Miss Ridgeway's Privateer

by Michele McGrath

  Lucy, whose opinions had not been asked during the process, stood still when the dresses were fitted to her, sat down or moved as requested. Where once she would have thoroughly enjoyed all the preparations, a combination of the dull mourning colours and her apprehension of the future, stilled her tongue. When Caroline made an unwise remark about her new clothes and congratulated her on her good fortune, Lucy snapped,

  “You aren’t the one who has to leave.”

  “It’s such an adventure,” Caroline replied, “Your relatives must be both rich and kind to send you so much money. Mama is in raptures. I wish I was going.”

  “You wouldn’t say that if it really was you,” Lucy told her impatiently.

  I suppose it is an adventure, she thought later. I might as well think of it like that since I have no choice but to go. Then perhaps I can manage to exist for these next few days and say goodbye to everyone and all the places I have ever known.

  From that moment the days seemed to speed by even more quickly. Before she knew it, Lucy was hugging her cousins and climbing into the hackney which would take her to the dock where the White Hart was moored. Mrs. Beckwith had taken advice from friends who had travelled abroad. So she insisted Lucy wear her oldest dress with an outgrown pelisse and a bonnet of Caroline’s which she unearthed from the attic.

  “No point in spoiling your good clothes on board the ship,” she told Lucy when the girl protested that she would look like a dowdy. “When you reach Ireland, you may give the dirty garments away to the poor, who will be grateful enough to have them. You can bring out your better outfits just before you arrive, but be sure to wear only black when you meet your grandmother for the first time. She’s bound to expect it and you don’t want to be found wanting in any little attention.” Mrs. Beckwith chattered on about all the festivities of a Dublin Season. She had spoken to certain people in her acquaintance who had lived in Ireland. Listening to her, Lucy found she was able to keep her mind off the imminent parting with the last person she considered to be her real family.

  When, after they had been travelling for a little while, Mrs. Beckwith fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a small case. Lucy’s interest revived.

  “What’s this, Becky?” she asked.

  “It belonged to your mother. Your father gave it to her when you were born and she wanted you to have it. I never knew what happened to her other jewellery but your Papa gave this to me and asked me to keep it safe until you were of an age to wear it. So I am giving it to you now.”

  Lucy opened the box and saw a gold locket with the initials C and M intertwined on the lid. She pressed the little catch and the locket sprang open. A miniature of her father in his uniform gazed up at her. On the other side was a picture of a very pretty lady. Lucy only recognised her smile. It had been such a long time since her mother smiled at her and she felt tears start to her eyes.

  “Keep it safe,” Becky was saying. “Don’t wear it on the ship. It’s gold and is valuable if someone took it and tried to sell it. Miranda loved you and she wanted you to remember her.”

  “I’d forgotten her face,” Lucy said. “Now I shall never forget either of them. Thank you, Becky.”

  When they arrived at the quay, Mrs. Hardie, the captain’s wife, hurried down the gangplank to greet them. Lucy thought she seemed nice although she smelled strange to Lucy’s unaccustomed nostrils. She learned later that a mixture of salt and tarry ropes clung to the clothes of anyone who ventured on board a ship. This aroma was overlaid with a cheap rose perfume. Mrs. Hardie was small and lively, with rosy cheeks and a beaming smile. Lucy liked the friendly little woman immediately.

  “What a lovely girl!” Mrs. Hardie exclaimed with admiration, causing Lucy for once to blush. “Be sure I’ll take good care of her,” Mrs. Hardie, reassured Mrs. Beckwith, “and hand her over to her relatives when we get to Ireland. Don’t you worry about her at all.”

  Mrs. Beckwith, who did not like partings, wanted to send Lucy on her way without further delay. She was afraid that Lucy might throw another of her tantrums or, worse still, begin to weep. She was on the edge of breaking into tears herself, so she took the girl quickly into her arms.

  “Be sure to write to us,” Mrs. Beckwith said as she hugged her goodbye. “Be good, watch your tongue and make us proud of you.” Mrs. Beckwith bussed her on the cheek. She felt Lucy shaking.

