Kitabı oku: «Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert», sayfa 13
But there was no need to ask that; for I was well assured that the people of the English ship knew who we were, or, at least, whose galley it was, for who in Ireland had such a vessel as The Cross of Blood, except Grace O’Malley?
Such were my thoughts when my mistress spoke in my ear, and said that as it was impossible to escape from the Englishman we must fight him.
“With all my heart,” cried I; “but how?”
Then she told me what to do.
I went forward to Calvagh, and bade him order his oarsmen to row with all their might until I gave a signal; when it was given they were to get their arms ready, but without making a noise or leaving their benches, and having their oars resting on the water.
The Cross of Blood raced on, but the English ship went faster, until a shotted gun fired across our bows made us well aware of what we had known sufficiently already – that we must be sunk, or give ourselves up, or, at least, appear to do so.
Calvagh looked at me, but I gave no sign. Grace O’Malley changed the galley’s course, so that we gained a little by it; and on we plunged again, making for the open sea. But the advantage we had thus obtained was of no real value to us, and the Englishman, with his square bulging sails swelling in the breeze, was quickly at our heels.
And now a second and, as it were, more peremptory message of iron bade us throw up the game and lie to. The great shot fell so close to the poop of the galley, and made so heavy a splash in the water, that the spray from it might almost have fallen on our deck but for the wind. I glanced at my mistress and she nodded.
There was no purpose to be served in rowing any longer, for in another second we might be sent below the waves. Nor did we make any attempt to return the enemy’s fire, and so, perhaps, invite a broadside from him which would probably have settled our affairs for ever.
Calvagh’s eyes were fastened on me, and now I gave him the signal; his voice roared hoarsely through the galley; the oarsmen sat erect on their benches, and the rowing ceased.
Something that was between a sob and a groan came from the lips of our men; a sort of quiver passed over them, as each of them quietly got his sword or battle-axe from its place; and then there was a silence, only broken by the waters as they lapped along our sides and swished under the blades of the oars.
De Vilela, who had gone into his cabin to put on his armour as soon as the chase of us began, now appeared. Approaching my mistress and me, and in accents tremulous as I had never before heard from him, he asked a question of Grace O’Malley.
“Señorita,” inquired he, “tell me, you do not intend to give up the galley thus tamely to the English? Surely it were better to die.”
“Better to die,” said she, “yes, by the Cross!” And then she rapidly spoke a few words, which I could see were not displeasing to him. And I like to recall the man, as he stood beside me that day; clad in his suit of mail, with the crest of his house shining on his helmet, his naked sword drawn, its point resting on the deck of the poop; and his eyes bright and steadfast, while a smile was on his lips. And we looked towards the English ship, saw the scowling faces of our foes hanging over her bows, and waited on the will of the God of Battles.
Grace O’Malley in the meantime went down to her cabin to speak words of hope and comfort to Eva. When I thought of my dear, my heart again fainted within me; then it seemed to grow so big and strong, calling, as it were, loudly to me to play the man this day, that I felt there was nothing that was wholly impossible to me!
My mistress now returned to the poop-deck, and taking the helm from the steersman, as we stood close in by the enemy’s vessel, she put it down sharply, so that the galley was thrown into the fore-chains of the Englishman.
“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!” I cried, and quicker than a flash, before the English had got over the suddenness of the movement, our men, with de Vilela and myself at their head, had leaped on board of her.
With thrust of sword and blow of battle-axe we made good our footing on the deck, and for a space the English fell back before us. Their captain, a towering figure in armour, save for his head, on which was a broad cap with a dancing plume of feathers in it, rallied them, and led them on at us, shouting for St. George and England.
They were more in number than ourselves, but despair nerved our arms, so that we withstood them, albeit we were hard pressed, and the fighting was terrible beyond all words. I sought to engage the captain, but de Vilela was before me.
Then there occurred an unexpected and almost unheard-of and incredible thing.
I knew the voice at once, and, turning in the direction from whence it came, and thus being partly off my guard, could not altogether ward off the dart of a sword, so that I was wounded in the throat, and, had it been but a little truer, would have been slain.
Above the clang of meeting weapons and the rattle of armour and the shouts and sobs and the catchings for breath of the foemen, the voice of my mistress was heard crying in the tongue of the Irish:
“Let the O’Malleys divide, and stand on each side of the ship!”
