PART TH' SEVENTH
Well, th’ Captain were naught but exceedingly punctilious throughout th’ remainder o’ th’ trial and whence he determined I might expire then and there from a too tight silken scarf and a shakin’ from th’ guards like t’ rattle loose me gold tooth he give th’ order t’ unbind me.
Though it pained him t’ be sure he did finally come t’ terms wit’ me bein’ Anne Bonny...naught. And bless Neptune fer that small courtesy as I pictured Bonny sniggerin’ at th’ thought she’d no longer be a wanted pirate plus plottin’ how she could get her mitts on me bloomers again though I were thinkin’ after th’ hangin’ they’d not be in th’ best o’ shape.
He did meticulously inscribe me full name, Violet Louise Moorfields, in careful script upon a parchment wit’ his fancy quill pen, though I had t’ spell it out fer him and me thinkin’ he were smarter than that.
“Violent?” he queried.
“Aye. If ye prefer.” I agreed and give ‘em all a bit more fuss though there were too many o’ ‘em t’ fight off. Seems they’d grown wise t’ me antics.
Let this be a lesson t’ me I thought. This be th’ last time I leaves me flintlock and faux Letters o’ Marque in me other knickers.
‘Twere then they fired th’ next broadside. Seems now I were declared wit’ child.
News t’ me.
Glancin’ t’ th’ Captain’s left hand I then saw one o’ Lady Cameron’s minions sittin’ like she had a hawthorn stick up her arse and testifyin’ how , in her professional opinion, (As what? Arse Kisser an’ Scone Baker?) I were wit’ child.
And they could tell that from a fart? Impressive. Course it were an impressive fart.
Well, this were getting’ daft as th’ time I attempted concoctin’ me own gunpowder in th’ candle cupboard back at convent school and woke t’ find Sister Mary Suppressyercreativity whackin’ me wit’ her yard stick, both me eyebrows missin’ and in a committed relationship wit’ th’ new Spanish gardener lad.
Though I wonder what e’er happened t’ that tall, angry lass what were crappin' feathers a good four days afore they shipped her off t’ th’ workhouse.
It were then that Merlyn stepped forward t’ speak.
I has t’ give ‘er her due knowin’ how she can pitch a fit liken unto a she-cat in heat tanglin’ wit’ a reluctant skunk in a back alley at midnight but she were th’ soul o’ innocence and did simper an’ posture t’ th’ Captain wit’ a grace I ain’t ne’er seen afore. Mesmerized me a bit it did as I ain’t ne’er been one t’ bow an’ scrape.
Since she were pleadin’ me case in an effort t’ save me neck I let slide th’ fact that she pointed out I were older’n her an’ also that I might, in point o’ fact, be quite daft; both bein’ true though th’ one hardly needin’ t’ be pointed out in mixed company and th’ other pretty obvious unless ye were blind.
Well, th’ law states ye canna hang a woman wit’ child so who were I t’ argue th’ point?
O’ course, th’ law also states ye can shackle ‘em t’ a wall in a piss soaked, straw strewn cell in a dank lunatic asylum whilst pokin’ ‘em wit’ a stick an’ forcin’ ‘em t’ endure their bedmates off-key repeated rendition o’ Braes o’ Birniebouzle an nightly visits from six displeased rats and a Basket Keep wit’ a gob key named Fergus (th’ Basket Keep not th’ gob key) whose eyes do na point in th’ same direction whilst everyone be waitin’ fer th’ aforementioned bairn t’ pop out.
And then they hang ye.
“Mistress Moorfields.” spake th’ Captain all th’ while scratchin’ wit’ his quill.
“Have you anyone then to lay claim to the unborn child?”
I did some quick mental calculations, numbers not bein’ me strong suit...divide by 9...carry th’ 12...aye, bloody Prince Charlie be of no help at this juncture, not since I relieved him o' his sword an' forced him t' smile like a doxy lookin' fer double pay... and that left...uh, no one....
And just as I were about t’ throw another hissy fit in order t’ buy some time me husband, Malcolm MacGregor, stepped forward and spake t’ th’ assemblage.
“I will.”
And I knew he meant it fer whence he reached t’ take me hand in his he gently slipped me a hunk o’ cheese.
*******************VM
STAY TUNED FOR PART THE EIGHT
No comments:
Post a Comment