The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (15 page)

He ’d grown very thin, Eric had, and his muscles were weak, but once he ’d taken his place at Agnes’s table all that changed. The man’s appetite was prodigious and he quickly emptied her larder, but I paid the widow handsomely for our keep, and she cooked us many fine meals. Soon he was strapping as he had been, and the daily walks we ’d take on hills and shores brought the life back into him.

’Twas funny how easy we were with each other, though our languages differed completely. He taught me bits of his and I taught him bits of mine, and together we retrieved the Latin he had learned as a boy.

Of course there was a fair amount of gesturing with our hands. But it was, after all, in the language of the sea and of sailing that we spoke the easiest, for it was clearly the language of our hearts, and there was great joy in this. Like myself, he ’d been born and bred to the life, and nothin’

under heaven made him happier than a great journey across the water.

He ’d been to places I’d never been—the New World for one—and he ’d seen the famous Maelstrom of Lofoten, a great natural wonder of the world. He marveled that I was a captain with a fleet of my own and was humbled by it, for that was never to be his fate.

When he did speak of leaving, I realized how sorely my own heart ached.

“Must you leave a’tall?” I finally said one day. “Stay here.” ’Twas a shy whisper.

“Here?” he said, confused.

“No, not
here
, on Achill. Come home with me to Clare Island . . . and sail with me, Eric, wherever I go.”

Well, he smiled then. I suppose I haven’t mentioned his smile before, with teeth very white and straight, or his great, boomin’ laugh that I loved so much. The truth was, I loved Eric, loved him like I’d loved no other man, though he ’d never yet laid a hand on me that way.

“You’re smiling,” I said. “Can I take that for a yes?”

“
Ja!
” he cried, and grabbed me, pickin’ me up in his arms and swingin’ me round and round.

’Twas the start of Heaven on earth for me. All the worries and woes of life just faded away and the sun shone even when it didn’t, if you know what I mean. So Eric came home with me to live, and we married—a very private affair—just him and me on the high cliffs of Inishturk Island, the westernmost place in all of Ireland, and overlooking the sea, which we knew would be our second home. Owen O’Malley heartily approved, for he saw my happiness, and wished for that above all things.

He joked with Eric, callin’ him a Viking invader, but he made a handsome gift to him of three ships of his own. Eric very nearly wept at that, for he ’d never in all his life expected to captain his own ship, much less a small fleet. Even Molly liked him. After our return to Achill, the parrot took one look at my new husband and promptly fell in love with him. It was Gilleduff O’Flaherty all over again.

Eric wanted most to return to the New World, that which his ancestors found five hundred years before the Spanish had done. ’Twas not the southern coasts and islands from which the treasure fleet sent gold by the ton to Spain, but the
northern
coast come down from Greenland. It was a place, he said, of flat, rocky coastline, and farther south of lush forests where roamed savages fierce enough to chase away the Vikings themselves. Where halibut and codfish swam in such abundance that at low tide in the great pools round the rocks they could pluck them by the thousands. Where berries and corn and wheat and fruits and even grapes did grow, and ’twas after the grapes they named the place, callin’ it Vinland.

But Eric knew of my dream of the Mediterranean, Aegean, and the Nile, and teased me, saying we ’d go there first, for I’d give him no rest till I’d seen the elephant teeth lodged in the heads of the living beasts who’d grown them. So ’twas decided that we would not wait—that life was short enough as it was—and we would go on a kind of marriage trip, a voyage for pleasure, which was all but unheard of.

In those years you could not conceive of the Mediterranean without thinking of Suleyman the Magnificent. Growing up, Owen had told tales of that mighty blue sea and the Ottoman sultan who owned it. Sure the Holy League claimed it and tried to keep their trade routes alive, but its members—the Pope, the doges of Venice, and that fat-lipped Hapsburg emperor, Charles—were just kidding themselves. No league—holy or otherwise—could contain the power of Suleyman. Even the fearsome Barbary pirates swooping up from the northern coast of Africa were nothing compared to Suleyman’s Turkish Terror Fleet and its captain, Barbarossa.

