by L. A. Meyer
The lads fall silent, but McBride is not yet done with me.
“That other convict ship, now, the one that had Ian’s Mairead and our Jacky on it . . . Did you hear her Captain call our Jacky Mrs. Higgins? Did you hear that, now, Fletcher?”
Yes, I did . . . through all my pain, I did hear that . . .
“Come on, Arthur,” says Ian. “We don’t need this.”
I calm myself and reply to the bastard. “I know John Higgins to be an honorable man. If she has married him, then so be it. Somehow I am not worried. I care more for her safety than for any other . . . insinuations . . . you might have, McBride. So how about keeping your thoughts to yourself?”
I hear him chuckle in the darkness. “Could it be that your little sparrow is sleeping in another’s nest?”
“Believe me, McBride,” I hiss. “When this is all over, we shall settle up our accounts.”
“Fine with me, Brit. When the time comes, bring it on.”
Oh, I will, mick. I will . . .
Our plan is laid and we are ready to go.
Wish us luck,
Jaimy
Chapter 50
Things are not good on the Lorelei Lee.
Ruger wastes no time in moving into my old cabin and assuming his place at the head of the table. In the beginning of the new regime, we have some music, but our hearts are not in it. When Captain Laughton left us, he took much of our joy with him, for he was the true Master of Revels, not me.
Ruger uses his new position as Captain to drink even more than he had previously, now being unconfined by any authority, and he is not a jolly drunk.
He hurls insults freely at those at dinner, gets sloppy with food, and spills drinks, and then blames Higgins for it. When Mairead and I sing and play, he cuts us off in mid song—“Goddamn noise! Be quiet! Stupid drivel!” Fewer and fewer people are invited to dinner and none really care to join. One night the Shantyman is missing—whether by his choice or Ruger’s I don’t know. Mairead and I exchange glances. We do not like this. What we like even less is that Enoch never again appears in the cabin.
Aside from a constantly changing girl from the Crews, who sits cringing by his side, the only two who are always there are Mairead and I, and we are there on his demand. After Higgins serves dinner, he is most often sent away so that Ruger can engage us more closely in conversation.
This night, Mr. Gibson is here, and not looking very happy. At Ruger’s side is Mary Ann Anstey, a Judy. She doesn’t look very happy, either.
I play quietly on my guitar and avoid Ruger’s gaze.
It does me no good. After Higgins is sent away, Ruger calls me to him. I lay aside my guitar to go stand beside him. He points to the bed.
“You will stay here this night.”
“I will not. I am a woman joined in marriage to my good husband, John Higgins, and I will neither disgrace him nor my vows by lying with you.”
“We all know that marriage to be a sham.”
“Do you, now? And how do you know that? Do you lie abed with us? Or do you listen outside our door, giggling in some vile perversion of true manhood? Do you?”
“Beware of mocking me, girl,” he hisses, rising unsteadily to his feet. “It is a sham, I say.”
“It is not a sham to me, Sir, and I mean to keep to my vows. If you force me, it will be rape, and the crime will be on your head. And believe me, the Company will hear of it.”
“The Company? What do you think the Company cares about a condemned convict? It cares ten pounds six is what it cares!”
“Best kill me after you have had your way with me, then, for I will have justice.”
His face contorts into a mask of drunken rage. He sweeps his hand across the table, scattering dishes and wineglasses to the floor.
“Get out of my sight,” he snarls. Then he brings his hand up and catches me with the back of it. I cry out and fall back.
At my cry, the door swings open and Higgins is there, looking murderously at Ruger.
“Please, Sir! Forbear!”
Ruger is fairly foaming with rage.
“Get out! All of you leeches!” he roars. “Get out of my sight! Drink up someone else’s wine! Get out!”
As the sorry company flees, I look back in the cabin and see that he has thrown Mary Ann onto the bed. Though you’d think women in her profession would be used to such things, the poor girl looks scared and beseeches me with terrified eyes. I am profoundly sorry that I cannot help her. But just you wait, you . . .
When I see Mary Ann the next day, her cheek is bruised and her left eye is swollen shut.
Mrs. Berry is mad, and even though she is not as outspoken as Mrs. Barnsley, nor as fierce as Mrs. MacDonald, the Madam of the Judies speaks up for her Mary Ann. She huffs up in indignation and faces Ruger from the main deck as he stands on his quarterdeck.
“Sir, please be more gentle in the handling of our girls, as they do not do well in suffering under such treatment as Mary Ann has received from your very hands.”
He looks down on her with great disdain.
“Shut yer mouth, whoremonger. Do not ever forget that you are all nothing but convicts and subject to whatever punishment I deem necessary for the good order of this ship!” He jumps down to the deck, thrusts out the heel of his hand, and pushes her down.
“Oh! Please, Sir, I am but an old woman!” she cries, on her back with her skirts all ahoo.
“This is my ship now, and you will observe that proper discipline is being restored to this ship. No more foolishness. Holiday routine on Saturdays and Sundays is hereby canceled till every soul on this ship shows me proper respect! Every soul.”
