Devil's Island, page 26
“First to the castle, then to the shores of Ireland,” the O’Rourke called out to his supporters. They cheered and raised their weapons or mugs or threw their hats in the air.
“Follow me, men.”
With an air of confidence and determination, the O’Rourke strode out of the tavern, followed closely by his loyal companions Francisco and Diarmuid. The bustling streets seemed to quiet in reverence as they passed by, the crowds parting and encircling them like a protective shield. Eyes turned, and heads craned to glimpse the O’Rourke marching towards the castle gates, surrounded by a fierce and well-armed mob. Every inch of him exuded power and authority as he approached the gate, his dagger striking it with a resounding thud that echoed through the city streets.
“Open up. It is the O’Rourke, and I have an appointment to see the king.”
The constable on duty at the gate tower stuck his head over the top of the wall.
“Disperse your mob and surrender your weapons, or you will not gain entry, and we will set the king’s horsemen upon you.”
The O’Rourke snarled at such aggression.
“We come in peace, and this is merely a demonstration for the king of the strength of feeling of his people for supporting their Irish brethren.”
The constable’s demeanour did not change.
“The king devotes much of his time to listening directly to his people and does not need a mob on his doorstep to know what they want. Now disperse your mob before we declare you hostile.”
The O’Rourke shook his head and smiled but turned to his supporters.
“Children of Ireland, I must go and see the king, but I must do so relatively alone at his request. Please disperse and reassemble at the O’Neill Tavern this evening so I can update you on what happened today, and we can celebrate and plan our return home. Do not worry about me, for the king is our friend and ally and would not call me here if it was not so. Here is to the liberation of the O’Rourkes and the other clans of Ireland.”
The O’Rourke held aloft his dagger, and the crowd held up whatever weapons they had and saluted their own clans. They began to drift away to the refrains of the numerous songs to the past they shared the night before. A few minutes later, the O’Rourke, Francisco and Diarmuid stood alone beneath the gate.
“Well?” called the O’Rourke to the guards. “I am as alone as a man of my standing will get.”
The constable tutted and ordered the gate to be opened. He climbed down the stairs and stood with his guards on the other side of the gate.
“Surrender all your weapons to my men, or you will not gain entry to the castle.”
The O’Rourke reached for his dagger and held it out by the tip.
“Is your master going to let you volunteer to come to Ireland with me? It’ll make you a rich man.”
The constable glared at him.
“I am happy in service to my king right where I am. Now, is that all your weapons? We have no wish to be unfriendly and search you, but you should fear the king’s wrath if you lie to the king’s men.”
The O’Rourke looked to his two companions. Diarmuid threw his eyes to the heavens and took a concealed dagger from the small of his back. The constable stood directly in front of the O’Rourke.
“Is that everything?”
It was the O’Rourke’s turn to throw his eyes to the heavens and take a concealed dagger from his boot.
“Can we go now?” he said.
“Let us proceed,” said the constable as he indicated the way. “I wish to delay you no further.”
The constable walked in front and his men behind. They entered the doorway of the main tower and waited for permission to enter the great hall.
Francisco caught sight of the ambassador’s agent he had met the week or so before, crouched down behind a pillar near the entrance. The man’s face was tense, and his eyes darted around nervously. He signalled for Francisco to follow him again, but this time with more urgency. Francisco scowled and pointed towards the back of the O’Rourke’s head, wanting to stay focused on the task. But the man gestured to him with even more fervour, his hand slicing through the air like a blade. Frustrated, Francisco pointed back at the O’Rourke, trying to clarify that he needed to keep his attention on their target. The man stepped forward and waved his hand as if it were a paddle, desperately trying to get Francisco’s attention. With a sigh, Francisco stepped away from the group to admonish the man and prevent him from causing any distractions during this crucial moment.
“Now.”
