Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert

This took some time, for, as the breeze was off the shore and against the tide, she sailed very slowly. At length it became apparent that she was to endeavour to go on to Burrishoole or Carrickahooley, and so would have Clare Island well on her left, for, as she passed the Point of Roonah, she was swung around between us and the coast.

I could tell from her movements that her captain was far from being certain where the channel lay among the islands that stud all the eastern side of Clew Bay; and, indeed, it takes a man who knows these parts more than well to steer a ship of middling tonnage safely through the rocks and shoals into the fairway by Illamore. I felt confident that it would be many hours before he could reach his destination, and this put into my mind to attempt to carry out a project which had occurred to me, and which might prevent him from ever reaching it at all.

The project was of a somewhat desperate nature, and if it resulted in failure then in all likelihood there would be an end so far as regards The Cross of Blood and its company; but if success should favour our enterprise, we might compel Sir Nicholas to raise the siege before it was well begun, and so bring the war to a close for the present by his retreat.

As I was weighing the chances both for and against us, there sounded forth from the English ship-of-war a single loud report, and shortly afterwards three shots were fired – a repetition, in fact, of the former signal. This acted on me like the pricking of a spear on a charger.

What I had in view was nothing less than the wreck of the enemy’s vessel.

When I had regained the deck of my galley the anchor was weighed, and we put out into the bay, leaving The Grey Wolf and The Winged Horse in the harbour, with orders to follow us on the next tide.

Summoning Calvagh to my side, I unfolded to him the course I thought of pursuing, and as much would depend on the stoutness and endurance of our rowers, I enjoined on him to exhort them to be steadfast, and not to be thrown into a fury and a frenzy of excitement even when they heard the shots of the Englishman roaring past their ears and we seemed to be going to certain destruction.

They were not to abandon their places at the benches unless The Cross of Blood should be so damaged by the enemy as to appear to be in a sinking condition. Should that disaster be imminent, then, and only then, would it become a case of each man for himself.

I judged it to be needful to give these instructions because, while I could trust everyone of my men where a matter of fighting was concerned, I was not so sure that when it came to our running away – and that was the very soul of my scheme – they would do as I wished with an equal heart. For they were of the temper in which it is easier to fight and die than to flee and live.

As we drew out from Clare Island the English ship was about two miles in front of us, with her bows pointing for the south side of Illamore, between which and the rocky islets opposite it there is a clear span of water, but before she could come abreast of Illamore there was a distance of a couple of leagues of open sea.

She went along lumberingly, and the galley, bounding forward like a racer under the swift, measured swing of the oars, had the speed of her, and began to come up with her rapidly. When we were within a mile of her, and Illamore perchance a league away, I shifted my course and bore off to the north.

The galley had no doubt been seen by the Englishmen as soon as we had emerged from Clare Island; and now, when they perceived that we were heading away from them and going north, they fetched about and came round after us.

Would their captain give chase, or would he content himself with noting whither we went and following us for a time and then turning about again? I had felt certain from the beginning that he had no pilot on board, for where were there any people who knew Clew Bay but ourselves? And sure was I that no O’Malley would ever guide a hostile ship through these waters.

What I feared was that the Englishman might pursue us for two or three miles, and then, seeing how thick the islands were in that part of the bay and how narrow the channels between them, might be deterred from proceeding further in our direction, and therefore stand off again for the other side of Illamore, as had been his purpose at first.

As I was determined to draw him on at all hazards, I made a sign to Calvagh, at whose word our oarsmen ceased pulling their great sweeping strokes, and made no more than a pretence of rowing, so as only to keep steering-way on The Cross of Blood, and to deceive the Englishman into imagining that he was catching her up, as indeed he was, though not as he understood the matter.

On he came, as I had hoped, the gap between us growing less, until a ball fired from his bows fell so near as to warn me that we were within range of his guns.

