by Dana Roquet
She knew in the reasonable recesses of her mind that it could not have been Stephen but still her heart had leapt with hope just the same. Why she wondered? What on earth was this hold he had over her every moment? She knew that had it been him, she would have looked the other way—would not have greeted him nor expected a greeting from him. She was being ridiculous. It had been over a week now since he had left them unceremoniously at Colette’s door and walked off back into his own world without so much as a farewell but then—she hadn’t expected one. What on earth was the matter with her? He seemed to be branded on her mind, her body, to her very soul and now her mind was playing tricks on her. She was seeing him places where he simply could not be.
He was in Dover now or more likely back out to sea, heading to his next destination. He was out of her life so why couldn’t she put the thoughts of him, and all that had happened, behind her? She had no answer and she knew that even if she didn’t allow one thought of him to invade her head, during the day; that he would still be there each night. And she would go on a frustrating search for him, or make passionate love with him, or witness that hideous dagger invade his body and wake in tears, feeling a terrible loss.
Bridgett hooked arms with her, pulling her thoughts back from the war going on within her own mind, “So what do you say, Desiree, yes or no?”
“I’m sorry Bridgett…I wasn’t listening. What did you ask?”
“We asked if you would like to stroll to the harbor and watch the mast ship leave port.”
“Mast ship?” she questioned.
Colette laughed brightly hooking her other arm in her own and leading her in the direction of the docks, “As I just told you moments ago sweet—about ten shipments a year leave Portsmouth in route to England. Yes, mast ships. They are specially designed ships that hold the huge pine masts that will become the centerpieces of the Royal Navy. It is quite a sight to see. These trees come from the White Mountains and are so huge that it takes ninety or more oxen to bring them out of the forest to the river. Then the trees are floated down to Portsmouth to be loaded up into these ships—just come along silly, I will show you what I mean.”
Bridgett laughed, as the two led Desiree along, “I swear Desiree I wish I could see what is in your head! Where are you child, when you miss entire conversations? Some distant star?”
Desiree pouted, shooting an injured look at first one and then the other of her companions, “Enjoy your baiting me you two, you’ll not ruffle my feathers today. I am immune.” She quipped good-naturedly. Thinking silently that she was thankful they were unaware of her thoughts and where they seemed forever to stray.
Chapter Eighteen
Desiree was up early on a bright Saturday morning, preparing with excitement for the day ahead. She fidgeted anxiously as she waited on Bridgett to finish with her hair. It was piled atop her head, with soft ringlets, feathering about her neck and along her face. Then she slipped into the light blue gown of cotton, which would be comfortable today. The décolletage was of an attractive display but not overmuch for a daytime affair and the layers of cotton underskirt would actually be cooling and would be a blessing in the heat of the afternoon. Although it was nearly mid August and still hot, Colette assured that within just a few weeks the weather would begin to cool and the lush stands of trees along the riverbanks as well as throughout the town would begin to turn to tawny browns, oranges and crimsons, putting on their autumn finery.
Desiree turned before her reflection in the large mirrored table, smiling sweetly at Bridgett who awaited her approval, “Merci Bridgett. Shall we be off?” she bubbled excitedly.
“You sure are chipper about this outing. You act as though you are attending a ball!” Bridgett observed, moving toward the door.
“Oh but it is! At least, I fear the closest we shall come to a ball in Portsmouth.” Desiree replied gaily taking Bridgett’s arm in hers. “You can not tell me you are not a tad anxious for something other than window shopping. Anything at this point is a welcomed distraction.” She laughed, as she scampered down the stairs before her.
“It will be interesting to have a look at the way these Colonials entertain.” Bridgett conceded.
After three weeks in the small town, Desiree was familiar with every aspect; having been to every point of interest—some more than once. She had found that Stephen had been correct in that entertainments were few. Then to, she was unaccustomed to being so impeded. She had never lived in a town proper, always on the wide open grounds of her estate and found life in this tiny hamlet was rather hindering. Riding horses, always so much a part of her days at home seemed unheard of here. There was no point in it for every destination was in easy walking distance. Then also she missed having the chance to slip off her shoes and walk barefoot through the meadows or the opportunity to go swimming and she was beginning to miss her freedom terribly.
Hearing voices below, they entered the front room and her uncle came to his feet, admiring his niece with a slow smile he exclaimed, “I swear child, you look lovely. Colette you remind me to keep my eye on this gem. We will have every young buck in Portsmouth ogling her today.”
“Uncle you always were a flatterer.” Desiree quipped with a shake of her head.
“Shall we be off?” Colette asked, taking her husband’s arm.
“Oui I can hardly stand to wait a moment more!” Desiree exclaimed, turning for the door.
***
As they strolled down the walk, the sound of fiddles from the riverfront playing a festive tune quickened Desiree’s steps. The streets were clogged with exuberant colonials; children raced along, shouting and laughing. It was a break in the everyday toils and most welcomed by all. The crops were healthy—harvest was just around the corner and Portsmouth had time on its hands to spare.
