So that at high noon they rode away to the east, threescore strong, with Brian and Cathbarr and the remaining eight axmen in the van. Brian did not spare either man or horse that day, for there was little food left them; when midnight came they had slipped past Galway and were ready to ride south, though they all went to rest supperless.
With the morning Brian found that two of the men had slipped off and were busy plundering a hill-farm a mile away, where an old woman lived alone. He promptly had them brought before him, and bade them take up their weapons.
“I am no executioner,” he said as he bared his huge sword. “I am a teacher of lessons, and my lessons must be learned.”
When they rode away from that place, leaving the two men buried under cairns, Brian was well assured that there would be no more ravaging by his men, though they died of hunger.
However, it proved that there was no great chance of this, for Brian drove such a storm past Slieve Aughty as had not been heard of in generations. Of all that chanced in those seven days ere he set his face to the north again, not much has survived, for there were greater storms to come afterward, and more talked-of fighting. But certain things were done which had a sequel.
By the fifth day Brian had swept past Gort toward Lough Graney, and turned west by Crusheen, which he passed through with a hundred horsemen at his heels. Two days before he had struck upon fifty Ulstermen who were working north from Munster, and what were left of them after the meeting took service with him. From them he learned that O’Neill was dying or dead, and that the Royalists and Confederacy men were paralyzed through the south.
They had left Crusheen ten miles behind them on the fifth day, when Cathbarr laid his hand on Brian’s knee and pointed to the left, where a hill rose against the sky.
“Look there, boucal—when the birds fly from the ceanabhan, seek for snakes!”
Brian drew rein. Gazing at the long slopes of moor-grass that rose across the hill, he saw a sudden flight of blackbirds from over the crest; they flew toward him, then swerved swiftly and darted to the right. Brian called up two of his men who knew the country, and asked them what lay over the hill.
“The Ennis road to Mal Bay,” they replied, and he sent them ahead to scout.
Before he reached the hill-crest they were back with word that an “army” was on the road, and Brian pushed forward with Cathbarr to see for himself. Slipping from their horses, they gained the hilltop and looked over on the winding road beyond. Neither of them spoke, but Brian’s eyes glinted suddenly, for he beheld a train of four wagons convoyed by some two hundred troopers. He touched Cathbarr and they returned.
“A party of Ormond’s Scottish troopers,” he said quietly when they had rejoined the men. “Cathbarr, take thirty men and work around them. When you strike, I will lead over the hill and flank them.”
The giant nodded, picked his men, and rode away. Brian led his seventy closer to the rise of ground, and as they waited they could hear the creaking of wagons and the snap of whips. It was a Royalist convoy, and since there was no love between the Scots and the Irish of any party, Brian’s men were hungry for the fight.
They got their fill that day.
A rippling shout, a scattering of shots, and Brian spurred forward. The road wound a hundred yards below, and Cathbarr had already fallen on the vanguard. The Scots were riding forward to whelm him when Brian’s men drove down with a wild yell and smote the length of their flank.
Brian hewed his way to the side of Cathbarr, and then the sword and ax flashed side by side. The captain in command of the troopers pistoled Cathbarr’s horse, but the huge ax met his steel cap and Cathbarr was mounted again. Meanwhile, Brian was engaged with a cornet who had great skill at fencing, and his huge Spanish blade touched the young officer lightly until the Scot pulled forth a pistol, and at that Brian smote with the edge.
The muskets and pistols of the troopers worked sad havoc among Brian’s men at first, but there was no chance to reload, and when the officers had gone down the Scots lost heart. They would have trusted to no Gaelic oaths, for men got no quarter in the west, but when Brian shouted at them in English they listened to him right willingly. A score broke away and galloped breakneck for the south again, and perhaps fifty had gone down; the rest gathered about the wagons stared at Brian and Cathbarr in superstitious awe as the two lowered bloody ax and sword and offered terms.
“I offer service to you,” said Brian. “I am Brian Buidh, and if you will ride with me you shall find war. Those who wish may return to Ennis.”
