THE LANDING OF THE SPANIARDS.
It was a strange moment.
There were the representatives of the President of Munster, two of the
justices from Limerick--these stood for the Queen.
There were Grace O’Malley, her gentlemen, and myself--proclaimed rebels.
There were Desmond and his Geraldines.
And now here were de Vilela and this stranger from Spain! And we were
all met together in the great hall of the castle of Askeaton.
A strange moment, and a strange meeting!
De Vilela advanced towards Desmond, and, with that grace of manner
which this man possessed in greater perfection than any other I have
ever seen, presented the new comer to the Earl. I leant forward to
catch the name. It was the family name of the famous Lieutenant of
Santa Cruz, the still more celebrated Grand Admiral of Spain. A brother
or a cousin of Martinez, I said to myself, as the two men bowed low
before Desmond.
“Will your lordship permit?” said de Vilela. “Don Juan de Ricaldo, my
friend and comrade!”
And the Earl extended his hand to Don Juan.
“You are welcome, señor,” said Desmond, but without much warmth,
for was he not, as it were, between the devil and the deep sea, with
England on the one side and Spain on the other?
Then he conversed with the two Spaniards in a low tone of voice, so
that I could hear but imperfectly what was said, but it was impossible
not to see that he was in great perplexity. The two messengers of the
President looked darkly on, their countenances knit into scowls, while
Desmond shot a curious glance at them now and again.
After a few minutes spent in this fashion, Don Juan, excusing himself
on the score of being weary in the extreme from his journey, retired
from the hall along with de Vilela. When they had withdrawn there was a
constraint upon us all, no one caring to speak his thoughts, for what
could we say that would not have been noted by those two sharp-eared
gentlemen from Limerick?
For myself I was fair bewildered; but the one thing that bulked out
most largely in my mind was the fact that now there must be an end
of our uncertainty, as the Spaniards had come into the country, as I
supposed, and the time for deeds, not words, was upon us.
Nor was our sitting in the hall prolonged that evening, for each one
who was in authority preferred to say nothing, and while the others
talked together in little knots, it was in whispers, and all were glad
when the Earl gave the signal for retiring.
The same night I was awoke from a sound sleep by de Vilela, who bade
me dress and go with him. We went into a room high up in the tower, and
there were my mistress, Desmond, and de Ricaldo waiting for us.
“Ruari,” said Grace O’Malley, her face bright with excitement, “this
gentleman is Don Juan de Ricaldo”--we saluted each other--”and he is
the bearer of news of the highest importance, which concerns us most
nearly.”
Don Juan bowed again.
“The ships of the King of Spain have arrived?” I asked, as my mistress
paused.
“One ship has come,” said she, “that of which Don Juan is the
commander, and others are on the way. They set out at the same time,
but a storm separated them; he has reached Ireland first, but the rest
cannot be far off.”
“’Tis the best of good news,” cried I. “Would to God they were all
beside our galleys on the Shannon!”
“Don de Ricaldo’s ship lies off Dingle, on the coast of Kerry,” said my
mistress, smiling at my sally, “and the others must be guided to the
same harbour. They may have already cast anchor elsewhere, or they may
still be at sea. But I wish you to take _The Cross of Blood_ and search
for them. Both of these gentlemen,” she nodded to the two Spaniards,
“will accompany you.”
“And then?” inquired I.
“You will then render them,” said she, “any help they may require, as,
for instance, choosing the most suitable place for making a landing,
or whatever it may be.”
“And then?” asked I again.
“Return here,” said she.
“May I ask,” said I, “if any plans have been formed.”
“They will depend,” said Desmond, quickly “on the number of the Spanish
soldiers--and on other things,” he added, more slowly.
“You will go at once, Ruari?” asked Grace O’Malley, but her question
was a command.
“At once,” I agreed; then a thought came to me. “Richard Burke should
be told of this,” said I.
“All Ireland will have heard the news within a week,” said Desmond
impatiently, “and the MacWilliam among the rest.”
This was true enough, but I made sure that he knew, for I sent a trusty
man to his camp who told him what had taken place. I did this later
that night.
As I was taking my leave I asked my mistress if she were satisfied that
all was going well, and she replied that she was.
