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CHAPTER XVI.
“OUR NATURAL LEADER.”

“The Earl of Desmond,” said Grace O’Malley to me, “is our natural leader against the English, and I wish you to go and see him.”

These words my mistress addressed to me shortly after Richard Burke and I had returned. She and I were alone, and, indeed, she had sent for me expressly, so that I knew it was of some matter of importance she wished to speak to me. I had not anticipated, however, that it would be this.

“Yes,” I said. “When do you desire me to go? De Vilela will hardly be able to be moved for some time yet, and I suppose that he will accompany me.”

Don Francisco was better, but several weeks would have to elapse before he would stand on his feet, or even be moved from his bed with safety.

“No,” said she. “I do not think it prudent to wait so long a period as may have to pass before de Vilela has sufficiently recovered. You must take Fitzgerald with you, and set out at once for the Desmond stronghold at Askeaton. Fitzgerald is now nearly well, his wound being all but healed. He possesses something of the confidence of the King of Spain, which Don Francisco enjoys to the full, and is therefore in a position to speak with Desmond, and to find out what his intentions are.”

“As you will,” said I, not without gladness, for it would be a way, and that a perfect one, to enable me to keep my resolution with regard to Eva and de Vilela – if I were out of the castle altogether, then indeed would the field be left to him alone. But, at the same time, there was a gripping about my heart that certainly was not caused by pleasure.

“It would be most unwise to delay,” continued she. “Sir Nicholas Malby will come against us so soon as he can raise a large army; if not Sir Nicholas, then another; if not this year, and he will scarcely do so now the winter approaches, then next year. And thus will the contest go on till the end has come. Under Desmond, the head of the Geraldines, the greatest noble of the South, all the Irish people will rally.”

My mistress’s voice was full of excitement; but I was not so sure of Desmond, and so made haste to remind her that he had been out against the Queen before, and had got nothing but imprisonment and grievous loss for his pains.

“It is not the same now,” replied she, with her ardour undiminished; “for Philip of Spain will throw his sword into the balance. When Desmond understands that he will be backed up by the ships and the soldiers and the money of Spain, he will throw off all irresolution, and show himself to be the great prince he is. Tell him that we are with him heart and soul. Tell him that the Burkes, both the Upper and the Lower Burkes, will forget their feuds, and unite for this one common purpose. Tell him there will be no lack of treasure; and as an earnest of this we will now go to the Caves of Silence, and take from thence the chest of gold found on the Capitana– I have spoken to de Vilela about it – and some gems as well, as a present from me.”

My mistress’s mind was made up, and vain would it have been for me to try to cause her to change her determination. And why should I try? Was not what she said true? Was not Desmond a prince in the land? If he could not be depended upon to lead us against the English, then on whom could we depend? So I stifled whatever of doubt I felt. Grace O’Malley was my leader, and if she were content with Garrett Desmond, then so was I.

We went together to the Caves of Silence, and brought away from them the chest of gold, a casket richly chased and adorned with rare jewels, and a dagger, the handle and sheath of which were studded with precious stones.

“What hatred of the English may not accomplish,” said my mistress, “gold will. Many a good sword may be bought when neither love nor hate would affect aught; many a waverer made steadfast on the rock of gold.”

I was to sail early next morning in The Cross of Blood, and in the evening when I sat in the hall, she straightly charged me that I was on no account to adventure the ship or myself in any sort of peril, and that I was not to attack any vessel, however fair and goodly a prize it might seem; nay, on the contrary, I must keep out of the track of ships as far as was practicable.

When the two ladies left us for the night, and I rose to bid them farewell for a time, I held Grace O’Malley’s hand, and she pressed mine warmly. I would have given all that I had in the world, or ever hoped to possess of it, if Eva would but have clasped my hand with something of the same fervour, or that I could have held hers and caressed it with a lover’s fondness.

And the eyes of my dear, too, were soft and kind, so that my heart cried out for a token, but my debt to de Vilela stood between us, and I only touched the little hand.

