“OUR NATURAL LEADER.”
“The Earl of Desmond,” said Grace O’Malley to me, “is our natural
leader against the English, and I wish you to go and see him.”
These words my mistress addressed to me shortly after Richard Burke and
I had returned. She and I were alone, and, indeed, she had sent for
me expressly, so that I knew it was of some matter of importance she
wished to speak to me. I had not anticipated, however, that it would be
this.
“Yes,” I said. “When do you desire me to go? De Vilela will hardly
be able to be moved for some time yet, and I suppose that he will
accompany me.”
Don Francisco was better, but several weeks would have to elapse before
he would stand on his feet, or even be moved from his bed with safety.
“No,” said she. “I do not think it prudent to wait so long a period
as may have to pass before de Vilela has sufficiently recovered. You
must take Fitzgerald with you, and set out at once for the Desmond
stronghold at Askeaton. Fitzgerald is now nearly well, his wound being
all but healed. He possesses something of the confidence of the King
of Spain, which Don Francisco enjoys to the full, and is therefore in
a position to speak with Desmond, and to find out what his intentions
are.”
“As you will,” said I, not without gladness, for it would be a way, and
that a perfect one, to enable me to keep my resolution with regard to
Eva and de Vilela--if I were out of the castle altogether, then indeed
would the field be left to him alone. But, at the same time, there was
a gripping about my heart that certainly was not caused by pleasure.
“It would be most unwise to delay,” continued she. “Sir Nicholas Malby
will come against us so soon as he can raise a large army; if not Sir
Nicholas, then another; if not this year, and he will scarcely do so
now the winter approaches, then next year. And thus will the contest go
on till the end has come. Under Desmond, the head of the Geraldines,
the greatest noble of the South, all the Irish people will rally.”
My mistress’s voice was full of excitement; but I was not so sure of
Desmond, and so made haste to remind her that he had been out against
the Queen before, and had got nothing but imprisonment and grievous
loss for his pains.
“It is not the same now,” replied she, with her ardour undiminished;
“for Philip of Spain will throw his sword into the balance. When
Desmond understands that he will be backed up by the ships and the
soldiers and the money of Spain, he will throw off all irresolution,
and show himself to be the great prince he is. Tell him that we are
with him heart and soul. Tell him that the Burkes, both the Upper
and the Lower Burkes, will forget their feuds, and unite for this one
common purpose. Tell him there will be no lack of treasure; and as an
earnest of this we will now go to the Caves of Silence, and take from
thence the chest of gold found on the _Capitana_--I have spoken to de
Vilela about it--and some gems as well, as a present from me.”
My mistress’s mind was made up, and vain would it have been for me to
try to cause her to change her determination. And why should I try? Was
not what she said true? Was not Desmond a prince in the land? If he
could not be depended upon to lead us against the English, then on whom
could we depend? So I stifled whatever of doubt I felt. Grace O’Malley
was my leader, and if she were content with Garrett Desmond, then so
was I.
We went together to the Caves of Silence, and brought away from them
the chest of gold, a casket richly chased and adorned with rare jewels,
and a dagger, the handle and sheath of which were studded with precious
stones.
“What hatred of the English may not accomplish,” said my mistress,
“gold will. Many a good sword may be bought when neither love nor hate
would affect aught; many a waverer made steadfast on the rock of gold.”
I was to sail early next morning in _The Cross of Blood_, and in the
evening when I sat in the hall, she straightly charged me that I was on
no account to adventure the ship or myself in any sort of peril, and
that I was not to attack any vessel, however fair and goodly a prize it
might seem; nay, on the contrary, I must keep out of the track of ships
as far as was practicable.
When the two ladies left us for the night, and I rose to bid them
farewell for a time, I held Grace O’Malley’s hand, and she pressed mine
warmly. I would have given all that I had in the world, or ever hoped
to possess of it, if Eva would but have clasped my hand with something
of the same fervour, or that I could have held hers and caressed it
with a lover’s fondness.
