by L. A. Meyer
The Captain has found out that I once owned this ship upon which we all now ride, but he seems to have gotten used to the idea; and now he even consults me on some things—like sail set and configuration and suchlike.
Enoch, the Shantyman—he who leads songs and beats out the rhythms to facilitate the work details, like raising and lowering sails, hauling anchor, and such—compliments me particularly on the design of my table, with its slots and depressions for all the dinnerware. Given his condition, he rejoices in always knowing where his food and drink lie. You would think a blind man would be messy in his eating habits, but he is not. A light touch of his forefinger on the contents of his plate tells him where and what things are. And for a rough, craggy-looking man, he is really quite kind and courtly, and congratulates me on my marriage to John Higgins, saying, “He is a fine man and I hope you will be very happy together.”
Heavy sigh . . . Yes, dear, I know that news must come as a bit of a shock. I suspect this letter has fallen from your hand, and you are passed out on the floor. You see, it had to be done for the sake of Higgins’s reputation onboard and for my own protection, too, and . . . uh . . . ask Ezra to explain, as he knows both Higgins and me.
What else . . . ?
Well, we have taken to playing at cards. There are endless games of whist, and I have become quite expert—and I don’t even cheat. I usually partner with Higgins against the Captain and whomever he has invited to play. I take great pleasure in trumping Mr. Ruger’s aces, and while I know I must be careful in that regard, it is satisfying to see his dark face redden. He is not at all pleased with my marriage to John, as he had sort of staked a claim on me from the start. Why, I don’t know—he is the high-and-mighty First Mate, and I am but a mere convict. There are two-hundred-and-fifty-odd women onboard from whom he could freely choose and yet he settles on me. Men, I swear . . .
Higgins opines that what one most desires is very often that which one cannot have. I don’t know . . .
We have stopped at Mauritius and at the Seychelles and the Maldives—Oh, Amy, such wonders, such sights, such smells, such colors! If only you could be here with me to take it all in—not that I’d want you to be a convict, of course. I really don’t think you’re cut out for that sort of thing, but still, I would delight in your sweet company.
At each of those ports, we pursue our various trades—the girls of the brothel Crews plying their ancient trade; me diving for coins thrown from the decks of ships. Actually I am growing quite rich at it—and yes, Amy, I am wearing appropriate garb when I dive. Course I could make more by diving starkers, but no sense pushing my luck. Best leave that sort of thing to Barnsley and her girls. Besides, my swimsuit is skimpy enough to insure good tips.
I bask in Mrs. Barnsley’s disfavor—she glares at me each time I waltz into the Captain’s cabin for a night of cards and entertainment. I have noticed that when people like me, they tend to like me a lot, but if they don’t, watch out for Jacky Faber. I repay kindness with kindness, love with love, but also hurt for hurt. I can be vindictive, yes, and vengeful, too. No, it does not say much for me, but there you are. When I catch Barnsley giving me the cold stare, I put on the Lawson Peabody Look, cock a hip in her direction, and stick out my tongue. Old cow . . .
Last night at dinner, Captain Laughton was musing on the fact that another convict ship with an escort left England shortly after we did, and he is surprised our wakes have not yet crossed, as both ships are taking essentially the same route to New South Wales. True, the ocean is large and our ships are small, but there are crossroads at sea, as well as on land.
Daytimes I fill my hours with drawing, painting, talking with my mates, and shooting rats. Yes, I have constructed a bow and manufactured a quantity of good-quality arrows and have gone hunting for the little grain-thieving varmints. I have access to the bottom deck, and my aim has become quite deadly, which is good, for our meat supply is running low and not always available in these tropical ports, where meat spoils so easily. Those of our sisters who were on the Bloodhound will recall how good Katy Deere and her Dianas were at bagging the creatures, and how good Cookie was at cooking them.
Being married to my dear John Higgins has many advantages, one of which is being allowed more freedom when we hit a port. I am, after all, married to the Assistant Purser, and so am accorded some respect for that. I have given my word not to try to escape, and I am trusted.
Well, time for dinner. The Captain calls and I must obey.
Tomorrow Bombay!
