by Andrea Jones
“His errand made him later than usual. When he lifts the latch to the kitchen, the two youngest lads lie abed in the loft, warmed by the chimney. His mam looks up from her darning to push a lock of bright auburn from her face. Alice could never be stout, but she’s not boney either. The dress she wears was new years ago, her bibbed apron a recent creation, sewn from the flax grown here on her island and milled into linen in the village. When she smiles at him, her face radiates the humor for which she was loved as a lass. She spoons stew for him from a cauldron that sits on the embers. The fire, made of the turf he has harvested, smells sweetly of earth and of iron.
“Alice’s sons necessitate much in the way of mending, and their mother is never far from her needlework. She delights to ‘make something from nothing.’ In truth, this homily of hers is the sum of her history. Taking up her darning again, she sits herself down by the table, and asks after his day.
“ ‘Does your back pain ye, lad? Will I bring ye more tea?’
“ ‘It hurt for a bit, but the hike home has cured me.’ He shifts in his seat to ease the aching. ‘Josie’s right here, he’ll be pouring me a drop.’
“Josie, with hair his own shade of ginger, is a year younger than his eldest brother. He bumps the table as he comes from the fire with the kettle.
“ ‘Mind yourself, Josie,” says his mam. “Ye’ll be needing spectacles, next. Was Mr. Cavanagh fit to work today, Con?’
“ ‘Old Corkscrew Cavanagh?’ he says, grinning.
“ ‘Mind your manners, lad. The man’s no older than your father would be, had he lived. ’Tis the work makes him crooked.’ Alice bites her lip here, not wanting to think how short a time will pass before Con stoops just like his father had. ‘Did Mr. Cavanagh last out the day?’
“ ‘Nay, the old man rode his donkey home, swatting the beast and swearing he’ll never be back. I’ve got tuppence says he’ll show up by dinner time.’
“ ‘Ye’ll win your wager, that ye will. I never saw a lad so lucky.’
“ ‘Mam,’ says Con, and he leans toward her over his mug. ‘I’ve lucked onto a scheme that’ll prosper us. Let me tend the bar, nights, and ask me no questions.’
“No questions she asks, not when the shebeen draws more drinkers, then more strangers, nor does she inquire weeks on, when Josie turns his currach ashore to leave off fishing, for to take his brother’s place cutting turf on the bog. She knows little, and says less. But the stew pot fills more easily, and, crossing herself, she starts tucking silver away.
“She says nothing when Con haunts the crumbling Tower House at the Sound, where smugglers are known to glide by. She keeps silent when the constabulary canter down the lane in their low hats and sashes. The officers’ vigilance confirms her suspicions. When she tidies the shebeen, mornings, she scrubs the counters clean, sweeps, and tends the fireplace, but she neglects the shelves under the bar, where false panels are fitted. No one mentions the poitin: Irish spirits distilled in the hills and bottled illicitly, and no revenue paid to the king.
“The widow and her sons prosper now, but take care that the neighbors don’t notice. Though Alice no longer dreads the knock of the landlord, she feigns a reluctance to pay him. No goods are purchased that will raise any eyebrows; still, she sews shirts for her family, and a new Sunday frock for herself. A milking cow joins the sheep in the byre. The smaller boys lose their scrawny, gaunt looks, while the older lads take on more muscle. Con, standing straighter now, treats his brothers to days at the horse fair. Alice sings at her chores, and at Mass whispers prayers of thanksgiving. The next Easter, a new cloth appears on the altar from an anonymous benefactor, made of linen according to edict, but fringed with handsome tassel.
“ ‘Stitched by an angel!’ exclaims the good Father, clasping his hands.
“ ‘But procured by a devil,’ jests Con, in private.
“One summer night, as the waves rise to savage the shore, the widow lies on her cot, and the roar of the waters muddles her dreams. ’Tis the roar of a lion, with golden pelt and kingly mane, and the woman awakes in alarm. Easily enough, she reads the meaning of that dream. She pulls her shawl tighter, and sits up to think.
“She and Con have never discussed it, but all their countrymen know the risk that he takes. Arrest means conviction. Judgment means transportation. Few prisoners survive such a voyage, and the ones who fail to die of fever, filth, or seasickness arrive bound in chains on a continent of criminals.
