The Lady and the Captain

by Beverly Adam

  She was seated in this cramped hut, sweating with a patient on the brink of death. The good Lord help her, he had best get used to the idea of her breaking a few rules. They were not worth a half-shilling of good to his captain in here.

  She glanced over at the first mate.

  His body glistened from the rain and his own perspiration, dripping off his well-shaped chest. The first officer’s skin shone from the steam. His skin was the color of polished bronze in the light of the hut’s fire. Aye, he was too handsome by far . . .

  Inwardly, she sighed. Heaven help me . . . he is built like a veritable god, a young Adonis come to life. For sure, Lieutenant Smythe had a powerful presence. One she was not accustomed to being around in a long time.

  Three months ago she’d left her village when her mother was struck down by lung fever and returned home to care for her. Of late the young wise woman’s life had resembled that of a recluse. She had completely devoted herself to healing. She’d been cut-off from the rest of the healthy living world. The sight of the half-clad lieutenant was like seeing land after being a long time at sea. He was a refreshing and attractive presence.

  Diverting herself from the sight of the half-clad officer, she rose to close up the small entrance with a few layers of sod bricks. The rain was drizzling lightly. Water splattered into small puddles outside the hut.

  Returning, she checked on Captain Jackson’s condition. He appeared to be in a stable state. The deliriums had passed. Fervently, she hoped the sweating would rid him of the poison before any damage was done to his vital organs.

  She forced herself not to be distracted by the handsome man next to her.

  If you are not careful, you’ll end up making a complete cake of yourself. He’s given no indication he has noticed you, other than when he first laid eyes on you—nay, he would swim for his ship if he thought you had any interest in him as an unattached gentleman. An Irish wise woman does not have a wee bit of hope of attracting such a man. Aye, even if he is like whiskey for the eyes.

  Secretly, although she would rather feed him her favorite goat than admit it, she wanted him to look at her. She wanted him to meet her steady gaze with one of his own. She could not help but wonder what would happen if he should do so.

  At last he broke the silence between them.

  “Tell me, how old is this sweat hut? Did you fashion it yourself or was it built by one of your ancestors?” he asked.

  He was familiar with the old stone dwellings. The rocky green land of the southern coast contained the scattered relics of Ireland’s ancient past. Circle ruins, stone beehive-shaped huts, and sea-weathered stone pillars, whose original purposes were long forgotten, had become part of local legends and superstitions.

  Many of the ruins dotting the verdant hills were now used as animal holding pens. Some of the sacred places, once built by early Celtic pagans, evangelizing Christians had turned into respected churches and monasteries. As for the smaller, less well-built huts and burial mounds, they were believed to be the cursed homes of the wee fairy folk, the daoine sidhe.

  He was, while trying to find a neutral subject of conversation, genuinely interested. He knew that there weren’t many who looked kindly upon the ruins. The locals at the harbor tavern had warned him away from visiting them.

  The wariness they felt towards the stone structures was evident in their eyes. They believed fairies and other magical creatures still practiced mischief upon unsuspecting mortals. The round stone raths were carefully avoided and due to superstitions, left undisturbed.

  “I would not be going there if I were you, Commander,” declared a local fisherman in an ominous tone. “The wee ones haunt them, sir. It’s their fairy fort.”

  “To be sure, even if ye were to pay me a whole pile o’ silver, I wouldn’t go near their rath,” warned the local bartender, passing him a dram of ale.

  “Aye, stay away from them, Lieutenant,” cautioned another of the older fishermen standing next to him at the tavern bar. “They might put ye under a powerful gessa, one of their dreaded curses. They’ve been known to bewitch men down to their cavern homes below to dance with their master, the Devil. Aye, stay clear o’ the fairy rings, Lieutenant. There be terrible ancient magic about there.”

  Now he was sitting inside one of those dangerous huts. He could not help but wonder if perhaps he too was about to be cursed. Was he about to fall under a magic spell? Or suffer an even more interesting fate? Perhaps become enchanted by the charming Irish woman seated next to him?

