The Wake of the Lorelei Lee

by L. A. Meyer

  “Is she going to have me killed?” I ask of this holy man, who follows close behind us.

  “If she were going to kill you, you would be dead already,” he says mildly, as if he would have watched me having my head cut off back there on the deck with a certain calm equanimity. “No, she wants me to find out more about her new captive. You see, she has seen many such as he”—he gestures at the dark and wide-eyed Ravi, and then looks at my sandy blond mop—“but she has never seen anything like you. And I believe she is . . . intrigued.”

  We are taken below to a small, plain room that contains a low bed, a desk, and several chairs. Since there is a golden crucifix above the bed, it is not hard to figure out that it is the friar’s room. The one who had me by the arm—an evil-looking brute stripped to the waist, with long, thin mustaches that hang way down past his chin—tosses me to a chair. Ravi tries to crawl up into my lap, but I tell him that he must sit on the floor beside me. He does.

  The cleric takes a seat behind the little desk. On it is paper, quill pen, and a little jar of ink. He takes up the pen, dips it in the ink, and then looks at me.

  “I am Brother Arcangelo Rossetti, Society of Jesus. Translator and advisor to Cheng Shih. Your name again?”

  “Jacky Faber. Baptized Mary Alsop Faber.” Might as well let him know I’m a Christian of sorts. Might help. It doesn’t.

  “Hmm. Catholic?

  “Church of England.”

  “Ah, a heretic. Age?”

  “Sixteen.”

  He writes all this down and then leans back in his chair. “Very well. Now tell me of your life and how you come to be here. Go slowly, as I am Italian and my English is—”

  “We could speak in French, Sir . . . or Spanish, if that would be more comfortable for you.”

  He cocks an appraising eyebrow. “Spanish, then.”

  And so I tell him of my life. I give a concise history, switching from Spanish to French to English when the need arises, and we get along in all three languages. He professes disbelief in a lot of it, but I assure him it is all true, no matter how strange.

  Finally, we end up in the present day.

  “Two hundred and fifty women, all prostitutes?”

  “Most of them. Not worth much, even as slaves,” I say, hoping to prevent further pursuit of the Lorelei Lee.

  “Hmmm . . .” He ponders all I have told him.

  “Perhaps you will now tell me something of her?” I ask.

  He considers, puts his fingertips together, and begins.

  “Cheng Shih is without doubt the most successful pirate in history. She is twenty-three years old. At age sixteen she was a prostitute in one of the floating brothels on the Zhu Jiang—the Pearl River. Already famous for her beauty and cultural accomplishments, she met the pirate Zheng Yi and was married to him at the age of seventeen. Together they amassed a mighty fleet of ships. When Zheng Yi died in a typhoon, they had a total of one hundred ships. She took over the leadership after his death, instituted new rules and regulations, and the fleet now numbers in the hundreds.”

  “Hundreds?” I manage to gasp.

  “Yes, and thousands of men.”

  “Good Lord. Thousands?”

  “I see you are impressed, seeing as how you, in your own rather colorful life, managed to procure a fleet of . . . what . . . ? Two?”

  I nod. “But how did she do that? A common prostitute?”

  “Believe me, she was not a ‘common prostitute.’ Unlike our own Europeon dens of iniquity, in China, and Japan, as well, girls in that particular profession are trained in art, music, and dance. True, it is still prostitution, but the girls are very refined. I have seen the floating brothels of Guangzhou, and they are quite impressive—a thousand floating lanterns set out upon the water at night, gentle music drifting over all, with the heady smell of jasmine and incense. Actually, very nice . . . in a heathen sort of way. They call it the Willow World, a place where the gentle reeds bend easily and with grace.”

  Brother Arcangelo looks out over my head in a dreamy sort of way.

  Hmmm, Brother . . . Have you been tempted? Have you fallen for the charms of the Orient?

  “But how could she hold something like that together?” asks the ever practical me.

  The priest shakes his head and brings himself away from the floating Willow World and back into this little cabin.

