Part 2

“Well,” says Andy, “I saw there was no use just thin in thryin’ to persuade the King of New York that it wasn’t samples of virgin cork three parts of us wor; but, faith! I had an onaisy feelin’ that he might have it in his mind to cut us up for cork fendhers an’ the like, and you may be sure I had no intintion of allowin’ meself to be made into a sthopper for a bung-hole, so I towld him if he’d give me a private intherview in the coorse of a few days, when I’d have picked up some of the lingo, I could explain matthers to him. ‘In the manetime,’ says I to him, ‘for the love of goodness, give the four of us something to fill our insides wud!’ ‘What ’ud you like?’ says the King of New York. ‘Well, if it’s no inconvaynience to the coort,’ says I, ‘we’d prefer a good male of bacon and cabbage to anything you could offer; and if you could see your way to let us moisten that same wud some whisky-an’-wather, I’d be undher a heavy load of obligation to you.’ Well, wud that the King gev ordhers to have the biggest side of bacon in the palace taken off the hooks an’ boiled for us; ‘an’ while ’tis cookin’,’ says he, ‘maybe you’d like to break your fast on the remains of a cowld showldher of mutton left from Sunday’s dinner?’”

“That reminds me,” says King Cormac, “that I never axed you if you had a mouth on you. I think there’s the remains of a half pig’s head here,” says he, goin’ over to the cupboard and taking a heavy goold dish out of it.

“Faix!” says Andy, “if you wor thryin’ to discover what was in my mind this minute, you couldn’t have hit the mark more close. I’m nearly famished wud the hunger, but, of coorse, I didn’t like to be makin’ meself too much at home on a first visit, or I’d have mintioned the fact before.”

“Betther late than never,” says King Cormac. “Hunger is the best sauce, an’ the chapest too, so you’ll excuse me for not offerin’ you anything barrin’ the knife an’ fork.”

“Don’t mintion it,” says Andy.

“’Tis a nice piece of mate,” says King Cormac. “You find it tindher, don’t you?”

“Like a spring chicken,” says Andy.

“I suppose you can talk while you’re aitin’?” says King Cormac.

“I can,” says Andy, though the words nearly choked him. Of coorse, he had to thry an’ put on his quality manners when he was discoorsin’ wud a king, but it tuk him all his time to spake plain wud his mouth full.

“Go on, thin,” says King Cormac. “What I’m anxious to hear,” says he, “is what’s the size of this new counthry, an’ what soort of a place it is in general.”

“That’s what I’m comin’ to,” says Andy.

“Thin come to it quick,” says King Cormac, “for half my mornin’ is gone already, an’ I’ve a dale of business to attend to.”

Andy’s hunger was partly satisfied by this, so he laid down his knife an’ fork, an’ says he, “Well, to hurry matthers up, this Injy is a mighty big counthry. They tell me ’twould take a man, walkin’ twinty mile a day, nearly half a year to get to the other side of it.”

“Dhraw it mild,” says King Cormac.

“Faith! ’tis the thruth I’m telling you,” says Andy. “An’, now,” says he, “I comes to the point where I’ll have to ax your majesty to give me full considheration. I spent the best part of two months wud the Injuns, an’ ’tis right well they thrated me. The innocent craychurs have no idaya at all of the value of land; all they thinks of is aitin’ an’ dhrinkin’, crackin’ jokes, an’ playing tambourines. Just to show what sort they are, I may tell you that wan day, afther I had made christhins of ’em all an’ taught ’em how to spake English, the King axed me to write me name in the visithors’ book, so I wrote down wud a flourish, ‘A. Merrigan.’ He looks at the writin’, an’ says he, ‘For the future we’ll call ourselves afther you.’ So the word wint forth that all the Injuns all over the counthry wor to be known in future as Amerrigans, an’ they calls the counthry for short, Amerriga. They has a way of choppin’ their words, you see.”

“’Tis a proud man you ought to be,” says King Cormac. “Do you mind shakin’ hands wud me?”

So, begor, Andy an’ the King of Munsther shuk hands, an’ the tears rowled down King Cormac’s cheeks wud the hard grip Andy fastened on him, but he was a proud man, an’ wouldn’t let on he was hurt if a mule wor to give him a kick in the ribs.

