by L. A. Meyer
“The under-sixteens, both male and female, are not allowed off,” continues the Captain, once again occasioning groans from Quist and his lads. “And on Sunday morning, two days from now, when the ship’s bell rings six times, everyone must be back aboard. Anyone late will suffer twelve strokes of the rod. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Sir!” is the general female chorus, eager to be off.
“Mrs. Barnsley, Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. MacDonald,” intones the Captain. “Take care of your girls . . . and remember, madams . . . my twenty percent. And now, liberty call! And let Venus, Bacchus, and Cupid rule!”
And rule they do . . .
There is general riot throughout that evening and night. I counsel my lasses to lie low, so we gather down in the galley to sip strong coffee with Cookie and Keefe, telling stories of the Bloodhound and such. As the noise of the riot grows higher, I sneak out of there and down to a certain storeroom, where I know the wine is stored, and though I could be whipped for it, make off with three bottles of the best, along with some select cheeses, and head back to the galley. Once there, we divide it all up, and Cookie adds some fresh and fluffy biscuits, so our magnificent feast is even finer.
A few more stories and songs and then we go down to our berth and turn in to our hammocks, while the sounds of merriment outside continue unabated.
“Good night, ladies,” I say, burrowing my face into my pillow—yes, Higgins had gotten me one, bless him. “Think of how much better you will feel come morning than your wayward sisters.”
Good night, Jaimy, I pray that you are safe.
Chapter 25
James Fletcher
Onboard Cerberus
Under way for New South Wales
Dearest Jacky,
It has been three days since I was first brought aboard, and now we are under way.
Large gangs of the the Great Unwashed of England, Scotland, Ireland, and Wales have been dragged aboard in chains, and the holds below are pure bedlam. I’m almost glad I’m confined here in maximum security with this pack of Irish scoundrels.
And yes, Jacky, your former associates have been treating me to many lively accounts of your antics in the Mediterranean and the Caribbean when you sailed with them on your Emerald. Ah, yes, many saucy tales of your dancing on tabletops and suchlike in low foreign dives. Some stories I believe, but some I ascribe to that Arthur McBride’s apparent desire to piss me off as much as possible. We shall see . . .
One thing I know for sure is that if I ever again have to listen to a tale prefaced with, Hey, remember the time our Jacky . . . I shall lose all of my self-control and will wrap my chain about the throat of the taleteller and squeeze until nothing else ever issues forth from his lying mouth. Especially galling is their continued use of the phrase “our Jacky.” I growl every time I hear it.
I know that Amy Trevelyne has written books about your exploits, and I know that I am featured in some of them. Yes, I realize that they are reasonably accurate, but I am sorry—I cannot bring myself to read them. Maybe someday, if we are ever together again and settled . . . Slim chance of that, I know, but still, one can hope.
The Irish lads keep up their spirits by singing—mostly in Gaelic, which is good because, if the meaning of the words were known, it would surely anger the guards. The songs lift my spirits as well as I lean back against the wall and listen, for I know you love these tunes, too, Jacky. I remember with pleasure hearing you sing some of them last year when we both sailed the Caribbean. Happy days, now, in retrospect . . . Happy, lost days . . .
Now that we are well away from the land and are not liable to escape, our neck manacles have been removed, giving us a bit more freedom of movement, which is welcome. As I had earlier surmised, we are taken down to the head each morning, and then we shuffle along to the mess hall. There are long tables and we stand at one of them where small buckets of slop are placed in front of us. We are given a short time to eat it—with spoons only, of course—and after the buckets and spoons are counted, we are led back to our cell. During that time, however, there are other prisoners with leg irons arrayed about the tables, and some conversation twixt them and the Irish lads goes on . . . good men . . . they are doing as they were told—finding out who’s a seaman, and who might be trusted.
