by L. A. Meyer
What? Well done? I am aghast, and struck to the core of my Royal Navy soul. But I hold my tongue, for what else can I do? Oh, well . . . sure hope we don’t meet any well-trained, voracious, and merciless pirates. It is a fervent hope, but I know it is a vain one, as well . . .
. . . and meanwhile, perhaps, I can manage to do a few little things . . .
Chapter 33
Jacky Faber
Onboard Lorelei Lee
Off the West Coast of Africa
Miss Amy Trevelyne
Dovecote Farm
Quincy, Massachusetts, USA
Dearest Amy,
I have decided, dear Sister, that I shall write you every so often to keep you abreast of my various doings on this journey to the Other Side of the World, should you be at all interested.
Our good Captain Laughton has promised that he will carry our letters back from Australia after he has dumped us off, and I believe he will be as good as his word in that regard—especially since he demands a full shilling per packet. That means, if I write to you now, you should get the letters, all in a bunch, in about, say, a year and a half. Not too bad, considering. Hey, maybe you can patch together another potboiler of a novel—however, nothing much in that sort of way has happened yet. But I promise to try to spice things up a bit in the coming days. You can count on me. If you would like to read these letters to the assembled girls of the Lawson Peabody, feel free. It would give me a feeling of some connection to my former schoolmates, whom I think of often and fondly, and it might give them some life lessons on how not to conduct oneself as a Young Lady abroad in this world. I am sure Mistress will second that. As will Connie Howell, I am sure . . .
It is noon and I am done with school for the day, having sent the little blighters off to play in the rigging, cautioning them to be careful of falling, and urging them to try to remember today’s lesson on addition and subtraction. I’ve made up chips with addition or subtraction problems on the front and the answers on the back, like forty minus twenty on one side, and the answer, twenty, on the other, and told them to practice with each other when they are not working. If they get all of their answers correct upon my next quizzing them, they shall have their story at the end of class as usual. If not, then no story. I can be hard, I can, when faced with scholarly sloth. After class, the room is turned back into a laundry and my girls and I get to work, scrubbing away. You may tell Peg and the downstairs girls I am becoming quite the accomplished laundress. My love to all of them.
We have already visited several very exotic ports, and though we cannot wander far, still we have time to taste some of the wonders of the places. I am enclosing a watercolor of a very colorful little bird that lighted on our rail in Cape Verde and sat there singing long enough for me to sketch it and to jot down its particular characteristics and colors. Please give the picture to Dorothea—maybe she can identify the pretty little creature.
My Newgaters have been joined by two more women from the other Crews, both mothers of kids in our school, making my Crew now number fourteen, not counting the kids. We voted on them and they were accepted. They are decent sorts in spite of their recent line of work. Hey, let any lady who would purse her lips and judge harshly these unfortunate girls—and that means you, too, Miss Trevelyne—let you get good and hungry sometime . . . or worse, watch your children grow weak from hunger, and we’ll just see what sort of life you would sink to. Sorry . . . sorry for the rant, all of you, and sorry, Miss Prosser, for ending a sentence with a preposition. Enough of that. The children sleep with their mothers and have been warned that if they disrupt our sleep or the good order of our barracks, out they will go. They have been good. So far.
Several days ago, the Captain, at my urging, had the men drill at the gunnery, and though they did very poorly, I could not speak out about it, considering my station. After the exercise, Captain Laughton asked me my opinion and I replied that though it was wondrously exciting, perhaps things would go more smoothly if my girls and I could volunteer to be Powder Monkeys, as we are light in weight and small and quick and thus could free able-bodied seamen from that task and make things go more efficiently. He agreed wholeheartedly, and I went immediately below to inform my girls of just what I had volunteered them for.
“But Jacky,” cried Molly, my bright-eyed fourteen-year-old horse thief, once again expressing doubt over lending any assistance to our captors. “Why should we do this for them? They are our jailers!”