  He looked over at Sarah. The wise woman’s hair gleamed gold in the pale light. Her fair skin was smooth like a well-polished stone. Aye, he thought, it would not be difficult to fall under any spell she might cast upon him. It would, he had to admit, undoubtedly be a pleasure.

  “No Celt built this hut,” she said, answering his question about its original builders. “It was created by invading Norse men hundreds of years ago. They once lived here on Varrik Isle. They used it to plunder local coastal villages and monasteries. The Norse realized this was a secure lookout post. In due time, we, and other healing folk, came here to use it to help with such maladies as the stiffening of the joints, which my mother and other elders suffer from.”

  A self-deprecating smile appeared at the corners of her mouth.

  “Unlike you Norman English, we Irish have never been very large in size. In ancient times, they say, a man was only a few hands tall—aye, this hut suits our small Celt statures. It’s good to cleanse one’s body of impurities by sweating.”

  He changed the subject, thinking of the other lady she had spoken with.

  “Tell me of the lady who lies in the cottage. You say she’s your mother?”

  “Aye, that she be . . . she is the renowned healer, Gladys Clogheen of Varrik-on-Suir.”

  “Then how is it that you know so much about healing?” he asked, astonished.

  “As I told you, sir, I’m Gladys’s adopted daughter, Sarah Duncan. I was named after the fisherman who found me, but ’twas herself, my adopted mother, who christened me with the name, Sarah. When no one laid claim to me, she took me in as her own. In time, I trained as her apprentice,” she amended with a small smile. “The villagers with whom I live with on the mainland say ’tis because I’m a changeling fairy.”

  “A changeling?”

  She nodded. “I was found adrift in a wee tar boat like Moses in the bulrushes. Duncan, my godfather, brought me to my mother right after I was found. No one else knew what to do with me—I cried all the time. They say the minute he laid me in my mother, Gladys’s, arms I stopped.”

  “Indeed,” he said, raising his eyebrows at this queer remark.

  “Aye, I suppose you would find it to be so . . . the villagers have crafted their own fanciful tale as to the facts. They believe the fey left me adrift in order to steal healing knowledge away from a wise mortal, my mother. They say that I’ll return one day to my cavern home beneath the earth and bring it back to the daione sidhe, the wee hidden folk. Then I’ll reign there as their queen, cleverly bewitching mortal men and women folk.”

  “Are you telling me you’re a . . . a fairy?” he asked, incredulous. “And your mother, a renowned healer, is um . . . a witch?”

  “Aye, so I’ve been told. Although, because I’ve been left in this mortal shape for so long, it is rather doubtful I shall ever return to my fairy home,” she replied, a merry twinkle in her bright, blue eyes.

  She looked directly at the English officer before her, unashamed of her rather dubious parentage. She was accustomed to it. It was a familiar part of her life.

  The wise woman had nothing to hang her head about. In truth, being an abandoned orphan was something not worth fretting over. She knew who she was. The name the villagers called her by—Wise Sarah, said it all. She was the renowned healer, Gladys Clogheen’s adopted daughter and apprentice. What more was there to know?

  “Incredible . . . ,” he said under his breath.

  “Aye,” she agreed.
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br />   Her mother, Gladys, had never tried to understand or tolerate the superstitious fancies of the fearful villagers. She looked equally down on them all. The famous healer took herself far, far too seriously to mingle with ordinary folk. She preferred to keep her own company, never spending any time with those who led normal lives.

  In the end, sadly misunderstood, suspected of cursing their livestock and blamed for a sundry of other problems, the local people distrusted Gladys, except when they needed her skills. And the healer wisely sought out the more tranquil life of an island hermit.

  She chose to live at a safe distance from others. She carefully picked the Island of Varrik, located a league off the western coast of Ireland. The remote spot proved to be exactly what her mother wanted. It proved a secure haven from meddlesome folk.

