LITMIR.BIZ

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them and of what lay concealed within.

      It had been the habit time out of mind of the O’Malleys to take toll of all shipping in these waters, and to make raids from their galleys upon unfriendly tribes living along the coast. The fishermen who came over from Devon, and who paid tribute according to the number of their smacks, went unmolested; but the merchant trader was ever thought to be a fair prey. Thus, except in winter, when storms tied up O’Malley’s ships in the harbours of Clare or Burrishoole, Owen’s three great galleys were constantly at sea.

      After I had reached manhood it was usual for Owen himself to be in command of one, Grace of the second, and myself of the third. It was one of these expeditions which brought about an event that changed the course of our lives.

      We had sailed southward, and were standing out one night late in spring about three miles from the northern shores of Kerry, on the watch for any trader on its way to the port of Limerick. The coolness of the night still lay on the edge of dawn under the dying stars, when a fog, dense, dark, and choking, encompassed us around, so that our three ships lost sight of each other and soon drifted out of hail.

      Hours passed, and still the fog lay heavy and close. In the afternoon it lightened and lifted and disappeared. There were no signs of our companions. I made my course for a creek at the mouth of the Shannon, where it had been arranged we were to meet in case of any mishap. Towards evening the galley called The Grey Wolf, with Grace O’Malley as its chief, came bowling up alongside.

      Obeying her summons to go over to her ship, I went on board The Grey Wolf, when we exchanged greetings, enquiring of each other if we had seen or heard anything of The Winged Horse, her father’s vessel. Neither of us knew anything of it, and there was nothing to be done but to await its arrival. We were chatting pleasantly, when I saw outlined against the sunset flaming in the west the bulk of a merchantman, which we guessed from her build and rig to be an English ship, probably from Bristol, coming on under press of sail.

      On she came in stately fashion, with her sails bellying out in the fresh breeze, and we could hear her men singing snatches of sailor glees upon her decks. We gazed at her, and then we saw a dreadful and an uncanny thing. Grace O’Malley was the first to speak.

      “Look, look!” she said. “What is that?”

      My eyes were fixed on the ship, but I could not tell what it was that we saw.

      “I know not,” I replied. “Perhaps it is some new device of these English. No; it can hardly be that. What is it, I wonder?”

      We stared and stared at it, but could make nothing of it.

      “It might almost be a phantom ship, Ruari,” she said. “But we see it too plainly and hear the sailors too well for that.”

      Meanwhile, I noticed that the men in our galleys stood about the bulwarks, rubbing their eyes and shading them with their hands, as if they felt that here was some portentous thing.

      This is what we saw as the English vessel drew nearly abreast of us.

      On the white spread of the mainsail two huge, gigantic 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

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