Enchanting Cold Blood

by Petya Lehmann

  Maelcho, who had left his charges for a moment, imploring them not to stir, and had run down the path, was seen exchanging brief inquiries with a couple of shock-headed figures, followers of Sir James's, who had come up from the beach with Sir John of Desmond's party and had since been yelling rather more vigorously than the rest. He came back a minute later and stood leaning against the doorway, his body stretched across it as if to bar the entrance, hie face working violently. Expressions now of rage, now of satisfaction, now of a mixture of both, flitted across it; the big lips twitched, the prominent eyes seemed to be literally starting from his head. His whole aspect was that of a man driven nearly mad by some sudden and exciting piece of news.

  This time Hugh Gaynard's curiosity was not to be restrained. He was not half as much afraid of the big seanchaí now as he had been a fortnight before. In any case, he must know what was going on. If he died for it, he must know.

  “What is it, Maelcho? What has happened? Who was that?” he inquired, edging towards him and speaking eagerly.

  The seanchaí's eyes turned slowly upon him. “Who?” he repeated, scornfully. “Who, who would it be but Sir John of Desmond, Sir John of Desmond, the greatest man in Ireland, barring the Earl and Sir James himself, who is the very first of all, yes, the very first, and the greatest anywhere in the whole wide world. Oh, but it is not unawares he would have taken them, so he would not, though it is unawares they have always wanted to take him, yes indeed, always, always!”

  “But what is it? What has happened? What has Sir John been doing?” Hugh persisted.

  Again, Maelcho glanced at him slowly for a minute out of the comers of his eyes and then turned away to the sea. His chest was heaving up and down as if he were being suffocated.

  “It is not such a very great thing after all that he has been doing, so it is not, not such a very great thing at all,” he said in a thick, suppressed voice, like a man half choked. “It is only the two great Englishmen that he has been killing, that is what it is; only the two great Englishmen that he has been killing, nothing more than that! Oh, but it is the Queen of England that will be frightened when she hears that they are killed! My God! Yes, sorry and frightened, both one and the other, so she will!”

  “The two great Englishmen? Do you mean the two who were here this afternoon? Have they been killed? Killed by Sir John of Desmond? How did he kill them? Has there been a fight?”

  Again, Maelcho turned his eyes slowly and half suspiciously upon his questioner. “It was in their beds he killed them; in their beds at Tralee that he killed the two of them, both in the one bed,” he said, solemnly. “Oh, it is a great man is Sir John of Desmond — a great man and a very good man — very good! very good! There is no better man in all Ireland than Sir John of Desmond!”

  All this was said in the same dull, muffed undertone, with the same look of repression rather than of exultation. Suddenly, a rush of blood flew to the seanchaí's face, outdying its ordinary brown. The wild eyes flashed, as phosphorescence flashes under the sudden stroke of an oar. Leaping to his feet and stretching himself to his whole gigantic height, he snatched off his green cloak from his shoulders and whirled it like a gonfalon* round and round his head. “Abbu-boo! Abbu-boo! Desmond aboo! aboo! aboo! aboo!” The whole shore rang with the noise; a flock of gulls rising into the air like a shoot of spray, as the clamour reached them. Relapsing suddenly into his former attitude and speaking with the same thick, repressed utterance as before, “But it is not Sir James that would have done it so, not Sir James! No, no, not Sir James!” he added, shaking his head remorsefully.

  (* A banner hanging from a crossbar.)

  Chapter XVI.