She looked at me somewhat strangely, I fancied, as if the coldness of my manner made her marvel, and I think that there perhaps was a faint gleam of laughing malice in the face of Grace O’Malley, who stood by. But in the morning, there, at the window high up the tower, were to be seen both my mistresses, with their fingers to their lips kissing me good-bye, as the galley was pulled out from the harbour.

It was now October, a month of storms, and we had to encounter head winds, heavy seas, and much stress of weather, so that our progress southward was slow. Keeping close in shore, we took advantage of whatever protection the coast, or the islands along it, afforded us, having frequently to put in and stop in one or another of the bays of Connaught.

A full week was thus taken up before we had gotten through the South Sound between Inisheer and the mainland, and, with the exception of some fishing boats, we had had the sea to ourselves.

As we passed down the rocky, mountain-crowned coast, we were sorely buffeted and wrought upon by the winds and waves. By the time we were abreast of the Cliffs of Moher, so furious a tempest was raging that I feared never would we live through it.

The stoutness of the galley, however, and perhaps some skill of seamanship, brought us safely to the Head of Cregga, which we essayed to round, but experienced so great a travail in the doing of it, albeit we did it, that we were well-nigh exhausted with the labour. But, once round the Head, we found ourselves in a stretch of water which, by comparison with that we had gone over, was as a quiet pool, to wit, the Bay of Liscanor.

And here we remained for some hours, looking for such an abatement of the storm as would allow us to proceed; but in this our hope was not to be realised as soon as we had expected, for the night fell, and the fury of the tempest was not spent.

The first object that met our gaze when the light of morning had come was a ship, all her masts gone, and the waves sweeping over her, go driving to her doom on the rocks of Cregga. As now her bows, now her stern was lifted up, so that we got a full view of her hull, there was that about her that seemed to me not unfamiliar, but I could not say then what it was. Clutching the ropes and bolts on and about what remained of her bulwarks were a few men, clinging desperately in the face of death to their last hold on life.

There was no possibility of the ship being saved, and there was hardly a greater likelihood of saving the lives of any of these miserable sailors, but I resolved to make the attempt, at least.

Bringing up The Cross of Blood as near as I dared to the Head, and having made ready to lower her two small boats, I waited for the moment when the vessel would crash upon the rocks, and be crushed and broken upon them. As she neared the cliffs, the spume of the waves shooting high and white in the air, the foaming, roaring waters, dashed back by the rocks, caught and twisted her about, so that, as her side was turned to us, I saw her name in letters of white and gold.

She was The Rosemary, a shot from which had caused the death of my master, Owen O’Malley, a few months before, and well did I remember how I saw her sail up the Shannon on her way to Limerick, with the two eerie figures shadowed against her canvas.

For an instant I felt an impulse to stand off, and to make no effort to avert the fate of any of her men – it was uncertain, I told myself, whether at the best I could render them any assistance. But, after all, we had no quarrel with these wretched mariners, about to be swallowed up by the ever-hungry sea, and, if we had had, this extremity of theirs was of a kind which we could not look upon as our opportunity and have been worthy of the name of men.

Therefore, when The Rosemary rose to the waves for the last time, and was borne aloft on the black edge of a huge roller, and then shattered to fragments upon the rocks, did we keep a sharp look-out for the bodies, living or dead, if any, which might appear on the water near where we were.

And five poor souls, by means of our boats, did we save alive, or, being as the dead, did bring to life again – and one of them was a woman.

Surely this was the queerest trick that fate ever played upon me, for the woman was none other than Sabina Lynch! Nor do I wonder that, when she had come to herself and, seeing me, knew upon whose ship she was, she did imagine she had but escaped from one kind of calamity to meet with another, and that perhaps worse: for she had to be restrained, and that by force, from casting herself back into the sea, preferring death to being in my hands.

And, verily, I was in a grievous quandary with regard to her.

She would not eat nor drink nor rest nor sleep, but only cried and sobbed and moaned, till she fell into a sort of stupor. Recovering after awhile, she did naught but cry and sob and moan again, and was so distraught that I felt a pity for her. Then, what was I to do with her? True, I could keep her a captive, and take her back with me when I returned to Carrickahooley, and give her over to my mistress, who would doubtless accord her the grimmest of welcomes. And this, perhaps, was my duty. If it were, I failed in it.