It was a difficult matter in itself to accomplish, and some there were of the Irish who were unable to do so; but such of us who could obeyed her command without pausing to try to understand what she would be at.
Then there came forth a great tongue of fire, a blinding cloud of smoke, and so tremendous a report that the ship was shaken from stem to stern.
And this is what had taken place:
When we had sprung on board of the English ship, Grace O’Malley was left standing at the helm of The Cross of Blood. She had watched the contest, and, fearing that we were overmatched, had cast about for some means of assisting us. Then, taking with her a few of the men whom she had kept in the galley for her own guard, she had climbed up into the forecastle of the enemy, and, as their attention was entirely occupied with us, had, unperceived by them or seen too late, run in board one of the Englishman’s bow-chasers, and had turned it on its owners.
The piece, thus levelled at this terrible short range, swept the deck of its defenders, and among the heaps of the slain and the wounded were several of our own people who had not been able to gain the bulwarks.
I was myself leaning against one of the ship’s beams breathing hard, and clutching with the fingers of my left hand my bleeding throat, while my right still grasped my sword. So dreadful was the sight of the deck that now met my eyes that I could not help closing them, while a shudder shook my whole frame.
But our work was not yet done. For when we essayed to carry the poop we were beaten back in spite of all our endeavours, and what might have been the end I know not if Grace O’Malley had not held possession of that piece of ordnance. A second and a third discharge from it shattered and destroyed the poop, and at length the ship was ours, its whole crew being killed or captured or drowned, for many of the English jumped into the sea and perished.
Having collected her men together, and along with them having brought away the prisoners and what treasure was found on board of The Star of the Sea, which was the name of the ship, she ordered it to be scuttled, and then withdrew to the galley.
But when we came to count up what this battle had cost us, our loss was so great that my mistress deemed it expedient to go no further with her journey at that time, and thus we returned again to Clew Bay, having been absent but a few days. And there was much mourning among us, for many of our people had been slain. De Vilela, however, had come unscathed from the fray, and my own wound was, after all, not much more than a scratch.
But the uncertainty of the issue of our whole conflict with the English had been brought home to me in so decided a manner that for the first time I realised how dark and menacing was the path that lay before our feet.
CHAPTER XVIII.
AT ASKEATON
I was never one to whom it is easy to sit still with folded hands, still less the man to muse darkly for long over the chances and mischances of war. Mine certainly was it not to consider and to see the end of a thing even from its beginning; the hour and its work were enough for me. Scarcely, then, were we come back but I burned to be again on the water with the deck of The Cross of Blood beneath my feet, and rejoice did I exceedingly when my mistress told me what her purpose now was, and bade me get the three galleys ready for sea.
She was resolved to put her whole fortune on the hazard, and to employ her entire strength in the struggle, and, at the same time, to get what aid she could from others.
Thus, undeterred by our encounter with the English ship-of-war – from which we had so hardly emerged – nay, rather made the more determined by it, she had sent messengers, fleet of foot and strong, to Richard Burke, the very day we had arrived at Carrickahooley, inviting him to come to her with his best and his bravest, and, if he would serve her, as he had professed himself ready, to tarry not by the way.
I was nowise in doubt as to what the answer of the MacWilliam would be. Not only was he committed as much as we ourselves to the contest against the Governor, but he had promised to support Grace O’Malley in any manner she might desire; nor could I imagine anything that would give him a keener pleasure than to comply with her request.
Two or three weeks passed, however, before he appeared at the castle, but when he did come it was at the head of a picked company of his gallowglasses, two hundred strong.
In the battles and fights of the previous year our force had been reduced by perhaps a third, and our numbers had been still further lessened in the bloody engagement with The Star of the Sea. Welcome, then, were these stalwart Burkes of Mayo. True, they were unused to the sea, but it was my mistress’s intention that we should all land, and hold ourselves at the disposal of the Earl of Desmond.
“If need be,” said she, discussing her plans with Richard Burke and me, “I will burn the galleys behind me.”
Whether I fought on the sea or on shore was a matter of indifference to me; but I could not hear her say this without a pang, although I recognised to the full the spirit which inspired the words.
“There will be no necessity for that,” said de Vilela, who was present, smiling, “for the ships of my master, the King of Spain, will sweep the sea clear of the English.”
It was the month of May, and the earth was arraying herself once again in her garments of green, when we weighed out from the harbour of Clare Island.
