Grace O'Malley. Machray Robert

“Dance, dance, dance!” cried she to me, and she whirled about like a mad thing.

“Have ye no pity on the pipers?” I exclaimed, with a laugh that rang out, it seemed to me, false and hollow, but I was determined to follow her lead as best I might.

“The feet were never made,” said she, as she advanced more slowly towards me and I took up my position opposite to her, and began the steps, “that can out-play a piper.”

The company smiled, grimaced, and murmured with delight at her answer, and the pipers, well pleased also, played as they never had played before. And the wild and furious dance went on to the wild and furious music of the pipes. Meanwhile I was watching my mistress with hungry, eager eyes, waiting for her to give the sign.

“Pipe, pipe!” she cried; and again, “Pipe, pipe!” and the playing of Phelim and Cormac was like the roaring of the storm among the trees of the forest.

So the dance went madly on until all the people about us grew quite still and silent, looking on more breathlessly than we who were dancing to that mad music – looking at such a measure as they never had witnessed before in all their lives, or ever, I dare swear, saw the like of again.

Then came the sign.

Grace O’Malley’s uplifted hand slowly dropped to her side as with sheer weariness; the tall, queenly figure seemed to droop, to sway uncertainly, to totter, to fall upon the floor, but even as she fell I had gathered her up in these great arms of mine, and was carrying her through the press towards the chambers of the women.

Eva O’Malley flew to my side, her face full of fear, as it appeared to be. The pipers’ music suddenly ceased. But no more I saw or heard of what happened next in the room of the revel.

No sooner had the door of the apartments of the women closed upon us three, than Grace O’Malley slipped from my arms and stood up, her faintness – which had been merely assumed – disappearing at once.

“Quick, quick!” she cried, pointing to a door. “There is the stair! That is the way!”

They stopped, however, for a little, to get a couple of heavy cloaks with which they hoped they might be able to conceal themselves somewhat from curious eyes. Short as the time was which this took, it was enough to permit Sabina Lynch to enter the apartment, and she at once perceived not only that my mistress had recovered in a marvellous brief space, but also what our project was.

“Seize her,” said Grace O’Malley, as she and Eva were leaving the room.

I rushed towards the woman, and, clapping my hand to her mouth, prevented her from giving forth the scream she was on the point of uttering. As I was glancing about for something with which I might gag her, and so effectually silence her, my mistress again appeared, and said, her eyes blazing with anger: —

“Bring her with you, if you can; the way is clear.”

“A gag!” I said, and Grace O’Malley made with her own hands one, with which she stuffed Sabina Lynch’s mouth, and next she bound the woman’s arms. Then I took Sabina Lynch up, and in silence we descended the stair which led us into the street some twenty yards from the main entrance into the Mayor’s house.

It was now dark, but not sufficiently so as to hide us completely from observation, and an instant’s thought convinced me that carrying a bound woman, as I was doing, it was impossible to go very far without being seen by someone who would instantly give the alarm. Therefore, still keeping in the shadow of the house, I sent forth into the night the O’Malley battle cry, knowing that our men could not be out of hearing; and the sound had not died away when there arose a great noise and shouting.

“O’Malley! O’Malley! O’Malley!” was heard on all sides.

“To me, to me – here!” I cried.

And, in less time than seemed likely, there were gathered about us nearly all our men, but mixed with them several Burkes, O’Flahertys, and others of the Irish. Recognising their mistress, the O’Malleys set up a joyful sound. Forming some of them in a line across the street, I begged Grace O’Malley and Eva to take with them the rest, and to hasten toward the gate, and this they accordingly did, while two of our people carried Sabina Lynch between them in the same direction.

In the meantime the flight of my mistresses had been discovered. I saw lights flitting about the courtyard, and heard the words of command given in the strident tones of Sir Nicholas, then the tramp, tramp of the feet of the soldiers smote upon the night air.

To have a conflict in the streets of Galway, just at the place where the English were strongest, was not to be thought of, as it was not more foolish than it was unnecessary, so I ordered my men to retreat as swiftly as was practicable towards the gate, and to endeavour to catch up to Grace O’Malley before the gate was reached by them.

