Pirates, Passion and Plunder

by Victoria Vale

  He peers at the title. “Good Heavens! What a choice for a young lady.” He turns to my mother, passing book and letter to her. “Mrs Caxton, you are not keeping my fiancée fully occupied if she has time to read such nonsense as this.”

  My mother glances at the letter, reading it briefly, then crumples it in her hand. “As you say, Mr Melville. I’ll see that Josephine becomes more fully involved in the wedding arrangements.” Her mouth stretches in what should be a pleasant agreement, but as she regards me, the smile folds away from her eyes like the crumpling of the paper.

  She looks around at the pavilion, the wildness of the garden. “An interesting choice, Josephine. You are quite correct. This could be a lovely spot. We should not neglect it. I shall instruct Simmons to carry out repairs on the pavilion here and return the garden to good order. And now…” She breathes in deeply… “I shall leave you two young people to have some time to yourselves.”

  The book in one hand, along with the crushed letter, my mother makes her way back towards the house, tugging her skirts away from a snatching dog-rose. Passing the still smoking gardener’s pile, she tosses something sidelong at it. After a moment, there is a bright flutter of flame, then nothing.

  My throat is tight and my eyes prickle.

  Mr Melville is speaking. “Miss Caxton, I remain your admirer. Now and forever. Dare I say it, I can barely wait for the day when we are wedded and can be together for...”

  He licks his lips, plump, shiny and wet...

  “… our nuptials.” He draws closer. “Perhaps… since we are promised to one another, I might steal…” His mouth opens… “… a kiss…”

  The scent of him billows over me… Like the mustiness of a house closed up for too long. My stomach churning, I jerk back. “Whatever are you thinking of, sir?”

  He takes my hand in his. Limp, soft; the skin is damp and pale, the fingers short and pink, like piglets at a sow... “No, of course not. Foolish of me to ask.” He raises my fingers, pressing them to his mouth. When he releases them, a moist patch gleams on my skin and, trying to be surreptitious about it, I rub the offending parts against my skirts.

  Nuptials…

  I can't do it.

  I can't...

  Why did Matthias stop writing to me? Two years ago, all communication from my brother ceased. I understand that, from so far away, some missives might be lost. But all of them?

  Has some ill befallen him?

  And yet, my parents appear quite unconcerned by that possibility. Suspicion grates at me.

  I choose my moment, waiting until I hear my mother barking instructions at the kitchen-maid then, leaving the parlour door standing ajar, I open her desk.

  She works here for an hour or so most mornings, writing letters, employed with the household accounts and suchlike. Keeping half my attention on the door, I look through slots, nooks and compartments, searching for what I believe I will find…

  … Nothing but paper and sealing wax, ink and quills; the working paraphernalia that might be found in any such work area.

  The drawers are locked, but I took my mother’s keys when she wasn’t looking. She will not miss them for the few minutes I need. Unlocking each drawer in turn, I continue my search.

  In the top drawer, I find purchase ledgers and receipts. The second produces wage records.

  Am I mistaken? Committing a grave injustice with my suspicions?

  My hand trembles as I unlock the third and final drawer.

  And there inside; a trinket box. I recognise it. My brother sent it as a birthday gift to our mother shortly after he left. Made of some scented wood, it is intricately carved in whorls and scrolls, inset with copper filigree. He told me it had travelled all the way from India, and he promised he would find another such box for me.

  My hand trembling, I lift the lid: inside, a bundle of letters, tied together with a ribbon. Unravelling the ribbon, my mouth dry, I examine each in turn. All are addressed to me, written in a familiar hand.

  All are opened…

  But not by me…

  The most recent is only two weeks old.

  Matthias…

  You never stopped writing…

  But his letters to me have been stolen; hidden away, where I was not supposed to find them.

  You took his letters. You let me think he had stopped writing…

  My own brother…

  You took his letters.

  Fury boils in me, hot and bright.

  How dare you?

  How dare you?