All places exotic were there on the shores of that sea. Places of consequence—Morocco, Barcelona, Rome, Venice, Cairo, Athens, Crete. The Holy Land, for Jesus’ sake. I’d learned of them from the Latin books I’d read under the beady eye of the Clare Island friars. The Greek myths, their gods and monsters. The Cyclops! Isis with her poor husband chopped up in fourteen pieces and scattered round the world. Daughters jumping full grown from the foreheads of their fathers. I always liked that one—Athena and Zeus—and used to tease Owen that I’d leapt straight out of
his
head, and not my mother’s womb a’tall.

I’d been told of the beauty of the Mediterranean, a sea of islands, of the indescribable blue, and the bleached white of the hillside homes. Of the vast and teeming markets and bazaars, hubs of trade, and the Great Silk Road. I was frothin’ at the mouth to go. ’Twas another thing, though, to crew a ship for such an adventure. As I said, the Barbary Coast was nowhere that my men wished to explore. I was forced to bribe them with double wages paid in advance, a minimum of work, guarantees that our vessel would be armed to the teeth, and the promise of a long on-shore leave in Egypt, where the whores, I swore, were more beautiful than any others in the world.

The Maritime Alps, just north of Nice, took our breath away, and Rome . . . Well, in Rome you’d rather not breathe a’tall. Sure the painted cathedrals boggled the mind, and the old Roman ruins brought to memory the great civilization risen to such lofty heights, only to be flattened by Barbarian invasions. But Venice, now that was another story altogether. It shouldn’t surprise you that I would love that city, it being part and parcel of the sea, and still the greatest trading center of the world. A place, unlike anywhere else, where trade is religion itself, and the merchants its high priests and noblemen.

One festival night, we stumbled on a gondolier, altogether drunk and wasted on the dock near his boat. Eric grinned at me like a little boy and, bending down to the oarsman, tucked a coin in his pocket and whispered that we ’d be “borrowin’ ” his vessel for a wee while. He took the oar and poled out into the Venice Lagoon till the whole city was a vista before us.

All the torches were aglow and windows lit from within. I’d never seen a sight so lovely as that, Venice in the moonlight. Then at the stroke of midnight the church bells began to peel and to our amazement the sky was all of a sudden lit like the day with fireworks. ’Twas magic, pure and simple, and I fell happily into Eric’s arms and lay back on the fur bed he ’d made on the gondola’s deck. Let me tell you, the fire in the sky was nothin’ compared to that which burned on the floor of that boat. Oh,

’twas the sweetest night of my whole life. I loved that man to distraction and he loved me the same. What more could a woman want?

I haven’t the time to regale you with the whole of the Mediterranean voyage. We tried to visit the Greek isles, only to find them swarming with Turks, and thought better of it. The Holy Land was similarly occupied, and there were rumors of fighting, so we did not go there either.

Egypt was no different, under the hand of Suleyman for fifty years, but I was not to be deterred in my quest for the huge beasts with the giant teeth, called elephants. I do admit I was most curious about the River Nile, and Cairo, and the great monuments I’d heard about since I was a child.

We arranged to travel upriver on a covered barge and floated very lazy up that wide river, green on each side, but beyond the narrow strip a burnin’ desert like Hell on earth. And then came the day when I saw them—the elephants—on the banks of the river. A whole tribe of ’em.

Imagine a creature as big as a house! Their legs were like tree trunks, yet they moved with a certain grace, even on land and in the water where they bathed, and in the mud where they wallowed. I thought with surprise as I watched them lumberin’ about that they feel
joy
, these beasts.

And seein’ them touching their young with those long, fabulous trunks,
tenderness.
Had I ever touched my children with more delicate sweetness?

’Twas only then I saw their teeth, called tusks, and I remembered them hangin’ over my bed, and I felt a sharp stab of pity. The thought of so magnificent a creature lyin’ dead, with maggots crawlin’ round in the place his great teeth had been ripped out of his head was suddenly terrible. I turned away with tears stinging my eyes, and Eric saw this and questioned me. I said ’twas an insect in my eye and nothin’ to worry about. Kind and sweet as he was I knew he ’d think me mad for such sentiments. Elephants were game, like all other of God’s wild creatures, there for man’s use and pleasure. I never did tell him the truth.

