“REDSHANK AND REBEL.”
Before we had left the Bay of Galway for the north I had been so
constantly occupied with the unlading of the galleons, the disposal of
our plunder, and the care and the landing of the prisoners, that I had
got no more than glimpses of my mistresses, and then they were seldom
alone. For de Vilela and Fitzgerald, although they had a cabin given
them on _The Cross of Blood_, were but rarely on my galley during the
hours of day, spending most of the time with the two ladies on _The
Grey Wolf_.
I perceived they were treated rather as honoured guests than as
captives, and I knew that Grace O’Malley held many long and earnest
conversations with Don Francisco, the subject of which was ever the
same--to wit, what Philip of Spain would do on behalf of the Irish if
they rose in rebellion against the Queen.
Now, it mattered not at all to me who was King or Queen of Ireland,
whether it was Philip or Elizabeth who should be sovereign of the
island, and I had as lief it were the one as the other.
I owed no fealty to England or to Spain, and, being a Macdonald of the
Isles, no more to the Queen, King, or Regent of Scotland than could be
forced from us Macdonalds of the West, and that was never overmuch.
But I was sworn to the service of Grace O’Malley, and if she preferred
Spain to England, then it was Spain for me! Yet what I had heard of
Philip made me conclude that the Irish would not find him to their
liking, as certainly he was not to mine.
For, as a thing of course, there arose this question: If Philip helped
the Irish to drive the English out of Ireland, and the English were
expelled from the island, what reward would Philip expect to receive in
return? Would he not look to become its king? However, so far as I was
concerned, the answer lay with my mistress and not with me.
What struck deeper to my heart, so that it was filled with aching every
hour, was no such great affair as the possession of a kingdom; yet was
it greater to me than all the kingdoms of the world. It was that I
began to doubt--nay, to fear--that the dear, sweet, fair woman whom I
loved would never be mine.
I had dreamed that I, too, would be a king--her king. Now I saw, or
seemed to see, myself uncrowned, disrobed, and beggared, thrust outside
the gates of the palace in which she dwelt. But I had never been
crowned, nor robed, nor rich, save in visions, and was in truth the
veriest beggar on the face of the earth.
Although I was able to be so little with my mistresses, I was not so
blind as not to see that de Vilela was entirely fascinated by Eva
O’Malley. She had impressed him from the first, and herein I blamed
him not. And the more he saw of her the more her charm worked upon him.
That surprised me not; it would have been surprising if it had not.
What stung me to the soul was that Eva was evidently interested in
the man, listening absorbedly to everything he said. Many strange and
curious tales had he to tell of Spain and of the Moors, and, most of
all, of those new lands beyond the seas, inhabited by the Indians,
with their magical cities of gold and their wondrous mines of gems
and precious stones. Spoke he, too, of the mysteries of those far-off
regions; of the lakes and forests and mountains that floated above the
clouds, swimming in the silent air; of sacred temples rising tower
above tower, exceeding majestical, out of wide plains of gleaming
verdure; of their princes and priests and people--all themes as
entrancing as any story of chivalry.
Nor lacked he such also, for he could tell of those splendid feats of
arms which have made the glory of the world. He was a master, too, of
the secrets of courts, and stood high in the councils of his King.
’Twas no wonder that that soft tongue of his wooed and won upon our
women, who had so often heard with delight the ruder stories of our
bards. Who was I to match myself against this paragon, this paladin,
this gentle and perfect knight?
My thoughts were bitter and gloomy, like one walking in the shadow of
death, and I had not even the poor consolation of saying to myself
that Don Francisco was nothing more than a squire of dames--at home
rather in my lady’s bower than in the tented field--for there was that
about him which proclaimed him a soldier, and even a veteran of war.
Good reason, too, had we to know him before many weeks were past for
the bold and ready sword he was.
And when we had returned to Clew Bay, and the galleys were safe in the
haven under Knockmore, both de Vilela and Fitzgerald accompanied us to
the castle of Carrickahooley, where they were received by my mistresses
as if they held them in their kindest regard. Indeed, they were so
courteously entertained that the darkness of my spirits deepened, so
that I hardly knew myself.
