by L. A. Meyer
I yank down the top of my dress to show the welt Captain Blodgett’s cat-o’-nine-tails had left on my back.
“Understood? Good.”
I continue. “Now. The question of money. You heard what the Captain said about the auction of the living spaces. When we get to Gibraltar, the other three Crews will be making some serious money in their usual way, so we got to be thinkin’ about makin’ some of our own. Otherwise, if we are found penniless, we will soon find ourselves down on the lowest deck, with the rats.”
That gets a common shiver from ’em, they being very familiar with those rodents from their times in the streets, in Newgate, or in the Hulks. And, yes, rats there are on the Lorelei Lee. Though she is a young ship, she still has a full complement of the little buggers. I have pictured them climbing aboard on the land lines when we are in port, little seabags over their shoulders, chuckling their ratty little chuckles and lookin’ for good berths. Well, can’t blame ’em for that, can we? That’s all that any of us want. And it could be that they’ll come in handy someday. They certainly have before.
“So, what I propose is that we pick up the laundry concession.”
This is met with some groans.
“Look. It ain’t so bad. In fact, there are some advantages—like plenty of water and soap to keep ourselves, our hair, and our linen clean. There will be plenty of work to be done in that regard, especially after the Lizzies, the Judies, and the Tartans have plied their trade in Gibraltar.” I hold my nose on that one and get a few laughs.
“And do not mistake me, they will laugh at you for working hard in the laundry whilst they loll about all day . . .”
“Yeah,” chimes in Ann Marsh. “But we’ll laugh at them for a-gettin’ the pox and passin’ it on t’ their fine fellows so’s that they walks with a limp and their noses fall off!”
More laughter, and that seals the deal.
“And I think we might do well with sewing, too. Half the women on this ship are wearin’ rags.”
“But how do you think we’ll be able to do all that?” asks Esther. “The laundry, cloth for the sewing, and all?”
“I got an in with the Assistant Purser, is how,” I answer. “Now, if any of you would rather go join the whorey Crews, do it now ’cause I can’t have any slackers on my Crew.”
There, I have said it: My Crew . . . and let there be no doubt of that.
After the girls seem settled, I go topside to see just how far this Captain’s pronouncement of “freedom of the ship” goes.
I poke my head up into the light at the top of the hatchway, and so far, so good. I am not stopped and thrown back below. The sailors go about their duties as always, there are officers on the quarterdeck, and work proceeds just as it does on any ship at sea.
I grab a ratline and head for the foretop, my natural place on any ship. I flip up over the edge and, Oh, Glory! To be here is such a gift! It is a glorious, soaring, sunlit day. The sails are well set and taut, and the Lorelei Lee fairly rips along. She is not my ship now, but still I can revel in this moment. I lean my back against the foremast, as I have so many times before, and let my mind wander back to London.
Ah, Jaimy . . . I do so hope that you are well and have been cleared of all the false charges laid against your good name, and I wish that with all my heart. But, alas, probably I’ll never learn the outcome of that travesty of justice.
I, myself, am condemned for life to New South Wales, and it sure looks like I’m gonna end up there, short of shipwreck or an act of God. And . . . Jaimy . . . though I love you, I do not know that I can worry about you forever because the years are sure to dull the edge of my love and my fears.
Y’see, Jaimy, I’m goin’ off for the rest of my life, but you have not yet been so condemned. I will always keep you uppermost in my thoughts and prayers, Jaimy, but at the same time, I’m hoping that you will find someone other than me, as I have been nothing but trouble.
Be well, love, and happy . . .
“Wot’s this, then? One o’ the below-decks-dollies come to visit with a poor sailor, bless ’er.” My foretop reverie has been interrupted by the unwelcome arrival of two sailors on the foretop, both big and both ugly.
“Bless yerself, Mate, and leave me be.”
“Hey, ain’t she a nice little piece, Monk?” asks the uglier of the two.
“Got a mouth on ’er, too,” says the other, the very aptly named Monk—I half expect him to start scratchin’ at his armpits and begin jumpin’ around chitterin’. “She’s a bit dirty, but a dip in the dunkin’ stool’d take care o’ that. Fix ’er smart mouth, too.” They hunker down next to me.
