A CHEST OF GOLD.
The day had worn on to noon but without its brightness, for the sky had
again become full of heavy clouds driven up from the west; the wind
moaned and raved over land and sea, and the waves beat drearily upon
the shore. The thunder rolled and the lightning flashed, while the
pelting rain came down in huge drops that sounded on our decks like
hail or the cracking of whips.
The ensanguined waters flowed in floods from the planking and the sides
of the captured galleon, which lay like some great wounded monster of
the deep, sweating blood. Closer into the land we steered, and so saved
ourselves from the worst of the gale.
For the present all thoughts of searching for the other vessels of the
fleet had to be given up, and fain was I to rest, for my wounds, though
slight, were sore, and the dull aching of my shoulder was hard to bear.
Seeing my state, Grace O’Malley bade me go to her own galley, where Eva
would attend to my wounds with her gentle fingers, and then, perhaps,
sing me to sleep with one of the songs of her people.
This command went so well with every beating of my heart that my pains
were all but forgotten, and when I reached _The Grey Wolf_, Eva met me,
and waited upon me, and made so much of the “Mountain of a Man,” as she
often called me, that the only pangs I felt were those caused by my
love for her--so much so that the tale of it was trembling on my lips,
though I could not for the life of me put it into words, but dumbly
looked, and longing--looked again and again at her.
Fool that I was, dolt that I was, not to have spoken then! But my
tongue was tied, as with a ribbon of steel, and if one were to ask me
why this was, I could not tell, nor can I now, looking back across the
blunt edge of years. Yet here was such an opportunity, if I could have
grasped it, but it passed.
Eva sang softly to me as I lay with my harness off on a couch, until I
fell a-sleeping and a-dreaming, and all through the sleeping and the
dreaming did I hear the sound of her singing, far off, indistinctly,
and murmurous, like that of the brooks among the silent hills.
When I awoke, it was evening, and both she and Grace O’Malley were
seated by my side. The storm had abated, and already a weak, watery
moon was riding in the heavens, and, as I opened my eyes, its faint
beams fell whitely upon the faces of my mistresses, so that to me,
being still only half awake, they looked like spirits. I rose to a
sitting posture, and felt that my strength had come back to me.
“Has your weariness left you?” asked Grace O’Malley, smiling kindly at
me.
For answer I stretched my limbs and my body, and smiled at her without
speaking, though the pain in my shoulder still troubled me, and I could
not move without feeling it.
“While you have slept, Ruari,” she went on, “I have gone over as much
of the galleon as might be in the hours of daylight at my disposal, and
the riches in her are truly wonderful. Never saw I so great a store of
all manner of things of value in a ship before. ’Tis a splendid spoil,
and the merchants of Galway will have good cause to remember me, and
Sir Nicholas will be beside himself with rage.”
“We have not yet finished with them or with Sir Nicholas,” said I. “The
_Capitana_ is not the only ship of the wine fleet.”
“Neither has Sir Nicholas done with us, I fear,” said Eva, sadly, “nor
the people of Galway.”
“Sometimes it seems to me, Eva,” said Grace to her foster-sister,
“as if you were only half an O’Malley.” Then she turned to me again.
“Ruari, I have more to tell about the galleon. On board of her there is
a chest of gold--all money of Spain, coined pieces, bearing the effigy
of the late Emperor, Charles. Now, hearken! A strange, wild story goes
with this chest of gold, and there is that in it which may concern us
very closely.”
“Yes,” I said, my interest being keenly stirred as I guessed from the
slow and almost solemn way in which she addressed me, that she had
stumbled probably on some mystery of the sea--something, at any rate,
unexpected and out of the way, and yet something that might touch us
nearly. “Yes,” I said, watching her intently, “it is naught of evil
import for us, surely?”
“That I know not as yet,” she replied. “Rather does it portend a
benefit; time alone can tell. This is how we came to find the gold, and
we might never have gotten it of ourselves--we were told of it.”
“How was that?”
“While our search through the galleon was being made, two men, bound
in fetters and chained together, were discovered in a small, dark
den, low down in the ship; a hole, indeed, so cunningly concealed
from observation that even the very sailors on board the _Capitana_
might not have known of its existence, if its being hidden from them
were deemed necessary or expedient. The men were half-starved, and so
utterly wretched that when they were brought into the light they were
as the blind, and gibbered like idiots. What they say, now that they
have come to themselves, is pitiful enough, and I believe they are
telling the truth.”
“Who are they?” asked I, as she meditated on their story. “What account
do they give of themselves? You have said nothing about the chest of
gold.”
“One of them,” said she “tells me that he is a Geraldine, a near
relative of Garrett, Earl of Desmond.”
“An Irishman!” I broke in.
“Yes, so he says, and I doubt it not,” said she. “The other is a
Spaniard, Don Francisco de Vilela by name, a man of rank, if one may
judge of him from his speech and carriage. But you will see them
yourself shortly.”
“What is their explanation of their being prisoners on board of the
galleon? Is it concerned with the chest of gold?”