  Chapter 2

  Escape

  What is mine that I can take? My own, such that in taking it, I am not making a thief of myself? I have a little money, a very little: gifts from family and friends for birthdays and other special occasions.

  Matthias’ letters are already in the bag I carry. I read each one, weeping a little, wiping my eyes as I read his tales of wonderful travels and marvellous places.

  I do own some jewellery. I consider the brooch in my hand; a moonstone set in silver. Undoubtedly, it has worth, but it was given to me by Mr Melville. I return it to the jewellery case. It is mine, truly mine, but I do not want it, do not wish to be in any way indebted to a man who repels me.

  But the string of pearls was a gift from my father on my coming of age. I place those in the bag. Perhaps some broker will pay me a little for them.

  What else do I have?

  And where will I go?

  Gulls screech and cry, the sound carrying indoors.

  “Tis beautiful hair you have, to be sure,” says the woman, clipping carefully above my shoulders with her shears. A long lock, almost the length of my arm, falls free, and she lays it beside the others. “Tis a lovely colour. That particular shade of chestnut is much sought after by the wigmakers. I can give you a good price for it.”

  Moment by moment, my head grows lighter. And with the final snip, in the speckled glass, I see myself, no longer bedecked in my long tresses, but with the cut of a boy, cropped short. Passing a hand over my shorn scalp, I watch my reflection, feeling for a part of myself that is no longer there.

  The woman presses coins into my palm. “Good luck to yer, lass. I wish I’d had the courage to do it when I was your age.” I blink my confusion. Hands on hips, she laughs. “You think I don’t know what yer up to? With the docks at the end of the street? But take care, m’dear. It’s a man’s world out there.”

  Chapter 3

  Sam the Ship’s Boy

  Standing on the quayside, I stare up at the docked vessel, the very last. Having worked my way from one end of the harbour to the other, this is the final place I can try. Few of the other ships were taking on new crew. And those that were, sought experienced men.

  But this ship, moored some distance from the rest, at the closest point to the harbour entrance, appears to be recruiting.

  Three masts rise from its decks, the sails currently furled. In my ignorance, I am unable to judge accurately what kind of ship this is, but it seems clean and well-maintained. Up on the deck, men move smartly from here to there. Some work on ropes and canvas. Others saw timbers or hammer nails. All apparently, are going about well-understood tasks.

  I look for the name… Towards the prow, by the carved figurehead of a woman in a state of… undress… I find it: ‘The Albatross’.

  Are Albatrosses not considered unlucky for sailors?

  Or is it only if you kill them?

  A man, roughly dressed but well wrapped against the chill, sits by the foot of the gangplank. He wears a face I am coming to recognise; a kind of face rather. I have seen it all around the docks. Silver-haired, his face is tanned by wind and sun to leather, as though he quickly aged to perhaps fifty years, and then no further.

  A ledger lies open atop an upended barrel he is using as a table. The page part-filled, half the lines are free to take new names.

  Tugging the woollen cap from my head, I clutch it in both hands. The wind bites and, no longer protected by my previously luxuriant
head of hair, my scalp prickles in the cold.

  The man looks up then down again, barely glancing at me. “Name?”

  “Samuel Parsons, sir.”

  Quill held in his hovering hand, “How old are you, Samuel?”

  “I’m seventeen, sir.”

  He looks up again, this time taking me in properly. I daresay I do not make an engaging sight. I did wonder if I would be able to pass for a boy and whether my shorn hair would be enough of a disguise.

  I chose my clothing with the entire intent of concealing my gender. In place of hooped skirts and petticoats and corset, I now wear a loose-fitting shirt over my tightly-banded chest. Canvas sans-culottes; vastly oversized, remain in place only because of the belt, tightly buckled. I even had to skewer extra holes into the leather to secure a fit.

  The ensemble is topped by a jacket which, to my shame, I stole from the gardener, Mr Simmons, taking it from the potting shed when his attention was elsewhere.

  The man’s brows rise. “Seventeen is it? And your voice hasn’t broken yet?”