“Well,” says Andy, “even callin’ the counthry afther me wouldn’t satisfy ould Sambo—the King of New York, I mane—but the next thing he did was to summon a meetin’ of his head follyers; an’, wudout a word of a lie, they towld me they had made up their minds to give me a present of the whole counthry if I’d marry the King of New York’s eldest daughther.”

“An’ did you take the offer?” says King Cormac.

“Of coorse I did,” says Andy; “an’ not to be outdone by a parcel of niggers in ginerosity, the first thing I did was to make my two cousins a present of as much of the counthry as they tuk a fancy to. Pat Carroll went down South, an’ he measured out a two big thracts of land, an’ called ’em North and South Carrollina; and Mick Egan went a bit in from the coast an’ measured out another slice an’ called it Michael Egan; but the darkeys, I hear, shortened that to Michegan.”

“An’ what did you do for the cabin boy?”

“To tell you the thruth,” says Andy, “I didn’t like to make a king of him, or give him a big thract of counthry, on account of his not bein’ an Irishman; but I made him a present of the first land we sighthed; an’ being a smart lad he tuk what he could get wud a good grace an’ detarmined to make the most of his little slice. He’s goin’ to build a lighthouse on it shortly, an’ charge a toll to the ships that pass; an’ I have no manner of doubt he’ll pick up a good livin’ at ‘Sandy Hook,’ for he’s a knowin’ young shaver.”

“Did you bring the wife home wud you?” axed King Cormac.

“Not this thrip,” says Andy. “I got her to laive her measure for a dhress, an’ ’twasn’t finished by the time I had to come away.”

“She’s black of coorse?” says King Cormac.

“Black as the ace of spades,” says Andy; “but I’m towld she’ll bleach in the sun, an’ even if she don’t turn the right colour,” says he, “sure I can give her an odd coat of whitewash now an’ again.”

“You haven’t towld me what sort of a counthry it is,” says King Cormac; “maybe ’tis all bog.”

“Bog!” says Andy, curlin’ his lip. “There isn’t a bit of bog land in it from Aist to West.”

“An’ what do they grow in it?” says King Cormac.

“Everything,” says Andy; “but mostly goold nuggets.”

“_What!_” says King Cormac, startin’ up out of his aisy chair.

“No wondher you’re astonished,” says Andy.

“Goold nuggets!” says the King of Munsther.

“Ay,” says Andy, “’tis rotten wud ’em the counthry is. I wint out to the diggin’s,” says he, “an’ there’s as much goold in wan field there as ’ud build the Rock of Cashel twice over.”

“Murdher alive!” says the King; “’tis a great place intirely it must be! But what is it you want a poor sthrugglin’ man like me to do for you, Andy?”

“Not much,” says Andy, “but little as it is it manes a dale to me. You see the goold is no value at all at all in my counthry.”

“But sure you could bring a few cargoes of it over here?” says King Cormac.

“That’s the very thing I came to consult wud yerself about,” says Andy. “You see if I wor to bring a load of it into Cork harbour ’tis saised on it wud be, an’, I’ll go bail some of my neighbours ’ud be bla’guards enough to swear I didn’t come by it honest. Now here’s my offer to you, King Cormac,” says Andy. “I have no likin’ at all to be a king, especially wud nothing but a lot of tambourine-playin’ niggers for my subjects, an’ my proposal to you this blessed mornin’ is to sell you the whole counthry for a hundred pound down on the nail, wud the perviso that I’m allowed to take as much goold out of it as me own little thrawler can carry, for I’m not a covechous man at all.”

“Will you give me that in writin’?” says King Cormac.

“Of coorse,” says Andy; “but there’s wan more condition.”

“What’s that?” says King Cormac.

“That you buys my cargo for the Mint,” says Andy.

“How much do you want for it?” says King Cormac.

“The market price,” says Andy.

“Will you take Griffith’s valuation,” says King Cormac, who was a hard hand at buyin’ or sellin’.

“Well, not to break your word, I will,” says Andy.

“Then it’s a bargain,” says King Cormac. “I’ll send for my head clerk, an’ we’ll dhraw up the agreement.”