“You will stay on here till I return?” asked I.
“Surely!” It was Desmond who spoke.
I had half a mind to suggest to her that it might be better for her to
go back to her own galley, but it seemed like a presumption on my part,
and I held my peace.
But once we were on board _The Cross of Blood_, swinging down the
stream in the hours of the morning, I wished that I had been bolder.
Yet, what was there to fear? So I repeated to myself, but the fear came
again and again. For there were Grace O’Malley and Eva in Desmond’s
power, the guard they had with them being of the slenderest now that
Richard Burke was out of Askeaton with his gallowglasses, and I myself,
with de Vilela and some of our choicest men, going further away with
every mile.
Was she justified in placing herself so entirely in the hands of the
Earl? There was the rub. My mistress, however, had declared that she
was well pleased with the way in which our affairs were moving, and
with that assurance I had perforce to be content. And I verily believe
she had no doubt but that she could do with Desmond as she chose.
I had been ordered to keep a look-out for the Spanish ships, and I put
in at various bays and havens where I thought it might be possible that
they had anchored, but I reached Dingle without having seen anything
of them. And I well remember that it was towards evening, after we had
borne the blaze of the July sun all day, that we came up alongside of
Don Juan de Ricaldo’s vessel, and de Vilela and myself went on board of
her with her captain.
Next morning I put out to sea again, and, sailing slowly down the coast
for perhaps a couple of hours, fell in with the rest of the Spanish
ships, tacking to the north-westward.
Having made signs that I wished to speak to them, they lay to. As I
approached I saw a man waving his hand to me from the ship that was
nearest us, and him I afterwards knew to be Sir James Fitzmaurice, a
relative of the Earl of Desmond, and having the reputation of being a
skilful soldier. He had already fought against the English in Ireland,
but had been beaten by them, and compelled to sue for peace.
Beside him there stood three or four priests, and, a little way off,
a group of men wearing armour, their swords shining brightly in their
hands. There was also a goodly muster of footmen, having arquebuses,
spears and other weapons. And my heart warmed when I beheld this array.
Quitting my galley, I went on board of the ship, and presently had told
Fitzmaurice, who evidently was the leader of the expedition, who I was,
and for what purpose I was come. I also delivered to him letters which
de Vilela and de Ricaldo had given me for him. Having read these over
very carefully, he began to ply me eagerly with many questions.
Was Desmond well? What preparations had he made to rise against the
English? What was the general state of the country? Did its princes
and chiefs know that he was coming, and were they ready to drive the
English into the sea? Were the English in force, and where lay their
army? Who was there now at Limerick?
All these and many other things did he inquire of me, listening to my
replies with the closest attention, comparing what I said with what was
written in the letters I had brought, and making a commentary of his
own. But I soon found out that he was in reality as well informed as I
was.
Here was one, I said to myself, who was a very different man from
Desmond. The way he bore himself was so instinct with firmness, courage
and resolution that he at once instilled a feeling of confidence in all
who met him. Then the questions he had addressed to me impressed me as
being just such questions as a soldier and a man of action would ask.
But what struck me most was that when he spoke of Desmond, while he
said not a word in his dispraise, he was apparently not certain of him.
And this was so much in my own manner of thinking of the Earl that my
fear of him was intensified.
It was now my turn to ask questions, and I inquired how many men
Fitzmaurice had with him, and if these were all, or were we to look for
more?
“There are four hundred of us--Spaniards, Italians, Irish, and English;
these English,” he added, “are not of the Queen’s religion. And as to
what we may expect, Father Sanders will tell you more,” and he turned
to one of the priests standing near. “Father,” said he to the priest,
“this is Ruari Macdonald, foster-brother of Grace O’Malley of Erris and
the Isles of Connaught.”
“You have just come from Desmond,” said Sanders; “I have heard
something of what you have been saying, and your mistress is with us.”
“Yes,” I replied, “Grace O’Malley is at Askeaton.”
“She is firm in the cause?”
“She, and all of us, are proclaimed rebels,” cried I, “so you may judge
for yourself.”
Then he exchanged glances with Fitzmaurice, and continued, “And
Desmond? what of him?”
