The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell (26 page)

They were well fed and deep in their cups when the English turned on Owen, and at swordpoint bound and arrested him—he and eighteen of his best men. Next morning they drew out of the island four thousand cows, five hundred horses, and a thousand sheep, leaving those men remaining on the island altogether naked in the world. Owen and his followers were marched cross-country to Ballinahinch and brought before Bingham, who’d been waiting there for his prize. He made Owen watch as all eighteen of his men were hanged, some drawn and quartered in the English style. He enjoys that, Bingham does, forcing you to watch your loved ones die.” Hook was raking his fingers through his hair over and over again, loath to report the cruel ending of his story.

“Tell me, son,” I said, very gentle like, “how did Owen die?”

“They’d thrown him in a cottage, still bound hand and foot, and left alone to curse his own stupidity. By that night he ’d already died eighteen times over when those English bastards burst in and fell on him with knives. He was altogether helpless as they struck and struck again.

Twelve deadly wounds he suffered. Poor Owen.” He looked at me then, but I was still as a statue and dry-eyed.

“Grace,” he said, “there ’s more.”

“More? How can there be more than my firstborn son’s murder!”

“Bingham marched to Burrishoole—”

“No—”

“He did, and he took Tibbot hostage. He ’s all right, Grace. He ’s in no danger.”

“No danger! In the home of that monster?” I made for the door.

“Wait, wait,” cried Hook. “Tibbot ’s being well cared for, I promise you. There are other children in the household at Ballymote. He ’s learning English.”

My heart lurched then, recalling Tibbot’s “trait.” What
else
would he learn, and what would he forget?

“I’ve come for reinforcements,” Hook said. “Gallowglass.
Your
 hands are tied, Grace, with Tibbot your pledge of good conduct. But mine are not. I’ll fight the Burkes’ rebellion for you, for I love your family as my own.”

Well, that was how it was. One son dead, another in English custody.

All the places I called home crawlin’ with Crown soldiers. I was forced to fish and trade and plunder with no safe haven to anchor. Even ferrying Ineen Dubh’s crazy Scotsmen to the Connaught rebellion was risky, for if Bingham gathered proof of such a thing, my Tibbot could be hanged in his mother’s place.

Well, I was more than heartsick, you can imagine. To lose a child of my own body—and so gentle a man as Owen O’Flaherty was—to as ruthless a creature as Bingham, turned my days and my dreams to nightmares. I desired the bloodiest revenge on the Englishman, but for the first time in my life, I was helpless. One false move and Tibbot would himself die. I was forced to let the months pass with no word from the boy, and my letters to him were surely burnt before he saw them. Bingham’s household servants were all English and loyal to their master, so with no spies therein, news of Tibbot was scarce indeed.

Then came the report that rocked all of Ireland. The English had kidnapped Red Hugh O’Donnell, lured him aboard their ship with the promise of entertainments and fine Spanish wine. ’Twas appalling how easily he ’d been tricked—Red Hugh, “Savior of Ulster”—and terrible to imagine him rotting in Dublin Prison. The Crown knew, as we all did, what a force the boy was in northern Ireland, and they wished to forestall the rebellion they knew he ’d bring. But the act made clear to the Irish—

loyalist and rebel alike—how treacherous were the English, and from that day on all were leery, and we all protected our backs.

Soon after Red Hugh’s abduction I learned that a Ballymote miller had just delivered a great quantity of his goods to Bingham’s house, and the same with a local butcher. So I went to Ballymote Town and snooped round a bit, only to find that a marriage was taking place at the castle.

The groom was my own son Tibbot.

I was destroyed by the news, for ’twas not just the thought of my child’s future being wrenched from his mother’s control, but the choice of his wife in particular. Maeve was niece to Donal O’Connor Sligo, a North Mayo chieftain. He was not much of a man, but worse, he ’d been loyal to the Crown for thirty years. My son was marrying into the family of my enemy, and there was naught to be done to stop it.

Perhaps ’twas something perverse in myself, but I wished to be present for that terrible moment, and perhaps more than that I desired a glimpse of my boy. So I contrived a disguise—the one I carried off to the best effect, a man—and for Tibbot’s wedding day, friend of O’Connor Sligo’s. Guards were abounding that sunny morning, posted at the castle gate and all through the gardens, which were milling with English settlers and their Irish sympathizers. But my manner was calm and subdued, and I slipped in with no fuss a’tall, with not a soul recognizing me for who I was.

