Miss Ridgeway's Privateer

by Michele McGrath

  He pulled her roughly to her feet and turned her around. It took time to fasten her dress and he could feel her shuddering against him. He finished at last and reached down to pick up the shawl he had brought for her. When she faced him he saw that her face was wet with tears.

  He forced himself to ignore it, picking up their scattered belongings and helping her down the small hill that led to the farm called Les Creux. Overwrought by what had just happened and his rejection of her, Lucy did not pay much attention to her surroundings. She only noticed fishing nets drying in the sun and a brown and white dog that ran in circles around her. A man and woman came out of the cottage. O’Rourke greeted them and kissed the woman. Then he brought Lucy forward. She could not understand what they were saying, although she caught her own name and the word ‘Ireland’. When her ear became more accustomed to their speech she realised that they spoke in English, overlaid by the thick local accent.

  Lucy was tired, cold and unhappy. She kept shivering, because the silk shawl was no protection from the keenness of the wind. She was glad to be drawn inside the building. The old woman, Katarin, gave her a seat beside the crackling fire. A beaker was put into her hand which was hot and tasted of herbs. Her senses began to swim so much she almost fell off her stool. Katarin noticed and took her to a corner of the room. Lucy fell asleep rolled up in a piece of sacking on a pile of straw, her troubles forgotten for the moment.

  She woke to the sound of voices, unsure of where she was. The old couple and O’Rourke were sitting around the fire, the firelight flickering on their faces. A noise made her look away as a tall figure came through the door. He pulled up a stool and joined the others. She sat up and the movement drew O’Rourke’s eyes.

  “How long have I been asleep?” she asked.

  “Several hours.” He came over to her and helped her to stand. When her feet touched the floor, she could not stop herself from groaning aloud.

  “Sit here,” he said, leading her to the stool he had been sitting on. “These are my friends, Paol, his wife Katarin and their son Yannick. Paol and Yannick are fishermen and I have arranged with them to take us part of the way to Ireland.”

  Katarin had risen and poured something from a pottery jug into a beaker and gave it to Lucy.

  “Is this..?”

  “Only wine mixed with water,” O’Rourke told her. “Not as powerful as the eau-de-vie in my flask.”

  “Thank you,” Lucy said to the woman. She sipped, finding the drink sour but glad to quench her thirst. She was hungry too. There was a strong smell of salty fish from the pot which bubbled on the hearth. In other circumstances Lucy would have refused even to try something so pungent but, when she was given a bowl and a hunk of coarse bread, she did not hesitate. Afterwards, Katarin took her outside. When they returned, O’Rourke told Lucy to put her feet in a basin of warm water. He poured a clear liquid into it and the effect was soothing. Later O’Rourke smoothed a paste into her skin and bandaged her. Katarin gave her a pair of old clogs, much too large for her. She started to refuse them but O’Rourke said,

  “Put them on. Your feet must heal as quickly as possible. We’re leaving on the morning tide and you have to be ready to walk by then. We can’t stay here any longer or someone might see us and ask questions. This coast is watched because it is so close to France. Paol is already taking a chance by letting us stay in his house overnight. Do as I say and we will have you with your grandmother very soon.”

  Early the next morning, Paol, Yannick, O’Rourke and Lucy said goodbye to Katarin and walked down to the small cove where their fishing boat was beached. Lucy’s feet were better, but she found difficulty with the steep sloping path. She slipped twice and one of the men had to grab her until she steadied. They reached the boat, prepared it for sea and put Lucy aboard before they pushed it out into the water. They rowed into the bay and then set the sail.

  Lucy found the motion of this small craft strange after the bigger ships. The steep up and down jerking at first made her feel odd but then the boat turned and the prow cut into the waves as it steadied. White waves creamed along the sides and bursts of spray flew up into her face. The boat had little shelter but Paol had given her a piece of tarred cloth that protected her body. O’Rourke had wrapped himself in another. He sat beside her, pointing out mountains, bays and farms on the coast of Jersey as long as it remained in sight. As they headed out to sea, the land became hazy and it slipped behind a mist.