They walked into the grassy clearing, canopied by tall trees, next to the Piscataque River and the music enveloped the scene from a quartet of fiddlers located under a stand of dogwood trees near the water’s edge. Large wooden tables, laden with a wide variety of the fall bounty of fruits and vegetables and other foods, were displayed beneath a canvas canopy and they stopped there briefly as Colette took a basket from Maurice’s hand, adding her offerings to the fare.
They wandered about then, pausing here and there when a greeting was called out. There were possibly a hundred townsfolk here and half again as many children racing about. Everywhere was noise and laughter, movement and color. Desiree lost count at a score in her introductions, barely catching one name before Colette or Maurice added another. She would never be able to remember a one; she knew—totally overwhelmed.
Activities began to get underway and the crowds dispersed, moving along the edges of the clearing and stopping at contests, which interested them. Desiree and Bridgett followed along behind Maurice, stopping with him at a wide circle of onlookers crowded about wooden tables. Five men each were seated at four tables and each with a basket before him.
“What is this?” Desiree quietly asked Colette.
“It’s a corn husk dear. What they will do is strip the green leaves and silks off each cob, exposing the corn. The first to finish his bushel wins the competition. I believe a ribbon with be the prize, bragging rights and of course we shall be feasting thanks to their labors at our noonday meal.”
The crowd quieted as a man explained the rules to the contestants and then with a shout, the contest was underway. The onlookers roared with laughter, shouting encouragement as green leaves and silk began flying in all directions.
Within a few short minutes, from the chaotic shower of greenery, emerged a winner. A young man leapt to his feet, raising a corncob in the air and the judge rushed over, verifying his win. The onlookers applauded wildly as the young man stood upon a bench accepted his blue ribbon and took a deep bow.
The next group of competitors readied for their go, while Desiree and Bridgett followed Maurice and Colette across the clearing to a small inlet of calm water off the main bank of the river where they
waited to witness log rolling. The long barren log was held in the chest deep water by a lad, on either end, while two men stood atop readying for battle. With a shout from a neutral party, the contest began and Desiree watched, fascinated as the men began to turn the log. Sprays of water beaded up beneath their feet as they turned the log, first forward and then backward, trying to topple their opponent. Shortly one lost his balance and fell with a splash into the river.
The winner was a middle-aged man in buckskins who moved nimbly upon the turning log as another man prepared to mount up and after doing so, the contest began again.
“His name is Bart Miller. He wins every year.” Colette commented as another fell beneath his onslaught, landing with a whoop and a spray of water in the cool river as a roar of cheers went up among the onlookers.
Next it was on to a display of patchwork quilts and Colette pointed with pride to the quilt she had been involved in. It was a scene of colony life. Each of the brightly colored squares depicting a different aspect of life in Portsmouth while other projects were graced with flower patterns or unusual designs.
“This is one of my favorite pastimes in the winter months. It is a chance to get together with other women and chat while doing something constructive.” Colette explained, admiring the other works, “Perhaps we will have to get you involved this winter.”
Desiree frowned slightly, “I have never taken to needlework I am afraid. It was never my strong suit.”
“To be sure.” Bridgett laughed.
Desiree laughed along with her nurse remembering times in the past when Bridgett would be literally chasing her about the parlor, sampler in hand, trying to force her to participate. Bridgett could never understand why she didn’t enjoy the art of sewing but Desiree had always considered it tedious and she could never sit still long enough to complete any project.
***
At noon, lunch was served and they filled their plates, taking seats at tables, situated near the canvas canopy. Sharing a table with an assortment of colonials, both Desiree and Bridgett sat quietly for the most part, enjoying the casual atmosphere and listening to bits and pieces of conversations. Being foreigners, they had little of interest to add.
After their repast, there were mule pulls to witness, a shooting gallery and a number of logging related matches such as a tree climbing, hatchet throwing, block chopping, and crosscut competitions.
There was also a spelling bee for the children and this is where Desiree found herself pausing; standing with a tense cluster of mothers, watching their youngsters’ strain to spell unfamiliar words with their little faces twisted up in concentration and doubt. Desiree tensed with each letter slowly pronounced and all breathed a sigh of relief as each child spelled their word, advancing to the next stage of the competition.
Desiree lost track of how long she remained there but when she looked around, she noticed she was alone. Bridgett and the others had disappeared. She scanned the crowds but saw no one she recognized. Unperturbed, she walked about the clearing, searching half-heartedly for her companions.
She stood for a time near the musicians, listening to the unusual squeaky strains of the fiddles. She was accustomed to the symphony and the gentle flow of violins and decided this type of music might take some time to acquire a taste for. She applauded politely as the men finished a piece, receiving appreciative nods from the foursome, then she strolled along the riverbank until the music and noise of the festival became muffled, with the distance between her and the activities.
She leaned against an ancient tree, looking out across the river dotted with islands toward the ocean. A ship was moving across the outer bay and her mind turned to thoughts of Stephen Colter and where he might be now. Her gaze wandered to the dense foliage along the opposite bank, which was becoming faded and tawny in the first of autumns glory and as she enjoyed the quiet moment, she had a strange feeling come upon her, as if she were being watched. She glanced about, seeing no one and turned back to the river but the feeling persisted and a sense of fear began to gnaw at her without a clue as to why she should be feeling afraid.