Your Ever Devoted Sister and Friend,
Jacky
Chapter 39
“Come, Mairead, the Captain has given us permission to visit this great city in the company of my dear husband today, as Higgins is off to buy spices and other supplies for the Captain’s table, and we”—I poke Mairead in the side and give her a wink—“shall see what we will see.”
Mairead grins back as we advance to the head of the gangplank.
“You must be careful of her, Mr. Higgins,” admonishes the Captain when we are on the brow. “You may be married to her, but she is going to New South Wales. The redhead, too. I know my duty, however distasteful it might be.” He pauses, then adds, “And, furthermore, I have grown quite fond of both of them. Plus, there is to be a procession of some sort this afternoon, and I am invited to the Governor’s box. I expect, Mr. Higgins, for you to attend me there.”
Higgins bows and assures him his two charges will be good and careful, and that he will be delighted to view the procession in the Captain’s company. And with a pair of delighted squeals from the two charges, we are off.
On the dock, Higgins greets a very dignified and proper Indian man dressed in Western style. He is a Mr. Rajeeb and has been hired to guide him about on the day’s business. As he leads Higgins off into the teeming city, we follow meekly—well, sort of meekly.
Higgins had already checked with the other English ships in port to see if any had left England after us and perhaps had a copy of the Naval Gazette, so we could find out what happened to poor Jaimy, but alas, we were once again the most recent arrival.
Poor Jaimy, am I never to know your fate? Ah, well, perhaps it is best in not knowing, for I can always hope.
Mairead and I walk along, hand in hand, our senses reeling with the sights and sounds and smells and simply overwhelming nature of Bombay—we gasp out “Look at that!” and “Oh, my God!” There are huge, and I mean huge numbers of very exotic people—the men wearing loose white shirts and trousers—some with turbans, some not, some with full black beards, some with big, glossy mustaches. The women, many of whom are quite beautiful, wear brightly colored dresses that seem to be one long piece of cloth that is wrapped around their lower parts from ankles to waist, leaving the midriff bare. Above that, they wear a short-sleeved shirt that covers their shoulders and comes down to just below their breasts. The cloth that covers their bottoms comes up over their backs to hang over their shoulders. Their heads are uncovered, and their hair is put up in many becoming ways. They wear much jewelry—jangly bracelets about their wrists and ankles, many necklaces, and even jeweled pendants attached to their hair such that jewels hang across their foreheads.
I’m gonna like this place, I just know it!
The women have some dark cosmetic around their eyes, making their eyes seem even bigger and more luminous than they already are. I have got to get some of that!
I’m thinking about this when I feel something tugging at my skirt. I look down and see a little boy with impossibly big brown—nearly black—eyes. He has a mop of glossy black hair up top and wears what looks like a white diaper down below.
“Missy, Missy, Memsahib! You need guide! Ravi good guide! Speak good English,” he implores, nodding, while still clinging to my skirt.
“You, boy! Go away! Jaana!” shouts Mr. Rajeeb when he sees the lad at my side.
“But he is so cute,” I say. The boy’s face shines a hopeful grin, his teeth amazingly white against the brown of skin
.
“No, Miss. He is Untouchable! Dirty!”
“He looks touchable to me,” I respond, reaching out my hand to tousel his hair.
Mr. Rajeeb spits out a long string of what must be dire threats in the local tongue, so the boy scurries away, looking disappointed and hurt.
“Come, ladies, please stay close,” urges our guide, beckoning us along. We meekly follow. Sort of meekly. Too bad; I rather liked the little fellow . . .
I would have not thought it possible, but the teeming crowd seems to get even thicker as we go along until, as we round a corner and enter a market area, there is a loud clamor of blowing trumpets and beating drums and the mob presses hard into us so that Mairead and I are suddenly separated from Higgins and Mr. Rajeeb by a mass of pressing bodies. It seems to be caused by a procession of sorts.
“Look, Jacky!” exclaims Mairead in wonder. “It’s an elly-phant!”
Sure, enough, high above the heads of the people, appears the head of an elephant, all brightly powdered and beribboned. It weaves its slow, ponderous way along the street and then disappears.