The guards turned their gleaming axes and swords towards Diarmuid and the O’Rourke, their muscles tensed and ready to strike. Diarmuid’s hands trembled as he reached for something hidden in his garments, desperation and fear etched on his face. The constable’s sword pierced through his chest with a sickening thud, causing Diarmuid to crumple to the floor in a pool of blood. The O’Rourke’s face went ashen as he threw up his hands in surrender. Francisco moved towards the O’Rourke, but the ambassador’s agent grabbed his arm.
“Come this way if you want to live.”
Chapter 47
Demons of the sea
The man’s grip was firm as he dragged Francisco into a dark, musty room. His jaw was tense, burdened with the weight of a truth about to spill out. But Francisco waved him away, his mind racing, his heart thumping. He crept towards the door and cautiously pressed his eye to the small crack, only to be met with the intimidating figure of a one-armed man standing before the O’Rourke.
“I hereby arrest you under the authority of Queen Elizabeth,” said Captain Williamson, “with the co-operation of the king of Scotland. You are charged with treason and will stand trial in her majesty’s courts in London.” Captain Williamson grinned and pressed his face towards the O’Rourke. “I have followed you across Ireland and Scotland, waiting for this moment, and it feels better than I imagined it would.” He leant back with a satisfied grin. “Throw him in jail until we are ready to leave.”
Francisco turned to the man with a crown of beady sweat and a face as white as any man’s who was born in a bog.
“Did we walk into an ambush?” Francisco snarled. “Did you know about this all along?”
Francisco squeezed his knuckles white as his face reddened.
“We couldn’t save him,” said the ambassador’s agent as he cowered before Francisco’s anger. “He was always doomed. The Scottish king has aspirations to succeed to the throne of England so he could not be seen to be aiding Irish rebels. Why did you come here believing any different, for it is well known?”
Francisco dropped and turned his head.
“Maybe it was a convenient way to be rid of him by those who did not want him around.”
“I would think that is along the right track, señor. The ambassador used up much of his political credit to plead for your life with the king. The Scottish king still wants friendly relations with Spain, and the ambassador convinced him it would not look good to publicly execute the captain of a Spanish warship. The Scottish king relented but fears once the English captain finds out you are here he will come after you as well. We have prepared a ship to take you to the Netherlands and then to Spain. But you must hurry.”
But Francisco’s feet were glued to the floor.
“What about my friend? I cannot leave him to die after all we have been through.”
“Forget your friend. He is already dead. The ambassador has neither the will nor the means to release him. Now come before the guards come searching for you.”
Francisco felt paralysed, unable to move even a muscle. His mind was consumed with thoughts of the O’Rourke, a man who had saved him countless times. But in this moment, all he could think about was the foolishness of Eoghan O’Rourke’s charge into the ambush that had been prepared for him. The memory flooded his senses and overwhelmed any other thoughts that tried to surface. Now was not the time for foolishness. It was the time to survive.
“Lead the way,” said Francisco.
Francisco arrived at the docks with a few hours of daylight remaining and was ushered through the chaotic hustle and bustle by a man who seemed to know his way around. Passing by stacks of crates and barrels, they finally reached a small merchant ship that was being loaded with various goods for export to the Netherlands. The captain of the ship, a grizzled and portly figure, emerged from the vessel and made his way down the wooden plank onto the dock. The pungent smell of saltwater clung to him like a second skin. He greeted Francisco with a firm handshake before turning to inspect his precious cargo.
“She may not look like much compared to the monster you once commanded, but she is fast and light and would outrun most ships we could encounter on our way.”
“As long as she does not get stopped nor rock too much, I will be satisfied. My sea legs were robbed from me in a dream in an Irish bog.”
The captain slapped him on the shoulders.
“It will all come flooding back to you and I don’t mean that literally. I don’t want to curse your ship.”
“All I seek now is a quiet life,” said Francisco. “To sit on your deck, read a book, think of reuniting with my family or watch the clouds go by overhead. Such things are what heaven is made of for a man like me.”