The English vessel was a heavily armed ship, her sides bristling with large pieces of ordnance, and it would have required not more than a few of her shots, had they struck the galley, to send her to the bottom. And as there were but two falconets on The Cross of Blood, her other cannon having been removed from her to the walls of the castle, we were not able to reply to the enemy’s fire with any effect. But it was not my intention to use these falconets, except to lure him into that trap I was setting for him.

Therefore I shouted to Calvagh, and the galley plunged forward again under the strong, full beat of the racing oars as he ran up and down between the rowers commanding them to pull for their lives. We could hear the cheering and the laughter on board the Englishman as he watched what he took to be our frantic efforts to escape.

And, in truth, we had put on this burst of speed none too soon, for the shots now sent after us fell so little short of our stern that I was afraid we were lost. But the peril passed, and we quickly drew away.

And thus for two miles or more the pursuit of us went on, the Englishman coming up with us and discharging his pieces at us as we slacked off rowing, and then falling behind us as the oarsman drove the galley on again. I repeated this manœuvre several times, and once only had a ball struck The Cross of Blood, but, as fortune would have it, without inflicting any serious injury upon us.

Now that the supreme moment was almost at hand I became conscious of a singular tumult, a very fever in my veins, and that at a time when I desired above all things to be calm and self-possessed.

I was standing by the helmsman as he steered, and, as I turned to give him the direction, I could see in the pallor that showed beneath the brown of his skin, in the fixedly gleaming eyes, in the shut lips that had no colour about them, in the whole tense attitude of the man, the visible expression of my own feelings.

For there before us lay the islands; all shapes and sizes were they, some grim and bare, others green and fair to see; island upon island, one crowding upon the other, as it were, like a wide range of low hills.

Immediately in front of us a grey, craggy rock reared its head; on one side of it was a small, round islet, a shining girdle of spray half hiding it, on the other, separated from it by a narrow passage, a great rampart of black cliffs, on whose heights the eagles loved to build, towered aloft into the sky, the waves rolling themselves in empty thunders at its feet.

Beyond this passage was seen a spacious land-locked bay as it appeared to be, so closed in did it seem on all sides by islands. And through this passage did I give command to go.

There was a mute protest in the look the helmsman gave me, for this passage is none other than that called the Gate of Fears, and no mariner ever makes use of it save from direst necessity and with many crossings of himself and murmured vows. But the galley made a half-turn obedient to the helmsman’s hand, and so was headed for the dreaded Gate.

The Englishman was at our heels, bent upon our capture or destruction, but when he saw us approach this passage he hesitated, and was like to draw back. Whereupon I ordered Calvagh to bid the oarsmen stop rowing, and bringing the falconets into position trained them on the enemy, myself putting the blazing torch to the touch-hole.

At the same time our sailors sent up a loud taunting, derisive cry, which was answered back full-throated by the English ship. Provoked beyond endurance at us, and thinking, it might be, that where a large galley like The Cross of Blood might go she might venture also, she again came on at us, firing as she came.

I had to endure an agony of suspense, for there was still time for two things to happen, either of which would be fatal to my purpose.

Until the English commander had fairly entered the Gate of Fears, and so would be forced to go on, he might hold off after all. That was the first. And to tempt him on I had to keep the galley so close to the range of his ordnance that it was very probable that he might hit and sink her. That was the second.

He had, however, made up his mind that we were within his grasp, and had determined to have us. As he came slowly nearer, our oarsmen sent the galley on through the passage, and on he moved after us.

There was now a lull in his cannonading, and a strange silence fell upon us all. In that silence I waited anxiously, a prey to mingled doubts and fears, expecting to hear a slight grating, scraping sound, and to see the galley shiver and quake as she passed over the knife-edges of rocks that lie a few feet below the surface of the sea at the further end of the Gate. The tide was high, as I had reckoned, else I never would have attempted it.

Then there was a sudden tempest of smoke and flame from the Englishman, in the midst of which The Cross of Blood swayed and reeled as if she had been struck. I sickened with apprehension, but the swaying and the reeling quickly ceased. We were safely over the jagged barrier of rock; we had passed through the Gate, and were in the deep water beyond.

