I’m perhaps halfway through the first draft of A Baron for Becky, which is proving to be a short novel rather than a novella. Once the first draft is done, I’ll firm up the publication date and put up a preorder. Meanwhile, I’ve been playing with the cover.
I’ve experimented with colour and text weight, and moved the tagline away from the image’s neck, but otherwise they’re all the same. I’d welcome your thoughts.
Aldridge never did find out how he came to be naked, alone, and sleeping in the small summerhouse in the garden of a country cottage. His last memory of the night before had him twenty miles away, and — although not dressed — in a comfortable bed, and in company.
The first time he woke, he had no idea how far he’d come, but the moonlight was bright enough to show him half trellised window openings, and an archway leading down a short flight of steps into a garden. A house loomed a few hundred feet away, a dark shape against the star bright sky. But getting up seemed like too much trouble, particularly with a headache that seemed to hang inches above him, threatening to split his head if he moved. The cushioned bench on which he lay invited him to shut his eyes and go back to sleep. Time enough to find out where he was in the morning.
When he woke again he was facing away from the archway entrance, and there was someone behind him. Silence now, but in his memory the sound of light footsteps shifting the stones on the path outside, followed by twin intakes of breath as the walkers saw him.
One of them spoke; a woman’s voice, but low—almost husky. “Sarah, go back to the first rose bush and watch the house.”
“Yes, mama.” A child’s voice.
Aldridge waited until he heard her dance lightly down the steps and away along the path, then shifted his weight slightly so that his pelvis flattened, dragging the rest of his torso over till he was lying on his back.
He waited for the exclamation of shock, but none came. Carefully— he wanted to observe her before he let her know he was awake, and anyway, any sudden movement might start up the hammers above his eye sockets—he cracked open his lids enough so that he could see through his lashes.
He could see more than he expected. The woman had a shuttered lantern that she was using to examine him, starting at his feet, pausing so long when she reached his morning salute that it grew even prouder, then sweeping up his torso so quickly he barely had time to slam his lids shut before the light reached and lingered over his face.
She’d been just a vague shadow behind the light, but the smell that reached him spoke of young woman. He held himself still while she completed her examination, which she did with a snort of disgust. Not the reaction he was accustomed to.
“Now what do we do,” she muttered. “Perhaps if Sarah and I…? I’ll have to cover him. What on earth is he doing here? And like that? Not that it matters. Unless he is something to do with Perry? Or the men Perry said would come?” Her voice was rising a little and becoming more shrill as she grew agitated. “Stop it, Becky.” She took a deep calming breath. “Stay calm. You must think.”
For all her efforts, there was an edge of panic in her voice. Aldridge risked opening his eyes a mere slit, and was rewarded by a better look at the woman as she paced up and down the summerhouse in the light of the lantern she’d placed on one of the window ledges.
Spectacular. That was the only appropriate word. Hair that looked black in the poor light but was probably dark brown, porcelain skin currently flushed pink with her agitation, a heart-shaped face, cornflower blue eyes under perfectly curved brows, and a perfect cupid’s bow of a mouth, the lower lip—which she was currently chewing—larger than the upper.
The redingote she wore was fitted to a shape of amazing promise, as far as he could see as the shawl over her shoulders swung with her movements. Even more blood surged to his ever-hopeful member. “Down, boy,” he told it, silently.
“Mama?” That was the little girl, returning down the path. “Mama, I can hear horses.”
The woman froze, every line of her screaming alarm.
Aldridge could hear them now, coming closer through the rustling noises of the night; the quiet clop of walking horses, the riders exchanged a word or two, then nothing. They must have stopped on the other side of the house.
“Sarah.” The woman’s voice, pitched to carry only as far as her daughter’s ears, retreated as she crossed the summerhouse. “Sarah, we must go quickly.”
“But Mama! The escape baskets!” the girl protested.
“I do not dare wake the man, my love. He might stop us.”
Aldridge responded to the fear in her voice. “I won’t stop you. I’m not a danger to you.” As he spoke, he swung himself upright, wincing as the headache closed its vices around his skull. Though he screwed his eyes with the pain, he kept them open enough to watch the woman, turned to a statue by his voice, her hand on the framework of the arched entrance as if without that support she would fall.