  A rock of common-sense was Hugh Gaynard from the first. — with a clear, though by no means an exaggerated, view of his own merits and an equally clear determination to get those merits realised in a world far too stupid to perceive them. Not that Hugh was a boaster. He left that to seanchaís and such-like beings — big talkers and little doers. The innate superiority of his blood was perhaps in nothing more shown than the absolute non-effect which his surroundings had practically had upon him. His long stay amongst the O'Flahertys had not Celtified him even in the faintest degree. If anything, it had un-Celtified him, fostered and hardened the original, anti-Celtic qualities which were his by nature. The sense of being apart from all those people and not belonging to them in any way had grown more and more definite with every hour he stayed. Driven inwards by force of circumstances, it had settled there and become bone of his bone, the one superstition of an otherwise distinctly the reverse of superstitious mind. Hugh Gaynard was ready to thank God in his prayers that he was not born a Celt. Wastes of sea and of unprofitable bog; dripping forests, and such-like barren places, decked here and there with a little haggard beauty, might be the natural heritage of the Celt, but anything of value, anything that meant power, money, or prosperity, anything that tended to a good position and repute in the world at large was meant, he knew, to belong to the clearer-sighted, more efficient race; had been set out by Providence as its heritage.

  Sir James Fitzmaurice was just then rather in need of someone at his elbow in whom the anti-Celtic virtues were a little more developed than was the case with most of those about him. If a long line of Irish mothers had made him three-fourths of a Celt himself, the remaining fourth retained something of the old Norman grip and tenacity. If two and two were not to him necessarily four, at least he had no prejudice against that number.

  As he looked about him at Smerwick, he failed just then to discern a single being, with the doubtful exception of Dr. Allen, in whom the typical and hereditary traits did not so predominate as to extinguish all others. Maelcho, for instance! Maelcho had been his henchman for more years than either of them would have found it easy to reckon in a hurry. Taken into his service as horse-boy, he had trotted untiringly at his rein, through fair weather and foul — chiefly foul — had run for him, fought for him, risked hanging and starving a hundred times a year for him, not merely without question, but without so much as the possibility of there being a question. Come to man's, or rather giant's, estate, his reputation as seer, seanchaí, and the rest had not touched by one thread this fidelity. It was dog-fidelity, not man-fidelity — a fidelity which would have caused him to let himself be cut in pieces, not only without any adequate cause, but probably by preference for a cause that was not in the least adequate.

  Unfortunately, Sir James did not just then want anyone to be cut in pieces for him. He did want someone who could carry a message accurately, someone with a discreet head upon his shoulders, someone who possessed a silent tongue and an observant eye, someone who could do what he was told, and no more than exactly what he was told. In all these respects, Maelcho was impracticable — impracticable to a degree that it needs some little acquaintance with the type fully to believe in or realise. He could have carried a letter tied round his neck as a dog can and would have died no doubt many deaths and have slain any number of foes before that letter would have been taken away from him; but as to understanding its contents, as to fulfilling in any degree the ordinary functions of a messenger or confidential agent, strange indeed would have been the developments that resulted from his ministrations!

  The result of this was that Sir James began about this time to make use of the rather stolid but evidently capable young fellow, who called himself an Englishman, and who had fallen into his camp, apparently out of the skies. From asking Hugh who he was and listening to his story, he took to employing him in various minor capacities. Then finding that he did his errands intelligently, began to make use of him regularly as his messenger, especially where a knowledge of English and Irish were both needed. In this way, not a little to his own satisfaction, the wandering young man came by degrees to be attached directly to the leader's side and henceforward had to take his orders from him and only from him, was numbered amongst his retainers, and in all respects stood in quite a new position from the friendless waif of a few weeks
back. If it was not all that he sighed for. At least, it was a great improvement upon the various queer roles that it had of late been his lot to fill. It gave him a horse to ride and a weapon to wear, and in a hundred ways modified his position immeasurably for the better. There was one drawback to these advantages, and that was that it also committed him much more clearly to the side of the rebels. This was a drawback which he himself was quick enough to perceive and by no means liked. He was able to comfort himself, however by reflecting that he really had no choice in the matter. He had been brought into the rebel camp as a prisoner, and a prisoner to all intents and purposes he still was.

  Hugh's conscience objected in the abstract to his being a rebel. Fortunately, it was not such an unreasonable conscience as to insist upon its owner becoming a martyr, especially a martyr of whom nobody would know anything. If a decent opportunity arose for ceasing to be a rebel and becoming the other thing, why, he would become the other thing, that was clear. Meantime, to decline such alleviations as came in one's way, simply because they carried a certain taint of disloyalty about them, would be the act, he told himself, of a fool. As he was not at all a fool, he quickly struck out a compromise with himself. The rational thing in life, as he had already fully grasped, was to make the best of such circumstances as arose, pending the arrival of others, which it was to be hoped would prove better.

