by Amy McLean
"But Daddy, I—"
"No, your father's words are wise. What Gráinne has proposed is our best—and it seems our only—option," Donal agreed, his own words well considered as he tried to make sense of it all. He turned to face Grace: "When do we leave?"
"Tomorrow morning. It wouldn't be practical for us to set off tonight. Nobody is ready, and the darkness will descend much too quickly." Grace wasn't sure how she knew when they should depart—she'd never even been sailing before—but she agreed with herself as the words left her mouth. It seemed to make sense, regardless of how her thoughts had come about.
"I'll round up the men this evening to let them know. What do you propose I tell them?"
"I think it would be best if you just let them know that we will be setting off for England tomorrow. I'll hold a meeting at eight o'clock in the morning to inform them what is to happen."
"I could cook breakfast before we set off!" exclaimed Cathleen.
"As lovely as the breakfast sounds," Donal said, "you can't possibly come with us, Cathleen."
"Donal, please let me!" She slumped back into her chair.
"It's not right for girls to be out at sea."
"But Miss Gráinne's—"
"Gráinne's different. We need her to steer the ship. Besides, what would your father think?" He turned to Mr O'Flynn, hoping for support.
"Cathleen is sixteen now, Donal. She must learn to take responsibility for her own actions. If she wishes to risk her life at sea, then this is something I shall have to deal with."
Mr O'Flynn's attitude toward his daughter was unexpected, and Grace quite liked his surprisingly modern approach.
"Gráinne?"
"If Cathleen wishes to join us, then she shall."
It wasn't what Donal had hoped to hear. He knew that Cathleen's life would be in danger, but he had to accept his sister's wishes. She was, after all, the captain.
"Thank you, Miss Gráinne!" Cathleen leapt up and ran round to the other side of the table. She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around Grace. "I've always wanted to sail on your ship. I'm ever so grateful!"
Grace placed a hand on Cathleen's back. She wasn't sure if she'd made the right decision or not in allowing such a young girl to join them, but it didn't seem fair that she was denied the opportunity to travel with them just because of her sex. It was likely that she would soon be facing betrothal, and this may be her only chance to experience the sea.
"You're welcome, Cathleen. If you would all please excuse me, I think I'd like to go for a walk so I can go over the plans for tomorrow and make sure everything is in order."
She must have been walking for over an hour by the time she reached the highest point on the hill. Cathleen had offered to take the letter to Mrs O'Coyne's house as she was sure that her son would be able to send it on and ensure that it reached Black Tom. With the departure for England taken care of, Grace was free to go over the next stage of the plan.
In all the time it took her to walk up the hill, she had struggled to formulate a solid strategy. She had to confess, if only to herself, that she didn't really know what she was doing. She was surprised that she'd not actually revealed her true identity yet, or that the others hadn't realised that she wasn't actually Captain Gráinne O'Malley. She certainly had no idea what she was going to do tomorrow, but she hoped something would come to her soon. If it didn't, Tibbott would remain in captivity.
She reached the peak of the hill and planted her feet firmly on the ground, her posture straight. She hadn't set off with the intention of climbing the largest hill on Clare Island, but her feet took her there without explanation. Croaghmore stood at over fifteen hundred feet tall, and offered Grace a view of the island that took her breath away. It was hard to make anything out, with the mainland situated over five miles away, and the harbour almost as far, but around her stood a wonder so sublime. Perhaps this was once the land of her ancestors. She had never thought to trace her roots. She knew only one side of her family had lived in Belfast throughout the previous century. Where their predecessors, and the other side of her family, originated she couldn't say. Maybe they had been frequenters of Connacht. It couldn't be ruled out that their blood had been dispersed across the border, her past linked more closely with the spot on which she now stood than she was aware of. She glanced down at the earth. And it was only then that she truly noticed the conditions of the land. It was undeniably vast and visually appealing, but what Donal had been saying earlier about failing crops and the diminishing of the land—the result of the thieving Lord Bingham—was becoming very clear to her. She crouched closer to the ground and ran her hands over the grass. Up close it wasn't as luscious as it looked when viewed from a distance. She knew in her heart that it had once thrived, but now it felt coarse and frail.