“Mama?” The girl’s fearful voice freed the woman from her freeze, and she moved to block the child’s sight of him. “Sarah. Watch the house. Do not turn around until I say.”
Eyes wide open, he could confirm his initial assessment as she spun to face him. Spectacular. Then she shone the lantern straight on him, and he flinched from the light. “Not in my eyes, please. I have such a head.”
She made that same disgusted sound again, then stripped the shawl from her shoulders and tossed it to him, taking care to stay out of arms’ reach.
“Please cover yourself, sir.”
I’m working on a cover for July’s release. I need to do some more work to make the text pop, but what do you think of this one?
This is an excerpt from the novel (or possibly long novella) I’m writing for release in late July. This story grew out of the adventures that the Marquess of Aldridge had at the Bluestocking Belles inn. Catherine Curzon and I wrote a long chase, a mixed courtship and negotiation, between my Aldridge and her 18th Century Mrs Angel. They could meet only in the timeless world of the inn, but they inspired this novel.
Mrs Darling is by no means Mrs Angel. She is an altogether more naive and vulnerable creature. But Aldridge continues to be Aldridge, and has no idea of the Pandora’s Box he is opening when he conceives a retirement plan for his mistress of three years.
What follows is not Aldridge’s story. But it is Becky’s, and it is Hugh’s.
This excerpt comes near the beginning of Becky’s story, when she and Aldridge are still negotiating.
After an anxious start to the visit, Becky decided to take it as a holiday. The Marquess of Aldridge left to ransom her and Sarah from the man Perry owed money to. At her insistence, he’d taken her few good pieces of jewellery—far fewer than she’d hoped. Next time, she would have any presents checked by a jeweller!
The press of Aldridge’s hands, and the warmth in his eyes when he made his farewells, gave her hope that he might be her next time.
Meanwhile, the Earl and Countess of Chirbury treated her like a guest, and Sarah was in heaven in the upstairs nursery, with the Countess’s daughter and sister, both of whom welcomed a new playmate. For a few days, she could pretend to a life far further up the ranks of the gentry than she would ever have achieved, even if she hadn’t fallen before her sixteenth birthday.
Aldridge returned triumphant.
“Smite agreed,” he told her, catching her alone in the rose garden where two or three late roses clung to the last remnants of their blooms. He sat down beside her on the stone seat, taking up the centre so that she had to lean against the curved arm to keep some distance between them. “You and Sarah are free.”
“How can we thank you?” she said.
“I’m sure we can think of something,” he replied, leaning into her so she could feel his strength, but not his weight, his warmth sparking a responding heat. His complacent assumption, after five days of being treated like a lady, sparked a contrary impulse to deny him, at least for the moment.
She slid sideways off the bench and stood, focusing on smoothing her skirts as she said, “Perhaps you would accept a few pounds a quarter until the debt is repaid?”
“I would accept a kiss on account,” he said.
“Certainly,” she replied. “Sarah would be delighted to give you a kiss. You are quite her hero.”
The moment she spoke she wanted to take it back. She didn’t want to lose him, after all. But no, he was grinning at her, his head cocked to one side and a light in his eyes that said she had his interest. Ahah. The man enjoyed the pursuit. Well then, Becky would lead him on a right merry chase.
“If you will excuse me, my lord, I promised to help the countess with her knitting.”
She dropped a curtsey and made her escape before he could think of a smart response.
He was waiting for her in the hall outside the countess’s sitting room an hour later.
“I had in mind something more personal than soulless pounds,” he said, without preamble.
“Perhaps I could bake you a cake,” she suggested.
“Certainly what I have in mind involves tasting,” he answered smoothly. “Some licking, undoubtedly. Perhaps a little gentle biting.”
Goodness, it was hot for October.
“A single meal, my lord?”
“Once would not be enough, dear Mrs Darling. Do you not agree?”
If she was not very careful, she would agree to anything he said. “An arrangement, then.”
