Free Kit by Marina Fiorato Page B

recognised the symbol from the ship – the first sign she’d seen of Genova.
    Kit followed the dozen down to the shingle, and saw ahead, standing on the promontory, a tall figure, entirely in shadow against the bright background. He had one foot on a rock, a hand on his knee, and was shielding his eyes to look out to sea. A tall ship grazed the horizon, and Kit wondered whether the figure watched The Truth and Daylight , forging a path home to Dublin. The sun sparkled on the water and as the small band approached the figure turned and stood at attention while the dozen formed a semicircle around him. He was clearly not the captain they sought, for he was no older than Richard; but while he waited for them to order themselves she had a little time to study him: this then, was a dragoon.
    He was immaculate from crown to toe; an ideal soldier. His appearance put the shabby dozen to shame. You may aspire to be me , he seemed to say, you may become like me in time, if you work hard. He was at least a head taller than any of them; broad of shoulder and lean of hip. He had glossy black hair, brushed forward over his forehead and above his ears in the latest style, but his eyes were such a bright blue in contrast to the blackness of his hair that Kit thought at once that he must be Irish. His uniform fitted him like a skin and was pristine; he wore a red coat with a dozen buttons of sparkling gilt. His jacket had royal blue facings and the peeping cuffs and collars of his shirt were starched and bright. His breeches, tightly fitted, tucked into long black riding boots as polished as any dandy’s and one arm cradled a beautifully brushed tricorn with white piping and the badge of the dragoons.
    This vision looked them up and down with a sardonic twist of his handsome mouth. ‘Dear God,’ he said. ‘You all stink like a Monday fish market.’ Then, before Kit realised what was happening, he calmly went down the line and pushed them in turn off the promontory into the sea.
    Despite the heat of the day the first cold douse was a shock, followed by a moment of sheer childish pleasure at being immersed in the water; but the heavy felting of the uniform and the pad of silver coins about her waist and the silver prick in her breeches dragged her down. Striking desperately for the surface, she could not rise an inch. Lungs bursting, she heard a swish and roar, saw a dark plunge and a forest of bubbles, and then was taken beneath the arms and heaved skywards. Her head broke the surface and she gulped a lungful of air. She was in the arms of the smart dragoon, who was now looking considerably less groomed, his black hair plastered to his forehead, his dark eyelashes splayed like starfish. The sardonic look had left him and his blue eyes were all concern. ‘Gracious, lad, you sank like a stone!’
    Kit was an able swimmer, and had swum in the stream on her father’s farm since she could walk, but she had never attempted it while carrying her particular form of ballast. ‘You … you … cunt-bitten crawdon! You turdy-gutted, shite-a-bed-scoundrel! You scurvy fucking rascal!’ She spat the dreadful words at him with the seawater.
    ‘Don’t talk,’ he gasped, laughter bubbling in his voice. ‘And don’t cling . Let me do the labour. You’re quite safe.’
    Still vomiting seawater and swear words, blinded by the stinging brine and the Spanish sun, Kit let herself be towed like a tug. The dragoon and the tide combined threw her on to the shingle. Where she lay, gasping, facing seaward, cheek to the salty stones. She could see the other soldiers, most of them having shed their clothes, disporting themselves in the sparkling waves, and she envied them. Naked and carefree, they were splashing each other, swimming easily and slapping their sodden red coats on the water in play. Kit rolled on to her back, gasping like a landed fish, her soaked uniform clinging to her, the silver prick standing forth like a poker. She sat, hurriedly, to