Below me I could see Calvagh’s white, set face as he looked up; then, as he realised that we were out of the dangers of the passage, a war chant broke from his fierce lips, the oarsmen rowing mightily, and keeping time to that savage, deep-chested music of his.

And on behind us came the unwitting Englishman.

In a few minutes more, looking towards her, I saw her bows tilt up and then plunge high into the air. She was lifted up and dashed down again and again on the rocks, so that her back broke, and she was torn to pieces before my eyes, while some of her sailors cast themselves into the water, with outcries and bewailings very piteous to hear, and others got into the ship’s boats and put out to sea, where I know not what fate overtook them.

My men clamoured that they should be pursued, but this I would not suffer, for my end was attained, as Sir Nicholas now would have no ordnance for the battering down of the walls of Carrickahooley, and must therefore raise the siege.

CHAPTER XV.

THE SIEGE IS RAISED

Perchance it was that my spirits had been affected by the sinking of this fine ship, even though I myself had been the cause of the same – the loss of a vessel, I cannot help saying, being a thing more to be deplored than the deaths of many human beings; or it may have been that my mind, now the necessity for prompt and decisive action had passed, became, as it were, relaxed and unstrung; but, as The Cross of Blood threaded her way through the maze of the islands towards Carrickahooley, I could think of nothing save of how I stood in the debt of de Vilela.

In vain I strove to comfort myself by recalling the successes and the victories that had been achieved by and in the name of my mistress, Grace O’Malley, and by telling myself that she had won for herself and us an imperishable renown. Not thus could I silence the voice of my heart, which cried out that all these were but as barrenness and as nothingness so long as Eva O’Malley was not for me. For there was the pain, there the grief and the sadness.

Against myself did I consider myself called upon to fight. I was as deep in the Spaniard’s debt as a man could be, and yet I could not bring myself to resign all hopes of my dear, even to de Vilela, without the bitterest struggles.

Which of us twain possessed the maid’s love? Was it de Vilela, or was it I? Did she love either of us? – that was the all-important question. For myself, my love had grown with my growth, was, I felt, growing still, and would keep on growing as long as I lived.

De Vilela, however, was a stranger, blown in upon us, as it were, by the chance winds of heaven. My claim was perhaps the better claim, but a maid’s heart acknowledges no real claim but the claim of her love, and if her heart’s love was de Vilela’s, then was my claim void and empty indeed.

Therefore, let the maid decide. My thoughts had worked round to this point, when I remembered once more what Grace O’Malley had said about the Don and Eva. What if Eva loved me after all? Again, Let the maid decide, said I.

Yet, somehow, this did not altogether satisfy me. Then it occurred to me that I might pay a part of my debt to de Vilela in the following way.

He could scarcely tarry much longer with us at the castle, as he must soon depart to endeavour to carry out the objects of the secret mission with which he had been entrusted by his master, the King of Spain. The way for him would be clear and open, for I had no doubt that Sir Nicholas would not now be able to continue the siege, and that we would be left in peace and quiet till the spring of the next year, when the war would most probably be renewed against us with larger forces, and with greater determination, both by land and sea. But all that lay in the womb of the future.

As for Don Francisco, I thought it likely that he would try to make the most of the time that remained to him before setting out for the Earl of Desmond’s, that he would ask for Eva’s hand from Grace O’Malley, and that thus the matter would be determined. What I set myself to do was, so long as he remained at Carrickahooley, to keep out of Eva’s presence, and in a manner, as it were, to leave the field to de Vilela.

If the maid loved him, I was out of court; if she loved me, she would tell her foster-sister that she could not accept the offer of the Spaniard; if she cared for neither of us, or wavered between us, then I was resolved to forego whatever advantage I possessed over de Vilela until he had received his answer and had taken his departure.

If she accepted his suit, they would be married, I supposed drearily, before he left, and then they would set out together, and that which was unutterably and unalterably rare, dear, and precious would be gone out of my life. If Eva willed otherwise – it all rested with her. But, in any case, de Vilela was to have his chance free from any mean or unmannerly interference from me.

