The Wilde Flower Saga: A Contrary Wind (Historical Adventure Series)

by Schulz, Marilyn M

  “Always critical, never a word of encouragement.”

  Her palm was bleeding now. She reached for her bag. The French chef’s herbs would have to do. Blackberry stopped bleeding, but there was none of that here. Was it the leaves or the pulp of the berries?

  Blackberry cobbler with clotted cream . . .

  Her stomach grumbled again. The gull on the bow swept away with a protest as another took its place. Sea gulls could be very territorial, she knew. Not unlike men.

  She resumed her search for a cure. Bay leaves—good for keeping cockroaches away; she always traveled with bay laurel in abundance. It was also good in soups and stews, but not much good for her now.

  Clove oil and cinnamon were both good for treating tooth pain. The chef had only ground-to-powder versions of them. The smell was nice, so Kate snuck in a pinch just for that. She didn’t think it would be much use to her without some hot water for a tincture . . . or oatmeal porridge to sprinkle it on.

  There was catnip left over from last summer. Good in tea, helped her tummy on rough seas, and there was the additional benefit that cockroaches hated catnip too. Plus, the mint drove the kitties wild. Sometimes in port, she hired some warehouse cats to make food of the rats that tended to infest a ship no matter how hard you tried to keep it free.

  Cat roundup was some of the funniest times she remembered: sailors grabbing tails and getting the worse for it too. All it took was catnip or milk in a dish and a fisherman’s finest net to toss over. So she brought on the cats and a good deal of pennyroyal to repel the influx of fleas.

  The crew thought her strange—perhaps touched—and a bit of a witch when she brought on her bundles of dried herbs. But Kate felt a certain kinship to the little predators roaming the wooden hulls, catching rats and scratching on the timbers, giving no thought to the dominance of man.

  “Pennyroyal is used to fend off fleas,

  hang bundles of fronds down from the beams.

  A roach near laurel may soon be gone,

  when bay laurel leaves are trod upon.

  Use catmint or nip to catch little tigers,

  for a ship favors cats purring inside her.”

  Neither Kate nor her mother was a real poet, the rhymes were meant to help remember the use of the herbs and how to apply them. And some times she wasn’t even sure she remembered the rhymes just right—something about bugs and fleas and roaches . . . and mint tea—catmint, catnip tea?

  There was something about men not liking cats that appealed to her—a certain primitive justice in their own savagery maybe. Mrs. O’Malley said it was Kate’s own witch’s soul coming out. Mrs. O’Malley had a vivid imagination.

  But catnip was not much good for a burst blister. Pennyroyal might have helped with the flies she swatted in the day and the gnats she slapped at in the night. She had to make due with putting the blanket over her head. Kate continued to rummage.

  “Caraway for the gut, and sage is for sweating.

  Use dill for bilious attack, fennel for lost wetting.

  Boil and steep, for men and women as well.

  Sip down slowly or the tummy might swell.“

  Fennel was used when a new mother’s milk did not come, or when she dried up too fast. The other herbs were used for both men’s and women’s troubles—especially sour stomachs. And there was something more. Kate chewed on her lip as she tried to remember another.

  “Dill for a stomach that is wanting for play.

  Use seeds or the leaves, up to three times a day.

  It may smell like pickles, the nose it might tickle,

  so cover the brew until the brewing is through.”

  The French chef traveled very well. The more she searched, the more she smelled the herbs and spices she had taken, and the more her stomached lurched from hunger. The noise was like talking to someone who was in a bad mood. The idea made her laugh because it also made her think of Edward Lindsay.

  Or maybe it was the exhaustion that made her lose control. Kate closed her eyes for a moment and forced herself to think of the here and now. Then she yawned and thought about a nap in the early summer sun.

  “Ah, maybe this.” She held up the wilted sprigs. In a pinch, with a pinch, just a pinch, as her mother used to say.

  “For pain in the mouth, chew on tarragon leaves,

  Best for mama or pa, not for children, please.

  Turmeric for parasites and digestion sour,

  stir a pinch in warm milk and drink over hours.

  Crush fresh thyme leaves into a cut,

  or drink to stop a cough.

  Dried leaves and flowers in a cup,

  hot water tops it off.”

  But she had rosemary, the last of the chef’s stash on the Wilde as the Earl had been partial to lamb. Her mother had made rosemary tea for colds and aching stomachs, and it also helped wounds, though it wasn’t the best. And this rosemary was not entirely fresh.

  Rosemary, she knew, was for remembrance.

  Kate stopped for a moment, and then she shook off the melancholy—meaning sadness, pensive, thoughtful. It was another word her mother had been fond of.

  She mixed the rosemary, the last of her comfrey, and some powdered clove in her palms, cringing at the pain in her raw flesh.

  Some herbs were better used if dried properly, some if fresh. But she clipped these samples days ago, and when she set them out in the boat to dry in the sun, the birds swooped down and ravaged her goodies. She didn’t mean the herbs as an invitation; the birds could eat beef and biscuits like everyone else.

  So she was forced to make do and dry them under cover without proper care, but also without the constant shooing of the birds that got on her nerves as well as theirs.