But when we came to the gate we found it had already been forced by our chieftainess, who had taken the feeble guard completely unprepared, and so had quietly made an end of them. It was all the work of a few seconds; yet in the struggle, short as it was, Sabina Lynch had effected her escape. Without delay we proceeded to embark in the galleys, and to put out to sea.

While we were engaged in this manner the great bell of the church of St. Nicholas suddenly boomed sharply through the night: soldiers began to appear on the battlements, torches flared from the walls, and bullets and arrows poured upon us as the galleys drew away from the quay. Some of the shots were aimed so well that two of our people, one of whom was Walter Burke, were slain and several others wounded.

Then, as we proceeded on our way into the bay, the sputtering fire ceased.

CHAPTER VII.

THE DIE CAST

That night I reflected with joy that the die was cast, as, after our breaking out of Galway, there could be no peace between Grace O’Malley and Sir Nicholas – at any rate, until the matter was composed in some definite fashion.

I trod the deck with a feeling of extraordinary buoyancy, and sniffed the salt air with delight as the galleys headed for Inishmore, the largest of the three isles of Arran, which have been thrown for a protection by the hand of God, almost in a straight line, across the entrance to the bay of Galway.

All that I cared for in the world was held in these ships, now speeding over the water under the leadership of Tibbot the Pilot.

It was with deep satisfaction that I went over the events of the evening which had brought us with such success out of the town, and I looked forward with wide-eyed eagerness to the morning when I should meet my mistress, and hear her narrative of all that had passed when she and Eva were prisoners in the mansion of the Lynches.

Eva, who had kept up so bravely while the danger was greatest, had become faint and unstrung when the peril was past. Grace O’Malley would suffer no one but herself to tend her, and thus I had had no opportunity for conversing with either of them after we had made good our escape.

When we had arrived at the island, and had let go our anchors in a fair depth of water in a small bay, which was sheltered from the full shock of the Atlantic by a range of abrupt craggy headlands, I went on board The Grey Wolf to see my mistresses, but Grace O’Malley received me alone, her foster-sister not having altogether recovered from the fatigue of the preceding evening. There was a new hardness, even a harshness, both in the face and voice of Grace.

At first, however, she was in no mood for recounting her experiences, and could do nothing but lament the fact that Sabina Lynch had managed to get away when the gate was forced. Indeed, her escape appeared entirely to overshadow in her mind her own escape and that of Eva.

“Had it not been for her plottings and schemings,” said she, “I should have brought the Governor round to my will. I had several interviews with Sir Nicholas, and at the beginning he was inclined to grant my suit, but soon I felt I was being thwarted by one more subtle than Sir Nicholas. How that woman hates me! I did not suspect her at once, for I had given her no cause of offence.”

“Did you find out,” asked I, “why she hates you?”

“’Tis from jealousy,” said she. “Sabina Lynch would be Queen of Connaught, but she thinks that as long as I am free and powerful I am her rival.”

“Is there no other reason?” inquired I, remembering the words of Richard Burke. “Is there not between you two a cause more personal?”

“There may be,” she replied thoughtfully; “for clever as she is, she was not sufficiently so to conceal from me her predilection for the MacWilliam. But what is that to me? Richard Burke is nothing to me.”

“You may be much to him, however,” I answered, whereat she grew more thoughtful still. Being a woman, I said to myself, she could hardly have failed to read the signs of his regard for her. Then I told her of the midnight visit he had paid me, saying nothing, nevertheless, of what Richard Burke had confided to me in regard to his love for herself.

“He is a friend,” said she, after musing for awhile, “and I may have need of many such.”

“Tell me what passed between you and Sir Nicholas.”

She paced the floor of the poop-cabin with quick, uneven steps; then she stopped and spoke.

“After our first meeting,” said she, “he was much less open with me, asking me many questions, but giving no expression of his own views with respect to the ships. Two things, however, he impressed upon me. One was that he considered that I should make immediately a suitable marriage – ”

“A suitable marriage!” I exclaimed.

“The other was that it was common report that my father had left great riches behind him, and that, as he had never paid any tribute to the Queen, I must now make good his deficiencies in that respect.”

