Cave of Secrets

by Morgan Llywelyn

  Séamus stood knee deep in water to shove the currach forward, then vaulted over the side and took a place in the stern. The drumbeat of oars with four men rowing was like a mighty heartbeat.

  The waves came to meet them.

  In common with all currachs, the boat was made of hides stretched over a light but sturdy frame of wickerwork. It was large enough to transport a grown cow from one island to another. As flexible as a living creature, the currach adapted to every wave.

  Tom had watched his father’s head groom break colts to the saddle. The young horses leaped and plunged, but the head groom clung to them like a burr. He made it look easy. As the currach began to leap and plunge Tom realised it was not easy. His head knew he was in no danger of falling, but his stomach had a different opinion.

  ‘Sit easy, lad,’ Muiris said out of the side of his mouth. ‘Do not fight the motion, ride with it.’

  Tom followed his advice. Soon he was grinning into the wind. His eyes adjusted to the darkness. The water seemed to give off a faint light of its own, as if reflecting the vanished day.

  He had not brought a warm coat because he had never seen the others wearing warm coats. It was cold on the bay after the sun went down, but he loved it. The pitch sealing the seams of the oxhide had a sharp smell that caught in the back of his throat. He loved it.

  At night Roaringwater Bay seemed larger than ever. Wave upon heaving wave rolled away towards the end of the world. Tom could not tell where the boat was in relation to the land. If the land was still out there. Perhaps it had disappeared entirely, and he would ride the cresting waves in the company of these men forever.

  He loved it.

  When he saw a dark bulk looming off to one side he knew they were passing an island. Soon a small red glow appeared to the other side.

  ‘There she is,’ Seán announced. ‘I see the captain’s lamp.’

  The oarsmen adjusted their direction.

  ‘Sit easy, Tomás,’ Muiris said again. ‘You are not going aboard this time.’

  This time!

  ‘Stay in the boat with Séamus and Fergal to receive our cargo. Séamus will show you how to distribute the load evenly in the bottom of the boat. It is important to keep a currach stable.’

  Tom had seen sailing ships only at a distance. He had no idea of their true size. As the currach drew alongside, he had to tilt his head back to look up as far as the gunwales. He had expected great sails towering overhead, yards and yards of billowing canvas like the clouds that sailed above the bay. But the sails were lowered. The wind whistled through the shrouds.

  Tom was awestruck. ‘That ship is enormous!’

  Séamus laughed. ‘You think that’s big? She’s only a little Portuguese caravel out of Lisbon.’

  ‘How can you tell?’

  ‘Easy enough. She has a square-rigged foremast raked well forward, with a foresail and topsail and a spritsail over the bows. That high stern is to keep her from being overwhelmed by following seas when she’s sailing before the wind. Her flags tell her nationality and home port.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Tom.

  A rope ladder was thrown down from above. Muiris and Seán scrambled up with marvellous agility and disappeared over the rail. The others waited below.

  Tom was aware of the bulk of the ship looming above him. The caravel had a voice of its own. It groaned and muttered like an old man who could not get comfortable in his bed. From somewhere deep in its bowels came a rumbling noise.

  Time passed. The men waiting in the currach heard human voices above them, though they could not make out the words. Someone held a lantern aloft and peered over the side. The light lasted only for a few moments before it was withdrawn.

  More time passed. Then – ‘Ready below?’ Muiris called down.

  ‘Ready,’ Séamus answered crisply.

  A loaded cargo net was swung over the side of the ship and lowered, swinging, toward the water. Séamus and Fergal prepared to pull it into the boat. Tom was faster. He leaped to his feet and tried to catch hold of the net himself.

  The currach promptly rolled sideways, in the direction of the waiting ship. Tom frantically cartwheeled his arms in the air to regain his balance.

  He failed.

  The icy water waited below. The caravel was so close it looked like crushing him. He tried to throw himself back into the boat, but his weight was too far committed in the other direction. He felt himself going, going ….

  A strong hand caught him by the back of his collar and pulled him to safety.

  ‘Amadán!’ scolded Fergal. ‘What are you doing at all?’

  ‘Trying to help,’ Tom panted.

