shadows of men seemed to appear, to loom large, to grow small, to disappear, and then to reappear again.
A sort of awe fell upon us.
“What can it mean?” I asked.
“Wait,” said she; “we may know soon enough, for I think it is of evil omen for us.”
“’Tis nothing,” said I boldly, although I feared exceedingly; “nothing but a trick played upon us by the sinking sun and its shadows.”
“Nay, ’tis something more than that,” said she.
Suddenly the wind fell off somewhat, and now the canvas of the merchantman slapped against her masts with dull reports like the sounds of an arquebus shot off at a distance.
I saw her name in letters of white and gold —Rosemary, and as the way she had on carried her past us, I understood what was the cause of what we had seen. For as she swayed with the movements of wind and wave, we beheld two bodies strung up from the yard of her foremast, swinging to and fro with her every motion, looking, as they jerked up and down, as if they were still alive, struggling and gasping in their last agony.
I glanced at Grace O’Malley, whose face had grown in an instant white and rigid.
“Do you not see,” said she, after a moment’s silence, “that the poor wretches are Irish from their dress? Thus do these English slay and harry us day by day. Is there never to be an end of this wanton killing of our people?” Then she became thoughtful, and added in a tone of sadness, “My heart misgives me, Ruari; I feel the grip of misfortune and grief.”
“Make no bridge for trouble to pass over,” said I, and spoke many words of comfort and confidence, to all of which she scarcely listened. Respecting her mood, I left her, and went back to my own ship, The Cross of Blood.
That night, while I was on watch, I heard the soft splash of oars, and presently out of the darkness there came the hail of a sailor from the bow of The Winged Horse, as she rounded the point and slipped into the creek where we lay.
Something in the tone of the sailor’s voice, more perhaps in the slow drooping of the oars, at once aroused my attention. Without words I knew that all was not well. Where was the chief? There could but be one reason why there was no sign of Owen O’Malley himself. Either he was grievously wounded or he was dead. Hastily I swung myself into the boat of my galley, and made for The Winged Horse, which was now riding at anchor about a bow shot away.
Tibbot, the best of pilots and steersmen in Ireland, met me as I clambered up on to the deck.
“Whist!” he entreated, as I was beginning to open my mouth in eager questionings.
“What has happened?” I asked in a whisper.
“The chief has been badly hurt,” he replied. “He lies in the poop cabin, bleeding, I fear, to death.”
“What!” I exclaimed; “bleeding to death?”
“Let me tell you – ”
But I interrupted him sharply.
“I must see him at once,” I said, and I made my way to the poop, where, stretched on a couch of skins, lay my friend and master. As I bent over him he opened his eyes, and though the cabin was but dimly lighted, I thought he smiled. I took his hand and knelt beside him. My anguish was so keen that I could not speak.
“Ruari,” said he, and that great full voice of his had been changed into that of a babe; “is it you Ruari?”
“Yes; it is I,” replied I, finding nothing else to say, for words failed me.
“Ruari, I am dying,” said he simply, as one who knew the state in which he was, and feared not. “I have received the message of death, and soon must my name be blotted out from among the living.”
As he was speaking there was a rustling in the waist of the ship, and Grace O’Malley stood beside us.
“Father, father,” she cried, and taking his head and shoulders on her breast, she crooned over him and kissed him, murmuring words of passionate mourning, more like a mother than a daughter.
“Grace,” said he, and his voice was so small that my breathing, by contrast, seemed loud and obtrusive. “I am far spent, and the end of all things is come for me. Listen, then, to my last words.”
And she bent over him till her ear was at his lips.
“In the blinding fog,” continued he, “we drifted as the ocean currents took us, this way and that, carrying us we knew not whither – drifting to our doom. The galley, before we could make shift to change her course, scraped against the sides of an English ship – we just saw her black hull in the mist, and then we were on her.”
The weak voice became weaker still.
“It was too big a ship for us, yet there was but one thing to do. I have ever said that the boldest thing is the safest thing – indeed, the only thing. So I ordered the boarders forward, and bade the rowers take their weapons and follow on.”
The dimming eyes grew luminous and bright.
“It was a gallant fight,” he said, and his accents took on a little of their old firmness, “but she was too strong for us. In the attempt we lost several of our men, and two were taken prisoners. We were beaten off. Just as the vessels drove apart, and the barque was lost in the mist, a stray shot from an arquebus hit me in the thigh – and I know I cannot survive.”
“What was the name of the ship?” asked Grace.
“The Rosemary, of Bristol,” he replied. It was the name of the merchantman we had seen with the two corpses swinging from the yard of her foremast. “You will avenge my death, Grace, but not now. You must return at once to Connaught, and assemble our people. Tell them that my wish, my command at the point of death, is that you should succeed me in the chieftainship.”
There was no sound for a space save only the cry of the curlews on the shore, calling to their mates that another day was dawning.
“Ruari,” said the ghost of a voice, “Ruari, I had hoped that you and Grace – ”
But the cold fingers of death sealed the lips of the speaker.
Grace O’Malley fell forward on the stiffening body; and, thinking it best, I left the living and the dead together. In another hour the three galleys were beating northward up the coast, and on the evening of the second day after Owen O’Malley’s death we anchored in the haven of Clare Island, where the body was buried with all the honours and ancient ceremonies paid by the Irish to their chiefs.
Then came the meeting of the clan to determine who should succeed Owen O’Malley, for, according to a law similar to that which prevails among our Celts of the Islands, the members of each sept who have reached the age of the warrior, have a voice in the election of chiefs. As I was not in reality one of themselves, nor could forget that I was a Scot – a Redshank, as the English called me, albeit I could ruffle it on occasion with the best Englishman that ever stepped – I took no part in the council, nor spoke my mind until the older men had said their say.
It was at once a beautiful sight and a memorable, this great gathering, and the most beautiful and memorable thing of all was that men were content, and more than content, that a woman should, for the first time in their history,