"It's as if the land is dying," she muttered to herself.
Straightening up, she faced the sea on the west coast. The waves splashed as the wind picked up, the chill growing bitter as the night drew in.
"Tomorrow we sail for England," Grace addressed the sea, "and I will lead the voyage. I do not know how or why this has happened, but I do know that it must be done. Allow us a safe journey, and if you are able to, I ask that you guide me. I feel lost, and confused, and I cannot be sure that I've made the right decision."
She was no longer talking to the sea. Whether or not she was doing so consciously, she had begun to address Gráinne, hoping that somehow she was out there listening to her.
"There is nothing left to do but hope for the best. My life is at risk, I understand that, but you have entrusted me with this duty, even if it is for reasons beyond my understanding."
The wind picked up, blowing Grace's skirt around at her ankles and causing her loose hair to dance behind her. She locked eyes on the water, fixing her attention on one spot. Soon she would have to descend the hill and rest. And then the plan would come to her. It would have to.
"I will not let you down, Gráinne." There was no tone to her voice, the wind spreading her words across the water. "No matter what happens, I promise I will rescue Tibbott. Your son will return home soon!"
16
The morning was unusually silent as Grace paced along the grassy bank. Behind her the Pirate Queen stood waiting to be boarded. It seemed to tower over her much more than she had remembered. Everybody thought she was the captain of this ship, but Grace Byrne didn't know the first thing about going to sea.
Nor did she know how to address the large crew of which she was supposed to be in charge. Donal approached from a distance, followed closely by a huddle of men. They were all dressed in similar attire and they all sported the mid-length beard that Grace had begun to admire. These men were labourers, skilled and strong.
Grace's eyes widened as she tried to count the men. There must have been thirty marching toward her. She was sure there would be no men left on the island once they had left for England, and that thought was enough to make her feel nauseous.
"Gráinne!" Donal shouted as he waved in her direction. She returned the gesture weakly, the smile on her face artificial, unlike that on Donal's, who was a natural-born seaman.
He bounded up to her and embraced her in a hug. For a moment, Grace's worry lifted as she allowed her thoughts to wander to Andy. She had grown used to Donal looking almost identical to him, but there was the odd occasion when she struggled to view them as two completely different people. Certain qualities—the fact that Andy would sometimes become vacant to the entire room when he was fully focused on the task at hand, for example—were shared by both.
"Are we all set then?" Donal was grinning excitedly as he thought about the voyage ahead.
"Nearly so."
The men assembled in a cluster in front of Grace and Donal. She knew they were waiting for her to deliver the plan.
"I'm afraid this is all we can manage, Captain." a scruffy looking man with a rip in his left sleeve spoke at the front of the huddle.
Grace shuddered when she hear
d the word 'captain', knowing how much everybody was counting on her. She had to make this work.
"Michael's right, Gráinne. Numbers aren't as great as they used to be. Some of our strongest men have started to weaken from the poor health conditions, and there's no way they'd be fit to cope with this journey. It wouldn't be fair to ask them to do so. Still, I'm sure we will be able to manage."
Grace wondered just how large a crew Donal was suggesting Gráinne O'Malley had once captained. Her admiration for the female pirate increased; how she managed to order so many people—so many men—Grace could only imagine.
"We won't let you down though, Captain Granuaile!" another man piped up.