“Coo, imagine that,” I breathe. “Jacky Faber from the slums of London and Mairead McConnaughey from the bogs of Ireland have gazed with their own eyes upon a real live elephant in its native land! Now all I need is my Bombay Rat and the visit shall be complete.”
“Watch that ‘bog’ stuff, Brit,” laughs Mairead, giving me an elbow. “But, aye, it is amazin’.”
“Missy! Missy! Memsahib!”
I look down and it is our little lad again. I look about for Higgins and Mr. Rajeeb, but see them nowhere. Oh, well . . .
“Missies need Ravi now? He has much good English. Show ladies Bombay, get things for nice ladies, yes?”
“How is it that you know our language, boy-o?” asks the skeptical Mairead.
“Oh, Missy of Impossibly Red Hair, my mommy was in household of Big Mr. Elphy, big businessman. He good man. My mommy cleaned privies, other things. Yes, we Untouchable caste, but he good to us.” Ravi’s big eyes get bigger and then glisten with tears. “My mommy go to Brahma last year. Sahib Elphy gave me money for funeral. Mommy sweet. I know she come back as happy pretty bird that sings sweet.”
“Your dad?” asks Mairead, softer now.
“No daddy.”
“And Mr. Elphy?”
“Poor Sahib Elphy lose money. Have to close house and go away.”
“Where do you sleep?” ask I, already knowing what the answer will be like.
“Under docks by big boats.”
“And how do you live?”
“Ravi get stuff for sailor men—foods, clothes, trinkets, henna, hashish . . .” He looks up hopefully. “Hashish? Ladies want hashish? Got best! Can get finest kind hashish. You want?”
I smile and shake my head and think back to New Orleans and Mam’selle Claudelle’s offerings in that regard—“Oh, Precious, you must try this . . . It will make you feel so good . . . Breathe deep now, baby; it won’t hurt you . . .” But I did not snort in the line of white powder on the tabletop in that café, saying, “No thanks, Mam’selle. I feel fine already . . .”
“Anything you ladies want, Ravi can get—plus he keep dear ladies’ precious bodies from harm—there are many bad men in Bombay! Assassins! Thuggies! Oh, Missies, you must be so careful—you must have Ravi to protect! Much horribles!”
“How much does this mighty Ravi protection cost?” The boy barely comes up to my waist, and I’m small.
“Only your sweet female companies, Memsahibs. And whatever bits you can toss to poor Ravi.”
I laugh. “All right, Ravi, lead on and show us your city.” He leaps in the air with a delighted whoop.
“What about Higgins and the Captain and all?” asks Mairead. “Won’t they be worried about us? We are, after all, worth ten and six each—if breathing.”
“And you a bit more,” I say, giving her belly a light pat with the back of my hand. She is starting to show a little. “Nay, let them worry about us. I don’t think Higgins will be overly concerned. He knows me, and he knows I won’t leave my friends . . . or my ship. He knows I’ll pop back up.” I say this and give her a wink. “And, Sister mine, for the moment, we are free. Who knows if we will ever be able to say that again?”
She nods and lifts pale red eyebrows in agreement.
“Come, Missies, follow Ravi now. He show you city. Come, come . . .”
The crowd has thinned out a bit, so we are able to walk along, peering into market stalls at all the wonders offered there.
“Missy Memsahibs have money?” inquires Ravi, seeing our obvious interest.
I dig into my purse and bring out a handful of gold and silver coins.
“Put it away quick, Memsahib!” whispers Ravi, looking furtively around at the shopkeeps, whose interest in these two strangely dressed girls has suddenly sharply increased. Wares are handed out to us with ingratiating smiles and gestures.
“No take,” warns Ravi. “First we must go to moneychangers—do not worry. Ravi not let them cheat you. Come.” He makes so bold as to take my hand and lead me on.
In a short while we pass a large churchlike building. I peer in and see a long hall, at the end of which is a statue of what looks to be a big-bellied creature with the body of a man and with the head of a rather jolly-looking elephant, all bejeweled and brightly colored.
