TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE: PART TH' LAST-VIOLET TENDENCIES

PART TH’ LAST

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.

END
~VM

TH’ HANGIN’ o’ VIOLET MOORFIELDS
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.....
~VM


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...

~end~
VM

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

* PLOT TWIST II

PLOT TWIST
Libby Boswell weighs in with more backstory.


I suppose ye could say that rum had been me undoin. Oh to be sure, tis easy to blame the drink, not the drinker, but really this time I make me case. Many months I spent t’ the workhouse, before I figgered out how things were run, and where best to gain some lever-edge. And when I finally had me a nice system, what with the ‘elp of one bailiff and a headmistress, we had a right lucrative trade going in contraband rum, to foist on any jacktar unlucky enough to run afoul of it.


We had a deal with the keeper of the Sotted Swine, down by the docks, to store the stuff upstairs, and sell it to the very thirsty and very desperate. Considering the peripatetic nature of our supplies, one would have to be rather both, thirsty and desperate, and e’en then you wouldn’t want to use a metal tankard.


Having just concluded a very lucrative deal to switch several barrels of Ol Rotyergut, for some pilfered good Barbados dark, we were celebratin., and havin a right good knees-up. Sadly, I ignored me own advice about drinkin the profits and whilst doin a hornpipe to the rather tortured fiddle of a semi-sober Irishman, and regrettably I were on a rickety table, when I heard again that VOICE.


"Belly up lads--drinks on Mad Peg!" "What?!!!"


Dame Fortuna can be a real bitch sometimes. Now, the fact that wee Violet and her crew of mates, newly pirates all, should pick this particular ale hell, this particular night while I was as drunk as David’s sow, and enter it ought not to have caused such a stramash. But it did. In shock at hearing Violet's voice again, I lost me shoe, which knocked out a largish sort offn’ a Bristol merchantman, and he knocked over a column what were rather dubiously supporting the paper thin floor above. Caught mid kick wi’ only one shoe, me table crashed over backwards into another column.


The resulting noise, what with the shouting of the Assize men, come to raid the tavern, the subsequent collapse of the ceiling, rum barrels all a-roll, and the shouts of ‘Pirates! Pirates!!! Take Them!” as Violet and Mad Peg were spotted meant that I was now under part of a rotted wooden floor, amidst the wreckage of ‘alf a hogshead of Rotyergut (and inexplicably a large jar of fishpaste), and weltering in me own gore.


When I came to the next morning, and rose tottering from the splinters, to the yowling of some six dozen cats who were somewhat nonplussed to see their break-fast suddenly grow legs and leave, it were to find meslf taken up for being a definite public nuisance and possible vagrant. Since I couldn’t explain the smell, my presence in a recently collapsed building or give a coherent answer as to where I ought to be, I was summarily headed for Newgate.


Enroute however, as a possibly familiar street doxy distracted my guard with a well-placed chamberpot, I managed to slip me irons—thanks to the oils from the fish paste--, and get instead loaded with a group sent off for extended indenture to the colonies.


And so, reeking and reeling, I said good riddance to Mother England, and prepared meself for what fresh new hell this voyage might produce-- but vowing to avoid demon rum at all costs.


--Libby Boswell
***********************

TH' SAILIN' O' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE

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

TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE: Part th' Sixth

PART TH' SIXTH

Steppin' int' th' tunnel I immediately sensed somethin' dank an' foul an' soulless…..but then I come t' realize that were jus' me.




I though then how it were jus' a few short strides from bein' a carefree cheese- eatin' pirate t' a captured freebooter doin' a Hempen Jig fer th' amusement o' th' British.




Life be funny that way.




So whence th' Captain give orders fer "Halt!" I executed th' pirate version….I turned an' hauled arse out o' there!




I made it as far as our blanket where I found a deficit o' both cheese an' husband.




Screamin' Lily Rose were still screamin' (no surprise) an' De'd Aim were keeping back at 45 paces, not trustin' herself at th' faultless 44 nor th' 43 or less -her bein' only a true aim at precisely four an' fourty. The Lady Shawna in her pure and honest way allowed as how I looked pretty but could she have more cheese, please. Mad Peg were jus' lickin' th' face o' a Scot an' tryin' t' get him t' eat her potatoes.




Clearly I hadn't been missed.




I managed a cup o' rum then (fine, several) afore two red faced, heavily breathin' (and I be thinkin' severely chastised!) British lads come back t' fetch me. A great deal wiser t' me antics this time they hauled me back through th' tunnel and presented me t' th' court.




Now, I figured upon me arrival there'd be all manner o' chaos ensuin' but that were naught t' be so. Fer there were me bes' mate Merlyn standin' huddled next t' Lord Talon, meek and subdued and sayin' aye, sir and nay, sir and if ye please, sir like one o' them fancy women at one o' th' Lady Cameron's doin's.




Now this did confuse me greatly as I weren't accustomed t' such from th' Mighty Merlyn. I met her gaze then and she did relieve me a wee bit by givin' me a wink and tellin' me in silent pirate speak t' play along.




Aye well, and good luck wit' that.




I knew not what happened afore me arrival but I weren't goin' t' swing wit'out causin' a great deal o' uproar.




Well, after that there were a lot o' girlish screamin' an' cryin', and that jus' from th' guards, and a good deal o' bayonet pokin' an' madam shut yer gob and th' like but the down slide o' th' upthrust were that I were t' hang fer th' crimes o' Anne Bonny.




Well, I bloody well weren't!




And no matter how many times Merlyn give me th' play along signal I steadfastly ignored it, preferin' t' squirm and caterwaul and cause misery in general t' th' assembled.




So 'twere right afore th' guards contained me wit' th' Captain's own silk scarf-a right fancy touch, I though and mayhap a wee bit enticin' in other circumstances-that I felt a poke in me backside and heard an "Oi!" what I recognized.




There standin' behind me an' glarin' liken unto an unpaid doxy on a bustlin' Friday e'en at a dirty quayside tavern wit' a long line o' jacks still t' go were me own husband.




"I be here." he spake, steppin' forward t' stand by me side.




"Aye ye bloody, buggery, pusillanimous, rat bast'd! An' I thought ye were disavowin' me?" I sputtered in an apoplectic-like fit.




The effrontery o' th' man! I internally raged. Th' egregious nerve t' effectuate such an' appallin' set o' circumstances in me darkest hour! I shuddered. Th', th', th'………






"I changed me mind." he allowed quietly.






Th' stinkin', filthy….softhearted, forgivin', tender, wee sweet heart o' a man…..I thought.




"Husband, I…."





The black silk scarf wound 'round me neck then as they yanked me away from him and tied a knot what would choke th' cud outten a Hi'lan' koo.






Aye then, so this be what it'll feel like I thought, stretchin' up on me tip toes an' strugglin' fer breath, me husband lookin' deep int' me eyes.






"Now, Madam. Now ye know what 'twill be like to hang." spake th' Captain smoothly.






Aye. And me ne'er even havin' th' chance t' tell me own darlin' husband I'd kill him if he'd et all that cheese.






*******************VM

*Stay tuned for Part th' Seventh

TH' SAILIN' O' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE

TH' SAILIN' O' VIOLET MOORFIELDS: TH' NOOSE AIN'T LOOSE

PART TH’ FIRST

~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....