by L. A. Meyer
“Nah, you ain’t worth shit,” says he, giving me a poke with his club to hurry me along the dim passageway. “You’re just a bleedin’ convict, like any other. Move along.” The Frog leads the way.
Speaking of bleeding, both of these poor excuses for men appear to have been soundly beaten recently. There are many bruises about their faces, their lips are split and swollen, and bandages cover some wounds on their heads.
“We ’ad two or three hundred women convicts in ’ere till yesterday, when they took ’em all off,” says the Frog. ”Too bad. Sure was a lot more fun than the likes o’ you.” Both of them leer and chuckle at that. ”We’re takin’ on a bunch o’ men today, mostly Micks, I hears.”
“Where did they take them? The women, I mean.”
“Dunno. Most for the transportation, I reckon. Some for the hanging.”
My blood freezes in my veins. “Oh?” I manage to say. “Do you know any of their names?”
The Toad looks slyly at the Frog. “We know lots o’ names. Who you got in mind?”
I take a deep breath. “Jacky Faber, sometimes known as Mary.”
Another look twixt the two.
“Jacky Faber? Oh, yes, that one—real small, right? Right pretty in a scrawny sort o’ way? Well, you’ll be glad to know they hanged her ass at Newgate on Monday last.”
A coldness comes over me. Damn them! Damn them all to hell!
“Fine show it was, too. I was there, front row. She wore a nice little black dress that come up over her legs when they dropped ’er. A good show all around. Cost me two pounds five, but it was worth it, watchin’ ’er kick, seein’ as how I knows she was the cause o’ gettin’ poor Toad and me t’ get all beat up after we was so good as to set up a meetin’ twixt ’er and ’er fancy man . . .’Iggins ’is name was, warn’t it, Toad?”
“’Twas, Froggie, and ’twarn’t fair. All I said was that I was gonna take ’er t’ me bed soon, and the next thing we knows is some brutes is beatin’ us half to death in a dark alley, and . . . urk!”
In a blind rage I have slipped my wrist manacles over Toad’s head, and I bring the six-inch length of chain that joins the two wrist cuffs hard against his throat and pull back with all my strength.
“Hey, stop that!” shouts the Frog, flailing at me with his club, but I keep the struggling Toad between me and him in the narrow passageway, and the Frog’s club does not have much effect on me.
“If they did hang her, then I shall kill you right now. And they will hang me for that, and I will be glad!” I tighten the grip, and the Toad gurgles as he tries unsuccessfully to get his fingers under the terrible chain that is choking out his miserable life. “A few more seconds and you’ll be dead!”
The Toad is beginning to sag in my grip, which I make even tighter.
Die, you miserable scum!
The Frog gives up trying to hit me and turns to pleading. “We was only foolin’! All them females was sent for Transportation to Australia! All of ’em! Let ’im go, please! He ain’t much, but ’e’s me brother! Please, I beg you, Sir!”
I relax my grip, and the Toad slips to the floor, gasping. I continue on my journey to the head, knowing full well that they will beat me senseless when they have recovered. But I do not care, Jacky, for now I know where you are and where you are going . . .
And it is possible that the Admiralty has actually done me a favor in sending me to the same place.
It eases my mind a bit,
Jaimy
Chapter 19
“Come on, my ladies,” I say. “It’s right down here . . . Duck your heads now . . . Here we are.”
Where we are is in the laundry, me and my Crew. There are two steaming tubs waiting for us, and I am hardly through the door when I start stripping off what’s left of my poor once-whited ress.
This afternoon, after the noon meal had been served and eaten and the galley cleaned up, our laundry tubs were filled with hot water—fresh water, too, as we’ve got lots of it onboard, and we can refill our casks on Gibraltar before we head down the West African coast. When we run low later, the water surely will be salt.
