by L. A. Meyer
Higgins bows to the appreciative audience while I make quiet gagging noises.
“Hey, Jacky, sometime you should try a plate of shenairuth, or at least that’s what we used to call it back on the farm,” says Mairead, giving me an elbow in my side. “They’re like oysters what never saw any sea.”
And I do not want to know what they are, thank you, as I have heard of prairie oysters and their like, from my time in the wilds of America.
Mr. Gibson, the Second Mate, stands and gives us an excellent reading of “Band of Brothers,” Prince Hal’s exhortation of his troops at the Battle of Agincourt . . .
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers . . .
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne’er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now a-bed
Shall think themselves accursed they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin’s day . . .
Not a dry eye in the room. Good job, Mr. Gibson.
The dinner is cleared and the telling of jokes and poems and stories has wound down. Now the Captain cries, “Come, my girls, let us have something much livelier in the way of our entertainment!” He wipes his greasy lips across his sleeve, pounds the table, then hoists one of the nearby dollies onto his lap. “Let it be a fine fandango!”
I lay aside my guitar to pick up the Lady Gay, and launch into a few fast reels—“Haste to the Wedding” and “The Spotted Cow.” Then Mairead and I do the comic-songs part of our act, to great hilarity. Then I say to the Shantyman, “A tune, if you would, Mr. Lightner, so that my friend and I might dance.” He nods and I place the Lady Gay in his hands and he puts bow to her and rips out “The Liverpool Hornpipe.”
A perfect choice.
We each put one arm across the shoulders of the other, lift our hooves, and proceed to tear up the deck.
“Bravo! Bravo!” shouts the Captain when we finish and take a bow. “Capital! Just capital!” Cheers and clapping all around, which warms my soul, and I can tell from the flush in Mairead’s cheeks that it pleases her, too.
Later, as things are quieting down, I catch Esther’s eye and wink. She nods in understanding as I begin Bach’s Minuet in G. I get off of what passes for the dance floor as Esther and Major Johnston arise and join hands to begin the dance.
It is a slow, stately sort of dance, with much dignified posturing and bowing and curtsying, but by their looks and gestures, the dancers manage to get across their mutual affection. Their dance ends in a very un-minuet-like snug embrace.
As the last note dies away, Captain Laughton lurches to his feet, dumping a Lizzie to the floor. “A toast,” he says, lifting his glass to the young couple. “A toast to the blushing bride and dashing groom, for tomorrow is their wedding day!”
“Hear, hear!” choruses the table, and the libation is drunk.
“A wedding, Sir?” asks the Third Mate, echoing my thoughts.
“Yes, Mr. Gibson, a wedding. Miss Abrahams has consented to be the wife of Major Johnston, but only on condition of being legally married, and the foolish man has agreed.” Captain Laughton takes another pull at his wineglass and then continues. “Blinded by her beauty, no doubt, and I can’t quite blame him. She is a rare jewel of a girl.” He lifts that same wineglass to our Esther. “A jewel as well as a Jewess! Ha!” She blushes prettily and casts down her eyes.
“We’ll do it up right, by God! In true Lorelei Lee style!” exults the Captain, pleased with his latest witticism. “You there, Faber. Look me up some verses from the Bible to read tomorrow! It reads for both Jew and Gentile all the same, right? Good. We shall have a proper wedding at sea, top-notch all the way! And now, more music! More wine! More everything!”
Chapter 37
The next morning comes early, as it always does after a night of riotous behavior, but by noon all have recovered . . . somewhat.
Higgins has seen to the placement of a lectern on the edge of the quarterdeck. When all is in place, he nods to the waiting Bo’sun, who blasts out on his pipe and roars, “All hands and convicts topside to witness wedding!” He bellows this with the same stentorian tone he would use to announce, “Witness punishment!” Maybe to him it is the same sort of thing . . .
Men and boys, women and girls, pour out from down below and array themselves about the deck. It is a great soaring day, all blue sky and brisk but gentle breezes—in short, a great day for a wedding.