  The tiny island was a refuge from those who might stupidly try to persecute the healer. Several times the superstitious had tried to have Gladys imprisoned for practicing witchcraft. Although she vehemently denied doing such heathen tomfoolery, they continued to persecute her.

  During Sarah’s childhood, angry mobs twice set their cottage on fire. Hooligans had also tried to force both of them to drink urine and other toxic brews. Time and again they’d been released because of overwhelming lack of evidence. No one could prove that either one of them was a witch, or in her case, a changeling fairy.

  The imposing English mayor of the village set them free. Once he stood in the center of an angry mob, asserting his authority with a troop of armed redcoats.

  He said, “I won’t tolerate any more of this mumbo jumbo nonsense. Understand this once and for all. Anyone who touches these women will be clapped in irons and put immediately in prison!”

  It was under this dire threat that she and her mother were at last left in peace.

  From time to time those who believed her mother to be a wicked minion of the Devil appeared at their door. Superstitious villagers, who held evil in their hearts against their neighbors, persisted in troubling them.

  Her mother muttered angrily at one of the darkly dressed make-baits, one of those witless fools who wanted her to cast a hex upon one of his neighbors in order to make him feel powerful. He was a long-nosed man who broke her usual night’s slumber with his clamor for spiteful revenge.

  “Now listen to me, you moonstruck bit of annoying jackanapes. I want ye to take your presumptuous arse off of my clean steps, and I’m warning ye to never come here and disturb my slumber again! Or I’ll—”

  “But I’ve brought some gilt, mistress,” whined the man from under his black hood. He held up some money in the moonlight for her to see, “to pay for your fee of hexing that troublesome neighbor of mine whose dog took a bite out of me the other day.”

  He then produced a dead animal.

  “I brought this rat to hang over his door to hex him with,” he added in a dramatic voice. “So you can turn it into a rabbit and cast a dark spell over his herd of cattle. I did all this to please you, o’ grand mistress of the night.”

  Visibly upset at these thoughts of malice, the wise woman uttered several angry oaths in Irish. It was well worth noting that her mother’s incensed utterances were worthy of the forked tongue Devil with whom she was supposed to be associating.

  “Now get off before I throw some magic dust upon your ridiculous puny hide!” she yelled out at him. “You’re nothing but a poor wretch of a man. Aye, and I don’t blame that dog for taking a bite out of you, neither. If I could, the good Lord above knows, I surely would like to myself!”

  The make-bait tartly answered back that she was nothing but an ugly old hag who should be burned at the stake. And he would be the first one to light the fire and dance around it while she burned. Suddenly, he shut his mouth.

  Bug-eyed, he stared at her, visibly gulping with fear.

  The irritated wise woman raised one hand in the night air, making a menacing gesture towards the small sack she held in the other. She uttered something darkly in Irish. Her face was grim. The make-bait had disturbed her slumber and used vile language about her. Now he was going to pay for his misdoings.

  The troublemaker took one look at her and the menacing sack she held. He quickly came to a decision. It was time to depart. Scurrying down the island hill, he ran to the beach.

  Quickly, he pushed his small skiff out onto the smooth moonlit water. He looked fearfully behind him. What if the horrible witch took to cursing him? Aye, and use that magic powder she held aloft in her hand?

  He put his hands protectively over his privates.

  She could curse them right off.

  Wiping his sweaty brow, he rowed quickly away. He was lucky to escape with his body and soul intact. He swore to himself that in the future, he would stay away from troublesome black magic.

  When her mother reentered the cottage, Sarah peeked into the sack. She recognized the contents immediately and smiled. It contained nothing more than common itching powder made from plant fibers from the pods of a tree.

  The wise woman had thought to use the prank to inflict irritation and doubt. With admiration, she had to admit her mother had used a clever trick against the superstitious nincompoop.

  After learning all she could from her adopted mother, Sarah finally left the Island of Varrik. During her travels, she came upon Urlingford village in the rolling, green hills of Kilkarney, Ireland. She decided she could live comfortably in the small village and quickly forged alliances with both the influential priest of the parish, who baptized her in the church in front of the entire village.