And the eyes of my dear, too, were soft and kind, so that my heart
cried out for a token, but my debt to de Vilela stood between us, and I
only touched the little hand.
She looked at me somewhat strangely, I fancied, as if the coldness of
my manner made her marvel, and I think that there perhaps was a faint
gleam of laughing malice in the face of Grace O’Malley, who stood by.
But in the morning, there, at the window high up the tower, were to be
seen both my mistresses, with their fingers to their lips kissing me
good-bye, as the galley was pulled out from the harbour.
It was now October, a month of storms, and we had to encounter head
winds, heavy seas, and much stress of weather, so that our progress
southward was slow. Keeping close in shore, we took advantage of
whatever protection the coast, or the islands along it, afforded us,
having frequently to put in and stop in one or another of the bays of
Connaught.
A full week was thus taken up before we had gotten through the South
Sound between Inisheer and the mainland, and, with the exception of
some fishing boats, we had had the sea to ourselves.
As we passed down the rocky, mountain-crowned coast, we were sorely
buffeted and wrought upon by the winds and waves. By the time we were
abreast of the Cliffs of Moher, so furious a tempest was raging that I
feared never would we live through it.
The stoutness of the galley, however, and perhaps some skill of
seamanship, brought us safely to the Head of Cregga, which we essayed
to round, but experienced so great a travail in the doing of it, albeit
we did it, that we were well-nigh exhausted with the labour. But, once
round the Head, we found ourselves in a stretch of water which, by
comparison with that we had gone over, was as a quiet pool, to wit, the
Bay of Liscanor.
And here we remained for some hours, looking for such an abatement of
the storm as would allow us to proceed; but in this our hope was not
to be realised as soon as we had expected, for the night fell, and the
fury of the tempest was not spent.
The first object that met our gaze when the light of morning had come
was a ship, all her masts gone, and the waves sweeping over her, go
driving to her doom on the rocks of Cregga. As now her bows, now her
stern was lifted up, so that we got a full view of her hull, there
was that about her that seemed to me not unfamiliar, but I could not
say then what it was. Clutching the ropes and bolts on and about what
remained of her bulwarks were a few men, clinging desperately in the
face of death to their last hold on life.
There was no possibility of the ship being saved, and there was hardly
a greater likelihood of saving the lives of any of these miserable
sailors, but I resolved to make the attempt, at least.
Bringing up _The Cross of Blood_ as near as I dared to the Head, and
having made ready to lower her two small boats, I waited for the moment
when the vessel would crash upon the rocks, and be crushed and broken
upon them. As she neared the cliffs, the spume of the waves shooting
high and white in the air, the foaming, roaring waters, dashed back
by the rocks, caught and twisted her about, so that, as her side was
turned to us, I saw her name in letters of white and gold.
She was _The Rosemary_, a shot from which had caused the death of my
master, Owen O’Malley, a few months before, and well did I remember
how I saw her sail up the Shannon on her way to Limerick, with the two
eerie figures shadowed against her canvas.
For an instant I felt an impulse to stand off, and to make no effort
to avert the fate of any of her men--it was uncertain, I told myself,
whether at the best I could render them any assistance. But, after all,
we had no quarrel with these wretched mariners, about to be swallowed
up by the ever-hungry sea, and, if we had had, this extremity of
theirs was of a kind which we could not look upon as our opportunity
and have been worthy of the name of men.
Therefore, when _The Rosemary_ rose to the waves for the last time, and
was borne aloft on the black edge of a huge roller, and then shattered
to fragments upon the rocks, did we keep a sharp look-out for the
bodies, living or dead, if any, which might appear on the water near
where we were.
And five poor souls, by means of our boats, did we save alive, or,
being as the dead, did bring to life again--and one of them was a woman.
Surely this was the queerest trick that fate ever played upon me, for
the woman was none other than Sabina Lynch! Nor do I wonder that, when
she had come to herself and, seeing me, knew upon whose ship she was,
she did imagine she had but escaped from one kind of calamity to meet
with another, and that perhaps worse: for she had to be restrained, and
that by force, from casting herself back into the sea, preferring death
to being in my hands.
