CHAPTER TWO
“Do you think you’ll be able to do it?” Elizabeth Clavering asked Beth the next morning. The women were on deck, and even though the sun had only risen an hour before, it was already hot. Elizabeth lifted the tangled mass of her hair off her neck in a vain attempt to cool down a little. Not for the first time Beth was thankful that she’d cut hers. Unfashionable as it was for a woman to have short hair, it was certainly more practical, especially in these conditions.
“Be able to do what?” Beth asked, still staring out to sea. She always stood by the rail, but today all the women and most of the sailors who were on deck were also standing there. In the far distance, only just visible over the horizon, could be seen the sails of another ship, although at the moment it was too far away for anyone to discern what type of ship it was.
“Accept that you’re beaten? Like your grandmother said.”
Beth sighed.
“I don’t know,” she replied honestly. “She told me that I was like her, had the same spirit, and that she should have stayed at home and brought my mother up instead of shooting a soldier, which was what got her transported. It’s a bit late for me to stay at home now, though.”
“If you could go back in time, would you have stayed at home?” Elizabeth asked.
“No,” Beth said without hesitation. “I wouldn’t do anything differently, even if I’d known where it would end. Would you?”
Elizabeth thought for a minute. The other ship was a bit closer now, though still far away. The Veteran had two masts and lots of square sails, but this other ship was smaller and had just one mast.
“Yes, just one thing. I would have left my husband when he told me to at Clifton, instead of staying with him. Because we both knew he was dying. I stayed wi’ him because I couldna bear for him to die alone, but I ken now that was a selfish thing, because he’d have died happier if I’d have left him and gone wi’ the others.”
“Would you have been able to forgive yourself for leaving him?”
Elizabeth smiled sadly.
“I dinna ken. But it’s done now, anyway. There is no going back. Will ye accept what’s to come, though?”
“I don’t know. I think I should probably try to, yes. I’ve done it before, to some extent, at least.” She had thought she was making the best of a bad situation in marrying Sir Anthony Peters. And that had turned out to be the best decision of her life. “My grandmother told me that she fought all the way, even against people who would have been good to her if she’d let them. I didn’t want to get married but I had to, to get away from my brother, who’s the most evil bastard I’ve ever known.”
“Worse than Cumberland?” Elizabeth said, half in jest.
“Yes. Far worse than Cumberland,” Beth said vehemently. “Anyway, I had a choice; marry a drunken old man who I knew nothing about, or a younger man who I wasn’t attracted to, and who was irritating but amusing to be with and appeared to be kind. Now, from what my granny told me, if she’d been in the same situation at my age she would have refused to marry either of them, and would have tried to carry on fighting Richard and the whole of society instead. But I recognised that I couldn’t do that any more, because it was destroying me. And I made the right decision in the end. So maybe I can follow her advice. I think it will depend on what happens when we get to Antigua, on who buys my indenture.”
“I think you’ll fight, just no’ in the way of your granny,” Elizabeth said. “It seems to me that you’ve learnt different ways to fight.”
Behind the small ship, just appearing over the horizon, was a much larger ship, like the one they were on. At the moment it seemed small due to distance, but it had two masts like this one, so Beth assumed it must be of a similar size. Someone called down from the rigging.
“What do you mean?” Beth asked.
“Well, instead of attacking that Sam straight away when he propositioned ye, ye let him know that ye’d killt a man, and that ye werena afeart to do it again. That was clever. And then ye talked the captain into letting the men up for air. It seems tae me your granny would have challenged him instead.”
Beth laughed.
“Not by the time I knew her she wouldn’t, no. But yes, when she was young, probably. I didn’t know you’d heard me talking to the captain. But I daresay he’d have let the men come up anyway. He seems a hard man, but not one to be cruel for no reason.”
“Aye, but—”
Another shout came from the rigging, this time a more urgent one, and suddenly all the crewmen, who had been intently watching the approaching ships, sprang into action.
“Get the women below, now!” Mr Johnson called out urgently.
The women were rounded up none too gently and all but pushed down the ladder into the hold, whereupon the hatch was closed and bolted.
“What’s amiss?” one of the men asked. From above their heads came the sound of many feet running, and of heavy objects being moved.
“There are two ships coming towards us, but they’re a long way away yet,” Barbara Campbell said. “I dinna ken what the fuss is about.”
“Everyone was just watching them, and then all of a sudden they said we had to get below,” Beth added.
“What kind of ships were they?” John Ostler asked.