Here he casts his eye upon me, who sits in the foretop with Mairead.
“Every soul,” he repeats. “And every body, too.”
Things do not look good for us, be we Newgater, Judy, Lizzie, or Tartan.
Chapter 51
James Fletcher
Convict
Onboard Cerberus
Jacky,
There seems to be a bit of a celebration topside—apparently it is Captain Griswold’s birthday, so an extra pint of rum has been issued to all hands. None was given to us convicts to drink to the Captain’s health, oh no, but we wouldn’t want to do that, anyway, as his good health is the last thing we would wish for that evil bastard. But I see this working in our favor, as the crew will be more groggy than usual and will sleep soundly. Tonight we go.
The bell rings eight chimes in the dark of night. We stir as we hear the sounds of the changing watch. The time grows near . . .
The Weasel comes by for his nightly round, and we know that Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance will not be far behind. It’s time . . .
“’Avin’ a good evenin’, scum?” the Weasel asks, rattling his club on the bars. “Sleepin’ well, Mr. Fletcher?” He seems to be feeling rather good from his extra ration of rum.
I keep my eye on the pair of brass keys that hangs at his waist. He is not trusted with much, but he does have those—one key to open the gate, and the other to release our long, common ankle chain from its mooring, such that he can lead us shuffling on our morning visit to the head, and thence to the mess deck to be issued our slops. It’s Napper and Vance who hold the keys to our shackles . . . and to the cutlass rack. We must have all of those keys, else we are lost.
As planned, Padraic starts it up.
“I read a book once, Weasel,” he says. “And you was in it.”
“Wot? Wot book?”
“It was a book about the HMS Wolverine when our Jacky Faber and your own worthless self was on it. It was called Under the Jolly Roger.”
“So?”
“It was a good book. You should read it . . . iffen you can read, which I doubt.”
“So what? ’Oo cares?”
“Oh, we don’t, Weasel, believe me,” says Ian, picking it up. “We don’t care if you lives or dies—in fact, we hope you does die—but others might care . . .”
“Why?”
“’Cause there’s a bit in there about how you liked smellin’ girls’ underpants, Weasel.” Ian pauses. “How once when Jacky give you her clothes for cleaning, expectin’ you to perform your duties like a proper steward, you took her knickers and charged blokes a penny to handle ’em . . . sniff ’em and stuff.”
“That never happened! Lies! All lies!” cries the Weasel, pounding on the bars. The glow he felt from his extra pint seems to have worn off.
Open the door, Weasel . . .
“Oh? Sorry . . . you didn’t know? Yes, you’ve gone right famous—the whole fleet knows about that. Do you really like that sort of thing, now, Weasel?” continues Padraic, relentlessly. “I, myself, have never been interested in that sort of thing, so’s I wouldn’t know. Sounds rather disgusting to me, actually, but there’s no accounting for taste, is there?”
“You stop now, or you’ll get it!”
Open the door, Weasel . . .
“What’s it like? I heard our lass once dumped a full chamber pot over your head, too. How did you like the smell o’ that? Pretty rich stuff, I suspect . . . eh?”
Open the door, Weasel . . .
“Stop it! Stop it!”
Open the door, Weasel . . .
But Padraic Delaney does not stop. He is his father’s son, after all . . .
“I hear they call you ‘Knickers Weisling, the Pride of the Perverted Patrol.’ There’s even a song about it. It’s quite the rage in London. Want to hear it?”
“No! Stop! I’ll get you!”
Open the door, Weasel . . .
Padraic Delaney lifts his voice and sings.
Oh, my name is Wei-se-ling,
And on the Wolverine I did sing,
I danced a gay gavotte for all that lot,
With a hat of the finest tin!
Oh, with a hat of the finest tin!
Low laughter from all the lads. Padraic continues . . .
Oh, with a chamber pot over my head,
Yes, a chamber pot over my head!
With that fine chapeau I did gaily go,
With a chamber pot over my head!
With a chamber pot over my head!
There is a curse and a rattle of keys, and . . .
The Weasel opens the door!
The cage door swings inward and the Weasel charges into the cell, fairly slavering with rage. Thinking us helpless, he lifts his club over Padraic.
“Sing about this, Paddy!” he hisses, and the club comes down.
But it is not Weisling’s club that comes down. No, it is another, and it does not fall upon an Irish head. Nay, it is the belaying pin held in the fist of the mighty Duggan that comes down, and it slams hard down on Weasel’s own worthless head. He drops like a stone.
“One down, lads,” I whisper. “Two to go. Connolly, get ready . . .”
“Aye, Sir,” says the boy. “I’m ready.”
The Weasel is relieved of his keys and his limp body is shoved under a bench. We unlock the two ends of our common ankle chain and relock the front door and then sit and wait.
Presently Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance approach.
“Where’s Weisling?” asks Napper, looking about. He holds a lantern, which casts a dim light on all of us.
