Captain De Cuellar and His Adventures
The Spanish Armada set sail to land ashore on English soil. 100 galleons with 1,000 Iberian sailors on each to land in England, in the belly of the beast. They were foiled at sea and fled journeying around the Hebrides, the last survivors were dogs, washed ashore on the West Coast, terriers that would over the centuries be westies named “Jock” posing for shortbread tins. The rest of the crews landed at Streedagh Beach, Sligo. The Gallowglass enlisted by the English took their claymore to the Spanish swines and let the beach wallow in their blood, bespectacled with Latin bodies. Few were saved for being Catholic and the rest were on the run, they ventured north and it was Captain De Cuellar who ventured to Connaught and Ulster, precariously not knowing when each night might be his last. The souls he lost on his watch haunting his every step, their spirits and blood soaking into the land and people, the black hair of the west, the strength to repel the English on the rocks and ground, through famine and purposeful pain and passing. The millions of skeletons that would perish and the language that would fervently remain; the shadow of the nation would be seeping with blood of sacrifice like a bog of an ancient bard, or a fighter who was a Milesian sparring with the supernatural force, the Tuatha De Nannan. As the clock would be covered and the death would be celebrated with a wake - De Cuellar was petrified by these lands, and he wrote his journal, begging for help from the king abroad.
Comments (2)
Interesting
Well done.