by L. A. Meyer
Considering this, I drew the lads about me last night.
“Boys. We have to take heart, else we must lie down to die dishonored deaths. We must gather weapons, however crude they might be. I am sure you have noticed the sloppy way of things up there . . .”
There are grunts of assent in the darkness. Many curses are laid upon the heads of our jailers, many imprecations cast as to the morals of their mothers.
I lay out my plan, concluding with, “We shall need a diversion.”
“Oh, you want a diversion, Mr. Fletcher? Well, next exercise you’ll get one, won’t he, Arthur?” says Padraic. I sense him grinning in the dark. “We’ll sing the good Sergeant and the fine Corporal a little bit of a song, won’t we, Arthur?”
“That we shall, Padraic. Oh, yes, we shall.”
I don’t ask, for I know they will not tell.
The next day, after the morning swill, we are once again hauled up on deck for exercise and airing, and while we are shuffled around the hatch top, once again Second Mate Travis Hollister falls in beside me to talk.
“So, Fletcher, how are you holding up?”
“I am able to sit up and take nourishment, Sir,” I answer, somewhat churlishly. “Thank you for your concern.”
“Ah, well, cheer up, James, it shan’t be too long now. We enter the Strait of Malacca in the Dutch East Indies tomorrow and should be at New South Wales within two months.”
I still recall my old jailhouse partner Mike Fink bellowing at me that I should be able to do a mere two months’ confinement standing on my head with my thumb up my rear . . . But never mind, Jacky. You should not be subjected to such crude talk.
“Yes. I can see from the angle of the sun that we are well past India. But thank you, Sir, for the more precise fix. It eases my mind a bit to know where we are.”
What I am worried about is Hollister’s presence at this spot right now. He simply cannot be here when I try for the belaying pin. I glance over at Padraic and catch his eye. Not yet, lad, wait for my signal . . . If not today, then tomorrow . . .
Just then First Mate Block climbs up to the quarterdeck and takes over the watch. Hollister leaves, and goes below.
With some relief, I nod to Padraic.
“Shall we sing a song, then, lads, to brighten our spirits this fine day?” he loudly asks. “And perhaps lighten the hearts of dear Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance in the process? Of course we shall.”
The Sergeant and the Corporal, clubs clutched in hand, listen to this without expression, and wait.
With that, Padraic Delaney begins.
Oh, me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride,
As we went a-walkin down by the seaside,
Mark now what followed and what did betide,
For it bein on Christmas mor-ning.
Padraic looks over at Arthur McBride, who picks up the tune.
Now, for recreation, we went on a tramp,
And we met Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance
And a little wee drummer intending to camp,
For the day bein’ pleasant and char-ming.
“Good morning, good morning,” the Sergeant did cry.
“And the same to you, gentlemen,” we did reply,
Intending no harm but meant to pass by,
For it bein’ on Christmas mor-ning.
It appears the song’s lyrics concern a recruitment detail trying to sign up poor hapless Irish youth for the battles in Portugal, France, and Spain. The Sergeant and the Corporal are beginning to look concerned, as Padraic picks it up again.
“But,” says he, “My fine fellows, if you will enlist,
It’s ten guineas in gold I’ll stick into your fist,
And a crown in the bargain for to kick up the dust,
And drink the King’s health in the mor-ning
The Sergeant in the song continues his blandishments. Padraic lays it on thick . . .
For a soldier, he leads a very fine life,
And he always is blessed with a charmin young wife,
And he pays all his debts without sorrow or strife,
And he always lives pleasant and char-ming.
I round the turn, my eye on a particular belaying pin lying in the scupper gutter.
And a soldier, he always is decent and clean,
In the finest of clothing he’s constantly seen.
While other poor fellows go dirty and mean,
And sup on thin gruel in the mor-ning.
Padraic ducks his head and shuffles along, letting Arthur McBride take over.
“But,” says Arthur, “I wouldn’t be proud of your clothes,
For you’ve only the lend of them, as I suppose,
But you dare not change them one night, for you know
If you do, you’ll be flogged in the mor-ning.”
McBride plainly looks the two guards up and down in their now shabby red uniforms and presses on, his voice thick with contempt.
“We have no desire to take your advance,
All hazards and dangers we barter on chance,
For ye would have no scruples for to send us to France,
Where we would get shot without war-ning.”
“Oh no,” says the Sergeant, “I’ll have no such chat,
And I neither will take it from snappy young brats.
For if you insult me with one other word,
I’ll cut off your heads in the mor-ning.”
The Sergeant and the Corporal make a threatening move toward Arthur McBride, and Ian McConnaughey takes up the next verse.
And then Arthur and I, we soon drew our hogs,
And we scarce gave them time for to draw their own blades
When a trusty shillelagh came over their heads
And bade them take that as fair war-ning.