“Tribute,” said I blankly.

“He proposed to marry me – for he declared I was in reality a ward of the Crown, and, therefore, at his disposal – to Sir Murrough O’Flaherty, a man old enough to be my father – and our enemy. I would have none of it. I fancy I have to thank Sabina Lynch for suggesting it to Sir Nicholas, and I replied to him, with indignation, that I was a free woman, and would give my hand where I pleased. It was then that I discovered that I was no longer at liberty, for it was told me that I must on no account leave the Lynches’ house without the permission of the Governor, but that no harm would come to me if I consented to his terms. I spoke of the safe conduct which Sir Nicholas had given me, but that was of no avail; and ’reasons of State,’ said he, overruled any safe conduct.”

“This is how they keep faith!” I cried, bitterly.

“It was no time for railing,” continued Grace O’Malley, “as I was in the Governor’s hands, and could see no way of getting out of them. Therefore I made as though I were about to submit myself, and I desired to see the Governor again with respect to the tribute to be paid to the Queen. My request being granted, Sir Nicholas acquainted me with his determination, demanding a thousand cows and two hundred mares, or their equivalent in gold and silver, by way of payment of the arrears, and two hundred cows each year for the future.”

“To all of which you said No!” cried I.

“Nay, Ruari,” replied she, “I had to match my wits against his power over me – was not I his prisoner? – and so I returned him no immediate answer, but, on the contrary, besought that I might have a week to deliberate in, bemoaning my hard fate, and protesting that I should never be able to comply with his demands, yet that I would do what was within my ability to compass.”

“And then?” I said.

“He pondered long and deeply, hesitating and doubtful; so, knowing the covetous nature of the man,” said she, “I took the cross I was wearing from my neck, and, giving it to him, begged that he would grant me the delay I sought.”

“Your jewelled cross?” I said.

“My case was an evil one,” replied she, “and I did it not without pain, for the cross had been my mother’s, and was, besides, of great value.”

“He consented?”

“He became very gracious because of the bribe,” replied she, “and then asked me to be present at the revel. ’Why,’ said he, ’should you not take part in it, if you would care so to do?’ As I was resolved to humour him, I was complaisant, and replied that nothing would be more agreeable to me; but even as I uttered these words, some inkling of the plan for our deliverance which we carried out was forming itself in my mind. My woman afterwards managed to leave the Lynches’ unobserved with the letter I wrote you, and gave it to the captain of the Scottish ship we passed on our way to Galway. My only fear was that he might inform the Governor, and so our plans would have been frustrated; but he has proved himself a true man, and one who may be trusted.”

“There is no confidence to be put in Sir Nicholas,” said I.

“The man is hard, stark, relentless,” said she, hotly, “but he shall find I am as hard, stark, and relentless as he is himself. Vengeance – vengeance, and that speedy, will I take!”

Never had I seen Grace O’Malley so carried away by passion as now. Her eyes were blazing fires; the line made by her lips was like the edge of a sword, so clear and sharp it was; the cheeks lost their colour and roundness, and, as she restlessly moved about, her black hair flew round her head like a coronal of quivering water-snakes.

“Vengeance – vengeance!” she cried.

Her vehemence bore me along as upon a fast-flowing tide.

“Vengeance – vengeance!” I shouted, so that my voice rang out far beyond the galley.

“It is in our own hands,” she said, more composedly. “The wine fleet from Spain is expected in Galway to-day or to-morrow – at any moment we may see their sails on the southern edge of the sea. Then, then,” cried she furiously, her anger rising again like the sudden, fierce blast of the tempest, “shall I teach Galway and Sir Nicholas to fear and dread my name.”

The wine fleet! This was a quarry, indeed!

For each year at this season there set out from Cadiz for Limerick and Galway a goodly fleet of galleons, each of which carried a burden more to be desired than a king’s ransom. These ships were laden with many barrels of the wines both of France and Spain, with rolls of silks, with bales of fine leather, with suits of raiment and shirts of mail, and blades of Toledo, and with other articles of price, the products of Europe, and, even, to some extent, of the mysterious Orient, where Turk and infidel held their sway. These were exchanged against the fish – for which our island was famous – the hides, salt, meat, wheat, and barley of the country.