“Because, Molly, I hear from Mr. Higgins, our Assistant Purser, that there is such a thing called a pardon, which the governor of the penal colony is authorized to grant to any prisoner, based upon sincere repentance and goodness of behavior.” I placed my finger on her nose. “Believe me, Molly, Mr. Higgins is keeping a very strict account of every convict’s behavior on this journey, and he will be entering your service to the Lorelei Lee in your own record, Miss Reibey, and you may live to be happy at that. Now stand still while Maggie measures you for your new uniform.”
I have ordained that my Powder Monkeys be outfitted in clothing suited to the jobs they will be doing—light white canvas trousers and tops with modified mobcap, and hair done up in pigtail. It is a practical rig, and I believe it will instill some unit pride in my gang.
When all the uniforms were done and us girls dressed in them, I marched the Monkeys to the Captain for inspection. There were great hoots of hilarity all around, but I don’t care—my girls looked straight and proud and smart as new paint. After Captain Laughton stopped laughing, he allowed me to assign the Monkeys to their stations and then drill them. We made a number of dry runs till they got used to the routes down to the powder magazine, and carrying up the five-pound cartridges of black powder.
The Captain was impressed enough with our good order that he called the men to battle stations and each gun fired off two live charges. Things went much better this time, with the help of my girls, and I pronounced myself satisfied.
When we secured from the drill, I left my monkey uniform on as I intend to adopt it as my everyday wear. Nobody said I couldn’t, so on it stays. It is more practical than my dress, and cooler, too, to say nothing of being more modest when climbing up in the rigging. Didn’t take Jacky Faber long to get back in trousers, did it?
I am called into the Captain’s cabin virtually every night to provide musical accompaniment to his dinners. He has several of his officers in to dine at each meal, as well as various ladies, but one who is always in attendance is his good friend Enoch Lightner, a former Royal Navy lieutenant who had been blinded in battle. He has an excellent baritone voice and it is a pleasure to sing with him.
Well, time for me to blot and to file this letter and get ready to go to the Captain’s cabin for the evening. You know, when I am in that space, I often think fondly of you, my dear Sister, and our last dinner therein. I hope this finds everyone well and happy.
I am,
Yr. devoted friend and classmate,
Jacky
Chapter 34
“Let all slimy Pollywogs who would have the courage to dare approach the great Lord Neptune, Ruler of the Seas and All Upon Them, and beg him for admittance into the Holy Order of trusty Shellbacks, do so now upon their unworthy knees!”
Yes, the Lorelei Lee is crossing the equator at noon today and the festivities, if they can be called that, are in full swing. Yes, I, too, am an unworthy Pollywog, and am on my hands and knees. I got close to crossing that line, that time back in the Caribbean, but not quite, and it does not do to lie to King Neptune. I may not be quite as superstitious as most sailors, but still, no sense tempting fate.
There is a ritual to this thing. The night before crossing the line, the uninitiated Pollywogs symbolically overthrow the rule of the tyrannical Shellbacks in what is called the Wog Uprising. Army Major Johnston, being the highest-ranking of those officers who have not yet made the crossing, becomes Lord of the Pollywogs and grandly directs that Captain Laughton be taken from his place at the head of his tabl
e and seated at the foot, where a flagon of ale is poured over his head. Wog Lord Johnston seats himself at the head with the Newgaters’ own Esther Abrahams by his side as Queen of Wog-Revels.
The Captain takes all this with great good humor, roaring out his promise that all shall pay for this outrage. There is much hooing and hollering from us Wogs, and anyone who knows me knows I just love that sort of thing. Let King Chaos rule! Hooray!
It reminds me of the Pope’s Day Riots back in good old Boston. I had such a roaring good time then, and I’m having a good time at this, too. I am afraid a good part of Jacky Faber’s soul is pure, unbridled anarchist.
Yes, the Pollywogs do get to abuse the Shellbacks, and I get in my licks, believe me, but we must be careful in our abuse, for tomorrow the Shellbacks will take control again, and watch out, Pollywogs!
Kegs of good beer are cracked, meat is sizzled over the galley fires, and the carousing goes on far into the night.
