The Brotherhood of Pirates

by William Gilkerson

  “The way I see it,” said Mother, “if just one person comes to hear every person who’s performing, we’ll have a full house. And there’ll be more, meaning we’ll have to open the whole room.” This had not been done in years; with a diminishing clientele, the inn’s public rooms had been closed down, except for the dining room around the bar. Tables and chairs were there, but everything needed a cleaning blitz, and there were boxes of long disused tableware and glasses to be found and cleaned.

  Whether or not the event could make enough money to make up our next payment was questionable, but it did give us a fighting chance. Meg had put the word out to the performers that this was going to be a benefit gig on their part, because the inn was struggling. All of the musicians were easy with that, and glad to help. So were Bertha Hirtle, Becky Eisnor, and several other ladies from the Women’s Auxiliary who volunteered to come over and wait tables or do whatever else was needed. Folks around Grey Rocks knew about the inn’s struggle and the Moehner plan to modernise the place, and nobody much wanted it to change. The captain chuckled. “You’re Drake,” he said to me aside, “and you’ve got the native chaps on your side.” This threw me.

  “We are the native chaps,” I prompted him.

  “Exactly. Drake sails in and meets the locals the same way your family did when they bought this place. You’re from away, but made friends, and here you are to everybody’s benefit, under Philip II, his regime. However, being polite people, nobody wants to voice it just like that.”

  “You mean Roy Moehner?”

  “Quite. He’s city hall here.”

  “Which is what you can’t fight,” I reflected.

  “I’d say you’ve made a rather good start, Sir Francis. What about Klaus’s dog, have you seen anything of him?” I had not. “Don’t let your guard down,” he advised me, “about that or any other little thing. Now, fetch me my pennywhistle. I must say,” he grouched, “Meg has some new twists on some very old tunes, and she makes me learn ’em her way, y’see. Ah well, it keeps me young, I suppose, except I’ve got a lot of practising to do for this bloody concert.” I started to remind him that the concert was his own idea, but he seemed a bit grouty, so I got him his tin flute and went to work on the posters. Later, Meg and the captain played for two hours, the same tunes over and over, so that I learned them too from afar.

  Sunday services were given largely to Avarice, and Sunday dinner to endless discussion of the concert. The Baywater Beacon had printed the captain’s story much as he had written it, and there had been a number of encouraging responses. When the subject of the cannon came up, Robin could report nothing at all, except that Chief Moehner had remarked that he would personally look into it. A week after the cannon’s remarkable return, nobody had come forward with any knowledge about it. I avoided looking at the captain. Aunt Karen did not.

  “Captain,” she said, “I thought it might amuse you to know that I have come up with another Charles Johnson, a playwright who wrote a drama called, let’s see . . . I’ve made a note . . .”

  “Called The Successful Pirate,” the captain snorted, “which ran on Drury Lane in 1713, a piece of claptrap. The man knew nothing about pirates. He was a hack plagiarist who was contemptuously fat, and spent a good deal of his life at Buttons’ Coffee House, drinking cheap wine with a lot of honey in it, and eating mounds of pastry. If he had ever styled himself ‘captain’ they would have laughed him out of the place.”

  Aunt Karen blinked. “I do not understand, then, how this Captain Johnson could have written what he did and just vanished without any trace.”

  “You’re not the first,” the captain said.

  When Sunday lesson time arrived, I again went to the gate to meet Jenny, whose reluctance had been overcome by her curiosity about the golden link to a pirate queen. Her entrance was stormy. She fairly leapt from the car when her mother pulled up to drop her off, slamming the door with tears in her eyes. Jenny was in an embattled period with her parents, particularly her mother, over what she considered her overprotectiveness.

  “I can’t even go to the library alone!” she fumed. “Nowhere. They’re so afraid something will happen to me. So nothing ever happens to me.”

  Inside, the captain was by his fire, this time with no pointer, tweed, book, or map in sight, just his macramé, and a warm greeting for Jenny.

  “I’m so pleased you’ve come back,” he beamed.

