The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (11 page)

I suppose it was the year that Gilleduff O’Flaherty wintered his fleet in Bunowen Inlet that my course in this world began to change. Here at my doorstop were ships and sailors and all that went hand in hand with a seafarin’ life, that which was as natural to me as breathing. My father-in-law had a stone cottage overlookin’ the inlet built for himself, and to my delight, began to visit Bunowen Keep with some regularity. He loved his grandchildren—even the terror-monger Murrough—and plied them, much as my own father had done, with adventurous tales from the sea. And Gilleduff—gettin’ to know me better, grew to love me as well.

’Twasn’t long before I was drawn down to the water where the boats were anchored. Some were beached to be worked on—caulking and refinishing, new masts and oars carved and fitted. ’Twas a joyful place for me to wander about, what with friendly seamen weaving their nets and sewing their sails, their lively arguments about foreign ports and heinous Barbary pirates and fabulous plunder. They soon learned I was more than a little familiar with it all, and that I took no offense at the colorful language and crude stories of their favorite Lisbon whores.

I made it my business to stock their medicine chests with herbs from my garden—comfrey, foxglove, and barberry. And plenty of molasses and limes, these mixed together and shot up the sailors’ poor pricks in a long syringe for the poxes they’d catch in foreign ports. I replaced all the eating utensils in all the ships’ galleys, and at my behest, the Bunowen women wove new sleepin’ hammocks for every man in the fleet. Whatever comforts I could provide I did, and before long I’d become a welcome figure among the men.

The fact was not lost on Gilleduff and so, come spring, when the fleet went out to fish, he begged me to join them. Oh Jesus, the thought of that day still brings tears to my eyes. I doubt whether Gilleduff knew what a gift he was givin’ me. I hadn’t, in so many years, felt the spray of saltwater on my face, heard the song of the sails and the winches, seen the brawny sailors heavin’ ho, the green waves all round me. I thought I might die of pleasure. Then Gilleduff came to me and whispered, “Take the wheel, Grace. Go on now.” He didn’t have to ask me twice.

’Twas pure heaven that day, and a clear light shone on my future.

This was my calling, I knew it, despite my sex, despite motherhood. I’d been bred to the sea and the sea was my destiny. It was no good denyin’

it. Bless Gilleduff O’Flaherty’s sweet soul. He saw where I was headed and by his grace gave me the means to that road. He ’d watched me at the helm that day, questioned me gently but thoroughly on navigation and weather and the handlin’ of a boat, all of which, I guess, satisfied him of my competency.

The next time a Spanish ship came to our local waters, he sent me to pilot her safely through. The Spaniards were outraged of course, but it was
me
at the helm or bein’ grounded on the shoals. And so I became a regular fixture on Gilleduff ’s boats.

There was but one fly in the ointment here. ’Twas a parrot named Molly, a green bird from Hell. Gilleduff had won the thing in a card game in Coruña, and after thirty years the two were inseparable. He kept it perched in his cabin at sea, and while at home just near the foot of his bed. Sometimes in fair weather he ’d sit the bird on his shoulder and take it up on deck. You could see she enjoyed it, very proud to be perched near Gilleduff ’s head, and close to his red beard, which she preened ’tween the two parts of her hooked bill. They were intimate, the two of ’em—unnaturally so, I thought. Gilleduff would chew up a mouthful of food and the parrot would eat the mush out of his mouth. They’d lie together in his bed, and one day the bird he ’d known as Paco laid an egg on his chest, which gave him a clue to the parrot’s true sex, and so he ’d renamed her Molly.

She could speak, which was eerie, and though she had many words and phrases, sounds and songs, her favorite word was “Duff,” her beloved ’s name, which she muttered under her breath over and over again. The evil bird had no use for any of the crew, but me she detested altogether. Perhaps ’twas female jealousy, but whatever the reason, Molly would lunge at me if I got too close, and several times I sustained a painful bite. I used to ask Gilleduff why he put up with such appalling behavior from a parrot, and he always replied that Molly didn’t think of herself as a bird, as if that was answer enough.

Later that summer Gilleduff took his fleet to his favorite fishing grounds, and to my great surprise and greater delight, he gave me charge of my
own
ship, a small carrack with only one sail and a crew of forty.