  Chapter XVII.

  Ii was six o'clock upon the morning of the 17th of August, 1579. Sir James Fitzmaurice and Dr. Allen, followed by Hugh Gaynard and some two dozen mounted and unmounted followers, were just setting forth from Smerwick to ride across Ireland. The conditions of the struggle had changed a good deal lately. The murder of the two Englishmen and the circumstances under which that murder had been committed had precipitated matters by a leap. After this all idea of compromise, all suggestions of pity upon either side became not so much impossible as ridiculous. Henry Davells was a man of exceptional qualities, a man liked by both sides and by both creeds. Very kindly, very honest, and without reservations, a great housekeeper — i. e. hospitable — he was not a man the news of whose slaughter could bring a pleasant thrill to the mind of anyone who knew him personally. This much Sir John of the Pikes had certainly achieved by his act. The situation stood out now undisguised and sharply defined. On both sides, it was to be a war of extermination.

  One man alone failed to realise this. The wretched Desmond still vacillated, still continued to believe in the possibility of at once racing with hares and hunting with hounds; still continued to try and sit on two stools and to ride two horses at the same time; still secretly supported his brother's side, while at the same time writing to the authorities to express his horror of their proceedings and especially of this last crowning atrocity. If he was blind, he was the only man on either side that was blind. The very day after Davells' and Carter's murder, three thousand of the Desmond clansmen joined the standard at Smerwick — O'Sullivan Beara and O'Sullivan More, MacDonoughs, O'Keefes, O'Callaghans, MacAuliffes, O'Donoghues. The whole province was buzzing and bristling ominously. All the Celtic, all the anti-progressive, all the anti-Protestant, anti-utilitarian elements in the county rose suddenly to their full strength. The sense that for once the detested self-righteous race might be taught to bite the dust and fall into its proper place was working like a leaven in every Irish breast. That profound, never sufficiently recognised contempt, stronger perhaps really upon the conquered than the conquerors' side, was never stronger than at that moment. As for the death or ruin involved in failure, well, they must come if they must.

  This was something more than a mere local struggle. It possessed that delicious conspicuousness which an Irishman has always needed to warm him thoroughly to any undertaking. All Europe was held to be looking on; every Catholic power known to have its sympathy, if not its practical support, upon the side of the rebels. Let a single genuine victory be announced, and that passive sympathy might any day become an active one. The sea would swarm with ships; the faithful elsewhere would flock to the aid of the faithful here.

  In England, too, apathy had suddenly changed to something like panic. Elizabeth herself was aroused to the seriousness of the emergency, and for the moment, her ministers had their hands free to deal as they chose with Ireland. Fresh troops were being hastily enrolled, extraordinary posts laid, gentlemen adventurers encouraged to offer their services, vessels desired to be in readiness at Bristol, Workington, and elsewhere. A grim desire to punish burned hotly in every loyal breast. Every man upon the loyal side rode as to a servile war, with the sword in his hand, but the whip and the halter never out of reach and always close to his thoughts.

  Between the rival leaders of the rising, the situation, too, had sharpened. Sir James Fitzmaurice was before everything else a soldier, and as a soldier he objected strongly to his cousin's recent performance and made no scruple of expressing his objections openly. In this, he was vehemently opposed by Saunders, that single-hearted partisan not only declaring Davells' murder to be a “sweet sacrifice before God,” but going out of the way to shower the approval of the Church upon its perpetrator. Such a state of affairs could not last. It only needed the proverbial spark. An act of rather extra brutality upon the part of one of Sir John's followers brought matters to a crisis. Sir James insisted that the culprit should receive exemplary punishment. Sir John swore that the rascal, being his rascal, should go scot free whatever he did. The situation could hardly have been clearer. Fitzmaurice was not the man to put up with a half or a quarter authority. He made up his mind to quit not only Smerwick but Kerry; to start afresh, to break new ground and see if less hopeless materials might not be discoverable elsewhere.