I was in as many moods as there were hours in the day, until I felt a
shame of myself and of my weakness born in me. At first, I had chafed
and fretted like a spoiled child; then a sullen and savage temper
had possessed me, so that I could see that the crews of the galleys
observed me, thinking that perhaps the bite of my wounds still hurt and
galled; now, recovering myself, I bade myself endure hardness, and bear
the lash of the whip of fate, and be a man.
But my dear was very dear to me, and my heart rebelled.
In the meantime I was going backward and forward among the islands and
on the mainland, distributing portions of the plunder we had taken
from the galleons to the widows and relatives of those who had fallen
in the fighting, as was the custom of Grace O’Malley with her people.
Other parts of the spoil were for greater security put into the strong
chambers under the castle and elsewhere.
There remained the chest of gold and various vessels and chains and
rings of silver and gold, many of them richly jewelled, to be hidden
away, and, for this purpose, Grace O’Malley and I went in a boat by
ourselves to the Caves of Silence under the Hill of Sorrow. And as I
rowed, and considered the while what significance there was in the
gold not being restored to those who made claim to being its owners, I
experienced a sudden lightening of my spirits.
I reasoned that there must be some doubt in the mind of my mistress
of the truth of the story she had been told of the chest of gold, or
else she would not have kept it. She could not entirely trust them--de
Vilela and Fitzgerald--or she would have returned the money to them. So
I thought, but even this comfort was taken from me.
When we had reached the dark, narrow strait that lies between the high
cliffs, the grim sentinels which guard the entrance to the caves, the
boat shot into it like an arrow, and, without a word, we went swiftly
for a distance of half a mile or more--the zip-drip of the oars alone
being heard, eerie and startling, as the sound shivered up the black
walls of rock.
There, jutting out from them, was the Red Crag, that is in shape like
the head of a bull even to the horns; beyond, a strip of beach, and,
at the side of it, a ledge of grey-blue stone; then again the rock
walls, ever narrowing and becoming yet more narrow, until they closed
in an archway, and we lost the light of day as the boat passed on up
the fissure that runs deep into the bowels of the Hill of Sorrow. There
was not room for rowing, and I forced the boat along with a hook, Grace
O’Malley having lighted a torch.
Then we came to the black, slippery block of stone which seems to close
up the passage, but the secret of which was known to us, and to us only.
Here we entered--by what way I may never tell--and were in the first
cave of silence, a vast, gloomy, ghostly, dimly-lit hall, with tables
and altars and seats carved out of the living rock by hands dead these
many thousand years, and on the floor where it was stone and not water,
a grey, powdered dust, faintly coloured here and there as with specks
of rust--and all that dust was once alive, for these caves are the
graves of men.
Out of this vast chamber opened a number of smaller caves, that
looked not unlike the cells of monks--and monks of some sort perhaps
were they who lived and died here. And everywhere silence--a chill,
brooding, fearful, awful silence; and the living rock, hewn and cut;
and the floors that were partly stone and partly water; and the grey,
rust-spotted dust of death!
In one of these caverns we deposited the treasure taken from the
galleon, hardly speaking except in whispers as we did so, for the hush
of the place lay on us like a spell.
I ever felt a creepy horror of these dim, dumb shades, and was glad,
when our work was done, to return again to the light of the sun.
It was on our way back to the castle that Grace O’Malley spoke of what
was in her mind. Her face was stern and set and full of purpose.
“Ruari,” said she, “much has happened since last we visited these caves
together with my father, Owen. Now he is gone, and I, his daughter, am
proscribed by the English. To what better end could the treasure in
these caves be put than to help to drive the English out of Ireland?”
“The treasure is yours,” said I slowly, for her words killed my
new-found hope, “to do with as you list, and your will is mine. But the
English are many, and brave and strong. Remember Shane O’Neil, and how
he fell before them. It would be a terrible thing to lose the treasure,
and still to have the English in the land.”
