Saturday, September 13, 2008




~Set forth by Violet Moorfields, Piratess th’ Eglantine

A True Recountin’ o’ th’ 1745 Jacobite Rebellion
(more or less…)

I knotted up me slops, wrapped th’ ivory rag ‘round me noggin and stepped back to survey me transformation.From th’ depths o’ th’ speckled and cracked lookin’-glass Dougall MacMoorfields, me own brother, sent me a cocky wink.

Th’ rest were easy.

Boardin’ th’ ship in th’ calm o’ that early ‘morn our crew stowed gear, readied sail and squinted int’ th’ sun as fancy-heeled footsteps came mincin’ down th’ quay; His Grace, Bonnie Prince Charlie, flanked by th’ Duke o’ Atholl had arrived. And wit’ nary a guard in sight.

Oh, wee Charlie had his slender French sword daintily secured t' his side but methinks I had little t’ fear from that fer his chief concern appeared t’ be th’ securin’ o’ his tricorn , seriously too large for his royal pate. It were my job t’ sail his grand arse t’ the shores o’ Glenfinnan for intense negotiations an’ other military hoo-ha I cared about naught.

I bowed politely though and held me tongue, for was I not Violet Moorfields, pirate?
Violet, named after th’ purple flowers what grew wit’ wild abandon in th’ Spring an’ Moorfields as an afterthought fer th’ putrid swamp jus’ north o’ Bishopsgate Wit’out an’ Bedlam, where I were born.

And had I not, a year t’ th’ day afore, chased his Royal Self ‘crost th’ waves flyin’ th’ false colors o’ th’ British, leavin’ a wake o’ cannon fire and th’ concealin’ smoke o’ black powder? Though th’ wee bugger escaped and damn him fer that for it would have amused me greatly t’ see him blown t’ smithereens wit’ naught but his curled wig left behind as proff that he had lived.

In sooth I cared not a whit fer which side I fought though I confess me desire black powder o’er naught.

Aye. Th’ firin’ o’ cannon. Th’ sound o’ which shakes ye t’ yer boots an’ some secret places betwixt an’ between, like th’ bottom o’ yer wildly beatin’ heart an’ th’ core o’ yer blackened soul.

And so it were that we set sail, uneventfully, until th’ cry o’ “Land Ho!” Th’ Fort were in sight!

Th’ Landin’ Party were waitin’ on th’ rocks as we sent our grommets t’ row first th’ Duke then Charlie his self t’ shore from th’ moor’d ship. I remained behind, secretly smirkin’ t’ see th’ scramble t’ keep His Lordship dry.

I spied th’ bravest grommet waist dep in th’ sea as kilted Scots swarmed th’ long boat in an effort t’ haul th’ Prince ashore. Tartan from a half dozen clans floated atop th’ water as I entertained briefly what a grand view must be available t’ any passin’ kipper wit’ a weather eye and a mind t’ look up. As th’ Landin’ Party led th’ Royal Procession up th’ rampart and th’ grommets began th’ return heave-ho t’ th’ ship I made note that one lone Scot remained behind in th’ waters.

I trained me spy glass upon a suddenly familiar tartan and caught a fleeting glimpse o’ a fine, white arse flashin’ above th’ water. As that singular Highlander bent t’ perform his leisurely ablutions it struck me like a broadside from a heavily loaded four pounder; that arse belonged t’ me own husband!

Aye. A year t’ th’ day it were as well since I’d handfasted t’ one Malcolm MacGregor, a true Scot an’ pure Jacobite, then promptly set sail aboard th’ pirate ship in search o’ that which I knew not. In sooth, th’ very ship what aimed cannon at th’ man my betrothed had sworn wit’ his life t’ protect.

Cross purposes, it would seem, fer such a union.

Aye, destiny and folly in equal measure.

And now I had returned.

~VM '08

*Stay tuned for PART TH' SECOND....

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

does look good!