Well, I’d seen what I’d come to see, so we turned and floated back downriver in a sweet daze. We were deep into tomb country and could see that fully half the business done on the river was that of tomb raiding. Barges were piled high with the spoils of piracy—Egyptian style.

Beautiful gilt statues, painted furniture, urns and chests. But most of all, mummies. Sure I knew of these strange corpses. They fetched high prices in Europe ’s markets, for ground up into powder and mixed into potions they were known to cause miraculous cures, from plague to ague. I even bought a few of the monstrosities, makin’ sure they were put into boxes so none of my crew would be the wiser of their contents.

I can scarce describe the happy chaos of our minds as we boarded the ship in the port of Cairo. We were like two ticks, gorged with memories, the grit of the desert sand still in our mouths, the smell of dung fires and cinnamon wafting in from the city. The crew was the same, dazed with delight. Indeed, the whores had been lovely, black-eyed creatures with honeyed skin and thick, oiled hair and the scent of the east about them.

The crew returned drunk with experience, and laden down with exotic wares for which they’d dickered in fantastical markets. Gorgeous Turkey rugs, crocks of rich spices for their mammies, lengths of colored silks for their wives and sweethearts, carved stone deities the merchants swore were three thousand years old. There ’d been brawls for those who loved brawling, though we did not lose a single man. And some, bitten by the same bug of curiosity as Eric and me, had taken off for parts unknown, on camel back with caravans into the brutal desert, others exploring the great stone pyramids. Still others, befriended by generous families, lived among the Egyptians in their river villages.

All in all ’twas a brilliant success. Even the parrot Molly, abandoned for weeks by her beloved, refrained from her usual rude behavior on our return—just cooed and cuddled and prattled endlessly, trotting out every word and mumbled phrase she ’d ever known, even the little used

“Duff, Duff, Duff, Duff . . .”

The world was changin’ so fast it made your head spin. We ’d been gone but five months, and on our return to Ireland I found my father had aged five years. His body was thin and frail, though his mind was as sharp as a blade. There was no complainin’ of aches in his joints or pain from his old wounds, but they were there in Owen’s eyes when he moved, and the cold and damp seeped into every cranny of his drafty stone keep. I grew alarmed when I found he ’d not visited his fleet in more than a fortnight, but was reluctant to question him of it for he was, if nothin’ else, a proud man and loath to show his weakness.

I conjured up a lame excuse to visit, sure to fool no one—somethin’

about caulking a boat—and took a basket of his favorite foods I’d had my cook fix for him. I found Owen alone on the top floor of the Belclare Keep, starin’ out his western window at the sea. He made room for me on his bench and we sat gazing out his window. He showed me what he ’d been watching when I came in—a great galleon far out to sea, a huge vessel used by Spain for its Treasure Fleet. He wondered what it was doin’ in these waters, if maybe King Philip was hiring the Scots for mercenaries in his Netherlands war. “That is one bloody battlefield,” said Owen, looking quite dejected. “I fear it’s the destiny of Ireland as well.”

“It won’t happen here,” I said.

“Oh, darlin’ girl, right now you’re in love and the world is beautiful.

Part of you is still floating down the Nile on a barge. Your ships come home from the fishing grounds half filled and you don’t even care.

You’ve no trips planned for the autumn, and you brought nothin’ back from your voyage for profit but a few shriveled-up old carcasses.”

“I sold those mummies in Baltimore for a fine profit, I’ll have you know.”

“Grace, your mind is elsewhere, and I promise you, you cannot afford it. Not now. You’ve got to keep your eyes open. Eric is a grand husband, but he means nothin’ to the clans. He brings you no strength or standing in the eyes of your allies. And with the English encroaching on Connaught, and the chieftains falling one after another—”

“They submit, but they don’t mean it,” I argued.