“Certainly, an arrangement.” He took her hand as he walked beside her, and placed a single chaste kiss on a fingertip before sucking the whole finger into his mouth in a far from chaste gesture.
“Do you garden, my lord?” Her voice was unsteady.
“Garden? No, I don’t garden.”
“I had a garden at Niddberrow. I thought the cottage was mine, you see. Perringworth promised me a house.”
“A woman should have her own house,” Aldridge agreed. “But a woman like you deserves a townhouse in London rather than a cottage in the country.”
“London is so large, though. If I lived in London, would I not need a carriage?”
“A phaeton perhaps, that you could drive in Hyde Park during the promenading hour,” Aldridge suggested.
“It does sound lovely,” she said, but lost what she was going to say next as he whisked her into a curtained alcove and proceeded to kiss her so thoroughly that she almost forgot her campaign plan.
He let Becky go, though, when she pulled back.
“Something on account?” she teased.
“A promise of things to come,” Aldridge said.
“Perhaps.” She peeked cautiously around the curtain and then hurried away down the silent hall.
Aldridge next approached her after dinner, sitting on the other side of the love seat she had deliberately chosen in a shadowed corner of the great parlour, out of the direct view of the earl, who was playing the pianoforte, and the countess, who was turning the pages for him.
“I love that dark blue on you, Mrs D,” he said.
She blushed. Her lovers had seldom bothered to compliment her to her face, though extravagant and excruciatingly bad poetry had been written to the Rose of Frampton by those who didn’t have her in their keeping.
“It needs something else, though,” Aldridge commented. He pulled out a tissue-wrapped package. “This is a nothing. Not the diamonds and sapphires I thought of buying. But when I saw it was just the colour of your eyes, I had to have it.”
‘This’ was a shawl in patterns of blue, so fine that it was small enough when rolled to fit into his jacket pocket, but large enough to wrap warmly around her shoulders. She jumped up to examine it in the mirror, and he followed her, standing inches away, but leaning forward to breathe on her ear as he said, “Exquisite.”
“Something on account?” she asked again.
“Not this time. A present, given freely, with no expectation of reward. Because I admire you, lovely Rose.”
She had to remind herself of every rumour she had heard about the man. And even then, if she hadn’t heard him working his charm on Smite’s men, she might have unravelled as he clearly expected. No wonder he had left such a string of broken hearts behind him.
“And in return,” she told him, “I freely give you my thanks, my lord.”
It was worth it to see the moment’s stunned amazement before the amused look reappeared. “Well played, Mrs D.,” he murmured, just before Lady Chirbury called her to the pianoforte.
In the 1880s, the geothermal area of Rotorua was home of New Zealand’s first thriving tourist trade. People came from all over the world to see the famous Pink and White Terraces. Formed over thousands of years, they comprised two staircases of terraces and terraced pools cascading down from two large geysers that sent silica-laden water down the hills at the end of Lake Rotomahana.
Hotels sprung up to hold the tourists, and the local Maori people cornered the guide and transportation business, escorting parties on the walk to Lake Tarawera, shipping them by whale boat to the other side of the lake, then escorting them on foot over the hill on the final 1 kilometre to the terraces.
In June 1886, aurges in the water caused some concern, but people ignored the warnings of the local tohunga (wise man), who said that his people were becoming too fond of the tourist dollars and were upsetting the ancestors.
Then travellers on the lake saw a war canoe – and none had travelled the lake in many years. Many saw it appear, come towards them, and then vanish.
Eleven days later, people in the nearby village of Te Wairoa were woken by a series of increasingly powerful earthquakes. By 2.30, craters the length of the mountain were venting scoria and ash, mud and steam, along a 17 kilometre rift.
As wet mud began to fall, many buildings where people had taken shelter began to collapse in the six villages around the lake. By morning, upwards of 100 people had died, though many had survived in the stronger buildings in Te Wairoa.
New Zealand’s first tourism operation had gone down in flames.
Someone I know is publishing a collection of first kisses. I love the idea, so here are a few of mine!
“I think your brandy may be ready to drink.”