When all are settled, Higgins goes to the cabin and brings out Captain Augustus Laughton, a bit unsteady on his pins this day but still in total command of his ship and all upon it.
I stand next to the lectern, put fiddle to chin, and play the “Wedding March.” When done, I stand ready to hand up the Scripture. The Captain looks out over the crowd and begins . . .
“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join in Holy . . . or at least . . . Naval . . . Matrimony . . . Major George Johnston of His Majesty’s Eighth Grenadiers and . . .”
Here the Captain consults the piece of paper I had given him earlier.
“Uh . . . Esther Semple Abrahams. Will the two step forward and stand before me?”
Army Major Johnston and Esther Abrahams do, indeed, advance to the lectern, hand in hand. I have assigned Mary Wade as flower-girl-with-no-flowers, as there are none to be had, but she has been provided with sheafs of wheat to cradle in the crook of her arm. Second Mate Seabrook stands to Major Johnston’s side as Best Man. Ship’s Boy Darby Patton holds a pillow with a ring upon it. It’s all a bit tacky, I know. Sorry, but it’s all I could put together on a moment’s notice.
I hand up the Bible to the Captain, with my handwritten script laid within. “Harken now all of you worthless sods to Scripture!” He picks up the paper and begins to read with great portentousness, his forefinger in the air.
“And the Lord God cast the Man into a deep sleep and, while he slept, took one of his ribs and closed up its place with flesh. And the rib which the Lord God took from the Man, he made into a Woman, and brought her to the Man. Then he said to the Man, She is bone of your bone, and flesh of your flesh; she shall be called Woman, for from Man she was taken.’ For this reason a Man shall leave his Father and Mother and cleave unto his Wife, and the two shall become of one flesh . . . and what God has put together, let no man put asunder!”
Captain Laughton thunders out that last line in a voice worthy of Moses coming down from the mountain.
Yes, there was a Bible onboard the Lorelei Lee, so I got all that from it. Course, I fixed it up a little bit—it didn’t quite flow, y’ know what I mean? But I think I got the real sense of it, and I hope I will be forgiven.
There was an additional bit in Genesis at the end of all that—“Both the Man and the Woman were naked, but they felt not shame”—but I left that out, fearing that Captain Laughton would take note and bellow out, “LET’S ALL GET NAKED!” at the end of the ceremony. Although the command might have been carried out by all aboard if taken as a direct order from the Lord God Captain—and it does sound like fun—it might detract from the solemnity of the service, and I do want Esther to have her proper wedding.
“If any here have any objections to this union”—the Captain looks around—“let them speak now or forever hold their peace.”
From the midst of the crowd comes, “Hey, Cholly, how comes ye don’t want to marry me, all legal-like loike that gent there is gonna do wi’ that girl?”
This is heard from elsewhere in the crowd, “’Cause you’s a whore, Sheba, is why.”
. . . And comes the answer, “And you’s the bleedin’ Pope, I suppose, Cholly, ever so true and faithful?”
“That I be, Sheba! Wham, bam, and thank you, ma’am. Thank you very much, very much indeed, my girl! When I leaves ye off in Australia, ye will ’ave a great big belly and me hearty thanks for a jolly ride! And if it’s a boy, na
me ’im after me, and if it’s a girl, name her Bertha, after me mum!”
“THAT AIN’T THE PROPER ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION!” bellows Captain Laughton, red in the face and disturbed by the ruination of his solemn ceremony. “It’s rhetorical, like. And I’ll have no more lip from any of you!”
Cholly and Sheba, whoever they might be, are abashed and quiet down.
The Captain gives a few harrumphs, then continues. “Very well. Now then, do you, Major Johnston, take Esther as your lawful wedded wife, to love and honor and all that?”
“I do.”
“And do you, Esther Abrahams, take Major George Johnston to honor and obey and all that?”
“I do,” responds the lass.