I found myself a seat near the front of the chapel and prayed that the fierce beating of my heart would not be heard by everyone. O’Connor Sligo was there with his brother and wife—parents of the bride—and Richard Bingham, matchmaker, with whom they were chuckling under their breath. I wanted to jump up and wring their miserable necks. But now came the bride and groom to the altar—the Protestant altar—and they knelt before the horse-faced chaplain who, in his bloodless tones, joined the two children as man and wife. I could see half of Tibbot’s face, for he ’d turned it to look at Maeve . . . and the look was pure adoration. She was beautiful, with hair the color of gold, and fine pale skin touched with roses on cheek and lip. I saw in that moment he loved her, and knew he ’d forgotten me, his family and clan, and what a betrayal this marriage was to us all.

Once joined in matrimony they swept—a golden pair—down the aisle and into the sunlit garden for the wedding feast. ’Twas a grand affair that I haven’t the heart to describe. Several times I moved to speak with Tibbot, but at every turn he was thronged with well-wishers. I never took my eyes from him that day, hopin’ to see a glimmer of unease or misery at his plight, but to be honest there was none a’tall. He spoke in English, the speedy learning of that language another blow to me. But when Richard Bingham came, throwin’ his arm round Tibbot’s shoulders, and my son’s smile faltered not at all, I was forced to turn away, and I fled that place, for a weeping man was sure ruination of my disguise.

As I rode away I was all of a sudden brought to mind of a strange creature I’d seen in a Portuguese factor’s home when I was a child. ’Twas called a “chameleon,” an animal whose color would change in a trice to whatever color upon which he sat. Tibbot was that—a chameleon. I was wretched at the thought, but only for a moment, for I knew then the action I must take. I’d learnt in my life that no matter the circumstance, action is the best cure for wretchedness, as surely as mulberry is for a fever.

’Twas a simple matter, after all was said and done, to spring the boy from Bingham’s clutches, though ’twas half a year more before the plan was carried out. I’d stayed round Ballymote Town in my disguise, takin’

rooms at the local inn. Over time I learned Tibbot’s movements and his favorite haunts. When I thought I knew his comings and goings, I sent word to Devil’s Hook to come with a dozen men. On an overcast day in September, I had reckoned he ’d come alone, and we lay in wait in the greenwood where the boy would ride out to hunt and hawk. This day Tibbot did not come alone. Maeve was with him.

But the moment had arrived to act. The couple rode into our trap, and with no sound save the commotion of our horses, we shot from our hiding places, cutting them off and surrounding them. Maeve screamed and Tibbot’s horse reared in surprise. I took that moment to plant myself in front of him and pulled off my hat, letting my hair fall down round my shoulders so he should see very quickly who his abductors were.

He stared at me for a long moment. “Mam!” he cried. “What are you doin’ here?”

“What do you think I’m doin’ here?” I said, annoyed. “I’ve come to take you home.”

The look of confusion on Tibbot’s face was so complete ’twould have made me laugh had it not been such a dire moment. “Well, are you comin’ with us, or do you prefer Richard Bingham’s house to mine?”

“Of course I’ll come!” he cried, but then looked wildly toward Maeve. She in turn was starin’ at me as though she ’d seen the Devil on horseback. “What about Maeve?” Tibbot said. “She ’s my wife.”

“I know,” I said. “I saw you married.” His shock was evident. “ ’Tis a long story, Tibbot. I’ll tell you later. But will she come of her own accord and without a fuss? For we can’t afford a wiggling girl while we ’re escaping.”

Well, he talked to her then, in whispers, all the time touchin’ her hand or her face, and I saw that they truly loved each other, and ’twas no surprise when Tibbot turned back with a smile that stretched from ear to ear.

“She ’ll come, Mam!” he cried. “She ’ll come with us gladly.” The rest was easy, though the two of them had to squeeze in the space made for one amidst baskets of vegetables in the rude farmer’s cart we had waitin’ at the edge of the wood.

Richard Bingham was fit to be tied at the loss of his hostage, but lucky for me there was no time for retribution. Philip of Spain had recovered from Drake ’s raid on Cadiz and was threatening to launch his armada on England. No one knew their landing place, and some believed ’twas the south coast of Munster. Bingham and the other captains had their hands full, and in those months much of Connaught fell back into the hands of its own people.