Thereupon I gave them an account of what had occurred at Askeaton since
our arrival there.
“I do not see,” said Sanders, when I had done, “how the Earl could have
acted otherwise. As he said, he had to wait till the time was ripe.
But now, the time is ripe, and the Desmond war-cry will soon resound
on every side!” And the priest looked fixedly at Fitzmaurice, who,
however, remained silent.
Sanders then began speaking again, and told me how that the Pope had
blessed the expedition, and had given both men and money, and would
send more ere long. Next he took me to see a splendid banner, all blue
and gold, with the figure of our Lord upon it, which he had received
from Rome.
“This will march with our hosts,” cried he, “and lead us on to victory!”
Now, with the priests and the mysteries of religion I have never had
much to do, and while the spirit of the man was in itself a beautiful
thing, and the banner, too, a thing beautiful to behold, yet I could
not forbear from thinking that fighting men were what we most stood in
need of, and that four hundred soldiers, however brave they were, even
added to our own, were far from being sufficient to drive the English
out of Ireland. For I knew the English by this time, and that they were
no mean foes.
And when I said what was in my mind to Fitzmaurice, who I was sure
would agree with me, he replied that I must remember that the force he
had with him was but the advance guard of a great army, which, even at
that very instant, might be already on its way to our coasts. So I took
fresh courage, and hoped for the best.
After we had had a long conversation I said that my present business
was to see his ships safe into the harbour of Dingle, or into any other
haven which might be selected in Kerry, and as de Ricaldo’s vessel was
not at Dingle, I purposed, if it was agreeable to him, to go on ahead
in my galley and show him the way, as it were, to the place. To this he
assented, and I went back to _The Cross of Blood_. We made Dingle soon
thereafter, and I could see that Fitzmaurice and Sanders immediately
got ready to land.
There had already gathered upon the shore a crowd of the Irish
belonging to that part of Kerry. Partly, I imagine, to impress them,
and partly because of the nature of the occasion itself, Fitzmaurice
and Sanders had deemed that their landing afforded a fit opportunity
for no little display. They had therefore arranged a sort of
procession, and I watched it, as it moved along, with keen interest;
nor was I cold and stolid myself at the sight of the joy of the country
people, who received it on shore with loud shoutings and a tumult of
cheers.
Two friars, chanting a psalm, stepped first on shore; behind them came
a bishop, clad in the robes of his sacred office, with a mitre on his
head and a pastoral staff in his left hand. His right hand was raised
solemnly invoking a blessing on the land, and his lips moved as if in
prayer, while the Irish knelt upon the shore as his feet touched the
ground.
Then came Father Sanders, the banner which the Pope had consecrated
waving above him, and, immediately after him, Fitzmaurice and those
of knightly rank--gallant, mailed, long-sworded gentlemen every one!
And now the foot-soldiers, each in a company under its own captain,
streamed from the ships--making altogether a brave show.
As soon as a camping place for the night had been chosen, Fitzmaurice
appeared at the side of my galley, and, having come on board, said
that the harbour of Dingle from its shape--the mouth of the bay being
narrow--was one from which it would be difficult to escape in an
extremity, and asked me to suggest another.
Whereupon I replied that the haven of Smerwick, four miles to the north
across the tongue of land where we now were, would be more to his mind.
And thither the next day Fitzmaurice marched his troops; the ships were
brought round, and, all his stores having been fetched ashore, he at
once set his men to work, making a trench and fortifying the place.
As I had now accomplished the mission my mistress had entrusted me
with, I set about preparing to return to Askeaton. But Fitzmaurice
prevailed upon me to stay two or three days longer, telling me he had
sent horsemen to Desmond with a letter, in which he had urged his
kinsman to declare war against the Queen without delay, and saying the
reply might be of such a character as to change my plans. He hoped the
answer would be speedy, and in any case, he said, it was well that I
should know exactly what the Earl wrote.
But several days passed, and still no word came from Desmond.
In the meantime, Sir John, a brother of the Earl, arrived at Smerwick.