“There, girls, are the net bags to hold your clothing, and here are the tags to label your stuff so’s you can get it back. If we’re gonna be washin clothes for three hundred people, we’ve got to have a system, like. Here, I’ve got a pencil—let’s get started. Can you read? Don’t worry, there’s no shame in it. No? Then, here . . . See, Molly, I’ll draw a bunny next to your name on your tag so’s you can see that it’s your bundle. All right. Ann? Ah, good. Then there it is, big and bold ‘Ann Marsh’. Now, Esther . . .”
And so on and so on. For those who can recognize their names, I print them on their tags. For those who can’t, I draw some sort of symbol on theirs—a star, a crescent moon, a circle within a box, and so on. This will become much more complicated when we start doing washing for all the convict Crews, but I’ll work it out.
Enough of that, I say to myself as that hot tub sings a siren song to me.
I doff my dress and toss it into my net bag and then drop down the drawers and shove them in, too. Then the entire bag labeled “J. M. Faber” sinks into the other tub. I am surprised when it does not let out a beastly animal moan as the filthy thing sinks.
Then I climb gratefully into the tub.
Ahhhhhhhhh . . .
The wonderful wet warmth envelops me, covering me up to my neck, and I luxuriantly lean my head back on the edge of the tub. If you’re gonna take me, Lord, take me now, please, for I am in a state of supreme bliss . . .
After reveling in this fashion for a moment or two, I languidly take the bar of soap that someone—Higgins, I’m sure—has placed convenient to the wash basin, and run it through my hair to lather it up. Having done that, I recover enough of my sense of duty to issue some orders to those of my wondering Crew who stand about me.
“All right, all of you. Reach up under your skirts and drop your knickers. Put them in your net bag. If you’ve got petticoats and other linen, get ’em off and in the bag. Since you do not have a change of clothes, you’ll have to wear your outer dress until your linen is dry, and then we’ll reverse the process. Got it?”
I dip my head under the water and run my fingers through my hair to rinse it, and, Oh, how I wish I had Higgins’s gentle but strong fingers to do it for me with me immersed in my own little tub. Back in Boston I had metal-workers fashion for me a small but very elegant bathtub—yellow copper with pink brass trim and cunning little feet, and just my size. It’s kept in a storeroom close to my cabin, or what used to be my cabin.
Oh well, enjoy what you’ve got, girl, and don’t moan over what you haven’t.
When I resurface, I see that my girls are getting into the spirit of the thing. There is even some laughter, as bags are tossed into the other tub, and . . .
. . . and then someone is rattling at the door latch, trying to open it.
I had, of course, put my wedges under the door when we entered, to preserve our privacy and to prevent unwanted entry. I mean, Mick and Keefe are in the next space, and I had just paraded twelve females in various states of slovenly loveliness before them, so we must be careful. The door swings inward and so the wedges will do their job. I learned that lesson long ago—it would take a battering ram to open up that door.
There is a loud rapping and a man’s voice says, “Open this door!”
“Go away!” I shout back. “There are ladies here! If it’s you, Mick, you’d better behave!”
“This is Mr. Ruger, the First Mate. Open this goddamned door! Now! Or I’ll have you whipped!” There are some gasps of alarm from my Crew standing fearfully around me.
I wiggle myself around in the tub so as to face the door, cross my arms over my chest, and nod to Mary Wade. “Let him in.”
Mary crosses to the door and pulls out the wedges and flips up the latch. The door swings open to reveal the First Mate standing with his own arms crossed on his chest. He is a man of about thirty-five,
with dark hair flecked with a few strands of gray and tied back with a black ribbon. He’s wearing a black uniform—a jacket with gold trim and buttons, a heavy leather belt, and black trousers. In addition to that, he wears an expression of extreme arrogance, and though he is a good-looking man, I take an instant dislike to him.
I sink down such that only my head, shoulders, and knees poke out of the water, which is now somewhat cloudy with soap, and fasten my gaze upon the intruder. He walks in and stands over me.
“What is your name, girl?”
“Mary Faber,” I say, suppressing the “Sir” the military part of me wants to add.
“Is this normally part of the laundry concession?”
