Nannie Georgedaughter By George P.S. Peterson

A heart-stopping extract from George P.S. Peterson's 'Nannie Georgedaughter', a tale of the Press Gang days, fiction inspired by fact. First published in 2002.

Extract fae Nannie Georgedaughter, by George P.S. Peterson, noo in Aald Papa, I'm dine!, The Shetland Times Ltd, 2009.

I gae da butter ta da lad.

‘Tanks ta you! I better go noo! Der a lok ta dö! See you agyen!’

He wisna watchin whar he wis gyaan, an richt dere at da very coarner a da hoose he dang in ta da twa lasses.

Baabie an Kaitren wis bön at da Dutch Loch wi a burden each a beddin at da Mistress wis wantin wishen dat day, an dey wir come back for anidder burden. Da lad wis lookin ower his shooder at is whin him an Baabie doosed in ta ane anidder, an Baabie fell till’r lent!

Hit wisna ta bid him win doon ta lift her up. Oh my, he wis da taen aff! Her face wis laek da coll, an shö wis ill plaesed an her een glanced at him laek splinters a shappit gless.

Bit dat wis da first look at shö gae’m. Da neest look wis different! An wi him köllyin aboot her, an bein dat plaesant wi’r, hit cam at shö shön hed her sam göd naeter back, an shö wis laachin an smoothin back her lang hair. Bit Kaitren shö keepit geeglin an skeelkin, an shö couldna get oot a wird for yon upgeen wye at some young anes hes.

An da box a butter wis lyin kummelled apo da brigstanes!

Da boy’s face just fell!

Bit Baabie is quick! Up shö cleeks da box, skuts in da door, sees at da cost is clear, in laek a flash, an oot agyen wi da fill o’m a clean butter!

‘Midder wis ben! Shö’ll never ken! An da hens an da dukes’ll no be lang cleanin up da idder stuff! Hae du! Naebody’ll tell!’

An away he goes, sometimes waakin backlins. Young an athoot care or wirry. Ta ane dat age, life is good.

An Ald Jeems Henry wis still sittin apo da bane stöl, still smokin his cuttie, sittin dere smilin in till’msell in his short grey baerd.

Glig, wis Ald Jeems Henry.

Bit someane did tell aboot da butter. Da Mistress wis in poor humour aboot it. Bit hit wis her ain dochter at wis da understane o’t, an not wan hair cared shö. A happy, licht-herted lass shö wis, happier even more es da simmer wör on, wi a cheerful an canty hert in her boasom, more so every time at young Hunter Johnson wis alang Hamnavoe. An a mony a time him an Baabie waandered tagedder oot alang da Tanga, or back ower ta da Slaggi a Galti Gio.

Bit I could see a ask gadderin, an da mair da simmer wör by, da darker cam da ask, an traetnin, sam as da thunder clood sets up, ready ta brak.

Fir dey wir mair es Baabie at wis interested ata young Hunter, fine kindly fellow at he wis.

An her black een sparkit wi hate an jealousy whinever shö saa da twa tagedder. An though Hunter spak ceevilly till’r, an funned wi’r, hit wis clear at he wis interested in nobody bit Baabie.

So da fishing saeson drave by. Da laverick lost her sang. Da tirrick göd. Da simmer dim wis past, an he wis comin on fir da end a Aagist an da nichts begood ta höm. Da crews sailed for hame. Aa bit ane. Young Hunter baid on at Hamnavoe.

‘We’re hed a good saeson,’ he says. ‘I’ll win hame later. Der aye a boat gyaan fir Burrafirt. An dan I’ll win hame fae dere be fit. I’m gyaan ta bide a peerie start yit.’

An whit a help he wis! He maa’d, an he kwarved, an he coled. A fine strong swack young fellow. Even da Mistress saftened whin he cam in, an shö spak till’m es kindly es ever shö could lat hersell, an shö smiled her rare smile.

An dan da whole world blew up a wir faces.

He wis bön a spael a akwirt wadder, wind an drush back an fore, an a day or twa a sollit doon töm at fillt da ird so at every burn wis runnin. Dan he cam a lovely change, a licht sudderly breeze wi clear blue sky an a leep a haet at du’ll see sometimes a da early hairst.

