Devil's Island, page 11
“There’s no time for that,” said Calum as he stood in the doorway. “You have a long march ahead of you, and no matter how clean you get this morning, the bogs of Connacht will put the bugs and dirt straight back on you.”
Francisco cursed and began to think the church was wrong all along and the realm of the devil was cold, for this would be the perfect place to torture him and men like him from the sunny climes.
“Have you heard anything from my friend Pedro? How many of my comrades made it back from the beach?”
Calum scowled like a beast dragged from its hibernation.
“Don’t ask me things I don’t know at this hour of the morning. I feel the same chill, have the same parched mouth and the same aching belly as you. The only person who can give you such answers is the acting O’Rourke, but even you do not want to meet him for fear of the price he will ask for his answers. All you can do is pray his father returns before he drags you off on some other folly.”
“He should consider me his conduit to the king of Spain and treat me accordingly,” said Francisco.
“All your status sank out in Sligo Bay, and you have little left to barter with than your life and your unsuitable military experience. Let’s see if you can impress the little lord with your sword.”
Calum threw Francisco a sword, and Francisco did little to shelter his feelings.
“Come on,” said Calum. “There is plenty more disappointment where that came from. But now you need to catch up with your new master.”
Chapter 18
The expedition begins
Francisco and Calum arrived back in the courtyard of Baile Nua Castle to meet the rest of Eoghan’s assembled expedition to Connacht. The group was a mix of eager youths with fresh faces, few scars, full heads of hair, and seasoned veterans who carried their age and experience like a heavy weight on their shoulders and only sparse hair on their heads. Some wore smiles, excited for the adventure ahead, while others trudged along with weariness in their steps, perhaps feeling like they were being forced into this journey by the foolishness of those who smiled.
Eoghan sparred in the yard with some of the other youths, and he wore the biggest smile of all. When he spotted Francisco among the crowd, he rained down blows upon his partner until they finally admitted defeat. Eoghan beamed, hoping Francisco was impressed with his abilities. As he walked towards Francisco, sweat glistening on his brow and chest from the exertion, he felt a sense of accomplishment and pride swell within him after his victory.
“Greetings, my Spanish friend. Today, we set out to begin liberating this island for the glory of God, the O’Rourkes, and all that serve either or, preferably, both.”
Francisco frowned in the face of such foolishness.
“The devil can take this island, for you lead us into folly before your father returns. However, I will come with you, if only to guide you so your father may set eyes on his son again.”
Eoghan turned to see the reaction of anyone who was listening. But all nearby turned their heads.
“Don’t be so pessimistic, old man, or I may leave you behind. Since you would be a burden by being a useless mouth to feed and be worth a pretty penny or two from the English sheriff, I fear you would not be a burden for long.”
Francisco grunted for he knew this was all the sense he would get from the young man.
“I agreed to go, so let us leave and stop toying with me. We have many enemies, so let us concentrate on them.”
Eoghan smiled as he brushed past him.
They were soon out in the woods and bogs of Connacht, and to Francisco, they all looked the same cold hell. It was worse now he could associate it with the bad memories of escaping from the destruction of the Armada, being captured and the massacre at the beach. Thoughts of his wife, family, and return to Spain faded into no more than a distant dream.
He had some reluctant companions among the Spanish soldiers and sailors who were so cocky when they volunteered him in the hall of the castle to help the O’Rourke while they made their escape. But the massacre on the beach meshed with the damp bog underfoot, and all hope drained from them as they marched forward, dull-eyed and slovenly.
They seemingly marched for days, by light sticking to woods, forest and bogs lest the governor discover them before they had the chance to unite with their fellow rebels. They pressed on by night for the first couple of nights for the enthusiasm of the young rebels of Connacht who found their way to Baile Nua had convinced Eoghan that the whole province was up in arms, and they would have to travel barely a night and a day to find themselves in a cauldron of rebellion. However, several nights and days passed, and Eoghan and his ill-disciplined rabble feared every horseman on the horizon lest they be a scout of the English army. They were soon alone and friendless in the middle of Connacht with only the eyes of wolves and bandits for company. Eoghan left his men in hiding while he climbed a hill in a poorly disguised pretence that he knew where he was going. Francisco, by now, had grown tired of his charge’s follies and wished to return to the relative safety of the castle. The only way to do that was by persuasion, and he needed to get his young master alone so he could decide without losing face. He climbed the hill after Eoghan. He found the Irishman straining his eyes to see beyond the horizon.
“There is no shame in admitting the young rebels lied,” Francisco said as he stood beside him. "If you get the men home safely, they will forgive you.”
Eoghan did not look at him and sought to strain his eyes further on the horizon.
“I will not better my father’s negotiating position by sitting in a castle like a coward. The only way we’ll be free is by fighting.”
“The only way you will help your father’s negotiating position is by not causing needless trouble. Order your men home, and we’ll not speak of this again.”
But his wise words could not penetrate Eoghan’s ears. He was searching for hope.