“It is when I’m runnin’ it,” I say. “Which I am.”
“Watch your mouth, convict, and stand up,” he orders.
What?
“I am the First Officer on this ship and I am ordering you to stand up. If you do not do it, I will have you dragged out of there and taken, in your current state of undress, to the deck and there to be caned.”
Fine. I stand up.
As I rise, I place my hands over my sex, as if from shyness, but really so I can cover the blue tattoo on my right hip with the inside of my right forearm.
He grasps his hands behind and walks slowly around my dripping self. He makes some appreciative murmurs, but apparently this is not enough to satisfy him.
“Put your hands down. Uncover yourself.”
I stick my chin in the air. “You will not grant me even token modesty?” I burn him with my best Lawson Peabody Look, but seemingly to little effect.
“You are a convict on a convict ship bound for a convict colony. You have very few rights. Drop your hands, or else feel the lash on those buttocks.”
I do it, sliding my hands to my hips, where I leave them. The right one continues to cover my tattoo. I’m hopin’ this will satisfy him and he’ll leave.
It does not.
His hand snakes out and grabs my right wrist and pulls it away from my side.
“Ha. I thought so. Jacky Faber herself,” he says with great satisfaction. “When I saw your name on the manifest, I knew it must be you. You see, I read the papers, and I read books, too, even silly penny-dreadfuls sometimes. It will please me greatly to be featured in the next one, in a very amorous context.”
Now that I am completely exposed, he drops my arm and takes another leisurely turn about me, chuckling to himself.
“Very nice. Very nice, indeed. It appears the books did not lie,” he says with some relish. “You shall be with me, Jacky Faber. You will find it to your benefit.”
“I think not.”
“I think so. You may report to my cabin.”
“The Captain says we cannot be forced, and I hear he is an honorable man. I assume his order goes for the officers as well as for the seamen.”
“We shall see.” He lifts his hand toward my breast.
“Do not touch me, Sir, as I have not given permission. Would you disobey your Captain?”
He slowly lowers his hand. “You will change your mind, girl. This will be a long voyage and I am a patient man. I can wait to get what I want.”
With that, he turns on his heel and leaves the washroom.
Brows knitted in a deep frown, I sink back into the water,fuming.
“Coo,” breathes Esther Abrahams, blond curls about her face, eyes bright with curiousity. “Just who are you, Mary?”
Good question, Esther . . .
Then I pop out of the tub, dry myself, get into clean drawers . . . ahhhhh . . . and the rest of my serving-girl rig—black skirt that comes only to my knees, loose white shirt with low bodice, and black weskit laced up tight about my waist and lower ribs. Though it is not anywhere near the finest of my clothing, I have always liked the fit of this outfit. Back in harness, girl, yes, and ready for what comes.
Afterwards, I leave the laundry under the supervision of Maggie Wood, who has become my second-in-command, to go looking for Higgins. I figure it can’t hurt, now that my cover has been blown out of the water.
I find him emerging from Laughton’s cabin, bearing a tray that holds the remains of the Captain’s breakfast. I catch his eye and nod toward the passageway that leads down to the cabins. He nods in response and passes the tray to a waiting ship’s boy.
“To the galley, Quist, and pass the word that the Captain will want a table set up on the main hatch to watch tomorrow afternoon’s festivities.”
The boy scurries off as we go down. Higgins opens a door and we go in. I discover that it is his own cabin, and it is one of the better ones. Trust Higgins to always better his state—bed, dresser, dry sink, porthole, and room to turn around.
“Pretty plush, compared to what I’ve been livin’ in, Higgins.” I sniff, with a big pout on my face, suddenly self-pitying and totally ungracious. Then I spy my seabag next to the bulkhead and dissolve into tears. This had been my ship and that was my seabag and now it’s not. I’m sorry, Higgins, I know you do your best for me, and I know I do not deserve it, and I’m sorry, I’m sorry . . .
He places a hand on each of my shaking shoulders and holds them to calm me. I burrow my face into his chest, sobbing.