“There was a small one and then a big one behind it, like this, I think,” Beth said. “I don’t know anything about ships, so I don’t know what kind they were.”
“They could be pirates,” John MacKenzie, who had been a captain in Cromartie’s regiment, said.
“Pirates!” John Ostler exclaimed. “You mean like Blackbeard?”
“Blackbeard?” Daniel McGillis asked fearfully.
“Pirates are a bit like highwaymen, but at sea,” John MacKenzie explained. “My father tellt me about them. It’s said that they’re all criminals, working only for themselves, and they attack any ship they can, kill all the crew unless they agree to join them, and steal the cargoes for themselves. That noise will be the crew readying the guns to give battle, I’m thinking.”
“Mother of God,” Elizabeth Clavering said, crossing herself.
“You said there were two ships?” John Ostler asked Beth.
“Yes, the big one had two masts. The small one had one, but just before we were pushed down here, I could see it had a lot of people on it,” she replied.
“If they fire on us, they could sink us!” one man said. “If they do, we’ll all drown.”
“And if we don’t then they could kill us all anyway. We’ve no weapons to defend ourselves with,” added another man.
“I’m only fourteen,” Daniel McGillis said desperately. “I’m no’ ready to die yet!”
“That doesna change with age, laddie,” Donald MacDonald replied. “I’m fifty-eight, but I’m no’ ready to die yet, either.”
The noise from above stopped. It seemed the guns were ready. All that could be heard was the normal creaking of a ship sailing.
John Ostler climbed up the ladder and banged hard on the hatch with his fists.
“What’s happening up there?” he shouted. “We can fight with you, if there’s a need!”
“To hell with that,” one of the Manchester men said in a low voice. “I’m for fighting with the pirates, myself.”
A few people laughed, in spite of the tension. John Ostler banged on the hatch again and repeated his words. Everyone listened, but there was no response. Some of the prisoners started praying softly.
“Who’s Blackbeard?” Daniel McGillis asked again.
“He’s dead now,” John Ostler told him. “But he was one of the most evil pirates in the world. My father told me about him. It’s said he looked like the devil himself, and if the captain wouldn’t surrender, he’d torture him and the crew, and then kill them all. Then he’d ravish—”
“Will ye haud yer wheesht, man?” John Grant interrupted fiercely. “There’s ladies on board!”
“Ah. Yes, of course,” Ostler said. “They were just stories, anyway. Most likely not true,” he finished lamely.
“We’ll no’ let any harm come to ye, ladies,” Grant offered gallantly.
Unless we all drown together, Beth thought. But at least that would be a relatively quick death. Possibly better than being beaten to death by a cruel master or worked to death in the hot sun. She made a decision; if it seemed clear they were going to kill or rape her, she would do her best to jump overboard. She didn’t really care about dying, although she felt sorry for the others, who clearly did. At any rate, for the moment there was nothing they could do but wait, and pray.
On deck the sailors were as prepared as they could be. They had six cannons, which were all now in place and ready to fire. Captain Ricky was intently observing the approaching ships through his spyglass. The smaller ship, a sloop, was almost within range.
“Are they hostile, Captain?” Mr Johnson asked, although there were far more men on the sloop than would be needed merely to sail her. As he pondered the implications of that, the larger of the ships, a brig, hoisted a flag, which gave him a definite answer.
“Shit,” Captain Ricky said, with great feeling. The flag was red, and in the centre of it was a black skull. He passed his spyglass to Johnson, who raised it to his eye.
“Can we outrun her?” he asked.
“The brig possibly, but not the sloop,” Ricky replied. “We’re at full speed now, and she’s gaining on us.” He looked at his men. None of them were experienced fighters. This was a merchant ship. He had only six guns on board, and he had counted twelve on the sloop. He ran quickly through his options. Flight was not one of them, so he could fight, or he could surrender.
If he chose to fight, he would have to completely cripple the sloop before she could damage his ship, which he was unlikely to be able to do. Most likely she would fire chain shot in an attempt to take down the masts. Whether he could sink the sloop or not, unless they escaped unscathed the brig would almost certainly catch them. If he attacked and lost, then, depending on the brutality of the pirates bearing down on him, he could lose ship, crew and cargo, and, alive or dead, be castigated for not surrendering and making the best of it.
On the other hand, if he surrendered without firing a shot there was a much better chance of the crew and human cargo surviving, but then there was the possibility of him being accused of cowardice.
