O’Rourke escorted her to her cabin and told her that, this time, she would not be locked in. They were now in French waters and it would not be too long before they reached Saint-Malo. She might come up on deck if she wished, but he warned her to keep away from the working of the ship in case she got hurt. As soon as he left her she took him at his word, found her boat cloak and climbed up the companionway.
Chapter Eight
An eerie sight met her eyes. Stars twinkled in a moonless sky. The masts and sails were a deeper black against the dimness. Men moved around, half seen. Timbers creaked and she could detect a faint trace of waves. The boat seemed, in many ways to be similar to the White Hart, so she groped her way aft and climbed up onto the poop. A shielded lantern showed her where the helmsman stood, with O’Rourke beside him. She could hear the murmur of their voices. She walked towards them and the rustle of her skirts must have alerted them to her presence. They stopped speaking and the helmsman laughed. O’Rourke came forward and gave her his arm to steady her.
“A fine night,” he said. “I’ve always loved evenings like this. My father used to call it a ‘velvet night’ because of the colour of the sky.”
“Was he a sailor?”
“No, a surgeon, like me, but we used to go fishing together. We lived in Kinsale then before we moved to Wexford.”
“Kinsale? Where my grandmother lives?”
“The very same. I don’t think your family lived there when I was a boy, I can’t remember them. I heard about your grandfather when I went back to Kinsale for my aunt’s funeral some years later.”
“What did people say?”
“A stern man but fair. My uncle worked for him for a while and he agreed.”
“What made you become a privateer?”
“I needed work after I left Ireland. I got arrested in Dublin. My uncle bribed the warder and smuggled me aboard a ship to France. I did several jobs while I drifted down the French coast until I came to Saint-Malo. By then I’d run out of money but since I’d finished my medical course and I knew something about ships, I signed on with privateer. They’re always short of doctors to tend the wounded.”
“Doesn’t it bother you to fight against your own country?”
“England’s no country of mine.”
“But Ireland’s part of England.”
“There’s six hundred years of uprisings and rebellions to say you’re wrong. It would take all night to tell you the whole history but I have a personal reason for my opinion. My father was caught tending the wounds of so-called rebels in Wexford and British soldiers shot him out of hand. My mother became ill after that, so she sent me and my sisters to her brother in Dublin, to keep us away from any reprisals. A few years later I went to a meeting with a friend from medical school. The army broke it up and neither of us ran fast enough to escape. My friend didn’t have a rich uncle like me and they hanged him, God damn them to hell.”
“Is that why you said King George is no king of yours?”
“His soldiers killed my father and my friend. They would have killed me. Aren’t those sufficient reasons?”
“Perhaps…” Lucy hesitated. “Why does there have to be so much war and killing? Why can’t everyone just live in peace?”
“There has never been true peace ever since the world began and I doubt there ever will be. Certainly Ireland won’t be at peace until we are free of the English.”
“It was you in Portsmouth, wasn’t it?” she asked, finding herself out of her depth and changing the subject to one which really mattered. “Why did you say we’d never met?”
“In Portsmouth you might have got me arrested. I shouldn’t have been there and I called myself another name, pretending to be an Englishman. The man with me had to be convinced that you were mistaken. Fortunately he accepted my word although I know you weren’t sure. I’m sorry I lied to you.”
“But why did you go there at all?”
“Now that I can’t tell you. When you’re ransomed, you might easily pass the information on to the authorities.”
“That you were in Portsmouth? So?”
“If you told the right people it could lead to my arrest in either England or Ireland if I ever had to go there again. Then I wouldn’t live long. An Irishman who is also a French privateer, would be quickly condemned.”
A shout from the steersman made him turn and leave her standing by the rail. Lucy stayed for a little while, looking out at the stars and thinking about what he had told her. It was so different from the life she led in London. That held few surprises and sometimes it became a bit boring. The only young men of her acquaintance had been the relations of her school friends. She tried to imagine any of them walking the deck of a warship with a sword in their hand and found she could not. O’Rourke was a strange man, she decided but the spark between them had been real. How could she like a traitor to her country, even though he had good reasons? She was attracted to him even more strongly because he was the only one aboard this ship who spoke kindly to her in her own language. At this moment she decided she would welcome a little kindness no matter what the consequences.
Next morning, a change in the motion of the Constanze awoke her. The ship seemed to have lost speed and be gliding through calmer water. The noises over her head made her curious. She sat upright in the darkness, listening hard. Then she got up, tidied her clothes and hair and picked up her boat cloak. She hurried up the stairs and out onto the deck. They had come to a halt and anchored opposite the walls of what Lucy thought at first was a huge medieval castle. It looked far bigger than the Tower of London until she realised it was in fact a large town with walls surrounding it.
“Welcome to Saint-Malo,” O’Rourke said in her ear and she wheeled around. “I’m to accompany you and your companions ashore to find you accommodation. It won’t be very grand I’m afraid, but better than being kept aboard ship.”
“Anywhere would be preferable to that,” she agreed, “especially if my cabin door is locked.”
“Despite my excellent company?”