  “What happens now?” Lucy asked.

  “A fishing fleet gathers off the Old Head of Kinsale, near to where your grandmother lives. We’ll join the other boats and wait. A fisherman from Cork is our contact and he’ll be looking out for a stranger coming up from the south. He’ll come abeam as soon as darkness falls and then he’ll take you into Kinsale and hand you over to your people.”

  “What about you? Aren’t you coming with me?”

  “The original plan was for me to see you aboard, pick up the ransom and return to the Matou on the boat that brought me. That’s not possible now.”

  “Then come with me.”

  “Do you want me to?”

  She slid her cold hand into his. “Very much.”

  “It’s dangerous for me in Ireland.”

  “It’s dangerous for you in England and you can’t go back to Saint-Malo, so what will you do?”

  “I don’t know. America or the Low Countries, Scotland perhaps.”

  “Would they know you in Kinsale? You left there years ago.”

  “They might. I was well known in the area, the doctor’s red-haired son, who was usually up to mischief.”

  “You must have changed since then. A boy is different from a man and they wouldn’t be expecting you. You could disguise yourself as you did in London.”

  “If I darken my hair again, I might risk it for a short while. Let me think about it.”

  “Please don’t leave me yet,” she said. Don’t leave me at all was what she thought but did not dare to say.

  As the hours passed, Lucy remembered the life she had lived in London and the bright future she had planned for herself. Balls, dresses, handsome young men, fame and fortune had been her ambition once. Now she was seated on a fishing boat, a reeking cloth wrapped around her. Her face was wet with salt spray and her dark curls were a mass of tangles. What must I look like? I wouldn’t care about that if only he wanted me. I’d trade all the balls and the riches to stay with him, but how can I if he won’t ask me to?

  Beside her, O’Rourke was silent. If it was not for his shoulder, pressed against hers and the warmth of his hand, she would be alone in this wild wet world. He’s with me now, she thought with something like contentment. Whatever the future brings, I will be happy for now and deal with it when it comes. Lucy was more tired than she realised and after a while she dozed. She was wakened to a meal of bread and a coarse cheese, washed down with a thin red wine.

  “How long now?”

  Paol grunted an answer which O’Rourke repeated,

  “We’re making good progress. By evening we’ll be able to see the Isles of Scilly. Another night and day should bring us to Kinsale.”

  He did not look perturbed but Lucy was finding it difficult to sit still on the swaying boat after so long. Yet it was harder to stand or to walk with any safety as the deck lurched beneath her feet.

  “The best thing to do is rest,” he said. “We’re in no danger. Paol and Yannick are experts. They often come this way chasing shoals of fish. Lie down now, sleep if you can and the hours will pass more quickly.”

  “Hold me then,” she asked, “the deck is so hard.”

  He sat beside her, with his back to the side of the boat and put his arms around her. She lay back against him, snuggling into him like a little child. He had not moved when she opened her eyes again and saw the stars dancing in the darkness. She watched for a while, aware of their beauty, until the motion rocked her to sleep again.

  Rain pattering on her face woke her in a grey dawn. To he
r untutored eye, the boat looked exactly the same as it had the night before except that Yannick was steering and his father was rolled up asleep. O’Rourke must have been awake because he helped her to sit up.

  “Where are we?”

  “Past the Scilly Isles and crossing Saint George’s Channel. This evening should bring us up to the fishing fleet if the wind holds.”

  He got to his feet, held onto the rigging and pulled her upright. She groaned at the stiffness of her legs.

  “Can you manage to stand still?” O’Rourke asked. “Hold on to the rigging.” When she nodded, he walked away.

  “Where are you going?”

  He grinned. “Don’t look!” When he returned he said,

  “There’s a bucket for you to use forward. I’ve rigged a tarpaulin so no one will see you. Heave the contents over the side when you’re finished but do it over the port side not the starboard.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s to leeward which means that the wind is blowing away from the boat. If you throw anything to windward, it will blow back into your face. Don’t forget.”