  ‘You can help by following instructions. Sit down there and wait,’ said Séamus.

  Tom sat.

  The two men eased the loaded cargo net into the middle of the boat. When it was settled, Fergal whistled two short notes. The lantern was held over the rail again. ‘Is there any more?’ Fergal called up.

  ‘One more. Mind yourselves now.’

  ‘Sit still, Tomás,’ Séamus repeated, unnecessarily. Tom was folded in upon himself, too ashamed to move.

  When the second net reached the currach the two men settled it behind the first. Séamus told Tom, ‘Ease towards the stern now while we open the nets.’

  Tom needed all of his courage to obey. The slightest movement of the currach made his stomach turn over. When he reached the stern, Séamus said, ‘I will hand you boxes from one of the nets. Arrange them in the bottom of the boat. The lightest in the front, the heavier ones behind.’

  In near darkness, Tom obeyed. The boxes were of different shapes and sizes. Some rattled when he lifted them. ‘What’s in these?’

  ‘Spices and palm oil,’ said Fergal, ‘from the West Indies. We have jugs of black rum, too. They go in the centre of the boat.’

  ‘What is black rum?’

  ‘The sweetest drink you could ever taste, Tomás, except you won’t be tasting this lot. Neither will the men who are expecting it. Their shipment seems to have come up short.’

  The two men cackled with laughter.

  When the nets were empty and their contents stowed in the currach, Fergal gave another sharp whistle. Unseen hands hauled the empty nets back up to the deck of the ship. Moments later, Muiris and Seán climbed down the rope ladder and into their boat.

  ‘Good job, lads,’ Muiris remarked as they rowed away from the ship.

  Tom expected Séamus to tell his brother about Tom’s disobedience. When he said nothing, the boy threw him a grateful glance – which Séamus could not see in the dark.

  After a few minutes Tom remarked, ‘You didn’t really need me, Muiris. You had enough men already.’

  ‘Enough for this job, perhaps, but there will be other times when we do need help. It is important that you have experience.’

  ‘I’ve had plenty of experience tonight,’ Tom said truthfully.

  The currach travelled on. Ploughing the rough sea, under the silent stars.

  ‘Did you pay the captain?’ Fergal asked Muiris.

  ‘I did, of course. I paid him exactly what we had agreed. He thought he should have more, but …’

  ‘You made him think again.’

  ‘I made him think again,’ said Muiris. ‘We will have a nice profit out of this night’s work.’

  Tom spoke up. ‘If you paid him, it wasn’t robbery.’

  ‘Of course it was not robbery,’ Muiris said. He sounded insulted. ‘It was business. Though I grant you, it can be hard to tell the difference. Some ship captains are honest. Others, like the one on that caravel, are corrupt to the bone. They skim their ship’s supplies and sell the goods ashore, or keep the ship undermanned and pocket the money that is meant to hire a larger crew. And it is not always the captain who is dishonest. Sometimes it is the owner. There are many ways in which the owner of a ship, or a fleet of ships, can enrich himself and no one the wiser. Och, Tomás, we have many partners in our business.’

  * * *
/>   William Flynn stood in the doorway of his wife’s bed-chamber. ‘Are you awake? The hour is late, but–’

  ‘I am usually awake, even at this hour,’ replied a soft voice from the darkness. ‘Is something wrong, William?’

  ‘I fear I must return to Dublin.’ He went to sit beside her on the bed. ‘I should never have left the capital when I did. I let myself be discouraged and gave in, which is not like me.’

  ‘No, dear,’ she agreed, moving over to make more room for him.

  ‘I hesitate to tell you this because I do not want to worry you, Kate. Strangers have been asking questions in Bantry about the size of my property. Unless I act quickly, the bailiffs may throw us off our land and give it to the New English.’

  His wife gave a muffled cry of distress.

  He swiftly gathered her into his arms. ‘Don’t be frightened, Kate,’ he murmured. ‘’Pon my honour, I vow no one will take your home from you.’

  ‘How can you prevent it?’