And, verily, I was in a grievous quandary with regard to her.
She would not eat nor drink nor rest nor sleep, but only cried and
sobbed and moaned, till she fell into a sort of stupor. Recovering
after awhile, she did naught but cry and sob and moan again, and was
so distraught that I felt a pity for her. Then, what was I to do with
her? True, I could keep her a captive, and take her back with me when
I returned to Carrickahooley, and give her over to my mistress, who
would doubtless accord her the grimmest of welcomes. And this, perhaps,
was my duty. If it were, I failed in it.
Urged on by a woman’s spite and jealousy, Sabina Lynch had played a
treacherous and cruel part in regard to Grace O’Malley, and she was, in
a measure, the cause of our quarrel with Sir Nicholas and the English.
Sure was I that my mistress would not be merciful to her, nor would she
expect me to be. Why, then, should I have been?
I have no other answer, if it be an answer, except that I was deep in
love with Eva O’Malley, and that my love for her made me feel certain
that Eva, much as Grace was to her--as to me--would have told me to act
as I did towards this woman. For I determined to let her go free.
It is not in me to explain this matter further, nor to tell how often I
argued it with myself, ever coming back, however, to what I conceived
would be the desire of Eva--to let Sabina Lynch go. And if the other
course was my duty, there was meted out to me, as will be seen,
punishment out of all proportion to my fault.
Having come to the conclusion that Sabina Lynch should be set at
liberty when a suitable opportunity presented itself, I acquainted her
with my decision. She could scarcely believe her ears, and was not
convinced that I meant what I said until I informed her that she might
move about the galley as she pleased, and that I would put her ashore
at Liscanor if she wished it, or take her on with us if that was her
will.
When she saw that I did not intend to deceive her, nor to do her any
hurt, she told me that she was going to Limerick. Inquiring why she had
left Galway, I now heard of the rising of the Upper Burkes under Ulick,
the son of the Earl of Clanrickarde, which had caused Sir Nicholas to
hurry back to that city--as I have before recorded. It appeared that
the people of Galway were in the extreme of terror, as nearly all the
fighting men of the place had been withdrawn from it, and from Athlone,
where was the next English garrison, as well, for the expedition
against Grace O’Malley, and the city was thus left without defenders.
The Burkes had met with no resistance on their march to Galway, and
the city was in great danger of being taken and sacked. A way out,
however, remained, by the sea; and so grave was the state of affairs
that Stephen Lynch, the mayor, had gladly availed himself of an
opportunity of sending his daughter away for safety by _The Rosemary_,
which happened to be leaving for Limerick. Along with her had also gone
several ladies of Galway, but they had all perished in the wreck.
I now informed Sabina Lynch that I was bound for the Shannon, and that
I would put her ashore at some point on the river near Limerick, if our
voyage had a favourable termination, but that I thought it would be
better for her to land here at Liscanor.
However, she replied that she had friends at Limerick, but knew
no one in Liscanor, and so begged to be allowed to remain on _The
Cross of Blood_. She prevailed upon me with her entreaties, and I
consented--wherein, God wot, I was weak enough, though nothing short of
her death could have prevented what was to occur.
There is a saying among us Celts, “What will be, already _is_,” and
this saying is true.
The day which succeeded that on which _The Rosemary_ was destroyed saw
us out of the Bay of Liscanor, and, the weather being propitious, the
next found us entering the mouth of that most beautiful of all the
beautiful rivers of Ireland, the Shannon. But it was not until two days
later that I brought the galley into the bay of the creek upon which,
some miles inland, stands Askeaton, the fortress of the Desmonds.
During this time, being fully occupied with the working of the ship,
I had seen little or nothing of Mistress Lynch, who, however, had had
many conversations with Fitzgerald, and often did I hear them laughing
and jesting, the one with the other, as if there were no such things in
the world as bad weather and storms, and shipwrecks and war, and the
deaths of men.