At first, the weather being unsettled, we made but slow progress; however, on the night of the second day of our voyage a fair wind sprang up, and on the fourth day we were in the Shannon, going up with the tide, under a blue sky warm with the promise of summer. Casting anchor between the Island of Aughinish and the mainland for the night, I went ashore to see if I could hear any tidings of Desmond, or if anything was known of the expected ships from Spain.
The sight of the three galleys had drawn a number of the peasants to the bank of the river, and, when I had dispelled their fears of us, I found that they were willing enough to talk. Howbeit, they could tell us nothing of Desmond, nor had they any word of the Spanish ships.
When I had repeated this to my mistress on my return, she asked me to go next day to Askeaton, and to inform the Earl, if he were there at his fortress, that she was on her way to him, but if he were absent to ascertain where he was. Accordingly I proceeded in The Cross of Blood to the bay into which flows the stream on which the castle stands, and arrived at my destination.
As I was already well known at Askeaton I was admitted within the gate without demur, and almost the first man I met was Fitzgerald, who greeted me with much warmth. But I had not conversed with him long before I perceived that he did not seem to be in his accustomed spirits, and when I told him that my mistress, Eva O’Malley, Richard Burke, and de Vilela were no great distance away, he appeared to be somewhat distressed.
“Is Garrett Desmond here?” I asked, and the usually frank expression of his face was instantly clouded over.
“He is expected back at the castle to-morrow,” he replied. Then as I looked hard at him, waiting to hear more, he broke out —
“Desmond went to Limerick yesterday in attendance on the President of Munster.”
“The President of Munster!” I exclaimed. Then I stopped in the courtyard, put my hand on his arm, and gazing earnestly at him, asked, “What is the meaning of this?”
The President of Munster was the English Governor of all this part of Ireland, and I could not but think this was a strange piece of news. That he and the Earl of Desmond should be together, evidently on terms of friendship, boded no good to Grace O’Malley, or to myself, or to our cause.
“O,” said Fitzgerald testily, “the explanation is simple. The country is excited over the prospect of the coming of ships from Spain, and the President rode over from Limerick to Askeaton to see Desmond – ostensibly on a visit merely of courtesy, but in reality to spy out what was going on here. I would not have suffered him to enter the castle had I been Desmond, but Desmond thought otherwise, saying the time was not yet ripe.”
This was plausible, but did not account, I thought, for the moody looks of Fitzgerald. There was something behind all this, but I did not press him further, save to inquire —
“What is to prevent the President from seizing Desmond, and thrusting him into prison at Limerick?”
“He has a strong guard,” said he, “and the President has very few soldiers in Limerick. Besides, he feels confident that Desmond will be true to the English.”
“Has Desmond given him any pledge of good faith?”
“No. He places his trust in Desmond too fully for that.”
When I thought over what I had been told, it seemed probable enough that the Earl concealed his real intentions under the mask of a pretended loyalty to the Queen, and would do so perhaps until the time, as he said, was ripe. Yet the uneasiness I always felt with respect to him increased in spite of this supposition.
Then it occurred to me that perchance Fitzgerald, now that he had had time to become better acquainted with his cousin, was not more satisfied with him than I, and that this was the reason for his change of aspect.
However, when I met the Earl next morning, my suspicions and fears melted away before the cordiality with which he received me. And when I told him that my mistress was in the vicinity, he declared that there was nothing he desired more in all the world than to see her.
“The President of Munster,” said he, “has just gone back to Limerick from here, and for a time at least we will be free from his spying on us. Nothing could have fallen out better,” he continued, rubbing his hands together like one who was greatly pleased, “so tell your mistress to make haste and come.”
Likewise his Countess, who was with him, bade me say to Grace O’Malley that she was welcome to Askeaton.
When I returned to my mistress, I repeated to her the messages; but I thought it right to tell her also that Desmond had been entertaining the President of Munster. As I dwelt upon this matter, and remembered Fitzgerald’s manner, something seemed to knock at my heart, and my suspicions sprang up anew.
“He finds it needful,” said Grace O’Malley, thinking of Desmond, “to wear a double face as affairs stand at present, but when the Spaniards arrive he will come forward without disguise as our leader.”
And, in truth, when we were come to Askeaton, both the Earl and his Countess made so much of my mistress that I felt a sort of shame that I had ever had any distrust of him.
