THE BEGINNING OF THE STORM.
The people of every nation--that is, the tillers of the soil, the people
who form the backbone of their race--are in continual expectancy of a
Man and a Day. Theirs is always the, perhaps, dumb hope, but still the
hope, that in their future lie these two things, a Man and a Day.
Sometimes the Man has come and the Day has failed; sometimes the Day has
come and there has been no Man to use it; but now all Ireland had swept
up in a wild roar, knowing that the Man and the Day had come together.
And so, in truth, they had. Owen, the Ruadh, or red, O'Neill, had fought
a desperate struggle against the royalists. Little by little he had
cemented his own people together, his personal qualities and his
splendid generalship had overborne all else, and the victory of Benburb
had crowned the whole. Then Owen Ruadh was stricken down with sickness,
Cromwell landed and stormed Drogheda, and Yellow Brian had fought clear
and fled away to the kinsman he had never seen.
Now, standing on the castle ramparts overlooking Lough Oughter, Yellow
Brian stared moodily out at the lake. His identity had been revealed to
none, and the name of Brian Buidh had little meaning to any in Ireland.
Years since he who was The O'Neill, the same whom the English called
Earl of Tyr-owen, had fled with his family from the land. His eldest son
John had settled at the Spanish court.
John was a spineless man, unworthy son of a great father, content to
idle away his life in ease and quiet. And it was in the court of Spain
that Brian O'Neill had been born, with only an old Irishwoman to nurse
him and teach him the tongue and tidings of Ireland which his father
cared nothing for.
Yellow Brian had written out these things, sending the letter to the
sick general who lay within the castle. His terrible news of Drogheda
had created consternation, but already O'Neill's forces had been sent to
join the royalists against the common foe. All Ireland was distraught by
war. Royalist, patriot, and Parliament man fought each against the
other, and the only man who could have faced Cromwell lay sick unto
death.
The Day was passing, the Man was passing, and shadow lay upon all the
land.
A man came up and touched Yellow Brian's arm, with word that Owen Ruadh
would see him at once. Brian nodded, following. He was well garbed now,
and a steel jack glittered from beneath his dark-red cloak as he strode
along. Upon his strong-set face brooded bitterness, but his eyes were
young for all their cold blue, and his ruddy hair shone like spun gold
in the sunlight; while his firm mouth and chin, his erect figure, and
his massive shoulders gained him more than one look of appreciation
from the clustered O'Reillys.
He followed the attendant to a large room, whose huge mantel was carven
with the red hand and supporting lions of the clan Reilly, and passed
over to the bed beside the window. He had requested to see O'Neill
alone, and the attendant withdrew silently. Brian approached the bed,
and stood looking down at the man who was passing from Ireland.
Sharp and bright were the eyes as ever, but the red beard was grayed and
the face was waxen; a spark of color came to it, as Owen Ruadh stretched
forth a hand to take that of his visitor.
"Brian O'Neill!" he exclaimed, in a voice singularly like that of Brian
himself. "Welcome, kinsman! But why the silence you enjoined in your
letter?"
"My name is Yellow Brian," answered the younger man somberly. "I have
none other, general. You know the gist of my story, and here is the
rest. I broke with my father, for he would hear nothing of my coming to
Ireland. So I cast off his name and left him to his cursed idleness,
reaching Drogheda barely in time to take part in the siege. I managed to
cut through, as you know, and meant to take service with you--"
He paused, for words did not come easily to him, as with all his race. A
low groan broke from the crippled warrior.
"Too late, kinsman, too late! Cromwell is come, and I will never sit a
horse again--ah, no protests, lad! How old are you?"
"Twenty-three."
"By my faith, you look thirty! Lad, my heart is sore for you. I am
wasted and broken. I have no money, and Cromwell will shatter all before
him; I can do naught save give you advice."
"I want naught," broke in Brian quickly, a little glint as of ice in his
blue eyes. "Not for that did I cast off my name and come to--"
"Tut, tut, lad!" O'Neill reproved him gently. "I understand, so say no
more of that matter. You are Brian Buidh, but to me you are my kinsman,
the rightful head of my house. You can do two things, Yellow
Brian--either follow my advice, or go down to ruin with all Ireland. Now
say, which shall it be?"
Brian gazed at him with thoughtful face. What was the meaning of this
dark speech? As he looked into the keen, death-smitten eyes of the man
who might have saved Ireland, he smiled a little.
"I see naught but ruin, Owen Ruadh," he replied slowly. "I care little
for my life, having no ties left on this earth--"
"Oh, nonsense!" broke in the other impatiently. "You are young, lad--the
bitterness will soon pass, trust me. Now see, here is my advice, such
advice as I would give no other man alive. I am dying, Yellow Brian.
Well, I know that Cromwell will break down all I have built up, and I
can see no brightness for my country. But for you I can see much. You
are young, powerful, the last of the old race; you look strangely like
the old earl, Brian!"
The younger man started. For the first time in many days he remembered
that crazed hag he had met by the Dee water the night of Drogheda.