  My grip on the cap tightens. “My mother says I was always a late developer... sir…”

  “Is that so?” He purses his lips, then scratches at his ledger with the quill. “Seventeen it is, then.” He gives me a thin smile. “Any experience?”

  “No, sir. This will be my first time at sea.”

  He grunts. “You’ll fetch and carry and do as you’re bid. There’s no pay ‘til you show you’re good for something. But you’ll eat three times a day and be trained in what’s needed. Yes?”

  “You’ll take me?”

  His voice is dry. “We’re short-handed and in a hurry. Yes, we’ll take you.”

  My smile breaks free and the tension in my chest suddenly loosens. “You won't regret it, sir. I'm clever. I'll work hard.”

  His voice is gruff but not unkind. “Not sure about needing clever, Parsons. But you'll certainly work hard.” He touches the page, then dips the quill and passes it to me. “Make your mark there.”

  He Hmmms as I sign my name… Samuel Parsons… “You can read and write, then?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He Hmmms again, scratches at his chin. “You speak well too.”

  I duck my head, “Thank you, sir.”

  He turns, shouting upwards and gesturing to a man already on board, also roughly dressed and weather-beaten. “Mr Foster, if you please.” The man walks smartly down the gangplank. “This is Sam Parsons, our new ship’s boy. Take him to meet the captain. He might be suitable as his cabin boy.”

  Mr Foster gestures up to the deck. “Come with me, Parsons.” He is welcoming enough but carries a touch of warning in his eye. “Captain Broughton sets high standards. You’ll be expected to meet them.”

  “Of course, sir.” Tugging my cap on once more, I follow him on board.

  Chapter 4

  Captain’s Servant

  The lower decks are dim, smelling of salt and too many people. Our footsteps thud a dull echo and my confidence wavers.

  Have I done the right thing?

  ?

  Mr Melvillle…

  Nuptials…

  Mr Foster walks ahead of me, talking back over his shoulder. “Be respectful and address him as ‘captain’ or ‘sir’.” He taps on a wooden-planked door.

  The answering voice is deep and smooth and cultured. “Come.”

  Mr Foster opens the door, stepping inside, then eye-flashes at my cap, elbowing me in the ribs. Hastily I remove it.

  We enter a room, wide from side to side, seemingly the full width of the vessel. Facing outward from the bow, windows fill the forward wall. A narrow bunk is set against one side, together with a small gard-robe and a dress-mirror.

  But a table takes up most of the available space, spread with charts, maps and mathematical instruments in brass and steel. At the table stands a man, stooped over. A pair of dividers in one hand, he measures off some detail on one of the charts.

  Mr Foster touches his forehead. “Your pardon, captain, for interrupting you. But you said you wished to be informed of any that might be a suitable prospect as your new cabin boy. This here is Samuel Parsons. He’s just signed on.”

  The captain looks me briefly up and down then inclines his head. “Thank you, Mr Foster. You can leave him with me for now.”

  “Sir.” He makes his respect again and exits.

  Setting his dividers to one side, the captain straightens up, giving me a thin smile. “Come closer, Mr Parsons. I won’t bite. Not yet anyway.” In a voice of dark gold, his words roll over me, mellow and honeyed.

  And something inside me stirs.

  Approaching him, I suck at dry cheeks until, with the table between us, clutching my cap in both hands, I stand straight, lifting my chin and looking straight ahead. “Sir.”

  The captain looks down at me. He is a striking sight. Wide-shouldered, yet leanly built, his frame narrows to a taut, tight waist. Although tanned in the way of seamen, he is fair-skinned. But his eyes are dark. His hair too, trailing his shoulders in loose glossy locks.

  He holds me in a gaze like pools into the night. I could lose myself in those eyes…

  Don’t be foolish…

  The captain’s clothes suit both his rank and appearance. The white linen shirt, whilst loose and clearly comfortable, is crisp and clean. The laces are open towards the top and a wisp of black hair escapes to lie alongside the ruffling to the fore. The sleeves, rolled up to the elbow, free up his hands; tapered, long-fingered, the nails short, clean and square-cut.

