Sarah's Story

by Helen Susan Swift

  Sarah's Story

  Helen Susan Swift

  Copyright (C) 2016 Helen Susan Swift

  Layout design and Copyright (C) 2016 by Creativia

  Published 2016 by Creativia

  Cover art by Melody Simmons

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

  Table of Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Historical Note

  Also by the Author

  For

  my one love

  Prelude

  ISLE OF WIGHT

  DECEMBER 1803

  'To lose one husband is unfortunate,' Kitty said severely, 'but to lose two is careless. I certainly hope that you can retain husband number three a little bit longer, Sarah.' She gave a melodramatic sigh. 'I have never known a woman experience so many misadventures in affairs of the heart.'

  I was not quite sure how to respond to that, so I showed her a cold shoulder. I always found that the best way to respond to Kitty Chillerton when she is being hurtful.

  'You can't ignore me, Sarah Bembridge,' Kitty said, as we walked toward Knighton Hazard with the rolling fields stretching away on either side and a light rain drifting in from the Channel half a mile ahead.

  She was right of course. Kitty was always the most irritating of women and so very hard to ignore, much as I wanted to.

  'You had better try and make this marriage last longer,' Kitty continued. 'You already have a reputation as a harbinger of misfortune.'

  Ouch. That one stung, probably because there was a lot of truth in it. I took a deep breath and looked toward Knighton Hazard and its chapel that seemed fated to be the nemesis of my misfortunes. I had a sudden feeling of sick despair as I remembered what had happened on my previous two visits here as an eager young bride, and then I had a moment of inspiration. You must have had them, these flashes of realisation where you suddenly see something that should have been obvious days or months ago.

  I stopped exactly where I was, nearly upsetting Kitty onto the ground, which is nothing more than she deserved, the dragon-tongued hussy. 'Good Lord,' I said, which was very mild when one considers what I had been through the last few months.

  'Good Lord what?' Kitty asked, somewhat fretfully. 'Oh do come along, Sarah; have you forgotten that we have a wedding to prepare for? Or perhaps you have already decided to discard husband number three and are contemplating husband number four?'

  'Good Lord,' I repeated, partly because I was not quite certain if I could perform the necessary act, and partly to further irritate Kitty. She was my dearest and most amiable companion, you see, and a woman does not hate or love anybody quite as much as her closest female friend.

  'What is it that ails you so?' Kitty pushed me in her agitation. 'Would you stop Good Lording and pray tell me?'

  'I had an idea that may remove the ill luck from my weddings,' I said, blithely aware that I was further stretching Kitty's inquisitiveness. It is a well-known saying that curiosity killed the Kitty. Well, I had no intentions of ending poor Kitty's life, irritating though she was, but I had no qualms about torturing her imagination.

  'So tell me!' She stamped her foot in petulance which, you may imagine, pleased me no end.

  'I shall take them down!' I announced, as if I had discovered a way of terminating Bonaparte's threat to the world once and for all. 'And that will put an end to it.'

  'You shall take what down?' Kitty wailed in utter frustration, and so I told her. But if I told you at this juncture, then I should have begun near the end of my tale, and that is wrong-headed. All tales should begin at the beginning, and that is exactly what I shall do now, so please bear with me while I go back a few months when I was a frivolous and empty headed young girl and not the intelligent and mature woman I am now.

  Chapter One

  ISLE OF WIGHT

  APRIL 1803

  There was a fog the night he arrived. It rolled in from the Channel, cold and clammy as it clung to the curves of the cove and crept up the flanks of St Catherine's Chine toward our home. Sitting at the corner seat at my bedroom window, I watched its slow progress, as the white fingers feathered past the ancient oak and the Watching Rock where the smugglers sat to spy on the Excisemen, slithered onto the Down and frittered around the neatly clipped hedgerow boundary of our garden.

  When the advance tendrils reached the chalk clunch walls of our house I hurriedly pulled shut the window and locked it tight. I don't like fog; I never have and I never will, except for one occasion that I will come to by-and-by. It is uncanny the manner in which it hides things and distorts shapes so trees can appear like people and horses like the strange monsters from children's stories. I like things open and honest and straight. Bad things happen in the fog; it is the home of smugglers and Frenchmen and Excisemen, all of which should be avoided. Except maybe the smugglers; the gentlemen of the night are useful when we need more French brandy for the wine cellars, or ribbons for my hair.

  But that night I shut out the fog and hoped it would stay away.

  Baffled in its attempts to invade out home, the fog recoiled and shifted inland, to spread out and smother all the landmarks of St Catherine's Down and northward to the bulk of the Island. We live on Wight, you see, that great, diamond shaped island on the south of England, Eden's Garden, the fairest place in the world, but exposed to the mists and storms of the Channel on the times when the weather is foul. Now please pay attention while I give a brief lesson in geography to those of lesser knowledge than you. I will not be asking questions but it may make my little story easier to understand.

