Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert

When all these matters had been settled between us, we bade Grace O’Malley and Eva farewell.

“Wear this,” said Grace O’Malley, on parting, to Richard Burke, taking a ring from her finger and putting it into his hand, “and wear it for my sake.”

As for myself, I had secretly possessed myself of a silken riband of Eva’s, and twined it about the guard of my sword. That was guerdon enough for me until I should return to claim her.

“Victory!” cried my mistress to me.

“Amen and amen to that!” said Sir Nicholas and we all, in a breath.

Then we went, each one to his place, and the darkness covered us all till morning came.

In the twilight of the dawn we assembled to the sound of trumpets, and then were rapidly carried across the river to its south side, landing about two miles east of Limerick.

The troops of Sir Nicholas were composed of Englishmen and of Irishmen too, though these were chiefly from the Pale; all men who had taken part in many a fight, and gloried in nothing so much as in the red riot of war. Two hundred of them were mounted, and a hundred, or perhaps more, bore arquebuses upon their shoulders. But the major portion of them were armed with long pikes, and nearly all had swords or daggers. The Burkes and the O’Malleys had the Irish sword and the stabbing poniard and the still more terrible battle-axe.

The men on horseback went first; then the MacWilliam and I with our men, followed by the soldiers with arquebuses; last of all, Sir Nicholas and his pike-men.

Such was the order of our march until we were within half a mile of the outposts of Fitzmaurice’s camp. But already his spies had warned him of our approach, and we could hear, even at that distance, the noise of the commotion among his forces as they prepared to receive us.

We now advanced more slowly, throwing out single soldiers here and there among the trees, while the mounted men were halted.

The main body was massed together as closely as the nature of the ground would permit, Sir Nicholas himself directing all our movements with the utmost coolness and unconcern.

As we pressed onward there was a sharp crack of an arquebus, then another and another, until the air was full of the sounds of firing; and then the men who had been sent forward fell back, crying that the Spaniards were drawn up in battle array, and were waiting to fall upon us so soon as we came near. Before we emerged from the forest into the open Sir Nicholas brought up his arquebusiers, bidding Burke and myself to support them. At the same time he ordered his mounted men to the front.

When we burst out from among the trees we were met by a hail of bullets from the pieces of the Spaniards, and a cloud of whirring arrows seemed to form and break over our heads. For a time we were thrown back, but returning, like a wave flinging itself upon the shore, rushed furiously on the enemy, the arquebusiers of Sir Nicholas meanwhile pouring a deadly fire in upon the ranks of Fitzmaurice.

There was the sudden hoarse blare of a trumpet, the strident voice of Sir Nicholas crying on us to charge, and our horsemen threw themselves madly upon the foe, who sullenly gave way before them, but only to form up quickly again. The men opposed to them were neither cowards nor strangers to the art of war; they were rallied speedily by their captains, and soon presented a new front to our attack.

The air was so darkened by smoke, and there was such a tumult from the shoutings of the soldiers and the clang and clamour of their weapons and all the wild work of war, that it was some time before I could make out de Vilela among the Spaniards. But there he was, his long sword gleaming in his hand, his lips moving, and, though I could not hear what he was saying, I could well imagine that he was exhorting his men to remember Spain, and to acquit themselves as became her sons. Then, as the battle raged, now here, now there, he passed out of my sight.

It is a soldier’s duty to do what his general bids him; but I was glad when Sir Nicholas called upon Burke and myself to lead our people against that part of Fitzmaurice’s army which was chiefly made up of the Geraldines, and which was commanded by Sir James himself. Sir Nicholas rightly judged that our animosity would burn more fiercely against them than against the Spaniards, and we sprang upon them with a fury they could not long withstand.

At the first onset they met us bravely, and for awhile there was much fierce and terrible fighting. Above their hosts there rose the Pope’s banner of blue and gold, and around it and Sanders, who held it, and his priests, they made a stubborn resistance. But they were forced back, and ever back.

I strove to come at Fitzmaurice, but could not for the press. We had a score to settle, and settled it was, but not by me, for it was Burke who dealt him the fatal blow. I had just parried the cunning thrust of a sword, as I was trying to reach Fitzmaurice, when I saw the flash of a pistol in Burke’s hand, and then Sir James swayed and fell forward from his horse. When the Geraldines knew what had taken place, they turned and fled, bearing Sanders and his banner along with them, into the thicknesses of the forest.

Having witnessed the defeat and flight of their Irish allies, the Spaniards could not but be aware that they had small chance of retrieving the fortunes of the day, and they now began to retreat. Attacked on the flanks as well as in the front, they were thrown into disorder, and their retreat became a rout, each man striving to save himself. A few, however, stood their ground to the last, and among them was de Vilela.

“Take him alive!” I shouted; but the words came too late.

I was almost beside him, for I had hoped that he would surrender to me if I asked him to do so, and with that purpose had fought my way even through the English to get near him; but before I reached him he had fallen, his armour all stained with blood, and his sword broken in his hand.

With a great, wild cry of grief, the sharpness of which was like the sundering of my spirit from my body, I threw my sword upon the ground, and, kneeling beside him, called to him to speak to me if he were yet alive. His hand feebly pressed mine, while I wept and sobbed like a little child. The lips trembled and opened; the half-shut eyelids faintly quivered; but he could not speak. Again, however, my hand was feebly pressed. And so he passed – still with his hand in mine – this noble gentleman of Spain.

Nor does there go by a day when I do not think of de Vilela, the man to whom I owed so much – so much that I can never repay.

It was the custom in these wars of ours to cut off the heads of the principal men among our fallen enemies; this the body of Sir James Fitzmaurice suffered, the head being sent to Dublin, where it was tarred, and put on a spike above the Castle gate.

But no such indignity befell the body of de Vilela, for, having obtained permission from Sir Nicholas, I took my men, made a solemn mourning for him, and buried him on the field of battle, where the waters of the Mulkern go murmuring past; and there he lies, that true and noble gentleman, in a grave without a name.

And thus ended the battle of Barrington Bridge, as it is called, entailing with it the overthrow and collapse of the rising, for the death of Fitzmaurice – although the war lingered on for long afterwards – was the death of any chance of success it had.

Desmond, who had been hanging about in the vicinity during the battle, but had taken no part in it, later met with an inglorious end, and with him perished his house.

As for Richard Burke and myself, we accompanied Sir Nicholas Malby and his army in various expeditions, until the beginning of the winter, when he set out overland to Galway, and we sailed from Limerick the same day in our ships for that city also. Heaven sent us fair and gentle gales – perhaps, to make up for all the storms through which we had passed – and we came safely into the port of Galway where we lay several days waiting for Sir Nicholas; for, at his particular request, we – Grace O’Malley and the MacWilliam, and Eva and I – were to be married in the church of St. Nicholas of Myra.

And I had heard that when these events came to pass, there were among the spectators many who loved us and wished us well, and many who did not; but to which of these classes Sir Nicholas really belonged I know not, for, in the years that came after, he and Grace O’Malley and her husband, Richard Burke, had many disputes, and the “Queen’s peace” was often broken.

As for myself and Eva, we sailed away from Ireland to my old home in Isla, where I was chosen chief in the room of my uncle, who had succeeded my father, and who was now dead. It was in The Cross of Blood– Grace O’Malley’s last gift to me – that we made our journey, and that I returned to these isles of Scotland.

Many years have passed since, and in our life there has been winter as well as summer; but still there is the same light in Eva’s eyes, and the same love in her voice. It has been our happy lot to grow old together – to grow old in our love for each other, though that love itself is as fresh and new as the flowers of the first mornings of summer.

And so we await the inevitable end.