Tides of Fortune

by Julia Brannan

  “So,” she said, raising her arm and pointing to the left side of the ship, “that is starboard, and the right side is port. And this is the foremast, and the one halfway down the ship is the mainmast.”

  Captain Marsal clapped his hands in delight.

  “Indeed, madame. You are a quick learner. Now, the sails?”

  “Er…” Beth was regretting the celebratory glass of brandy she’d just finished, which, having been drunk on an empty stomach, was going to her head rapidly. She should have waited till after she’d eaten dinner, which was being prepared for all the prisoners by Captain Marsal’s cook, although they had been warned that at this stage in their journey the fare would not be particularly tasty. The Jacobites didn’t care – whatever it was, the fact that it would be eaten in the fresh air would render it palatable. She brought her mind back to the topic in hand; naming parts of a ship.

  “Foresail,” she said, pointing to the lowest square sail on the nearest mast, “then above that, fore-topsail, then fore-topgallant sail at the top. No thank you,” she added to his offer to top up her brandy. She tipped her head to look up at the top of the mast then lowered it again rapidly, swaying as she fought the alcohol-induced dizziness. Captain Marsal put his hand on her arm to steady her.

  “Why are they called that?” she asked. “I can understand the mainsail, but why is the second one called the topsail when it isn’t?”

  “A good question, madame,” he answered. His hand was warm and gentle on her arm. “Hundreds of years ago, boats normally had only one sail, so when they added another they thought it was the highest you could go. But once there was the possibility of a third sail, it was believed that only the bravest, or most gallant seamen would have the courage to climb so high. Sometimes there is even a fourth one, and this is called the royal, because normally only the royal standard flies at the top of a ship, when the king is on board. You have a good facility for remembering, my dear madame.”

  “I had to have,” Beth answered, then added before he could ask her why, “Is your brig the same as this one?”

  “In many ways,” he answered. “Except of course my quarters on L’Améthyste are far more tasteful than Captain Ricky’s. I have mahogany panelling on the walls, a dresser, comfortable chairs, and a beautiful carved bed with a canopy like so,” he made a tent shape with his hands, “made from burgundy silk. I also have a large number of books, and a fine desk. There are several windows as well, so it is very light by day, and cosy and comfortable by night. It is utterly delightful. I would very much like to show it to you when we arrive in Martinique, if you are agreeable.”

  There was a cool spot on her arm where his hand had been. He is not Sir Anthony, she told herself.

  “I thought you endured the same conditions as your men,” she said. “Do they all sleep in cabins with mahogany panelling?”

  Captain Marsal let out a whoop of laughter.

  “No, they do not. But were I in the unfortunate Captain Ricky’s position, I would not object to sharing the same quarters as my men. When we are planning an expedition, everyone can make suggestions and we make the decision as to where to go together. As the captain, I give the orders once we are underway, and I own the ships. Therefore I have a larger share of any spoils and a nicer place to sleep. But I eat the same food as the other men, and share the same hardships and risks. Any money we make is shared equally, once my share and a payment for any injuries are allowed for. If anyone is killed during an expedition, then his share will go to his family, if he has one.”

  “It sounds very fair,” Beth said.

  “And you sound very surprised, if you don’t mind me saying so, madame.”

  “I am surprised,” she admitted.

  “The life of a privateer is often much better than that of a regular seaman,” Captain Marsal said. “It is a dangerous life, but an adventurous one. The risks can be great, but the rewards also. But I think you know about adventure and danger, or else you would not be here.”

  She nodded.

  “Yes. So will you return to Le Diamant tomorrow?” she asked.

  “No, I will stay on board the Veteran until we make land,” he said. “I will stay in the captain’s quarters, as is expected of me. The Scottish and English gentlemen will sleep on the decks. I’m afraid we cannot accommodate them more luxuriously, but I do not think they will object. The ladies of course cannot be expected to sleep on deck. You will all sleep in the great cabin, which is next to the captain’s sleeping cabin, and is spacious enough for all of you to sleep in comfort. I regret there are no mattresses, but there is a fine carpet to lie on. I hope you will find it acceptable after your previous accommodations.”