“Yes, so they say,” she replied; “and they relate that before the
_Capitana_ left Spain they made a bargain with its captain to convey
them to Ireland for a certain sum of money, which they paid over to
him before he put out from port. Their compact with him was that they
were to be landed at some lonely point or secluded place on our western
coasts, and not at any town, such as Limerick or Galway.”
“Why was that?” I asked. “Doubtless the captain of the galleon made a
similar inquiry of them.”
“They say he asked them no questions whatever,” replied she; “but he
must have understood that they had some business of a very private
nature, probably concerned with State affairs. Evidently that business
lay with the native Irish, and not with the English, from whom they
wished their movements to be kept secret, else would there have been no
need to have avoided any of the English towns in Ireland.”
“It may be,” said I, for I could not help seeing the drift of her
words, “that they are the bearers of some message from the King of
Spain to the Earl of Desmond, or some other chief of the Irish.”
“You do not fall very short of the mark,” said she.
“But,” asked I, “how came it about, or what happened to cause them
to be thrust into chains, and that on board a Spanish ship? Those
who brought a message from the Spanish King would surely have been
well-treated, and even honoured, by the captain of a ship coming out of
Spain. Plainly, there is something here which fits not in with their
narration.”
“They say that it was because of the chest of gold,” she replied. “The
captain is dead, so that we shall never hear his version of the affair,
but they affirm he could not withstand the temptation of the gold.
Brave, as we know he was, and an excellent sailor, as they say he was
reputed to be, yet would he have sold his very soul for gold.”
“How did he know of it?”
“So heavy a chest could hardly have been brought on board without
his knowledge, and to conjecture what it contained was no such
difficult matter. They did not conceal from him their anxiety for
its safe-keeping, and one or other of them was always on guard over
it. Anyone would have known, therefore, that it held a treasure of
some kind. All went well until they reached the coast of Kerry, when,
reminding the captain of their agreement with him, they requested him
to send them, the chest, and the rest of their belongings ashore in a
boat. The sea was very rough, however, and he assured them the thing
was impossible.
“That might well have been the case,” said I.
“They therefore confided to him--what he most likely knew already--that
they had come over on a secret embassy from the King of Spain, and
besought him, by his fidelity to his King, to put them ashore. He
protested that their landing at the time would be attended with
difficulty, and even danger, and again refused their request.
“They expostulated with him, but in vain; he was not to be moved,
having already, they say, determined that they should never deliver
their message. Next they offered him a large sum of money, and, when he
asked where they were to get it from, told him of the gold, but without
informing him of the amount they had in the chest. Still, he would not
give way, and, at length, on their continuing to urge him, he became
sullen, angry and abusive, hurling many hurtful words at them in his
wrath. His real reason, they began to fear, was not the roughness of
the sea, for some sheltered bay or inlet with calm water might have
easily been reached, had he so desired, but that he had resolved to
possess himself of their treasure.”
“They had played into his hands by speaking of the contents of the
chest,” I said.
“That was their mistake, and they have had to repent themselves of it.
That same night, while they slept, they were seized, put into manacles,
and thrown into the close and filthy den in which they were discovered
by us.
“They saw the captain but once after their imprisonment, and he had
told them--for their comfort--that it had been his original intention
to fling them overboard, but that he had changed his mind, and would
deliver them up, instead, to the English Governor of Connaught, when
the ship arrived at Galway, as plotters against the peace of Ireland.
Then they never would be heard of again, for all men knew of what sort
of stuff Sir Nicholas Malby was made, and how short and sharp were his
dealings with those who conspired against the Queen, once they were in
his power.”
This was an evil hearing in regard to one who in his dying had shown a
not unmanly kind of virtue; but who is there that does not know that
gold is for most men the god of the whole earth? The story of the two
struck me as being true, as it was stamped through and through with a
sort of human naturalness. And I said as much.
“When the captain told them,” continued Grace O’Malley, “of the fate
in store for them, they offered him all the gold they had in the chest
if only he would let them go. But he answered them that it was his
already, and that he had no intention of parting with it. If they
lived, he would never feel safe--and the dead had no tongue. Hearing
this, they gave up all hope, and abandoned themselves to the gloom of
despair, cursing the captain for his perfidy.
“Then the storm came on, and the galleon drove hither and thither with
the tempest. Their wretchedness increased, until they reflected that
it would be better to perish by drowning than to live to undergo the
torture and miserable death which Sir Nicholas would be certain to
inflict upon them.”
“The tale,” I said, when I had pondered it for a few minutes, “does not
sound to me as if it were false.”
“It was so far confirmed,” said Grace O’Malley, “inasmuch as the chest
of gold, the possession of which worked their undoing, lay concealed
in the cabin which the captain had occupied. For safe-keeping I had it
removed to this galley.”
“Did they tell you,” said I, my thoughts reverting to what, after all,
was the most important part of their statements, “what was the burden
of their message from the King of Spain?”
“Not fully,” she replied, “and I forebore from questioning them more
narrowly until they had recovered. They did say that Philip wishes well
to Ireland, or rather, he loves not the English, who condemn him to his
face, and singe his very beard. They hinted that the King had sent Don
Francisco to spy out the land, and to become acquainted with the wishes
of the princes and chiefs of the island.”