“I know you have had a hard time of it, Miss, and I, too, am sorry for that. But you must agree we have found ourselves in much more serious circumstances before.” He takes his right hand from my shoulder and places it on my back, gently patting it.
“I know, Higgins”—I snuffle, running the back of my hand under my suddenly running nose—“that I’m actin’ like a baby. I’ll stop now. And we’ve got to talk.” He releases me and I step back.
He waits, expectant.
“My cover is blown away, burned to the waterline . . .” And I relate to him the incident in the laundry with Ruger.
“. . . and he beheld me in my natural state, tattoo and all, so all will now know of my past,” I conclude.
“Hmmm . . .” Higgins considers this development. “Well, I was already quite sure your identity would eventually become known, so it’s possible that no harm will come of this.”
“I don’t want him on me, Higgins,” I say with a shiver.
“Well, the Captain’s order still stands, and I think Mr. Ruger will have to obey it.”
Higgins ponders all this some more, and after a while, he says, “Indeed, it could be to your advantage that you come to be known as more than just a common convict. Your notoriety might lend you some protection. I’ve noticed that Captain Laughton is not a man who worries himself overmuch about ordinary concerns.”
“How so, Higgins?”
“Well, for one thing, he has directed that I set up a table for him and his officers for the viewing of the holiday-routine festivities on Saturday afternoon, and that the table is to be laden with the best of our wine stores and other viands . . .”
Grrrrr . . .
“Let it go, Miss. It is only ship’s stores, and not worthy of your concern.”
“Yes, but it once was mine to parcel out.”
“Miss, please . . .”
“All right, I’ll be good. What else?”
A slight pause, then a quick clearing of the Higgins throat. “Ahem. The Captain has commissioned me to pick two of the more toothsome beauties from the Crews, as I believe they are now called, to be his . . . companions . . . this afternoon . . . and probably this evening, too.”
I laugh. “Poor Higgins, you may now add pimp to your list of butlery skills.”
Finding that not overly funny, he frowns, and I give him a poke. “Come on, Higgins, I’ll prolly be doin’ the same thing myself and real soon,” say I, thinking of the hapless Mick and Keefe who couldn’t find a decent girl if they were thrown into the same sack with one, as well as the futures of members of my own Crew. After all, we’re all being sent down as breeders, so if I can make the pairings kind and pleasant, instead of mean and nasty, then I will bend my best efforts in that regard.
I pop over to sit on
the bed and give a bounce or two, then ask, “The man the Captain called the Shantyman. Who is he?”
Higgins goes to the dresser and picks up a brush, and then comes back to stand over me.
“Tsk,” he says, applying the brush to my now dry but very unruly thatch. “What am I expected to do with this?”
“What you can, Higgins, and it is so good to feel your hands on my hair again. I cannot tell you just how good.” I close my eyes and revel in his touch, forgetting all other troubles.
After a few minutes of vigorous brushing, he begins the tale. “As for the Shantyman, his name is Enoch Lightner, and he was Captain Laughton’s Sailing Master when both were in the Royal Navy. At the 1804 Battle of the Nile, they stood side by side on the quarterdeck of the frigate HMS Falconer, and during that furious engagement with Napoleon’s fleet, Mr. Lightner was struck across the face with a burning blast of powder that blinded him in both eyes forever.”
“That is very sad,” I said. “But it does happen. What is he doing here now?”
“The Captain and Mr. Lightner were particular friends and, unwilling to see his friend rot away his life in some dismal room, trying to subsist on a meager pension, Captain Augustus Laughton left the Royal Navy and signed on with the East India Company, so that he would be able to bring his former Sailing Master along on his voyages, as a shantyman, leading the musical chants that help the seamen do their jobs. You already know he has a very powerful voice.”
“Very commendable of the Captain. But it must have been pure torture for the poor man, once having been a Sailing Master, to feel the wind on his face and to hear the rustling of the slack sails and not to be able to issue orders for the setting of those sails. I know it would kill me.”