"I know you won't," Grace responded. She thought about that name: Granuaile. It was spoken with such a mark of respect. A respect which, Grace had to admit to herself, she had always longed to receive. She had started to give up hope of gaining any recognition for her hard work and dedication at the Anchor office. And she felt a bit guilty for indulging in this new respect. It was a respect that she knew was not rightly or wholly hers, but as she considered this she also found herself glancing down at the boots on her feet: Gráinne's boots! They no longer felt alien to her. In fact, now that she considered the situation, she had become rather comfortable with her surroundings. For the first time, she felt like she was ready to take on the responsibility that had terrified her for months. She inhaled deeply, absorbing the air of the sea as she prepared herself to say goodbye to Grace Byrne and welcome on board Gráinne O'Malley.
You can do this, a voice inside her head told her. I know you can.
She listened. She knew in her heart that the voice was right.
"Listen up!" she projected. "This morning we are going to sail to England, and once there we are going to rescue Tibbott!"
A few of the older men cheered and whooped.
"Yes, yes, you may be excited. This is certainly going to be a fateful journey. However, we must not forget that my son has been captured, as I am sure you have all heard by now, by one of Queen Elizabeth's men." She started pacing in front of the crowd. "It's true that Tibbott attempted to overthrow those who try to rule over us, an act which I am certain many of us would love to emulate. But Tibbott had not considered the possible outcome of his approach. Consequently Lord Bingham—"
The men booed and hissed at the sound of his name.
"—took his opportunity to seize my son and lock him away to prevent any further threat to Her Majesty's kingdom. Tibbott has already spent time in Limerick Gaol, and it will not do anybody any good if he is to remain in England for the same duration, if not longer. Together we will make our way to London, and once we are there I will ensure that I am able to speak with the Queen herself. I know that it may sound unlikely, or even impossible, but it is our only hope."
There was silence for a moment as they absorbed the plan, until one man spoke up: "What will you say to her?" Michael asked.
"You need not be concerned; all will be prepared before our arrival."
It astonished Grace to find that she actually believed every word she was saying. She wasn't sure where her words were coming from, but she knew she spoke the truth.
She pulled out a map from inside the long sleeve of her chemise and bent down toward the sand. She'd found the map inside Gráinne's writing desk when she'd returned to the castle the previous night. She was sure the map hadn't been there earlier when she had discovered the writing paper, but she had finally come to accept that she should expect the unexpected. More than anything else, she was just thankful that it was there, as it had made planning the journey a lot easier than it otherwise might have been.
Cartography was not Grace's forté. In fact, she barely knew how to read a map. She found that when she was looking at this one, however, it made a lot more sense to her than it normally might have made. She assumed that this had something to do with Gráinne, and she appreciated whatever knowledge was being provided to her.
The crew moved closer and lowered their backs so they could get a better view of the map. This wasn't the first map they'd seen, so what Grace was about to say would probably make more sense to them than it did to her.
"We need to sail south into St George's Channel, and then continue down to Land's End. From there we'll sail up the English Channel, through the Strait of Dover, until we reach the estuary of the Thames. After that, we face our biggest challenge. We must sail up the River Thames and finally anchor in London"—a few men in the crowd growled and spat at the mention of the city—"where we will gather ourselves for Tibbott's rescue."
The men took in the information. The fact that nobody had any questions was a good sign to Grace, as they must at least have accepted the route they were to take, but she could still see some looks of uncertainty across their faces.
"Gentlemen," she commanded, "you may board!"
On his cue, the men stormed toward the vessel and began clambering up the wooden plank and onto the ship.
"Captain Gráinne," Michael said as he stopped in front of Grace. "I wish you—all of us—the best of luck on this journey." He took her hand in both of his. "I served your father for many years, and now I will remain as loyal to you as I was to him. Whatever we encounter, I promise to remain by your side. I remember the day that young Tibbott was born as if it were yesterday. I could see the love in your eyes for him then, just as I do now. We will bring your son home to you. You have my word."
"Thank you, Michael," Grace replied. "I know that your words are sincere." She watched as he wiped a tear from his eye with the back of his hand and joined the rest of the crew on board the ship.
Once the last of the men had boarded, Donal and Grace turned their attention to each other. "I hope this works," Grace said. "I don't even want to think about what will happen if it doesn't."
