Kit (4 page)

The countryside receded and the cart turned into Cabra road, and the city proper, down to the Liffey and down the Quay past the wharfs and the Customs House. The passenger among the barrels began to whistle an air, the city bustled about them, and Kit began to feel more cheerful. Perhaps she would find Richard at once, and be back at Kavanagh’s for sundown. Then she felt a pressure on her knee, and her heart plummeted.

She looked down at the cooper’s vast hand, with hairy knuckles and square nails, where it rested on her knee. She looked at the cooper but he kept his eyes steadfastly ahead, fixed upon the road. Carefully, determined not to give offence, she lifted the hand off her leg, heart thudding. Now and again she’d had to deal with wandering hands in the pub, but in the safety of company she would deal with such importunities with sharp words or even a blow. More persistent suitors could be left to Maura’s tongue or Richard’s fists. Here on this cart she was defenceless; but she was less concerned for her honour than for her disguise. Her disguise, the costume she’d been so proud of before the looking glass in her chamber, had lasted all of five minutes. The cooper had seen at once that she was a female. She had failed in her masquerade and she had failed Aunt Maura, who, she was sure, had suggested this disguise expressly so that she could avoid these kinds of attentions.

What had she got wrong? She was fairly tall for a girl, had been exactly the same height as Richard in fact. (It had been something she’d liked, that when they faced each other they stood eye to eye and lip to lip.) Her hair now curled just below her chin, with a heavy fringe across her forehead to mask her long lashes. She’d worn a deliberately baggy shirt, bloused about the chest to disguise her curves, and a jerkin with leather facings to further flatten her down. Breeches, boots and her father’s sword completed the illusion. She’d even rubbed some cinders from the fireplace on her chin, to imitate the ashy morning shadow on Richard’s cheeks before he shaved. And yet the cooper’s hand came back, like a bothersome fly, and settled even higher on her leg. The square fingers began to burrow into her soft inner thigh, creeping ever upwards to her groin, so now she slapped it smartly. ‘Leave me be!’ she spat, but the cooper laughed and the hand went higher still.

She was actually on the point of drawing her sword, when the other passenger leaned over from behind and pulled sharply on the reins.

‘What the devil …?’ exclaimed the cooper.

The horse clattered to a stop, hooves sparking on the cobbles of the wharf.

‘That’s far enough,’ said the passenger; and Kit was never sure, afterwards, whether he was speaking of the cart or the hand. The passenger jumped down, grabbed his pack and handed her out of the cart.

She stood meekly beside him, hanging her head. She’d not even reached her destination and she’d already had to be rescued, like any silly damsel. ‘I meant the lad no harm,’ wheedled the cooper. ‘We’ll call it a penny each, since the journey was short.’

‘You’ll not get a penny from me, nor him,’ declared the passenger shortly. ‘Get on your way, you coney-catcher.’

The burly packman stood his ground, fists on hips; and, given no choice unless he wanted to descend and physically extort the money, the cooper slapped his horse once more and clattered off, cursing.

Kit breathed out for the first time, it seemed, since the hand had settled on her leg. ‘Thank you, sir,’ she said, sure the passenger was going to ask what a maid like her was doing on the road at dawn; or worse, elicit his own particular payment for rescuing her. But he did neither.

‘The harbour’s down that way,’ he said gruffly. ‘Get yourself into decent company, and soon,’ he went on, more kindly. ‘You’re a pretty lad, and there’s many more of his type round the harbour, I’ll be bound.’

Kit turned and walked in the direction he had indicated, trying to make sense of what had happened. The cooper had
not
known she was female, and neither had the kindly passenger. So why had the cooper placed his hand on her leg,
as if she were a maid
? What had he been seeking with that burrowing hand? What had he been hoping for, that a
boy
could give him? And what, by all the saints, was a coney-catcher?

Shaking her head to slough off the nasty little episode, she forced herself to focus on the matter at hand. She took Aunt Maura’s direction from her pocket and read it over
. The sign of the Golden Last. Ensign Herbert Laurence.

Kit wandered the wharf, peering into every higgledy warehouse and down every slipway. At length she came to a fine inn, with ‘The Golden Last’ lettered in gold over the door. A dragoon stood easy at the door, chewing noiselessly. ‘Your pardon, sir.’ Kit made her voice as gruff as she could. ‘Is Mr Herbert Laurence within?’