  Beth looked up at him and smiled. “If we had to all sleep standing on the deck, it would still be better than being down in that awful place,” she said.

  He raised his hands in horror.

  “My dear madame,” he cried. “I would never allow ladies to endure such a night, or to sleep in the same room as strangers of the opposite gender! I cannot imagine what Captain Ricky was thinking, to force respectable ladies to endure such conditions.”

  “I don’t think Captain Ricky considers Jacobite prisoners to be respectable, Captain Marsal, any more than he considers you to be. We are traitors in his mind.”

  Captain Marsal smiled broadly.

  “And we are pirates. And yet all of my men are gentlemen, you may be assured of that, and all of you are merely fighting for the rightful monarch to be restored to his kingdom. That is respectable to me.”

  “You are very kind, Captain Marsal.”

  “Please,” he said, “call me Paul. We are friends, non? Or at least I hope we shall be.”

  Friends. Yes. He seemed to be a kind man, although he must also be a ruthless one. But ruthless men could be kind, as she knew from experience.

  “Yes,” she said on impulse. “Yes, I hope we can be friends. My name is Beth.”

  “You honour me, my dear Beth,” he said, bowing deeply. His tone was one of complete sincerity. Beth felt the lump in her throat, and blinked back the tears that threatened. It’s the brandy, she told herself. It’s making me sentimental. He is nothing like Alex.

  They stood in companionable silence for a time, leaning on the rail watching the sun go down. The sunset was very different here than in Britain. In Britain it stayed light for quite some time after the sun had set, but here it was completely dark thirty minutes after the sun had quenched itself in the ocean.

  “You would be most welcome to share my cabin, my dear,” Paul Marsal said softly, “and my life. I think it is one to which you would be suited.”

  Beth turned her head to look at him. He was still gazing out to sea. Although it was now almost dark, someone had lit a lantern and hung it from the rail, and by its light she could make out his profile, strong, masculine. Then he turned to face her and the light falling full on his face revealed an expression of the utmost sadness and longing.

  He is lonely, she thought. She was lonely too. For a moment, just one weak moment, she was tempted.

  He was not Sir Anthony, or Alex.

  “I am sorry, Paul,” she said gently. “It sounds like an interesting life, but I cannot share it with you. I am married.”

  His expression changed immediately.

  “I am sorry, madame. Had I known, I would never…”

  She placed her hand on his arm, silencing him.

  “No, please don’t apologise. I am not offended. And I am still Beth.”

  He smiled and placed his hand over hers, which was still resting on his arm.

  “Your husband, is he also a prisoner?”

  She could not lie to him. He was a gentleman, and had bared a part of his soul to her.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so,” she replied. “In truth, I believe him to be dead. I was taken at Culloden, and have heard nothing of him since. If he lived, he would have found a way to let me know.”

  “You love him,” Paul said, and it
was a statement, not a question.

  “I will always love him, dead or alive,” she replied. “I will never take another man, as a lover or a husband.”

  “Your husband was a fortunate man, to have experienced such love,” Paul Marsal said.

  “And I was a fortunate woman,” she said. “I do not know if I would be a good privateer.”

  “It is true that few women take to the life,” he admitted. “But there have been some.”

  “Mary Read and Anne Bonny.”

  “I am impressed! How do you know of these ladies?”

  “One of the other women told me about them,” Beth said. A sudden idea struck her. “You should meet her. She is an interesting woman, and very spirited. I think you would like her. When we were all in the hold and we had no notion of what was happening, one of the men said you might be pirates. Elizabeth said her husband had told her about the women pirates, and that she would become one in a heartbeat if it meant she could be free.”

  “Ah. But you say she is also married,” he replied.

  “Her husband was executed as a traitor.”

  “Oh. I am sorry,” he replied automatically, but his face was not sad. She had guessed right. He was lonely, and although he was attracted to her beauty he was not averse to considering another woman, if he found her interesting. Elizabeth Clavering was interesting. And spirited, and intelligent.