“Well, I’m sure I can arrange some clouds.”
One porter ran up to the captain.
“Scottish soldiers are coming. They are looking for the companion of the Irish rebel.”
The captain's face dropped.
“Load the ship and cast off. We need to get out of here.”
Francisco was bundled onto the ship as roughly as any piece of cargo. The ambassador’s man disappeared into the crowd of bustling sailors and cargo handlers on the docks. A band of heavily armed men charged down the docks towards them as Francisco’s ship slowly pulled away from the shore. The wooden planks creaked underfoot as the ship cut through the water, leaving a flurry of activity and shouts from the soldiers on land. Francisco could feel the salty ocean breeze on his face and hear the seagulls crying above him. He inhaled deeply through his nostrils and closed his eyes. He embraced the start of his journey back home.
Francisco was given little time to find his sea legs, for the storms started not long after they had put out to sea. They sailed for a couple of days, hugging the English coast, but they could not land, seek shelter or turn back because of the cargo they held. Francisco felt guilty as he felt the eyes of the pale, seasick men judging and cursing him. He considered throwing himself overboard, which would relieve everyone of their burden. Since he went missing in Ireland, there was a chance he may be declared a hero and save his family the humiliation of welcoming back a convicted man. But Francisco took to his knees once more and prayed. It felt hollow and contrived, but he persisted anyway.
The time had come to leave the English coast and brave the North Sea, for the English sea patrols had become more frequent. Francisco climbed out of the hull and onto the deck. He knew these seas well but never like this. It was if the demons of the Scottish sea had flown south to finally swallow him up. He looked through the crashing waves that battered the sides of the boat and tossed it about as if it were a toy sailing across a little pond. The swirling collision of the kaleidoscope of grey hell above his head was a familiar sight too. He tried to pick out the coastline for he was sure he recognised this section of the sea. It was especially meaningful to him as he thought it was the very point where he left the line to repair his ship which had set him on this wretched path.
“CURSE YOU DEMONS OF THE SEA THAT TORMENT ME. YOU MAY HAVE DRAGGED ME THROUGH SEVEN SHADES OF HELL BUT YOU WILL NEVER BREAK ME!”
But there was a prolonged crack overhead, and something indeed broke. A beam of wood fell from the mast, and Francisco’s head was one of the objects that broke its fall. Francisco fell to the deck and lay there as the chaos of the ship and the sea became one.
Chapter 48
Snaring the prey
“I demand to see the king. I demand to see the king,” the O’Rourke roared over his shoulder as he struggled in a throng of guards. Captain Williamson followed behind with a sword in his remaining hand, beaming at the thrill of bagging his prize.
“Who are you, an Englishman, to arrest me on Scottish soil?”
“I am just an agent of her majesty taking a criminal back for trial in the proper jurisdiction,” said the captain as he smirked at his prisoner. “You are no great lover of the law and proper jurisdiction, as will soon be established in your trial.”
The O’Rourke struggled as much as he could, but Williamson’s men had a firm grip on him.
“I am here in Scotland as a diplomat for my clan,” cried the O’Rourke, “and I therefore demand immunity from these charges.”
Williamson waved him away.
“I could read you out the warrant the king himself signed for your arrest, but I won’t bore you with the details. I hope you have a few friends in London willing to lend you substantial amounts of money for lawyers of the quality to stand in front of her majesty. They don’t come cheap, you know.”
“We should settle our differences here and now. Me and you in the courtyard in front of the king.”
Captain Williamson laughed.
“Do you think the king will consider you a brave man if you challenge a one-armed man to a duel? But to earn your reprieve, you have to also win. No, I am an agent of her majesty, and she pays me to bring men like you to justice. Not in a street brawl but in a court of law for all to see. Now stop inconveniencing my men with your struggling and go peacefully. You need to keep your wits for your defence.”
