The Swashbuckling Yarn of Milady Vixen (15 page)

“I don’t like you,” the nurse said. “I think I’d best get that out in the open from the onset. I don’t know you, and this means you’re going to have to prove to me you’re not some whore wearin’ a sailor’s garb just to fool everyone. If I catch you with your hands where they don’t belong or your bloomers on the ground, I’ll thrash you myself. Do we understand one another?”

“Avast, ye lubber, I be no lazy slut-for-hire! I’ll let pass that insult, but don’t be suggesting it again. Aye, you be the captain; just give me my orders and stay out of my way. I’m finding myself less liking the flag you be flyin’, so let’s just leave it at that,” Vixen said, raising her chin in defiance.

“I can work with that.”

Walking into the tent, she was shocked at all the blood, flies and stench. Men thrashed and moaned upon stained cots, most covered in scarlet-stained bandages. Having seen her share of wounded, it wasn’t their injuries but their youth that bothered her the most. Several of them couldn’t have been more than sixteen years of age. The futility of war suddenly filled her soul, making her guilt even more powerful. Taking quick, shallow breaths, Vixen tried to keep her last meal exactly where she had put it.

“Gather up the discarded bandages and take them out to the fire,” the woman instructed her. “When you’re done with that, come and find me for more tasks.”

“Aye,” Vixen said.

Six days did Vixen tend the wounded; quietly and without protest or complaint, she did all that Nurse Pritchard’s bid. The plump woman was a harsh taskmaster, but Vixen, having grown up on a pirate vessel, had experienced worse in her youth. After the fourth day, a grudging respect blossomed between the two women. It wasn’t admiration, but at least it wasn’t hatred. In fact, the only thing the former buccaneer captain found distasteful was her new garb.

Gone were her breeches and boots, replaced by the white gown of a nurse. The hem fell to her ankles, and she hadn’t been permitted to wear arms. The very idea of being without weapons after many a year made her feel like she was naked, vulnerable and demeaned. She felt underdressed, and this soured her mood. Tomboys rarely take to girly clothes, and Vixen was no exception to that rule. However, when Tom did manage to visit, she found his stares quite exciting and blushed often.

Dawn arrived on her seventh day as a conscript in the military, and it was one of hustle and bustle. The army was breaking camp in an orderly, military fashion. From her position in the wagon toting the injured, Vixen scanned the busy figures scrambling around in hopes of spotting her beloved Ginger Tom. However, with so many soldiers dressed in the same uniform, she found she couldn’t spy him out. Worries plagued her mind.

The scuttlebutt around the camp says we’re headed west, Vixen mused. Either we are in pursuit of the Balzacian invaders, or we’re headed to rendezvous with that ship Major Minor mentioned. Either way, it was peaceful here, but now we march toward a possible battle.

It wasn’t impending combat she feared but the lack of her participation; especially keen was the fact she could not fight at Tom’s side. Chewing her nails, she saw the infantry form up into marching order as the drums were struck and the pipes began to blow. Stamping their feet to the rhythm, the ragtag members of the First Battalion, Second Army of the Kingdom of Effingham started down the dirt road with all the pomp and ceremony—also with the deep thumpings and shrill noises of the musicians—worthy of their name. It was a sight to behold, and it wasn’t lost on Vixen.

Personally, I’ve always thought this was a silly way to move about the countryside. The din and racket of the instruments only seem to call out to the opposing forces and let them know you are near. However, I’m sure there’s some tradition, no matter how obscure or silly, behind this practice.

“Well, Vixen, how do you like being in the army?” Doc Cutter rasped from the driver’s seat.

“I be getting used to it,” she replied.

The thin man rarely spoke to her, so she took particular note of his words.

