THE PRINCESS BEGINS HER REIGN.
Ten years, swift as the flight of wild swans winging their way
southward when the first wind of winter sweeps behind them, passed
over our heads in the Land of the O’Malleys; nor did they pass without
bringing many changes with them. And yet it so happened that no very
startling or determining event occurred till at the very close of this
period.
The little maid who had saved me from the sea had grown into a woman,
tall of stature and queenly in carriage--in a word, a commanding
figure, one to be obeyed, yet also one who had the gifts which made
obedience to her pleasant and easy. Already she had proved herself in
attack by sea or assault on shore a born leader, brave as the bravest
man amongst us all, but with a mind of larger grasp than any of ours.
Yet were there times when she was as one who sees visions and feeds on
fantasies; and I was ever afraid for her and us when I saw in her face
the strange light shining through the veil of the flesh which spoke of
the dreaming soul.
But more than anything else, she possessed in perfection a woman’s
power to fascinate and charm. Her smiles were bright and warm as the
sunshine, and she seemed to know what she should say or do in order
that each man should bring to her service of his best. For this one,
the ready jest, the gay retort, the laughing suggestion, the hinted
rebuke; for that, plain praise or plain blame, as she thought suited
the case. She understood how to manage men. And yet was she at times
a very woman--petulant, unreasonable, and capricious. Under the spell
of passion she would storm and rage and scold, and then she was ill
to cross and hard to hold. For the rest, she was the most fearless
creature ever quickened with the breath of life.
I have heard it asserted that Grace O’Malley was wholly wanting in
gentleness and tenderness, but I know better. These were no lush days
of soft dalliance in the Ireland in which we lived; the days were
wine-red with the blood of men, and dark with the blinding tears of
widows and orphans. The sword, and the sword alone, kept what the sword
had taken. And yet was she of a heart all too tender, not infrequently,
for such a time.
Chiefly did she show this gracious side of her nature in her fond care
of her foster-sister, Eva O’Malley, who had been entrusted when a
child, a year or two after my arrival at Clare Island, to Owen O’Malley
by a sub-chief who governed one of the islands lying off the coast of
Iar-Connaught.
Never was there a greater contrast between two human beings of the
same kin than there was between those two women: Grace--dark, tall,
splendid, regal; Eva--fair, tiny, delicate, timid, and utterly unlike
any of her own people.
Clay are we all, fashioned by the Potter on His wheel according to His
mind, and as we are made so we are. Thus it was that, while I admired,
I reverenced and I obeyed Grace O’Malley--God, He knows that I would
have died to serve her, and, indeed, never counted the cost if so be I
pleased her--I loved, loved, loved this little bit of a woman, who was
as frail as a flower, and more lovely in my sight than any.
Men were in two minds--ay, the same man was often in two minds--as to
whether Grace O’Malley was beautiful or not; but they were never in any
doubt, for there could be none, of Eva’s loveliness. Howbeit, I had
said nothing of what was in my thoughts to Eva; that was a secret which
I deemed was mine alone.
For myself, I had grown to man’s estate--a big fellow and a strong, who
might be depended upon to look after ship or galley with some regard
for seamanship, and not to turn my back in the day of battle, unless
nothing else were possible.
Owen O’Malley had received me, the outcast of Isla, into his own
family, treating me as a son rather than as a stranger, and, although
I never ceased to be a Scot, I was proud to be considered one of the
Irish also. Under his tuition I learned all the ways and customs of his
people--a wild people and a fierce, like my own. So far as Connaught
was concerned, these ten years were for the most part a time of peace
among its tribes, and thus it was that I came to know like a native its
forests and mountains, its rivers and lakes, and the chief men of the
O’Flahertys and Burkes and O’Connors, whose territories marched with
those of the O’Malleys on the mainland.
But I learned much more, for Owen O’Malley taught me how to steer and
handle a ship so that it became a thing of my own--nay, rather a part
of myself. He also gave me my knowledge of the coasts of Ireland, and
there was scarcely a bay or an inlet or a haven, especially on the
western shores, into which I had not sailed. And as he proved me and
found me faithful, he himself showed me the Caves of Silence under the
Hill of Sorrow--strange, gloomy caverns, partly the work of nature and
partly of man, once the homes of a race long perished, of whom no other
trace now remains. With the exception of Grace O’Malley, from whom he
kept nothing hid, and himself, no one but I was aware of the entrance
to them and of what lay concealed within.