Grace O’Malley’s vengeance on Galway was to attack, capture, or destroy that portion of the wine fleet, as it was commonly spoken of, the destination of which was that town. The boldness and daring of the project took my breath away; but I could conceive of nothing that was so likely to cause consternation and terror as its successful issue to the great merchants of the city, and to mortify and enrage the Governor.

It was a great enterprise – this attack – and one which, if the event went against us, would probably be the end of us all. But there was one thing that gave us an advantage, which, skilfully used, could not fail to be of such importance as to be almost in itself decisive. This was that the wine fleet had arrived safely at Galway year after year, without falling in with any danger other than that which came from the ordinary risks of the sea. Hence the immunity they had so long enjoyed would breed in them a feeling of complete security, and dispose them to be careless of precautions.

Still I was staggered; and what was passing through my mind being seen in my face, Grace O’Malley inquired, a trifle disdainfully:

“Think ye, Ruari, the venture too much for me?” – and the accent fell on the last word of the sentence. “I tell you, Nay!”

“Nothing – nothing,” exclaimed I, wildly, “is too high for you! As for me, it is yours to command – mine to obey.”

Then we took counsel together, first having summoned Tibbot the Pilot, and the other chiefs and officers who were in the galleys. When Grace O’Malley had made her purpose known there was at first the silence of stupefaction, then there followed the rapid, incoherent, impulsive exclamations of fierce and savage glee.

While we were occupied in this manner, a fishing smack had come into the bay, and on it were the pipers Phelim and Cormac and some others of our men, whom we had been forced to leave behind, but who had made their way out of Galway, being secretly helped therein by the fisher-folk who dwelt in a village by themselves without the gates. These brought word that the city was in a state of great alarm, and that the Governor had declared that he would not rest until he had sent out an expedition to raze Grace O’Malley’s castles to the ground, to destroy her galleys, and to blot out her name from Ireland.

Nothing had been needed to add to our determination, but, if need there had been, here it was. We were now all proclaimed rebels and traitors, so that we could look for nothing but torture and death at the hands of the English. A price would soon be placed upon our heads, and whoever wrought us a mischief or an injury of any kind would be considered as doing the Queen a service.

Such was our situation. To most of our people the Queen of England was no more than an empty name, and even to those of us who appreciated the might and resources of that princess, it appeared better that we should be aware of who were our foes and who were our friends, and if her representative, Sir Nicholas Malby, were our open enemy, as we were now well assured he was, we knew with whom our quarrel lay, and what we might expect from him.

When all was said, the Governor had no overwhelming force at his disposal, and he was without ships, so that we felt no whit downcast with our lot; contrariwise, there was such gladness amongst us at the promise of the fighting with which our circumstances were pregnant that the hearts of any who doubted were uplifted and made firm and steadfast.

As we were discussing our affairs Eva O’Malley entered the cabin. As our eyes met she smiled upon me, and held out her hand in greeting.

“’Twas well done,” said she, referring to our escape from Galway, her thoughts still dwelling on the adventures of the past night. But when she heard of what we had been speaking, and of the proposed attack on the wine fleet, her sweet face became pale and troubled.

“Darkness and blood,” said she, turning to me. “Oh! Ruari, the words of the Wise Man are to be fulfilled.”

“What must be, must be,” said I, “and there is none can gainsay that.”

She shook her head.

“Eva,” said Grace O’Malley, “the end is as it is appointed from the beginning.” Then she began to reason gently with her foster-sister, and to show her that if the English found they had good reason to fear her they would gladly consent before long to make peace, and to concede what she had asked of Sir Nicholas.

But it was easy to see that my dear was sad and heavy of heart. Grace, ever most tender to her, put her arms about her, and made her sit beside her on a couch, and said many loving words, so that Eva was comforted, albeit some of her brightness vanished from that day, never to return. Although she had already shown how brave she was, and was to exhibit a courage far greater than my own or that of any man I ever knew – her courage being that born of the spirit and ours but of the body – she sure was never made for that hard life of ours.