  All right then: we live in the Horse Head Inn, which is situated on the south coast of Wight, just a seagull's cry from St Catherine's Point, the most southerly tip of the island. It nestles under a ridge of St Catherine's Down, yet is still open to the Channel weather in all its variety from biting winds to ugly fogs. My mother runs this inn and has done ever since the French captured my father at sea five years back and we had to rely entirely on our own resources. We look south and ever south to where the great ocean stretches to the coast of France and beyond to Spain and the broad Atlantic and the sugar islands of the West Indies, although of course the curve of the world and sheer distance precludes us from seeing these magical lands.

  I shivered, altered my stance and peered out to sea for that day there was nothing. I could see nothing; where normally the Channel would be speckled with the riding lights of ships, the mist had erased all visibility as if by the sweep of a giant's hand. I thought of the poor seamen shivering out there with each vesse
l isolated by fog so it was a floating island in a hostile sea, prey to French privateers, the treacherous Channel tides or the press gangs of the Navy.

  'Sarah!' The voice cracked into my reverie so I looked up. 'Sarah: come down here girl!'

  I sighed, straightened my dress and obeyed, stomping hard on the bare wooden stairs to show my displeasure at being disturbed. The stairs led directly to the tap room where my mother was busy washing an array of pewter tankards. 'Yes, Mother? What is it?'

  'It's going to be a thick night, Sarah; I don't think we'll be busy, so best take the opportunity to get the place clean.'

  'Yes, Mother,' I said, making it obvious I resented the idea, while making sure I kept out of reach of my mother's ready hand. I should have known she would find some way of spoiling the night for me and she was obsessed with cleanliness. Who cared if there was an old leaf or a speck of seaweed underfoot? Sighing, I shifted the tables and chairs out of the way and began to brush the sanded floorboards. Mother watched for a moment, opened her mouth to find fault with something then closed it again and began to check the barrels. I sighed and continued.

  The rumble shook the inn so the glasses rattled together and Mother looked up from her task.

  'Thunder,' I said, taking any excuse as a distraction from cleaning. 'You were right Mother dear. It's going to be a wild night.' I smiled, prepared to be friendly again. I had learned that it was always best to keep on Mother's right side. I knew she was getting old you see; she must have been nearing forty then: quite in her dotage to my youthful eyes.

  She looked up, said nothing and continued with whatever she was doing.

  'God help sailors on a night like this,' I said. There was nothing false about that well-used statement. Living on the south coast of Wight or the Back of Wight as we term it, we were always aware of the fickle nature of the sea.

  'God help them indeed,' Mother said softly. She stepped beside me and laid a hand on my shoulder. 'You get that floor finished Sarah, and then I want you to…' I never heard what her mother wanted next as a louder than average peal of thunder set the shutters trembling and echoed from the cliffs a few yards from the inn.

  'Dear God in Heaven,' Mother said, and touched a hand to her heart. 'It's a perfect hurricane.'

  By that time people had been entering the Horse Head, looking for ale to fortify them against the weather, or something stronger if they had a throat for spirits. My good friend Kitty seldom entered the inn, as she and Mother did not see eye-to-eye and young single women are not always comfortable in the company of the rough privateers, coastal sailors and free-traders who frequented this coast in these heady, dangerous days. There are always exceptions of course and in our case they are old Mrs Downer who saw all and heard all and says nothing, and Molly Draper, who would position herself in a corner and talk to anybody.

  'Weather's getting a bit rough,' Molly agreed. She was one of the few friends who remained by me despite my inquisitive nature.

  'Things could get busy later,' Mother said cryptically, and Molly smiled.

  'There'll be pickings,' she said. I liked Molly. She was born on the wrong side of the blanket, and her father, so they said, was the Reverend Barwis. She was slightly older than me and once or twice took me to the church at Binstead, where there is a most scandalous ancient idol of a woman holding open her private person in the most outrageous fashion. All the local boys used to point and mock and make comments until their mothers discovered them and put such a flea in their ear that they would never forget. And quite right too.

  Although I guessed what she meant I kept my own council, which was unusual for me.

  'Sarah,' Mother called for me to serve the master of a Ventnor coaster who had put back into harbour due to the bad weather.

  'We're due for a real pea-souper of a fog,' the master said. I knew him well, John Nash, a good man with a stout wife and six children.

  'Well Captain Nash,' I said brightly, 'I am sure you are safe in here until it all blows over.'

  'That won't be till the small hours,' John Nash said, 'I'll just have a couple and get back home.' He shifted himself comfortable on the wooden chair, sighed deeply and sunk a tankard of ale in a succession of mighty swallows that augured well for Mother's profits but ill for his waistline.

  I settled my mind for a long night's work if there were others like John Nash looking for a quiet refreshment. I saw his wet boot prints on the floor and wondered why I had ever bothered sweeping up.

  John Nash was correct about the weather. The fog thickened until the Horse Head seemed pressed down by the weight of it, seeped under the door and hovered at the windows until Mother ordered me outside to close the shutters and keep out the damp. I did so, and was surprised when Molly came to help.

  She pumped me for information about our few customers and I told her in fervent whispers, with the great rollers crashing on the bay beneath us and the mist clinging to our hair and clothes. She had the strangest eyes, Molly, as if she could read inside your head and see what you were thinking, but she was the most amiable of companions.