  ‘By following the advice I was given,’ he replied. ‘I shall call on the Lord Deputy, Thomas Wentworth, in Dublin Castle. Beg him on bended knee if I must. My desire for a political appointment is not merely selfish ambition; it is a matter of survival. If I have a position with the administration I can protect my property.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘I am not certain of anything any more,’ Flynn said gloomily.

  She forgot her own distress. ‘Oh my dear, this will mean another dreadfully long ride for you.’

  ‘Not this time. In the interest of haste, I shall ride to Cobh and book passage on a ship from there.’ He forced a smile. ‘We are about to have a ship owner in the family, remember? Might as well make use of him.’

  CHAPTER NINE

  Summer Storm

  Afterwards Tom could hardly believe his adventure. He was safely back in his bed by the time the sun was up. The night had passed as swiftly as a dream. But he had proof of his exploits. His damp clothing, still smelling of salt and pitch, was wadded up in a corner of his room.

  Tucked under his goosedown pillow were several small, tightly wrapped packets. Muiris had given them to him when they parted. ‘Thank you for the night’s work, Tomás. You are entitled to a share of the proceeds.’

  When Tom unwrapped one of the packets he found a number of small brown stones. He was puzzled. ‘Why are you giving me pebbles?’

  Muiris chuckled. ‘Not pebbles, lad. Whole nutmegs. Those other packets contain cloves and mace and cinnamon, as well as saffron and ginger. Spices have become very costly because of the import duties. If you sell yours in the village markets you can make quite a bit of money – just don’t mention where you got them. Better still, keep them. A pinch of spice in your mother’s food may tempt her appetite.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to care about my mother’s welfare.’

  Muiris cocked one eyebrow. ‘Some say I am a kind man, Tomás.’

  As soon as Tom had washed his face in the basin on his washstand and dressed in fresh clothes, he went down to the kitchen. He found Cook pummelling a large ball of dough. He stood watching for several moments, savouring the yeasty smell. Then he took a folded square of paper from his pocket and laid it on the table. ‘This is to season Mother’s food,’ he said.

  Cook frowned at him. ‘Are you playing another of your pranks, Master Thomas?’

  ‘I am not. Truly.’

  Unfolding the paper, Cook found a small quantity of red powder. She lowered her head and sniffed. ‘Cinnamon! And richer than the stuff that costs a fortune in Bantry. Where did this come from?’

  ‘A friend gave it to me as a gift for Mother,’ Tom said casually. He was thankful that servants were discouraged from asking questions. ‘Do you think she will like it? If she does, I have this for her, and this too.’ He produced several other papers.

  When Cook sniffed the nutmeg her eyes lit up. ‘The very thing for making a hot posset, and myself knowing Walter Raleigh’s own secret recipe for sack posset,’ she boasted.

  ‘A secret? Can you tell me? Please?’

  ‘You’re a bit of a dark horse, Master Thomas. You’re a great one for the eating but I never knew you were interested in the cooking.’

  Tom grinned. ‘I’m interested in a lot of things. You would be surprised.’

  ‘Hmmph,’ she said, ‘I’ve reared seven childer of me own. Nothing about young ones surprises me any more. But I’ll tell you, so I will. Because you said please.

  ‘First boil together half a pint of sack sherry and half a pint of ale. Take the pot away from the fire and stir in a quart of hot cream – not boiled, mind, just scalding. And stir slow. Sweeten the mixture with lots of honey and grated nutmeg, then pour it into a well-warmed pewter bowl. And there you have it, Master Thomas.’ She beamed with pride. ‘The drink that gave the famous Raleigh his strength. ’Twill surely do our poor lady a power of good.’

  While Cook prepared and served the posset, Tom avoided his father. William Flynn was about to leave for Dublin again. The boy did not join his sisters at the door to wave goodbye. Instead he went upstairs to see if his mother had drunk the hot posset. The pewter bowl on the candle stand beside her bed was empty and she was sleeping peacefully. Perhaps there was even a little colour in her cheeks?

  Perhaps not.

  Clouds were gathering over the bay. The wind brought a smell of rain.

  * * *

  Later in the day Tom grew restless. The gathering storm was making him jumpy. His mother had retired to her room and his sisters were busy with their own amusements. Roaringwater House crouched sullenly on its ground while every gust of wind sent more draughts billowing through the large, high-ceilinged rooms.