"Now, harken well. I tell you that our house lies in the dust, Brian;
there is no hope for it or for any O'Neill. But for Yellow Brian there
is hope. You must carve out a holding for yourself, for you are a ruler
of men by your face, lad. Go into Galway, and there, where Cromwell's
men will have hardest fighting of all, gather a force and make head. I
have heard strange tales of a man who has done this very thing--they say
he has seized on a castle somewhere near Bertraghboy Bay, in Galway,
and-- But I am getting weak, Brian lad. Hearken well--Ireland is lost;
carve out now for your own hand, for the Red Hand of the old house, lad!
And take this for my sake."
Almost whispering the last words, Owen Ruadh took from his finger a
signet graven deeply with the Red Hand of Tyr-owen. Brian accepted it
gravely, kissed the hand that gave it, and with tears choking his
throat, left the chamber of the man who was passing from Ireland.
He had been there a brief fifteen minutes, yet it seemed that an age had
passed. Both he and the sick man had said much in few words, for they
were both men who spared speech and did much. But Brian had received a
great wrench.
As he had said, he had cast off his father, for the grandfather's blood
ran riot within him, and had kindled to burning rage against the
sluggard who had made his name a thing of reproach in all lands. With
the overstrong bitterness of youth he had meant to die sword in hand,
fighting for Ireland. The few burning words of Owen Ruadh had stripped
all this false heroism from him, however, and had sent a flame of sanity
into his brain.
Brian returned slowly to the round tower, and stood looking out over the
waters, for the castle was built on an island in the lake a mile from
shore. It was nearing sunset, and snow was in the air--the first snow,
for this was the end of September.
"Ruin--the storm of men!" He repeated unconsciously the words of the hag
who had stopped him by the Dee water. "What shall I do? Which is the
part of a man, after all; to fall for Ireland or to hew out new lands
and found a new house in the west? By my hilt! That old hag told me
truly after all!"
At that thought he stood silent, his eyes troubled. What was this fate
which seemed to drive him into the west, instead of leading him to the
flame of swords as he had so long hoped and dreamed? Death meant little
to him; honor meant much. All his life he had lived in Spain, yet it had
been a double life. He had ridden and hunted and learned arms with the
young nobles of the court, but he had talked and sorrowed and dreamed
with the old Irishwoman who had nursed him.
After all, it is often the dreams of the youth which determine the
career of the man, he reflected.
Which path should he take? As he stood there struggling with himself,
his hand went unconsciously to his long, powerful jaw; it was a gesture
habitual with him when in deep thought--which he seldom was, however.
Now the youth in him spoke for death, now the sanity which had flashed
into his brain from that of the sick man spoke for the life of deeds and
renown which lay in the west.
An incident might turn him either way--and the incident came in the
shape of a very tall old man who wore the Irish garb of belted,
long-sleeved tunic and woolen hose, with iron-soled shoes. The old man's
face was cunning, but his eyes were bright and keen and deep gray; his
gray hair hung low to conceal his lopped ears, and there hung about him
an indescribable air of shrewdness faced with apparent openness of
heart.
Brian glanced at him, remembered that he had heard him called Turlough
Wolf, and looked away carelessly, absorbed in his own thought. But the
old man halted abruptly with an exclamation:
"_Corp na diaoul!_ Where got you that face and that gesture, Drogheda
man?"
Brian looked at him, frowning.
"What mean you, Turlough Wolf?"
The other stared, his thin jaw fallen.
"Why--why," he stammered, "I thought it had been The O'Neill come to
life again! When I was a boy I have seen the earl hold his hand to his
chin--often, often! And--and you look like him, Brian Buidh---"
"Nonsense!" Brian forced a laugh, but as he folded his arms again the
glitter of O'Neill's ring on his finger caught the sharp gray eyes.
Turlough Wolf started.
"Listen!" he said, coming forward insinuatingly. "Yellow Brian, no man
knows who you are, nor do I ask. But Turlough Wolf knows a man when he
sees one, a chieftain among men. I owe no man service; but if you will
need a swift brain, a cunning hand, and an eye that can read the hearts
of men, I will serve you."
Brian looked down into the shrewd face in wonder, then waved an
impatient hand.
"No use, Turlough Wolf. I have no money to pay for service, and to-night
I must ride out to seek I know not what--nay, whether I ride west or
east or south, I know not!"
He turned abruptly, wishing to close the matter, but the old man laid a
restraining hand on his shoulder.
"I seek no money, Yellow Brian. I seek only a master such as yourself; a
man who is a master among men, and whom I can set higher still if he
will heed my counsels. I am old, you are young; I know all parts of the
land by heart, from the Mayo shore to Youghal, and I am skilled at many
things. Take my service and you will not regret it."
Brian hesitated. After all, he considered, the thing came close to being
uncanny. The Black Woman by Dee water; Owen Ruadh himself, and now this
Ulysseslike Turlough Wolf--whither was fate driving him? Was he really
to meet such persons as the Bird Daughter and Cathbarr of the Ax, or
were they only the figment of a crazed old woman's brain?
So he hesitated, gazing down into those clear gray eyes. And as he
looked it seemed to him that he found strange things in them, strange
urgings that touched the chords of his soul. After all, adventure lay in
the west, and he was young!
"Good!" he said, gravely extending his hand. "To-night we ride to the
west, you and I. Come; let us see O'Reilly about horses."
And this was the beginning of the storm of men that came upon the west.