So the head clerk of the coort was sint for, an’ he dhrew up a great long dockyment that ’ud cover the side of a barracks, an’ King Cormac and Andy signed their names at the fut of it.

“I’ll give you my dhraft on the Munsther Bank,” says King Cormac, “for the hundhred pound.”

“Will there be any charge for cashin’ it?” says Andy.

“No,” says King Cormac, “I’m always on the right side of the books there, an’ I’m a head directhor into the bargain.”

“Well, I’ll be sayin’ good-bye now,” says Andy, taking the dhraft from King Cormac; “an’ you may expect to hear of me again in or about three months’ time.”

“Howld on a bit!” says King Cormac. “When am I to enther into possession of the new counthry?”

“Whin I comes back, of coorse,” says Andy. “If I was to bring you over wud me now maybe the Injuns ’ud make some objections to my takin’ the goold out of the counthry. ’Tis best to keep ’em in the dark for a spell about this bargain of ours. Maybe ’tis a rebellion they’d rise agen you if you wor to go over hot fut afther me, for they have their feelin’s, of coorse.”

“Of coorse,” says King Cormac. “But make your voyage as quick as you can, Andy, for ’tis dyin’ I am to take charge of this new counthry of mine.”

“I’ll be as quick as win’ and weather will permit,” says Andy; “an’ barrin’ accidents of navigation you may reckon on me, say, for this day three months. Good-bye now,” says he, givin’ King Cormac’s fist another hearty grip.

“Good-bye,” says King Cormac, “an’ a quick voyage to you, my sweet fellow!”

So Andy walked back to Cork an’ cashed the King’s dhraft on the bank, an’ thin he goes down to the quay an’ jumped aboord the thrawler.

“Up stick, boys!” says he to the crew. “We have just three months to do it, so ye’ll have to work purty hard an’ constant.”

Well, in three months to the very day Andy sails up Cork river wance more. His little craft was down to the scuppers in the wather, an’ seein’ her so deep the revenue boat pulls off an’ an officer jumps aboord.

“Where are you from?” axes the revenue man.

“We’re from New York,” says Andy.

“There’s no such a place,” says the revenue man.

“That only shows your ignorance,” says Andy.

“It isn’t down on the charts, anyhow,” says the revenue man, partly losin’ his timper.

“Of coorse it isn’t,” says Andy, “for ’twas only discovered by meself some months back.”

“Is that so?” says the revenue man. “An’ what’s the bearin’s of it?”

“That’s my saycrit,” says Andy.

“’Tis a dark man, you are!” says the revenue officer, who knew Andy well by sighth.

“You’re not the first that thought so,” says Andy.

“Have you any smuggled tobaccy aboord?” says the revenue man.

“Only what’s allowed for ship’s use on the voyage,” says Andy, answerin’ him back mighty independent.

“I see you knows the law,” says the revenue man.

“Purty fair,” says Andy.

“An’ what’s your cargo?” says the revenue man.

“Goold for the mint,” says Andy.

“Goold!” says the revenue man, nearly dhroppin’ wud surprise.

“Ay,” says Andy, “an’ very good goold it is too.”

“Where are you goin’ to land it?” says the revenue man.

“Wherever the King of Munsther ordhers me, for ’tis sowld to his own self. An’ look here,” says he, “I won’t have any meddlin’ wud my affairs. If you gives me the laste throuble or annoyance I’ll complain of you to King Cormac, an’ he’ll give you your discharge purty quick, I can tell you, for he’s undher a heavy obligation to me.”

Begor the revenue man sung purty small after that, for he knew that King Cormac was quick in his timper, an’ of coorse if Andy was to tell on him, maybe ’tis cut off his pinsion the King would as well as give him his discharge. So he says to Andy in a frindly way, “Well, I’ll put a man in charge if you have no objections. ’Twill keep the quay boys off at any rate, Andy, if they sees a man wud a gun aboord.”

“Very well,” says Andy. “Only let it be undherstood that I’ve left ordhers wud my cousin, Pat Carroll, to hang any wan from the yardarm by martial law who attimpts to meddle wud the cargo.”