Let me tell you, the moment those men climbed aboard and clapped eyes on their new captain—as well as they knew me from hangin’ about them all winter—’twas like the air was sucked from the world. Dead silence.

Nobody moved. ’Twas mutiny, bloodless and unspoken, but mutiny all the same. I knew that nobody but me could turn the tide, make them accept the command of a woman. So with hands on my hips I stuck out my chest and lifted my chin the way I’d seen Owen O’Malley do when he spoke to his crews in difficult times. I was quakin’ inside but determined that these men should never know it.

“Give me this day,” said I. “This one day. Demand of me what you would of a man. No more. No less. Watch me. Judge me. If I fail in your eyes, I don’t deserve to be here. But if, in a fair test, I win your good faith, then you must let me stay.” I looked them square in the eye and asked sincerely, “Is that too much to ask?” They were quiet for a moment more, but then I heard a few mumbled

“nos.” Somebody cracked a joke about a captain with bosoms, and when everybody laughed I knew ’twould be all right—at least for the day, this one blessed day.

To tell you the truth, I cannot now remember the small points of that mornin’ and afternoon, except that once we were out to sea it was smooth sailing. ’Twas strange, even to my ears, to hear commands called in the voice of a woman, but my voice was powerful enough, and the commands were sure. The sea gods to whom I’d prayed the night before must have heard me, for we took a mighty haul of herring, fillin’ our holds after only half a day.

At Bunowen Harbor I took the last dinghy back to shore. The men were all waitin’ there in a somber group. One of ’em stepped into the water, lifted me out, and carried me to dry land. He put me down in the middle of ’em and they just stared at me, straight-faced, for the longest time. I stared back at them, knowin’ my future was in their judgment of me. Then I felt a hand on my shoulder. A pat on my back. Someone ruf-fled my hair, and then they began to laugh good-natured like. All at once I could see the answer in their eyes, as well as shock at their decision. I tried not to weep but it was impossible to hold back the tears. Of course they teased me for that, but it was all right, for they had accepted me as their captain, and from that day forward I was home again, where I belonged. On the beautiful Western Sea.

By now my little Margaret was of a marriageable age and had her sights set on a fine young man—one Richard Burke—
another
Richard Burke, not Finula’s son—who had earned the name “Devil’s Hook” for his fierceness. But unlike my Donal, his aggressions always seemed well placed and not a matter of general wildness. To my great delight they wed, and Devil’s Hook became as fond of me as I was of him. My beautiful girl was well taken care of in her husband’s house, and I was content.

Gentle Owen, though still a lad, had finished with his studies and was spendin’ all his time with our herds. You could see he ’d grow up to be a wonderful wise man, if not a leader of men. But that was fine, for his younger brother Murrough, who’d shunned schooling no matter how much I theatened him, was showin’ all the signs of a chieftain in the making. Donal had taken him under his wing—which was alarming in itself—but the inescapable truth was that Murrough was his father’s son in every way, and as young as he was, was already seen as the O’Flaherty
tanaist
—after Donal, that is.

Then came that awful night in May. ’Twas late and I was sleepin’

when, with a terrible racket, Donal arrived home, cursing and crying. I quick lit the lamp and when the light fell on him I wished I hadn’t. Donal stood there as wild-eyed as I’d ever seen him, and covered with gore.

’Twas soon apparent it wasn’t his own blood, so I pressed him to know what had happened. But aside from his hideous appearance, he was raving drunk and I could wrench only a few coherent words from him—

somethin’ about a cattle raid on a Burke village.

“Why on earth would you do such violence to the Burkes?” I demanded. “They’re our friends and neighbors. For Jesus’ sake, our daughter and your sister are married to Burkes.” But he wouldn’t answer, or couldn’t, so I peeled off the blood-soaked clothes, cleaned him as best as I could, and watched him fall into a stuperous, snoring sleep.

’Twas all very ominous and unsettling, so much so that I never slept again for the rest of the night. I was still awake when a messenger came from Donal’s uncle, Donal Crone, that we needed to quick come to his castle at Moycollen. There ’d been a murder. The dead man was David Burke ’s son Tall Walter, and he was worse than murdered. He was horribly butchered, and could we please come now?

My head was spinning. What was Walter Burke doing at Donal Crone ’s castle, and who on earth would have cause to kill him?

With terrible foreboding I shook Donal awake and told him the news.

“Oh,” he said, “Finula will be torn apart.”

