopping by night in small, uncouth uncostly shebeens, whatever Sean might say, with his gaze fixed longingly on magnificent inns where the coaches stood, and the gold rattling in his pocket—for Peter had yielded up a note to be changed, now that Sean was under his eye.
The motive for this rigid economy was plain. Peter had sworn by his soul that he would put one thousand guineas, and not one tin farthing less, into his father’s own hands. For this was a sum that would exactly double the Reverend Mr Palafox’s stipend, when put in the Funds; it would dower his daughters and it would send William to the longed-for Trinity College. There was no longer much of a margin; but come what may, he was not going to spoil the glorious roundness, and he plodded doggedly into the County Roscommon with Sean whining, hopelessly now, by his side.
It was a fair day in the Connaught summer when they reached the Plain of the Two Mists, where the curlews wept in desolation over their heads. That is to say, it was well above freezing, and the rain only dripped slowly from Sean’s round, glazed hat.
‘In five minutes more we shall see the Connveagh bog, so we shall,’ observed Peter.
‘The old bog itself, thanks be to God.’
‘I thank Him,’ said Peter, taking off his hat.
‘Do you see the cloud lift on Cruachan? Two points on the starboard bow, sir, dear.’
‘I do. Give way now,’ he called to the horse. It was a partially nautical horse, having served in the Marines, and it gave way nobly.
Silent on the green road, its hoofs; silent the wheels as they traced their long ridge in the mud.
‘There’s Joseph Noonan’s cabin,’ said Peter softly. ‘And I see the ash-trees of home.’
‘There’s Pegeen Ban admiring the world.’
‘It’s herself is taking the air, standing on the bog with her milking-stool under her arm.’
‘Good day, young woman, and God’s blessing to you.’
‘May the dear God love you, sailormen, and would you have seen a small obstinate cow creeping over the bog? Why, your soul to the devil, Sean! Why, Sean dear, I hardly knew you. And Peter! Oh, what have they done to your poor face, all banged with guns? And Sean honey, your ears, and have you them lost? Oh, Sean, what a strange hat you have on. Oh, Sean, I hardly knew you,’ cried Pegeen, shedding tears. ‘And are you come from the wars far away? Poor things, in the little small cart,’ she said compassionately. ‘And myself calling after you to bring the King of Spain’s old crown, so I did.’
‘Well, Pegeen acuishle,’ said Peter, leaning down to reach in his sea-chest, ‘here it is. I will not say,’ he said, looking at the circle of gold—a votive offering from Paita and a piece of private loot—’I will not say that it is his very best crown, not his holiday crown. But there,’ he said putting it on Pegeen’s sweet head and giving her a resounding kiss on the cheek, ‘it was the best I could do, the time being short and the wars so cruel.’
‘Oh Peter, the glory of Connaught you are,’ said Pegeen, hugging him breathless and turning at once to see her crowned head in a puddle.
‘So am I,’ cried Sean. ‘I am a gorgeous hero too, Pegeen Ban,’ and he flung up a handful of guineas that fell again with the rain.
‘’Vast heaving,’ said Peter to the maritime horse. ‘Sean, cast off the starboard shackling-block. Bear a hand, now.’ For in the soft distance he had seen a twinkle of white in the ash-trees of the Rectory garden. It was his smallest sister, who had been clambering up there to look for him these five weeks gone, since the news that the ship had been signalled came into the West: now she had fallen a yard, and was held by her powerful pinafore and one pigtail uncoiled. She was inverted, and it was the flailing about of her petticoats as she kicked that provided the twinkle afar.
‘Cast off, man, will you?’ he repeated in a quarter-deck roar.
‘I will not,’ cried Sean, madly embracing the horse.
‘Fie, Sean, for shame,’ said Peter, nipping out of the cart. ‘You audacious reptile.’
‘Four years I have obeyed,’ continued Sean, skipping and pointing his toe, ‘and now the joy of disobeying an officer is more than my heart can withstand.’
‘Now Sean, my dear, will you cast off this horse, for it’s the way I want to ride home with speed?’
‘For shame, Sean O’Mara, to answer him so. To disobey orders, your soul to the devil. When you marry me, Sean, that never will do.’
‘For to please you, Peter, my dear, I will,’ said Sean, buckling to. ‘And the back of my hand to you, Pegeen Ban; and I may marry somebody else. But I am not obeying to order, your honour, for you see, I am casting off by the larboard.’
‘Sean, you are to marry me,’ cried Pegeen, gripping her stool.
‘Sure, I may,’ began Sean. But their courtship was lost to Peter as he leapt on the horse with a shriek and urged it wildly over the bog. Away on the other end of the road a far shape had appeared. Placidus galloping, with his master up, pounding the turf like a three-year-old. Mr Palafox’s cassock flying out in the wind: then William and Dermot, aprons white on his sisters, the others behind and they running like hares.
‘Give way,’ cried Peter, restraining a powerful impulse to tack, for the wind was in his face. ‘Give way,’ leaping the horse by will-power over a line of turf in the road.
He flashed past the cross-roads and Noonan’s low cabin.
‘Welcome, Peter,’ they called. ‘Welcome home from the sea.’
‘Welcome home from the Golden Ocean,’ all waving. ‘Welcome home from the Golden Sea.’
And he was down from his horse and running to greet them. ‘Welcome home, Peter darling. Welcome home from the sea.’
About the Author
Patrick O’Brian is the author of the acclaimed Aubrey–Maturin tales and the biographer of Joseph Banks and Picasso. His first novel, Testimonies, and his Collected Short Stories have recently been republished by HarperCollins. He has translated many works from French into English, among them the novels and memoirs of Simone de Beauvoir and the first volume of Jean Lacouture’s biography of Charles de Gaulle. In 1995 he was the first recipient of the Heywood Hill Prize for a lifetime’s contribution to literature. In the same year he was awarded the CBE. In 1997 he received an honorary doctorate of letters from Trinity College, Dublin. He lives in the South of France.
The Works of Patrick O’Brian
Aubrey–Maturin Novels
in order of publication
MASTER AND COMMANDER
POST CAPTAIN
HMS SURPRISE
THE MAURITIUS COMMAND
DESOLATION ISLAND
THE FORTUNE OF WAR
THE SURGEON’S MATE
THE IONIAN MISSION
TREASON’S HARBOUR
THE FAR SIDE OF THE WORLD
THE REVERSE OF THE MEDAL
THE LETTER OF MARQUE
THE THIRTEEN-GUN SALUTE
THE NUTMEG OF CONSOLATION
CLARISSA OAKES
THE WINE-DARK SEA
THE COMMODORE
THE YELLOW ADMIRAL
THE HUNDRED DAYS
BLUE AT THE MIZZEN
Novels
TESTIMONIES
THE CATALANS
THE GOLDEN OCEAN
THE UNKNOWN SHORE
RICHARD TEMPLE
Biography
PICASSO
JOSEPH BANKS
Tales
THE LAST POOL
THE WALKER
LYING IN THE SUN
THE CHIAN WINE
COLLECTED SHORT STORIES
Anthology
A BOOK OF VOYAGES
Copyright
HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London w6 8JB
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First published in Great Britain by
Rupert Hart-Davis 1956
Copyright © Patrick O’Brian 1956
Patrick O’Brian asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Epub Edition © APRIL 2012 ISBN: 9780007466443
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Patrick O'Brian, The Golden Ocean
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