Grace O'Malley, Princess and Pirate

by Robert Machray

Before they had made their appearance I had seen that I had not been cast into one of the dungeons of Askeaton, but was imprisoned in a chamber which I judged, numbering the steps up which I had been borne, to be at the top of one of the towers of the castle. As soon as they had gone I set about examining the room, albeit I was so stiff and sore that at first I could only crawl and creep on the floor. As this exercise, however, gave me back the use of my limbs, I was soon able to stand and move about with ease.

The room was small and bare, without even a stool or a bench, and was lighted by a little, narrow window, from which I caught glimpses of distant masses of trees and the slopes and peaks of far-off mountains. During my first visit to Desmond, I had made myself familiar with every part of the castle, and I knew that the surmise I had made that the room was high up in a tower was a true one.

There were only the two ways of getting out, the one by the door, the other by the window. The door was firmly secured, for I had tried it, but I might as well have sought to move the stone walls of the chamber. And the window was many feet above the ground or the river, so that it was impossible to escape by it, unless by means of a ladder or a rope, neither of which I possessed.

It therefore required very little reflection on my part to understand how complete was my captivity, and how small was the chance of my being able to deliver myself from it.

But it was something that I could see, that I could breathe freely, and that I could speak aloud, and hear, at least, the sound of my own voice. And these somehow brought with them a faint ray of hope. As I paced up and down the room—that I was permitted to go without chains showed in itself how convinced my gaolers were that I could not break free—I determined not to despair. But as the day passed wretchedly by, and night came on again, it was difficult to keep any degree of firmness in my heart.

A thing which kept constantly recurring to me was the haunting recollection of the voice I had heard, or fancied that I had heard, after I had been struck down, and was half-alive and half-dead, and so certain of nothing. Then, knowing, as I well did, what was the usual horrible fate of one taken prisoner, I could not but ponder with surprise the comparative tenderness shown me.

I had not been thrown into a noisome cell beneath the castle, or, what would have been worse still, under the bed of the stream, and left to die of madness and hunger, a prey to rats and other vermin.

Nay, I asked myself why I had not been slain outright? That, it was manifest, had not been the purpose of those who had set upon me, for, once I was down, nothing could have been easier than to despatch me.

Then, whose voice was it that I had heard? For the life of me I could not remember.

When evening was come, food and water were provided as before, but in the same obduracy of silence. The men were as speechless as mutes, beyond one saying, “Eat and drink,” and I was strangely glad and even moved to hear these simple words.