  He laughed but Lucy went bright red. Acute with embarrassment, she slunk away, feeling a fool to need such an explanation. She was glad to use the facilities, rudimentary and rather disgusting though they proved to be. That was one aspect of shipboard life she would be delighted to leave behind her, she thought.

  She was sitting with O’Rourke when she asked the question which had been preying on her mind.

  “Have you decided to come with me or not?”

  “It would be unwise. A privateer is considered a pirate if he’s unlucky enough to be caught. I doubt they’d bother about Letters of Marque. I’d be hanged and buried out of hand if they knew who I was.”

  “Who knows you are a privateer?”

  “Paol and Yannick do.”

  “Anyone in Kinsale?”

  “No. There’s an agent of ours in Cove, that’s all. We deal through him.”

  “Then if no one knows you, why should they find out? You could pass as an unfortunate gentleman whose ransom was paid at about the same time as mine. Out of the goodness of your heart, you volunteered to accompany me here.”

  He was silent for a moment. “That would be a coincidence and people are wary of coincidences.”

  Lucy had been trying to find the words to convince him and thought she had hit on a plan that might succeed. “Not if you had a story prepared which also happens to be true.”

  “What story is that?”

  “Do you remember the curate who was captured with me from the White Hart?”

  “Yes. You didn’t like him.”

  “He’s a prosy bore, but he was on the same ship and he wrote a letter to his bishop at the same time I wrote to my grandmother. He’s never been to Ireland and nobody knows him there.”

  “You’re not suggesting I impersonate him, are you?”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m not dressed like a curate.”

  “I’m not dressed as a young lady either, in these dreadful clothes you brought for me. We could say that the privateer was blown onto some rocks. Yannick rescued us, just in time for we were drowning. You cast off your collar and coat to try to swim ashore, pulling me along with you. I’ll tell everyone that you saved my life, which you did. What do you think?”

  “You’ve read too many novels and you have a vivid imagination.”

  “It’ll work, I know it will. You can take a ship for America from Cove as well as from Bristol or Liverpool. Come with me, please. At least see me safely to my grandmother before you leave.” She stroked his cheek. He caught hold of her hand and held it still. “Don’t you want to?”

  “I do but I still think it unwise, for both of us.”

  “Nonsense. As long as we both say the same thing, we’re safe. Let’s make up a story now and stick to it.”

  “I suppose clergymen are far less suspicious than other people,” O’Rourke said thoughtfully. “With luck no one will question me, at least I hope so.”

  “Mr. Anselm’s curacy is north of Dublin. Is there a place called Danduck or something like that?”

  “Dundalk?”

  “Probably. That’s why he was getting off the ship in Dublin not in Cove. It’s nearer.”

  They spent the next few hours concocting a tale that sounded almost believable. Lucy tried to remember all the things Mr. Anselm had told her aboard the White Hart, weaving truth into fiction. It passed the time as ideas and arguments flew back and forth. At last they agreed a plan between themselves and outlined to Yannick and Paol the parts they would have to play. Neither man disagreed, especially when they were told that if any money was handed over, they could take it home with them. O’Rourke’s coat was too good for a shipwrecked prisoner so he exchanged it for Yannick’s jerkin although it smelt of fish. A scarf hid his tell-tale hair “until I can find some soot to darken it.”

  “I thought you used dye,” Lucy said.

  “Kinsale is too small for me to buy such a strange thing without it being noticed. Soot will do for now.”

  A red sun was sinking and shadows of clouds made patches on the sea when Yannick called out and pointed. She saw small blobs ahead of the boat riding on the waters.

  “Look, Lucy,” O’Rourke said, helping her up for a better view. “It’s the fishing fleet.”

  As darkness fell, the sprinkling of boats began to show lights on their masts. Yannick hoisted a rather strange trio of lanterns, a white, then red, then white.

  “That’s the agreed recognition signal,” O’Rourke told Lucy when she asked. “So our contact will know who we are.”