He was no coward, but he was a pragmatist. It might be better to surrender immediately and have a chance of living to negotiate the ransom of the ship and prisoners, than to be remembered posthumously as a stupid hero.
As he was deliberating, the sloop, although still out of range of the Veteran’s cannon, fired a shot across the bows. It was a bow-chaser; a warning. Several of the sailors cried out, and from the hold below he heard screams, and then more banging on the hatch as the prisoners shouted to be released.
“They missed!” declared Johnson with a mixture of relief and trepidation.
Captain Ricky sighed deeply and made a decision. If even his first mate didn’t know what a warning shot was…
“Raise the flag of surrender, Mr Johnson,” he said resignedly.
After a few minutes of futile banging on the hatch following the sound of the shot, the prisoners gave up. It was clear that whatever the captain decided, he was not going to trust them to take his side. Which, all things considered, was probably wise, as none of them had any desire to work themselves to death in Antigua, while a good number would be willing to become pirates. After all, they were not exactly worried about falling foul of the law.
It was different for the women, though. They were very aware that whereas the men would probably have two choices; to be killed or given the opportunity to join the pirates, the options for the women were likely to be death or rape, possibly both; although some would probably resign themselves to becoming the pirates’ whores, if their lives were spared as a result.
Beth was not one of those women, and Elizabeth Clavering made it clear with her next words that neither was she, and that she believed there might be another alternative.
“There were two women pirates once,” she said. “Mary Read and Anne Bonny, they were called. Edmund tellt me about them when we were in prison, once he knew I was going to be transported to the Colonies. He jested that it might be an option for me if I could escape from my employer.”
“Many a true word hath been spoken in jest,” John Ostler quoted.
“Would you do that? Become a pirate?” Beth asked.
“In a heartbeat. Would ye no’ do the same?”
She hadn’t considered it, had had no idea that female pirates existed until this moment.
“It would depend on the alternatives,” she replied after a minute.
From above their heads came more running and shouting, and then there was a loud bang as the pirate ship apparently collided with theirs, throwing the prisoners against the side of the hold.
“Dear God, have they sailed into us?” one woman asked, when the screams of terror had died down.
“Why would they do that, if they’re pirates?” John Ostler asked. “Surely they’d fire at us rather than risk damaging their own ship by ramming us?”
No one answered. None of them had any experience of naval warfare or pirates. All they could do was wait, and try to interpret the noises as best they could. Looking through the tiny air vents was no help, as all the action, whatever it was, was taking place on the other side of the ship.
They all fell silent, not sure whether drawing attention to their presence at this point was a good idea. There came the sound of more footsteps and muffled shouts, and someone fired a pistol, after which there was a cheer and more talking and moving about on deck.
The prisoners were in the middle of a low-voiced discussion as to whether or not they should announce their presence and who they were anyway, just to end the suspense, when suddenly there was the sound of the bolts being drawn back, then the hatch opened. Everyone looked up as a head appeared and then was just as quickly withdrawn. There came an oath uttered in a foreign language followed by retching, then the head reappeared, the nose and mouth covered this time with a handkerchief.
“Bonjour, mesdames et messieurs,” the owner of the head said cheerfully, if a little indistinctly. “J’ai le regret de vous informer qu’il y a eu un léger changement de plan, et que vous n’irez pas à Antigua.”
The few people who understood French absorbed this, then John Ostler began to translate into English.
“He said that we will not be going to Antigua,” Beth said in Gaelic. “He’s speaking French.”
At this the rest of Mr Ostler’s halting translation was drowned out by a rousing cheer from the Gaelic speakers. French! Surely this was good news? After all, the French recognised James Stuart as King of Great Britain, did they not? They were allies!
“Vous êtes écossais?” the man asked, clearly relieved that it appeared part of the cargo could speak French, or understand it a little, at least.
Beth, who happened to be closer to the hatch than John Ostler, looked up at the speaker.
“Some of us are Scots, yes, and the rest are English,” she answered in French, “but we are all prisoners because we fought for Prince Charles Edward Stuart.”
The man nodded, and disappeared. The hatch remained open. Those who had cheered now reflected that although the pirates spoke French, that did not necessarily mean they had any affection for their native land, if they were outlaws.
“Should we go up?” someone asked after a minute or two.
“Maybe we should wait until they tell us to?”
“Well, they’ve left the hatch open, so tae hell wi’ it,” Donald MacDonald said. He started to make his way over to the hatch, but at that moment another head appeared.
“Please, come up,” the owner said in heavily accented English.