Great entertainments were given in her honour, all the noblemen and gentlemen of Desmond’s household vying with each other in paying her court, while the Earl himself seemed never to be able to see enough of her. Indeed, he showed her so much attention that it soon became apparent that she occupied a large part in his thoughts – so much was this the case that Richard Burke grew very jealous of him, nor did the Countess of Desmond regard the matter without displeasure.
Meanwhile the time was slipping by. Our galleys lay in the stream, and though I visited them frequently to make sure that they were safe, I could not but be aware that it was no good thing that they should be there, tied up in the Shannon, within easy reach of any English man-of-war that might ascend the river.
They were concealed, however, from view; but there was ever the fear in my mind that a rumour of our being at Askeaton would be bruited abroad, and come to the ears of the English. All the Burkes, and a considerable portion of our own O’Malleys, had been withdrawn from our vessels, and the force left upon them could scarcely be reckoned as formidable.
Another cause for uneasiness was that nothing more was heard of the landing of the Spaniards. I had many conversations with de Vilela, who was certain of their coming, but who knew the time of it no more than myself. He did not exhibit the impatience which possessed me, but in his heart I doubt not he longed for action as ardently as did I.
Of Fitzgerald I saw very little, for two days after the arrival of my mistress at Askeaton he rode over to Limerick, and there remained.
When I spoke of him to de Vilela, he said he had heard that Fitzgerald was madly in love with a lady who was staying in that city, and that that probably accounted for his being there. Knowing what Fitzgerald’s disposition was, I could not forbear smiling, and now fancied that I had discovered the cause of his want of spirits in that he had not been very successful in his wooing.
I thought no more of him or of his affairs, little dreaming who the lady was, until the mention of her name one day filled me with lively feelings of astonishment and vexation, and, as I pondered this new and perplexing turn of events, with something close akin to terror.
It so happened that I was talking and jesting with one of the Geraldines, when the conversation came round to Sir Nicholas Malby, and the iron rule he had imposed on Galway and a large part of Connaught.
“Grace O’Malley,” said he, “was more than a match for him.”
“Sir Nicholas,” said I, “is the best soldier the English have in Ireland, and if he did not prevail against my mistress, it was rather because he underrated her strength and her prowess, than from any other reason. He esteemed her as no more than a feeble woman, and so was deceived.”
“By the way,” asked he, “are you well acquainted with Galway?”
“Yes – well enough,” replied I, somewhat crisply.
“And do you know the Mayor of the town, one Stephen Lynch?”
“Yes,” I assented, wondering.
“A great merchant?” he inquired.
“The richest in Galway, perhaps in Ireland,” I answered.
“With a daughter, an only child, who will inherit his whole wealth?”
“Yes,” said I, wondering still more.
“Mistress Sabina Lynch?”
“The same,” said I; “but why do you ask these questions?”
“The woman is beautiful, is she not?” he went on, without replying immediately to my query.
“No doubt of that,” I replied.
“Rich and beautiful!” he exclaimed, and then he laughed very merrily.
“Tell me,” said I again, “why have you sought to know all this?”
“Ask Dermot Fitzgerald,” said he, and would say no more, but I understood – all.
Dermot Fitzgerald was in love with Sabina Lynch! And she was in Limerick, where were the President of Munster and his soldiers, and Fitzgerald too! Here, indeed, was a pretty heap of faggots, and it was my hand, as it were, that might have placed the fire beneath, and set it in a blaze!
I saw at a glance how easy it would be for Fitzgerald, without intending in any way to do mischief or to betray us to the English, to let drop a word or a hint that might suggest to a quick-witted woman to inquire further into his meaning, and that so dexterously as not to excite in the least any alarm on his part.
And what might not be looked for when she learned that Grace O’Malley, the woman she hated most, and Richard Burke, the man she loved best, were together at Askeaton? And Fitzgerald was said to be madly in love with her! He would therefore be as wax in her hands, and she could mould him to her will as she pleased. Small wonder, then, that I was disturbed, and felt that we were far from secure.
And now there fell out what, at the time, gave me the keenest regret and even pain, though afterwards it proved to be of the most inestimable service to us.
It had become very plain to anyone who gave it the slightest thought, or, indeed, to anyone who used his eyes, that Desmond was infatuated with my mistress. Every moment that he could find was spent in her society, to the neglect of other matters, however important they were. Before he had seen her he had been fascinated by what I had told him of her and her deeds; now that he saw her for himself, and marked how like a queen she was, he was as one bound hand and foot before her.