“You been taken up by any man yet?” The other bloke grins down on me. “If not, ye are now, and lucky you, as you will soon find out.”
“Sod off, Jack,” I say, getting to my feet and sticking my nose in the air. “Captain said we didn’t have to if we didn’t want to, and I don’t want to. You heard what he said about forcin’ us.”
“Me name ain’t Jack, little Miss,” he growls, grabbin’ me by the arm. “It’s Suggs . . . Suggs, darlin,’ to you.”
“Yer name’s gonna be mud if you don’t let me go, Suggs, darling. I got friends here.” I growl with warning in my tone and shake off his hand.
“Friends? Who you got? You ain’t got nothing, girl.”
“You’ll see . . .”
“Maybe,” says this Suggs. “Let’s just see you git down.” He goes and stands over the lubbers’ hole, crossin’ his arms and thinkin’ to block my exit from the foretop.
I, of course, go to the edge of the platform, leap out, grab on to the fore backstay, and scamper down, hand over hand, dress blowin’ about my waist. And any sick-in-the-head bloke what gets some pleasure outta seein’ my filthy drawers is welcome to the sight.
Silly sailors, to think you can confine Jacky Faber in the riggin . . . Ha!
Swinging down to the deck, I give Suggs and Monk up above a two-fingered salute to my brow as I press on. I had thought of givin’ ’em the universal single-finger obscene gesture, but thought better of it. Nay, no sense makin’ any more enemies than you already have.
As I pass the quarterdeck, I see that the First Mate, Mr. Ruger, has the con . . . and he also notices me as I stride across the deck.
“The first dolly up and about,” he says to those on his watch. “It must be a brave, brave girl, indeed!” Chuckles all around.
I thrust my nose in the air and proceed forward.
As I pass the forward hatch, and am hidden from the quarterdeck by the lower belly of the fore-and-aft-rigged staysail, a figure appears by my side.
It is, I am very glad to see, my dear, dear Higgins.
“Well met, Miss,” he says. He carries a package under his arm.
“Well met, indeed, Higgins. It is so good to see you.”
“We must keep this short. I have here your serving outfit and several changes of linen . . .”
I almost choke with joy.
“. . . as well as your pennywhistle. I don’t think it wise to bring out anything more, just yet.”
“Yes, Higgins, you are absolutely right.” I sniffle, then subside. “Now, I have assembled a group of reasonably good girls . . . We are called the Newgaters—”
“Yes, I know how factions are forming in this ship . . . the other Crews and all. I rather assumed that you would be quite busy in your usual ways.”
“Good, Higgins, nobody was ever sharper than thee,” I say as I take the package from him. “Now, my Crew would like to have the laundry rights.”
“Indeed, Miss. I think that can be arranged.”
“And I want exclusive rights. ’Course we’ll have to do the sailors’ clothes, but I don’t want anyone from the other Crews barging into the laundry thinking she’s gonna dunk her dirty undies into our hot, soapy water for nothing. Nay, ladies, it’ll be thruppence a bag, or live in filth.”
In outfitting the Lorelei Lee back in Boston, I paid special attention to the laundr
y, knowing that there would be a lot of it on a passenger ship, and so had located it in a spacious room next to the galley. That way the water could be heated on the galley stoves in between the cooking and serving of food and, after being used, could then be tossed out the porthole, that deck being above the waterline. I had also purchased two hundred and fifty net bags—I’d not forgotten my time as chambermaid at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls.
“Very well, Miss, I shall facilitate that.”
“You are sure you can?”
“Purser Samsock has indicated to me that he would be delighted if I would handle all the tedious everyday concerns, leaving the high-minded and complex Keeping of the Ledgers to him.”
“Is he corrupt?”
“I believe that every officer on this ship is in some way corrupt,” replies Higgins, with a sniff. “But not in an odious way. The Purser does enjoy his cup, but he seems a pleasant sort, content with his rum, his pipe, and his columns of figures.”