Urged on by a woman’s spite and jealousy, Sabina Lynch had played a treacherous and cruel part in regard to Grace O’Malley, and she was, in a measure, the cause of our quarrel with Sir Nicholas and the English. Sure was I that my mistress would not be merciful to her, nor would she expect me to be. Why, then, should I have been?

I have no other answer, if it be an answer, except that I was deep in love with Eva O’Malley, and that my love for her made me feel certain that Eva, much as Grace was to her – as to me – would have told me to act as I did towards this woman. For I determined to let her go free.

It is not in me to explain this matter further, nor to tell how often I argued it with myself, ever coming back, however, to what I conceived would be the desire of Eva – to let Sabina Lynch go. And if the other course was my duty, there was meted out to me, as will be seen, punishment out of all proportion to my fault.

Having come to the conclusion that Sabina Lynch should be set at liberty when a suitable opportunity presented itself, I acquainted her with my decision. She could scarcely believe her ears, and was not convinced that I meant what I said until I informed her that she might move about the galley as she pleased, and that I would put her ashore at Liscanor if she wished it, or take her on with us if that was her will.

When she saw that I did not intend to deceive her, nor to do her any hurt, she told me that she was going to Limerick. Inquiring why she had left Galway, I now heard of the rising of the Upper Burkes under Ulick, the son of the Earl of Clanrickarde, which had caused Sir Nicholas to hurry back to that city – as I have before recorded. It appeared that the people of Galway were in the extreme of terror, as nearly all the fighting men of the place had been withdrawn from it, and from Athlone, where was the next English garrison, as well, for the expedition against Grace O’Malley, and the city was thus left without defenders.

The Burkes had met with no resistance on their march to Galway, and the city was in great danger of being taken and sacked. A way out, however, remained, by the sea; and so grave was the state of affairs that Stephen Lynch, the mayor, had gladly availed himself of an opportunity of sending his daughter away for safety by The Rosemary, which happened to be leaving for Limerick. Along with her had also gone several ladies of Galway, but they had all perished in the wreck.

I now informed Sabina Lynch that I was bound for the Shannon, and that I would put her ashore at some point on the river near Limerick, if our voyage had a favourable termination, but that I thought it would be better for her to land here at Liscanor.

However, she replied that she had friends at Limerick, but knew no one in Liscanor, and so begged to be allowed to remain on The Cross of Blood. She prevailed upon me with her entreaties, and I consented – wherein, God wot, I was weak enough, though nothing short of her death could have prevented what was to occur.

There is a saying among us Celts, “What will be, already is,” and this saying is true.

The day which succeeded that on which The Rosemary was destroyed saw us out of the Bay of Liscanor, and, the weather being propitious, the next found us entering the mouth of that most beautiful of all the beautiful rivers of Ireland, the Shannon. But it was not until two days later that I brought the galley into the bay of the creek upon which, some miles inland, stands Askeaton, the fortress of the Desmonds.

During this time, being fully occupied with the working of the ship, I had seen little or nothing of Mistress Lynch, who, however, had had many conversations with Fitzgerald, and often did I hear them laughing and jesting, the one with the other, as if there were no such things in the world as bad weather and storms, and shipwrecks and war, and the deaths of men.

Now the bay in which the galley lay was no great distance from Limerick, and as it would have been the height of madness to go any nearer that city, which could not but be very hostile to us, I told Sabina Lynch that our journey was at an end, and that she was free to go. Whereupon she thanked me, and along with Fitzgerald, who had offered himself as her escort for part of the way, and who was well acquainted with the country – for it was all the territory of the Geraldines – left The Cross of Blood.

On his return, he and I, accompanied by some of our men, and taking with us the presents sent by my mistress, set out for Askeaton, where we were received by the Earl of Desmond.

The castle was one of the largest and most formidable in Ireland, consisting of several towers and strongly built houses and stables, the whole surrounded by high walls around which flowed the waters of the creek, so that it looked like a town on an island in the middle of a lake. A village, with a church at one end of it, stood on the rising ground that led up from one of the banks of the stream over against the castle.

