Saturday, November 22, 2008



Ahoy luvs!

'Tis wit' a wee bit o' sadness I post this final PLOT TWIST submitted by my dear new friend Libby Boswell. It has been fun recountin' th' Jacobite adventures o' Violet Moorfields and creatively sharin' along th' way. Oh, Violet ain't dead yet....jus' sailin' on a sea o' cheese.....and I watch th' horizon fer her return........

My sincere thanks t' ye all fer readin this far......

Fair Winds an' a followin' sea......



Tis Libby's last word--and she has Violet to thank for it.

And ooooh she done right for the lobsterback’s liver she did. Well, says I, here’s me opportunity to get shed of the Cameron’s, the Atholl’s and those bloody soldiers. They raised a proper hue and cry, what with the officer’s shouting for men, and then, ah yes! a messenger to send word to the coast for a pursuing ship.

Well, well, maybe fortune might smile upon me yet. Now among the many things I have to thank Greta Van der Kuiken for, one of them just happens to be the finer points of using a cudgel. You do have to know where to hit, for fastest effect.

I do. Sadly, the messenger boy now does too—or I expect he did when he came to.

They do go down with such a nice sound, I must say. But I couldn’t linger.

It was but a hurried heartbeat to strip off my skirt, to the breeches I wore underneath, grab his coat, frisk him for the coin he was given, and leap into the saddle. I figured his coat would cover my bodice well enough till I was further away.

I clapped my heels to that poor beast and we went off hell for leather.

After a few miles I got to chuckling…Violet will make a very clean get away this time—no message will go to the headland, no ship will pursue: I have no intention of delivering it.

I suppose it were the sisterly thing to do. And oh, we may be that after all—what else, I suppose, would you call a person what leaves her husband for the sea, and the promise of treasure but a pirate, hmmm?

I slowed the horse to a better rhythm, and the miles went on, as I mused. Foolish Willie. He just can’t hold his whisky!

Of course he didn’t need to.

I was holding it—and pouring it down his gullet, him being tied to the bed and all. Funny how that worked out.

Men are simple creatures really, Greta once told me—offer them anything to do with their John Thomas, and you can end up leading them by it.

Oh the stories we tell…

Of course, where the hell he thought I was going to find a willing Hessian in that lot, I will never know, but it sufficed to get me his half of the treasure key, some of his clothes, and a very sharp little boot knife with a stag handle, along with his boots to put it in, and get him foxed enough to forget his own mother, let alone where his ‘wife’ may have taken herself off to.

Soon…soon…the hooves drummed along, taking me further away from hated respectability.

Soon, we could hit the coast, and look for a ship. Then soon it would be back to Albany…the jenever cache… and then maybe a trip up the coast to deal with Greta’s turncoat nephew what sold her to the Frogs.

I wonder if Violet might be interested in a joint venture…I know where there’s a sweet little snow that just begs to spread her white wings to a good wind and what might need new owners…

submitted this day by
---Libby Boswell

Sunday, November 16, 2008



Aye well, now there we stood, eyes locked, wit’ naught but a hunk o’ cheese betwixt us. And who can say what either o’ us were thinkin’ at that moment

True love be a right waggish thing an’ life be brief enough indeed t’ pledge yer troth t’ jus’ one soul, ‘specially a landlocked Scotsman with a penchant fer war and an aversion t’ shoes. Takin’ that leap be akin t’ lookin’ down from th’ top mos’ ratlin’s in a gale force wind an’ hopin’ fer more’n an unblest outcome. But right then I knew as well as I e’er would that we had forged an unbreakable bond, one made o’ fondness, cheese an’ hope.

O’ course takin’ responsibility fer me an’ bein’ set free were two entirely different things. And all his loyalty earned him were an asylum stay beside me until the babe were born.

Now, th’ fact that there weren’t no bairn was a sitchy-ation what confused me but, like Merlyn pointed out, all that time chained up in a piss-soaked cell wit’ naught t’ occupy our time were bound t’ lead t’ somethin’.

And I figure that probably weren’t a good thing t’ remind me of.