“Excellent. Now place the ring on her finger, kiss the bride, and . . . by the authority vested in me, I now pronounce you man and wife!”
The two lovers kiss, wave, and head below as a great cheer goes up from all.
The Captain then turns to those of us remaining.
“Every man on board now has taken unto him a woman, and that is as it should be!” he proclaims, grandly, his gaze falling upon all those assembled. “Higgins! A glass. Being a preacher is hot, dry work, by the living God!”
Higgins is right there with a brimming goblet of ruby-red claret.
“Thank you, thank you, my very good man!” He drinks deep and then furrows his brow in thought. He casts his eye upon his trusted steward . . .
“Hmmm . . . Yes, every man has taken a woman and maybe more than one . . . Ha! Except for you, Higgins, my good fellow. Tell me, why have you not yet done so?”
Uh-oh . . .
There are a few snickers from the crowd, but Higgins, composed as usual and with a slight smile on his lips, bows to the Captain and says, “Begging your pardon, Sir, but I merely wished to cast my eye over the entire . . . flock . . . as it were, so as to choose the one most suited to my taste and disposition.”
“Disposition, my ass. Come, Higgins, you must pick a girl to bed. We must all do our duty to populate that continent. Surely one has struck your fancy. Choose now.”
Do it, Higgins, do it! I think, imploring him with my eyes. Else you will be in big trouble!
“Very well, Sir,” says Higgins, turning to survey the crowd. “I have considered, and, if it please you, I shall have that one, if she should so agree.”
He holds out his hand to me. Whew! Good move, Higgins!
“Our little minstrel?” asks Captain Laughton. “Surely something a bit more buxom than that?”
“Chacun a son goût, Sir,” replies Higgins. “Or, as the Chinese say, ‘Every worm to his taste—some prefer nettles.’”
“Ha! Well said, Higgins, well said,” chortles the Captain. “But I’ve heard that she has refused all comers. What if she refuses you? Hmmm?”
“Do you accept, Miss?” Higgins still has his hand out to me.
I hand off my fiddle to Mary Wade and step forward to take his hand and curtsy. Rising, I look into his eyes and say, “I accept.”
I sense that Mister Ruger is glaring daggers at me. The Captain holds his hand to his chin and looks at us, considering.
“Hmmm . . . And how old are you, Miss?”
“I am sixteen, Sir. Seventeen in October.”
“Well, then, I imagine it is all right,” says Augustus Laughton, Lord of the Lorelei Lee. “Come over here and stand before me now.” He holds his hand over our heads and intones, “The words from the Bible have already been said, so . . . by the authority vested in me as Captain of the Lorelei Lee, I now pronounce you man and wife!”
There is a cheer from the crowd, and the Captain roars, “The newly marrieds shall now repair to their bowers while we return to our revels! I like to run a happy ship, and by God, I cannot think of a happier ship than this one!”
Roars of approval from the crew and the Crews.
Minutes later, Higgins and I are at the door to his cabin.
“Will you carry me across the threshold, husband?” I ask, twinkling at Higgins and placing my hand upon his shoulder.
He laughs, scoops me up, and carries me into the cabin. He places me on my feet, and I squeal with delight in seeing my old seabag again. I kneel down to rummage through the dear old thing—my paints, my papers, my inks, my cosmetics. Yes, a little perfume right now, oh, yes! . . . And then . . . my miniature of Jaimy.
That cools my joy a bit.
“I’m sure he is all right, Miss,” says Higgins, seeing what I hold in my hand and the expression on my face.
“Thank you for saying so, Higgins,” I reply, returning the painting to the bag and rising to go sit on the bed. “Now, come over here beside me,” I murmur. “We’ve got to make this sound good.” I gesture toward the open porthole and then point to my ear. He nods in understanding—yes, they will be listening.
Higgins comes to sit next to me, and we have a raucous good time of bouncing up and down on the bed, making the bedsprings squeak and the bedstead thump against the wall. I add some feminine moans of ecstasy and cries of, “Oh, John, yes, oh, yes!”