And their old rusty rapiers that hung by their sides,
We flung them as far as we could in the tide.
“Now take them up, devils!” cried Arthur McBride,
“And temper their edge in the mor-ning.”
Their clubs are out now.
“All right, that’s it, you Irish bastards!” cries Sergeant Napper, lifting his truncheon and taking a savage swing at Ian McConnaughey’s undefended back.
But Arthur McBride does not stop. He continues to sing, snarling the last verse right into the guards’ faces.
And we havin’ no money, paid them off in cracks.
We paid no respect to their two bloody backs,
For we beat them there like a pair of wet sacks,
And left them for dead in the mor-ning.
The riot is on.
Corporal Vance roars and hits Padraic hard on the side of his head, and he goes down, dragging Duggan and Connolly with him. Then, on cue, all the others fall as if a line of dominoes. I, too, hit the deck, as if dragged by the others.
“Dammit, no! Get them up!” shouts Mr. Block. “We cannot have this!”
But Vance and Napper are maddened beyond measure—again and again they lift their clubs to bring them down on the heads, shoulders, and backs of my poor lads—and the job gets done.
As I have been allowed to keep my boots, I have my trousers firmly tucked into the tops of them. Seeming to flail about helplessly in the melee, I lay my hand on a belaying pin and slip it down through the waistband of my pants and against my leg, where it rests secure and hidden. Yes, the job is done.
Order is restored when we are once again thrown down into our cell, with a promise of no food tonight and with many a bruise and bump to nurse.
But that is all right.
Later, in the gloom of night, I pull out the club and whisper, “Here. Pass this down to Duggan. If anyone can crack a skull with one swing of that, it is he.” A satisfied grunt is heard from the massive Sean Duggan as he slaps the club into his palm. “Just bring ’em on.”
“Just keep it well hidden, Mr. Duggan, and you’ll get your chance.”
A rather catchy tune, I must say. I hum it to myself, much la
ter, as I search for sleep . . .
Oh, me and my cousin, one Arthur McBride,
As we went a-walkin down by the seaside,
Now mark what followed and what did betide,
For it bein on Christmas mor-ning!
Good night, Jacky. Although I find them somewhat rough around the edges, I feel you have chosen well in your friends.
Yrs,
Jaimy
Chapter 42
I have been largely forgiven for getting us kicked out of India, and I am soon back in Captain Laughton’s good graces, if not Mrs. Barnsley’s—“Little brat gets away with everything, I swear,” she grumbles to Mrs. MacDonald and Mrs. Berry, and they tsk! tsk! right along with the old biddy—as each night Mairead and I once again prance into the Captain’s cabin for an evening of good food and revels.
As we sail on, Mr. Gibson tells me that we have entered the Strait of Malacca, because the islands of the Dutch East Indies will afford us some protection from high seas. That’s good because after we had left India, we did encounter a storm of truly horrific proportions—a true cyclone—and the ladies of the Lorelei Lee finally got a taste of what the wrath of Neptune really could be like.
The storm worked up, and when it was upon us, hatches were battened down, and all, except for the watch on deck, were ordered below. As the poor ship was tossed about and groaned ’neath the fury of the wind and raging sea, I know there was many a wail of despair from those who thought their end had come, that they would surely drown. I am sure there was many a bargain made with God. I know, for I myself have made many such bargains in the past.
At the height of the cyclone, I’d gone back on deck, in the lashing wind and rain, to help where I could. There I spied Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman, one arm around the mainmast and the other held high, his sightless eyes on the heaving sea, yelling.
Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage, blow!
You Cataracts and Hurricanos, Spout!
Mairead, who had come up by my side in this malestrom, shouted, “What makes him go on so?”
And I shouted back into the wind, “He may be blind, but he is still a sailor, and he is still a man. He’d rather die out here in the open than down below, trapped like a rat! Come, let’s get him!”
She and I, with ropes secured about our waists, approached him and tried to talk him down. He would not listen to me, but he did listen to her. I have noticed that they have become quite close in the last few weeks. After the singing and the laughter in the Captain’s cabin has died down of an evening, I often find her at his side, holding his hand and listening to his stories.
“Enoch! Please! Come down!” she pleaded, reaching out to him, rain streaming down her face. He continued to roar, shaking his fist at the wind.
Blow winds! Spout!
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drowned the cocks!
Singe my white head!
At last, grasping at his hands and placing them on her heaving breast, she coaxed him below.