“And David,” I added. “Walter was his natural son.”

“Aye, David too.”

Of course it entered my mind that Donal had come home covered in blood on the very night Walter Burke had been murdered, but though Donal was violent by nature, he had no cause in the world to murder his sister’s stepson.

We dressed and rode to Moycollen, neither of us speaking, and by the time we arrived a dozen Burkes and even more of the O’Flahertys had gathered. Never was there a more somber occasion, and tensions were already mounting. ’Twas gruesome as well, for as we walked through the bawn, an old woman was leaving, carrying with her two pails of bloody water, that which had been used, no doubt, to clean the corpse of Tall Walter Burke.

One mystery was solved immediately upon our arrival, for I learned that David Burke, Finula, and David’s two eldest sons had been there at Donal Crone ’s castle to visit Finula’s kin when the murder had happened. A Brehon judge had been sent for to preside over the inquest, and so that the proceedings would be altogether fair and impartial, he was of neither the O’Flahertys nor the Burkes, but an O’Connor. As the day wore on, more and more of the families arrived, and all convened in the great stone gathering room built next to the keep.

’Twas like walkin’ through a dream that day, a terrible dream. Sure there had been violence all round me growin’ up, but nothin’ like this had happened so close to our family. Worse, it was found that Walter had been ambushed from behind, for there were two deep wounds in his back. This meant that the murderer—or murderers—aside from the heinous act itself, were cowardly bastards as well.

But of all the events of that black day, none was worse to me than the arrival of Gilleduff O’Flaherty. I’d not seen my father-in-law for several months, as he ’d been away trading in Spain. One look at his ashen face told me the man was dying. I’d seen that color in the skin before, and always on a person with the wasting disease. Gilleduff ’s eyes were sunk in their sockets and shone far too brightly, as though all that was left of his life force was shootin’ out from his eyes. I hugged him and found that under his bulky cloak he was indeed thin. Oh, it took every bit of strength I had not to show him I knew. But at the first opportunity I fled the confines of Donal Crone ’s gathering room. I walked out to the river and sat, just watchin’ as the tide receded, and thought how
life
was receding from Gilleduff O’Flaherty’s poor body. It occurred to me then that he ’d known his condition for some time, and that bringin’ me into the fold with the fleet when he did was deliberate. ’Twas hard to believe he was meanin’ to pass on his livelihood to me, a woman. Well, I cried then, more tears than I had shed in all of my days. Gilleduff ’s kindness and understanding of myself had made my existence whole again. And now the man was dying. I wondered what, under heaven, I could do to repay him, but it just didn’t come to me. ’Twas gettin’ late and I knew I’d be missed in the gathering room. So I started back.

Just before I reached Moycollen Village I spotted two figures standin’

together behind a cottage. Comin’ a bit closer I could see it was Donal and Finula. They were downwind and too far away for me to hear their words, but any fool could see they were arguin’. I was keen to know what the two of them had to argue about just now, but I could get no closer without bein’ spotted myself. So I proceeded on to the castle, where the Brehon judge had just arrived.

The inquest began soon after, with all that was known about the dreadful affair brought to light. The woman who’d found Walter’s body told how she ’d stumbled over it in the dark. How she ’d fallen and found herself covered in gore. She ’d run for her husband, who’d brought a lamp, and they’d seen the god-awful sight. The judge asked her questions, in particular the time she ’d found him, and whether the blood was warm or cold. Whether the body’d begun to stiffen. The judge then questioned Donal Crone to learn the state of the household the night of the murder. Who was about? Had there been any strangers in the village in the days preceeding? What was the reason for the Burkes’ visit? Who was sleepin’ with whom and where, and had anyone heard a commotion?

While all of this was goin’ on, I watched Finula out the corner of my eye. She was sittin’ there, surrounded by her family—husband David, and stepson John on one side, her father Gilleduff, on the other. She kept wipin’ under her eyes at her cheeks and snifflin’, but I could see that her eyes were
dry.
She was playactin’ her grief, I was sure of it. And then the Brehon judge called Walter’s brother John to testify. Here was a man with a clear motive, next in line, as he was, for the MacWilliamship, after Tall Walter Burke. The judge wanted to know whether John had been in bed all through the night. Might he have been wanderin’ round the castle or grounds? Might he have seen or heard somethin’ amiss?