  “You must meet her,” Beth said. “I think you will like her. She cannot speak French, but she has English, and I can translate for you, at first, anyway. And you can speak some English, I think?”

  “Yes, I can,” he replied. “Although I do not like to, because I cannot express myself as well as I can in my own tongue. And of course my translator is so beautiful, how could I refuse her services when they were offered?” He patted her hand, and then released it. She removed it from his arm. “I would be delighted to make the acquaintance of your friend,” he said, “after dinner. For now, let us enjoy together the comparative coolness of the evening and the sea breeze.”

  They stood next to each other, gazing out into the inky darkness of the night, lit only by the light of a million glittering stars and the soft yellow glow of the ship’s lantern, feeling the warm sea air soft on their faces and listening to the murmur of voices on the ship, the lilting Gaelic of the Highlanders, the flatter sounds of the northern Englishmen, and the romantic-sounding French mingling together.

  Whatever happened when she reached Martinique, right now Beth felt relaxed and free, and as near to happy as she could feel without Alex by her side.

  That was enough for now.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Beth was sitting on a bench under a frangipani tree in the garden of the governor of Martinique’s house, waiting for the carriage that would take her to her new life to arrive. It was difficult to believe that only ten days ago she had been lying on wooden boards in a vermin-infested hold with a hundred and forty-nine other people on their way to a life of indentured servitude, or more accurately, slavery.

  Now she was wearing a dress of rose-coloured silk with matching slippers, her skin was clean and perfumed and her hair was shining and free of lice. And, more important than that, more important than anything, for the first time in over a year she was truly free.

  Her first impression of her new home, as she had stood with all the other passengers on deck watching Port Royal come into view had been that it was the most beautiful place she had ever seen, and the most foreign. Nothing about it reminded her of her homeland, which she considered a blessing. The sea, at home normally grey, or on rare glorious days blue-grey, was here an almost impossible royal blue colour shading to bright turquoise as it drew near to the shore. The sky was also the shade of blue only seen on perfect summer days in Britain. Port Royal, where they were coming in to land, was dominated by its huge fort, Fort St Louis, which stood on a rocky peninsula surrounded by a high and very impressive wall.

  Behind the town thickly wooded vibrant green slopes stretched into the distance, and closer to the shore palm trees, of which she had heard but never seen, waved as if welcoming the strangers.

  Once off the ship the Jacobites had crowded together on the shore, rendered speechless by the sheer strangeness of it all. Everything was different; the language, the people, whose skin colour came in all shades from ivory through to ebony, the trees, buildings, flowers, weather…there was nothing at all to remind them of home. Everything seemed impossibly bright, vibrant, somehow more.

  Well, except the clothes. Beth sighed. It seemed ridiculous to her that the white Creole inhabitants of Martinique insisted on wearing European fashions, in spite of the heat. Wearing shift, stays, petticoats, dress, fichu and stockings in the cool English climate could render one uncomfortably warm, but in this heat it was almost a torture.

  She flicked open her fan and waved it in front of her face for a few minutes, then gave up. The effort of moving hot air around her head was actually making her warmer than just enduring it would. Even in the shade she was hot, and the heady scent of the frangipani blossoms, wonderful when perfuming a room, was cloying when you were sitting directly underneath the source, sweating freely. She hoped that once she was out of the town people would embrace a more practical attitude to clothing.

  Captain Marsal, seemingly oblivious to the heat in spite of wearing breeches and frockcoat of emerald-green velvet and sporting an elaborate powdered wig topped by his tricorn hat, had led the prisoners from the dock, setting a brisk pace along the road to the governor’s mansion.

  “I sent a message ahead on Le Diamant to advise him of our imminent arrival,” Paul had explained to Beth as they walked, “and he told us to proceed directly to his house once we docked.”

  The governor, Charles de Tubières, Marquis de Caylus, came out to meet them all on the spreading, immaculately cut lawn in front of his house. Captain Marsal, tucking Beth’s hand neatly under his arm and retaining it when she would have stopped, led her straight up to the governor and bowed deeply. Beth curtseyed.