Little did I guess how severely the strength of my resolution was to be tested, but I thank God, now that all is done, that it bore the strain.

It was not much past the middle of the day when The Cross of Blood drew up at Carrickahooley, but long before we had reached the castle we could hear the sounds of battle rolling towards us from off the land, and could see the tiny clouds of smoke made by the arquebuses as they were fired off.

Disembarking with all haste, and bringing with me most of my crew, I was instantly admitted within the water-gate. There I was told that Grace O’Malley, with de Vilela, her gentlemen, and most of her people, was making a sally on the English.

Rushing to the parapets, I could see that the centre of the fighting was between the castle and the Abbey of Burrishoole, and that it was of a very terrible and bloody character, the Englishmen displaying that dogged courage for which they are famed, while the Irish, inspired by their mistress, performed wonderful feats of valour, and were thrusting their enemies slowly back to their principal position, where, however, their further retreat was speedily checked on their being strengthened by fresh supports.

Now the purpose of Grace O’Malley in this outfall could not have extended beyond inflicting upon the Governor considerable loss, as she knew his force was far superior to her own in numbers; and I was therefore not surprised to witness the Irish at this juncture beginning to retreat, the English attacking them fiercely in front and on their flanks.

It was at this instant that Sir Nicholas, who was himself directing the operations of his troops, conceived that he might cut our people off altogether from the castle by sending forward some soldiers he had held as a reserve, and placing them between the Irish and the castle.

I could see all this quite plainly from the walls, and, fearing lest he might succeed, I summoned my men, and, issuing from the castle gate, marched to meet this new body of the enemy, in order, if so be I was in time, to defeat the attempt, which, if well carried out, could not but be attended with the greatest possible danger, and perhaps disaster, to my mistress.

Being delayed by the roughness of the ground from coming up as quickly as I could have wished, and as they had the start of us, the English had effected their purpose, and the Irish were surrounded.

But, as we ran forward, some of the enemy faced about to meet us, and so, being taken, as it were, between two fires – Grace O’Malley with her men on the one side, and I with mine on the other – they were speedily thrown into the utmost confusion, of which we did not fail to make a good account. Still the contest was by no means entirely in our favour, for the resistance of the Governor’s soldiers was protracted and bitter, each man contending for his own hand with all the strength and cunning he was possessed of.

At length the main body of the Irish under Grace O’Malley fought their way through the enemy and joined themselves to us, my mistress being both surprised and rejoiced to find that we had returned, and had been able to come to her assistance. Beside her, their swords gleaming redly in their hands, were Brian Ogue, and Art, and Henry O’Malley, and the other gentlemen of her household; and leaning upon the arm of one of them, and supported and protected by two men, I beheld de Vilela, desperately wounded!

His face was pale, drawn, deep-lined, and spotted with blood, the eyes being closed, and the lips shut tight; the figure within his armour was bent with weariness, and weakness, and wounds; the fingers of the right hand still grasped the handle of his sword, but they shook and trembled as with palsy. Truly, he looked like one whose doom is sealed, and my heart went out to him with a great compassion.

Calling to four of my men, who were armed with spears, I caused them to make a rough litter with their weapons, and upon this rude but soldierly contrivance we laid the Spaniard, and so bore him to the castle, while behind us the fight still continued, but with less and less fierceness.

Not a sound came from Don Francisco, although the jolting must have given him the most intense pain, save once when my mistress took his hand and spoke to him, when he made reply in Spanish that “all was well” with him. And I thought the words were not unworthy, but well became the brave soul of the man.

“I will go in with him,” said Grace O’Malley to me, when we had arrived at the gate; “Ruari, do you gather our people together, and lead them within the walls.”

And I did her bidding, so that in a short time I had them collected in a compact body, and under cover of the ordnance, belching forth from the battlements, retreated within the gate, bearing most of our wounded with us. There I found Grace O’Malley waiting to hear the news I had brought.