The Weasel, our cell keeper, has been joined in this task of guarding us by his two superior guards, the ones in charge of our entire hold. They wear the red coats of the Army, now faded and worn, but still they insist that we address them by their former ranks—Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance. Filthy sods. They were undoubtedly drummed out of the corps, probably for sloth and cowardice, yet they still cling to some pathetic shreds of once honorable trappings. They both carry cudgels and use them without mercy. Several of the Irish lads receive thumps on the way to the mess line, but heeding my advice, they do not reciprocate in kind.
The Weasel especially enjoys tormenting me.
“How d’ye like yer fine life now, Mr. Fletcher, now that ye’ve been brought low? Would you like for me to shine your boots now, Sir?”
“What I really like, Weasel, is thinking about how much fun it will be in killing you, when the time comes,” I reply. “Yes, that thought does bring me some joy.”
Laughs and Hear, hear! from my cellmates at this.
“That time ain’t never gonna come, and you know it!” hisses the Weasel. “You’re naught but a dirty, chained-up convict now, and the rest o’ yiz is filthy micks, and I’m the one with the keys! And don’t ye call me that name again! That’s what she called me back then. I had to take it from that mean little witch, but I ain’t takin’ it from you!”
“She named you well, Weasel,” I hiss. “You slimy piece of dung.”
The Weasel swings back his cudgel and lays it against the side of my head. Expecting it, I raised my shoulder and took most of the blow there, so it wasn’t so bad, and it gained me a few points with the men I hope will end up serving as my crew.
Weasel . . . weasel . . . weasel . . . is whispered from across the room, coming from various lips, first here, then over there, and the enraged Weasel, confused, retreats from the cell. Derisive laughter follows him out.
I think you have lost the day, Weasel, and good for you . . .
Small victories, but still . . .
And so the days roll on . . .
Hoping things are better for you, I remain,
Yrs,
Jaimy
Chapter 26
We’ve had breakfast, then I seek out Higgins, who’s gotten me some things from my seabag, and by noontime, I’m getting ready to go.
“Coo, Jacky, you can’t go out there like that,” warns Molly. “What will people say?”
I laugh and give her a poke. “We’re on the Lorelei Lee, ain’t we? You know this means that we’ll soon be known as the most famous floating brothel that ever sailed the seven seas, so I don’t think my costume preferences will ever be written down in the history of the ship. And wouldn’t us Newgaters like a bit of money, so’s we can buy nice things and maybe some good food now and then? You bet we would. And washing clothes and entertainin’ strange men ain’t the only ways to make money in this world. Now, Esther, my hair braided into a pigtail, if you would, so it’ll be out of my way. That’s it, thanks.
“Mag, you got your pouch? Good. You come with me. My cloak, Mary, thanks,” I says, and I feel my cloak being put about my bare shoulders and snugged up around my neck. “You young ones, now, you can watch the fun from the rail. Come on, let’s go and do it.”
Our procession proceeds out on deck and advances to the gangway. There stands Mr. Seabrook as Officer of the Watch, with seamen Monk and Suggs loitering about, I suppose as the Bo’sun and the Messenger. Both of the seamen stand snickering and mumbling as we approach. For the hundredth time, I observe that this sure ain’t the Royal Navy.
“What’s up, then?” asks the Second Mate.
“We are going off, Mr. Seabrook, and consistent with the Captain’s orders, w
e are allowed on the pier,” I announce, nose in air. “And if you will, please, let us pass.”
“And what are you going to do down there, Missy? Set up your own little crib?” he asks, with a mock salute. “I see no pillows and sheets.”
“Nay, Sir, just gonna have a bit of fun, as you shall shortly see if you will let us go.”
He makes a grand sweeping gesture of his hand as we descend the brow. I stride down the pier till I reach the spot of open water between the bow of the Lorelei Lee and the stern of HMS Surprise, where a ladder leads down into the water. Handy, that. The water appears clear of obstacles, but I shall have to make sure of that.