  “I will.” Lucy, controlling herself with difficulty, kissed her cheek. “Thank you for everything you have done for me for so many years, Becky,” she stuttered.

  Moved by the unexpected words, Mrs. Beckwith kissed her again and then stepped backwards. Mrs. Hardie took Lucy’s hand.

  “Come now, my dear, let me get you settled into your cabin. The ship will sail very shortly.”

  “Oh, but I would like to stay and wave to my cousin,” Lucy objected.

  “Better to come below when the boat isn’t rolling about all over the place. It takes a while to find your balance, you know. Anyway you shouldn’t ask anybody to stand around in this nasty cold wind. You don’t want your cousin to catch a chill, do you? Say goodbye now and come with me, there’s a good girl.”

  So Lucy gave Mrs. Beckwith a last hug. Then she climbed the gangplank and descended into the dark creaking hull of the brig. The small space that was Lucy’s assigned cabin was situated towards the stern. It had no windows and consisted of simple rough-cut wooden walls which enclosed a bunk and a chest. A lantern hung from a hook, swaying slightly. Mrs. Hardie pointed out to Lucy the high sides of the bunk which would prevent her from falling out when the ship rolled. Her trunk had already been brought aboard and stowed with the other cargo, according to Mrs. Hardie. Lucy carried only a small bandbox containing her nightdress and a few other necessities for the journey.

  “You won’t need anything more until we’re almost into Cove. I’ll have everything brought up to you then and you can change your clothes. This cabin is right beside me and my husband, so I’ll always hear you if you call. You’ll have your meals with us in the saloon and with Mr. Anselm, a curate who’s travelling to his new parish in Ireland. There’s only the two of you aboard this trip for now, although there may be some others who have booked their passage at Portsmouth or Plymouth. Put your things into this chest when you go to bed, so they won’t be thrown about when the ship moves. Be sure to blow out the lantern whenever you leave the cabin. It’s dangerous to keep it alight if you aren’t here.” Mrs. Hardie handed her a tinderbox. “Put this in your pocket to light the lantern again when you need to. I’ll leave you to settle in.”

  Feeling rather shaken, Lucy sat down on the bunk and looked around her.

  “Mrs. Hardie?”

  The captain’s wife turned in the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Where do I wash or attend to my personal needs?”

  Mrs. Hardie smiled, realising what the girl was really asking. “There’s a chamber pot and some paper in the drawer under your bunk which you empty in the head. That’s what we call a privy onboard a ship. There are two of them. One’s in the bows for the men and there’s another which my husband had fitted for me when I began to sail with him. That’s the nearest and the one you should use. Come along, I’ll show you where it is.”

  She led Lucy to a narrow door further down the passageway. It opened into a small bleak space with a raised wooden bench around the side of the ship. There was a hole in the bench and, peering through Lucy saw the brown muddy water rolling beneath her. There was a certain smell about the place but it was not bad enough to upset her due to the strong breeze that was blowing through the opening.

  “Mrs. Hardie?”

  “Yes?”

  “I’ve never emptied a chamber pot in my life.”

  “Haven’t you? Well, it’s time you did then. We don’t carry servants on this ship. No space for them. So we all have to make do for ourselves. It’s easy enough. Don’t fill it too full. Dump it out of this hole and wipe it out with the paper. If you can, it’s better to use this head than the po
t as much as you can, especially if the weather is rough, so nothing gets spilled.”

  Lucy’s cheeks reddened at the plain words. How awful!

  “You’ll soon get used to it,” Mrs. Hardie continued, “Life at sea is different from life ashore but it doesn’t take long to learn how to manage. I know. No one was more disgusted than me on my first voyage. As for washing, few passengers bother much about that, I’ve found, especially the men. The cook brings me a pan of hot water from the galley for my own needs every morning. I’ll tell him to bring another for you at the same time if you want me to.”

  “Yes, please if you would. Thank you.”