Sitting there with the reins in his hands, the worn-faced man sniffled a bit, which made his long white mustache twitch like it was alive. Long whiskers jutted out past either side of his face and curled upwards in a ridiculous manner. It looked like some strange insect had become stuck under his aristocratic nose. The half-moon glasses perched above seemingly threatened to slide off the end and become tangled in that overly pampered mustache. He wore a slightly bloodstained uniform and captain’s insignia marking his rank upon his lapels. However, he refused to don the tall, peaked captain’s cap, leaving his head bare. The lack of headgear exposed the baldness on the top of his skull for the sun to shine upon. The ring of white hair framing his head fluttered in the breeze.

“Do you know where we are headed, Doctor?” she queried.

“The major told me we are bound to meet up with the supply ship the
Piccadilly,
which is supposed to be anchored in Porkbelly Bay,” the physician stated blandly.

“You seem to have doubts about this.”

“The
Dreadful
, that foul man o’ war of the Balzac Navy, is prowling off the shores and has been sinking everything it comes across. I don’t hold much hope that the poor
Piccadilly
is still afloat. I dare say that poor fluet stands about as much chance against its foe as we do if we run afoul of our Balzacian counterparts. For it carries more provisions than it possesses cannons and is no match for the warship it might face.”
“Are we so ill lardered?”

“I’ve heard we have enough powder and shot for perhaps four volleys before our brave men run dry. It shall be no battle after that, for our foe is well stocked with munitions; it’ll turn into a slaughter ere the din of battle ceases.”

Horror chilled Vixen to the marrow of her bones. The thought of Tom lying dead due to a lack of proper equipment made her eyes well up with tears.

“Fear not, my child,” the doctor stated. “The major has sent scouting parties far along our path to make sure we arrive intact. However, I have found little comfort these past few years in such practices. The last time we did so, we encountered the Seventy-fifth Balzacian Calvary, which reduced us to this state. Oh, we won the battle, but now we’re easy pickings.”

“You do little to quell the fervor in me heart.” She sighed.

“I know you have a sweetheart amongst the men. Fear not from my words, for I am a cynical old man; mayhap it is just my foul mood that makes me dread the future.”

The art of prediction is a rare thing indeed. Often you can deduce the future by carefully observing the luck of those around you. However, since most are no blind seers, their ability to see into the future is as clouded as tea after you pour in your milk. So the next time you get that feeling of dread, don’t concentrate on what you’re so sure it involves.

The Vixen is Brought to Bay!

Again I must skip ahead in my tale, for despite Doctor Cutter’s attempt at divination, the three days it took to march to Porkbelly Bay proved uneventful, stressful but without much to relate to you. Since I abhor boring my audience, I shall move it along.

Now, as for that trio of sunrises and sunsets, it wouldn’t be false to say each passing moment weighed heavily upon our heroine. Hearing the clopping hooves of the wagon’s horses, Vixen felt she was nearing some unfortunate and dire event. By the second day she had discovered a twitch in her right hand. Straying to her waist, she unconsciously sought the hilt of a rapier that hung not by her side. By the time the sea came into view, she was quite nervous to say the least.

“Quit fidgeting, my dear,” Doctor Cutter remarked. “Do you need a tonic to calm your nerves?”

“Nay, I be fine,” she lied.

Porkbelly Bay was so named due to the great amount of pig farms in its vicinity. The stench of porcine pens filtered into the noses of the marching army, and despite what you might think, it made them hungry. With a diet consisting of too little meat and too much potato soup, the sergeants had their hands full keeping the men in order. Despite the youth of the soldiers, this was, after all, an army. Discipline was kept, and a few faces sported swelling bruises as a result.

In the bay, its masts thrusting into the air, was a low-drafted vessel flying the banner of Effingham. Vixen noted it was intact and without the marks of battle. This brought a halt to her imagined fears, and she relaxed just a bit. A narrow dock ran out from the shore and connected to the anchored ship. She could see the vessel’s hands carting and depositing the cargo. However, there was a strange haste to their movements, and this renewed her concerns.

“Well, let’s get down to the docks,” the physician stated. “I need to check the medical supplies carried within the
Piccadilly’s
hold.”

Snapping the reins, he drove the wagon toward the jutting woodwork of the dock.