One by one the prisoners made their way up the wooden ladder, until they were all standing in the blazing sun. They blinked and squinted until their eyes became adjusted to the bright light, and then looked around with interest.
The deck was crowded with men. The Veteran’s crewmen, including Captain Ricky and Mr Johnson, were standing in a group to one side of the deck. Their hands had been tied behind their backs, and they were being guarded by some of the new occupants of the ship.
The small ship with one mast that Beth had seen earlier was now next to the Veteran, secured in place by a number of grappling hooks. That explained the banging and grating noise from earlier. There was still a number of men on the small ship’s deck, but the majority of them seemed to have transferred to the Veteran. The big ship she’d seen earlier was once more on the distant horizon. Perhaps its presence had just been a coincidence, although Beth doubted it. It was apparent from the lack of artillery fire that Captain Ricky had surrendered to the pirates without resistance. Surely he wouldn’t have surrendered to such a small foe? Although what did she know about naval warfare?
While she was observing the situation, the pirates started to release the grappling hooks in order to free the smaller vessel.
They were an interesting-looking lot. Whereas the now sullen and fearful crew of the Veteran, with the exception of the captain and first mate, were dressed in shades of brown, blue and green for the most part, with cream-coloured shirts, many of the pirates were attired in brightly coloured breeches, although in common with the Veteran crewmen they were mainly barelegged. They carried cutlasses or hand axes, and round shields reminiscent of the Highland targe, and had pistols thrust through their leather belts. Some of them had scars, some were bare-chested, some wore scarves around their heads, others sported golden earrings. But all of them had two things in common; they were all tanned, their exposed skin a uniform mahogany brown; and they all looked to be experienced fighters.
As the prisoners were taking in the situation, a man who was obviously, by his flamboyant dress, either the captain or a high-ranking officer, came forward, and doffing his tricorn hat made an elaborate courtly bow to the newly liberated Jacobites that Sir Anthony Peters would have been proud of.
“Good day to you. Captain Paul Marsal at your service. I am told,” he said, in accented English, “that you are all Jacobite prisoners on your way to Antigua? C’est vrai?”
Beth translated quickly into Gaelic, attracting the attention of the captain.
“This language, it is Scottish, no?” he asked.
“Yes,” she replied. “Some of us speak only English, some only Gael…Scottish.”
“And you speak all three?”
“Yes.”
“Excellent! Then you can be my official translator,” Marsal said in French, smiling hugely. “My English is poor, and endeavouring to speak it gives me a headache. I am very grateful for your help, my dear madame.” He seized her hand and kissed the back of it in an overblown gesture again reminiscent of Sir Anthony.
In truth, apart from the fact that he wore his own hair, which was brown and tied back with a green ribbon, and his face bore no paint, but was tanned like his crew’s, he reminded her of the baronet. Not in looks; where Alex was tall and well-built with slate-blue eyes and regular, handsome features, Paul Marsal was only of medium height, with twinkling brown eyes and a wide mouth that seemed a little too large for his face. But the mannerisms, colourful costume and elaborate gestures all evoked Sir Anthony enough to make Beth’s heart clench, and to render her well-disposed to him, even though she had no idea as yet what he was like as a person.
“Are you a pirate, like Blackbeard?” Daniel McGillis blurted out, having observed the heavily armed men with terror. “Are you going to kill us all?”
For a split second Beth contemplated not translating this accurately, but then realised that Marsal certainly spoke some English and probably understood a lot more. Mistranslating the first question asked of him would probably not be wise. She duly translated, and knew she was right when he nodded slightly and smiled at her. Then he adopted a wounded expression and clasped his hand to his heart.
“Pirates! Blackbeard!? You wound me, monsieur!” he declared. “No, no, we are civilised men, operating with our dear country’s approval, and have letters of marque to prove it! We have no intention of killing anyone, unless you force us to do so. But I think if you are all followers of the Stuart family then we have much in common, do we not?”
Beth refrained with difficulty from laughing out loud, particularly as she could see Captain Ricky’s thunderous facial expression on hearing Marsal’s declaration of legality. Clearly he understood French as well. She translated, and was rewarded with looks of relief.
“What do you intend to do with us, sir?” John Ostler asked.
“Well, the first thing I intend to do with you is to enable you all to wash yourselves and your clothes. I’m afraid you really do smell absolutely dreadful,” Captain Marsal said. “Now, of course because there are ladies present, it is quite clear that we will have to make some arrangements in order to facilitate this. However before that I think it would be advisable to secure the erstwhile crew of the Veteran, and what better place to do that than in your previous salubrious accommodations?” He smiled broadly, and after Beth had translated, the Jacobites laughed, their tension draining away as they all started to take the measure of the charismatic Frenchman.