  “What is this?” Jenny asked, producing the link. She had found a little jewellery box for it. The captain insisted she hold it in her hand, close her eyes, and just feel it.

  “I’ve already done that,” she said.

  “And did you feel the presence of Granuaile in it?” He pronounced it “Gran-you-ale.” Jenny looked uncertain. “You should have done, because it’s from a chain she wore, a Spanish chain, brought to her by a nobleman. He was a survivor from one of the galleons that went onto the rocks of her coast in the great gale that wrecked much of the armada there, after Drake and his friends had done with it. Jim here is Drake, by the way, so let’s let you be her, Grace O’Malley, daughter of Dubhdara, who was chieftain of Murrisk, and descended from the old kings. He was a very good sailor. All of the O’Malleys were, along with their friends the Burkes and the O’Flahertys, and they ruled the coasts in much the same way that modern nations do. That is, they patrolled their inshore waters and regulated the coastal shipping according to their laws. They provided local pilots for a price, taxed vessels, or took them if they were deemed enemies.”

  Jenny commented that that sounded reasonable enough. He nodded.

  “They thought so, too, but it was all very informal. You captured a ship, decided how much of what they were carrying was yours, and took it. Simple as that. You were in your own waters. The only difference these days is, when a government confiscates a ship, or a cargo, there’s a lot of paperwork, eh?” Jenny asked where the piracy was in that.

  “The English had a different view about who should control Ireland. I don’t have a map with me today, but if you look at one, you’ll see how the western approaches of England—its connections with all oceans—are dominated by Ireland. In Drake’s time, Queen Elizabeth was pressing to take Catholic Ireland in very much the same way Philip of Spain wanted Protestant England: to get rid of it as a nuisance, and absorb it into the empire.

  “Elizabeth was crafty. Noticing that the Irish clans were constantly fighting each other over this or that, she picked a side and sent forces to help her new Irish ally defeat his enemy. This she did again and again, until the English began to get control, but not over the coasts and unmapped mountains of Mayo and Connaught, where Granuaile grew up. When she was about your age, her father took her to sea with him. Do you like to sail?”

  “I want to,” sighed Jenny, “but my mother won’t let me go out in boats. My mother won’t let me do anything,” she added.

  “Well, here’s your chance, because you’ve got a father who dotes on you, and is pleased and proud that his daughter shows such an aptitude as a sailor. As chieftain, he controls many ships, from deep-sea vessels to small, oared sailing boats that are directly descended from Viking craft, with little change and the same sweet double-ended form. You learn how to handle them all. He takes you to Spain and other places; you experience the freedom of the sea, its demands, and how to handle a crew. You learn everything that Drake learned, except you are a girl.” A smile. “And Irish.

  “And you grow into a very handsome girl indeed, by all accounts: ‘with a most feminine appearance,’ according to an English governor who is one of the many who are taken with you. You have dark eyes, and black hair, after your father. Dubhdara means “black oak.” Portraits of your descendants will show beautiful women with these features. You are taught to read and write in Latin, and trained in the arts of politics and war. You do have a brother, but he becomes a piper, and you’re the one who takes on your father’s role when he dies.”

  “I never marry,” pronounced Jenny.

&nb
sp; “On the contrary, when you’re sixteen you marry an O’Flaherty chieftain’s son, Donal, called ‘Donal of the battles’ after his main interest. But he’s no sailor. While he’s off to war, which is usually, you are in charge of thousands of people, various fortresses, and a lot of ships. You get to know him well enough to bear him two sons and a daughter. When he is killed in one of his fights with some neighbours, you muster your forces and save the day. Now you’re on your own, and your legend begins.”

  “I will never remarry,” pronounced Jenny.

  “Mistress MacGregor,” the captain cranked her back into the present, “if you want to be Granuaile, leave your mind open for surprises. I’m not making this up. Now I’m ready for another rum,” this to me. I got it for him, and had a nip, out of sight behind the bar, a bit more than previously. The captain cocked an eye at me as I returned. Jenny was impatient to get on with it.