“Look. There. Smoke on the horizon. I knew there was rebellion. If there is to be no fighting, then what use are you? I may as well take the reward from the English rather than shelter and feed you. Now rally your men, for we march towards the smoke.”
Francisco looked to see if he could draw any conclusions from the tiny plumes of smoke and tried to think of something persuasive to end this folly, but by the time he turned to address his master, he was gone. He sighed for he knew he was in for a march into the unknown.
Chapter 19
Follies and failures
The light began to fade along with Francisco’s hopes. He went back and rallied his men from behind bushes and trees in the wood and set them on the road to follow their master. He cursed, for Eoghan had taken a horse and ridden far ahead towards the smoke, abandoning his men to trail in his wake as best they could. The fires in the distance were more abundant now, and there was no sign of his youthful master. Night fell, and he gathered the men together and camped for the night in a clearing in the woods. He allowed his men the luxury of lighting fires, for the night sky was already filled with smoke, and a little more would make no difference. Besides, the heat would ward off the devil of the cold and warm the spirits of the already disheartened men. Brendan MacDonnell, the constable of the MacDonnell Galloglass, flopped beside him, the clinking of his chain mail stealing any element of surprise. He slapped Francisco on the thigh.
“What follies have you brought us out here to fulfil, oh peace-loving captain?”
Brendan grinned like a man who would stab Francisco in the back at the first opportunity. He was a veteran of many a fight for his O’Rourke masters and had the scars on his face to prove it. But Francisco had to keep on his good side, for he had few friends among the Irish.
“I would gladly relinquish command to you if it were in my power,” Francisco said as he stared into the fire. “But I am forced to follow this foolish boy. I can only spend my night in prayer and contemplation for all the good that will do me. If I cannot persuade the boy, hopefully the Lord, if he is still listening, will work through me or someone else and make him see sense.”
“That’s why we call you peace lover,” Brendan said as he broke into a grin and shrugged. “Why spend the evening before battle sharpening your blades when you can say a few prayers instead? I don’t understand why your king would put you in charge of a mighty fighting ship when all you want to do is stay in your cabin and pray?”
Francisco did not share his companion’s sense of humour.
“The devil and his pangs of cold on my feet give me enough trouble tonight. State your business or leave me in peace until first light.”
Brendan leaned in to whisper.
“The men are unhappy with this folly. They have no wish to leave their wives and children undefended and to put their lives at risk for no gain. Order them to return home if there is no sign of the young master by midday tomorrow.”
Francisco held the constable in a fixed gaze.
“You are supposed to be your master’s finest men, his protectors. Why would you look to abandon him and enter into subterfuge in doing so?”
Brendan grinned.
“We also think like you do, peace lover. Whatever we do out here will undermine our true master as he negotiates in the viper's den of Dublin. If you can save me and my men without us losing face, you will have gained an ally in the O’Rourke court for you and your comrades. Take it from me. You need them.”
Brendan grinned once more, lifted himself up and wandered back to join his men by their campfires.
Francisco was left to ponder how the snare tightened around him.
As the first rays of sunlight peeked over the horizon, the camp stirred from its slumber, its occupants already on high alert. Brendan made his way through the maze of tents. The soft grass beneath his feet muffled his footsteps. He found Francisco’s tent and watched as Francisco splashed water onto his face from a nearby bucket, the droplets sparkling in the early morning light.
“Remember what I said last night,” said Brendan. “You need friends.”
Francisco glanced at him. Brendan’s face was streaked with dirt and sweat. As Francisco continued washing the grime from his skin, he barked orders to his men. He wanted to find his young master as quickly as possible and get their group moving again. The camp was in a frenzy as they packed up their tents and belongings, eager to continue their journey. With everything loaded onto their horses, they settled down and waited anxiously for the scouts to return with news of their missing leader.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting a yellow glow over the landscape. Francisco took a moment to shield his eyes from the brightness and estimate the time of day. His breath appeared as a thin mist in the chilly air. Brendan stood behind him, shrouded in shadows, but made his presence known with a gentle cough.
“It is almost time to give the order,” he said as his finger pointed to the sun’s position in the sky.
“I will make sure to tell our young master how eager you were to abandon him,” Francisco said.
Brendan slapped him on the back.
“Now, that’s not what friends do for each other, is it? Especially those who are stuck in a foreign land.”
Francisco sighed and reached for his water bottle to wet his throat before he shouted his orders at the men. They could take their chances when they returned to Breifne because, for all they knew, their young master was already dead. He drank to drown any guilt he felt, for he was still a soldier plotting to abandon one of his men. He raised his hand to point towards Breifne, but a voice interrupted him before he could extend his finger.
“Captain, the young O’Rourke returns.”
A man pointed to the edge of a nearby wood, and Eoghan rode out from it alone. Francisco’s heart leapt at the reprieve while his honour and his shoulders slumped as his life was needlessly in danger once more. Eoghan pulled up his horse in the middle of the camp and leapt off. His face lit up.