The guards threw him into a cell beneath the castle, where his demands to see the king went unanswered.
For months on end, the O’Rourke was left to his own thoughts and fears in his secluded cell. Outside, the king’s men worked tirelessly to suppress any protests over his controversial arrest. But not all could be controlled. When word of the O’Rourke’s incarceration reached the streets, the fury of his supporters boiled over into rioting and destruction. In reprisal, the once bustling O’Neill’s tavern now lay in ruins. Its walls crumbled from the flames that had engulfed it by order of the king. As for the O’Rourke himself, he remained silent and still, numb to the chaos erupting around him.
Finally, once the disquiet had died down and the memory of the O'Rourke had begun to fade, Captain Williamson and his soldiers arrived to forcibly remove the O’Rourke from his cell. With rough hands, they dragged him out and tossed him into a carriage that was sealed shut and covered with heavy canvas. It was a long journey to the docks where he was loaded onto a ship bound for London.
A week later, exhausted and disoriented, the O’Rourke found himself imprisoned in the infamous Tower of London. His bed consisted of nothing but piles of damp straw, and the only view he had was of dark stone walls rising endlessly above him with a narrow slit of light he could never reach.
Captain Williamson descended the steps to the dark, musty cells, a sinister grin plastered across his face. He peered down through the sliding window in the prison door at O’Rourke, hunched on the damp straw and determinedly avoiding eye contact with the captain. The air was thick with the stench of sweat, fear, and despair. O’Rourke’s ragged breaths echoed off the cold stone walls, laboured but defiant. But despite the oppressive atmosphere, he refused to give Captain Williamson the satisfaction of acknowledging his presence. Captain Williamson unlocked the door and stood towering on the threshold.
“I chased you all over Ireland,” said Captain Williamson. “You were the proudest of the proud. Now look at you. Pathetic.”
The O’Rourke turned around on his knees and faced the wall.
“We asked amongst the Irish merchants and the gentry who had settled in London if any of them were prepared to stump up for your defence or asked if they knew anyone who would. Do you know what their answers were?”
The O’Rourke looked downwards and muttered some curses to the floor.
“No, you don’t know? Neither do we, for none of them replied. But do not concern yourself. The queen wants justice to be done and seen to be done, so she shall appoint a lawyer for your defence. At her own expense to boot.”
A guttural growl came from the back of the cell.
“I’ll speak in my own defence.”
“What was that? Sorry. I couldn’t hear you?” The captain cupped an ear towards the cell.
“I’ll speak in my own defence.”
“What? Sorry?”
The O’Rourke turned around, his face a blaze of red.
“I’ll speak in my own defence, God damn you, I’ll speak in my own defence.”
Captain Williamson laughed.
“As you wish. Be it on your own head. But I doubt you will know the intricacies of court behaviour or be able to weave your way through the twists and turns of the law.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’m a dead man anyway.”
“What was that?”
“Leave me until you return with a trial date.”
“That is why I am here. It begins next week.” The captain turned to one of his men. “Throw in the quill and paper.” He turned back to the O’Rourke.
“To work on your defence. Never let it be said you were treated unfairly.”
He laughed and slammed the door shut.
Chapter 49
Deja vu
A sudden chill cascaded over Francisco’s face, jolting him awake. He strained to lift his head, but it felt as though a heavy weight was pressing down on it, smothering him in a thick layer of numbness. His limbs refused to obey his commands, trapped in the claustrophobic tunnel of pain and disorientation. Through the haze, he could hear muffled voices as if they were shouting through layers of water. Desperately, he tried to move, but his body was unresponsive – as if his orders were bouncing off a solid wall in his brain. Slowly, feeling returned to his hands, bringing a tingling sensation. As he flexed his pins and needles-possessed fingers, he became aware of the cold water and gritty sand beneath them. Memories of a living nightmare flooded back and he couldn’t help but sob bitter tears that mixed with the cool water beneath his face.