Anne started to lift it to her mouth.
“No. Wait,” Rede said. “Swirl, sniff, and then sip. Here, let me show you.” He leaned forward and cupped his hand around the glass over hers.
“Swirl.” He moved her hand gently in a small, tight circle.
“Sniff.” He held the glass several inches from her nose and again swirled it slightly, then shifted it closer.
“Now sip. Just a small amount, slowly. Let it slide over your tongue.”
Anne followed his directions, not taking her eyes off Rede. This time, the brandy seemed a lot smoother. The flavour filled her mouth, the fiery liquid warmed her throat.
Rede had not removed his hands, and now he leaned forward still further, his eyes holding her motionless.
He came closer and closer, slowly. He would stop if she protested. She should protest. She would not.
The first brush of his lips on hers was brief, and light as a feather. He drew back enough to look into her eyes, then leaned in again. This time, his lips landed and stayed, moulding to the shape of her mouth. After a moment, he began to move, cruising along her upper lip with tiny pecks and then along the lower. He settled again, this time his mouth slightly open. Was that his tongue, sliding along her lips? How odd. How… pleasant.
She opened her own lips, and was rewarded with a hum of approval before he dipped his tongue into her mouth. Tentatively she touched his tongue with her own, which sent a tingle down through her breasts to her belly.
He hummed again, this time almost a moan.
So he liked that, did he? She began to copy, doing to him what he was doing to her. At some level, she was conscious that he had removed the brandy glass from her hands and set it to one side. With that out of the way, he came to his knees before her chair, and she found herself widening her legs so that he could press up against her.
She was aflame with sensation, barely aware of all the ways he was touching her; his hand on the curve of her waist, pulling her into his body; his lips, teeth and tongue teasing and tasting. His other hand had somehow found its way inside her robe, and was lightly stroking its way up her breast, ever closer and closer to the nipple, which had pebbled so hard it was almost painful.
And then she pressed her sweet lips to his and he was lost. With a groan he enfolded her in his arms, slid his hands up behind her head, and deepened the kiss.
It could have been a minute; it could have been months. Time ceased to exist as he explored her mouth and she followed his lead. Her tentative movements, bold and shy at the same time, intoxicated him and he was conscious of nothing but the burning need to sink into her softness. Until a piece of gravel on the path turned as he shifted his knee, and dug into his skin.
He drew away from her with a groan.
Had he done that? Her lips were swollen and red, a sleeve was pulled down baring her shoulder, and one glorious breast was nearly tipped out of her dress. Another nudge, and he’d see…
He blinked, and shook the idea out of his head. “Min, my own dearest love.” He had to be calm. She looked as dazed as he felt. Probably more so, given her innocence. If his world was shaken, hers must be reeling.
“I would help you put yourself to rights, beloved. But I don’t dare touch you.”
She straightened her dress, repinned the lace cap she wore in her hair, rewrapped her shawl around her, all the while sneaking peeks at him and colouring each time their eyes met.
Before they left the succession house, he put a finger on her now clothed arm.
“Min, will you accept my apology, beloved? I meant no disrespect, I promise you. I should never have kissed you. I know how powerfully I react when we touch.”
To his surprise, she suddenly grinned. “Ah but Ran, you forget. I kissed you first.”
“Prue?” He lifted on hand to gently stroke the side of her face, his own eyes suddenly unguarded. She responded to the concern and, yes, the yearning, leaning towards him as he moved to meet her lips with her own.
She had come home. Except for that one night five months ago, Prue had been a stranger, an outsider, living hidden in the margins all her life, but here in David’s arms she was known; she belonged.
For a long moment, she let herself revel in the feeling, but she knew it wasn’t true. She had no home. She had to remember that if David knew all, he would reject her. But — as he shifted himself closer to her chair to deepen the kiss — at least she had been wrong about his indifference to her. This close to him, she couldn’t doubt that he wanted her physically.
He was the first to draw back.
“Prue.” Just her name, but with a wealth of longing in it.
Her defences down, she spoke what she thought, “Not just friends, David,” and was rewarded by the flare in his eyes.