The dragoon spat a gob of tobacco at her feet. ‘He is,’ he said in a strong Cork accent. ‘He’s beating up for recruits, so take my advice and make your mark at once.’ He leaned close, and she remembered the cooper. ‘For a soldier, he leads a very fine life.’ Kit recognised the phrase at once – a line from her father’s marching song, ‘Arthur McBride’. She felt a chill as the dragoon laughed too loudly. She could see his tobacco-stained teeth, and she took a pace backwards, gulped a deep breath as if about to swim, and entered the house.

Kit found herself in a long oak-panelled assembly room with a pair of doors at one end. She joined the long queue and stood, rehearsing what she would say. The men ahead of her, an assorted bunch of farmers and sailors and foreigners, went in the double doors, and then came out again almost at once. Before long it was her turn – she heard a muffled ‘Come!’ from beyond the doors and entered the inner sanctum.

There sat a sandy-haired officer writing in a fat ledger, with a sergeant at his elbow.

‘Are you Mr Herbert Laurence?’

Sandy-hair nodded without looking up. ‘Name?’ he enquired brusquely.

‘Kit …’ Kit cursed herself – she’d been practising ‘Christian’ all the way down the queue. ‘That is, Christian.’

‘Christian what?’ He had a clipped English accent and a harassed manner.

‘Walsh, sir.’

‘Chris-tian Walsh,’ he repeated, stretching the name out as he wrote it down. Kit thought: my third name in three years – Kit Kavanagh, Kit Walsh, Christian Walsh.

‘Well, Mr Walsh. Welcome to the English Army.’ There was a long silence as he scribbled further. She shifted from one leg to the other, not sure what to do.

‘Is that it?’ Her exclamation slipped out before she could prevent it. Surely enlisting could not be that easy. ‘That is … Will I not need some training?’

Ensign Herbert Laurence was clearly not accustomed to questions. He looked up for the first time, and laughed, not pleasantly. ‘They will keep sending these fucking bogtrotters, Mr Coley,’ he remarked to his deputy. Then, to Kit: ‘How many legs have you?’

Kit was bemused. ‘Two.’

‘Arms?’

‘The same.’

‘And eyes in your head?’

‘Two, sir.’

‘The full complement of fingers and toes?’

‘Ten of each.’

‘Got your own sword?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I commend you,’ said Sandy-hair. ‘You’ve just passed your basic training.’ The ensign nodded to his deputy, who sprang forward with a little leather bag.

‘Here’s your guinea pay, and a shilling from the queen.’ A coin was pressed into her palm, the twin of the one she’d found in Richard’s tankard a month ago. ‘Mr Coley, a drink for our new recruit. I give you Queen Anne.’

Kit was handed a jorum of rum, which she could see, with her practised eye, was half-measures. No one else had a drink – seemingly she was to toast alone. ‘Queen Anne,’ she repeated, and downed the tot in one. A line of fire ran down from her throat to pool and burn in her belly. She felt a little better.

‘You now have the honour to be enrolled in the regiment commanded by the Marquis de Pisare. The lieutenant of your company is Mr Gardiner, your ensign Mr Walsh.’

‘Mr
Walsh
?’

‘Yes, boy. Walsh. I should’ve asked you how many ears you had. Report to Mr Walsh on the dock. He’ll give you your orders.’

Herbert Laurence had clearly had so many men under his pen that day that it didn’t occur to him that Ensign Walsh was her namesake. But Kit didn’t care. The name was the sweetest music to her ears. Mr Walsh! Richard was
here
, he had
not
been shipped to the ends of the earth; someone had recognised his talents, and he had been made a recruiting officer right here in Dublin! She could have kissed Herbert Laurence, and when he indicated the door with his quill, she fled gratefully. By the time the next recruit entered, the ensign’s eyes were again on his pages, and it occurred to Kit that Laurence must have recruited dozens of men to the queen’s service that day without once seeing their faces.

‘Arthur McBride’ would not leave Kit’s head, but now she was so near the end of her quest she sang the air quite cheerfully under her breath. She boldly asked everyone she saw for Mr Walsh, and followed pointing hands to the waterfront. Now that her reunion with Richard was at hand, her colour mounted and her palms began to sweat. Could she embrace him at once, if he was so busily employed? What would he think of her hair? Why hadn’t he written if he was but an hour from Kavanagh’s door? Tugging nervously at her blunt locks she spied a red coat and a tumble of brown hair below a tricorn. She knew just how she would greet him.