  “What do I do?”

  “You fall in love,” said the captain, with a look of great softness.

  “With . . . ?”

  “A shipwrecked and half-drowned young mariner you find in the surf and nurse back to health. Your love is brief. He is murdered by the neighbouring clansmen from the Isle of Doona. You attack, rout their stronghold, put your lover’s murderers to the sword, and add the place to your own holdings. Hereafter you are called the Dark Lady of Doona. You are also called Grace of the Gamblers, because you gamble with your men. All the O’Malleys are great gamblers, none more than you, in your castle at Clare Isle. It is well placed as a raider’s lair, commanding the coastal sea-lane, and the entrance to Clew Bay. Below your walls is an anchorage well sheltered from the westerly gales, with a beach where your Norse galleys, like their Viking forebears, can be dragged up in case of an easterly, or for work.” He lit his pipe, sighing.

  “The place looks much the same today, except your little castle is roofless now. The O’Malleys still gather in the pub, which is the one commercial establishment on Clare Isle, where your tomb is. Today, they like to play poker. But I digress.”

  “How old am I now?” Jenny asked.

  “Around thirty, and you do get married again, this time to a war chieftain of the Burke clan known as Iron Richard after the armour he wears around much of the time. Another soldier. There’s something about him that niggles you, because you lock him out of your castle when he straggles home after a campaign. Standing high above him on the battlements, you pronounce the words of divorce according to ancient Irish law: ‘I dismiss you.’ You say it three times, and there you are, divorced.”

  “I shall never again permit him in my presence,” said Jenny.

  “Well, you do, because you afterward bear him a son, Theobold of the Ships as he’ll be known, who you deliver at sea in primitive circumstances while on a trading voyage to Spain. The next day, while you’re nursing your infant, your vessel is attacked by Turkish pirates. The ships close and clash, hulls grinding together. It soon appears the enemy is getting the upper hand over your people, so you gently place Theobold in his berth, snatch up a loaded firearm, and plunge above, yelling in a fury at your men: ‘Can’t you do without me for even a day?’ It shames them as Irishmen. They rally, slaying their enemies, capturing their ship.

  “England is not so easy to deal with. Elizabeth is outflanking you on land, encroaching on your own territory, making chieftain after Irish chieftain take the vow of loyalty that she wants from everybody in exchange for her authorised title to their own lands. Your response is to step up raids on English shipping in and out of Galway. This is when the English brand you a pirate.”

  “But . . .” said Jenny.

  “Never mind the whys of it. There you are. A pirate, a wanted woman. You are captured, taken by surprise, imprisoned, no freedom, bad food, disrespectful treatment. A new and unwelcome experience, eh? Over the months, you see three other rebel prisoners led to their executions for smaller offences than yours, and you’re waiting for your turn. So you bargain. There are times for that, and this is one. You’ve been behind bars for a year and a half, and your prospects are not good. You make a formal submission to the English so that they will release you, letting you regroup against this new force that is threatening everything you have ever come to love. What do you do next?”

  “Fight on,” said Jenny.

  “And so you do, humouring your enemy while building your clan’s strength; also building a network of beacons around Clew Bay. They alert you in your new castle at Carrickahowley to the traffic on your coast. Again, you’re a threat. And you’re really on your own, because your second husband has died. Now the English march in force into your domain. You fight back, but your people suffer terribly. Women and children are murdered, cattle driven off, homes burnt. Hundreds of your clansmen are hanged, and you are again captured. A gallows is built just for you.”

  “I die for my people, and for my beliefs,” said Jenny.

  “In point of fact, you pay a thousand head of cattle and get off, but before you can recover, the English come for you again, again pillaging your kingdom. You fight on. Your people—those who have survived—are still behind you, and nobody can challenge you at sea. This is the time, 1588, when you meet the Spanish chap who gives you the gold chain with the link you are holding. The Spaniards are your best allies against Elizabeth, but Drake and his friends have decisively disposed of them. You strike the English again and again, by land and sea, but you realise at last that your way of life is no more. In your future are only old age, poverty, and ever more blood. Your best kinsmen are in English jails, including your sons. You are now sixty-three years old.”

