Regency Belles & Beaux

by Michele McGrath

  “Let go, missy, and I’ll take you to the captain. Hang onto me tight. Not got your sea legs yet have you? Give it a day or so and you’ll be dancing around just like the rest of us.”

  As good as his word, the sailor led her up to the quarterdeck where Captain Hardie stood by the steersman, conning the ship through the busy river traffic.

  “Here she is, Captain,” the sailor said.

  “Sit her on that coil of warp, Simpson. Then she can see everything and won’t be thrown all over the place.”

  Lucy was seated in the middle of a huge circle of rope, rather tarry and smelly but too heavy to move about in the following sea. After a little while, when the ship was sailing freely, Captain Harvey came over to her.

  Lucy asked him, “Where are we, Captain?”

  “Just rounding North Foreland. There it is over there.” Lucy followed the Captain’s pointing finger, although she had no idea what North Foreland was and was little better informed when she had looked. The hazy outline of the land was covered by what the captain told her was sea fret.

  “Or mist to you landlubbers. We have to change direction once we come out of the river. My wife said you had gone to sleep just before we tacked into the North Sea. Did the motion of the waves wake you up?”

  “There was a lot of noise…”

  “There always is when we set the sails but you’ll get used to it. A couple of days and I’d wager you won’t even hear it.”

  Lucy smiled although she did not believe him. How could anyone become used to such a racket? When the captain left her to attend to something in the bows, Lucy remained where she was. She did not want to return to her smelly little cabin below decks where she knew she would almost certainly be sick. The wind blowing into her face kept that fate away from her. Although the breeze was cool, the coil of rope protected her and she could see what was going on. The first mate, Mr. Barnes, stopped from time to time to answer her questions. She found the management of the sails exciting although, at first, she was unsure what was happening. There seemed to be a lot of noise and milling around which was confusing. Then she began to recognise the rhythm in the changes. She marvelled at the skill of the sailors running up the rigging and loosening the large sheets of canvas that drove the boat forward. All that afternoon she stayed on deck as the south coast of England slipped by on the starboard. Starboard, she was told, was the name for the right side of a ship looking from the stern but no one could tell her why it was called that. It just was. Port was the left. Stairs were companionways, privies were heads. It was a language all of its own.

  Mr. Barnes made sure that Lucy did not miss the famous White Cliffs of Dover when they came into sight, although they were not clear. The sea fret still lingered. She thanked him for his kindness but could not help being a little disappointed. They did not look at all as she had imagined them to be. They were much smaller.

  The Channel was full of shipping of all kinds, from small fishing boats to the occasional warship heading south to one of the naval ports. Lucy marvelled at it all and forgot her uncertain future for a time. When the mate came to talk to her again, she pointed out a large warship to him and asked what sort of boat it was.

  “That’s a first rate, that is, Ship of the Line with eighty guns or more and hundreds of men aboard her. She’ll be going into Portsmouth likely enough. Lucky you are to see her. There’s not many of them around. The ones we usually pass are the second rates, frigates and the like. Most of the first rates are sitting round the coast of France, keeping Boney’s fleet in harbour. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She’s lovely,” Lucy agreed, staring at the elegant vessel.

  “Glad we’re following after her. Any French pirate will take one look at her and run for home with his tail between his legs.”

  “What do you mean? They might attack us if she wasn’t here?” A thrill of fear ran up Lucy’s back but Mr. Barnes shook his head.

  “Unlikely round here. That’s why we stay as close as we can to the English coast. There’re too many English men o’war this near to Dover for the pirates to venture out. It’s when we pass Plymouth and come nearer to Saint-Malo that we’ll have to keep a good look-out. That’s where the blighters usually tarry. Begging your pardon, miss, forgot who I was speaking to for a moment.”

  Lucy ignored the word which she did not really understand and asked,

  “What do the French do? Sink English ships?”