  His plan was to ride into Connacht, there to persuade the Burkes, O'Flahertys, and others to lay aside their immemorial quarrels and rally to a common standard. Time was everything. Sir Nicholas Malby, the present Governor of Connacht, was away, and Sir Nicholas Malby's absence counted for a good thousand men at least upon the rebel side. Fitzmaurice's only confidant in the matter was Dr. Allen, who for friendship's sake had insisted upon accompanying him. It was agreed between them that they should give out that they were about to visit Holycross,* there to fulfil a vow made in Spain. From Holycross, or if necessary before reaching Holycross, it was easy to strike across the country into Galway.

  (* Holy Cross Abbey on the River Suir was a a place of pilgrimage with a relic of the true cross.)

  The top of the first bit of rising ground reached, Sir James drew his rein and looked back towards the spot they had just quitted. The little rock on which the fort stood rose clearly against the water, which lapped it round on three sides. Behind it the cliffs rose steeply, catching the light in an opaque wash upon their terraced edges. The sea-gulls wheeled and squalled; the great grey waste of water stretched away westward, vacant, as the very sky above it. The ledge upon which Maelcho's hut stood showed as a thin grey streak, almost lost in the haze which spread evenly up from the sea. Sir James looked hard at this point of the landscape for a moment, then, with a sudden jerk of his head, turned and looked steadily away in the opposite direction. There were unthinkable things to be thought of in connection with that small ledge and its helpless occupants, things which a man with his work to do and a desperately hard day's riding ahead of him had better avoid thinking of as long as possible.

  They rode on, across the camomile- and thrift-covered turf, sitting easily down on their pad saddles, with their heavy brass bits jingling. As a measure of precaution, and also because the ride was to be such an exceptionally hard one, Dr. Allen wore ordinary lay clothes, which indeed suited the fighting Jesuit a good deal better than his own clerical attire. Otherwise no disguise was attempted. Sir James wore the usual Irish riding dress of the day. He was further distinguished by a bright yellow doublet, which has become historic. Behind them came the little clump of Geraldine followers, the horsemen carrying spears or pikes; the running kern* and horse-boys armed only with “slegs” or light throwing javelins.


  (* Irish foot soldier.)

  It was still so early that the opalescent hues of sunrise had not yet faded off the stone-littered landscape, nor the rosy glints from the little lakes which lay here and there amongst the stones. It was a day that breathed somehow of hope and of enticing promises. Sir James especially was conscious of it. As he galloped along, the touch of that friendly earth, the look of those familiar skies, brought a sense of indescribable comfort to his breast. The hunger of the exile, keen in all Irishmen, exceptionally keen in him, was assuaged for the time being. He had suffered acutely from it for years past. Yonder ill-tempered mist-laden Atlantic — so detested of Saunders and the other strangers — was like home and the face of a friend to him. In the direction too in which he was then going, the whole South of Ireland — in its length and in its breadth, in its greenness and in its greyness— rose up bit by bit before him. He knew it intimately; knew it as only a wolf or a fox, a tramp or an outlaw probably ever knows a country in its details. The entire province, with its leagues of dripping forest, its interminable stretches of bog, its lowering clouds, its spots of wild and gleaming beauty, was as familiar to him as the insides of most men's houses are to them.

  After skirting the neighbourhood of Dingle, they had to ride nearly the whole length of the peninsula so as to get past that sea-infested area which surrounds Castlemaine Harbour. This done, they struck rapidly away along the left bank of the Maine in the direction of Castle Island. Not that they meant to sleep there, although, as the chief home and stronghold of the Desmonds in those parts, it would have seemed the most natural place. Fitzmaurice's mistrust of his cousins had of late been too deeply aroused for that, and he preferred to give the castle the widest possible berth and to seek the hospitality of the rocks and the woods in preference.