Meanwhile, at Assistant Purser Higgins’s suggestion, we have made a darling little white turban for Ravi, to go with a nice white shirt and blousy trousers. He looks absolutely smashing. All my girls are madly in love with him. He gets many hugs and kisses and pronounces himself to be in a place called Nirvana. We are thinking of getting him some white slippers with turned-up toes. Before his debut in the Captain’s cabin, I put my thumb in my pot of red watercolor and smudge a dot of the color on his forehead, just between his eyes. He protests—“No, no, Missy Memsahib, you cannot! Wrong caste! Is mark of Brahmin, not Untouchable!”—I am, however, unmoved by that. “You’ll be whatever caste I tell you, Ravi. Consider it a promotion, you little twit! Hold still!”
When we first had sent him in to wait upon Captain Laughton, bearing a small tray upon which rested a glass of Madeira, the Captain, upon seeing him standing there trembling in that outrageous costume, burst into gales of laughter, exclaiming, “Ha! Makes me feel just like a heathen Maharajah, by God! Capital! Oh, just capital!”
Ravi puts up with the trousers but refuses to wear the shirt, except when he’s waiting on the Captain. I can’t blame him—all the crew and half the officers go about shirtless because of the heat. Most of the girls, the younger ones, anyway, have dispensed with their heavy dresses and go about in drawers and chemise.
It’s all right, though, for everyone seems to have settled down with mates. I have succeeded in getting Maggie and the shy Keefe together as much as possible, and that seems to be working out.
Cookie continues to take his pleasure where he finds it—trading favors from his kitchen for favors of another kind; but he seems content to spend most of his time in his galley with Jezebel, and Mick and Keefe, along with my gang and me on occasion. I do not allow any men into the Newgaters’ quarters, so Cookie’s kitchen has become sort of an informal meeting place for mixed company. Club Cookie it has come to be called, and Cookie rules his smoky kingdom of pots and pans and stove with an iron hand, similar to mine, and only a select few are admitted to his realm—a good policy lest some of the bawds get even fatter than they already are, as Cookie is a very good cook.
Mick is still with Isabella Manson, and he has expressed some resentment over the use of his Bella by other men when we are in a port of call.
“I knows they’s all whores, but I don’t know if I likes the idea of them other swabs gettin’ on our girls. ’Specially, my Bella . . .” he was sayin’ as we were hanging about the Club yesterday.
“Well, that is her profession, Mick,” I point out. “You ain’t the first one to amble down Bella’s path, so to speak.”
“I know, I know, but still, it causes me some . . . I dunno . . . some . . . unease.”
Men, they always want it both ways. They want what the girls got and yet they want them to be good at the same time. I swear . . .
Some of the unattached women have made other . . . arangements. Most of the cabins are now occupied, and the Captain is most appreciative of the rents. Love lives in many guises on the Lorelei Lee.
Ravi, aside from being the Captain’s cup bearer and the darling of the ship, is also my arrow bearer—he holds my arrows for me when I am hunting rats in the bilges, and retrieves the arrows when I miss. He also holds a lantern up high so I can see the little buggers when they poke their noses out of their holes. While we lie there in the semidarkness, waiting for a target, I regale him with tales of the Great and Terrible Katy Deere, Archer Supreme and the Bane of All Rats, with Her Fearsome Cohort of Deadly Dianas. I know he objects to this killing and trembles when he prays over each bloody body—“Consider, Missy, that you might come back as such a mousie.” He is a very religious little boy and some of my so-called Puritan friends could take notice. But he does what he is told, even though he worries over my karma, as well he should, as it generally does need some serious tending.
The millers, as we sailors call ’em, are much appreciated in Club Cookie, and some have already graced the Captain’s table—good fresh meat was very scarce in Bombay.
Another of Ravi’s tasks is to look after Mr. Gibson’s monkey, who has been named Josephine, after the Empress Josephine, Napoleon Bonaparte’s wife. I suppose it’s a mock upon both of them. I, who have actually met the Empress Josephine, think it’s rather mean, as she had been very gracious to this sous-lieutenant, Jacqueline Bouvier, a mere messenger, when I had delivered to her the news of Napoleon’s victory at Jena-Auerstädt.
After the excitement and terror of the storm, things settle back into their usual tedium—school, laundry, scrubbing of decks, and so on and on and on. To liven up the routine, I have, to Higgins’s great dismay, restaged the little playlet I had written when Higgins and I were on the Mississippi, “The Villain Pursues Constant Maiden, or Fair Virtue in Peril.” Higgins sighs and offers it up and is a good sport in reprising his role as narrator of the grand epic. Mr. Gibson plays Captain Noble Strongheart, the hero, and I, of course, play Prudence Goodheart, the virtuous heroine.
Mr. Seabrook does an excellent job as the Villain, Banker Morgan, while the Captain graciously consented to act as my father, Colonel Goodheart. Consented? Nay, the dear old ham demanded to be included as part of the cast, bellowing out his part with great gusto.
Ship’s Boy Harry Quist reluctantly plays the sickly Timothy Goodheart. He had to be bribed.
