A Pirates Plight by Harcourt Tendhall
13 June 2023 { Historical Fiction }
Bloody Barrie they called him, and he had a fearsome reputation. But now he was vulnerable, alone and exposed, in need of shelter. He was a long way from the little hamlet in the narrow cove he left at dawn this morning, whilst heading north along this coast. He was unsure how long it would take to reach the next village. He trudged up another slope, weary footsteps imperceptibly shortening and energy fading with each minute that passed, as was the light. Night was drawing in. It was then he looked up the steep hillside to his left and spotted it. He changed course and scrambled up the loose black rocks to the entrance of a large cavern, hoping it was uninhabited. Arriving at its mouth, he found no footpath, or tracks leading to or from it.
Just inside the cavern, the floor sloped down to a flooded section. With no way to judge the depth, his heart sank; he couldn’t spend the night on this side of the water; it was just too exposed. As his eyes grew accustomed to the gloom, he realised there was a ledge to the right, above the water line, leading to the other side. It was only a few inches wide, but he found, by searching out handholds in the rough wall of the cave, he could traverse the ledge.
On the other side, the floor sloped gradually out of the water. It was fairly flat and, although the cave narrowed quickly, there was plenty of room to bed down for the night on the dry floor. He searched the rest of the cave, relieved to find there were no passages off the main cavern and, importantly, no signs of occupation by any other living creature.
He walked to the edge of the water, tentatively sampling it. It tasted clean and fresh. Looking up in the failing light, he could just make out the occasional drip from the ceiling, revealing the water was naturally filtered as it found a course through the rock above. He smiled and drank freely, then filled his flask for the continuing journey tomorrow. Walking the few paces back to his pack, he took out his bedroll and lay down, pulling his coat over himself and, using his pack as the pillow, settled down for the night.
As he lay there, waiting for sleep to carry him away, he reflected on the past two days. As far as he knew, he was the only survivor from the shipwreck. Somehow, by clinging to the remains of the longboat, the stormy seas had carried him to a narrow beach, surrounded by treacherous rocks. He had crawled up the beach and collapsed from exhaustion when he reached the dry sand above the high tide mark. The following morning, he woke to a beautiful sunrise, but it could not warm his cold heart as he thought of the twenty men who were now most likely at the bottom of the sea, along with their shipwrecked vessel. He said a silent prayer for them and thanked the Lord for his good fortune. Not that his fortune was so good. All he had were the clothes he wore and his father’s old cutlass.
The Flighty Maiden was a fully-rigged war pinnace, stolen from the Swedish navy by Barrie himself some years before. Small and fast, albeit lighter armed than the man-of-war galleons, she had served the band of privateers he ran with well. But now she was gone, and his life was in jeopardy.
He had arrived at the hamlet of Staithes, sat in a narrow cove, last evening after dusk. Prowling around, staying out of sight, he had managed to gather a few extra items of clothing, a blanket and a pack to hold them, along with some food. Without resting, except to eat, he left the hamlet before dawn.
He planned to return to his ship’s last port of call, Paddy’s Hole; a tiny harbour on the south side of the River Tees estuary. At least he would find friends there and hoped to find another vessel on which to serve. Until then, he would be viewed a stranger and instantly linked to the shipwreck, the debris of which would by now have been discovered. News travels fast and, in these troubled times, people were wary of strangers. For tonight, though, he felt safe and sleep soon overtook him.
Next morning, it was daylight when he awoke. He traversed the ledge and cautiously made his way out of the cove, annoyed to find the sun high in the sky. He needed to get moving quickly, so returned to gather his belongings. He had just put everything into his pack when he heard voices outside.
‘I’ll check in here, but there’s no hoofprints. You keep to the path. I’ll be down and catch you shortly.’
Grabbing his cutlass and pack, he scuttled to the far end of the cavern, behind a rock to keep out of sight. He knew he could take the man, and his companion should it come to it, but the last thing he needed now was a trail of death and destruction on the way to his destination.
‘Come now, Patch, my beauty, are you in there?’ said the man, straining to see into the cavern. When he got no response, he turned and left, calling to his companion, ‘She’s not there, maybe she galloped all the way to Staithes.’
Realising they were looking for a horse, Barrie thought it may have made for higher ground. He left the cave, carefully checking the men had left. He saw them heading south, along the path he had taken last evening, so he turned north, but instead of dropping to the path, he climbed the hundred feet or so to the summit. He found it led to fields, with the occasional small wood. There was a path along the edge which continued northward, towards the first wood. on the other side he found it, grazing on the edge of the field. Checking there was no one around, he approached the horse. It had two large brown patches on its otherwise white coat, hence its name. His luck was really in, as it was saddled, full tack, ready to ride. He called it gently, and the horse turned to face him. As he drew close, he pulled up some grass and offered it to Patch, who happily took it whilst he grabbed the reigns.
In an hour, he left the coast to detour round the town of Saltburn, not wishing to meet anyone who may recognise Patch. Having successfully skirted the town, he headed towards Marske, again avoiding the obvious road into town. This time, more afraid of meeting Excise men, as he drew closer to Redcar. He turned west and took the road to Wilton Castle, then right again to resume his course to Paddy’s Hole, arriving as the sun began sinking in the West.
Barrie set the horse free in a field close to some trees, knowing there was no stabling at Paddy’s Hole. Someone would find and take it, and he had no further use for a horse. He walked the last few hundred yards, keeping an eye out for Excise men. All seemed quiet. The usual local small fishing boats were in the little natural harbour. It had been ideal for their pinnace; just deep enough at low tide, but too shallow for anything larger. They hadn’t stayed long there, though, as there was no cover. Passing vessels could obviously see you. However, he had established look-out posts which ensured early warning of approaching ships, or approaching Excise men along the only road.
He made his way cautiously to the tiny inn, set amongst the half dozen cottages beside the harbour. There were only a few people in the bar. The innkeeper saw him and said, ‘My Lord, I’m looking at a ghost. You should be in Davy Jones’ locker.’ He walked from behind the bar, hugged Barrie and slapped him on the back. ‘By all that’s holy, I never thought I’d see you again, Barrie. Come and have a drink on me and tell me all that’s happened.’
Barrie grinned and relaxed. It was going to be a good evening.
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