The Royal Navy frigate looms much higher above us than does the bowsprit of my, er, the brigantine Lorelei Lee, and although I cannot see on to the deck of the warship, I can certainly hear the sounds of merriment, both male and female. The bacchanalia continues full bore, but then I see several heads leaving the party and peering over the side and down upon me. I’ll need more of them than that, though, I figure. Well, it’s showtime, mates . . .
I whip off the cloak, fling it aside, and stand revealed in my swimming suit—yes, the very same one I had made last winter when I was diving on the Santa Magdalena in the Caribbean. And yes, right under the figurehead of the lovely Lorelei. And while it’s true that this rig might be considered a bit scandalous back at Wiggins Pier in England, here, who’s going to care? I certainly don’t.
Rolling up the legs of my swimsuit bottom high on my thighs, I launch into my invitation for them to loosen up the coins.
“Ahoy, Surprise! I am none other than the right famous Jacky Faber, and I am here to play and dance and, yes, even to dive into the awful, scary briny for your pleasure!” I had thought about doing this bit as a Spanish girl—Hola, all you pretty sailor muchachos! Or maybe a French filly—Bonjour, mon jeunes marins beaux. Toss zee coin and you shall see my derrière-in-zee-air as I dive for eet!—but, nay, I decided to stick with the Cockney, as it might make them feel more at home, like. “Now, you foine British sea dogs, dig up some of your coins and get ready to toss ’em in that fearful water, then your own dear mermaid shall brave death and destruction to dive down and retrieve them!”
There are a few whoops and shouts from the deck of the Surprise, and I count that as good. However, to allow time for the word to get around that there is a very lightly clad female out on the Mole, I tiptoe over to the edge of the pier and pull my goggles down over my eyes.
“Spread the word, mates, and I’ll be back in a jiff!”
And with that, I dive into the water. After all, I have to check out just what I am diving into, don’t I? I certainly don’t want to perish by slamming my poor head into some rock, or by getting tangled up in old discarded coils of rope, no, I do not.
Hmmm . . . The water is cool and clear—not Caribbean clear, but clear enough and that is good—and there doesn’t seem to be much in the way of danger to a poor diver. Coo, there is, however, a good deal of rubble down on the bottom, well below the massive hulls of the ships moored here. I give a kick and go lower. Hmmm . . . There’s some interesting stuff over there . . . Another kick and I drift over the detritus—old spars, chain, and amphoras—big jars with narrow tops and a handle to either side, which I suspect once held wine and olive oil during ancient times. There’s a really good one right there . . . I swim over to it and rub the gray moss from its surface. Then I notice something writ in Latin, I think. Good Lord, this could have been here for a thousand years . . . from the times of the Romans . . . maybe even the Macedonians. I must come back later for that one. Gibraltar has been a Mediterranean port for a good long time, as I recall from Mr. Yale’s history and geography lectures back at the Lawson Peabody. Poor man, so interested in antiquities and never able to see any, except for drawings. And here I am, floating above thousands of years’ worth of the real thing. Funny how it goes . . .
Well, better get back up.
When I surface and climb up the ladder, I’m gratified to see that there are now a goodly number of sailors on the fantail of the Surprise, along with a lot of our own crew on the bow of the Lorelei. I can imagine why, as their own girls are out doin’ business and there’s naught for them to do but wait for their return.
I stand on the pier, lift up my goggles, tug at the bottom of my traitorous suit to pull it down over my bum, and call out, “All right, mateys! ’Oo’s first? Step right up, now, not good to keep a mermaid waitin’, y’ know . . . She just might put a spell on ye.”
“Here, girl!” shouts out a seaman from the warship. “See if ye can find that!” and with his thumb, he flips a coin in the air. It arcs up and then hits the water.
I myself arc into the water with what I hope is a graceful dive and grab the coin before it gets ten feet down. I pop back onto the dock, hold the coin aloft, and ask, “That fine show for just a penny? Come on, sailors, the honor of your Surprise is at stake! Let’s up the ante a bit, shall we? At least several pennies at a time now, surely.”