Our trial now bein’ dismissed an’ our sentence set forth we turned under armed guard
t’ face our destiny. MacGregor reached o’er t’ take holt o’ me hand and his felt warm and strong...and somehow good. It ain’t like me t’ allow such a thing.

So ‘twere then I did th’ only thing I knew t’ put things right. I lunged fer th’ nearest Scot’s dirk and wit' a last look in me husband's eyes plunged it int’ th’ liver o’ th’ Brit what held me under guard.

Then ran like hell.

Ded Aim were waitin’ wit’ a long boat on th’ far side o’ th’ quay as I knew she would be and passed me off as a grommet t’ th’ crew. And from there we rowed from shore toward her waitin’ ship.

I knew better’n t’ look back. Know ye, I ain't entirely made o' stone.

Now, there be a great many o’ ye what keeps askin’ why fer th’ love o’ Neptune did I not jus’ shut me gob an’ play their game? “Twould o’ been easily done.

I only hav’ this in response.

When all’s said an’ done an’ th’ sun drops ‘neath th’ horizon I’d sooner hear th’ snap o’ me own neck as th’ trap door opened beneath me boots than t’ e’er betray me own self.

A piddlin’ length o’ hempen rope held by a gutless rat bast’d hidin’ behind a weapon o’ his own cowardice ain’t ne’er goin’ t’ be enough t’ see Violet Moorfields hanged.

I sail where th’ wind takes me.

For I am a pirate.


by: Violet Moorfields

* Set t’ a tune inside me head...
An’ wit’ me bein’ a musician...naught...I canna help ye more’n that...
But I do encourage all me minstrel friends t' pillage this song and sing it freely so that the legend of Violet may live on.....

Come all ye young fellows
What follows th’ Sea
And take in this tale
That I set forth t’ ye
‘Tis about a young lass
Who did pay a great fee
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Now Violet were a pirate
Who played a fine role
Plunderin’ treasure
None o’ it she did dole
Four thousand doubloons
She buried deep in a hole
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

There was a great price now
Set upon her red head
And many’s the man now
Who wished she were dead
But not until after they’d
Asked her to wed
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Her firey soul was what
Led to her doom
They broadsided her ship
At a quarter ‘till noon
The last thing she heard was
The cannon go BOOM!
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Without ceremony
They held them a trial
When they asked her t’ speak now
Well she did but smile
It drove them quite mad
Oh, that pirate was vile
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

She were smug as a cat now
And calm as ye please
She looked at th’ Captain
And asked him fer cheese
They would o’ shot her right there
For she were a big tease
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Well she ne’er would say now
Where she hid th’ loot
So they built up a scaffold
Right under her boot
Th’ rope it were hempen
They did not use jute
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

After her neck snapped
There were nary a sound
They opened the trap door
And she hit the ground
But when they got there
She were not t’ be found
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

Some say what happened
Now it weren’t couth
Th’ British had spoken
An’ took ‘way her youth
But all that was left
Were a lone golden tooth
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields

So come all ye young fellows
And learn from this tale
If thou art a pirate
Ye’ll end up in jail
But play yer cards right
An’ e’ermore will ye sail
Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields...

Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet Moorfields...

Th’ hangin’ o’ Violet...Mooor...fields...


Legend has it that if ye possess th’ infamous Gold Tooth, treasure an’ good fortune will be yours ‘till th’ end o’ your days...which is why, t’ this very day, ye’ll see pirates flashin’ a single golden tooth in th’ hopes that it might have once belonged t’ Violet...

Some say that Violet were so evil when her body hit th’ ground she did descend straight away t’ Hell...

There are others what say her husband, Malcolm MacGregor, were waitin’ fer his one true beloved an’ took away her body to be buried in secret...

And then there are others...others who know th’ truth...

*********** ~VM

Friday, November 7, 2008



Part the third of the Boswell backstory--why Libby turned in Violet, and the proper response for unruly singing males.

“EEEEEeeww!! I’m not marrying HER”
“Fauuugh!! I am NOT marryin’ HIM!!”

Which was how I, and me prospective groom, greeted the concept of wedlock, one to the other.