When the drawbridge was lowered – Fitzgerald making the matter of an entrance easy for us – and we had passed within the walls, I saw in the yard a considerable number of the gallowglasses of the Geraldines, some having arquebuses, but most of them only spears or battle-axes and swords.

One of the knights of the Earl’s household approached us, and said that his lord was ready to see us. Fitzgerald and he – they were cousins, it appeared – began at once to talk, and they introduced me to several other gentlemen whom we met. And so we went into the presence of the Earl.

Grace O’Malley had said that he was “our natural leader” against the English, and narrowly did I scan the features of Garrett Desmond as he rose from his chair to offer me his hand.

My first impression was that of extraordinary disappointment, for I could see nothing very notable about him. Then, as he spoke, I noticed a twitching of the lips that strongly savoured of indecision, to say the least, and also that his eyes roamed restlessly, not settling fixedly on man or thing for a single instant. And as I observed him the closer, the keener was my disappointment.

Yet this noble was a great power in the land. Once the Desmond war-cry was sounded forth from Askeaton, thousands would shake their spears in ready response. He had but to say the word and the whole South-West of Ireland would spring to arms. He had said it once and might say it again, but I distrusted and misliked him from the first.

Courteously, however, did he receive me, and graciously the gifts which I presented to him in the name of my mistress. He inquired of me many things respecting her, to all of which I replied to the best of my ability. Indeed, during the time I spent at Askeaton, he never appeared weary of hearing about her and her exploits, which seemed, he said, incredible in one so young.

Then, after we had feasted together, he called Fitzgerald and myself aside and took us into an inner room where we three were by ourselves. And now Fitzgerald told him of the help, both in men and money, which Philip of Spain promised in the event of a general rising against the Queen, and I repeated to him all the words which Grace O’Malley had charged me to say to him.

Never once did I take my glance off him, but he would not meet my eyes. For the most part he paced up and down the room, and one could easily see the travail of his mind in the working of his face. At one moment there would be gladness and the look of resolve, then doubt and gloom would take their place the next. The same uncertainty could be seen even in his walk, which was now swift, now slow.

At last he said that it was a heavy matter, and not lightly to be undertaken, and invited me to stay at the castle until he had considered it more at large. I pressed for an immediate reply to my mistress, but he asked me to tarry for a few days, and, as I could not well do otherwise, there did I remain until one morning he gave me a letter for Grace O’Malley and many presents for her and myself, and so dismissed me.

During the time I waited for his answer I heard from several that a Spanish army was looked for in the spring, and I could see that the Earl knew all that was going on. Therefore I did not doubt but that he had sent a message to my mistress that would please her well.

And while I was thus waiting, the hours hanging heavily on my hands, I made myself well acquainted with the castle – its towers and strong rooms and walls – and thus acquired a knowledge which was to stand me in good stead before the end was come.

Then it was Ho! for The Cross of Blood, and Ho! for Carrickahooley, which we reached after a voyage unmarked by any incident worthy of record.

CHAPTER XVII.
A DEAR VICTORY

Chiefly by reason of the tempestuous weather, my journey to Askeaton and back again had occupied not far short of a month, – which was a much longer time than had been reckoned upon. On my arrival at Carrickahooley my mistress was naturally very impatient to hear what was the response of the Earl of Desmond to her message, and also what my opinion of that noble was.

First of all I delivered to her the letter and the presents he had sent. When she had read his letter she handed it to me, and there was, I could see, a great light of happiness on her face. But when I had glanced over the missive, I was not so satisfied with its contents as she plainly was.

The letter was not a long one, and, in brief, was nothing more or less than an invitation from Desmond, asking my mistress to go on a visit to him at Askeaton, where his countess would give her a warm welcome, so soon as spring was come, or as early as would be convenient for her.

With regard to any rising against the Queen he said not a word, but intimated that he was very desirous of meeting one of whom he had heard so much, and of discussing with her such matters as affected their mutual interests.