  'Wait…' Molly held up her hand, palm toward me. 'Something is happening.'

  I stopped in mid-sentence. When Molly said that sort of thing it was best to take heed.

  'Listen,' she took hold of my sleeve and stared out to sea.

  I listened. At first I thought it was more thunder, the rolling sort that grumbles away for a long time and then fades into nothing without there being any lightning or even rain. I was wrong though, which was more usual than I cared to admit. It was not any sort of thunder.

  'That's gunfire,' John Nash joined us outside. He lifted his tankard to indicate the south west. 'Coming from that way.'

  'No,' I said, for of course I knew better than he did. 'It's from over there,' I pointed south east by east.

  John Nash shook his head. 'The fog distorts sound,' he said, speaking serious- like and without his usual smile. 'It's south west by west; two vessels at least.' He pointed with his tankard again. 'See there?'

  At first I saw nothing but the greasy coils of fog, shifting around the coast and hugging the beach like an ugly grey blanket.

  'I see it,' Molly said and, not to be outdone, I chimed in.

  'So do I.'

  'What do you see?' Mother had joined us. She put both hands on my shoulder, either to ensure I did not fall over the cliff and lose her an unpaid skivvy or because she might actually care for me. Probably the former, I thought, uncharitably.

  Then I did see it. Great white flashes through the fog, flickering a few seconds ahead of another of those deep rumbles. 'Lightning,' I said at once. It was in the south west, exactly where John Nash said and nowhere near where I thought.

  'That is the muzzle flare of cannon,' John Nash said quietly. 'A broadside of six pounders I reckon, so maybe a brig of war or the like.' He took a swallow of his ale, 'or a Revenue cutter after a smuggler or mebbe a Frog privateer taking advantage of the fog to coast our shores and snap up a prize or two.'

  'It's lucky you did not venture out, John,' Mother's grip tightened on my shoulders, as they often did when there was talk of trouble at sea.

  'Aye, lucky,' John Nash said. He patted Mother's arm in a gesture I did not yet understand. 'He is a good man, Charlotte; a good man and he is missed. If the French still hold him they may exchange him soon.'

  'Aye.' Mother touched his hand, and then altered her tone. 'Why is my counter not polished bright? It is ten minutes since I told you, Sarah! Come on girl, there is work to be done.'

  'There is always work to be done,' I said, but rather than obey, I watched Mother as she peered out the open door. I joined her and we both stared into the white fog, holding each other close. I could feel her shivering.

  'It's all right, Mother,' I said. I rubbed my hand up and down her back. I never knew what to say on these occasions.

  'I was thinking of your father,' Mother said softly as if I did not know, and then straightened up. 'Oh well, Sarah. There is noth
ing we can do here. This is not getting the place tidy. Come on girl and get the work done.'

  She slapped my arm for me but this time I felt no resentment. Mother had nearly let me inside her secret thoughts there. For one second she had opened up that hidden hurt and I was grateful to her for the confidence.

  I finished the floor, starting every time the gunfire sounded, but after a while the noise stopped and our customers drifted away in a hubbub of noise and a reek of stale ale. Then there was nothing but the slow ticking of the grandfather clock that was my mother's pride and joy. It stood in the corner of the room diagonally opposite the door so it was the first thing that guests and customers saw when they walked in. It was a beautiful creation of honey oak with an arched face and Roman numerals that ticked softly.

  'Don't just look at it then, Sarah,' Mother said. 'Polish it so it gleams.' As I did so, she stood behind me, ensuring I did the best job I possibly could.

  'That was your father's wedding gift to me,' Mother told me as if I could ever forget. 'He ordered it specially made from Richard Clarke of Newport and used all the prize money from three years voyaging to buy it and he will want to see it pristine when he walks in the door.'

  I nodded as I applied the beeswax and polished away for dear life. One has always to work one's hardest when Mother is around.

  'He will come back soon now,' mother said, 'you can depend on it.'

  'Yes Mother,' I agreed. The oak was a fine sheen now, gleaming so it reflected my face in the body of the clock.

  Mother looked up and jerked her thumb toward the door. 'I heard hoof beats, so there will be another guest.'

  How did she do that? How could she hear so much? I had heard nothing but if Mother said she had heard a horse, then a horse she had heard. Sure enough, only a few moments later the door opened and a stranger walked in. My life started anew, although I did not know that yet. At that minute he was only an anonymous guest coming to disturb my peace and help us square the accounts, but soon that man would be the centrepiece of all sorts of troubles. A billow of mist followed him like smoke around the tail of Beelzebub; it dissipated the moment he slammed shut the door yet it was that image that remains in my mind even yet as I remember that moment; the stranger that life had used hard with the mist coiling like smoke in his wake. I looked at him as he surveyed the room, noting his weather-battered appearance and the deep tan of his face. He looked like the mate of a merchant vessel or perhaps the master of a coasting brig, but down on his luck to judge by the threadbare clothes he wore. Yet even then I knew there was more; there was a presence about this man that I had never met before.