“We are at war with them in any case,” said she. “As for Shane O’Neil,
he was unsuccessful because he stood alone, but if all the princes
and chiefs of the island unite, the result would surely be different.
Then there is the power of Spain to be thrown into the balance on our
behalf. The King has promised to send both men and money, if we will
but compose our own feuds, and band ourselves together for the one
common object.”
I answered not a word, but pulled at the oars doggedly.
“Ruari!” she exclaimed. “Why this silence? It is not like you to be so
quiet when the sound of battle is in the air.”
“Say on,” cried I, “I am your servant.”
She gazed at me, as one who considered anxiously a thing which puzzled
her.
“It is not the treasure, surely?” said she. “When did you care for
anything save the taking of it?” Then a light leaped into her eyes, and
she laughed more heartily than she had done for days. “You do not like
Don Francisco? That is it!” And she laughed again.
“Don Francisco is well enough,” said I, but she passed the empty words
by.
“Eva is but a young lass,” said she, with the hardness gone from
her face, so tender had it become all at once, “and the Don, who is
certainly a gallant gentleman, and not a love-sick boy, gives her
pleasure with his tales and romances. That is all!”
A love-sick boy! That was I, Ruari Macdonald. So Grace O’Malley knew my
secret; did Eva know it also?
“Grace O’Malley,” said I, resting on the oars, in anguish, for her
words brought no solace to me, “my heart is sore.”
“Ruari,” said she impatiently, “you are nothing but a big boy. Eva had
a liking for de Vilela, and so have I, but neither of us has any love
for him.”
“She does not love him!” cried I doubtfully, yet with a gladness
unspeakable conquering the doubt; “she does not love him!”
“Listen, Ruari!” said my mistress, with a deep, almost melancholy
gravity. “If this noble Spaniard love her truly, and she do not him,
consider how terrible a misfortune has befallen him. To love greatly,
nobly, truly--”and then she paused--”and to find that such a love is
unreturned----” and again she stopped. “But love is not for me; these
Caves of Silence give me strange thoughts,” continued she.
Here was my mistress in a mood that was new to me, and I held my peace,
wondering. I had deemed that her thoughts were set on war and her
quarrel with the Governor of Galway, forgetting, as I so often did,
that she was a woman as well as our princess and chief.
“Do you not understand,” said she again, “that the English will not be
satisfied to let our affairs remain as they are? This is not like the
strife between two of our septs. Think you that Sir Nicholas is the man
to be easily defied? Not so; the matter is no more than begun. He will
try to have his revenge, nor will he tarry long over it. See, then, how
great an advantage it is for us that de Vilela should have come to us
at such a time, with the assistance of the King of Spain. Will not the
whole island rise against the Queen of England?”
“To make Philip King of Ireland?” asked I.
“I know not that,” replied she; “but the first thing is to expel the
English.”
Then she told me that Fitzgerald and de Vilela were soon to set out,
making their way across the country to the Earl of Clanrickarde, and,
later, to the Earl of Desmond, who was known to be disaffected to
the government. By the spring of the following year, it was hoped a
general rising would be arranged for, and in the interval soldiers and
money would arrive from Spain, and a camp would be formed at a point
on the coast, chosen for its ease of access from the open sea, and the
readiness with which it could be fortified.
It was much, nay, it was everything, for me to know that Eva O’Malley
was not in love with Don Francisco, and it was with very changed
feelings that I returned to Carrickahooley.
Yet, though I had my mistress’s assurance that all was well, I soon
became doubtful and dissatisfied, for time passed and de Vilela made
no preparations to depart on his mission to Clanrickarde, while his
devotion to Eva was more evident day by day. I asked myself why he
lingered, considering the importance of the business on which he was
engaged, and Eva was the only reply to that question.
It was when I was in this unhappy frame of mind that one of Richard
Burke’s messengers, who had come by way of Lough Corrib and Lough Mask
from Galway, arrived at the castle, bringing news that Sir Nicholas
Malby was on the point of setting out to eat us up.