“I suppose you’re goin’ straight to the Rock of Cashel now,” says the revenue man, seein’ Andy takin’ off his sou’westher and fixin’ a top hat on his head.

“I am,” says Andy.

“You might put in a good word for me wud the King,” says the revenue man.

“I’ll wait till I comes back,” says Andy; “an’ if I hears a good account of your man from Pat Carroll, I’ll sartinly see that your wages is raised.”

“More power to your elbow!” says the revenue man. “Let me give you a leg over the side,” says he.

So Andy stepped over the rail and dhropped into a small boat that landed him safe and sound on the quay, an’ then he started to thramp it again to the Rock of Cashel. The sinthry knew him this time an’ let him in at wance, and Andy walked up the steps of the Rock an’ knocked at the dhrawin’-room door.

“Come in,” says King Cormac, so in Andy wint.

“Well, here I am again,” says he, “thrue to my promise. I know I’m a few days behind time, but there was a nasty slop of a say outside for the past forty-eight hours, an’ I was rather in dhread of makin’ for the enthrance of the harbour.”

“You worn’t in dhread of makin’ sail out of the enthrance of the Shannon the day before yestherday,” says King Cormac, lookin’ hard at Andy.

“What do you mane?” says Andy, turnin’ rather white in the gills.

“Nothing,” says King Cormac. “Only a joke.”

“’Tis a quare way of jokin’ you have,” says Andy.

“Maybe,” says King Cormac, who seemed very short in his conversation this mornin’.

“I brought the cargo of goold,” says Andy.

“Did you?” says the King. “An’ did you bring the wife? for I’m rather anxious to see wan of my new subjects.”

“Well,” says Andy, an’ there was a kind of a stammer in his voice, “I brought her right enough, but I landed the poor girl at Roche’s Point, for she was mortial say-sick on the voyage.”

“Thin, I can see her of coorse?” says King Cormac.

“You can,” says Andy, “as soon as she gets the rowl of the westhern ocean out of her head.”

“’Tis a puzzlin’ business altogether,” says the King half to himself. “Look here, Andy,” says he, “I may as well tell you the honest thruth, for I don’t like to condimn a man wudhout givin’ him a fair chance. There’s a sayrious charge brought agen you this week.”

“I wouldn’t be at all surprised at that,” says Andy. “I towld you long ago that the neighbours wor never tired of backbitin’ me.”

“’Tisn’t a neighbour this time,” says the King. “’Tis a Portingale man.”[1]

[1] “Portingale man” is Anglo-Hibernian for “Portuguese.”

“Yerrah!” says Andy, “sure a king of your parts wouldn’t believe the daylight from a Portingale man!”

“That depinds,” says King Cormac.

“An’ what does the bla’guard say agen me?” says Andy.

“I’ll tell you,” says the King; “an’ if you don’t disprove it I’ll hang you in chains as sure as my name is Cormac of Munsther.”

“That’s purty sure by all accounts,” says Andy, thryin’ to show he took little heed of what any Portingale man could say about him; but he didn’t look much at his aise, I can tell you.

“Maybe ’tis laugh at the wrong side of your mouth you will before I’m done wud you,” says King Cormac; “an’ this is the charge agen you. Last week it seems you sailed into the Shannon—”

“I won’t deny it,” intherrupts Andy. “’Twas the first landin’ place I could get a grip of. I was run out of tobaccy an’ of salt pork, an’ I’m partial to Limerick twist an’ Limerick bacon.”

“Very well,” says the King. “Your acknowledgin’ the charge saves me the throuble of summonin’ eye-witnesses. Anyhow, in Limerick you wint into a public-house. Do you deny that?”

“I don’t,” says Andy; “nor I don’t deny I had a dhrop too much aither.”

“Very well,” says the King; “but you’re not obliged to make charges agen yerself. At any rate, this Portingale man saw you in this public house, an’ he recognized you at wance. It seems you boorded a ship he was sailin’ in some years back, loaded wud a general cargo, an’ afther murdherin’ all aboord you tuk away the valuable part of this cargo, amongst which wor a lot of bags of Portingale goold.”

“That’s a quare story, sure enough,” says Andy. “Now if I murdhered every wan aboard, how could this fellow you’re spaykin’ of be in Limerick last week?”