“For what purpose? To what end?”
“To encourage them to rebel against the Queen, by giving them such help
as is within his power. At the same time, he does not wish to appear to
be concerned in the affairs of Ireland at all.”
I had heard of Philip before as a man who was uncertain of purpose and
infirm of will, timid when he should have been bold, and bold when he
should have been timid; one who covered himself and his designs with a
cloak of clumsy cunning which it required no skill to see through, and
of deceit which deceived none of the least discerning of his enemies.
Therefore said I not a word, but contented myself to wait for what my
mistress might say further on the matter.
She was silent, however, and I could see from her rapt, indrawn look,
that her thoughts had wandered far away from us and the galleys and
the wine fleet--perhaps to Spain and its shifty King. I, too, was busy
thinking, and, as I conceived that we had affairs immediately before us
of more importance than even Philip of Spain, I made bold to interrupt
her reveries.
“We can at least gather from the two men,” said I, “how many ships were
in the wine fleet. The rest of them cannot now be far off from us.”
“Yes,” said she, rousing herself from her musings like one from
slumber, “they informed me that there were nine galleons in the fleet
when they left Cadiz, four of them were bound for Limerick and five for
Galway.”
“Then there are still four ships for us to fight,” I exclaimed. “Let
the chest of gold and the King of Spain wait, say I. Would it not be
well, now that the wind has fallen, to send one of the galleys to keep
a look-out?”
“Tibbot the Pilot,” she replied, “already watches the Sound in _The
Winged Horse_. The galleons will most likely have been separated from
each other by the recent storms, but if any one of them comes into
sight we will quickly be apprised of it.”
“Have you not had enough of fighting for one day?” asked Eva.
“We have vowed vengeance on Galway,” I said, and Eva said no more, but
sighed deeply.
There was a knocking at the door of the cabin, and a servant entered
with the message that Don Francisco de Vilela and Dermot Fitzgerald
desired speech of Grace O’Malley, to thank her for her kindness to
them. Permission being granted, the two men soon made their appearance.
They had eaten, had washed themselves, and were attired in fresh
clothes taken from the supplies on board the galleon, and looked very
different, I imagine, from what they had done when they had emerged
from the hole in the _Capitana_, where they had been imprisoned.
Both of them bowed with a profound reverence to my mistresses, and I
took note, even in the half-light, of the contrast they made as they
stood together. The Irishman was fair and ruddy, the Spaniard dark and
swarthy as most Spaniards are. Fitzgerald was tall--nearly as tall as
myself--Don Francisco of the middle height, but having a very soldierly
bearing and an air of resolution which his comrade lacked. Thus much I
saw at a glance.
De Vilela was the first to speak, and his accent had all the smooth
deference of the court rather than the rough sincerity of the camp.
“Señorita,” said he, “if you will suffer a poor gentleman of Spain to
offer you his thanks----”
“Madame,” said the Irishman, interrupting him impulsively, “I never
dreamt the day would come when I should be glad to be a prisoner----”
“Nay, nay!” quoth Grace O’Malley, “no more of that, I beg.”
The glance of the two men swept past her, de Vilela’s to fasten on Eva
O’Malley, Fitzgerald’s on me, while my mistress made us known to each
other. Then they entreated her to say what was her will in regard to
them, and what ransom she demanded for their release. But she replied
that she had not yet determined, and so put them off.
She conversed for some minutes with de Vilela, speaking to him of the
West Indies, whither, it appeared, he had been in one of the very ships
for which Tibbot the Pilot was watching--the _San Millan de Simancas_.
I now had had leisure to observe him more closely, and he gave me the
impression of a man of high breeding. He discoursed with a tongue of
winning sweetness, more like a woman’s than a man’s, and yet one had
only to examine with a little carefulness the lines of his face to be
convinced that these soft tones were like the fur over claws, and that
there was nothing else of the feminine about him.
His companion, Fitzgerald, was of a very different type, although he,
too, was of knightly birth--rash, unstable, easily swayed, but generous
and warm of heart, with quick, unstudied manners, and no capacity for
much besides the wielding of his sword.
Ever as the Spaniard spoke his dark, eloquent eyes wandered from one
to another of us, resting with an absorbed intensity longest on Eva--a
thing in no wise to be wondered at, but which I did not care to see,
although I had no right to be jealous.
And then there broke upon the hush of the night, now grown still and
calm, the zip-zap-swish, zip-zap-swish of the oars of a galley, quickly
driven by its rowers through the water; there was the low, clear call
of Tibbot as _The Winged Horse_ came up towards us, while at his word
the oars hung motionless and glistening in the pale moonlight, and I
went out to hear what tidings he brought.
He reported that the tops of the masts of two large ships were to be
seen on the horizon, and that there might be more, as the light was but
faint owing to the clouds that still passed over the sky. I hastened
back to inform my mistress of Tibbot’s news. The door of the cabin
opened before I had reached it and Grace O’Malley appeared upon the
scene, and as the door closed behind her I saw that Don Francisco was
speaking earnestly to Eva, who, for her part, was listening to him with
deep attention.