Gentle and sweet was she, yet the strain of the O’Malley blood ran in her veins, and made itself felt whenever the trials of her strength came.

Leaving the two ladies together, each went to his place in the ships. Some of my men, who had been ashore, now returned and informed me that they had learned that it was the annual custom to light a great fire on the headland of Arran, on which stand the ruins of the ancient castle called Dun Aengus, as soon as the vessels of the wine fleet hove into sight.

The smoke of this fire, if it were day, or the flame of it, if it were night, was a signal to the merchants of Galway, who, as soon as they saw it, made preparations for the reception of the ships – this being the chief event each year in the life of the town. To the end that the office of this beacon should be better fulfilled, they had placed a small body of soldiers and others in huts that stood between the crumbling walls of the old fort.

I debated with myself whether it would not be more prudent to have the lighting or the not lighting of the fire in my own power, but, being in no little doubt, put the matter off until later in the day. By the middle of the afternoon, however, there were abundant evidences that the weather, which had for days past been fine, was about to change; and as the sun fell, dark clouds were gathering sullenly in the sky, the wind from the south-west was blowing stormily across the island – though our galleys felt it not at all, being under the lee of the land – and already we could hear the thunder of the waves as they rushed upon the further coast. And all the night through a tempest of terrible violence raged.

When the morning came, the fury of the gale rather increased than diminished, and so that day and the next, when the winds and waves began to subside, we remained at anchor in our harbour, safe from the storm. On the night of the third day the wind died down to a breeze, and the moon struggled fitfully through the scud and drift of the clouds.

Uncertain as to how the storm might shift, the galleys had been kept ready to put out from the shore at any moment, and therefore it fell out that nothing had been done by us with regard to the Galway men at Dun Aengus. In the middle watch, it being very dark save when the moon shone out, to be hidden again as fast as it appeared, we saw a bright tongue of flame shoot up, flashing and shining brightly against the blackness of the sky. Quickly raising our anchors, we made off past the island of Inishmaan, and on by Inisheer until we ran close in by the point of Trawkeera.

I wondered how it was that on such a night the watchman at Dun Aengus had made out the coming of the fleet, but discovered as we went upon our course, that another beacon had been lit far down the southern coast, and as soon as they had seen it they had set a torch to their own. Thus were we also apprised of the coming of the wine fleet, and that by the hands of the people of Galway themselves, as it were. As the day began to dawn, greyly and drearily, a large, unwieldy Spanish galleon entered the South Sound, about half a league outside of Trawkeera. Not more than half her sails were set, and she rolled heavily from side to side in the swell left by the storm. A few sleepy sailors stood in the waist of the ship, and no armed watch was to be seen.

It had been arranged between Grace O’Malley and myself that I was to attack the first vessel that came in sight, and in the still, spectral light, we stole silently out from the shadow of Inisheer, the one great mainsail of The Cross of Blood being set, and the oars shipped until the word was given.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE CAPTURE OF THE CAPITANA

As we crept on towards the unsuspecting merchant ship, I noticed that she presented a battered appearance, as if she had felt the full fury of the storm which we had ridden out so safely, and that she had not come out of it without much damage.

The foremast had been broken off, and now a great spar lashed to the stump had taken its place. About the middle of the vessel the bulwark showed a breach some five feet in length, and a piece of rough sailcloth had been fastened carelessly over it, so that the ragged edges of the broken wood were plainly seen jutting out from under it.

Doubtless the sailors were worn out with the stress of the working of their ship through the tempest, and this also accounted for the slackness of the watch and the ghostly quietness on board.

Otherwise, she was a splendid ship, the like of which was seen at no other time in these seas, save only when the wine fleet came each year to Galway. She was built with high castles both at the stern and at the bows; and she was, perhaps, of two hundred tons’ burthen, according to the measure of the English.

Her name, cut out of solid wood and painted a deep blue, was the Capitana. She flew the flag of Philip of Spain, and along with it at the stern were to be seen the ensigns of some gentlemen adventurers, who were in her, and who probably commanded her fighting men, or who had accompanied the expedition merely for the sake of seeing another part of the world.