“Friends… and lovers too?” His voice was tentative, as if he expected to be rebuffed.
She reached for him, answering his question with a kiss, stopping only when the turnkey knocked.
David crossed the room to the door before saying, “Enter!”
Today, I welcome Jessica Cale to the blog. Jessica is the author of Tyburn and her new release, Virtue’s Lady (see below the article). She describes herself as a recovering journalist with rather a lot of Nick Cave records writing historical romances out of a grey bedroom in North Carolina.
Sex can be a tricky topic in historical fiction because I think there are a lot of assumptions made about it that aren’t necessarily based on reality. There’s a tendency to believe that people were either better at abstaining or had enormous families, but the belief that the past was inherently more virtuous than the present is problematic. The truth is that people weren’t more sexually repressed or guided by some divine will power, but that the specifics of sex in history are too often neglected in history books because it’s seen as irrelevant, sensational, or controversial.
One of the things that surprises people the most about sex in history is that contraception existed before the twentieth century. Condoms had existed since prehistory as evidenced by a 12,000 year old cave painting of the first condom in the Grotte de Combarelle in France, and the Egyptians had spermicidal pessaries and reliable urine-based pregnancy tests thousands of years ago. Sylphium, a sort of giant fennel, was such an effective contraceptive that the ancient world farmed it to extinction within 6,000 years. Condoms came into their own during the Renaissance when they began to take on a form we would recognize today, and Casanova himself recommended them to put ladies’ minds at ease regarding unexpected pregnancy. Condoms were regularly used from that point onward to prevent sexually transmitted disease, especially the epidemic of syphilis that returned to Europe with Columbus from the Americas. The withdrawal method was used, as well, and if that failed, there were a number of herbal mixtures that served as potent abortifacients, the recipes having been passed down through the generations with the earliest known ones coming from Ancient Egypt.
Another misconception is that people wanted to have lots of children. During the Restoration, as many as three in four children didn’t live to see their sixth birthday. Miscarriage, abandonment, and even infanticide were tragically common, as sanitation standards were abysmal and the poor couldn’t afford to have larger families. Furthermore, childbirth was the most common cause of death for women, with almost fifty percent of the female population losing their lives as a direct result of it. For common people, children were as much a burden as a blessing. The average age of marriage for men was between twenty-seven and twenty-eight, and for women it was between twenty-five and twenty-seven, so family sized tended to be naturally smaller, as well.
It might also surprise you to learn that seventeenth century couples commonly cohabited before they married, sometimes for years, and virginity was not so carefully guarded a prize as it was for the upper classes that required it to ensure succession and inheritance. Women (and sometimes even men) commonly worked as prostitutes, and sometimes only for a short period of time to get ahead before they ultimately settled down or opened a business for themselves. Marriage for the poor could still take place with nothing more than a declaration and a witness.
Interestingly enough, lesbians existed and were tolerated or accepted in Britain over the last few centuries. There wasn’t always a term for it, but girls being unusually close was fairly common and even seen as innocent. What harm could come from a union that couldn’t result in pregnancy? There were even a few cases in the nineteenth century where women were allowed to marry, provided one of them presented herself as a man and attempted to serve the same role in society, which was seen by some as being more valuable and honorable than continuing to live as a woman.
The idea of the past being a time of virginity, strict heterosexuality, and repression is based on nostalgic nonsense. Sure, if your heroine’s life is riding on making a good marriage, she might be sheltered and totally inexperienced, but for the majority of the population, that just wouldn’t have been the case.
To wrap up, I’d like to leave you with a fun fact I’ve learned just this week. From at least the middle ages up until the nineteenth century, the female orgasm was believed to be necessary for conception, so the men of the past not only knew what it was, but they were good at making it happen. So much for sex in history being stuffy!
Virtue’s LadyLady Jane Ramsey is young, beautiful, and ruined.
After being rescued from her kidnapping by a handsome highwayman, she returns home only to find her marriage prospects drastically reduced. Her father expects her to marry the repulsive Lord Lewes, but Jane has other plans. All she can think about is her highwayman, and she is determined to find him again.