  “Why don’t you bring me a fish or two?” she called out. A gull swooped down low, and she ducked out of habit. It screamed, and she knew it was laughing.

  “Surly beast.”

  In a few minutes, the sting in her palm felt better. Or at least her mind made it feel better, and that was almost the same thing. She ripped a strip from her petticoat and wrapped her hand, then began to slowly row again.

  Maybe it was the breeze and the buzzing in her ears that made her think of sunny days and honey bees. She closed her eyes and listened. The gentle lapping of the waves against the boat lulled her to comfort, and she began to nod off. But Kate caught herself just as the flash of white appeared around a far spit of land.

  Sail ho.

  Bad sign.

  She quickly pulled out a chart and reckoned she was here. Her finger traced a wide bit of shoreline. And her fingernail needed a good bit of care. She examined it, put it in her mouth, and then went back to the map. That few miles enclosed the border between Spain and France, she thought.

  In Spain, she would be a visitor—a castaway adrift on an adventure . . . a senorita running from an unpleasant suitor, perhaps . . . a runaway at worst, and a religious pilgrim at best. Unless they mistook her for a witch, in which case . . .

  “Do they still burn you in Spain?”

  Was there still an Inquisition?

  In France, she could be a spy, a traitor—a wanted woman. She could be dead. If they found Louis’s map and code, others would be dead as well.

  The best thing to do if it came to be too close a call would be to destroy her copy of the map and hope they didn’t have the sense to search for hidden things in her journals. But she had to be sure, for Kate knew this chance would probably never come again.

  She had to be sure.

  Besides, she had to prove to herself that she was not really a coward, just lacking in some situations. That was only normal, only human, to fall short now and then. All she had to do was land in the right place and avoid the approaching ship until then.

  Most times a floundering boat was in need of some help. It was common to offer, or just take the boat as a small bit of spoils. But this time, she wished they would not see her at all. Or if they did, that they would mind their own affairs.

 
The ship hung on the horizon, not getting nearer or farther from land. Kate wondered just what it was doing. She could not make out the colors, nor tell by the shape of the vessel just who it might belong. Kate cursed herself for not remembering a telescope.

  “If I did not remember to bring some breeches, I could hardly expect to remember a lens.”

  But the lack of a telescope now might not be as bad for her if she was caught with one instead. They would have known for sure then that she was up to no good. In their opinion anyway, and those with the guns usually only cared for their own point of view.

  The sun was easing down, and her breath came easier too. The ship was no closer, and the wind and the tide were both in her favor. If she had to make for land, she might be able to swim ashore before they could catch her. There were enough trees, rocks, and gullies on the land to give her some shelter. She could then slip away in the night.

  She tried to stay awake, but knew the battle would be lost. Better to enjoy it then, she thought, and reached for the blanket. Kate rowed closer to shore, and then dropped overboard the rock and the rope that served as an anchor. Usually.

  There was more difficulty getting the rock back up and inside without tipping over the boat.

  “Everyone needs a hobby.”

  The last thing she heard was a gull settling to a perch on the bow. Morning would show what would come next. At least, she hoped.

  THE END

  Volume I: A Contrary Wind

  * * * * * * * * * * *

  THE WILDE FLOWER SAGA

  Volume II: Trouble the Waters

  Pleasant it is,

  when over a great sea the winds trouble the waters,

  to gaze from shore upon another's great tribulation;

  not because any man's troubles are a delectable joy,

  but because to perceive you are free of them yourself is pleasant.