“I thinks I remembers that fine bottom, I do, and right fondly,” announces Mick Richards, leaning over the rail of our own ship, his wide mouth in a leering grin. “And ’ere’s a penny for the memory of it.”
“And ’ere’s one for me, too, Jacky lass,” says Keefe, who stands beside him. The two coins hit the water, joined by two more from the Surprise.
“Thanks, mates! You’re all good lads!” and I’m down under again, capturing all four pennies before they hit the bottom.
When I regain the pier, I no longer tug at the bottom of my suit, but instead let it crawl even further up the crack of my bum. I figure it’s good for business, and from the shouts I hear, I believe I am right. As the coins come cascading down, I dive back in to scoop ’em up. Each time when I come back up on the Mole, I hand the coins to faithful Maggie, who tucks them into her bag—a purse that is beginning to look right pleasingly plump.
This time up, I see Mrs. Barnsley hanging over the rail of the warship. She tosses a coin onto the deck next to me and says, “There’s a ha’penny, girl. Whyn’t ye move it along, ye little tramp—makin’ a spectacle o’ yerself like that and interfering with our business.”
I don’t respond, but merely turn away and reach down to retrieve the lowly ha’penny from the deck behind me. I bend way over and stay there to give her a real good look at my wiggling bum, then I straighten up and loudly sing out a bit of a song.
I went to a tavern I used to frequent
And told the landlady my money’s all spent
I asked her for credit and she answered me Nay . . .
(And here I fling the ha’penny back at Mrs. Barnsley)
Custom like yours I can get any day!
Roars of laughter from the crowd, who know the “Wild Rover” song well. They raucously take up the chorus:
And it’s no, nay, never,
No, nay, never, no more,
Will I play the wild rover,
No, never no more!
As we end off on a cheer, Mrs. Barnsley retreats from the rail in a huff. She never did like me much, and I’m certain she likes me even less now.
I continue to work this ship until it is almost time for lunch and a bit of warming up for me—the Mediterranean is warm, but not that warm—when Captain Laughton comes to the bow rail of his ship.
“What is this, then? Our little minstrel turned mermaid? Capital! Har-har! Here’s a crown for you, then!” And he flips a full golden guinea over the side.
Well, that’s some serious coin, I think, and leap down to snatch it up. When I grab it in my fist, I head back to the surface and see that another Captain is at his rail. It is the Master and Commander of the Surprise, a big red-faced man with long, flowing blond hair, and he is exulting . . .
“Gussie! You old reprobate! How the hell are you? Aside from the luck of having that gang of petticoats as cargo! And the fools of this world call me Lucky Jack! I fear I have now lost that title to you!”
“I am just fi
ne, Jack! Good to see you!” replies our Captain Laughton.
“My God, man, I haven’t seen you since the Battle of the Nile! And is that Lieutenant Lightner standing beside you? Yes, it is! Well met, indeed, both of you!”
“Well, you must both come on over for a spot of brandy! And dinner, too. Right now. Not a moment to lose! And here, this is for you, Miss,” shouts this good Captain as he drops yet another full guinea into the water and, eventually, into my greedy hand.
I worked the Surprise for maybe another half hour, but then the cool water started to give me the shakes, so Maggie and I retreated to our berth. Huddled with my cloak about me and a mug of good hot soup—made special by Cookie—cradled in my hands, I soon warmed up enough to listen to the accounting of the money.
“Coo, Maggie,” says Mary Wade. “There must be five quid there.”
“Not nearly enough, dear,” I say. “There’s gonna be a lot more money made by the Crews this day. But don’t worry. We shan’t go down into the bilges. No matter what Mrs. Barnsley thinks.”
“But how . . . ?”
“Not just yet, dear. Just a bit more of this grand stew and maybe a spot of wine, then I’ll go back out to work the Redoubt and the Indomitable.” The two are moored nose to tail, farther on down the Mole.
I get up and stretch.
“One thing I know,” I say. “I’ll sleep well this night. Let’s go, Mag.”