  “Now I die for my beliefs?”

  “You’re past beliefs. There’s nothing left for you but submission, but you’re still a bargainer and a gambler, so you decide to submit to Elizabeth in your own way. In July of 1593, you set sail, in command of one of your ships. You round Ireland and Land’s End, avoiding the famous Killigrew pirates that control those waters, then head up the Western Channel, pass Dover, thread the treacherous sands and currents off the Thames, and steer to London. There you land, requesting to see your old adversary Queen Elizabeth. Perhaps she will decapitate you, quite likely without even giving you an audience. But your nose says she will see you, and maybe something can be worked out.”

  “And she does?”

  “She does. The English pirate queen getting a chance to chat with the Irish pirate queen. How could she resist?”

  “What do I wear to court?”

  “Your Gaelic chieftain’s cloak, a plain thing, fur-lined. You are in striking contrast to the richly ornamented, bejewelled and powdered Elizabeth I and her court. In any case, you meet and talk at length, two powerful women, alone. You get on very well, speaking in Latin. You don’t speak English, but besides the common language of scholars, you do have a lot in common. At the end of your conversation, Elizabeth gives you everything you could hope for: freedom for your imprisoned sons, a full pardon for you, even an assured income from your family estates for the rest of your life. Rare treatment for a pirate.”

  “She dies peacefully?”

  “They all do, Granuaile and Elizabeth in 1603, soon after Drake and Philip II of Spain. And which of them was the greatest pirate, would you say? Was it Philip, whose conquistadores looted all the Americas and more? Or Elizabeth, who sent out fleets to loot the looters? Or Drake, the greatest looter of them all? Or was it Granuaile, who looted England’s shipping after Elizabeth looted her homeland? What do you think?”

  “Where did you get this?” Jenny asked, fingering the gold link.

  “That’s another story for another time.”

  “Why should I believe it’s really from a chain that she wore?”

  “You shouldn’t, even though it is. But if you hold it and feel it in your hand, you won’t have to believe it because you will know.” The clock rang two bells, the lesson was over, and Jenny’s mother was at the door to pick her up.

  “That was good,” she whispered
to me on her way out.

  My concern was that my pirates essay was due in a few days, and we hadn’t even gotten near the pirates that I had meant to write about. He advised that I title what I learned so far: “Western Piracy through the Elizabethan Period,” and tell Miss Titherington I wished to stay with the subject for my next semester’s essay. I thought she would probably allow that, but I was feeling confused. If everybody so far was a pirate, then who wasn’t one? This got him up and pacing by the hearth.

  “That’s the very question that had everybody confused. At the beginning of the seventeenth century, nobody had any more idea than ever. Not just the Caribbean, but Europe’s home waters were swarming with pirates. There were all kinds of aristocratic types, like Granuaile, who claimed their ancestral coasts. For instance, Cornwall was the territory of the Earl of Killigrew, called the Pirate Baron of Land’s End. Under James I, Killigrew prospered, paying off whoever needed paying off in courtly society in order to get away with taking a lot of passing ships. Of course, one didn’t do that oneself; one got a professional captain to do it. In Killigrew’s case, that was a young aristocrat named Peter Easton, and he handled his fleet so well he nearly stopped shipping traffic in the Bristol Channel in 1610. Very inconvenient.”

  “Why didn’t the king send the navy after him?”

  “Dear boy, aside from the fact that, one way or another, the king was getting a share of the take, he didn’t have a navy. Navies hadn’t happened. If you were a reigning monarch who needed ships, you borrowed them. That’s what barons, earls, dukes, and such were for. Everything was about to change, however, thanks in good measure to Easton. Mr. Easton finally niggled so many rich shipowners, other aristocrats and whatnot, that they put together a squadron of warships to go clean the pirates out of Cornwall.”