  Mr. Barnes shook his head. “Not if they can help it. They’re not that stupid. Brigs like this one are worth good money and so is their cargo. The Frenchies try to capture them intact and then sail them into Saint-Malo to sell them off.”

  By this time, Lucy was hanging on the mate’s every word. “Have you ever been chased by a Frenchy, Mr. Barnes?” she gasped.

  “Once or twice, but we got away from them both times. Don’t you worry none. Captain and I have played that game before and this ship’s speedy for all it’s so broad. Given a good wind, they won’t catch us, even if they do try. We’ll have you safe in Ireland before you know it.”

  Despite his confident words, Lucy could not help feeling a bit apprehensive. She found herself peering around the horizon in a vain attempt to see if there were any French ships nearby. Not that I would be able to recognise a Frenchman, she thought, but nobody ever mentioned the possibility of pirates to me before.

  “Privateers, they should properly be called,” Captain Hardie told her when she raised the subject at dinner that night, “not pirates. They sail under Letters of Marque, a sort of permission from their government to attack the ships of an enemy nation. Boney’s Letter of Marque in this case. Lets them fire on other vessels, capture them and take the cargo if they can. Not been caught yet although we’ve been chased a few times with no harm done.”

  Mrs. Hardie laughed. “Can be exciting if one of them’s after us. Then you’d see how fast the White Hart can run.”

  “Don’t you wish bad luck down on us, Annie, for all you like speed. Me, I want a nice quiet voyage down the Channel and over to Ireland. The sea’s enough of a challenge without tempting fate.” Captain Hardie put down his beaker and solemnly touched the wood of the table.

  “Nobody told me about any pirates, Captain,” Mr. Anselm, the other passenger said, in a shaky voice.

  “No need to, Mr. Anselm,” Captain Hardie replied, cheerfully. “We see them about one trip in ten and mostly far away in the distance. Never come within a couple of leagues. It you want to get to Ireland without any trouble, I’d back this ship to win a race against any pirate. You’re safe enough with me and my crew.”

  The curate’s face had whitened, despite the captain’s assurance but he said nothing more about the subject during the meal and the conversation turned to other topics. Captain Hardie answered questions, told stories and entertained his guests. He encouraged Lucy and Mr. Anselm to tell him about themselves. Lucy said simply that she was going to live with her grandmother following her father’s death and received the condolences of the others. Mr. Anselm was travelling on to Dublin after the ship had called into Cove. He was to visit a Bishop Mortimer there before travelling on to the parish of Dundalk to the north of the city. This was his first appointment and he was looking forward to making a real change to the lives of his parishioners. No one commented but Lucy thought privately that he was unlikely to succeed in his ambition. He had a too good opinion of himself and preferred to speak rather than to listen to other people.

  When the captain was called away at the changing of the watch, the group left the table and broke up afterwards. Surprisingly, despite apprehension, strange smells and the movement of the waves, Lucy fell asleep on her hard bunk almost as soon as her eyes closed.

  Chapter Five

  Lucy did not stir until she heard the noises above her which told her that the sails were being trimmed to a new direction. A knock on her door heralded the arrival of the promised can of hot water. She got out of her bunk and used the head, not without some diff
iculty, for the ship seemed to be rising up and falling down in an alarming manner. She retreated to her cabin and made a brief toilette. Mrs. Hardie was right. It was difficult to be both clean and neat under these conditions. She washed her face and hands, brushed and plaited her hair and twisted it into a knob on top of her head, using most of the hairpins she possessed. I should have brought more, she thought, but how could I know I would need so many?

  Mrs. Hardie was in the saloon at the back of the ship and there was bread, cheese and small ale on the table for Lucy to break her fast. Lucy only managed a few mouthfuls before she had to excuse herself and run out on deck. The food, although it was still fresh, having been loaded only yesterday, did not sit easily on her stomach with the strange motion. Mrs. Hardie laughed and told her later that, everyone suffered at first but, by the time they reached Ireland, she wouldn’t remember that she’d ever been seasick at all.