We wir laid oot a lok a coles ta get a gliss afore we pat dem in till a dess, an we wir bön in for wir denner, an sitten ower lang, blide ta be in oot a da haet a da sun, for hit wis just rostin.

Hit wis Ald Jeems at saa her first. An he cam runnin in - he wis even slippit his staff, poor owld body.

‘Da Press!’ he gasps oot. ‘Da Press frigate is a da voe! Get Hunter oot a here!’

Sure anoff, dere shö wis, lyin starn on wir wye, her grett lang masts juttin up, anchored oot by aff a Koam. Hit wis aal so paecefil, no soond, no guns firin, no men shoutin. Bit here shö wis, da muckle flag a da Breetish navy as big as ony bed spread.

An es we lookit, even in dat short a time, we saa a boat bein laanched, an men climmin doon in till’r, wi no haste an no hurry.

‘For God’s sake, Hunter, come wi me!’ Da swaet stöd oot apo Ald Jeems’ broos. ‘Dis wye!’ he harkit.

Dey wir non dere bit da fower o’s, him an me an Hunter an Baabie. Not a soond did we mak or utter.

Oot in ta da yard we hurried, till a coarn skroo left ower fae last year. Ald Jeems rave oppen some a da shaeves at da steed, an we could see at da skroo wis bön biggit ower a muckle widden box.

‘In wi dee!’ says Ald Jeems just abön his braeth. ‘Wi ony luck dey’ll no bide lang.’

Hunter creeps in an draas up his legs. Ald Jeems shivs back da shaeves.

‘Noo inside wi you, says he, ‘an behave normal. Not a wird or a sign. Der nobody at kens bit is tree.’

Full a dreed an forebodin, me an Baabie made for in efter da ald man.

An I happened ta look ower my shooder. An staandin dere, lookin in ower da yard daek, watchin everything at wis bön takin place, wis Kaitren Hye.

Dey cam ashore. Dey wir in no hurry. Pleasant anoff men. Half a dizzen a dem. Der dey sat, conversin wi Ald Jeems Henry, a da but hoose, muskets an bayonets laid by, ane or twa smokin pipes. Plaesant anoff. Bit watchin. Watchin. An da air wis ready ta spleet. For dey kent whit dey wir efter. An sae did we.

Maet we set afore dem. An dey öt. Mistress spak ceevilly tö. An a hale an hadden oor oagit by. An da sun cam haeter an haeter - oh whit a haet wis dat. Poor Baabie an me we sat an made apo wir socks. Kaitren soopit da flör, an footch ale ta da sailor men, an göd aboot dis an dat, makin beds an so on. Bit nobody pat a fit athoot da door.

Dan Kaitren seein at da fire anunder da ring-a-loadie wis doon till a glöd, shö spak ta me.

‘Nannie, fetch paets, will du?’

Shö haanded me da paetie basket. I sees a ale pig a da boddam o’m. I looks at her, an shö gies me a half a wink, an I kent at shö meent me ta gie dis ale ta poor Hunter, lyin rostin anunder da skroo. I goes ootside, my hert a my mooth. Nobody cam efter me. I laeves da basket a da face a da stack, an watchin aal aroond, I hurries ta da hoidey holl. Not a human ta be seen. I haals awa twartree shaeves. Hunter looks oot. His face wis runnin wi swaet.

‘Oh! Göd just bliss dee, Nannie! I’m shockin!’

I couldna bit watch him drinkin.

An a voice says behint me, ‘Right then! We’ll have him out of there!’

Twa o dem wi der guns wis staandin at my back.

An da rest o dem wis comin oot by da yard.

Hunter creepit oot. An dere he stöd. Wir pritty young man. His face wis as white es a cloot, set an draan, da lock a black hair doon ower his broos, straicht an tall an slim. Wir pritty young man.

An da Press nedder leuch, nor shouted, nor said a wird. Dan him at wis der commander says quietly,

‘Let’s go!’

Dan Baabie cam runnin, an shö fell apo da green, an lay greetin. An Kaitren stöd at her side, lookin doon at her, her face tö mylk white, never sayin a wird. Ald Jeems cam, an whin dey led Hunter doon ta da boat, he roared oot,

‘Slip da boy!’

Dey wirna wan o dem at even lookit back.

Da whole place turned aroond aboot me. My hert bunged a my head. An I knew no more