I am not wandering off on tangent, dammit!! Ye did want to know why I was there to turn Violet in, don’t ye?

Well I’m telling ye—because I am…

for my sins…

married into the peripheral clan of the Camerons.

Aye well, it happens.

I tipped the Forces That Be about Violet to save me own neck. Well, technically our necks, but as I am married to good master William only under gravest duress and necessity I like to forget about him as often as I can.

Which hasn’t been easy of late—being in such close proximity with half the Camerons in Christendom about.

Ye see, Willie is one of Lady Cameron’s godsons, and loving, caring icon that she be, she has begun to ask embarrassing questions about Lack of Heirs, with many a pointed glare at my still flat (and going to stay so if ‘n I have anything to do with it) belly.

Pointed comments served with very noxious tea-like substances and oddly shaped,
charm-like nosegays have been appearing with regular frequency—or as regular as a bloody-minded Papist can stomach practicing such hexery.

So... I bethought me to get everyone’s eyes focused elsewhere for a change.

It worked.

But is it enough of a diversion to get me an Willie back to New-Yorke, before one or both of us is exposed? That will be the challenge.

I did mention that Willie and I are married only under necessity? Well, that and slightly false pretenses, besides. You see, it is just barely possible that he is married already and besides we’ve never consummated said marriage.

Oh not for lack of rum, wine or any other spirit and trying—but Willie, fair, green-eyed paragon that he is, possesses no soft rounded bits.

And I have none of the facial hair, and dangly bits he is seeking.

What we do have, each, is half of a key that leads to a fortune in finest Dutch gin and the wee black booke full of the names and secrets of merchants and shippers what are deeply in the debt of one Greta Van Der Kuiken , tavern-keeper of Albany.

Ye see, I were landed in New-Yorke as just one of a multiple of poor wretches needing to fill out an indenture. I didn’t, however, “take” at auction—maybe I spit a bit too much and I suppose the knee to the ballocks of the one turd what groped me, didn’t help either.

We, the other malcontents and I, were led out in a shuffling line by a soul-driver into the countryside, and it were there that I met up with my salvation, in so many ways—the formidable Mevrouw Greta Van Der Kuiken, relict of the late Jost Van Der Kuiken, taverneer of Albany.

Ah…yes…and fortunate me! Greta, were ne’er averse to a little bedwarming of slow winter’s eve and many was the night I drifted off to sleep pillowed deep in goosedown and Greta.

While she freely admitted that she had taken me on only because she were lookin for another doxy to liven up the tavern of an evening, she find out quick enough I wasn’t to most men’s taste, nor they to mine.

I do have other skills, such as reading, ciphering and an excellent eye for spotting a forgery, so she overlooked my penchant for braining a man with an alepot at 20 paces for taking liberties, and kept me at work behind the scenes.

O, I can tell at a glance—a glance! if a coin’s been washed or clipped, and can spot even the best German-printed counterfeit note before it hits the counter. I were an asset to the business, and was rewarded for such.

But so was Willie—William Ian Kilbourne, to name him rightly. He is quite the skilled card sharp, and can play well and play deep—thanks to his skill. He knows when to quit the cards and let the mark win, and always gives his cut to Greta, who kept him on to keep the nobs coming.

But pretty Willie, has a flaw, however--besides possibly being still married, since the woman in question went missing, and hasn't been seen since the last time the King's Light Infantry came through town....hmmmm.

But he is also a bad Scot for He canna hold his whiskey.

At all--it’s the matter of only a few drams and his sauve demeanor changes. ‘Miss Thing’ will go a-prancing, a veritable molly, fit to do a turn down the arcades of the Royal Exchange, and singing loudly and badly, all the while.

Twenty verses of ‘My Thing is Mine Own’ later and even Greta would take an alepot to his head.

And Willie knew it, too, so he chose to stay far away from home, where he could discretely make his fortune, or fail without creating a major scandal, and everyone made sure to keep him out of the whiskey.

That were the state of affairs.

Now, tonight, from this vantage point, watching the sparks from the cook fire pop and sail up into the darksome night, it seems so long ago and so good.

But all good things must come to an end...

submitted by
--Libby Boswell