  Not much had changed in the small Irish village for hundreds of years, except instead of having Celtic chieftains ruling over them, it was now the puritanical English. The powerful ruler of the seven seas forced reluctant Ireland in 1801, by the Act of Union, to become part of their empire building.

  The English, afraid the Catholic aligned countries of Portugal and Spain, would try to take control of this kingdom to their north, imported Puritans from England and Scotland to colonize it. These in turn took iron-fisted control over the now impoverished Irish. As a result the native Irish Catholics lost most of their land and rights.

  Despite local superstitions, the villagers liked and respected her. No one dared to harm a hair on her golden head. Secretly, they were proud of their wise woman. In time, she became as well known and respected as her mother.

  To add to her status, she was under the protection of the wealthy spinster, Lady Beatrice O’Brien. The rich lady in turn was soon to be bride of the new Earl of Drennan and had a great deal of influence over the entire parish. The match between the new English lord and their local Irish gentlewoman was much anticipated. Many predicted it would be beneficial for the future of both the Catholic Irish, as well as the Protestants.

  “You do not live here?” Robert asked.

  She shook her head, steamed blonde ringlets framing her oval face. She brushed a loose tendril aside. “Faith, no. I rent a small cottage in Kilkarney. I came back here because my mother sent for me. She’s been suffering from putrid lung fever and needed my help.”

  Sweat dripped down their faces from the steam. She reached for the dipper hanging from the side of the bucket of water. After taking a sip, she passed it to him.

  He gave some to Captain Jackson. The water slid down the semiconscious officer’s face.

  “And where do you originally hale from, Lieutenant?”

  “I’m currently in command of a fifth rate naval frigate, The Brunswick. We’re harbored in Dingle for a few days for repairs to our mizzenmast and hull. Once finished, we’ll continue our journey south and sail down to Portsmouth, England, our journey’s end. It is there I will take leave of my command and crew, handing her back over to the Royal Admiralty.”

  He shook his head in bitter disappointment.

  “It is the first time we’ve been in friendly waters in over eight months. We’ve been battling the Spanish and French since we left England, as well as chasing American blockade runners out of our
waters. We were to go ashore for a short leave, but then this happened,” he said, gesturing to the ailing man at his side. “Several of my gunners recommended your mother, Gladys Clogheen, to me. She was my last hope to save Captain Jackson.”

  “Are you married? Do you have family waiting back in England?”

  “Nay, I’m a bachelor. I suppose you could say I’m faithfully married to the sea, ma’am.”

  She smiled, strangely relieved at his unmarried state. She didn’t want to think of a frowning wife back in England glowering at her as she took the liberty of glancing at his well-proportioned bare chest. The tanned face of the seasoned naval officer and his dark hair gave him the dangerous appearance of an unruly pirate, not a proper English officer.

  The first lieutenant’s masculine features had the intensity of one used to spending cold nights on watch. He had a deep crease above his brow, earned by long hours of looking out for enemy frigates, icebergs, and deadly, jagged rock formations. Small creases fanned out from his keen eyes, etched from squinting into the distance under the bright glare of the sun that glinted off the waters. She had the impression he was never fully at ease.

  His handsome face was made all the more rugged by his nose. It had a slight bump at the top of the brim. An act of violence had caused the imperfection. She later learned it had been broken during close hand-to-hand combat on a warship’s quarter-deck. He’d been battling against marauding Portuguese pirates. It dominated the center of his face along with an intelligent high forehead. His sweeping black brows, arched over his deep brown eyes. Those same alert eyes, now observed her with searching intensity.

  Nervously, she twisted a small gold ring on her right hand.

  He noticed the small ring for the first time. It was a simple gold band featuring two hands holding up a crowned heart. The one the wise woman wore pointed towards the fingertips, a sign she was available to court.

  If it had been turned the other way around, it would have indicated that she was spoken for. Her heart therefore closed, already claimed. Although this might have been the case once, apparently it was not now.