  The weather had changed from the day before. All the sea fret had gone and the sun shone in a blue sky flecked with clouds. The ship scudded along under a press of canvas, cutting into the waves and leaving a long white trail behind her. When Lucy arrived, the captain greeted her and said,

  “Three more hours and we’ll be into Portsmouth. That dot you can see on the horizon is the Isle of Wight. We’ve made good time during the night, for the wind came round and it’s blown us along. Just what we wanted — a nice quick voyage.”

  “Would it be possible for me to go ashore when you reach Portsmouth?” Lucy asked. She had a need to walk on something solid which did not roll or bounce. She thought of a bath but decided it was too much trouble since she would only get dirty again straight away.

  “Aye it would. We spend today and tomorrow morning there, loading and unloading. Quite a lot of cargo is waiting for us at Pompey. We’ll leave on the afternoon tide if the weather doesn’t turn nasty but it looks settled enough so we should be all right. I’ll send one of the lads with you so you don’t get lost. Pompey’s a big town if you’ve never been there before.”

  Captain Hardie was as good as his word. As soon as the ship had anchored, Lucy was able to disembark in the small boat that ferried people and supplies to the mole.

  “Be sure to be back at six bells for your dinner,” Mrs. Hardie shouted down to her, “and don’t wander away. Lenny will see nothing happens to you but this is a navy town and full of rogues. Do as he tells you and you won’t come to harm.”

  Once she was on dry land, Lucy found that her head still swayed with the motion of the ship and her legs did not work as they should. Laughing Lenny drew her hand through his arm and told her to lean on him. Lucy did, although she felt awkward because she had never been so close to any young man before. Yet she knew that, if she had refused his offer, she would probably have fallen.

  “Is it always like this when you get off a ship?” Lucy moaned.

  “The first time you go to sea it is and sometimes afterwards. Then the feeling just goes. What do you want to do first, Miss?”

  “Walk around until I’m more like myself.”

  Lenny, a sailor in his early twenties, had a smiling face and a helpful manner. He was tall and broad, a fact that had caused the captain to choose him for this duty. He said he was pleased to be escorting a pretty young lady which was far better than loading cargo any day of the week. All his mates were envious of him. Answering Lucy’s questions, after her head had cleared a bit, he told her that he came from Portsmouth. He had been at sea since he turned eleven and hoped to be given his own ship one day or at least to become a mate. He escorted her along the harbour, showing her the ships at anchor or tied up at one of the walls. Lighters rowed to and fro across the open water, piled with goods or passengers. A barge had been tied to the side of the White Hart and a net of cargo was being let down into her, even as they watched.

  “That boat’s off to Africa, after the slavers,” Lenny told her, pointing to a tall ship painted in red and black which was anchored in the channel. “She came in here before we left to go up to London so she must be almost ready to leave by now. She’ll be relieving one of the others which are on duty. There’s a squadron sailing around the coast of Africa, hoping to catch the ships that take the blacks across to the Caribbean. Nasty trade, but a lot of the lads moan about having to stop it when they’re in the taverns. They say it’s as hot as hell down there.”

  Later on, Lenny pointed out a ship with three big masts, hoisting its sails and manoeuvring away from its buoy and out into the fairway.

  “A silk trader from China. I’ve seen her before many a time, ever since I was a little nipper. Takes months to get there and months to get back, sometimes years if they’re unlucky, but they say it’s worth it. Their cargo sells for a lot of money.”

  “Would you ever go on such a voyage?” Lucy asked.

  “Me? No thank you. I like my home too much. London to Ireland and sometimes up to Scotland suits me fine. Mam wouldn’t want me to be away too long and there’s my girl waiting for me too.”

  “Oh? Tell me about her.”

  Lenny’s description of his Bessie caused Lucy’s eyes to widen. She was obviously a beauty, to Lenny anyway, and a loving person.

  “A few more voyages and I’ll have enough money to marry her,” Lenny confided.