Grace O’Malley had a great power over men when she chose to exercise it; and now, on her side, she appeared not only to encourage him, but also to be bent upon his complete subjugation.
I marvelled at her, yet assured myself that she could have no love for the man, but that, perceiving the weakness of his character, she took this course in order to make certain of his firm adhesion to our cause. But it was a course full of danger, for the strength of the passion of a man, even of a weak man, is no more to be reckoned up and measured than is the force of a mighty tempest, beginning in a breath and dying out in ruin.
Desmond’s countess grew pale and silent, and I noted that the furtive glances she stole at my mistress were touched at first with dismay, then with anger. She must have known the kind of stuff of which her husband was made, but her rage, as might be seen, was directed wholly against my mistress. I felt a sort of compunction, and sometimes wished that we had never come to Askeaton at all.
And this wish was made much stronger, for Richard Burke, who bore and endured for awhile the utmost torture when he saw how matters stood between Grace O’Malley and the Earl, told me that he could suffer to see it no longer, and so was determined to speak to her and remonstrate with her.
What passed between them I do not know, but it was of such a nature that the MacWilliam shortly afterwards withdrew in high dudgeon from the castle with all his men.
I attempted to restrain him from going, but in vain. He admitted that he had received no promise from Grace O’Malley of her hand, but as she had not repulsed him utterly when he had preferred his suit to her, and had come to Kerry at her request, he had hoped that the matter was in a fair way to be settled as he desired. Now, he said, she had no thought of him, her whole mind being taken up with Desmond.
I endeavoured to gainsay this, but without success, and I had sorrowfully to witness the departure of the Burkes from Askeaton. I so far prevailed upon him, however, that he agreed to stay in the district, and, having obtained permission from the Earl, he pitched his camp a few miles away in the woods.
Richard Burke’s troubles made me think of my own love affairs, which were in the same position as before, for, albeit, I had a secret, satisfying conviction that Eva O’Malley had no special regard for de Vilela, I still adhered to my resolution not even to appear to come between them. Wherein, perhaps, in my stupid pride, I did my dear, to say nothing of myself, a great injustice, for she might have supposed that I cared for nothing but the fierce, mad joy of battle. But never loved I anyone save her alone.
It was on the second or third day after Richard Burke had left us that the arrival of the messengers from the President of Munster with a letter for Desmond threw me into a state of great concern. And when I knew what the tenor of that letter was, I was disquieted the more, for I could but conclude that what I had dreaded would happen with respect to the intimacy of Sabina Lynch and Fitzgerald had indeed come to pass.
The Earl received the President’s messengers with some state, several of his gentlemen and myself being with him.
As he read the letter they presented to him, he was evidently disconcerted by its contents, looking now at it, now at the messengers; but when he had perused it a second time, he laughed strangely, and said he would give no answer at once, but would consider what was to be done.
In the evening, when we were all together in the great hall of the castle, my mistress also being of the company, he was in a boisterous humour, and bade his harpers sing of the glories of the house of Desmond. He sat beside Grace O’Malley, and I saw him, under cover of the music, speaking to her very earnestly; and presently he called me up to them.
“What think you, Ruari?” said my mistress, and her eyes danced and smiled, “what think you, does the President of Munster ask from the Earl of Desmond?”
“What is his demand?” cried I.
“Nothing less or more,” said she, and the laughter suddenly went out of her face, “than that he should instantly deliver up a certain Grace O’Malley, as a notable traitress to the Queen and a spoiler of ships, at present lodged in his castle of Askeaton, and should forthwith cause her to be conveyed to him at the city of Limerick, to be there dealt with according to her deserts and the pleasure of her Highness. What think ye of that?”
“What says the Earl of Desmond?” cried I.
“What, indeed!” said she, answering for him, and turning to him with a smile.
“Ay – what, indeed!” said he, meeting her look, and smiling back at her.
At that instant there was a commotion at the further end of the hall, and there entered a man, with his garments stained with travel and befouled with mire.
As soon as de Vilela saw him he sprang forward with a great cry of delight, and, careless of us all, embraced him, while a sort of silence came upon us, and the bards ceased their singing; but the whisper soon and quickly ran among us that the Spaniards at last were come.