I think on this and then whimper, “Can you do it this afternoon, please, Higgins? I am so filthy.”
“Yes, Miss. Right after the noon meal.”
“Higgins, you are so good to me,” I say, and risk a quick kiss on his cheek. “Till later.”
I go back down to my Crew to give ’em the good news. “Yes, ladies, this afternoon we shall wash both our clothing and ourselves! Hurrah! And now I shall go scout out our place of business to make sure it is set up proper!”
I creep down to the galley and peek in, knowin’ full well what I will find, and—yep, there they are, all three of ’em . . . I figured they would be . . .
Head up, I stride into the kitchen, and seein’ a pot of coffee on the stove and a handy cup hanging on a hook, I take it down and pour myself a cup.
“Here, here! Girl, you can’t . . .” The cook’s voice trails off upon recognizing me. And then . . .“Oh, my God, it’s—”
“Hello, Cookie,” I chirp, takin’ a big sip of the strong brew. “And Mick and Keefe, too. My, my, it’s old home week, ain’t it, lads?”
The three stand there, regarding me with open mouths, which, in the case of Mick and Keefe, ain’t exactly a pretty sight.
“Wh-why, it’s . . . Jacky,” says Cookie, the first to re-cover, the ladle in his hand motionless above a cauldron, one of four that sits on the stovetop, bubblin’ and smellin’ real good.
“Right, Cookie, your old mate from back on the Bloodhound. Ain’t life funny sometimes?”
They look at each other fearfully, and well they should. If I informed on ’em, if I told the Captain that these three were involved in the kidnapping of the girls of the very high-toned Lawson Peabody School back in Boston, last year—and one of those girls being the granddaughter of former U.S. President John Adams—they would surely be confined and later hanged for it. That incident has gained wide notoriety, especially since Amy Trevelyne’s book on the subject has been circulating freely throughout the English-speaking world.
I let them stew in their guilty juices for a bit, whilst I grab a hot biscuit from a tray and dip it into the burgoo pot, then pop it into my mouth. Ummmm . . .
After I have finished it off with much vigorous chewing and smacking of lips, I say to them, “Don’t worry, mates. I ain’t gonna peach on ye. You was pretty good t’ me back on the Bloodhound, and I ain’t one to forget past favors. Plus, I ain’t the peachin’ kind, just don’t like it, somehow, bein’ a tell-a-tale . . . andw hat’st his?”
I feel something furry rub against my ankle.
“And speakin’ o’ peachin’. . . if it ain’t our Jezebel herself!” I sit down on the stool and lift the cat onto my lap to stroke her back. “My! Ain’t we lookin’ fit and fine, Miss!” Then I ask her reprovingly, “Remember that night on the slaver, when I was hid under the stove, dressed in my black burglar’s gear, and these three blokes was tromping about, and you come sniffin’ at me? Yes, and you could have ruined everything, ’cept that the Black Ghost intervened just as Cookie was bendin’ down to see what you was sniffin’ at, and these three fools went howlin’ out into the night.” I rub her ears and she purrs.
“But you knew, didn’t you? You knew it was me who was the Black Ghost all along, and you weren’t afraid of me at all. Not like these other silly coves.”
The silly coves continue to eye me, and I go on. “Nay, lads, I shan’t peach on thee, but in return, you must keep my identity secret, too. I’ve gone right famous in certain ways, and I don’t think it would be good for me to have it known yet just who I am.”
Cookie, who always has been the bravest of the three, turns back to his cauldrons and chuckles. “So, Jacky, what’s on now?”
“I got me a life sentence to New South Wales, mates, and I ain’t at all happy about it. Got the laundry concession here, though, and you’ll be warmin’ up pots of water this afternoon so’s me and me girls can get at it.”
Mick and Keefe nod. “Aye,” says Keefe. “That’s why we’re here. Ready to fill up the tubs. That Higgins set us on it.”
Keefe, more relaxed now, laughs, then says, “Looks like we’re still haulin’ water for Jacky Faber.”
And it looks like you two are still waisters, seamen rated ordinary rather than able.