Now Providence is a fickle thing, often rearing its head at the most inopportune times and appearing to dash our hopes at its slightest whim. However, like many things in life, it truly acts at the proper time. I’ve always thought so; how about you?

Doctor Cutter, Nurse Prichard and Vixen were standing upon the edge of the dock, going through the supplies for the tending of the wounded. Each white-and-red-striped sailor who set down a crate, bag or bundle did so without comment. Our heroine still marked the expressions on their faces. It was clear they were in a great hurry.

“I say, this will go a long way in mending many of our charges,” the thick-waisted nurse commented. “Don’t you think so, Doctor?”

“Aye, that it will,” the mustachioed man said with a grin. “I do say, would you be so kind as to take this bundle of cloth to the wagon…”

“Vixen! M-Milady Vixen!” a thin voice shouted.

Twisting on her heel, she stared daggers at the man who dared to call her by name.

He was emaciated but recognizable. His once fleshy form was reduced to stringy muscle, and the cheeks once painted with rouge now sported an honest tan. But Vixen knew him well—it was Duke Popinjay’s chamberlain, Gaglard!

“What did you call my assistant?” the physician inquired.

“T-that’s no nurse, it’s that bloody-handed pirate, Milady Vixen!” Gaglard retorted.

A great gasp went up as each and every sailor turned toward the retreating woman. A pair of hands gripped her biceps, halting her escape.

“Aye, I’d know that trollop anywhere!” her accuser shouted. “I might not have seen her for ten years, but I’ll never forget that brown face as she led my lord down to the docks and dumped him into the sea before sailing away. Oh, my poor Duke Popinjay. I can extract some vengeance for you at last!”

“I knew there was something about you,” Nurse Prichard hissed behind her. “I am a bit sorry to find my concerns proven true.”

“Let me go!” Vixen snarled.

“I think not,” Gaglard grinned evilly. “This time you shall not escape justice, you pirate bitch!”

Things went decidedly downhill from there, and eventually Vixen found herself clapped in irons, dragged onto the
Piccadilly
and stowed in the brig.

Sitting in the dirty straw in her tiny cell, our heroine wasn’t shocked at all when soldiers led Tom into the cramped quarters and tossed him inside as well. In fact, she would have been quite surprised if he hadn’t arrived. But he did. The two lovers sat there, looking glumly at one another for a few minutes, but in the end the silence was too much to bear.

“Well, I think we be in deep waters without a rudder.” Tom sighed. “This time I suppose we really will dance a hempen jig.”

“Aye, I agree with ye,” Vixen grumbled. “Least our accommodations be closer this time around.”

Now it is said Fate is rarely kind but always on time. There are all sorts of nifty expressions to support this, but I prefer if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. However, if you have a friend with some rum, then now you’ve got something! Apparently Vixen saw life the same way I do.

“How did they figure ye out?” he asked.

“That bilge rat who used to be the chamberlain for Lord Popinjay has been reduced to a common sailor; he spotted me and ratted me out,” she answered.

“Ah, well, our fates be fixed for certain.”

“Avast ye! Do ye hear something? I be thinking this here vessel be putting out to sea.”

“Aye, that be the sound of the anchor rising.”

Tom reached out and held Vixen’s manacled hands in his own; the gesture wasn’t lost on the pirate captain.

“I prefer this to dying without you by me side,” he softly stated. “Too many ill nights’ sleep had I with the thought of catching a stray shot and not seeing your face ere I die.”

“I must admit I was of a like mind,” she replied. “I feared your body to be brought to the doctor’s tent, but too late for good-byes.”

Leaning forward, Tom kissed Vixen deeply, and then the two lovers placed their foreheads against one another’s. Kisses resumed, and soon more important thoughts moved to the forefront of their minds as they began the tender preliminaries to making love. That was when the first screams of the sailors put a stop to their mutual affection.

Don’t you hate being interrupted like that? Yeah, me too.

The two pirates broke apart as something burst through the hull of the ship, sending splinters flying into their flesh. Dribbling blood from a half-dozen cuts, Vixen rose to her feet; her language was anything but delicate.