“But more and more they’re becoming two-faced, or maybe it’s just confused. Some are weary of native disputes century after century.

They’ve lost their faith in the Brehon ways of succession, of territorial rights, and then they see the orderly English governance. They’re taken in by promises—‘You can keep your land. You can keep your power. Just fight your friends and neighbors when we tell you to.’ But then the Jans rebel against the chiefs, claiming they want no change in the old ways.

But in truth, the rebels want power for
themselves.
After submission, a chieftain might be forced to fight his English patrons to keep his Jan happy, supposin’ it easier to gain a pardon from the Crown at a later date.

And it many times is. Jesus, what a mess it’s become!”

“It has indeed,” I agreed, spreading out a small feast on the trestle table. I was feelin’ guilty that I needed such a lecture from my father at my age. That I—a silly, love-struck girl—would risk the ruin of the great empire my father and his fathers before him had built with their sweat and blood. “It’s time I came home from my marriage trip,” I said, though I couldn’t meet his eye. I moved to his bed and began straightening his bedclothes. “And it’s time you came home to live near me.” He was altogether silent and I knew my words had hit him like a fist in the face. In truth I’d expected outrage and argument, so the silence was unnerving. And it seemed to go on forever. I suddenly wondered how many fur rugs I could pile, how many cushions I could rearrange in this terrible silence. Finally I steeled myself and turned back to him. He ’d taken his place at the table and was eating a slice of cold roast. He looked up at me from beneath his graying fringe.

“I heard you, Grace. It’s a fine offer.” He broke an oatcake in half and chewed on it. “I’ll think about it.”

Well, in the end he came to Clare Island, without a fuss, for it was the best way to keep his dignity intact. We built him a snug cottage inside the courtyard, and I found a widow named Barbara—not too old and not too ugly—to keep his house and cook for him. She was honored. ’Twas the great man Black Oak O’Malley after all.

His fleet was moved to the waters off Clare Island where mine and Eric’s were anchored, but less and less did Owen climb down the rock stairs to the beach. Finally he gave his ships over to me, sayin’ ’twas better to gift them now while he was alive, so there ’d be no argument after he was dead. With Owen, grace and honor had served him as a younger man, and so they now served him as an old man. Lookin’ at Da puttering round his house and garden, acceptin’ the unacceptable, treatin’ so kindly with Barbara, made me weep with gratitude. It made me think of what a terror Donal O’Flaherty would have become had he grown old.

Eric, I knew, would age with the grace that Owen had.

Soon after this we were called by the Crown’s Lord Deputy, Henry Sidney, to a meeting of all the clan chiefs of Connaught. There was an uproar to begin with, as only two of these chiefs—Clanrickard and Thomond—were used to being summoned by
anyone
. But there was news to be had of Gerald Fitzgerald, Earl of Desmond, the Lord of Munster. He was the greatest landowner in southern Ireland. And there were rumblings of a rebellion there, which we were keen to learn about, no matter what the source.

Owen, still The O’Malley but having never submitted, refused to go.

He was curious nonetheless and wished for me to go as his “ears.” I did reflect on the honor of this—his trust in me, his belief I would hold my own with the great chiefs of Ireland. Eric went with me and though, as my father had said, he held no sway with the clans, he was a sea captain in his own right, with a fleet as hireable as my own for the chiefs’ many purposes. Besides, I was proud to have him at my side, and wouldn’t have thought of leavin’ him behind.

We convened in the great hall at Castlebarry and Lord Deputy Sidney greeted me with more than a little interest, no doubt noting Owen O’Malley’s absence, but recognizing the name Grace O’Malley, which by now had certainly come to the Crown’s attention for my exploits on land and sea. Then, very dignified—for Sidney was a good man despite being English—he began his report. He told us that in yet another episode of that age-old feud between the Desmonds and the Ormonds, Gerald of Desmond had been shot in the hip and taken prisoner by Tom of Ormond, who delivered him into English hands. Gerald had been tried in London as a traitor to the Crown to whom he ’d, for so many years, sworn his allegiance, and now sat prisoner in the Tower of London.