This last phrase Grace O’Malley took as a hint that the Earl, not caring to commit himself to anything definite on paper, was of the same mind as herself, for they had no interests in common save such as lay in the expulsion of the English from the island.

Now the message my mistress had sent him was frank and open, so that there could not be two opinions as to its import. But these words of his, it seemed to me, partook in no degree of the same character. They might mean much or little or even nothing at all, so vague were they.

If I had not seen the Earl my view might have been different, but in the cloudiness of his letter I again saw his weakness and want of purpose. I did not, I could not, suspect him of anything worse. However, Grace O’Malley, although I expressed to her what I felt about Desmond, was assured that he could only mean one thing, and that was that he shared in her ideas, and would be ready to give such effect to them as he could.

“Yes,” said she, “Garrett Desmond is the man.”

And she was the more certain of this when I went on to tell her that I had heard a great deal at Askeaton, and that with hardly a pretence of secrecy, of the army which the King of Spain was to send in aid of the Irish the following year.

“Do you not see,” said she, “that Desmond must be heart and soul in the business, or else he would have suffered none of this talk of Philip of Spain?”

I had, indeed, made a similar reflection when at Desmond’s castle, but what I distrusted was the character and strength of the man himself. But my mistress was my mistress, so I said no more then of the Earl.

I had had no small disputings with myself as to whether I should tell Grace O’Malley about what had occurred with respect to Sabina Lynch or not. I could not blame myself, albeit these very searchings of my spirit did show some doubt if I had done what was best, and tell her I did.

Whereupon for a minute she fell into a fit of silent rage, which, however, presently passed away – the only thing she said being the question, sharply asked —

“Would you have acted in that way, Ruari, if it had been a man?”

And the sting of the taunt, for such I felt it to be, lay perhaps in its truth. Howbeit, neither of us ever referred, in speaking to each other, to the matter again.

Richard Burke and his followers had left the castle, and had gone back to their own territory. He had made me the confidant of his hopes and fears with regard to his love for Grace O’Malley, and I desired greatly to know how he had sped in his wooing.

It was not, however, till long afterwards that I discovered he had pressed his suit, and that not altogether without success, but that she would give him no definite promise so long as her affairs were in so unstable a condition.

I did not know of any man in all the world whom I esteemed a fit mate for her, but the MacWilliam had many things in his favour, not the least being that he was a valiant soldier. That he had ranged himself on her side in her quarrel with the Governor also had its weight with her. I think, however, that at this time he had a very small share in her thoughts, as she was entirely wrapped up in the Earl of Desmond, whom she looked upon as the Hope of Ireland, and in the furtherance of her plans.

De Vilela was still at Carrickahooley, and had so far got healed of his wounds that he was able to be about for an hour or two each day. He greeted me with his never-failing courtesy, and after I had seen more of him I noticed that the air of melancholy gravity he had borne during the siege had in nowise changed, unless it were by being even deeper than before.

The sufferings he had undergone and the feebleness he still endured might easily have accounted for this. But I was persuaded that there was another reason, although it took me some time to arrive at this conclusion.

What put me in the way of it was that I caught him, when he believed himself free from observation, looking at me, not once, nor twice, but often, with a wistful intentness, as if he were trying to read my very thoughts, and so to pierce to the innermost soul of me. Why was this? Why was he thus weighing me as it were in the balance?

Eva was not so much with him now that he was regaining his strength, and, whether he was with her or not, he had not the look of a happy lover, that look which, me thinks, would be present notwithstanding pain and the shadow of death.

And I put the two things together, though not hastily, for I feared nothing so much as to be wrong in this, and guessed that he had lost all hope of her for himself, and was asking himself whether, if so be she loved me, I was in any way worthy of her. But I think the chief care of this very noble gentleman of Spain was not pity for himself, nor my worthiness or unworthiness – which is the truer word, but that this woman whom he loved should have her heart’s desire, on whomsoever that desire might fall, and at whatsoever cost to himself.

I did not perceive this in one day, or for many, and, pursuing the course I had before determined on, abode firm in my resolve not to appear even to come between him and Eva O’Malley.

The winter wore on to the day of the Birth of Christ, and all was quiet and peaceful in Connaught.