“She binds her shawl about her nightdress. Scooping up a weighty tea towel from the bread box, she hides it at her bosom until, within a stand of rhododendron that blocks out the wind, she gains her vegetable patch. Money won’t grow here, she knows, but neither will it be confiscated. If she could conceal her son here, she’d do it. But, whenever the revenuers find reason to return, she knows that only himself can shield Con.
“And that he does. He runs to ground as the need arises. The odd night finds him where the customs officers don’t, under the roof of a turf shelter, or in the caves off the coast, or yet, covered with fleece, a specious sheep by the tomb on the mountain. And still he manages business, becoming more wily with time.
“A figure of mystery now, Con is chased by the girls. His new hiding places are warmer than those he’d found in the wilderness, because— unlike the king’s men— the lasses are able to catch him.
“All this time, the widow works, stitching and sewing, and holding her family together. Con’s luck is fine, but good fortune can’t last forever. Alice puts up a parcel to keep for him, filled with essentials in case he must flee. She knows, though, that the most vital item is the one her son carries inside. No matter where he must roam, in the end, he’ll always hold love from his mother.
“At last, the crisis arrives. Alice rises up and hurries to the door, where a breathless neighbor pounds. He’s followed by the sound of hoofbeats. Torches burn, bobbing over the hill as a company of constabulary descend it. She wakes the boys and seizes the parcel. ‘Josie, ready the currach, lad, and hurry!’ Alice tears open the door to the bar.
“The buzz of the crowd falls silent. Con turns from the bar, and the smile dies on his face. Alice stands barefoot with the bag in her hand, her auburn hair as wild as her eyes. Just so, Con will always remember her.
“Hurriedly, he gathers the bottles from beneath the counter. Most he tosses to his mates, to conceal in their coats. In a mass, they push each other out the door. The last jugs he hurls to the field. Alice runs behind him, taking his big, rough hand in hers this one final time. Together they race over emerald grasses, the last Con will see of them— dark, damp, and fragrant.
“As they flee seaward, the sound of the surf drowns the officers’ orders. Alice grabs the paddles from Josie and jumps aboard. ‘Get back to your brothers, Jo. Say I’m sewing a shroud, like we planned, and let the revenuers search the place. Keep them there long as ye can!’
“Josie and Con shove the currach until the sea snatches it, and Con rolls over its side. Josie takes one quick look at Con, then he turns to speed homeward, swiping at his eyes to clear his vision. It’s not spectacles he’s wanting. It’s his brother.
“The lights from the shore fade from sight, leaving starlight to guide them. Con hauls on the oars, watching his mother. He shrugs in apology. ‘Mam…’ he begins.
“ ‘No, Con. It’s done now. Ye did all ye could.’
“He hears the waves rage in a hollow as the boat passes by it, bellowing as if a beast lives inside. He heaves the craft round to calmer water past the headland, and rows toward the Tower on the Sound. Seaweed lies limp on the sand.
“ ‘I’ll be leaving ye here, son. Ye must pull away. Hunker down now, and wait in the water for your smuggling friends to fetch ye. Don’t ye dare set your foot on this island.’
“ ‘Aye, Mam. I’ll be minding.’
“She opens the parcel. ‘I’ve provided ye all ye’ll be needing. But here, Con.’ She pulls out a woven-flax packet. It holds a thimble, a rainbow of thread,
and a needle. A name is stitched on the bag, unknown but familiar, glistening in embroidery floss and worked by her hand.
“ ‘Remember, lad. With a needle and thread, ye can make yourself anything.’ She leans forward to stare at her eldest son, hard. ‘Ye can make yourself…into anything.’
“She stuffs the packet in the bag, then squeezes Con as fiercely as her strength allows. When she kisses him, she feels the damp on his cheek. Sea spray, and a sweeter kind of salt.
“ ‘Go with my blessing.’ She smiles with the humor he loves in her. Yet next, she shakes her head, as stern as the day his father died. ‘But, my dear…Don’t ever come back here again.’
“She is gone.