Now the bay in which the galley lay was no great distance from
Limerick, and as it would have been the height of madness to go any
nearer that city, which could not but be very hostile to us, I told
Sabina Lynch that our journey was at an end, and that she was free
to go. Whereupon she thanked me, and along with Fitzgerald, who had
offered himself as her escort for part of the way, and who was well
acquainted with the country--for it was all the territory of the
Geraldines--left _The Cross of Blood_.
On his return, he and I, accompanied by some of our men, and taking
with us the presents sent by my mistress, set out for Askeaton, where
we were received by the Earl of Desmond.
The castle was one of the largest and most formidable in Ireland,
consisting of several towers and strongly built houses and stables, the
whole surrounded by high walls around which flowed the waters of the
creek, so that it looked like a town on an island in the middle of a
lake. A village, with a church at one end of it, stood on the rising
ground that led up from one of the banks of the stream over against the
castle.
When the drawbridge was lowered--Fitzgerald making the matter of an
entrance easy for us--and we had passed within the walls, I saw in the
yard a considerable number of the gallowglasses of the Geraldines, some
having arquebuses, but most of them only spears or battle-axes and
swords.
One of the knights of the Earl’s household approached us, and said that
his lord was ready to see us. Fitzgerald and he--they were cousins,
it appeared--began at once to talk, and they introduced me to several
other gentlemen whom we met. And so we went into the presence of the
Earl.
Grace O’Malley had said that he was “our natural leader” against the
English, and narrowly did I scan the features of Garrett Desmond as he
rose from his chair to offer me his hand.
My first impression was that of extraordinary disappointment, for I
could see nothing very notable about him. Then, as he spoke, I noticed
a twitching of the lips that strongly savoured of indecision, to say
the least, and also that his eyes roamed restlessly, not settling
fixedly on man or thing for a single instant. And as I observed him the
closer, the keener was my disappointment.
Yet this noble was a great power in the land. Once the Desmond war-cry
was sounded forth from Askeaton, thousands would shake their spears in
ready response. He had but to say the word and the whole South-West
of Ireland would spring to arms. He had said it once and might say it
again, but I distrusted and misliked him from the first.
Courteously, however, did he receive me, and graciously the gifts which
I presented to him in the name of my mistress. He inquired of me many
things respecting her, to all of which I replied to the best of my
ability. Indeed, during the time I spent at Askeaton, he never appeared
weary of hearing about her and her exploits, which seemed, he said,
incredible in one so young.
Then, after we had feasted together, he called Fitzgerald and myself
aside and took us into an inner room where we three were by ourselves.
And now Fitzgerald told him of the help, both in men and money, which
Philip of Spain promised in the event of a general rising against the
Queen, and I repeated to him all the words which Grace O’Malley had
charged me to say to him.
Never once did I take my glance off him, but he would not meet my eyes.
For the most part he paced up and down the room, and one could easily
see the travail of his mind in the working of his face. At one moment
there would be gladness and the look of resolve, then doubt and gloom
would take their place the next. The same uncertainty could be seen
even in his walk, which was now swift, now slow.
At last he said that it was a heavy matter, and not lightly to
be undertaken, and invited me to stay at the castle until he had
considered it more at large. I pressed for an immediate reply to my
mistress, but he asked me to tarry for a few days, and, as I could not
well do otherwise, there did I remain until one morning he gave me a
letter for Grace O’Malley and many presents for her and myself, and so
dismissed me.
During the time I waited for his answer I heard from several that a
Spanish army was looked for in the spring, and I could see that the
Earl knew all that was going on. Therefore I did not doubt but that he
had sent a message to my mistress that would please her well.
And while I was thus waiting, the hours hanging heavily on my hands,
I made myself well acquainted with the castle--its towers and strong
rooms and walls--and thus acquired a knowledge which was to stand me in
good stead before the end was come.
Then it was Ho! for _The Cross of Blood_, and Ho! for Carrickahooley,
which we reached after a voyage unmarked by any incident worthy of
record.