Hardly, however, did the new year open – it was that year of grace, 1579 – when messengers from various chiefs in the north-west of Ireland began coming to and going away from Carrickahooley.

Sometimes their business was with my mistress, but still more frequently was it with de Vilela, for it had gone abroad that he was with us, and that he was in the confidence of the King of Spain, from whom he had a mission to the Irish. Among these were some of the MacSweenys of Tir-Connall, who spoke for themselves and also for their prince, O’Donnell, whose wife was a Macdonald, and a kinswoman of my own. Many were the plots on foot, my mistress striving to bring about a great confederacy of the north.

Sir Nicholas Malby, after he had repulsed the Burkes of Clanrickarde and driven them back to their mountains, lay at Galway darkly meditating schemes of vengeance. But, for the present, with the land all about him in a ferment, he did nothing but bide his time.

Indeed, by the coming of spring, the whole island was stirring with the fever of war, some looking to Spain, and some to Desmond, so that the commanders of the English, from the Lord Deputy at Dublin to the poorest of his captains, were in sore trouble and disquiet.

So passed the winter away.

“Darkness and blood; then a little light,” had been the saying of Teige O’Toole, the Wise Man. Now was the time of the little light of which he had spoken; it was immediately to be followed by the period of which he had said, “blood and darkness, then again light, but darkness were better.”

It was in April, then, of this year of fate that de Vilela, having perfectly recovered of his wounds, Grace O’Malley bade me get The Cross of Blood in readiness to convey him to Askeaton.

De Vilela was anxious to be gone, having trespassed upon our hospitality, as he said, beyond all measure. And he was the more eager as now he knew for certain that Eva had nothing stronger than a friendship for him. He had not asked her, I imagine, so sure was he that she did not love him, and it was like the man, that, knowing this, he would not vex her even with words.

At the last moment, and unexpectedly, my mistress determined to sail with us, and Eva O’Malley also came, Tibbot being left in charge at Clare Island and Carrickahooley.

With fair winds, and hopes as fair, did we leave Clare Bay behind us, and for two days all went well. On the third day of the voyage, the wind having changed, the watch descried a ship coming up against the line of the sky, and when we had observed her for a short time we saw that she was making towards us. Being much higher out of the water than the galley, she had no doubt seen us first.

We edged in closer to the land, which loomed up some miles away on our left; whereupon she shifted her course as if to cut us off. As she came within nearer view she appeared to be a great ship, carrying many pieces of cannon, and flying the English flag. The morning sun fell upon her, and disclosed her deck covered with men whose armour and weapons sparkled in the light.

It was abundantly evident that she was a ship-of-war of the English, and well prepared in every respect to attack and overwhelm us. Both as regarded her ordnance and the numbers of her crew, that she was vastly superior to us was plain. Should she get the range of us I made no doubt that we should be quickly knocked to pieces.

On the high seas, a galley like The Cross of Blood could not be opposed to such a ship except with the one result, and that the worst. Our case was little short of desperate, but I did not lose heart.

Nor did my mistress give up hope. She and I held a hurried consultation with Calvagh O’Halloran, and determined that we should first try to escape by rowing. There was the land before us, and a rocky cape jutting from it held out, as it were, a friendly beckoning hand.

Once we had made it, and were safely round it, we would be in a shallow bay, into which flowed a river – up which the galley might go, but not so large a ship as the Englishman. We therefore bent our whole energies to this end, but all in vain. It became apparent before we were half-way to the shore that we were completely outsailed, and were at the mercy of the enemy.

When I had fully grasped the extreme peril in which we were, and reflected that my whole world was on board this galley, to say nothing of the fact that every timber of it was dear to me, my heart well-nigh fainted within me. Here was that great woman whom I served; here also the woman whom I loved.

Was it to this destiny they had been born? Notwithstanding our danger, I could not believe it.

What was the worst that the spite of fortune could wreak upon us?

Either The Cross of Blood would be sunk by the enemy’s fire, and we would perish in the sea, or she would be captured, many of us being killed in the struggle, and the rest taken – what would be their fate?