Mark Virtue is furious when Jane arrives in Southwark. In spite of his growing feelings for her, he knows that the crime-ridden slum is no place for a lady. Jane must set aside her lessons to learn a new set of rules if she is survive and to prove to Mark—and to herself—that there’s more to her than meets the eye.
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Today is Anzac Day. Today, New Zealand and Australia pause to remember those who fought and those who fell in service to their country. Anzac is an acronym from Australian and New Zealand Army Corps, the name given to the expeditionary force formed in Egypt in 1915 to fight in World War I.
Anzac Day has become a time for us to remember those — both in uniform and as civilians — who served in any of the armed conflicts in which Australia or New Zealand has been involved. But today is special. Today is 100 years to the day from the first landings on the beach at Gallipoli, in what is now called Anzac Cove.
As I type this, it is 6am in New Zealand and around the country people of all ages are attending dawn ceremonies. This is the crowd at Wellington, in the newly opened Memorial Park.
Here’s what it was like 100 years ago, in the words of someone who was there (George Bollinger, who kept a detailed diary).
Sunday 25th April The day is beautifully fine. We are steaming full speed, close to the southern shores of Gallipoli. What a day of days! We left Lemnos at 6.00 am and continuously from 8.00 am we have moved amongst a roar of thunder. At present we are within a very few miles of our warships and transports, which are stationary here. What a sight! Their big guns never cease, and as we see the flash and burst of the shells on land, we think thousands of Turks must be going under. Has ever a bombardment like this taken place before? Our men are very calm, and some are even lying about reading and taking no notice of the bombardment. Boom, boom, boom. It never ceases. What batteries could reply to these 15 inch mouths of destruction.
Monday 26th April 3.15 am. ‘Packs on’ was roared out. Torpedo destroyers are alongside to take us ashore. 9.40 am. On shore in the thick of it. The first casualty in our company was in my section. Just before dawn we were on the destroyers waiting for surf boats to take us ashore. Stray bullets were landing around us and suddenly Private Tohill who was standing just in front of me dropped with a bullet through his shoulder. Immediately after, Private Swayne was shot in the forehead. It was a relief to get ashore. The Australians were frightfully cut about effecting a landing yesterday. They say there are at least 6000 casualties. They did heroic work and the whole world will know of it. We are in a gully immediately behind the firing line and will be called in to relieve at any moment. Two New Zealand battalions were in last night and got cut about. The Turks have overwhelming numbers and it is a perfect wonder how the Australians captured these heights. In landing as many as 49 were killed in one boat and a whole regiment was practically wiped out. The din and roar and whistle of the missiles is awful. As we sit here the ambulance are passing with wounded on the stretchers. 5.00 pm. We climbed heights to take our place in reserve, to firing line. We are right in the fire zone and saw some awful sights.
Tuesday 27th April At daylight this morning a terrific artillery duel raged. The Turks put hundreds of shells onto our landing place. At 10.00 am we were marched north along the beach, and as we got under heights we met crowds of wounded coming down. Oh how callous one gets. Word rushed down from above for Hawkes Bay and Wellington-West Coast Companies to reinforce at the double, as our fellows were getting massacred. We threw off packs and forgot everything in that climb up the cliffs. We fixed bayonets on reaching top and got into it. The country is terribly hilly and covered with scrub from four to five feet high. On we rushed against a rain of bullets and our men began to drop over, before they fired a shot. We started to get mixed and were everywhere amongst the Australians. Our men were dropping in hundreds.
Wednesday 28th April We were relieved about 8 o’clock. Mostly our nerves were gone.We retired back and tried to rest: our casualties were very heavy. We manned the trenches again at 6 o’clock. No sleep and nothing to eat, just a craving for drink, and the wounded always empty our bottles. The Turkish trenches are now on a ridge about 200 yards away. Our warships are shelling them, but unfortunately have also accounted for a number of our casualties.
We have been told many times that Australia and New Zealand learned to be countries, rather than simply colonies of Mother England, on the beaches of Gallipoli. That hell was, in some ways at least, the birthplace of our nations, and the beginning of our shared heritage.