Now, at the most Brian had some seventy-five men left, and those clustered at the wagons were over a hundred and a score, with muskets. But their officers were down, they had received no pay for a year and more, and they were for the most part Macdonalds of the Isles, who loved freebooting better than army work. So out of them all only ten men chose to ride to Ennis again, and Cathbarr shook his head as they departed.
“It seems to me that ill shall come of this,” he said, and wiped his ax clean.
Brian laughed shortly and dismounted. He found that the wagons contained powder, stores, and muskets; so after placing the wounded in them, he rode north to Corrofin that day with close to two hundred men at his back. Staying that night at Corrofin, he hanged ten of the Scots for plundering, rested his horses for two days, and set his face homeward with the surety that his men knew him for master.
The storm of men was gathering fast.
CHAPTER VI
BRIAN TAKES CAPTIVES
“Failte abhaile! Welcome, Yellow Brian!”
“So you won back before me, eh?” Brian swung down from his horse and gripped hands with old Turlough Wolf. “Get the men camped, Cathbarr, then join us.”
Turlough’s cunning eyes rested on the wagons and weary horsemen, and he nodded approvingly as Brian told him of what had chanced.
“Said I not that you were a master of men?” he chuckled quietly, as he turned to follow into Cathbarr’s tower. “But it is easier to master men than women, Brian. I bear you a bitter rede from the Bird Daughter, master.”
“Hard words fare ill on empty stomachs,” quoth Brian. “Keep it till I have eaten.”
When Cathbarr had joined them and they had dined well on Royalist stores and wine, Turlough made report on his mission. It seemed that he had met with a party of the O’Malleys at the head of Kilkieran Bay at the close of his first day’s ride, and after hearing his errand they had taken him in their ship out to Gorumna Isle, where stood the hold of Nuala, the Bird Daughter. And somewhat to his own amazement, Turlough had found that by this same name she was known along the whole coast.
He reported that it was a strong place, for the castle had been built by her father; that she had two large ships and five small ones, and that both ships and castle were defended by all manner of “shot”—meaning cannon. She had just returned from Kinsale, where she had been aiding Blake hold Prince Rupert’s fleet in the bay. Now Rupert had slipped away, and after plundering a French ship with wines, she had come home again.
“She seems a woman of heart,” smiled Brian. “What of her looks?”
“I did not see her.” Turlough shook his head. “She ordered my message written out, so she has some clerkly learning. She took an hour to ponder it, master, then set me ashore with this message.
“‘Tell Yellow Brian,’ she ordered, ‘that I claim tribute from Golam Head to Slyne. I will make no pact with him until he pay me tribute; and if I find him on my land I will set him in chains above my water-gate.’”
Brian felt no little dismay at this, for he had counted strongly on alliance with this Bird Daughter.
However, Turlough proceeded to set forth the reasons for such a message, as he had conceived them within his shrewd mind. First, it seemed that the pestilence had visited Gorumna in the absence of its mistress, and that the Dark Master had caught a score of the O’Malleys who had been wrecked in Bertraghboy Bay, promptly hanging them all. Between the plague and the hanging Nuala had
a bare fourscore men left within the castle, and she counted Brian’s offer as a ruse on the part of O’Donnell, for she was strongly afraid of treachery.
“There is more pride than power in that message,” commented Cathbarr easily. “The Dark Master has stripped away all her lands along the coast, and save for Kilkieran Bay she has little left. Let us fall on her, brother, and take what is left.”
Brian laughed at this naive counsel, looking at Turlough. But the old Wolf said nothing, brooding over the fire, and Brian reflected within himself.
He had come into a merciless feud, that he knew well. If he was to enter upon it he must banish all pity from his heart, which was no easy thing for him; but Turlough related things he had heard which speedily changed his mind. There were tales of O’Donnell’s ridings through the land, of men slaughtered and women carried off to people his castle; of treachery, and worse.
It was also whispered that the Dark Master had made alliance with certain pirates from the north coast.