Such news was shocking enough, but when Sidney told us that as punishment for his treason—which, between you and me, was his failure to pay a penny’s rent on his properties—Gerald had been forced to forfeit all of his land, and that
half of Ireland
had been given over to an Englishman by the name of Peter Carew, you can imagine the uproar.

The “First Munster Plantation” ’twas to be called, and already Englishmen and their wives and children had moved there. And though

’twas not said aloud, we all knew that the Irish, across the length and breadth of the land, were being evicted from their homes, family seats of a thousand years.

What can I say? We were all outraged. Much as we despised the Earl of Desmond, we could clearly see what his capitulation meant to us all.

The English blight that had once been contained by Dublin, and the Pale around it, was quickly spreading all across Ireland. ’Twas the beginning of the end. I knew that, as sure as I knew my own name.

Clanrickard and Thomond advised the chieftains capitulation, swearing that the only way to survive was by siding with the English. Some grudgingly agreed, but others roared with indignation. There was some name-calling, red, angry faces pushed into other red, angry faces, even some pushing and shoving. ’Twas the sorriest of sights—the great chiefs of western Ireland reduced to a flock of squabbling chickens. With so much fury about us, nothing of any worth was decided, and the meeting slowly fell apart.

Eric and I were takin’ our leave, very quiet like—our hearts were so sore—when John MacMahon, the chieftain’s son, barreled up to us, his face livid.

“Where ’s your feckin’ father!” he shouted in my face. The MacMahons were a large clan, but roundly disliked for their general ignorance and unnecessary acts of violence.

Of course Eric grabbed him and shoved him away, but he kept comin’

back at us, unheedful of the danger he was putting himself in.

“I want to know where Owen O’Malley is! Why he thinks he can send a woman and a foreigner in his place. Does he think he ’s so much better than us?”

At that, Eric, with his huge mitts, grabbed MacMahon by the throat, liftin’ him clear off the ground. At once the man began to choke, his eyes bulging from his head. And then my beloved, in his broken Irish, but quite understandable, said, “He does not think he ’s better than you, you low turd. He
is
better than you by a hundred leagues!”

“Eric, put him down,” I said. Well, he did, rather hard, on the stone, so much so we heard a loud crack, probably MacMahon’s tailbone breaking. But by then some other men had come out and seen it, so together with the pain was humiliation, not even at the hands of an Irishman, but a Swede.

When we got home we made our dire report to Owen. He listened, very somber, nodding his head at all the news of Desmond and Ormond, the Englishman Peter Carew and the First Munster Plantation—all of it as though he ’d heard it before. Nothin’ surprised him. ’Twas just as he ’d prophesied.

He had advice for both of us. To me he said, “I know you to be mighty, Grace, but to most in the world you’re still a mere woman. But female or male you will need alliances to survive. You must look to our old friends—the Burkes, the O’Flahertys, even Murrough ne Doe. They may swear loyalty to the Crown, but
they won’t fight you.
Count on that.

The best thing you can do is to keep your fleet strong. Always sail at least two or three ships together for strength. You cannot afford to lose control of our coastal waters, or your freedom to trade with Spain. Keep your fleet intact and you can keep your independence long after all the others have fallen the queen’s victims. The sea is your salvation, Grace, you take my word on that. And Eric.” He turned to my husband. “I’m most grateful at how well you watch my daughter’s back, but you need to be watchin’ your own as well. The MacMahons are a hateful clan, and they’ll give you no end of grief for that drubbing you gave John in public. Watch yourself, son. We don’t want Grace a widow twice over.” Oh, that Eric had taken that advice to heart. How strange that after all these years I choke on the words. I wish . . . I wish my memory failed me in this story. But no such luck. I remember it like it was yesterday.

Eric and some of his sailors had gone to Achill Island to hunt red deer. He would visit with Agnes too, he said, bring her the pretty brocaded shawl we ’d bought her in Venice, eat some of her fine cooking.