“You could do worse, mates. Ain’t I took care o’ you in the past? You ain’t dead, that’s somethin’. ”
Keefe strokes his bristly chin. His long face is deeply tanned and furrowed by long years in the sun, lashed by briny spray. “It was a close thing, Jacky, in that lifeboat when you cast us adrift.”
“So, what happened?”
“Well, we rigged up a sail and a rudder, and in a few weeks, we was half dead. And when all seemed lost, we was picked up by a passin’ merchant—told him we was the survivors of a wrecked whaler.”
“So all of you made it?”
Each face looks at the floor.
“How ’bout Sammy Nettles?” I ask, thinkin’ I know the answer.
The three of them exchange covert glances, and I know.
“Don’t worry about it, lads. After all, it’s tradition”
I ain’t a bloody-minded sort, but still, the idea of Sammy Nettles being slowly digested does not overly distress me.
“Well, I’m glad you survived, Jezebel,” I say, continuing to stroke the purring feline. “But I ain’t surprised. Cats got this way of disappearin’ every time you might want to snatch ’em up—like they got this sixth sense, or somethin’. ”
“Aye, my Jezebel took one look at the coves in that boat, sized up the situation, and climbed to the top o’ the mast and stayed there till we was rescued. She knowed, she did,” says Cookie, peering into the pot. “Well, ’tis time to feed the mob.”
I rise, letting Jezebel slink back down to the deck.
“All right, lads, till later. Good seein’ you again. We’ll talk over old times later, the good old days, like.”
Mick, he of the pug nose, wide mouth, and thick unruly brown hair, grins and says, “If we fills up the tubs for ye, will you do yer little dance for us again?”
He, of course, has not forgotten the striptease I did for the three of them, me wigglin’ down there in the bottom of the hold of the Bloodhound, sheddin’ clothes in exchange for clean saltwater so’s we poor girls could wash ourselves and our things.
I manage a slight blush and laugh. “Nay, Mick, but it’s sweet of you to ask for an encore.” I reach out and rub his head. “Don’t worry, ducks, there’s plenty o’ quim aboard this barky, and I’m sure you will all get your share. If not, come see me, and I’ll fix it.”
I go to the door and say, “The tubs—make ’em nice and hot, now, lads, for when I come back.”
Giving them a little finger wave, I’m out the door and back to my Crew.
A bath, dear Lord, a bath, and soon . . . Oh, yes!
Chapter 18
James Fletcher, Convict
Onboard a Rotting Hulk
Thames River, London
Jacky Faber
Somewhere in this World
Or the Next
Dear Jacky,
Once again we communicate across the Void.
I do not know what has happened to you—were you imprisoned, tortured, or even hanged? I fear the latter, but I do not know, nor am I likely to find out. Though I am in deep despair, there is one thing that keeps me from willing myself to die—and that is a burning desire to someday track down Henry Flashby and Bliffil, too, and kill them, torturously slowly . . . very, very slowly. The thought sputters like a flame and I nurture it, fanning the flames of hatred and the desire for Revenge. Aye, I shall keep myself alive until I have exacted complete Vengeance on those lying bastards!
After I’m brought out of that so-called court, my hands shackled behind me, my jacket stripped of all evidence of my rank, I am shoved into a cart and taken down to the river. I am wrong in supposing that I will be taken directly to the convict ship that’ll bear me away, for I am thrown instead into one of the dank, dark prison Hulks that lie in the mud next to the shore of the Thames.
My restraints are taken off, only to be snapped on again with my hands in front—I suppose so I can feed myself whatever swill they plan to give me, and to relieve myself without help, and such. A similar set of shackles are fastened around my ankles and that is connected by a chain to an eyebolt under the bench that goes around the interior of the foul cell. I suspect the rough bench will be my bed until I am taken from here—and that could be days, months, yes, even years—but I shall endure.
There are two jailers here to manage this cell, which shouldn’t take much, since instead of the usual thirty or so, there’s only me in here. One of the sorry pair is called Toad and the other Frog.
When being escorted to the privy, I ask the Toad, “Why am I the only one here? Am I that important a prisoner?”