‘Mr Walsh?’ said she, lowering her voice, trying to keep the joyous laughter out of it.

He turned.

It wasn’t he, but a man much older. He shared Richard’s height and colouring but that was all. Winds and weather had chased the youth from him; wrinkles were etched on his face like scrimshaw, and his teeth were broken and discoloured. Her disappointment was so keen that she could not, for a moment, speak.

‘Well, boy?’

‘If it please you, sir,’ she whispered, ‘I am newly recruited.’

‘Christ, they just keep getting younger.’ An Irish accent this time; harassed, but friendly.

‘What’s your name?’ He riffled through a sheaf of papers, licked his pencil.

‘Walsh.’

He looked at her keenly. ‘Of the Kerry Walshes?’

She had the spark of an idea. ‘The very same, sir,’ she lied. ‘In fact, I am seeking a kinsman of ours: Richard Walsh. He came through here about a month ago.’

‘Walsh.’ The ensign tapped his teeth with his pencil. ‘Yes – I remember him. Pressed, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes!’ She nodded keenly, her heart thudding.

‘Wait a moment.’ He looked through his sheaf of papers, turning back and back through reams of names. Stopped. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘he joined Captain Tichborne’s regiment of foot, and sailed a month past. Why?’

Sailed a month ago.
‘I need to contact him. A … about a bequest. His Uncle … Padraic died and left him some money.’

The ensign snorted. ‘Lucky fellow. Nothing for me, I suppose?’

In time, she recognised a jest. ‘Could I get a message to him?’

‘Whatever it is, you can tell him yourself; for we’re sailing to join Tichborne’s regiment tomorrow.’ He produced another paper, businesslike once more. ‘Use the day to get yourself the things on this list. There will be time enough – you seem a clever brisk young fellow. Collect your uniform from the tent yonder. Find yourself lodgings for the night. Report here at dawn. We sail with the tide.’

It was all said and done with such dispatch that Kit’s head began to spin. She latched on to the most pertinent problem to steady herself. ‘Please, sir, where might I find a room?’

‘Good God, I don’t know, boy. I’m not your mother.’ She looked so crestfallen that he relented. ‘Try the Red Lion in the Liberties.’

Kit turned back towards town, and it didn’t occur to her till much later that she hadn’t even asked where they were sailing to. It did not matter; Richard was there; so she would go there too.

She collected her uniform in the flimsy canvas tent, flapping and ragging in the keen wind from the Liffey. The army tailor took one practised look at her and handed her a bale of heavy red clothes and a pair of boots which looked distinctly second-hand. She had no great hopes of them fitting well, for she was dismissed almost before she could take hold of her garments.

Her spirits were much depressed by her encounter with the wrong Mr Walsh, and she could only hope that after tomorrow’s voyage she would soon be in the arms of the right one. As she headed to the Liberties her natural optimism began to surface.

She had been to the Liberties before – a lively ward of Dublin which was exempt from the city’s laws. She had come to buy hops with Maura, but always in the company of Richard or one of the potmen, employed to keep the ladies safe, with a stout shillelagh on the floor of the cart just in case. Now alone, she felt vulnerable and intrigued in equal measure. Hawkers sold everything from pies to parakeets, and painted polls lolled from the doorways, greeting her with warm smiles and cold eyes. In the market she bought three Holland shirts, a silver dagger and some stout underwear. She ate a pasty and wolfed it down where she stood, for she had not eaten all day, and besides she could carry no more with her, except one more tiny item – she bought needle and thread from the haberdasher’s, smiling secretly at the look of surprise on the stallholder’s face that a brisk young fellow such as she should have need of such womanish things. Laden with purchases and the heavy uniform, she found the Red Lion in a crowded mews just as the sun was dipping down. The lion on the sign looked just like the one on Kavanagh’s and Kit chose to see this as a good omen. She shoved her way through a crowd of drinkers to the bar and called to the barkeep. She could barely make herself heard above the hubbub but he had the measure of her at once. ‘A bed for tonight? Sailing tomorrow?’

She nodded.

‘Cheapest to sleep in with the other lads, six to a chamber. Halfpence for a hammock, penny for a mattress.’

This would not do – she needed privacy. ‘I’ll have a room to myself,’ she shouted. ‘If there is one.’

He shrugged. ‘That’ll be a shilling.’

She paid over the Queen Anne coin.