Lucy decided to give him a set down, so she answered, “Especially.”
O’Rourke grinned and did not seem to be disturbed by her reply. “You don’t speak French and even I have trouble with the local accent. Most of the people use a barbarous language called Breton. You have to be born here to understand them properly. The only English speakers you’ll find are prisoners like yourself plus a few Irish like me. I guarantee you’ll be longing for my company before the day is out.”
Someone hailed them from a boat on a heading towards the privateer. The captain shouted his orders. Sailors draped rope ladders over the side as the shallow vessel came alongside the ship. Ropes were thrown aboard and made fast. Mr. Anselm, Captain and Mrs. Hardie appeared on deck, accompanied by Captain Rollin.
“This boat has come to take you ashore,” O’Rourke said.
Two men climbed over the rail and steadied Lucy and the others as they clambered down into it. Later, Lucy admitted to herself that she had been terrified that her feet would slip or she would let go of the sailor’s hand and tumble into the water. O’Rourke came with them. Once they landed on the quay, he led them through a massive gate and into the narrow streets of the city. Grey stone walls towered on every side, making the pathways gloomy even though the sun shone. The buildings looked as if they were leaning towards each other, trying to trap people between them. Lucy shivered and resolutely tried to put the thought out of her mind. Now was not the time to imagine horrors.
They met few people until they moved further into the town and then they came into an open square where people were selling food and other goods. The place was busy. Men and women were walking about carrying baskets and parcels. Everyone seemed to be talking to each other loudly. Never having been anywhere but London before, Lucy found the sights and odours strange. The street cries held no meaning for her and she wondered what they meant. She kept turning to look this way and that, trying to watch everything that w
as happening and she lagged behind her companions. When she looked for them again, she found that they had vanished. She stood still for a moment, horrified, unable to move. They couldn’t be far, surely? Her frightened eyes searched the faces of the people passing by. Most of them ignored her but some of the men made eye contact and she shrank back against the wall. A woman passed, stopped and turned back, planting herself directly in front of Lucy. She had a pale face, with unnatural pink spots on her cheeks. She would have been marvellously dressed if her clothes had been new and clean. Her pelisse was made of a deep red velvet edged with lace, but it was stained and the hem was torn. Her bonnet boasted several tattered feathers and was trimmed with bedraggled flowers. She gave off a powerful smell, perfume of roses over another sharper odour, which Lucy did not recognise. The woman smiled at her and said something. Lucy shook her head to show she did not understand.
“Do you speak English?” she asked.
The woman laid a gloved hand on her wrist and her fingers tightened. Then a voice spoke beside her. She turned to see O’Rourke. He dropped his hand onto the woman’s. She clutched Lucy’s but then her grip opened as he pushed her aside. She stepped backwards and began to shout at him in a thin cutting voice that made heads turn towards them. O’Rourke took Lucy’s hand and pulled her away.
“Where were you? Who was that awful woman?” Lucy gasped.
“Someone you don’t want to know. If she approaches you again, don’t stop, walk to where there are other people about. Saint- Malo can be a dangerous place. Don’t go out alone.”
“I won’t.” Lucy shivered. “But where were you?”
“In here.” O’Rourke turned into another street. Captain and Mrs. Hardie were standing in a doorway with a woman who was quite different from the one in the street. This woman wore a homespun dress and a large white apron. She had a cap on her head with little wings that stood out above her ears. Her smile was warm and her voice was soft but equally incomprehensible.
“This is Madame Arbez. You will be staying with her while you are in Saint-Malo.”
Lucy smiled at the woman and received a beaming grin in return.
“Madame Arbez is used to English visitors although she has only a few words of the language. She will make you comfortable and feed you. I’ll come back this evening and bring you paper to write to your family.”
“Don’t go!” All at once, Lucy felt as if she was being deserted.
O’Rourke smiled. “I must get back to the ship. I’ll return.”
“Come along,” Mrs. Hardie said. “Let’s go in and find out what this place is like.”
They followed Madame Arbez into a large square taproom which smelled strongly of wine. Up a couple of staircases were the bedchambers. Lucy was shown into a small attic room almost filled by a bed made out of rough timber with a high mattress. A tiny window gave some light. When she forced it open, Lucy looked out across the rooftops and into the bay. There on the grey water was the Constanze, surrounded by boats. For a moment she felt homesick. Homesick for an enemy ship, don’t be so silly, she told herself. She looked at the bed. The feather mattress was covered with sheets that were coarse but clean. There was no sign of a wash stand, but a chamber pot stood in one corner. There was no other furniture. Hooks on the walls obviously were intended to hang up her clothes. She swung off her boat cloak and put it on the nearest one.
Her skin seemed gritty and her hair was coming down from its coil. I must wash myself and borrow a comb, she thought. How awful I must look. I wonder if I can make that woman understand what I need.
Lucy found it easier than she expected. She descended into what must be the taproom and then, hearing voices, down a further short staircase into the kitchen. Madame Arbez was there, stirring a pot on the hearth. A girl stood rolling pastry at a huge scrubbed table while another washed a pile of dirty dishes. A giggle from the pastry maker alerted the mistress of the house and she turned. Noticing Lucy, she hooked the ladle over the side of the pan and came forward rubbing her hands on her apron.