The next day, the tables are turned. In the morning, no time is wasted—before any breakfast is served, roaring Shellbacks come through all the quarters, banging on pots and pans and demanding that all despised Pollywogs lay to the top deck to atone for their sins.
As the groggy and now fearful Pollywogs go up into the light, all of my girls, including me, are very wisely clad only in our underclothing, for I suspect that what will be coming will be, if nothing else, very wet and sloppy. Things are going to get crazy, ladies, so best be prepared. A few days ago the Lorelei Lee put in close to shore and loaded much slimy seaweed into her lifeboats. When I asked about the possible use of such vile stuff I was told, Never you mind, Wog.
“Get in a proper line, all you Wog Dogs! Now! King Neptune approaches!” This is roared out by the Shantyman, who stands beating a slow muted rhythm on his drum.
We get into some sort of a line and wait. I spot Higgins standing by the rail, serving tray in hand. I note that the Lorelei has been stopped and is dead in the water.
“On your knees!” thunders Enoch Lightner. “He is here! Well might you tremble!”
On cue, several seamen haul on a line, and a platform that hangs over the side is lifted level with the deck, and seated upon what appears to be some sort of throne is King Neptune himself. A great gasp goes up from the crowd. All fall to their hands and knees.
“WHO DARES? WHO DARES CALL UP MIGHTY NEPTUNE FROM HIS WATERY REALM?” bellows Neptune, waving the trident he holds in his hand.
It is, of course, Captain Laughton, himself, stark naked except for a crown made of rope entwined with seashell, sitting atop a grisly seaweed wig. Strands of that same gray-green seaweed are draped somewhat judiciously below his great bare belly, with some more hanging from his ears to suggest a beard. He wears a very fierce expression.
“It is a band of supplicants who have come to beg admittance to your kingdom, O Mighty Ruler of the Waves!” announces Higgins, handing the august King a goblet of wine.
“LET THEM APPROACH ME, THEN, TO KISS MY RING, BUT ONLY AFTER THEY HAVE PASSED THROUGH THE GAUNTLET SUCH THAT THEY MIGHT PROVE THEMSELVES WORTHY TO BE CALLED MY SONS AND DAUGHTERS!”
At the urging of several rough Shellbacks, the line begins crawling, rumps in air, toward the gauntlet, which consists of two parallel lines of twelve grinning Shellbacks each, and each holding three-foot-long sections of wet hose. There are about seven ladies in front of me, mostly Tartans. At the end, just before Neptune’s throne, there are more Shellbacks standing next to tubs of foul-smelling seaweed. Uh-oh . . .
The first poor Pollywogs enter the gauntlet, and the hoses are swung and brought to bear upon shoulders, backs, and bottoms. Screams are heard, but laughter, too—they are not hitting hard.
Higgins, how did you manage to finesse this? You’ve never been below the line . . .
The first of the Pollywogs, a Tartan named Sarah Manning, has made it to the end of the hose-swingers, whereupon a mound of rank seaweed is placed upon her head. From behind me I hear the sounds of dresses being hastily pulled over heads. Good idea, ladies, it’s gonna be messy . . .
The unfortunate Miss Manning is then lifted to her feet by two very courteous sailors and led grandly to stand before King Neptune.
“YOU MAY NOW KISS MY RING AND JOIN THE WATERY REALM!” he thunders.
The obedient Sarah bends down to kiss the ring, which is on the King’s hairy big toe.
“WELCOME, TRUSTY SHELLBACK! YOU MAY NOW ENTER THE HALLOWED KINGDOM OF THE SEA!”
With that, the two formerly courteous Shellbacks pick up the very surprised girl and fling her over the side. The sound of her scream is cut off by the sound of a splash. There are cries of alarm down the line.
“NEXT!” shouts the King.
Are they crazy? These girls cannot swim! Some must surely drown!
Surely not. Sarah is soon spotted being put back over the rail, dripping but undrowned.
The blows to my back have continued unabated, but they are quite bearable. Or they were. Then my downcast eyes fall upon a particularly well-shined pair of officer’s boots, and suddenly I receive a hard slap across my rear and cry out in spite of myself.