We ’d parted with a touch of acrimony, as I wished him to stay and tend to repairs on our fleet. But he was keen to hunt that day, said repairs could wait, and I would be happy when he returned with fresh venison and several soft skins. I kissed him good-bye, but out of pique withheld the full measure of my passion. Oh, how I regret that withholding!

He did not return that night, but I thought nothin’ of it. The hunting must be good, I reckoned. But the next day passed, and the night, and the next day after that. I began to feel a tightness in my chest, and I knew in my heart that something was wrong. I found myself starin’ out at the headlands, watching for signal fires to be lit for some news of danger.

Funny, when I first saw the beacons, lights stretching up the coast and ending at Achill Island, I was not surprised, for I’d been expecting something dreadful. Knew it was coming. Knew that Eric was dead.

I pulled a crew together and sailed the
Dorcas
to Achill Island. Went straight to Agnes’s cottage, which was lit very bright. What was left of Eric’s hunting party were standin’ about outside with the most doleful expressions. No one said a word, but as I passed between them they each laid a hand on my shoulder or my head. I stopped short of the threshold, unable to enter, unwilling to see what lay beyond. It occurred to me that I could turn away, refuse to look on the face of death, but then Agnes came to the door. Her eyes were wet but she wore the sweetest expression—not at all what I’d expected—and holdin’ out her hand, led me inside.

There he was, stretched out on the same bed in which we ’d nursed him. Strange, there was no strife in that scene, for Agnes had cleaned him and laid him out with perfect dignity. Those long limbs were so still, his face in such comfortable repose. The brocaded shawl we ’d brought her was neatly laid across his forehead and over the pillow on either side. I moved closer and in the firelight saw the square chin, those beautiful lips, pale and waxy. I lifted the shawl very slow and just enough to see his poor skull, crushed like a melon.

I did not cry that night. I did go out and speak with the men, who told me what had happened. ’Twas the MacMahons, of course, who’d lain in wait to ambush their party. It had been a general rout, with others slain as well, but the purpose had been clear from the first. A group of four, led by John MacMahon, surrounded Eric. He ’d fought bravely, but he ’d been outnumbered after all. He ’d never had a chance.

Owen worried of course, but he had no good advice for me, nothing that would really ease my pain. All he could do was have Barbara feed me, and I did eat. Miserable as I was, I did not want to die—I knew that—for there was something of great import left for me to do.

After weeks with little sleep, just starin’ at the fire or out to sea, I was half a madwoman, half a ghost. I can only imagine what I looked like.

Then word came—almost unbelievable—that a dozen or more of the Ballycroy MacMahons had dared to go on pilgrimage to the holy isle of Cahir. I remember feelin’ strange then, rememberin’ our own island pilgrimage as the very place I’d first heard news of the ship that had foundered with Eric aboard. And I thought how odd that he should be saved on Achill Island, and die on Achill Island. All at once my mind, previously whirlin’, or dead numb, was clear and filled with purpose.

I gathered thirty of my most trusted men and we rowed in to Cahir.

When we arrived the MacMahons were still engaged in their religious duties, but we found their boats and hacked them to pieces. Then we climbed the pilgrim’s peak, found the sons of whores on their knees in prayer and slaughtered them, every one. John MacMahon had not been among them, so we took ourselves off—before word could precede us—

to Doona Castle, the MacMahon family seat in Blacksod Bay.

’Twas night, and they were not expectin’ us. Indeed, the stronghold gates were open in expectation of the pilgrims’ return. What a rude shock they got instead—Mad Grace O’Malley, her heart seethin’ with black revenge. We were kinder at Doona Castle, killing only their chieftain, Patrick, and puttin’ the rest of ’em out of their homes at swordpoint. I found it a pretty place on a good harbor, so claimed it in the name of O’Malley. I could never live myself in the place, so I gave it as a gift to what loyal men would take their families there.

But the true point of our assault—John MacMahon—had fled, escapin’ into the night. It took several weeks more before news of his whereabouts found me. The murdering scum had taken refuge in a small church on a small island in Clew Bay. There a holy hermit lived alone, and he ’d given sanctuary to MacMahon.