However, Brian knew that he must reach some decision regarding his own men, and that speedily. The three talked long that night, setting aside the question of the O’Malley alliance for the time being. Brian had some two hundred men to house and horses to feed; he had good store of provision and powder, but Cathbarr’s little tower was utterly useless to house the tenth of them all, while the stores would have to be sheltered. Then O’Donnell might fling his men on them at any moment, which would mean disaster in their present position.
Cathbarr suggested an attack on Bertragh castle, but Turlough dissented.
“When we strike, we must strike to win,” he said shrewdly. “The Dark Master has more men than we, and the sea is at his back, and they say he is a warlock to boot.”
The giant stared and crossed himself at talk of warlocks, but Brian laughed out.
“I have a plan,” he said, fingering his sword. “O’Donnell watches all the hill-paths like a hawk, even now in winter. Those wagons are of no great use to us, and we can store the goods here in the tower for the present. Get it done to-night, Cathbarr, and get the accouterments from two of those largest Scots for yourself and me.”
Turlough Wolf chuckled suddenly, and Brian knew that the old man had pierced to something of his plan. But not all.
“Turlough,” he went on as the scheme came to him more clearly, “at dawn ride out with a hundred men to that hill-road where first we met the Dark Master. Hide the men in the hills, and be ready to ride hard when the time comes. Cathbarr, before the dawn breaks have the wagons start out with twenty of the Scots troopers as escort. Bid as many more as can lie down in the wagons and cover up close with their muskets. Send a man or two with them to guide to that hill-road of which I spoke. We will ride after and catch them up shortly after sunrise.”
“Good!” roared out the giant, whose brains lay all in his ax. “And the Dark Master will swoop down to the feast, eh?”
“He will not,” returned Brian dryly. “He will send two or threescore men upon us, and it is my purpose to take as many of these prisoner as may be.”
Cathbarr stared, and Turlough’s gray eyes squinted up at Brian.
“How is this, master?” he asked inquiringly. “It is too good a trap to waste on prisoners—”
“My plan is my plan,” said Brian briefly. “I am not making war on O’Donnell, but I intend to pay tribute to the Bird Daughter, and that right soon. While we are gone have a score of men remain here and build huts on the cliffs, Cathbarr.”
Turlough fell to staring into the fire, divining the plan at length, and Cathbarr went out to fulfil his orders. Brian knew well that there was danger in the scheme, but he determined to deal with one thing at a time, and thoroughly. Just at present he was intent on forming an alliance with Nuala O’Malley, for ships and cannon were needful before he could nip the Dark Master in his hold. It was going to cost the lives of men, and he made up his mind not to pause for that. If he was to live and make head it must be by the strong hand alone—the Red Hand of Tyr-owen; and he looked down at the ring of Owen Ruadh and took it for a symbol, as his ancestors had taken it.
Before they went to rest Turlough pointed out that if the hills were watched he and his hundred would be noted, so Brian bade him hit back toward Lough Corrib and then to come straight down upon the main road. It might be that he could overcome the Dark Master’s men of himself, and if not, he would hold them until Turlough came up.
With this plan arranged, then, the four wagons set forth under the cold stars, with thirty Scots lying hidden and twenty riding before and behind. With the first gleam of dawn Turlough and his hundred cantered off to the northeast, and an hour later Brian and Cathbarr put on the buff coats and steel jacks of the troopers, with the wide morions; took a pair of loaded pistols, and galloped after the slow-moving wagons. Brian wore his Spanish blade, but Cathbarr had sent his ax ahead with the troopers.
They caught up with the wagons when the latter were entering upon the road proper out of the hill-track they had followed. The first snows had vanished for the most part, leaving bleak, gaunt hills and rugged crags that twisted with soft fog. The sun struck the fog away, however, and as Brian rode on he gazed up at the purple mountains on his right, and down at the purple bog to his left, and caught the gleam of the Bertraghboy water out beyond. He laughed as he drank in the keen air of morning.
“Best get your edge ready, Cathbarr of the Ax!”