She turned from the river starting back toward the activities—no longer feeling serene in her solitude and as she started past a tree, a man stepped out from behind and stood before her.
“Might ye be Miss Chandelle?” he asked pleasantly with a smile.
He had bright red hair, flaming red and a heavy Scottish accent. She looked past him and could see the clearing was a good distance away and her fear mounted.
“What business do you have with me Monsieur?” she managed to ask as her eyes darted about looking for an avenue of escape.
“Easy Lass.” He said gently, sensing she was about to flee.
Before she had time to react, he had her about the waist and his hand clamped over her mouth as he dragged her to the riverbank. Standing behind a tree to shield himself from the view of anyone in the clearing, he whistled softly, and a sloop drifted below the bank with two more men aboard.
“That be the Lassie?” One of the men asked in an Irish brogue.
“Aye.” The Scotsman chuckled, with his mouth near her ear.
Desiree began squirming, doing her best to try and kick him in the shins as he held her firmly with her back to his chest. He only laughed the harder.
“O’Malley grab hold! This little hellcat be almost too much to handle.”
Desiree was lowered over the high bank and the man called O’Malley grabbed her kicking legs while the other took her by the waist and replaced the Scotsman’s hand across her mouth with his own. This was quickly replaced by a strip of white linen, worked between her clenched teeth, and tied tightly behind her head.
As the Scotsman hopped down into the sloop, Desiree’s hands were bound behind her back as a burlap bag was lowered over her head and secured about her hips.
“Now get down Lass and don’t make a move.” O’Malley warned, pushing her gently to the bottom of the sloop near their feet.
“Let’s be off lest ye want to be caught at it.” The Scotsman ordered and they went about the task, using long poles to push the craft out into the river toward the bay.
“Don’t move Lass.” He said under his breath.
Desiree could guess that they were moving close to shore, where the festival was taking place and then they were well out into the river and she heard the men chuckle and sigh in relief.
The minutes ticked slowly by and in spite of her terror, Desiree was painfully aware of her own discomfort. The bag was stifling and her shoulder ached where it rested against the rough-hewn floor of the boat. It seemed an eternity had passed and she felt as though she might lose consciousness from lack of air at any moment, when finally the boat slowed and she could feel and hear a dull thud and scraping. Then strong arms had her about the waist again and were heaving her up into the air, where more hands grabbed hold of her.
“Well ye got her did ye?” A man chuckled close by.
She could feel the familiar rolling of a ship beneath her feet, as she was set lightly upon the deck. The burlap sack was removed from her head, the bindings from her wrists and the kerchief from her mouth and she found herself standing amid a crew of men and two of those present kept her in check with firm handholds upon her wrists.
As she surveyed the group of men, watching her with obvious curiosity, she had no doubt whatsoever that these men were surely pirates. She had never seen one, had never heard a description of what a pirate looked like or a detail about what sort of man a pirate might be but she was in the midst of den of them, she was sure.
Her first impression was that these men looked dangerous. Bearded—dressed in brightly colored tunics or leather vests, some wore earrings and soiled bandanas over long shaggy hair. There was no shortage of swords, for most had their piece hanging from their waistbands.
She looked across the ship toward land and saw that they were well out in the harbor, close to open sea. No other vessels were even within calling or swimming distance
and she knew she could never swim the distance to shore. Her line of vision was interrupted by the red haired Scotsman hauling himself slowly over the side of the ship and coming to stand before her.
“What a beauty!” he announced breathlessly with a grin and turned to the helm. “Let’s be underway!” he yelled and the men went into a flurry of activity.
Desiree looked up to the masts, seeing a shower of white canvas drop down as they prepared to set full sail. “No!” she screamed, as she was led across the deck, heading below. She fought with all her might, trying to break free and run for the rail but the Scotsman and the one called O’Malley, stepped up to assist their mates and between the four, they drug her, kicking and screaming, down the stairs.
She was forced into a captain’s quarters and obviously the Scotsman held that title, for he walked around the desk and fell back into his chair with a humph, exhausted by the effort of restraining her. She was ushered to a chair and sat weeping, just on its edge, as she glared across at the man.
His beard matched, exactly, the fiery red of his hair. His skin was freckled and weathered. His body stocky and well muscled, with beefy arms and a middle aged paunch that shook as his boisterous laugher filled the cabin while he observed her.
“Here now, me sweet Lassie, ye need na’ weep. Macintosh means ye no harm. Ye be na’ but a wee slip of a girl, are ye? Tell Mac what ye did to have such a large price paid fer yer disappearance.”
“I have no idea what you are talking about. Paid to take me? By whom? And to where?” she asked in total confusion.
“Aye Lass, that I were. A goodly sum it were too. I know na’ the bloke, ‘twas done through—ye might say—channels but I were told to make sure ye did na’ come back. Will ye tell me what ye have done to make such an enemy, that ye need be spirited away?”