  “Monsieur le Marquis,” Paul began, “these are the unfortunate prisoners I informed you of in my letter and this beautiful young lady has kindly acted as my official translator, as she is fluent in French, English, and Scottish. She has been invaluable to me, and I trust you will make use of her services as well.”

  The marquis, a slender middle-aged man with a weatherbeaten countenance, eyed her appreciatively.

  “Are you agreeable to that suggestion, madame?” he asked.

  “I would be honoured to assist in any way I can, Monsieur le Marquis,” Beth agreed.

  It had been a clever and kind move by the captain, as a result of which, while the rest of the Jacobites had been accommodated all over town in lodgings which ranged from comfortable to barely habitable, Beth had found herself in a beautiful and luxurious apartment in the governor’s house itself, where she had lived for the last ten days.

  After a warm, jasmine-scented bath into which Beth had sunk in a bliss that was almost delirious, she had been served with a meal that would not have been out of place at the court of King Louis himself, following which a maid had assisted her to dress in a pale green gown borrowed from the marquis’ housekeeper. She had then been directed down a sweeping staircase into the governor’s office.

  “Ah, Madame Cunningham!” he exclaimed. “Please, sit down. I see Paulette’s gown is a little generous for your delicate proportions. I will arrange for a dressmaker to visit you tomorrow. Are you feeling refreshed?”

  Beth sat down on the solid mahogany chair indicated and looked around with appreciation.

  “I am. Thank you, monsieur. Your house is very beautiful. It reminds me of Versailles.”

  It did. Her own room was painted in pale yellow with white mouldings, the furniture gilded, the cushions covered in cream silk brocade. This room was equally luxurious but decorated in more masculine shades of deep blue, with dark wood furniture. A large mirror hung over the marble fireplace. Beth wondered if t
here was ever any need to light a fire in its hearth. Behind the governor stood a black man in green livery, while another stood by the door, having opened it for her to enter and closed it behind her.

  “You have visited Versailles, Madame Cunningham?” the marquis asked. “Did you take a tour?”

  Damn. But it didn’t matter. It was common knowledge that she had been there. Regardless of what the marquis intended to do with her and her fellow Jacobites, there was no harm in talking about her time at Versailles.

  “Yes, monsieur. My husband and I travelled in Europe after our wedding, and took a tour of the palace. But then we had the great honour of being invited to a soirée by His Majesty King Louis himself. It was most interesting.”

  “There is a John Cunningham listed amongst the passengers,” the marquis said, looking down at a paper on his desk. “Is he then…?”

  “Ah. No,” Beth answered. “I didn’t know there was someone else of the same name on board. No, he is no relation. Cunningham was my name before I married, and I am the only supporter of the Stuarts in my family. My husband was Sir Anthony Peters. I believe him to be dead now, monsieur.”

  “Sir Anthony Peters?” the marquis repeated, clearly surprised.

  “You knew him?” Beth asked, thinking rapidly. She must be very careful now.

  “Not personally, no. But everyone knew of Sir Anthony. He was the talk of Paris. Maurepas told me of him. He challenged the king’s servant, Monsieur Monselle to a duel, did he not, and accidentally killed him?”

  “He did, yes,” Beth replied neutrally. It was impossible to tell from the marquis’ expression whether he was impressed or appalled by the fact that the baronet had skewered the king’s panderer. “It was quite ridiculous. Monsieur Monselle and myself had a shared interest in the poetry of John Milton, and Anthony misinterpreted an innocent friendship. He challenged Monsieur Monselle in a fit of jealous rage. It was most uncharacteristic of him.”

  “So I heard,” the marquis replied, which confirmed to Beth that he had been told Sir Anthony was ineffectual, at the very least. “Well, I must say, Lady Peters, that although I am sure your friendship was purely platonic, Monselle was not a…shall we say, a man of good character? If I was married to a lady as beautiful as yourself, I too would be jealous if such a man occupied your time. But you said Sir Anthony is no longer with us? My condolences, my lady.”