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Lady and The Tra… oops… Pirate!
September 5th. 1589
(In Brit English)
Dark clouds had hung over Portsmouth docks all day as evening became night, and the rats scurry between crates of vegetables rotting on the docks become braver; the clouds split, allowing the fullish moon the space to shine down its monochrome.
Lord Bellingham, Queen Elizabeth the First’s Fleet Commander, would be most disapproving of his daughter, Sarah, leaving the house unchaperoned three weeks from becoming wed to Francis Drake, one of her Majesty’s revered captains. Despite her father’s assurances that Drake is right for her, she does not intend to marry such a cruel man.
That night, a stroke before midnight, Sarah left the great house above the docks by the little used side gate, avoiding the guards, and followed the footpath leading down to the docks, hitching her skirts to negotiate the puddles. It felt good to be without a chaperone, out in the moonlight.
Were she to be caught, she would tell her father that she couldn’t wait to welcome her fiance home, whose ship, Her Majesty’s newest galleon, HMS Revenge, Drake’s flagship, had returned earlier in the evening after a dismal attempt to invade the Spanish-controlled Portuguese waters.
She drew quietly closer to the harbour, hiding on the wooden jetty where sailors gathered, raucous, filthy and drunk, having returned home after five months at sea with no positive outcome. The sailors would receive no bonus and blamed Drake for their losses.
Drake was sure to fall out of favour with his Queen, and, Sarah hoped, her father might see him as unworthy of her hand.
Along with fruit and vegetables spoiling, urine puddles, and rats in their hordes nesting in the spoiled cotton bales, rain once again begins to fall, shining on the dock and dampening the oil-fat lamps, making it hard for the flintman to re-ignite.
The Portsmouth dock area is no place for a lady. However, with each ship’s return from the high seas, women of a lesser station abound in assorted provocative dresses with one or two breastfeeding babies in their arms, but all offering female companionship to earn what bits of silver the sailors have left after paying their debts.
But it was not Drake’s return that had brought Lady Sarah out on a warm September night, having disobeyed her mistress; no, she could care less about the evil captain, ruthless and cruel to his men and now a failure.
Upon hearing that Pirates had returned under a flag of truce with Drake’s battered ship, now anchored offshore, Sarah’s curiosity had become too much to resist. In her eagerness to get close enough to see a real pirate ship, said to have outgunned several Spanish galleons laden with gold, something the Queen’s best naval galleon had failed to do, Drake offered the pirates safe passage, food and water, in exchange for some of the gold. Of course, it was a trap; Drake had no intention of letting the skull and crossbones fly again or its famous captain live.
With little money and nothing to boast of, Drake’s men were in no mood to hear of the pirate’s victories over the Spanish. They were needy, hungry, and couldn’t afford even the cheapest woman looking for favour.
Sarah had made a wrong turn, finding herself on the same jetty and trying to hide quietly until a rat crawled over her shoulder. She let out a scream.
A burly sailor, grinning toothlessly, ran forward and reached out a callused hand to seize her by the hair, pulling out his dagger and holding it to her throat.
“Wott we got ‘ere, then, lads, eh?” He growls, rubbing a stubble’d, scurvy chin into the exposed flesh of his victim’s neck.
Another sailor, sporting only two more teeth than his colleague, jumps down from astride the barrel of a damaged Demi-Culverin and, too, gestures his admiration with a pouting of his hips.
“Purty little thing, ain’t she? How much will ya cost me, sweet little trollop? Be kind, I ain’t been paid, see!” He seethes, spittle spurting between the gap in his teeth from a devilish grin, rubbing a grubby and scarred musket finger across her chin and pulling his last chip of silver from his vest pocket.
But the sailor, having fewer teeth and holding her fast, has a different opinion.
“Hell, this ain’t no hooeer. Can’t ya see, this ‘ere’s a fine lady, we should all be bending over for the likes of her.” Her captor mocks.
“Aww, Jacko, ya blubber smellin’ sea dog, she’s a woman, ain’t she? She probably stole that fancy dress! Now, if ya doesn’t cotton to my plans, malady, you’ll be swabbing a deck with them fine clothes!” He rants drunkenly, giving gleeful attention to this pretty wench still in the grip of his Crow-Nester before giving Jacko a shove windward, taking hold of Sarah and bowing sarcastically.
Other sailors laugh hoarsely, not daring to get between these two; Jacko and the Crow-Nester, Lugg, start brawling with each other as to who will feel these fine breasts first.
Sarah takes desperate advantage of the situation, breaking free, leaving one brute clutching a fist full of hair, and fleeing frantically into the darkness, knowing not to where.