It had been the habit time out of mind of the O’Malleys to take toll
of all shipping in these waters, and to make raids from their galleys
upon unfriendly tribes living along the coast. The fishermen who came
over from Devon, and who paid tribute according to the number of their
smacks, went unmolested; but the merchant trader was ever thought to
be a fair prey. Thus, except in winter, when storms tied up O’Malley’s
ships in the harbours of Clare or Burrishoole, Owen’s three great
galleys were constantly at sea.
After I had reached manhood it was usual for Owen himself to be in
command of one, Grace of the second, and myself of the third. It was
one of these expeditions which brought about an event that changed the
course of our lives.
We had sailed southward, and were standing out one night late in spring
about three miles from the northern shores of Kerry, on the watch for
any trader on its way to the port of Limerick. The coolness of the
night still lay on the edge of dawn under the dying stars, when a fog,
dense, dark, and choking, encompassed us around, so that our three
ships lost sight of each other and soon drifted out of hail.
Hours passed, and still the fog lay heavy and close. In the afternoon
it lightened and lifted and disappeared. There were no signs of our
companions. I made my course for a creek at the mouth of the Shannon,
where it had been arranged we were to meet in case of any mishap.
Towards evening the galley called _The Grey Wolf_, with Grace O’Malley
as its chief, came bowling up alongside.
Obeying her summons to go over to her ship, I went on board _The Grey
Wolf_, when we exchanged greetings, enquiring of each other if we had
seen or heard anything of _The Winged Horse_, her father’s vessel.
Neither of us knew anything of it, and there was nothing to be done but
to await its arrival. We were chatting pleasantly, when I saw outlined
against the sunset flaming in the west the bulk of a merchantman, which
we guessed from her build and rig to be an English ship, probably from
Bristol, coming on under press of sail.
On she came in stately fashion, with her sails bellying out in the
fresh breeze, and we could hear her men singing snatches of sailor
glees upon her decks. We gazed at her, and then we saw a dreadful and
an uncanny thing. Grace O’Malley was the first to speak.
“Look, look!” she said. “What is that?”
My eyes were fixed on the ship, but I could not tell what it was that
we saw.
“I know not,” I replied. “Perhaps it is some new device of these
English. No; it can hardly be that. What is it, I wonder?”
We stared and stared at it, but could make nothing of it.
“It might almost be a phantom ship, Ruari,” she said. “But we see it
too plainly and hear the sailors too well for that.”
Meanwhile, I noticed that the men in our galleys stood about the
bulwarks, rubbing their eyes and shading them with their hands, as if
they felt that here was some portentous thing.
This is what we saw as the English vessel drew nearly abreast of us.
On the white spread of the mainsail two huge, gigantic shadows of men
seemed to appear, to loom large, to grow small, to disappear, and then
to reappear again.
A sort of awe fell upon us.
“What can it mean?” I asked.
“Wait,” said she; “we may know soon enough, for I think it is of evil
omen for us.”
“’Tis nothing,” said I boldly, although I feared exceedingly; “nothing
but a trick played upon us by the sinking sun and its shadows.”
“Nay, ’tis something more than that,” said she.
Suddenly the wind fell off somewhat, and now the canvas of the
merchantman slapped against her masts with dull reports like the sounds
of an arquebus shot off at a distance.
I saw her name in letters of white and gold--_Rosemary_, and as the way
she had on carried her past us, I understood what was the cause of what
we had seen. For as she swayed with the movements of wind and wave, we
beheld two bodies strung up from the yard of her foremast, swinging to
and fro with her every motion, looking, as they jerked up and down, as
if they were still alive, struggling and gasping in their last agony.
I glanced at Grace O’Malley, whose face had grown in an instant white
and rigid.
“Do you not see,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “that the poor
wretches are Irish from their dress? Thus do these English slay and
harry us day by day. Is there never to be an end of this wanton killing
of our people?” Then she became thoughtful, and added in a tone of
sadness, “My heart misgives me, Ruari; I feel the grip of misfortune
and grief.”
“Make no bridge for trouble to pass over,” said I, and spoke many words
of comfort and confidence, to all of which she scarcely listened.
Respecting her mood, I left her, and went back to my own ship, _The
Cross of Blood_.
That night, while I was on watch, I heard the soft splash of oars, and
presently out of the darkness there came the hail of a sailor from the
bow of _The Winged Horse_, as she rounded the point and slipped into
the creek where we lay.
Something in the tone of the sailor’s voice, more perhaps in the slow
drooping of the oars, at once aroused my attention. Without words I
knew that all was not well. Where was the chief? There could but be one
reason why there was no sign of Owen O’Malley himself. Either he was
grievously wounded or he was dead. Hastily I swung myself into the boat
of my galley, and made for _The Winged Horse_, which was now riding at
anchor about a bow shot away.