“Then Con, for whom no other island exists, is forced by his fortune to loose his hold on this vast, wild isle. With a weight like lead in his stomach, he pulls at the oars, and watches his home shrink away.
“He must lose his name, too. Con of the Smaoigh clan will soon be transformed into legend. Like a ship cut free of her anchor, his habitat, now, lies afloat. His heart must turn sailor, to wander over other islands, and to voyage upon other oceans.
“Adrift from his homeland, Con smuggles one last commodity: his identity. He’ll stitch his soul together; he’ll shape a new life. He tailors himself to fit the name his mam fashioned. He is an exile, and he re-makes himself. And now, he’s become Conor Smee.
“Over Smee’s shoulder, the prospect of the ocean stretches past the possible, away, and away…to an impossible place. Another island— host to comradeship, love, and duty— the spot he now knows, as the Neverland.”
✽ ✽ ✽
Jill sat back, her eyes wet with tears. Moved by her story, the men remained hushed. When she felt able to look up, another pair of eyes met her own. Behind spectacles, they, too, shone with moisture.
Smee smiled in sorrow, but said, simply, “Thank you, Ma’am.”
Jill reached out to him. With both of her hands.
And then, in the midst of serenity, Cecco’s wrath erupted.
CHAPTER 19
A Touch of Irony
Before Smee reached Jill’s outstretched hands, Cecco leapt up and seized him by the collar. He yanked the man’s face close to his.
“Do not dare touch my wife!”
As big as the bo’sun was, he was too surprised to struggle. He managed to grab Cecco’s wrists, resisting, but his efforts to break free proved useless. His new shirt ripped with a screech.
Cecco seethed through his teeth, “I did not stop you before. I stop you now. Not one more finger upon my lady.”
The emotions Jill’s story had roused in Smee sapped his habit of caution. Feeling the burn of truth in Cecco’s indictment, he threw discretion overboard. “Do you fear a third wedding, then? You think she’ll be marrying me, too?”
“You disrespectful dog!” Cecco shook Smee, rattling the Irishman’s teeth. He jutted his knee into Smee’s gut. The bo’sun buckled forward, wheezing, and in a mighty heave, Cecco struck Smee full on the jaw.
The crack of the blow resounded on the beach. The sailors scrambled, the men bellowing while the women shrieked. Noodler was the nearest sentry; at the sound of the ruckus he caught up a torch, abandoning his post by the boats. He came running toward the trouble.
Smee jolted sideways from the force of Cecco’s clout. The crowd backed from the battle and Smee landed, dazed, on the sand. Cecco stamped toward him and towered there, his boots astride the bo’sun, his great hands ready to drag the man up, to strike again.
Smee gasped for air, clapping his palm to his jaw. His skull nearly split with the pain. But, as Jill’s tale portrayed him, Smee was hardy. He ignored his aching gut. He whipped off his spectacles and tossed them to a sailor, bracing himself to stand.
Cecco kicked Smee’s legs out from under him. Smee fell again, spraying sand all directions. He snatched a handful, and dashed it at Cecco’s eyes.
Cecco ducked to the side. With a move as instinctive as breathing, he reached for the knife at his belt. As he seized the hilt, he gripped something soft instead. Jill had rushed to his side and closed her hold on his dagger, preventing him from pulling it. She caught up to face him. Pressing his cheek, her stained hand, at last, ministered to her spouse.
“Captain!” she commanded, “You must stop now.”
He stared at her, and the torches reflected over the darkness of his eyes. “You are too late, Lady. Your man Smee is dead.”
“Giovanni, no.” For the moment, the knife remained in his belt, but Jill couldn’t fight his grip. She gave up the dagger and threw herself into his arms. As she clutched his shoulders, the vibrancy of his rage coursed into her. “You must listen—”
“I listen. I hear every word you say about him…this man my wife knows— so intimately.”
Smee spat blood on the beach. He warned from the ground, “Ma’am, you’d best be shoving off.” He was rubbing sand between his hands, to dry his grip. In a practiced motion he rolled to his feet and crouched, with dagger drawn. “The captain struck me first. Officer or no, I’ll be butchering him, with a sharp knife and a clear conscience.” Only Jill’s presence between the men held back the bloodshed.