“Yeeow!”
I look up, shocked, and see that it is First Mate Ruger who has delivered the blow. Of course . . . He grins down at me and then winds up and gives me another sharp one.
Ouch! Please, not again!
Only the fact that the line moves relentlessly forward and takes me out of his range saves me from further pain. One more across the small of my back, then another on my legs, and then it’s someone else’s turn to crawl in front of that dirty bastard.
I feel with some relief the cool seaweed being applied to my head, and then I am led to the foot of King Neptune.
“HA! THE HALLS OF MY UNDERSEA GROTTO SHALL SURELY RING WITH MUSIC NOW. WELCOME ABOARD, MY LITTLE MERMAID!”
I kiss the ring, and then I see the blue water rushing up at me to cleanse me of seaweed . . . and fury.
Chapter 35
“Good soup, Cookie,” I chirp, perched on the edge of a bench in the galley, bowl of tasty burgoo in my hand, Jezebel on my lap as usual. “How much pork we got left?”
“Not much, Jacky,” he says, leaning over his pot of never-ending stew. “Things gettin’ mighty thin. Maybe we can take on some meat when we get to Cape Town. Lots o’ piggies there, I hear.”
“Ummm,” I murmur, swallowing the thick goodness. “Perhaps I should start up my miller business again.” I stick my finger in my bowl and let Jezebel lick it off with her raspy tongue.
“Maybe. ’Specially when we gets on the other side of the world. No telling what we’ll find there ’cept for the heathen Chinese and whatever the hell they got to eat.”
Back on the Bloodhound, that vile slaver, Cookie and I had set up a bit of a mutually advantageous enterprise. I would procure the millers—from my very accurate archers, led by Katy Deere herself, best miller-murderer ever born—and Cookie would roast ’em up for our delectation, keeping half of them for himself and his mates. The millers were actually recently deceased shipboard rats, nailed by Katy’s arrows, but because the little rotters had been stealing our finest flour and grains, they were not at all disgusting. In fact, they were quite delicious. I remember them with a certain fondness.
Note to self: See to the construction of several bows and many arrows.
Mick and Keefe are there in the galley, too, and we talk over old times on the Bloodhound as well as our current situation. Mick has taken up with Isabella Manson, one of my Crew and a decent sort—neat in appearance and reasonably well-spoken, considering. They have taken one of the tiny cabins on the second level and are content. Surely the best berth Mick Richards has ever gained. He must thank his stars every single time that Isabella cuddles up to him in the dark of the night.
Keefe, strangely, has not yet taken a woman to his bed, in spite of the Captain’s invitation for all to partake of the ocean of femaleness that exists on the Lorelei Lee.
“Our Keefe is shy, i
s all,” pronounces Mick with a smirk. Isabella sits next to him with her head leaning against his leg, shelling peas for tonight’s burgoo. Mick could have taken up with worse, I’m thinking.
“We’ll see about that, Keefie,” say I, ruffling his hair. “Jacky is on the case. She’ll find someone who’s right for you.”
Hard to believe, but the rough, tough, and very weathered face of the seaman looks away and blushes.
Yesterday, I discovered that I need not have worried about anyone’s drowning as a consequence of being pitched over the side and into the sea after kissing King Neptune’s ring to become a Shellback. They’d provided for everyone’s safety beforehand by rigging a square sail under the lee of the ship and out of sight of the fearful Pollywogs. They’d stretched it out so that it lay under the water to a depth of about five feet, thereby providing a safe pool of water in its belly. It is a thing often done in ships that sail in warm climes, to give the sailors a refreshing, safe dip. It certainly felt good to me.
After I hit the water and came up to clear the hair from my eyes, I saw Ann Marsh come flying down, then Molly Reibey, and then Esther Abrahams. And then, the overthrown leader of the fore-doomed Pollywogs, Army Major Johnston himself, was tossed over. He had taken all this hazing in great good humor, bootless and stripped to the waist. A fine figure of a man, I noticed . . . And I also observed that he and Esther were not far apart during the whole ordeal. Hmmm . . .