Tibbot, the best of pilots and steersmen in Ireland, met me as I
clambered up on to the deck.
“Whist!” he entreated, as I was beginning to open my mouth in eager
questionings.
“What has happened?” I asked in a whisper.
“The chief has been badly hurt,” he replied. “He lies in the poop
cabin, bleeding, I fear, to death.”
“What!” I exclaimed; “bleeding to death?”
“Let me tell you----”
But I interrupted him sharply.
“I must see him at once,” I said, and I made my way to the poop, where,
stretched on a couch of skins, lay my friend and master. As I bent over
him he opened his eyes, and though the cabin was but dimly lighted, I
thought he smiled. I took his hand and knelt beside him. My anguish was
so keen that I could not speak.
“Ruari,” said he, and that great full voice of his had been changed
into that of a babe; “is it you Ruari?”
“Yes; it is I,” replied I, finding nothing else to say, for words
failed me.
“Ruari, I am dying,” said he simply, as one who knew the state in which
he was, and feared not. “I have received the message of death, and soon
must my name be blotted out from among the living.”
As he was speaking there was a rustling in the waist of the ship, and
Grace O’Malley stood beside us.
“Father, father,” she cried, and taking his head and shoulders on
her breast, she crooned over him and kissed him, murmuring words of
passionate mourning, more like a mother than a daughter.
“Grace,” said he, and his voice was so small that my breathing, by
contrast, seemed loud and obtrusive. “I am far spent, and the end of
all things is come for me. Listen, then, to my last words.”
And she bent over him till her ear was at his lips.
“In the blinding fog,” continued he, “we drifted as the ocean currents
took us, this way and that, carrying us we knew not whither--drifting
to our doom. The galley, before we could make shift to change her
course, scraped against the sides of an English ship--we just saw her
black hull in the mist, and then we were on her.”
The weak voice became weaker still.
“It was too big a ship for us, yet there was but one thing to do. I
have ever said that the boldest thing is the safest thing--indeed, the
only thing. So I ordered the boarders forward, and bade the rowers take
their weapons and follow on.”
The dimming eyes grew luminous and bright.
“It was a gallant fight,” he said, and his accents took on a little of
their old firmness, “but she was too strong for us. In the attempt we
lost several of our men, and two were taken prisoners. We were beaten
off. Just as the vessels drove apart, and the barque was lost in the
mist, a stray shot from an arquebus hit me in the thigh--and I know I
cannot survive.”
“What was the name of the ship?” asked Grace.
“_The Rosemary_, of Bristol,” he replied. It was the name of the
merchantman we had seen with the two corpses swinging from the yard of
her foremast. “You will avenge my death, Grace, but not now. You must
return at once to Connaught, and assemble our people. Tell them that my
wish, my command at the point of death, is that you should succeed me
in the chieftainship.”
There was no sound for a space save only the cry of the curlews on the
shore, calling to their mates that another day was dawning.
“Ruari,” said the ghost of a voice, “Ruari, I had hoped that you and
Grace----”
But the cold fingers of death sealed the lips of the speaker.
Grace O’Malley fell forward on the stiffening body; and, thinking it
best, I left the living and the dead together. In another hour the
three galleys were beating northward up the coast, and on the evening
of the second day after Owen O’Malley’s death we anchored in the haven
of Clare Island, where the body was buried with all the honours and
ancient ceremonies paid by the Irish to their chiefs.
Then came the meeting of the clan to determine who should succeed Owen
O’Malley, for, according to a law similar to that which prevails among
our Celts of the Islands, the members of each sept who have reached
the age of the warrior, have a voice in the election of chiefs. As I
was not in reality one of themselves, nor could forget that I was a
Scot--a Redshank, as the English called me, albeit I could ruffle it on
occasion with the best Englishman that ever stepped--I took no part in
the council, nor spoke my mind until the older men had said their say.
It was at once a beautiful sight and a memorable, this great gathering,
and the most beautiful and memorable thing of all was that men were
content, and more than content, that a woman should, for the first time
in their history, be called their chief.
When it was my turn to speak, I related what I had heard fall from Owen
O’Malley as he was dying, and, without further words, dropping on my
knee I took the hand of Grace O’Malley, and swore by the Five Wounds of
God to be her servant so long as it might be her will.
Then her people, old and young, pressed about her, calling her their
darling and their pride, and thus she became their leader and chief.
But with the death of Owen O’Malley there was an end of the times of
peace and quietness in Connaught, whereat, like the hothead I was, I
rejoiced, not seeing the perilous adventures that lay before us.