“De Vilela?” I first inquired.

“He is still alive,” said she, “but I fear the hour of his passing is already upon him.”

“’Fore God,” cried I, with a sob in my throat, “I trust not.”

“Eva tends him,” said she – and in a flash I remembered everything.

“He is in good keeping,” said I.

“He is in the hands of God,” said she, in a voice and manner so touched with unwonted solemnity and deep feeling that I gazed at her in amazement.

Then a wild thought came to me: could she, did she, our princess, care for this man? But no sooner had the thought arisen in my mind than I dismissed it. “What have I to do with love?” she had said on a former occasion, and she had meant it.

Her next words, however, appeared to give point to my suspicion, but when I considered them more carefully, I saw I was wrong. For what she had said was, “There are few men like Don Francisco,” but the tone in which they were spoken was not that, it seemed to me, of a woman who loves; rather was it that of one who deplores the expected loss of a dear friend. Yet sometimes, in the silent watches of the night, have I wondered – and I wonder still.

“We have heard the roar of great guns from time to time this morning,” said she, changing the subject abruptly, “and, knowing that you had no ordnance to speak of, I feared for your safety. Tell me what has happened.”

Whereupon I related all that had taken place, and how that the English war-vessel had been dashed to pieces on the rocks at the hither end of the Gate of Fears.

Much I spoke in praise of Calvagh and the rowers of The Cross of Blood, and said that it was fitting they should be given a rich reward, for, notwithstanding the terrors inspired in all seafaring men by the place, and in spite of the ordnance of the Englishman making the passage like the mouth of hell, they had stood fast every one.

“And what of yourself?” cried she, between smiles and tears. “What of yourself, my Ruari?”

And she took from the mantle upon her shoulder a brooch of gold, with mystic signs, of which I knew not the meaning, engraved upon it, and in the midst of it a sapphire, with the deep blue in it of the unfathomed abysses of the sea. This she handed to me, one of her arms about my neck, and I was uplifted with pride, albeit there was some shame mixed with it too. But the gift I compelled myself to decline.

“I may not take it,” cried I; for the brooch was one of the tokens of her chieftainship to her people, and firmly resolved was I that there, in the land of her fathers, no man should ever have the slightest cause to think there was any other chief save her, and her alone. But if I took the brooch – ”No,” said I; “I may not take it.”

Then, seeing I was determined, she sighed, said no more, but kissed me on the cheek – a thing she had not done since I was a little child, playing with her, a child too, on the sands of the shores of Clew Bay.

Thereafter together we went into the chamber of the main tower where de Vilela had been laid. There by his couch was my dear, a presence soft, tender, and full of sweet womanly pity and of the delicate ministries that spring from it. There upon the couch lay the wreck of a man; so calm, so pale, so worn, that he looked like one dead.

“He still breathes,” said Eva, in a whisper.

Perhaps it was the result of the conversation I had just had with Grace O’Malley, or it may have been the subtle influence of that scene, with that quiet figure stretched upon the couch for its centre, but there was no bitterness in my breast when I saw Eva there. Who, indeed, could have felt any other emotion at such a time but that of sorrow?

For two days de Vilela hung between life and death. More than once did it seem that his spirit had left his shattered body, and yet it did not. On the third day the Spaniard rallied; Teige O’Toole, our physician, declared that there was hope; and from that instant Don Francisco began slowly to recover.

All within the castle rejoiced, and I as much as any; but when I saw how constantly Eva was with him, and how the sick man was restless and uneasy in her brief absences from his side, and how she watched over and soothed and tended him, her mere presence being a better restorative than all the healing simples of Teige O’Toole, is it to be marvelled at that I found the determination I had come to of leaving the field open to him, and of withdrawing from it, become more and more difficult to maintain?

Neither did Sir Nicholas nor his army help greatly to distract my thoughts. For there, outside our walls, at a safe distance from our cannon, did the Governor lie day after day for a long week, waiting, doubtless, for the warship that never came.