"Don.t give it your time or attention, Gráinne. You know what you are doing. The crew all trust you. I trust you. Everything will be fine. Once you have worked out what you're going to say to—"
"Hey! Granuaile!"
Before Donal could finish his sentence, he was interrupted by a large man storming toward them. Two figures marched on either side of him, but they were much smaller in height that he was and they seemed to be in less of a hurry as they scuttled along to keep up with his strides.
"What does he want?" Donal sighed.
"Princess, I'm talking to you!" The man directed a long, high-pitched wolf-whistle at Grace.
"You wait here, I'll sort him out." Donal put his arm in front of Grace as he moved forward. "He must have heard about Tibbott."
The man reached them and came to a halt, the two others standing behind him at either side to form a stumpy triangle. Standing in front of Donal, their clothes appeared neater, and less worn than his. Their hair was shorter too, tidier, and their beards had been trimmed so that they didn't look as unkempt. With the exception of a single gold band around one of Joyce's fingers, they were free of decoration or any sign of great wealth, but they were otherwise well groomed.
"What do you want, Joyce?"
"Absolutely nothing, Donal, my good man," Joyce claimed, patting a hand on Donal's shoulder and forcing him out of the way. "I'm just here to see the lovely Gráinne."
There was a sinister look flickering in Joyce's eyes as Grace came face to face with him. She was shocked to find that she didn't feel uncomfortable around this man as she had expected, but instead she had become annoyed, agitated even. There was something about him that suggested to Grace that he was nothing but trouble, and she didn't particularly wish to engage him if she could help it.
"What do you want?" she growled.
"As I told Donal, little princess, nothing at all; but news of your little plan has travelled downwind to Galway, and I just thought I should let you know that I think you're wasting your time. The quicker you realise that your precious son will be stuck over there forever, the sooner you can give up with this stupid plan and stop with the silly games. They'll probably have kille
d him before you arrive anyway!"
Grace wanted to hurl herself at Joyce, but Donal, having anticipated her actions, held her back to prevent her from worsening the situation. The two men standing at either side of Joyce broke their silence, chuckling. A snarl crept across Joyce's mouth.
"Where would the little princess be without her big brother to help her out? How sweet it is of him to stop you from doing anything you'd regret."
"Leave off, Joyce!" Donal snapped, taking another step forward and jabbing a finger into Joyce's chest. He towered above all three of them.
"Don't worry, Donal." Joyce took hold of his finger with his whole hand and eased it away. "We'll soon be leaving. I wouldn't want to be stuck on this island anyway. I mean what I say though," he said as he started walking backward. "Why don't you just leave the men to do the men's work, and you can get back to your safe little domestic life and look after the children? Goodbye, Princess!" He waved as he turned and headed off in the direction he'd come from, his mute friends following obediently. His howls of laughter could still be heard as they clambered out of sight.
"I swear, if he called me 'Princess' one more time, I was going to punch him." She tried to slow her breathing as she calmed herself. What right did he have to go around projecting his vile misogyny at her?
"Don't listen to him, Gráinne. You're the best captain I've ever known. The things you've seen and done over the years—I bet Joyce wouldn't have a clue! He's just jealous of you because he can barely steer a ship in the right direction. And we will rescue Tibbott, you know we will."
"Yes, Donal. I know." Grace wasn't sure she meant that, but it was all she could say as her eyes were locked in the direction where Joyce and his merry men had disappeared, his words racing through her mind. He had spoken with bitterness and hatred, but at the end of the day, what if Joyce was right?
Everybody was in place. The men had scattered across the ship, checking this and sorting that as they prepared to set sail. Grace made her way around the deck. She hoped that they thought she was just ensuring that their roles were being fulfilled and that everything was in working order, but in reality she was trying to organise the different areas of her ship in her mind before they left. If nothing else, moving around helped to steady her nerves.