This man, with whom a hatred of the English was the chief passion of
his life, greatly lamented the supineness of his brother, but he had
no knowledge of the Earl’s movements. There was no mistaking that Sir
John was sincere, and when he asked Fitzmaurice, de Vilela, and myself
to accompany him on his return to his castle of Tralee, where, he said,
our reception would give full proof of his devotion to the cause, I for
one gladly assented.
We took with us a considerable number of men, so as to guard against a
surprise, but we reached Tralee without adventure of any sort.
Before we had gained the castle itself, however, we were met by one
of Sir John’s gallowglasses, who warned him that two officers of the
English had arrived there that very day, and that, as one of them was
well known to Sir John, they had been allowed to enter within its walls
without question.
Hastily calling a halt, we consulted together what was the wisest
course to pursue. Sir John was for our going on, but Fitzmaurice
thought it would be more prudent for Sir John to ride forward with his
own attendants, and then, when night had fallen, we might secretly
enter the castle.
“Who are the Englishmen?” asked I, thinking that they might be known to
me.
“One is Carter, the Marshal of Munster,” replied Sir John, “and the
other is Davell, a captain in the garrison at Limerick.”
I was acquainted with neither, but I remembered that I had heard of
Davell, and what it was, and I looked steadily at Sir John.
“Sir John,” said I, “the name of Davell is not unfamiliar to me, and,
if my memory serve me aright, you must know him well.”
“Yes,” said he shortly; “he once stood between me and death in a former
war. But what of that,” added he grimly, “as things are now?”
I held my peace, whereupon he exclaimed passionately: “I will suffer
nothing to stand between me and the deliverance of Ireland! Let us
proceed.”
Fitzmaurice, however, would not agree to this; so Sir John went on, as
had been suggested, and we withdrew into the forest not far from the
castle. But about midnight Sir John sent to say that the Englishmen had
gone to bed, and that, as all was now quiet, he invited us to come. Nor
did we refuse.
When we had entered within the silent castle, Sir John met us, and
led us, who were leaders, into the hall, but our men lay down in the
courtyard. When wine and meat had been put before us, the waiting-men
going about on tiptoe, Fitzmaurice inquired of Sir John if we might be
told on what business it was that Carter and Davell had come to Tralee.
“As spies. What else?” said Sir John. “The tidings of your landing have
reached the ears of the President, and they have ventured hither for
more news. They tell me they wish to see for themselves what is going
on.”
“What say they of Desmond?” I asked.
“They say--what I cannot believe,” cried he, forgetting to whisper, as
we had been doing; “they say that Desmond himself sent a letter to the
President--a letter he had received from you,” and here he glanced at
Fitzmaurice--”and that he has offered to drive the Spaniards back to
their ships.”
We were all silent. As for me, my mind was as a blank, while my heart
beat so furiously that it was like to rend my body.
“I will never believe it,” said Sir John. “’Tis nothing but a base lie!”
In the anguish of my spirit I groaned aloud, so that the rest looked
curiously at me.
“You believe it!” slowly said Fitzmaurice; “and, by the Mass! so do I.”
“No, no!” exclaimed Sir John. “Not that--not that!”
Then he sprang from his place, and, even in the dim light of the
candles, I could not but see how ghastly was his face.
“Not that--not that!” he cried again, then with swift steps turned and
left us.
I heard the sound of his feet as he went up the stair to the
sleeping-rooms above; presently the noise ceased, but in another moment
the stillness was rent by a piercing cry, quickly followed by another
and another.
We gazed at each other fearfully, asking mutely what this might
portend, when Sir John returned to the hall, his mantle and his hands
stained with blood.
“Let this,” cried he in wild accents, and he shivered as the blood
dripped from him, “let this be a pledge of the faithfulness of the
Desmonds to you and to the cause!”
“What have you done?” asked Fitzmaurice.
“There are no English spies alive now in Tralee,” said he more calmly,
“to carry tales to Limerick.”
He had stabbed to death Carter and Davell, as they lay asleep, with his
own dagger.
And one of them had saved his life, and both had counted themselves his
friends!
I felt myself growing sick with horror of the man and his deed. To slay
men in a fight was one thing, but to kill sleeping men under one’s own
roof was another and a very different thing.
And with the horror there came a nameless fear.