  Sure enough, a little while later a boat bore up to them and a light flashed three times. Yannick held up a lantern aloft then covered it in reply. The boat circled and came up beside them. A rope was thrown and made fast, tying the two vessels together.

  “Where have you come from?” someone asked in English.

  “Saint-Malo,” O’Rourke replied, in an English accent just as he had spoken in Portsmouth.

  “That’s a Jersey crabbing boat, not a Frenchy.” The rope started to be loosened but O’Rourke grabbed it and held it tight.

  “We were prisoners in Saint-Malo for all that, passengers on the White Hart out of London River. A French fishing boat took us to Jersey and these men brought us here.”

  “What’s the recognition signal?”

  “Tomcats prowl in the dark.”

  “Good. Thought you were one of these water-guards for a moment. Have you got the girl?”

  “She’s here. Tell him who you are.”

  “I’m Lucy Ridgeway.”

  “Who was your guardian?”

  “Mrs. Amelia Beckwith.”

  “Right. Get her aboard then and we’ll be leaving. We’ve stopped here too long.”

  A lantern was held to show the way. Lucy said her farewells to Paol and Yannick. Then O’Rourke took her to the side of the boat. He sat astride and helped her over. A satchel was thrust at him, which he passed over to Yannick, before he climbed into the other boat beside her.

  “What’s this?” The man who held the lantern asked. “Who are you?”

  “I’m the Reverend Mr. Anselm. My ransom was paid a day before Miss Ridgeway’s so they put us on the same fishing boat since I was going to Ireland too.”

  “We have no orders about you.”

  “I only want to come with you to Kinsale to see her delivered safe to her grandmother. I’ll make my own way from there. I have to go north to take up my curacy in Dundalk.” The light flashed into his face.

  “You don’t look like a clergyman to me.”

  “What do clergymen look like? We come in all shapes and sizes as far as I know.”

  “You smell of fish and your hands are sailor’s hands.”

  “My father has a yacht in Falmouth and I often used to sail with him. As for my clothes…”

  “He ripped them getting ashore in Jersey,” Lucy interrupted. “The
y were caught on some rocks. Mr. Anselm begged these things from the fishermen. Ask them if you don’t believe me.”

  The man asked the question and Yannick replied. Lucy still did not understand him but these Irishmen appeared to do so and one of them said,

  “Stay then. We’ll take you as far as Kinsale, but no trouble mind, or we’ll toss you overboard and you can swim the rest of the way ashore.”

  As he was saying the words, Yannick took matters into his own hands, pulling out a large knife and slashing his boat free. A shout and it veered away into the darkness. Lucy realised that its signal lanterns had already been extinguished but she nevertheless called out her thanks and waved.

  A man stepped out of the shadows. “They can’t see you in the gloom,” he said. “I’m William Cooper, Lady Mary’s agent, Miss Ridgeway. Your grandmother sent me to bring you to her. There’s a place been prepared for you for the journey. Come with me, please. You won’t be aboard long. We’ll be in Kinsale by morning.”

  “Mr. Anselm?”

  “I’m coming.”

  An enclosure had been built of boxes and tarpaulin just in front of the mast. It kept most of the spray away from them. There was only room for two so O’Rourke sat outside, listening to the talk.

  “So those men who brought you here were privateers?” Cooper asked. “I would never have guessed it.”

  “I don’t think they are. They carry people or messages to one place or the other, that’s all,” Lucy replied.

  “Well, they’re in league with the privateers anyway.”

  “I would still be in Jersey or even Saint-Malo if people like them hadn’t agreed to bring me to you.”

  “Did they treat you well? They did not give you any insult?” The man gave a slight shudder.

  “Certainly not. My only problem was that I didn’t understand what they said because their accent was so strong.”

  The boat had turned and at that moment Lucy saw the outline of land low rising in front of her.

  “The Old Head of Kinsale,” William Cooper told her. “You will soon be home.”

  “A home I have never visited.”