Higgins adds a few low male grunts, and we agree that the job is done, and done well.
Afterward, he asks, “Can I get you anything in the way of a wedding present, Miss?”
As I lie back on the pillow, I think on this for a moment and then say, “You know, Higgins, my elegant little tub . . . I have not seen it for a good long while.”
“Of course, Miss. I could not think of anything finer. I shall order it up.”
He rises and goes out the door to see that it’s done. I disrobe and duck under the covers, and I pull the sheets to my chin. Soon Mick and Keefe appear, full of smirks but also bearing the tub and buckets of hot water; and then Higgins returns and the bath is prepared.
“Har-har, she takes a bath and she’s a virgin again, right, Mr. Higgins?” Mick chortles. Higgins forces himself to smile at that. Funny, but Keefe doesn’t laugh, either.
When the two are gone, I slip out of the bed and into the tub, and Higgins’s strong fingers are once again in my hair . . . Oh, Lord, that is so good . . .
Ahhhh . . .
Suddenly this lovely idyll is cut short by a ringing of the bell that hangs by Higgins’s bed.
“Hmm,” says Higgins. “I believe I’d best go see to the Captain. He was a bit into his cups rather early in the day, what with the nuptial celebrations and all. He will probably be needing his nap now.”
“Go, Higgins, and thank you. I will be fine,” I say. “Till later.” I get halfway out of the tub to give him a peck on the cheek. “I could not be married to a finer man.”
As he goes out the door, cheers are heard. Men, I swear . . .
The door is left slightly ajar, and I feel eyes boring into my bare back, eyes which I strongly suspect belong to Mr. Ruger. I continue to soap myself and to pay no attention to whoever is out there. No, I do not care. All I care about is this lovely, lovely bath.
After the boisterous festivities of the day, the evening is quiet. I expect everyone is quite exhausted. I know I am, that’s for sure. I take a nightdress from my lovely seabag and crawl into bed.
I slip off to sleep, but I awaken when Higgins comes back into the cabin.
I turn over and slide over next to the wall. Higgins undresses, dons his nightshirt, and asks, “Are you awake, Miss?”
“Yes, Higgins.”
“I shall sleep over here on the floor.”
“No, you shall not, Higgins. You will sleep in here next to me, to keep me from the damp. I’ll lie next to the wall, and you shall sleep on the outside so it’ll be easier for you to answer the Captain’s call, should it come.”
He says nothing, but I feel him slip in next to me.
“Ummm . . .” I murmur and snuggle up next to him and settle in. After a bit, I whisper in the darkness, “Higgins?”
“Yes, Miss?”
“Is . . . is there anything I can . . . uh . . . do for you . . . husband?” I place my hand on his lower ribs.
“We are legally married, you know . . . and there are some . . . things . . . that I have heard about . . .”
He chuckles, then lifts my hand, to place it higher on his chest. “No, Miss. I think it best that we keep our relationship on the platonic level. But thank you for the offer. Let us go to sleep now.”
I nuzzle in closer and take a deep breath. “I do love you, John Higgins. You are my best and dearest friend.”
The Lorelei Lee rocks us both into a deep and contented sleep.
Chapter 38
Mrs. John Higgins
Onboard the Lorelei Lee
Off the West Coast of India
July 1807
Miss Amy Trevelyne
Dovecote Farm
Quincy, Massachusetts, USA
Dear Amy,
Bombay! Can you believe it, Amy? We shall be in Bombay, India, tomorrow! There will be English ships there, and I shall be able to post my letters. Captain Laughton tells me that we English own the place—King Charles II got it as dowry from the Portuguese back when he married Catherine de Braganza. Guess the Indians didn’t have much say in the matter, but hey . . .
I shall be able to look about for my Bombay Rat, whatever it may be, and wherever it might lie.
What news, then? Let’s see . . .