  A waistcoat, beautifully embroidered in bright colours on some dark fabric, hangs open over the shirt and his black leather boots, knee-high, are polished to a high shine.

  His breeches are well-tailored, flattering his… outline…

  I swallow. The air in this cabin is hot and close.

  Why doesn’t he open a window?

  Some traitorous thought compares this angel’s-vision of a man with my ‘intended’; Mr Melville’s pudgy features flitting, uninvited, across my mind before I dismiss them.

  Then, realising I’m staring, I rein myself in, schooling my expression to one of polite respect.

  He stands very straight, feet a little apart, arms crossed. “I am Captain Broughton, Mr Parsons. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “Thank you, sir. Likewise, sir.”

  He regards me. “So, Mr Parsons, why have you been sent to me?”

  “I’m not sure, sir. Your… officer… seemed interested that I can read and write.”

  He arches brows. “Indeed, yes. That would do it.” His scrutiny of me intensifies, then he unravels his arms, tapping a thumbnail against his teeth. “Tell me about yourself, Parsons. Properly speaking, a boy would be brought to me by his father or master to be apprenticed or indentured. However, it is not uncommon for boys to run away to sea.”

  He smiles slightly. “They believe it to be quite the romantic adventure. But usually, such boys are foundlings or runaways. Uneducated, usually orphaned or perhaps mistreated by an apprentice master. And the most such lads could hope to achieve with time would be able seaman.” Brow creasing, he considers me. “I’ve seldom encountered one before who could read.”

  His expression sharpens. “Where have you come from, Mr Parsons? Is there some apprentice master out there missing your service? Or have you run away from your family?”

  I swallow the lie and settle for half a truth. “There is no master out there, sir. And… I can’t return to my family.”

  His head inclines. “And why not? What are you running from? Are you in disgrace of some kind? Stealing? Idleness? Some girl you’ve gotten into trouble?”

  I flit between anxiety and laughter but try to hide both. “No, sir. I am not a thief. I promise you I’m a hard worker. And… no… there’s no girl.”

  “What then?”

  I hang my head, not knowing what to say.

  “Come, Mr Parsons. You are being proposed as my personal servant. That b
eing the case, I expect to know what brings you to me.”

  I stare down at timber flooring, polished and gleaming, the grain swirling chestnut and gold. “Sir, I promise you, I have done nothing wrong. But… I can’t say the reason and I do not wish to tell you an untruth.”

  There is a long silence, then the clip of boot-heels on planking. A hand lifts my chin, forcing my face up until I am looking directly into the captain’s slit-eyed gaze.

  “I understand that sometimes we have reasons we cannot speak of. Do you give me your word of honour that you have committed no ill that might give me cause to regret taking you into my service?”

  “I do, captain.”

  He holds my eyes for a long moment, then releases me. “Very well, Mr Parsons. You are well-spoken. You hold yourself well also. And the captain of a ship does need a personal servant.” He rolls eyes. “My last took himself off to be wed. You are replacing him.”

  I do not attempt to conceal my smile. “Thank you, captain.”

  He smiles back. “You find the idea agreeable?”

  “Oh, yes, captain.”

  He perches a hip on the edge of the table. “Mr Parsons… Samuel... Is there someone you would like me to contact? A family member perhaps? I can write a letter for you if you wish. Let your family know that you are safe and well.”

  “Thank you, sir. But no, please don’t. And… I can write my own letters if I need to.”

  “Of course you can.” He nods slowly, pursing his lips. “Very well, you may commence your duties by informing Mr Bowers that I’ll be eating in here this evening. An omelette will be sufficient.”

  “Yes, captain.”

  Chapter 5

  Navigation

  And so, I have become Samuel Parsons, cabin boy and personal servant to Captain Broughton. The Albatross sails on the next tide, taking me with it and dismissing any fears I might have of pursuit or capture.