  Tom did not expect to be summoned that night. The weather was too threatening. There was nothing for it but to remain inside and imagine a different, better life.

  Donal and Maura would be sitting by their hearth, warm and snug, surrounded by loving family. The children might be helping their mother card wool or listening to someone tell stories. Muiris was a great one for relating history, but Seán was better at the legends of ancient Ireland. His words could bring to life the grim Fomorians who had built giant stone fortresses along the western coast; the beautiful and magical Tuatha dé Danann who could control the wind and weather; the aristocratic Milesians whose iron swords had driven the Tuatha dé Danann underground – or caused them to turn themselves into thorn trees.

  And Seán’s wife could sing haunting songs of the Gaelic past that brought tears to the eyes.

  Why is there no music in this house? Tom wondered. In the great hall there was a fine old harp which his mother used to play, or so she said. He had never heard her playing it. The elaborately carved body of the instrument was usually dusty and the strings were tarnished. When he ran his fingers across them they gave off a shrill whine.

  The wind rose with a shrill whine.

  * * *

  At the first rumble of thunder Maura climbed onto her mother’s lap. ‘Make it go away,’ she pleaded. She had been practising her English recently, so she could talk to Tomflynn better.

  ‘Only God can do that, girsha.’

  ‘You were praying to Him just now. I saw your lips move. Ask Him to make it go away.’

  Bríd twined the child’s silky curls around her fingers. ‘I am asking Him for too much already,’ she said. ‘I am praying for the lives of all the people on the sea today. That is a fierce storm coming. Ships may be blown onto the rocks, or overturned by the gale, and the poor people will struggle in the water, choking and gasping, until it pulls them down. Och, that is a terrible death!’

  Maura pulled free of her mother’s caress. ‘Why do people be on ships?’ she asked reasonably.

  ‘Some men cannot stay in one place forever, like a tree on its roots,’ Bríd explained. ‘The need for movement is in them. Ships take them where they could not go on their feet.’

  ‘They should stay home,’ Maura declared with conviction.

/>   From the other side of the hearth Donal said, ‘If he did not go smuggling, would our father stay home?’

  ‘He would not, and why should he? My husband is a warrior like his father’s fathers. He would go into the mountains and join the rebel chieftains.’

  Donal’s eyes sparkled with excitement. ‘Would he be fighting the Sasanach then?’

  ‘Muiris is fighting the Sasanach now,’ Bríd replied calmly.

  Maura said, ‘The stuff he takes is worth a lot of money. He hurts the Sasanach somefin’ awful, ’cos they love money more than anyfing.’

  Her mother’s shoulders shook with laughter.

  Muiris entered the cabin, brushing the rain from his clothes. ‘Why are you laughing?’

  His wife said, ‘Your daughter has the clearest eyes of any of us.’

  ‘I know that,’ he replied as he bent down and gathered Maura into his arms. ‘When I need someone to tell me the truth, I ask this little one.’

  * * *

  As it always did, the storm finally blew itself out. The following day was gilded with late summer. Deep blue water reflected deep blue sky. The formerly furious wind was peacefully employed in filling the sails of countless vessels. They glided across the bay and around the coast of Ireland.

  As he drew near the cliffs, Tom squinted to see better. Even the nearest small boat was too far away for him to recognise the occupants. The great ships that braved the trade routes from Africa and Spain were no more than dots on the horizon. He wondered if one of them would be waiting at Cobh when his father arrived.

  Would there be pirates lurking along the way?

  Tom was almost sorry Muiris was not a pirate. He could imagine the two men facing one another on the deck of a ship. William Flynn would lose all his bluster then. Muiris would not hurt him – of course not! – but he would make him feel helpless. Perhaps Muiris would even say, ‘Tomás is my man now.’

  Donal was not waiting in the cove. Sure of his welcome, Tom struck out for the settlement in the valley. He found Donal and Maura beside the river, scrubbing a cooking pot with sand. ‘Tomflynn!’ the little girl cried when she saw him. ‘Did you hear the storm last night, Tomflynn?’