Her worst fear is realized when she hears the two men coming after her, calling out lewd suggestions and gaining on her as if they know every footing on the docks. She, on the other hand, does not, so leaping and dodging barrels and coiled ropes, she scurries like a rat to the end of the pier, where she whirls to the right along a smaller dock plied with more cotton bales and timber, splinters of which tear at her dress and underskirt.
Breasts heaving with terror, she tries to find her way to a lamp-lit customs area as the rain falls heavier, her shawl becoming heavy, is immediately discarded. She elects to flee down what seems the easiest escape route, but there’s not a soul at this end of the wharf, no help anywhere.
The darkness has aided her somewhat, but now the clouds are again breaking apart; the full moon skids from behind a cloud, light falling over the dock and on the bright inshore waters. Fearing her visibility, she crouches behind an empty crate, hearing the men coming ever closer, cursing and pushing barrels aside as they shove their way toward her with daggers drawn.
She’s just about to make a last effort to dash to safety when she is pulled backwards and emits a muffled shriek! A powerful hand clamps over her mouth.
Someone strong sweeps her off the wharf and into a rowing boat anchored directly below the dock. She flails and kicks until her arms are pinned in an iron grip and sees nothing but blackness. Her mouth is covered, and all she can hear is the rhythmic slap of water against the sides of a wooden boat and the smells of fish.
Better judgment should warn her to lie quiet, at least for the moment, but she gasps furiously from behind the big hand.
“Let go of me, you miserable piece of sea scum!”
Her captor, unmoved, pulls a heavy canvas over them, warning in a low but sizzling severe tone:
“Don’t make any sound unless you prefer they find you!”
“Who…who in the hell are you?” Sarah tries to say in a stifled whisper.
“Never mind. Someone who doesn’t want to be seen any more than you do.”
“Get your hands off me, you damn wharf rat!”
“Keep quiet!” Her captor tells her sharply, making sure she understands by again muffling her mouth, though not so roughly this time, and holding fast with his other arm wrapped around her middle.
Sarah waits, heart thudding beneath the lacy bodice as she becomes aware of his body against hers. He’s lean, hard-muscled and robust; she knows that much. Her chest continues to heave and fall, lying entangled with her captor on the bottom of the boat, listening for the sounds of sailors approaching.
Jacko and Lugg search hard, increasingly agitated at not finding their prize, bewildered and drunk, falling over barrels; Jacko flashes his cutlass against the ironwork in frustration.
Maybe she’s safer from them, but what about the man holding her so tightly, though not hurtfully? He certainly smells a lot better than those ruffian salt dogs. Her nose detects the smell of clean soap, hinting of leather mixed with mint. He has muscular arms and light-coloured, glossy, shoulder-length hair glimpsed in the moonlight. But that is all she knows about her newest captor, yet her instinct to scream is lessened; something tells her to hold still, obeying his order to stay quiet.
Her captor, too, finds it impossible to keep his senses attuned to the danger while he wonders curiously about the woman captive in his arms. She swears like a Portuguese, yet feels soft and feminine and smells of exotic floral scents as exquisite as her frothy gown, now tattered, showing a shapely calf and her ankle wrapped in short boots.
He’d come ashore from the pirate galleon to reconnoitre the area, knowing Drake of old, having once been a caption serving her Majesty many years before, sure Drake was setting a trap for his men, something to assuage the depth of his failure over the Spanish.
Drake would like nothing better than to have him and his men captured, his cargo impounded for the Queen, and in doing so, have Queen Elizabeth appoint him a new quest.
He, however, being on the other side of the right, didn’t seek favour from the Queen or Drake; he sought only gold, while his Jolly Roger crew had taken on the Spanish and brought home a valuable cargo, gold, timber and tea was now needing food and supplies, and willing to make a deal with the Queen’s emissaries but trusts them not.
This particular pirate is loyal to his men and their gold and not to the man who had betrayed him in the eyes of the Queen, Drake himself.
Using the blustering of night’s cover to come ashore, he’d heard the commotion and saw the men crashing down the wharf, chasing what appeared to be a woman as pretty as deep purple. His way was to do what came naturally to a pirate: follow the trouble. The prize did indeed look worthy.
Reluctantly, he tears his attention away from her immediacy, listening intently for a sound, lifting the canvas just enough. The seamen are moving farther down the wharf, and it sounds like another rip-roaring fight is happening. A tumble into the chill waters of the Solent would cure what ailed those troublemakers, he thinks, relishing the opportunity.
His captive stirs against him, trying to speak. He relaxes his grip and asks:
“What’s your name?”
“I… sir..,” she sputters. “…am Lady Sarah Belington, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll kindly let go of me.”
“Lady, if I knew what was best for me; I would not be protecting you from Her Majesty’s scum. Are you down here alone?” He asks, not believing she’s been quite so foolish.