  - Lucretius (94 BC-55 BC)

  ~~~

  CHAPTER 17 - The Padre

  Off the coast of France or Spain, 1795

  On the fourth morning in the rowboat, Kate woke up with stiff limbs. This was getting to be more of a journey than she had anticipated. She had water and food for another three days, and she was still within sight of the land.

  But which land?

  She studied her small bit of chart, hand-drawn. They was little comfort there, the land was more. At least if she landed at night, she might sneak some food, a bit of gossip, something to let her know.

  Tortillas instead of croissants—was it really that simple?

  What would her father do, or Mr. Whayles?

  Not get them into this fix in the first place.

  She said stubbornly, “I did not fail this test, I just found a hundred ways to do it wrong.” It was something Benjamin Franklin would say, or maybe it was Mrs. O’Malley.

  “What am I going to do?”

  She closed her eyes, but forced her face to relax.

  What would Edward Lindsay do?

  The thought of him had just crept into her mind with no warning. Kate pictured his face looking up at her as she stood there in the tree. He had looked puzzled and amused and maybe a bit relieved at the distraction.

  Of course he had thought her foolish. Maybe she was, but one doesn’t walk past a good batch of bark, not at that time of the season with all the newly budding leaves. They didn’t quite hide her work, but no one had been around then.

  Was the tree elm or willow—and if elm, American elm or the British one? American slippery elm was far superior bark for curing ails than the English species. Some British gardener had the foresight to plant that kind of tree in that kind of park, but she doubted if he knew what it was that he had.

  “And what do I have?”

  “Sir Edward, would you take a moment to save me again? Now I am getting too romantic and talking to myself as well. Which is worse, I wonder?”

  A gull flying by took the time to answer, and she swore until it was well out of hearing range. Then she pulled up the rock-anchor and was again on her way. Further south, she decided, and rowed as much as she could.

  At last, about mid-day, she saw a worthy landing site. The place would be well worn, for there was a fresh water stream flowing into the sea. Other vessels would stop here for water, and she would too.

  Kate swung the boat around and rowed with her last bit of strength. It was farther than she thought. She had to stop and rest twice, but not too long, as the waves would take her back out to sea in this current. If she weren’t so stubborn, she could have waited for the tide to carry her in. But there were other things to worry about.

  Like the sail still on the horizon, she wondered—friend or foe? More likely to be foe in these waters, and she had no good explanation for her presence. In fact, she had worse than that; she had proof of collusion with counter-revolutionaries. They would take her in for a spy, either for duty or bounty.

  Of course, maybe they were just pirates. In which case, they would just take her. What would she do then? Jump over, swim for shore? Fight back? It wasn’t the first time in her journey that she realized how foolish she had been.

  But she had to do this, she promised Louis Dumars, and she had been very lucky so far.

  “Fate steps in again.” Kate wondered if she really was charmed like the woman of the Abenaki had said so long ago. She had been too young to argue the point at the time or even ask questions, only a baby, but for the first time in her remembrance, Kate tried to recall what her mother had said.

  She couldn’t recall, maybe it was written somewhere in the journals. But she stared at her bracelet, the one that would let her call up the wind as she pulled at the oars.

  She mumbled, “What good’s the wind without a sail.”

  She continued to row toward shore, because even another hour in the launch didn’t appeal to her, nor did another hour in Paris. That is, if the ship was French, and she made it that far. She might just be hanged from the ship’s mast or alongside the figurehead and left there until pieces eventually dropped off. Birds picking at her flesh, now that was not appealing, and it made her skin start to crawl.

  Or look on the bright side, she thought, I have always liked reading about pirates. Imagine if I were to be one? Did pirates have a use for her healing ways? Or did they just throw the wounded overboard?

  Then she imagined what other use they might find for her. The gruesome thought made her row harder, but it wasn’t that impressive. The strength in her arms was fading with a painful burning. She felt like crying at the least provocation.

  Kate finally made it, and stumbled out of the boat, struggling to pull it further up on the beach. It didn’t come far.

  She finally gave up. If this was not the right place or the tide took her boat, then she would walk to where she must be. Her arms were tired of rowing, and her backside was tired of sitting, and her stomach was tired of dried beef and hard biscuits.

  And besides, being adrift left her too much time to think. Then she noticed a few sturdy little trees, stunted from harsh maritime climate. The rope on the boat reached far enough, and she tied it up at the trunk of one.

  Still struggling to catch her breath, Kate took a moment to glance around with her hands on her hips.

  At first, she thought the brown patch was a rock or tree stump. On closer inspection, she saw that it was a priest in a coarse, homespun robe. He was fishing with barely any movement. He was watching her too.

  She called, “No, don’t bother, I can manage myself.”

  He laughed.

  Not the usual type of priest. The ones she had known usually didn’t approve of her smart mouth. And he understood English, so there was no clue yet as to which coast she had just invaded: France or Spain.

  “Will you come to evening Mass, I wonder?” he called back. “You look in some need of salvation.”

  Irish, and it must be Sunday too. Or Wednesday. Well, perhaps she was in Spain after all. Many Irish had fled to Spain and Portugal, other Catholic c
ountries, when the English boot became too heavy in their native Emerald Isle.

  She replied in Spanish, “I need a bath and a hot meal more than forgiveness right now, Padre.”

  “Not a Catholic then, are you?” the priest replied in kind.

  She pointed out to sea. “Do you know that ship? Is it friendly?”

  To her surprise, he pulled a spyglass from his cassock. After a moment’s inspection, he said, “Foe, best you take cover if you’re up to no good.”

  “That’s a relative term, Padre.”

  “And so it is,” he said in English again. “But if you have good in your heart, I don’t suppose the Lord would begrudge you some comfort. I have no whiskey on me at the moment, so you best come along.”

  She gathered her things, and then glanced around.

  “You’ll be wanting to save your boat?”

  “I haven’t got that far in my plan.” She didn’t want him to know that maybe she hadn’t thought about it because she didn’t think she would survive it this far.

  He looked like he was considering something, then he said, “Well, if it’s an invasion you be, I think you’ve already lost by the look of you.”

  “Wait until you get a smell.”

  He laughed again, and then tossed down a bundle. Kate held her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. He held his hand up as if to swear an oath, “I will not look, God’s holy notion.”

  She untied the bundle. Inside were soap, linens, and clothes—men’s clothes. She looked up again; the priest was now standing.

  “You can bathe in that pool over there. It’s cold, but it’s clean and the best I can offer right now. I will take care of your boat if you don’t mind a bit of Christian charity.”

  “I could use some help,” she said.

  “I would give the boat to a fisherman friend. He will be a good friend to have for you as well.”

  Clearly he had been in such a position before. She said, “What are you about, Padre?”