Cathbarr grunted, and slung the heavy hammer-ax at his saddlebow. One of the guides, who were from the Dark Master’s twoscore men, pointed to a twisted peak on their right, whence an almost invisible spiral of gray smoke wound up.
“The signal, Yellow Brian,” he grinned, cheerfully giving away his secrets. In fact, all those twoscore men rather hoped that their old master would be crushed by Brian, for so long as there was booty in sight they cared not whom they served.
Half an hour later Brian saw ahead of him that same bend of road where first he and Turlough had met O’Donnell Dubh. But there was no sign of Turlough, and he cantered ahead to see if the O’Donnell men were below. As he did so a bullet sang past his ear, and he whirled to see half a dozen of his men go down beneath a storm of lead from the hillsides; at the same instant some three-score men came scrambling down from among the rocks—those same rocks where he had first laid ambush for the Dark Master.
And riders were coming up on the road below!
He was caught very neatly, and caught by more men than he had looked for. The remainder of the twenty gathered behind him and Cathbarr, and the thirty rose among the wagons and for a moment stopped the assault with their musketry; but before the smoke had cleared away two-score horsemen came thundering up the road from behind the curve, and struck.
“Albanach! Albanach!”
The wild yells shrilled up, and the Scots troopers knew that they were fighting without quarter in sight, for the “Albanach,” as they were termed in Gaelic, gave and got little mercy in Ireland. The saddles of the fallen were filled from the men in the wagons, and leaving the musketeers to hold off the unmounted men, Brian plunged into the swirl of fighting horsemen and joined Cathbarr.
The odds were heavy, but the big claymores of the Scots were heavier still. Side by side, Brian and Cathbarr plunged through the ranks, sword biting and ax smiting, until they stood almost alone among the O’Donnells, for their men had been borne back. Then the giant bellowed and his ax crushed down a man stabbing at Brian’s horse; Brian pistoled one who struck at Cathbarr’s back, and pressing their horses head to tail they faced the circle of men, while behind them roared the battle.
For a moment the O’Donnells held off, recognizing the pair, then one of them spurred forward with a howl of delight.
“Dhar mo lamh, Yellow Brian—your head to our gates!”
Brian thrust unexpectedly, and the man went over his horse’s tail as the ring closed in. So far Cathbarr had forgotten his pistols, but now he used them, and took a bullet-crease across his neck in return; th
en the ax and sword heaved up together, and the ring surged back. A skean went home in Cathbarr’s horse, however, and the giant plunged down, but with that Brian spurred and went at the O’Donnells with the point of his blade. This sort of fighting was new to them, and when Brian had spitted three of them he heard Cathbarr’s ax crunch down once more.
They were still cut off from the wagons, but there came a wild drumming of hoofs, and wilder yells from the men on the hillside. Like a thunder-burst, Turlough and his hundred broke on the battle. The O’Donnells were swallowed up, stamped flat; the unmounted men fled among the rocks, Turlough’s men after them, and a dozen horsemen went streaming down the road.
It was hard to make the maddened Scots take prisoners, but Brian did it, and when Turlough’s men came back he found that they had in all thirty captives. Some forty of the attackers had fallen and the rest had fled.
Since all his captives expected no less than a quick death, Brian ordered ten of them bound on spare horses, of which there were plenty. He himself had lost twenty-three of his Scots, and the remaining score of captives cheerfully took service under him. Then, picking out one of them, he gave the man a horse and told him to ride home.
“Tell your master, O’Donnell Dubh,” he said, “that his men made this attack on me, and therefore there is war between us.”
The man grinned and departed at a gallop, and word passed through the men that the Dark Master had found his match at last. As to this, however, they were fated to change their opinion later.
“Now,” said Brian to old Turlough, as between them they bound up a slash in Cathbarr’s thigh, “do you put the wounded in the wagons and begone home again. Set out sentries against an attack from O’Donnell, and scatter a score of men out along the roads to watch for other parties. You might pick up another score of recruits, Turlough Wolf.”
The H. Bedford-Jones Pulp Fiction Megapack Page 63