“Mademoiselle?”
“My I please have some water to wash?” Lucy asked. The landlady looked blank, so Lucy repeated,
“Water?” and mimed throwing water onto her face.
“Ah, de l’eau!”
Some more words and the girl at the sink filled a can and brought it to Lucy. Then she gave her a pottery bowl and a piece of cloth. Pleased with her success, Lucy mimed brushing her hair. The landlady beckoned to her and said,
“Un peigne. D’accord. Suivez moi, s’il vous plait.”
She climbed the stairs, Lucy following. Madame Arbez led her up to the first floor and into the bedroom which she shared with her husband. Then she rummaged in a press and handed Lucy a comb. It had a few teeth missing but it would do.
“Thank you.” Lucy smiled at her and then went back to her own room and made an attempt to tidy her appearance, not without some pain. The comb was barely adequate as her hair was badly tangled. Lacking a looking glass, she twisted and turned trying to find her reflection in the rather muddy window panes. She compared her present situation with Mrs. Beckwith’s house.
I will write to Becky and tell her how grateful I am for the care she gave me. There are so many things I never realised I would have to do without. Everything is so different. I must tell her what has happened to me. She’ll be horrified. I wonder if Caroline would envy me my adventures now. There was very little for Lucy to do for the rest of the afternoon. The inn had no books and she did not like needlework. Thoroughly bored, she ventured down to the taproom where a number of the locals sat around drinking. They stopped talking immediately she went in and their fierce looks made her turn around and shut the door after her. She would not dream of venturing out into the streets unaccompanied, even if she ignored the proprieties. The encounter with the painted lady had taught her that. She searched the house for Captain and Mrs. Hardie but could not find them anywhere. The landlady made gestures that suggested they had gone out. So there was nothing to do but retreat to her room again, lie on her bed and think. Her thoughts were not happy ones.
Later on, she heard a banging and shuffling on the stairs. Curiosity made her look out and she saw two men staggering under the weight of a large trunk. They put it down outside her door and she was astounded to see it was hers. Her name was painted on the lid. The men smiled at her and gestured to the trunk then they said something, turned around and left her.
Lucy had not expected to see her possessions again until she was in Ireland. In fact, after the fighting, she never expected to see them at all. Why had it not been looted with everything else? Why had it been returned to her? She could not guess but was only thankful to have it. The clothes she had worn on the voyage had been her worst. She was sick of them, especially the horrible black dress she first wore to the solicitor’s office.
She undid the straps of the trunk, pulled up the lid and looked down. The tissue paper wrappings around her dresses had not been disturbed. A faint scent of lavender arose when she opened them. No one had rooted through her belongings looking for anything of value.
Not that they would have found any if they had, Lucy thought. I really don’t have anything that would interest a thief. Papa probably pawned Mama’s jewellery. Certainly I never saw any, except the locket that Becky gave me on the day I left and that’s tied up safe in my pocket.
Lucy, all at once, became desperate to change her clothes. Realising she was extremely dirty, for she had only cleaned her face and hands, since leaving London, Lucy emptied the water out of the window and seized the can. She hurried down to the kitchen and, using mime, obtained hot water and more drying cloths. She went back to her room, stripped and washed herself. Then she rummaged in the trunk for underclothes and sighed at the touch of fine linen against her skin once again. She picked out a day dress of lilac trimmed with lace. It suited her better than unrelieved mourning.
No one knows me here, she thought. So they can’t expect me to wear black and
I won’t bring shame to Papa’s memory.
Feeling more like herself, she followed the girl who had been sent to fetch her down for the evening meal. A large table had been set up at one end of the taproom, surrounded by screens. Captain Hardie, Mrs. Hardie and Mr. Anselm were already there. Both men rose to their feet as she came in.
“Where did you get those clothes?” Mrs. Hardie asked. She herself still wore the clothes she had been captured in.
“They’re mine. Two men brought my trunk back to me.”
“How odd.” Mrs. Hardie turned to her husband. “Privateers don’t give back anything of value, surely?”
“Only when it suits their purposes.” Everyone turned. O’Rourke stood by the screen. “May I join you?”
“Do we have any choice?” Mrs. Hardie asked, glaring at him.
“You do. Say ‘no’ and I’ll go away but then you won’t learn those things you need to know about Saint-Malo, and that, perhaps would be unfortunate.”
“Quiet, Annie,” Captain Hardie said, catching her hand. “Sit down please. No doubt you have been sent by Captain Rollin?”
“Amongst others.” O’Rourke sat down and poured himself a glass of wine. “First of all I should tell you that I’ve been to see the injured men. Mr. Barnes’ leg is going along as well as can be expected and so is Harry. If you call at the convent tomorrow you will be able to see them for yourselves. Tom, I’m afraid is barely holding on to life, so if you know his religion, I can arrange for a minister to visit him.”
Miss Ridgeway's Privateer Page 8