“He was in hidin’ in the lazareet,” says the King, “an’ that’s how you missed him.”

Begor Andy didn’t look at all well whin he heard this, but he was a desperate darin’ man, an’ says he, “I know what you’re dhrivin’ at, King Cormac. You mane to make out that ’tis a pirate I am, an’ that the story I towld you about the great new counthry is only moonshine.”

“Exactly,” says King Cormac.

“’Tis aisy to disprove that, at any rate,” says Andy. “If any of my prisent cargo is in Portingale money, or in the money of any counthry known to the prisent generation, I’ll give you laife to hang draw an’ quarther me before mornin’.”

“Do you take me for an _omadhaun?_” says King Cormac. “Do you think I never heard of a meltin’-pot?”

Andy was silent for a spell afther that remark, an’ whin he spoke again there was a sthrange hoarseness in his voice. “I see,” says he, “that things look black agen me, but for all that I can clear myself if I only gets a fair chance.”

“I’ll give you every chance in the world,” says King Cormac.

“Look at here!” says Andy, “If I shows you my black-skinned wife will you believe me?”

“I will,” says King Cormac; “but I’ll take care you don’t make a hare of me this time. I’ll put three armed revenue men in the thrawler, an’ I’ll see that every weapon is taken from your boat, an thin you can sail down to Roche’s Point an’ bring me back your wife; an’ mind you,” says King Cormac, “’twon’t do to thry an’ desayve me by coatin’ wan of my own subjects wud gas tar, for I’ll have the coort physician to examine the woman—that is if you brings her here. An’ if you don’t bring her,” says he, “take my word for it I’ll hang you in chains from the top of the Rock.”

Faith, Andy saw the King was in fair airnest, so he never said a word more, but allowed himself to be taken down to Cork undher a sthrong escort. His thrawler was examined carefully an’ all the weapons wor taken out of her, an’ three armed men wor put aboord.

’Twas nigh dusk when they started the fishin’-boat from the quay of Cork, an’ the win’ rose to a gale before they got abreast of Grab-all Bay. The revenue men implored Andy to put into the Bay for shelter or to run back to Queenstown, but he persuaded ’em to let him continue his journey. “No say nor win’ was ever a match for me,” says he; “an’ I can steer my craft through the eye of a needle.”

An’, sure enough, ’twas a wondherful hand at the tiller he was. Every big lump of a say that threatened to swamp the little boat Andy dodged as aisy as children dodge wan another at blindman’s-buff; but for all that the revenue men wor ready to die of the fright. At last the thrawler was nearly abreast of Roche’s Point, an’ the say was rowlin’ in mountains high, an’ the win’ was roarin’ loud enough to burst the dhrum of your ear.

“Study now!” shouts Andy, an’ his voice was heard clear above the tundher of the gale an’ the say. “Study!” he shouts again; “an’ say your last prayer quick, for this minute we die!”

An’ as he said the words he gripped the tiller in his two fists an’ sent the thrawler’s head right into the mouth of the biggest say that ever rowled into Cork harbour; an’ under she went, goold an’ all an’ rose no more.

* * * * *

To this day they’re many that believe Andy Merrigan discovered the New World; an’ faix if he didn’t ’tis sthrange enough that generations afterwards when Columbus ventured across the Atlantic he found the place called afther Andy, and parts of it afther his crew. At any rate, of a winther’s night whin the sky is heavy an’ the win’ is high, the people from Roche’s Point will tell you they see the thrawler sthrugglin’ in the trough of an angry say, an’ loudher than the sounds of the elements is heard the last shout of Andy Merrigan an’ the terrible cry of the six hands that wint down wud him.

[Illustration: (banner) FROM PORTLAW TO PARADISE]

Wance upon a time, an’ a very good time it was too, there was a dacent little man, named Paddy Power, that lived in the parish of Portlaw.

At the time I spake of, an’ indeed for a long spell before it, most of Paddy’s neighbours had wandhered from the thrue fold, an’ the sheep that didn’t stray wor, not to put too fine a point on it, a black lot. But Paddy had always conthrived to keep his last end in view, an’ he stuck to the ould faith like a poor man’s plasther.