“Last we saw o’ that sod, ’e was headin’ for the crapper, clutching ’is miserable gut,” says Arthur McBride. “Hope ’e dies o’ the flux, I do.”
“Shut yer gob, mick, or I’ll come in there and shut you up for good, by—”
“Please, Sirs,” pipes up young Connolly, in a whispery voice. “Some of the men in here have been right mean to me. Makin’ me do stuff I don’t like . . . awful stuff.”
Connolly stops to give out a few boyish whimpers. In the gloom I can make out Napper and Vance looking sharp at one another. Young Daniel Connolly goes on . . .
“But you two gentlemen seem to be right kind . . . in that you bin offerin’ me good food and suchlike . . . and I’m thinkin’ maybe you kin be givin’ me some . . . protection . . . like . . .”
I can hear Napper and Vance chuckling obscenely as they fumble for their keys in their haste to get at the boy. The key is inserted, the door opens, and the two red-coated would-be buggers stride right in.
“Come with us, boy, and we’ll treat you right, oh, yes we will,” whispers Vance. “Here, let’s get that shackle offa you. There, how’s that feel?”
“Oh, just fine, Sir . . .”
Corporal Vance looms above the boy . . . right next to Arthur McBride’s seated figure. Sergeant Napper stands before me.
“That’s good, boy, now . . . wait . . . What’s this? Hey, Sergeant . . . this here chain is slack. What’s goin’ on here?”
That’s the last question Corporal Vance asks of anyone upon this Earth, as McBride looms out of the gloom and loops his garrote about Vance’s neck and pulls it tight. Very tight . . . As he does that, I steel myself and leap up and put my hand under Sergeant Napper’s chin and jerk back his head. He tries to cry out, Jacky, but I draw your very sharp and deadly shiv across his neck . . . hard across his neck, hard across his throttle until I feel its edge grate against his neck bone.
The last sound Sergeant Napper makes on this Earth is a rather liquid gurgle.
I hold him till his struggles cease, and then I let him slip to the floor. Vance takes longer in dying. I hear McBride whispering in his ear as he slumps to the deck and gives up the ghost. “’Tis me, Arthur McBride, who’s killin you. I want you to know on your way to hell that it was me who sent you there, you worthless piece of British crap!”
“Quick now! Strip off their jackets!” I whisper, as I cut the ring of keys from Napper’s belt and try one in my ankle shackle.
No, not that one, nor that one . . . There!
The shackle opens and falls off. I give the key to Padraic. “Free yourself and pass the key on. Lynch, hold on to the keys. You’ll go to the cutlass rack and open it when the time comes.”
I hear the muted rattle of the hated chains falling off.
Every man has been assigned a role in this venture and, as planned, McBride and McConnaughey struggle into Vance’s and Napper’s red coats. It will help us gain the quarterdeck. I put on my blue naval jacket, which I had kept rolled up to use as a pillow.
“All ready? All right, let’s go.”
Your knife clutched tightly in my hand, Jacky, I head up the passageway to the hatchway, followed by Niall Sweeney, Seamus Lynch, and then McBride, Ian, and the rest of the lads. I put my ear to the door and, hearing nothing out of the way, push it open and peer out. It is dark as pitch.
“Good,” I whisper. “No moon. Black as pitch. Gentle breeze—means no topmen aloft. Sweeney, go!”
Niall Sweeney brushes past me, on his assigned task—to take out any bow lookout that might be posted. He goes forward, armed with both his garrote and the Weasel’s club. Cruel work, but it must be done.
I look toward the quarterdeck. As my eyes accustom themselves to the dark, I believe I see only three heads silhouetted against the meager starlight. Probably the Officer of the Watch, the Helmsman, and the Bo’sun. I hope there is no messenger—I would hate to have to kill a boy.
“Lynch, go . . . Careful, now . . . Quiet . . .”
Lynch slips out, his bare feet quiet on the deck and Napper’s keys clutched in his hand. Head down, he makes for the foot of the mainmast, where the cutlasses are clustered and chained.
“Now . . . Ian . . . Arthur . . . your turn.”
McConnaughey and McBride stride out onto the deck, making no attempt to hide themselves as they make their way to the quarterdeck. As soon as they are out and, I am sure, spotted from the quarterdeck, I and the rest of the lads slip out and creep along the side of the main hatch, concealed from view . . . we hope. We each take a belaying pin from the rack on the rail and lean back against the hatch, waiting for our newly red-coated Irish boys to do their bit.
In spite of our very precarious state, Jacky, as I sit here in the dark, our
various fates in the balance, I almost have to chuckle over how much this is so very like one of your own escape techniques. Ian and McBride are the Diversion, and me and my crew are the Boarding Party—the Dianas on this version of the Bloodhound, as it were. Hmmm. Well, let’s see if I can execute this plan as well as you did yours. Yes, now I admit that I did finally read those damned books, and though I seethed over many parts but attributed many things to Amy Trevelyne’s overheated imagination, I took lessons from them as well.