Beyond this, the man, who was a half-witted creature, and so permitted
to wander about at his pleasure, no one doing him hurt because such as
he were counted outside of the course of nature, could tell us little
or nothing. Richard the Iron had either not trusted him with more than
the barest message, or else had had no opportunity for saying more. It
was possible, also, that he had not been able to find out exactly what
was intended against us.
The season was still fine and open, and if the Governor so determined
it, he could attack us by bringing a force along the shores of the
lakes, and then up by the valley of the Eriff. Or, if he designed
to assault us from the sea, as he might if he had obtained some of
Winter’s ships of war, he might purpose to come that way at us. But
Burke’s messenger could tell us nothing of this.
It seemed more likely that, as the march through Connaught would be
slow and tedious, and beset by the dangers which attend the passage of
a large body of men through a difficult and little known country, he
would strive to reach and assault us by sea.
Therefore, Grace O’Malley commanded me to take _The Cross of Blood_,
and, sailing southwards, to keep a look-out for Sir Nicholas and the
English vessels of Winter, then in charge of a great part of the fleet
of Queen Elizabeth. And, indeed, I was eager to be gone, not only
because I was ever ready for action of one kind or another, but also
because I felt it would be a relief to the painful uncertainty in which
I was with regard to Eva.
I had several times resolved to speak to my dear of the love for her
which burned within me, but no fit occasion seemed to arise, and, shy
and timid where she was concerned, I had not had the wit to make
one for myself. And I marvelled at myself, being bold, not to say
foolhardy, in most matters, and yet not a little of a coward before
this one small, fair woman.
Out from Clew Bay put we with all haste, the wind and sea not being
amiss, and here for two days we drove before the breeze without coming
in sight of a ship of any size. On the third day we lay off shore in a
bay not many leagues from Galway, and there the hours passed by, and
still there was no sign of Winter’s vessels.
I was in two minds, nor could at first settle with myself whether to
return to Clew Bay at once, having come to the conclusion that Sir
Nicholas was to attack us by land, or to endeavour to enter Galway, and
so to discover what he had done, or was about to do.
Now it was of the utmost consequence that we should learn what were the
plans of the Governor, if they could be come at in any way, and, having
informed my officers of what I proposed, I determined to disguise
myself and to enter the city to obtain what we were in search of.
Bidding my people return to Clew Bay if I came not back to the galley
in three days at the furthest, I put on the dress of a mendicant friar,
and in the night was rowed to the fishing village that is just outside
the gates of Galway. Landing, I made my way to the huts, and saw a
light burning in one. When I knocked at the door, a man appeared, who,
seeing a priest, as he thought, asked my blessing and invited me to
enter.
After a few words, I threw myself down on the earthen floor, and,
saying that I was weary and fain would sleep, closed my eyes and waited
for the dawn. The fisherman made some rough provision for my comfort,
and left me; but I could hear him whispering to his wife, and her
replying to something he had said.
When the morning was come, I asked to be shown the house of the nearest
priest, whom I found, early as it was, astir and busy with his office.
Discovering myself to him--and this I did because I knew all the Irish
priests were our friends--I requested him to tell me where Sir Nicholas
was.
But he made answer that he went seldom within the walls of the city,
as the watch was very strict since the escape of Grace O’Malley, and
that no one was suffered to go in or out save only by permission of
the marshal. He had heard, however, that since her flight the Irish in
Galway and the neighbourhood were regarded with suspicion, and that
some of them had been cast into prison. Sir Nicholas, he thought, was
still in Galway.
As for Grace O’Malley, she had been proclaimed a traitress by the
Governor, and an enemy of the Queen. I myself, Ruari Macdonald, was
also proscribed as an abettor of her treasons, and a great reward was
offered for the head of the “redshank and rebel,” as Sir Nicholas was
pleased to call me.
And these things did not disquiet me exceedingly, but what did was,
that I could learn nothing of Richard Burke, whom I desired above all
to see. Him, then, had I first to seek out, and, so soon as the gates
were open, I set out for Galway, trusting that my priest’s dress would
satisfy the watch, and that I should be allowed to enter without any
trouble or disturbance.