They shall grow not old, as we that are left grow old:
Age shall not weary them, nor the years condemn.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We will remember them.
One of the made-to-order stories I gave away last month needed a bit of research. The winner asked for a buccaneer. So what, I wondered, was the difference between a pirate, a buccaneer, a corsair, a privateer, or any other ship-going bandit?
Pirates, I found, were fundamentally outlaws. ‘Thieves with ships’ one website I found called them. They ransack towns and capture ships looking for loot and people to sell or hold for ransom. They answer to no-one except their own appointed leaders, and recognise no law outside of themselves. Leaving aside the romantic image from books and movies, they were and are a ruthless lot of men and women, loyal only to one another and a danger to everyone else.
Not that I don’t find something to admire in the way that the pirates of the Caribbean ran a democratic society based on ability, where every man and woman of the crew had a say in how it ran and who should be captain, and a share of the loot. But I’d find it a challenge to make a hero of any of them. It could be fun, mind you, but I’d need a novel, not a short story.
Buccaneers, it turns out, were privateers and pirates in the West Indies in the 17th Century. The word comes from the French boucan, meaning smoked meat. The buccaneers started by selling meat gained from hunting, then found there was more money to be made by attacking towns on behalf of the French and the English, who were at war with Spain at the time.
And corsair is a word the English applied to foreign pirates, particularly Muslim pirates operating out of North Africa. They also applied it to the French and even the Spanish when at war with them, which was most of the time. They intended that as an insult, and it was certainly taken that way. Corsairs were also keen to find loot, but they were particularly interested in capturing slaves. Muslims being forbidden to enslave (or even rob) other Muslims, the corsairs attacked any underprotected European or American ship that strayed into their path, thus combining the religious duty of harrying the infidel with the economic pleasure of making a profit.
Which brings us to privateers. In times of war, governments would issue letters of marque and reprisal — commissions to entrepreneurs with boats. The licence or commission would give the ship the right to attack ships belonging to whoever the country was at war with. In the 1812 war between the United Kingdom and the United States, which is in the background of my short story Kidnapped to Freedom, both countries commissioned privateers. The US had a very small navy but a large merchant fleet, and the UK navy was heavily committed to the war against Napoleon.
The commission specified what they were allowed to do, and any prisoners were treated as prisoners-of-war. But the prize — the ship and the cargo — paid for the enterprise.
All-out privateers often sailed with multiple teams headed by ship masters, who could take over a prize ship and bring it back to port. They were essentially pirates, but with a single focus on their nation’s enemy. They would never dream of attacking a neutral or allied nation’s ships or ports.
Many cargo ships also carried letters of marque authorising them to seize enemy ships. This also made them privateers, but part-time privateers rather than full-time.
When the war was over, those cargo ships would carry on with their usual business. The problem with privateers, though, was that the end of the war destroyed their livelihood, and history records many pirates who began their lives as privateers but branched out at the end of the war they were commissioned for.
I made my short-story’s hero a merchant captain from the Maritime States of Canada, with letters of marque from the United Kingdom. I hope my winner thinks I’ve got close enough to a buccaneer.
I have a pagination problem in my CreateSpace files, so CreateSpace tells me, and it won’t let me download a pdf proof until I fix it. Tonight. I’ll do it tonight when I get home.
Meanwhile, I thought you might like to see the covers of the two stories I wrote as prizes for those who won made-to-order stories from me last month: one at the Bluestocking Belle’s housewarming party, and one at the launch of Farewell to Kindness.
Here’s how I play the made-to-order story game.
The winner gives Jude Knight three characters or objects, and a trope. Jude writes a 2000 word to 5000 word short story any way she likes, but it needs to include the three choices and be an interpretation of the trope. Jude retains copyright (and may use the story later either as it is or amended), but the winner gets a printed copy despatched from CreateSpace within three weeks of giving Jude the specification. (Delivery speed will depend where in the world you happen to be.)
Crystal and Tiffany, Saturday is the three week point, and I’m going to make it!
