THE DIE CAST.
That night I reflected with joy that the die was cast, as, after our
breaking out of Galway, there could be no peace between Grace O’Malley
and Sir Nicholas--at any rate, until the matter was composed in some
definite fashion.
I trod the deck with a feeling of extraordinary buoyancy, and sniffed
the salt air with delight as the galleys headed for Inishmore, the
largest of the three isles of Arran, which have been thrown for a
protection by the hand of God, almost in a straight line, across the
entrance to the bay of Galway.
All that I cared for in the world was held in these ships, now speeding
over the water under the leadership of Tibbot the Pilot.
It was with deep satisfaction that I went over the events of the
evening which had brought us with such success out of the town, and I
looked forward with wide-eyed eagerness to the morning when I should
meet my mistress, and hear her narrative of all that had passed when
she and Eva were prisoners in the mansion of the Lynches.
Eva, who had kept up so bravely while the danger was greatest, had
become faint and unstrung when the peril was past. Grace O’Malley
would suffer no one but herself to tend her, and thus I had had no
opportunity for conversing with either of them after we had made good
our escape.
When we had arrived at the island, and had let go our anchors in a
fair depth of water in a small bay, which was sheltered from the full
shock of the Atlantic by a range of abrupt craggy headlands, I went on
board _The Grey Wolf_ to see my mistresses, but Grace O’Malley received
me alone, her foster-sister not having altogether recovered from the
fatigue of the preceding evening. There was a new hardness, even a
harshness, both in the face and voice of Grace.
At first, however, she was in no mood for recounting her experiences,
and could do nothing but lament the fact that Sabina Lynch had managed
to get away when the gate was forced. Indeed, her escape appeared
entirely to overshadow in her mind her own escape and that of Eva.
“Had it not been for her plottings and schemings,” said she, “I should
have brought the Governor round to my will. I had several interviews
with Sir Nicholas, and at the beginning he was inclined to grant my
suit, but soon I felt I was being thwarted by one more subtle than Sir
Nicholas. How that woman hates me! I did not suspect her at once, for I
had given her no cause of offence.”
“Did you find out,” asked I, “why she hates you?”
“’Tis from jealousy,” said she. “Sabina Lynch would be Queen of
Connaught, but she thinks that as long as I am free and powerful I am
her rival.”
“Is there no other reason?” inquired I, remembering the words of
Richard Burke. “Is there not between you two a cause more personal?”
“There may be,” she replied thoughtfully; “for clever as she is, she
was not sufficiently so to conceal from me her predilection for the
MacWilliam. But what is that to me? Richard Burke is nothing to me.”
“You may be much to him, however,” I answered, whereat she grew more
thoughtful still. Being a woman, I said to myself, she could hardly
have failed to read the signs of his regard for her. Then I told her
of the midnight visit he had paid me, saying nothing, nevertheless, of
what Richard Burke had confided to me in regard to his love for herself.
“He is a friend,” said she, after musing for awhile, “and I may have
need of many such.”
“Tell me what passed between you and Sir Nicholas.”
She paced the floor of the poop-cabin with quick, uneven steps; then
she stopped and spoke.
“After our first meeting,” said she, “he was much less open with me,
asking me many questions, but giving no expression of his own views
with respect to the ships. Two things, however, he impressed upon me.
One was that he considered that I should make immediately a suitable
marriage----”
“A suitable marriage!” I exclaimed.
“The other was that it was common report that my father had left great
riches behind him, and that, as he had never paid any tribute to the
Queen, I must now make good his deficiencies in that respect.”
“Tribute,” said I blankly.
“He proposed to marry me--for he declared I was in reality a ward of
the Crown, and, therefore, at his disposal--to Sir Murrough O’Flaherty,
a man old enough to be my father--and our enemy. I would have none
of it. I fancy I have to thank Sabina Lynch for suggesting it to Sir
Nicholas, and I replied to him, with indignation, that I was a free
woman, and would give my hand where I pleased. It was then that I
discovered that I was no longer at liberty, for it was told me that I
must on no account leave the Lynches’ house without the permission of
the Governor, but that no harm would come to me if I consented to his
terms. I spoke of the safe conduct which Sir Nicholas had given me, but
that was of no avail; and ’reasons of State,’ said he, overruled any
safe conduct.”
“This is how they keep faith!” I cried, bitterly.
“It was no time for railing,” continued Grace O’Malley, “as I was in
the Governor’s hands, and could see no way of getting out of them.
Therefore I made as though I were about to submit myself, and I desired
to see the Governor again with respect to the tribute to be paid to the
Queen. My request being granted, Sir Nicholas acquainted me with his
determination, demanding a thousand cows and two hundred mares, or
their equivalent in gold and silver, by way of payment of the arrears,
and two hundred cows each year for the future.”
“To all of which you said No!” cried I.
“Nay, Ruari,” replied she, “I had to match my wits against his power
over me--was not I his prisoner?--and so I returned him no immediate
answer, but, on the contrary, besought that I might have a week to
deliberate in, bemoaning my hard fate, and protesting that I should
never be able to comply with his demands, yet that I would do what was
within my ability to compass.”