  Rather overwhelmed by the unexpected and unwelcome discoveries, Lucy left her and retreated to her cabin. She took off her bonnet and pelisse and fitted her bandbox into the chest as she had been told. Then she sat on her bunk and thought about the voyage to come. She had not realised life aboard a ship would be so difficult. Why had she not been more grateful for the attentions of the servants in Mrs. Beckwith’s house? She could demand hot water whenever she wished, even a bath, merely by ringing a bell and asking for it. A pretty chamber pot or an imposing commode in a small room down the hallway saw to her toilet needs. She had never troubled to find out how either of them were emptied and whose task it was, one of the housemaids probably. She felt a moment of pity for the unknown minion.

  I’m only on the ship for a few days, she told herself, trying to be cheerful. “It’s an adventure just as Caroline said. How horrified she would be if she could see me now.” Lucy imagined her cousin’s face and giggled. It won’t matter if I am dirty at the end. I’ll have a long bath when I reach Cove or even at Plymouth, if there is time to go ashore. Mrs. Hardie will be able to tell me.

  Lucy lay back on the rather hard bunk and lost herself in her thoughts. The journey to the docks and the emotion of the day, plus the fact that she had not really slept much the night before, had tired her out. She drifted off into sleep. The ringing of a bell, shouting, feet pattering above her head and being thrown against the side of the bunk brought her to her senses. For a moment she could not remember where she was until her eyes steadied on the swaying lantern. A lump rose in Lucy’s throat. Heavens, she was going to be sick!

  I must get out of here, she thought. She found her pelisse, which had tumbled onto the floor. Her bonnet had vanished but she did not dare stay to find it. She opened the door and clung to the sides of the frame until she could force herself into the passageway. A glimmer of light told her which way to go; all the rest of the ship seemed to be in darkness. Lucy lurched forwards, holding the walls until she reached the stairs. She crawled upwards out into the blessed daylight. A gust of wind took her breath away and whipped her hair from its pins into wild confusion but the terrible sickness receded. The world tilted and she cantered out of the doorway until she was brought to an abrupt halt by a stack of cargo secured to the deck. She clutched one of the boxes until a hand caught her upper arm and she looked into the smiling face of a sailor.

  “Let go, missy, and I’ll take you to the captain. Hang onto me tight. Not got your sea legs yet have you? Give it a day or so and you’ll be dancing around just like the rest of us.”

  As good as his word, the sailor led her up to the quarterdeck where Captain Hardie stood by the steersman, conning the ship through the busy river traffic.

  “Here she is, Captain,” the sailor said.

  “Sit her on that coil of warp, Simpson. Then she can see everything and won’t be thrown all over the place.”

  Lucy was seated in the middle of a huge circle of rope, rather tarry and smelly but too heavy to move about in the following sea. After a little while, when the ship was sailing freely, Captain Harvey came over to her.

  Lucy asked him, “Where are we, Captain?”

  “Just rounding North Foreland. There it is over there.” Lucy followed the Captain’s pointing finger, although she had no idea what North Foreland was and was little better informed when she had looked. The hazy outline of the land was covered by what the captain told her was sea fret.

  “Or mist to you landlubbers. We have to change direction once we come out of the river. My wife said you had gone to sleep just before we tacked into the North Sea. Did the motion of the waves wake you up?”

  “There was a lot of noise…”

  “There always is when we set the sails but you’ll get used to it. A couple of days and I’d wager you won’t even hear it.”

  Lucy smiled although she did not believe him. How could anyone become used to such a racket? When the captain left her to attend to something in the bows, Lucy remained where she was. She did not want to return to her smelly little cabin below decks where she knew she would almost certainly be sick. The wind blowing into her face kept that fate away from her. Although the breeze was cool, the coil of rope protected her and she could see what was going on. The first mate, Mr. Barnes, stopped from time to time to answer her questions. She found the management of the sails exciting although, at first, she was unsure what was happening. There seemed to be a lot of noise and milling around which was confusing. Then she began to recognise the rhythm in the changes. She marvelled at the skill of the sailors running up the rigging and loosening the large sheets of canvas that drove the boat forward. All that afternoon she stayed on deck as the south coast of England slipped by on the starboard. Starboard, she was told, was the name for the right side of a ship looking from the stern but no one could tell her why it was called that. It just was. Port was the left. Stairs were companionways, privies were heads. It was a language all of its own.