Jill had witnessed Cecco’s fury before. She knew the degree of his ruthlessness. She was gratified when he applied it, acting as her champion against Doctor Hanover, and she had watched, in cold satisfaction, as he carved her name in letters of blood on Hanover’s back. Embracing her own barbarity, Jill chose to live as a pirate, and, still this moment, she thrilled in Cecco’s savagery. Even as Wendy, the males who enticed her were adventurers and rogues. She prized Smee as one of them, and she’d realized, of course, that Smee too could be brutal.
But Jill had never seen Smee so alarming. His shirt, like his beard, was streaked with blood; his shoulders— formed early by cutting the turf— appeared broad and bellicose. His mouth formed the grim line it held when he’d whipped Cecco raw, and the knife in his hand rode there easily. With his finery in shambles and his spectacles cast aside, Jill understood the ferocity that kept the Roger’s ruffians in line.
An odor of rotting fish swept up with the breeze from the shore. Within the party of pirates, all eyes aimed at the combatants. Yulunga had moved like a panther to guard Cecco’s back— that back scarred so deeply by Smee. Subtly, the other men chose sides, and in the wake of the conflict, the two companies drifted apart. In French and in English, voices raised in support of their shipmates. The battle that threatened wasn’t only over the woman. It was the Red Lady differentiating from the Roger, their new unity decaying, like creatures washed up with the tide.
But the sky flashed in a streak of orange, and a throaty blast rent the air. United in surprise, everyone whipped round to face it.
Hook stood before the gaily striped pavilion, his pistol smoking in the torchlight, his face a mask of displeasure. He tossed his pistol aside and pulled a second from his belt.
“The story is ended.”
To Smee he said, “You are banned from this beach. I will deal with you later.” To the sentry, he said, “Since you neglect your post, Mr. Noodler, Monsieur Flambard will relieve you. Take Smee away.” Then his gaze shifted to Cecco.
“The knife: to Red-Handed Jill.”
The shock of the shot rang in Cecco’s head. He looked down at the blade in his grip, much too close to his beloved. He lowered it, and he gazed into her eyes, admiring. “Jill,” he murmured, “so brave.”
He’d seen no fear of himself in her gaze, only concern. He now offered her the weapon. With the bo’sun out of his way, he watched, mesmerized, as her blood-red hand closed upon it, and she tucked it in her sash. Once again, he beheld the scar at her throat, the symbol of her courage. He ached, with a terrible longing, to press his lips to it, no matter who was attending, no matter what the consequences. It was the return of circumspection, not a lack of valor, that checked him.
When at his most dangerous, Hook’s manner turned deadly with courtesy. His voice dripped like
liquid gold. “If the happy couple would grant me the honor of their presence? In my pavilion.”
The tang of gunpowder hung in the air. The woodland night noises, stopped short by the shot, left an eerie vacuum of sound. The lady, the captain, and the commodore entered the tent. With one stroke of his claw, Hook slashed the tie, and the swag fell closed to conceal them.
The Men of the Clearing escorted their women past the bonfire toward the end of the beach, to help Noodler to tend Mr. Smee. Assuming Smee’s office as bo’suns, Nibs and Tom checked their weapons and placed themselves outside the pavilion, at a discreet distance. Yulunga waved his arms and urged, “Allez!” while Guillaume called, “Clear away, hearties. This way.” They shooed the sailors toward the fire, to reintegrate the two ships’ companies and to secure some privacy for the commodore.
The men mustered by the casks, their eyes wide with wonder, their throats dry from excitement. Before long, the piles of driftwood diminished and the fire grew hot, while the gossip began again, fueled by the evening’s events.
Red-Handed Jill had given them plenty to talk about. In the short time since its telling, the Story of Smaoigh had grown deeper.
✽ ✽ ✽
Inside the tent, time grew shorter. The bonfire threw light against the pavilion, and its colors bled through the fabric to mottle the inhabitants. In a state of naïveté, the furnishings waited to provide them with pleasure. The plush of Persian rugs masked the sand. Netting on the camp bed draped open to offer its comforts. At the bedside stood a little crystal vial, its golden dust muted in the twilight of the tent.