“And then?” I said.
“He pondered long and deeply, hesitating and doubtful; so, knowing the
covetous nature of the man,” said she, “I took the cross I was wearing
from my neck, and, giving it to him, begged that he would grant me the
delay I sought.”
“Your jewelled cross?” I said.
“My case was an evil one,” replied she, “and I did it not without pain,
for the cross had been my mother’s, and was, besides, of great value.”
“He consented?”
“He became very gracious because of the bribe,” replied she, “and then
asked me to be present at the revel. ’Why,’ said he, ’should you not
take part in it, if you would care so to do?’ As I was resolved to
humour him, I was complaisant, and replied that nothing would be more
agreeable to me; but even as I uttered these words, some inkling of the
plan for our deliverance which we carried out was forming itself in my
mind. My woman afterwards managed to leave the Lynches’ unobserved with
the letter I wrote you, and gave it to the captain of the Scottish ship
we passed on our way to Galway. My only fear was that he might inform
the Governor, and so our plans would have been frustrated; but he has
proved himself a true man, and one who may be trusted.”
“There is no confidence to be put in Sir Nicholas,” said I.
“The man is hard, stark, relentless,” said she, hotly, “but he
shall find I am as hard, stark, and relentless as he is himself.
Vengeance--vengeance, and that speedy, will I take!”
Never had I seen Grace O’Malley so carried away by passion as now. Her
eyes were blazing fires; the line made by her lips was like the edge
of a sword, so clear and sharp it was; the cheeks lost their colour
and roundness, and, as she restlessly moved about, her black hair flew
round her head like a coronal of quivering water-snakes.
“Vengeance--vengeance!” she cried.
Her vehemence bore me along as upon a fast-flowing tide.
“Vengeance--vengeance!” I shouted, so that my voice rang out far beyond
the galley.
“It is in our own hands,” she said, more composedly. “The wine fleet
from Spain is expected in Galway to-day or to-morrow--at any moment we
may see their sails on the southern edge of the sea. Then, then,” cried
she furiously, her anger rising again like the sudden, fierce blast of
the tempest, “shall I teach Galway and Sir Nicholas to fear and dread
my name.”
The wine fleet! This was a quarry, indeed!
For each year at this season there set out from Cadiz for Limerick and
Galway a goodly fleet of galleons, each of which carried a burden more
to be desired than a king’s ransom. These ships were laden with many
barrels of the wines both of France and Spain, with rolls of silks,
with bales of fine leather, with suits of raiment and shirts of mail,
and blades of Toledo, and with other articles of price, the products of
Europe, and, even, to some extent, of the mysterious Orient, where Turk
and infidel held their sway. These were exchanged against the fish--for
which our island was famous--the hides, salt, meat, wheat, and barley
of the country.
Grace O’Malley’s vengeance on Galway was to attack, capture, or destroy
that portion of the wine fleet, as it was commonly spoken of, the
destination of which was that town. The boldness and daring of the
project took my breath away; but I could conceive of nothing that was
so likely to cause consternation and terror as its successful issue to
the great merchants of the city, and to mortify and enrage the Governor.
It was a great enterprise--this attack--and one which, if the event
went against us, would probably be the end of us all. But there was
one thing that gave us an advantage, which, skilfully used, could not
fail to be of such importance as to be almost in itself decisive. This
was that the wine fleet had arrived safely at Galway year after year,
without falling in with any danger other than that which came from the
ordinary risks of the sea. Hence the immunity they had so long enjoyed
would breed in them a feeling of complete security, and dispose them to
be careless of precautions.
Still I was staggered; and what was passing through my mind being seen
in my face, Grace O’Malley inquired, a trifle disdainfully:
“Think ye, Ruari, the venture too much for me?”--and the accent fell on
the last word of the sentence. “I tell you, Nay!”
“Nothing--nothing,” exclaimed I, wildly, “is too high for you! As for
me, it is yours to command--mine to obey.”
Then we took counsel together, first having summoned Tibbot the Pilot,
and the other chiefs and officers who were in the galleys. When Grace
O’Malley had made her purpose known there was at first the silence of
stupefaction, then there followed the rapid, incoherent, impulsive
exclamations of fierce and savage glee.
While we were occupied in this manner, a fishing smack had come into
the bay, and on it were the pipers Phelim and Cormac and some others
of our men, whom we had been forced to leave behind, but who had
made their way out of Galway, being secretly helped therein by the
fisher-folk who dwelt in a village by themselves without the gates.
These brought word that the city was in a state of great alarm, and
that the Governor had declared that he would not rest until he had sent
out an expedition to raze Grace O’Malley’s castles to the ground, to
destroy her galleys, and to blot out her name from Ireland.
Nothing had been needed to add to our determination, but, if need there
had been, here it was. We were now all proclaimed rebels and traitors,
so that we could look for nothing but torture and death at the hands of
the English. A price would soon be placed upon our heads, and whoever
wrought us a mischief or an injury of any kind would be considered as
doing the Queen a service.