Meanwhile, my chameleon son had, with the greatest ease, changed his colors and stripes once again. English pretense was gone and Gaelic fire burned in his eyes. Of all people,
I
was his idol—rebel, pirate, leader of loyal men. I had so much to teach him, he said, and he would be my faithful student. He begged me to give him a ship of his own to captain, and how could I refuse him? He was grateful beyond measure and easy in his new life on the sea. “Tibbot of the Boats” he ’d remind me was his name, and never was there mention of the two years in Richard Bingham’s house.

He did insist on teachin’ me English. I recalled what Hugh O’Neill had said, that to know the English mind you must know the language. I took to it easy enough—like mother, like son, I suppose—and had no regrets for the knowledge gained.

Of all people, I needn’t tell you about the coming of the Spanish Armada. We in Ireland rejoiced, for we saw that you English finally knew the fear of foreign invasion. Of course ’twas short-lived, not like our own that had gone on for twenty years by now. And your fear turned to joy and celebration when victory was gifted you by the Fates and the north wind. Soon what was left of King Philip’s fleet was limping round the north of Scotland, and down its western coast to Connaught. We ’d been told—ordered in fact—to give no succor to the Spaniard washed up on our shores. ’Twould be treason, your edicts claimed. Help England’s enemy, it said, and suffer death ourselves. And Richard Bingham, fired by a burnin’ hatred of Spain, would see to it that Connaught obeyed to the letter of the law that bloody edict.

It pains me to recall that terrible autumn. The seas along the western coast of Ireland had never been so stormy as they were that year. Here they came, the ships of the Spanish fleet, one by one straggling with tattered sails and broken masts, hugging the shore as close as they dared.

Little did they know that waitin’ there for any hapless ship washed up upon the beach, or broken on rocky shoals, were hoards of desperate Irish men, women, children—themselves battered by years of English occupation. They were near starving, they were ragged and ill, and they feared further retribution should they disobey their masters. And too, waiting on the craggy headlands like vultures for their next meal, were the chieftains, the once proud Gaelic headmen, now of divided minds, the largest part greed and expediency. The poor sailors were massacred, their bodies stripped of clothing, jewels, and money.

But worse was yet to come. Streaming out of the forests and glens and down to the beaches were English troops in their numbers who, with drawn sword and pistol, slaughtered the miserable castaways in terrible numbers—seven thousand when all was said and done. The truth is, more of Philip’s troops were slain in obscurity on the shores of western Ireland than in the famous battle in your English Channel.

Not all of us took part in that despicable mayhem. Hugh O’Neill.

The Devil’s Hook. But the greatest surprise of all was Murrough ne Doe O’Flaherty, twenty years loyal to the English for putting him at the head of his clan. Even though his eldest son was held as hostage by Bingham, he came to our side, God bless him.

I myself had taken up residence again at Rockfleet, and my own small armada was in fine repair. Tibbot, back at Burrishoole with Maeve and his firstborn, Miles, was also waiting, prepared with his ships, which, by this time numbered seven. Like me, he bore the Spanish only good will, for while under my tutelage he ’d seen me trade and pilot and befriend our southern neighbors. We watched the procession of doomed ships coast along our shores. If weather allowed it, we ’d leave our sheltered harbors to guide the Spanish ships round our treacherous coastline, leading ’em to the Bay of Biscay to fend for themselves.

Finally, in November of 1588, standing on the windy battlements of Rockfleet Keep, I spied through my glass a great ship braving the monstrous seas on its way south. I wondered that it sailed at all, for its sheets were in shreds and its mainsail gone altogether. At the harbor’s mouth it turned.

I rushed to the Rockfleet beach where villagers had gathered, armed with knives and pitchforks and clubs. I could see hunger in their faces and hope for salvation. Aye, “salvation” from salvaged booty. But I went to them, walked among them, even as the great ship limped closer to shore.

“Look,” I said. “I know you wish for some good to come from this fine vessel owned by the King of Spain himself. To be sure there ’ll be treasures aboard her, and I won’t begrudge you those treasures. God knows I’ve lifted some booty in my life.” Some laughed at that, though most were too desperate for levity. “All I’m sayin’ is, there ’s hundreds of poor souls aboard that ship. They’ve suffered somethin’ terrible.