“The army of the O’Flahertys and the Burkes lies just beyond that yonder hill. They have called all the men out from their subservient clans, and they plan a march on Galway.”
Eoghan shook as he could barely contain his excitement in his young body.
“What would you have us do?” said Francisco, trying to hide his disappointment. “We barely have the clothes on our backs and the butt of stale bread in our pockets. Surely, it is not enough to sustain us on a long campaign in such a landscape. Are your friends going to feed us?”
But he could not bring enough sobriety to his master to make him think straight.
“We shall live off the land as heroes of old.” Eoghan raised his sword above his head. “Are you with me, men? Let us burn the English out of Connacht and return to our homes as the champions of our people.”
The men cheered, and Brendan spat as he glared at Francisco. Both men knew they could not get away.
The ground squelched beneath their feet with every step as they marched through dense forests, swiftly followed by soggy bogs. The scent of damp earth and decaying leaves hung heavy in the air, which caught in Francisco’s lungs, making him cough almost constantly. But still, he trudged on, consumed by melancholy and guilt but determined to do his duty.
Eoghan led the way like an excited child, constantly pointing out towards a distant mountain that he claimed was the land of the O’Flahertys—a place where the English would not dare to tread. Brendan caught up with Francisco, who walked with his head down in deep contemplation. His mind raced with thoughts of how he could possibly escape his predicament and whether he could even remember the way back home. Brendan bowed his head to mimic Francisco so that he caught his attention.
“Hello, peace lover,” Brendan said. “You had your opportunity for one brief moment to save us. Now, here we are.” He swung his arm around him to emphasise the hidden dangers lurking in such a beautiful landscape.
Francisco shook his head and laughed.
“You walked all this way just to needle me? Is that for your own entertainment, oh he of the scarred face that owes his living to his six-foot axe? Why do you want to retreat so much when you thrive on tales of honour and your battle prowess?”
Brendan gave a toothy grin.
“I may be adept at telling a tall tale to please the women or up my price if the odds are against me, but I am no fool. The only thing that waits for me in these barren mountains is a bullet or the tip of a sword. A Galloglass may seek glory and reward, but occasionally, he is grateful when someone provides him with an excuse that may help him save face.”
Francisco grimaced as his head flooded with the obligation of duty, the verdict of his trial, his time in prison and standing on the edge of the beach watching his men get slaughtered. He would not fall foul of the actions that cast him into those holes again.
“If you help my men and me, the excuse will be provided. The sooner the boy’s father returns, the better it will be for all of us.”
But their planning was interrupted by the cry of a scout.
“The O’Flahertys are just ahead!”
All heads turned to see the scout point towards a gap between two hills. Eoghan's excited young companions ran behind him toward the gap. Francisco turned to Brendan.
“You will excuse me if I do not follow the exuberance of youth. One set of rabble tends to look like another in this godforsaken land.”
Brendan grinned.
“You never know. They may have some handsome, well-attired Galloglass escorting them.”
It was Francisco’s turn to smile.
“We should be blessed to have such fortune.”
“I may have lost my looks, but still have my brains. It is time for the Galloglass to come into their own,” and Brendan waved goodbye to Francisco as he walked away.
Brendan and his men formed a strong, protective line at the rear of the column as they entered the narrow passage between the two looming hills. The rocky ground crunched beneath their boots, and their heightened alertness enhanced the noise and sensation of the rocks on the soles of their feet. As they advanced, their heads swivelled from side to side, scanning for any potential threats. Suddenly, upon the tops of both hills emerged two formidable rows of men, the sun glinting off their guns.
“FIRE!”
With a bang as loud as thunder and two wisps of smoke that rose to join the clouds in the sky, a hail of bullets descended on Eoghan and his men. The young rebels from Breifne and Connacht were mown down like wheat before a scythe, their blood staining the hillsides as they fell for the musket men could barely miss such was the mass of men. The rebels were easy pickings for the English shot trapped as they were between the slopes of the hills, the bodies of their dead comrades and falling over each other in their desperation to escape. The shot could not reload fast enough to ensnare all in their trap.
Amongst the falling bodies Eoghan’s horse bucked. Eoghan was thrown into a pile of his former men. Without a pause for thought, Francisco ran towards him through the smoke and grabbed his flailing arm. He pulled his young master through the mud, for he thought he was unconscious but alive. The shot reloaded, and the body of a man fell upon Eoghan and broke Francisco’s grip. His arm fell limply to the ground. Francisco felt a sharp pain in his shoulder and was then overwhelmed by the smell of burning flesh. A hand gripped his other shoulder, and a familiar voice came.
“Come on,” Brendan said. “He is gone, and so will you be if you do not run.”
Francisco looked over his shoulder as if asking for sympathy. He did not get any.
“You got lucky. That’s just a scratch. My men will bandage that up for you. Let’s hope you did not burn up all your luck. Now, let’s go.”