“I object, sir!” Captain Ricky stated. “We surrendered to you of our own free will, to avoid any unpleasantness. You cannot possibly expect us to tolerate such treatment!”
“I am most grateful to you for surrendering, Captain,” Marsal replied politely. “It would have been most tiresome if I and my men should have had to resort to violent means. And of course the result of your wise decision is that the fish in the surrounding area will have to seek their food elsewhere today. I am sure that an accommodation that was considered fitting for a hundred and fifty of your countrymen for several weeks will be nothing short of palatial for just twenty-two of you, for two days.”
“You cannot expect Mr Johnson and myself to stay down there with the men!” Captain Ricky persisted. “We are gentlemen, sir!”
“As am I, Captain,” Marsal said. “But I can hardly expect my men to endure hardships that I am not willing to share with them. I run a democratic ship, sir, and I highly recommend it. Of course tonight I will be making an exception and will occupy your delightful quarters, as you will not be needing them. Escort all of the gentlemen down to the hold, Germain,” he continued, gesturing to one of his crewmen.
“Now, let us arrange for you all to wash, to eat, and to make yourselves presentable, after which we will congregate here on deck again later in the afternoon, when the heat is not quite so oppressive for you all. I have been led to believe that your country is cold and wet, so I am sure you will appreciate a lower temperature. Then I will explain to you about your new destination, the beautiful island of Martinique, which we will reach, as I told Captain Ricky just now, in two days, if God is kind.” He bowed elaborately to the assembled Jacobites, then turned away. He then issued a series of commands, which were obeyed with an alacrity that made it clear to all that although foppishly dressed and elaborate in gestures and language, Paul Marsal was not a man to be trifled with.
He really was like Sir Anthony.
While the men stripped and washed themselves and their clothes on deck, the sixteen females were offered the use of the officers’ quarters, where they were given buckets of water, sponges, and soap. One of the men even produced a brush and a comb for them to use. They had to wash their clothes in turns, and in sea water, but they managed to do that and maintain their modesty by half the women washing the clothes of the others out on the deck, while the others washed their bodies and hair in the precious buckets of fresh water they’d been provided with. Then they carefully brushed and combed each other’s hair as best they could, killing as many surviving lice as possible. The clothes, spread out on deck under the hot sun dried surprisingly quickly, and within a couple of hours the now clean women were able to perform the same service for the others.
As awkward and inadequate as the washing facilities were, Beth had never appreciated being clean so much in her life.
They assembled on deck again just before sunset, where Captain Marsal informed his much sweeter-smelling, if still ragged audience that Martinique, the island they were to be taken to, belonged to France, and was extremely beautiful, far more beautiful than British-owned Antigua, of course. They were going to Fort Royal, where the island’s governor, the Marquis de Caylus lived, an excellent gentleman who was no great lover of King George II, but was a close friend of the Comte de Maurepas, of whom some of them may have heard.
Beth had certainly heard of Maurepas. Alex had told her that it was Maurepas who had authorised the ill-fated ship full of arms and troops Elisabeth to sail with Prince Charles when he had travelled to Scotland in July two years previously. If the governor was a friend of the pro-Stuart Comte, surely this boded well for the reception the Jacobites would receive upon landing in Martinique?
Beth told herself that she must not count her chickens before they hatched, but she couldn’t stop the thrill of hope that ran through her. Although since her arrest over a year ago she had told herself repeatedly that she did not want to live if Alex was dead, she was young and by nature full of life. It was therefore with a mixed feeling of guilt and exuberance that she realised the future might hold some promise after all. And if she was to have a choice over her future, surely it would be better to make a new life in a country where no one knew her, and where there would be no painful reminders of all she had lost?
* * *
Beth was standing on the deck of the Veteran, which she now knew was a brig, as was the ship that had accompanied the Diamant, a sloop, when she had appeared over the horizon. Both ships were owned by the man who had given her the information she was now in possession of, and who was standing next to her looking out to sea. They were at the front of the ship, which was named the forecastle or fo’c’sle.
She turned and looked down the length of the ship, which was a hive of activity, and brushed her hair back off her face with her hand. She would be glad when it was long enough to tie back, although if she was going to live for any length of time in this heat, perhaps she would keep it short.
“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.