Such was our situation. To most of our people the Queen of England was
no more than an empty name, and even to those of us who appreciated
the might and resources of that princess, it appeared better that we
should be aware of who were our foes and who were our friends, and if
her representative, Sir Nicholas Malby, were our open enemy, as we were
now well assured he was, we knew with whom our quarrel lay, and what we
might expect from him.
When all was said, the Governor had no overwhelming force at his
disposal, and he was without ships, so that we felt no whit downcast
with our lot; contrariwise, there was such gladness amongst us at the
promise of the fighting with which our circumstances were pregnant
that the hearts of any who doubted were uplifted and made firm and
steadfast.
As we were discussing our affairs Eva O’Malley entered the cabin. As
our eyes met she smiled upon me, and held out her hand in greeting.
“’Twas well done,” said she, referring to our escape from Galway, her
thoughts still dwelling on the adventures of the past night. But when
she heard of what we had been speaking, and of the proposed attack on
the wine fleet, her sweet face became pale and troubled.
“Darkness and blood,” said she, turning to me. “Oh! Ruari, the words of
the Wise Man are to be fulfilled.”
“What must be, must be,” said I, “and there is none can gainsay that.”
She shook her head.
“Eva,” said Grace O’Malley, “the end is as it is appointed from the
beginning.” Then she began to reason gently with her foster-sister, and
to show her that if the English found they had good reason to fear her
they would gladly consent before long to make peace, and to concede
what she had asked of Sir Nicholas.
But it was easy to see that my dear was sad and heavy of heart. Grace,
ever most tender to her, put her arms about her, and made her sit
beside her on a couch, and said many loving words, so that Eva was
comforted, albeit some of her brightness vanished from that day, never
to return. Although she had already shown how brave she was, and was to
exhibit a courage far greater than my own or that of any man I ever
knew--her courage being that born of the spirit and ours but of the
body--she sure was never made for that hard life of ours.
Gentle and sweet was she, yet the strain of the O’Malley blood ran in
her veins, and made itself felt whenever the trials of her strength
came.
Leaving the two ladies together, each went to his place in the ships.
Some of my men, who had been ashore, now returned and informed me that
they had learned that it was the annual custom to light a great fire on
the headland of Arran, on which stand the ruins of the ancient castle
called Dun Aengus, as soon as the vessels of the wine fleet hove into
sight.
The smoke of this fire, if it were day, or the flame of it, if it were
night, was a signal to the merchants of Galway, who, as soon as they
saw it, made preparations for the reception of the ships--this being
the chief event each year in the life of the town. To the end that
the office of this beacon should be better fulfilled, they had placed
a small body of soldiers and others in huts that stood between the
crumbling walls of the old fort.
I debated with myself whether it would not be more prudent to have
the lighting or the not lighting of the fire in my own power, but,
being in no little doubt, put the matter off until later in the day.
By the middle of the afternoon, however, there were abundant evidences
that the weather, which had for days past been fine, was about to
change; and as the sun fell, dark clouds were gathering sullenly in
the sky, the wind from the south-west was blowing stormily across the
island--though our galleys felt it not at all, being under the lee of
the land--and already we could hear the thunder of the waves as they
rushed upon the further coast. And all the night through a tempest of
terrible violence raged.
When the morning came, the fury of the gale rather increased than
diminished, and so that day and the next, when the winds and waves
began to subside, we remained at anchor in our harbour, safe from the
storm. On the night of the third day the wind died down to a breeze,
and the moon struggled fitfully through the scud and drift of the
clouds.
Uncertain as to how the storm might shift, the galleys had been kept
ready to put out from the shore at any moment, and therefore it fell
out that nothing had been done by us with regard to the Galway men at
Dun Aengus. In the middle watch, it being very dark save when the moon
shone out, to be hidden again as fast as it appeared, we saw a bright
tongue of flame shoot up, flashing and shining brightly against the
blackness of the sky. Quickly raising our anchors, we made off past the
island of Inishmaan, and on by Inisheer until we ran close in by the
point of Trawkeera.
I wondered how it was that on such a night the watchman at Dun Aengus
had made out the coming of the fleet, but discovered as we went upon
our course, that another beacon had been lit far down the southern
coast, and as soon as they had seen it they had set a torch to their
own. Thus were we also apprised of the coming of the wine fleet, and
that by the hands of the people of Galway themselves, as it were.
As the day began to dawn, greyly and drearily, a large, unwieldy
Spanish galleon entered the South Sound, about half a league outside
of Trawkeera. Not more than half her sails were set, and she rolled
heavily from side to side in the swell left by the storm. A few sleepy
sailors stood in the waist of the ship, and no armed watch was to be
seen.
It had been arranged between Grace O’Malley and myself that I was to
attack the first vessel that came in sight, and in the still, spectral
light, we stole silently out from the shadow of Inisheer, the one great
mainsail of _The Cross of Blood_ being set, and the oars shipped until
the word was given.