“No. My carriage and driver are on the street.” She lies.
“Really?” He says, shifting his head to one side like a dog trying to understand a spoken word. “Okay, we have to make a move. Come with me, and just play along. If they spot us, I’ll swear you were mine, first!”
Her mouth gapes, but his language is crisp and all business. He lifts her onto the wooden boards of the dock with uncommon ease before nimbly bouncing beside her. Treading with stealth, he leads first into an area lit by dripping fat torches, where she gets a good look at him.
Not a displeasing sight, she has to admit, trying not to gaze. The pirate, too, appraises her with steel blue eyes, glittering ice beneath expressive blond brows. His hair is pulled back and tied at the nape. His bronzed beard, almost white with flecks of sea salt, covers a strong jaw.
She tries not to let him see her looking at him, letting her eyes cast downward, but noticing a leather necklace holding what looked like a shark’s tooth on his chest beneath the open white, fully sleeved shirt tucked tightly into black pants; a broad blue sash snug around his trim waist, and over which a leather belt holds a curved handled pistol and a glittering cutlass.
Alas, she is caught staring and is embarrassed. A warm flush is visible on her face.
“Sir…” she says, remembering her modesty, “Thank you for rescuing me. Now I need to find my carriage driver, hoping to convince him help is near at hand.
“No doubt you will, Lady Sarah. But first, I’ll claim my reward…”
She stares disbelievingly into his blue eyes, set so prettily in his wind-tanned face, and catches a flash of the even white teeth of his roguish grin.
“Re….reward?” she stammers, then it comes to her.
Those ships…the rumour of the traitor turned pirate, Captain James Rause, yes, the very one who had sailed under Drake himself, now a pirate!
“All right, sir…” and she fumbles for time, looking for with a satin purse attached to her waistband ribbon, “I have a few coins here…”
But his long, tapered fingers close around her outstretched hand, gently folding her fingers over the coins.
“Not the reward I had in mind, Lady Sarah…” And he smiles like a panther regarding its prey, standing close.
“What I want from you is worth more than a handful of money.”
“Sir! Please!” she exclaims, cheeks flaming, “…surely you do not think that I…” She ceases to utter another word under his touch, quieting her, disconcerting in its pleasant way, more so than the notion he’s simply another rake on the hunt for a willing woman.
He grins wider.
“As much as I would relish what it is you believe I’m alluding to, I haven’t the time. Only enough for this…” And he pulls her to him softly, stealing a kiss from her lips.
“You…” She gasps, yet she felt she could easily be swept against him without remorse and held in his powerful arms. “…Pirate!” she finishes in fiery indignation, not admitting that a lightning bolt passed through her body.
“Your father has the power to pardon me and my crew before the Queen. Drake has lured me here with promises…offering freedom for treasure. I know from experience that he’s not a man of his word. Once he has me where he wants me, he’ll try to gain favour with the Queen. Having her troops capture me before a trade is made official.”
Sarah makes no effort to push him away. What is the matter with her? She wonders in a raptured daze, staring at his smiling mouth, secretly wishing to feel their warmth on hers.
But then she becomes aware that someone is shouting her name. An instant later, her demanding, tantalizing captor releases her. There is something in his eyes she’d never seen in a man’s eyes. Such a sparkle enraptured her.
“Your carriage man has found you,” he says, ready to return from whence he came.
“Wait…please…where will you go…if it’s a trap, why come?”
“Trouble…’tis Vega lights my way, to die with grace, but first to ride the swell of possibilities,” he says.
And with not another word, his presence is no more.
Silas, the carriage man, is coming down the wharf as fast as his skinny legs will carry him, toting a lantern and horse-whip, spouting threats of what her father will do to her Ladyship.
“Missy, my lordy lord…your father’s gonna lock you away for a month of Sundays when he hears about this! I swear the Commander’s gonna be fit to be tied!”
Silas continues on about her indiscretion as they return to the carriage. For once, Lady Sarah has no retort for the scolding, moving slowly as if in a daze, putting two coins back into her purse. But something is already filling its softness: a leather necklace and a shark’s tooth.
Quite vividly remembering where she first saw it and all the events just a short while earlier, she begins to form a plan to wriggle out of the hot water she is sure to be in, smiling at her father’s old but loyal servant.
“Silas, I’ll put in a good word for you with Miss Hattie if you’ll be kind in the telling?”
“That ain’t a’gonna change things, Missy! Your father needs to know about this! I think Mistress Hattiford is right, it’s high time you had a husband who’ll see you stay out o’ trouble!”
Lady Sarah turns to gaze over the charcoal waters that roll under the moon’s September glow.
“Silas,” she turns her smiling eyes toward the old man, “do you think there might be a pirate ship out there?”
Should there be a part two?