  Mr. Barnes made sure that Lucy did not miss the famous White Cliffs of Dover when they came into sight, although they were not clear. The sea fret still lingered. She thanked him for his kindness but could not help being a little disappointed. They did not look at all as she had imagined them to be. They were much smaller.

  The Channel was full of shipping of all kinds, from small fishing boats to the occasional warship heading south to one of the naval ports. Lucy marvelled at it all and forgot her uncertain future for a time. When the mate came to talk to her again, she pointed out a large warship to him and asked what sort of boat it was.

  “That’s a first rate, that is, Ship of the Line with eighty guns or more and hundreds of men aboard her. She’ll be going into Portsmouth likely enough. Lucky you are to see her. There’s not many of them around. The ones we usually pass are the second rates, frigates and the like. Most of the first rates are sitting round the coast of France, keeping Boney’s fleet in harbour. Isn’t she beautiful?”

  “She’s lovely,” Lucy agreed, staring at the elegant vessel.

  “Glad we’re following after her. Any French pirate will take one look at her and run for home with his tail between his legs.”

  “What do you mean? They might attack us if she wasn’t here?” A thrill of fear ran up Lucy’s back but Mr. Barnes shook his head.

  “Unlikely round here. That’s why we stay as close as we can to the English coast. There’re too many English men o’war this near to Dover for the pirates to venture out. It’s when we pass Plymouth and come nearer to Saint-Malo that we’ll have to keep a good look-out. That’s where the blighters usually tarry. Begging your pardon, miss, forgot who I was speaking to for a moment.”

  Lucy ignored the word which she did not really understand and asked,

  “What do the French do? Sink English ships?”

  Mr. Barnes shook his head. “Not if they can help it. They’re not that stupid. Brigs like this one are worth good money and so is their cargo. The Frenchies try to capture them intact and then sail them into Saint-Malo to sell them off.”

  By this time, Lucy was hanging on the mate’s every word. “Have you ever been chased by a Frenchy, Mr. Barnes?” she gasped.

  “Once or twice, but we got away from them both times. Don’t you worry none. Captain and I have played that game before and this ship’s speedy for all it’s so broad. Given a good wind,
they won’t catch us, even if they do try. We’ll have you safe in Ireland before you know it.”

  Despite his confident words, Lucy could not help feeling a bit apprehensive. She found herself peering around the horizon in a vain attempt to see if there were any French ships nearby. Not that I would be able to recognise a Frenchman, she thought, but nobody ever mentioned the possibility of pirates to me before.

  “Privateers, they should properly be called,” Captain Hardie told her when she raised the subject at dinner that night, “not pirates. They sail under Letters of Marque, a sort of permission from their government to attack the ships of an enemy nation. Boney’s Letter of Marque in this case. Lets them fire on other vessels, capture them and take the cargo if they can. Not been caught yet although we’ve been chased a few times with no harm done.”

  Mrs. Hardie laughed. “Can be exciting if one of them’s after us. Then you’d see how fast the White Hart can run.”

  “Don’t you wish bad luck down on us, Annie, for all you like speed. Me, I want a nice quiet voyage down the Channel and over to Ireland. The sea’s enough of a challenge without tempting fate.” Captain Hardie put down his beaker and solemnly touched the wood of the table.

  “Nobody told me about any pirates, Captain,” Mr. Anselm, the other passenger said, in a shaky voice.

  “No need to, Mr. Anselm,” Captain Hardie replied, cheerfully. “We see them about one trip in ten and mostly far away in the distance. Never come within a couple of leagues. It you want to get to Ireland without any trouble, I’d back this ship to win a race against any pirate. You’re safe enough with me and my crew.”