  “I wish you every happiness,” Lucy replied heartily, a little envious of the unknown girl who had inspired such affection.

  “Are you hungry yet, Miss Lucy?” Lenny asked her.

  “Yes, I am.” Lucy suddenly felt ravenous for the first time since she had gone on board the ship.

  “My aunty lives near here and she keeps a tavern. She’s a good cook so I usually visit her whenever I’m ashore.”

  “And you brought me this way deliberately?” Lucy asked with a grin.

  “Mrs Hardie thought you might be able to eat properly once you got on shore, so she told me to bring you here just in case. Some of the eating houses in this town I wouldn’t go near unless I wanted to be poisoned. Come along and meet my Auntie Nan.”

  Lenny’s Auntie Nan proved to be a good cook, although of the plain and simple variety. Lucy dined on pea soup, made to the navy’s own recipe, scrambled eggs and a sweet pasty filled with apples and spices. It was the best meal she had eaten since she had left her cousin’s house. Replete and much happier as a result, Lucy thanked her hostess, a red-faced harassed woman who beamed at her compliments.

  Then she set off with Lenny to return to the White Hart. This time Lenny took her to the more fashionable areas of Portsmouth but Lucy secretly thought them rather tame after Bond Street. She had no desire to linger. They had turned down a narrow road which led to the harbour when Lucy saw two men coming towards her and thought she recognised one of them. Surely it couldn’t be? Not here in Portsmouth. It was really nothing more than his shape and the way he walked yet she wanted to be sure. Instinctively she hurried forward. The men were not walking at any great pace but they did not notice her approach until she cried out in delight,

  “Mr. O’Rourke!”

  They halted and she found herself staring into the same blue eyes she remembered so well, but this time their owner distinctly frowned at her. He bowed and said,

  “You are mistaken, madam. That is not my name.”

  “Oh!” Lucy stared at him. His face did not change, nor did he smile and his speech seemed different. All trace of his Irish accent had vanished and he had the affected voice of an upper class Englishman. She was suddenly unsure, even though she could not forget his eyes. Remembering the scar on his hand she looked down but found to her disappointment that he wore gloves. She hesitated wondering if she could ask him to remove them then realised such a request was impossible.

  “I beg your pardon. You remind me of someone I met in London a month ago,” she stammered, her face scarlet with embarrassment.

  “I rarely go to London and I haven’t been there for at least five years. The gentleman you met was a most fortunate fellow; I only wish I was he. I assure you if I
had met you before, I should not have forgotten.” He turned to Lenny. “You are with this young lady?” Lenny nodded. “Can I assist you in any way?”

  Lenny touched his forehead. “No, sir, thanking you very much.”

  “Well, good day to you then.” With another bow, the stranger strode off down the street with his companion.

  Patrick tried to remain relaxed although he had experienced a great shock. He thought furiously. Of course he remembered her; he had never forgotten her face. What was her name? Lucy? What was she doing in Portsmouth? At any other time he would have been delighted to see her but she had almost upset his deception. Taylor was a suspicious man at the best of times, a useful trait in his occupation.

  “Who was that girl?” Taylor asked when they had walked out of earshot.

  “I have no idea, I only wish I did. Young ladies don’t often run after me like that. It’s a pity I’m sailing today or I might have taken the trouble to find out and gone calling.” He patted his pocket. “Can’t take the time or the risk with what I’m carrying.”

  “I’m glad you think that. Others don’t.”

  “That’s why you deal with me and not with them, isn’t it?”

  Taylor nodded. “That and the money you pay me. The less danger the better; I’m a prudent man. You don’t get drunk and word has it that you don’t frequent the nunneries, so you’re less likely to open your mouth unwisely. I don’t fancy being strung up for treason, even in your company. Another year and I can leave this game for good. I’ll set myself up with a nice little business somewhere a long way from the sea.”

  “With a wife who cooks well and a quiver full of children no doubt.” Patrick laughed. “Maybe I’ll come and visit you, when you’re old and stout and turned respectable.”