“It is the god Ganesh,” says Ravi, bowing his head. “He is good god.” I give a little bow of the Faber head, too.
Mairead does not. “I would surely be excommunicated if I did that and the Holy Father found out that I bent my head to a heathen idol,” she says, crossing herself and looking heavenward.
“The Holy Father is far from here, Mairead, so I would not worry,” I reply, still looking inside at the intricately inlaid wall and the the plumes of incense smoke wafting about in there. There are worshippers inside, and they wave us in with smiles.
A supplicant comes out of the temple of Ganesh, wearing the robes of what I take to be those of a monk, and holding a wooden bowl. I open my purse again, to extract a small silver coin, which I put into his bowl. The monk smiles and puts fingers to forehead and says something softly before retreating back into the temple.
“He says, ‘Thank you, kind woman-child. Your offering will feed us for three full days. Blessed be you and your children,’” translates Ravi. “It should bring you much good luck, Memsahib. Good karma.”
“Well, I can always use a lot of that, given my nature,” I say. “Press on . . . uh, what is word for ‘boy’?”
“In Urdu, Missy? . . . Larka.”
“Well, that seems to fit,” I say, grandly lifting a hand and pointing down the street. “Lead on, larka.”
We go on toward the moneychangers, wherever they may lie, and we come upon another temple—one that seems rather dark compared to the bright interior of the Ganesh temple. Again I peer in, and this time I see a statue of a woman, painted black, with many arms, the hands of which hold mostly cruel-looking weapons. Many skulls are festooned about. There are men outside the entrance, turbaned, with arms crossed across bare chests, great gleaming curved swords in their hands. They do not look at all welcoming. In fact, seeing us, they glower.
Ravi pushes us to the other side of the street, looking furtive again.
“What’s going on?” I ask.
“Is temple of Goddess Kali,” he says, nodding toward the dark temple.
“So?”
“Ganesh is good god,” Ravi explains. “Missy Memsahib pray to Lord Ganesh for good luck. Kali sometimes good, sometimes bad . . . sometimes Goddess of Time and Renewal, sometimes Goddess of Death.” The boy shivers. “Memsahib pray to Goddess Kali when she want some bad person murdered in awful way.”
“Hmmm . . . Remind me to stay out of this Kali’s way.”
“Not always possible, Memsahib.”
Wise advice, I am thinking.
We hear shouting, from one of the men at the temple gate . . .“Ferengi!” is
shouted at us. “Ferengi! Suar!”
Uh-oh . . .
Ravi pushes us farther down the street, away from Kali’s not very welcoming temple.
“What does ferengi mean?” I ask.
“Not nice word for ‘person from away,’” says Ravi, looking worried.
“And suar?”
“Uh . . . it mean like oink-oink piggies. Not good. We must get dear bodies of Missies wrapped in Bombay ladies’ cloths so they not be seen as foreigner ladies. Ah, here we are.”
We find ourselves in a courtyard where men sit about cross-legged with bowls of coins in front of them. They have calculating machines—abacuses, I think—next to each of them.
I give Ravi a handful of coins from my purse, the fruits of my divings—English shillings, French francs, Spanish pesetas, and only the gods of money know what else—and he goes to work. There is much holding up of fingers from the men therein and much shifting of beads on the rods of the abacuses and much shaking of heads, but then some noddings and the job is done.
Ravi comes back with a much larger handful of coins, looking pleased. “I do not think you were bad cheated overmuch, Missy Memsahib.”
He pours the coins into my hand. I give them to Mairead and then dart out my hand and grab his fist and untwine his fingers. Sure enough, a few rupees rest tucked between his fingers.
“Not beat poor Ravi, Memsahib, please!” he pleads, tears running out of his eyes. “Is mistake!”
He looks properly abashed, so I give his head a light rap with my knuckle and say, “Right. Just don’t do it again. Do your job properly and you’ll be paid.”
Actually, I admire his entreprenurial spirit. When I was a street urchin, I would have tried to pull the same exact thing.
Right now, though, the lure of shopping calls, and wiping my forearm across my sweaty forehead, I say, “It’s awfully hot. Let’s see if we can get into something a little lighter.”