  “Ahem. Well, she has established a system of rules and regulations that endear her to the populace. She does not allow abuse of captives—the penalty for raping a female hostage is death. Any Chinese seaport town that welcomes her troops is treated well. Otherwise, watch out—heads fall and ears are cut off. The captains of her far-flung fleet may plunder Vietnam, Korea, and Japanese ports as they will, but they have to obey the rules and they must pay her tribute. You see how it works? It is actually a well-regulated economy, of sorts—a government in all the usual ways, except that it floats. Additionally, she has married Cheng Pao, the big man you might have noticed before, and he is Zheng Yi’s adopted son, further cementing her control on her floating empire. Now, if you will excuse me, I must report to Cheng Shih. There are cups and plum wine on the shelf there. You may refresh yourself. Your throat must be dry after that rather fanciful story you have just told.”

  “Wait,” I say. “If you have any pity in your heart for this poor heretic, please tell me what the Chinese words are for good day, please, and thank you.”

  They are nei ho mah, cheng, and doh je.”

  He does not repeat them, but I nod my thanks and run the words over and over again in my head.

  And I do take a taste of the plum wine and give a bit to Ravi, as well. He probably figures there is alcohol in it, but he does not seem to care. I don’t blame him—we have both stared Death in the face today, and that grim figure still lurks about, waiting for his chance . . .

  After a while, Brother Arcangelo returns and beckons for us to rise and to follow him. Which we do.

  I am led into an incredibly sumptuous room that is sure to be the cabin of the pirate queen. Rich silks hang from the walls and there are painted scrolls and strange musical instruments that I would love to get my hands on. There is a bed, of course, with silk drapes that hang all about it, and many plump pillows. Over and over the golden dragon theme is repeated. I am directed to a spot on the floor and made to sit down upon it.

  “Best be prepared to put your forehead to the floor. Cheng Shih is expected momentarily,” says the priest. I nod, sit back on my haunches, and wait.

  “Hush, Ravi,” I say to the quivering lad, who huddles next to me. I put my arm across his shoulders. “We are still alive, and we should be glad.”

  From behind me I hear a rustle and look around to see Cheng Shih emerging through a beaded curtain from yet another room. I put my head to the floor and push Ravi’s down as well.

  Cheng Shih and Brother Arcangelo converse for a while, and then he says, “Stand up,” and I do it.

  “Nei ho mah, Cheng Shih,” I say, respectfully.

  She is surprised, but, I can tell, not overly impressed.

  Cheng Shih brings her face close to mine, her dark brown eyes peering into my light brown ones. Only slightly taller than I, she walks slowly around me, giving me a poke here and there. She runs her fingers through my hair. I’m sure she is checking my roots to see if my hair is dyed. Satisfied that it is not, she speaks again to the monk.

  “She says she does not believe your story. She says you are a liar and she does not like liars.”

  Uh-oh . . . I can imagine what she does with people she does not like. Think, girl!

  I do think, and I come up with a way to prove at least one thing: that I can dive.

  “Brother, do you have a coin I can borrow? I will demonstrate something.”

  His eyebrows go up, but he does produce a silver coin from his purse and hands it to me.

  “Now, if you could ask Cheng Shih to go outside with me.”

  She considers and then nods and goes out
the door, followed by the cleric. When their backs are turned, I quickly dig into my money belt and take out a coin similar to the one given me. I stick Brother Arcangelo’s coin in my mouth, tuck it beside my back teeth, and go through the door.

  Back in the daylight, I’m glad to see that the sails are still slacked for repairs and we are dead in the water. Spotting a likely opening in the port side rail, I go for it. The others follow close beside me. I look down at the waves and begin disrobing.

  I pull off my shirt in one swift movement, step out of my trousers, drop drawers, and stand naked on the deck.

  The Chinese are not immune to gasping, I notice.

  The coin, which I had held clenched in my fist, I hand to Cheng Shih, who appears slightly astounded. Putting my toes on the edge of the deck, I say, “Cheng Shih . . .” and gesture for her to toss the coin in the sea.

  She looks me over one more time and then flings it over the side. I take a deep breath, wait a moment to let the coin sink a bit, and then dive in after it.

  I hit cleanly, hoping I am graceful, and then kick down to a depth of about twelve feet. I have no intention of chasing that coin—Neptune, if you are down there watching this little drama, you are welcome to it—no, I plan one of my usual tricks, similar to the one I pulled on the crew of the Excaliber that time back in good old Boston.

  The hull of the junk looms beside me. Diving down a little farther, I turn and swim under her—the draft is only about fifteen feet, and the beam of the craft is a mere thirty feet or so. The ship is very long but not so very wide and I am able to slip under her easily.

  Coming up on the other side, I surface quietly and put my hand on the ladderlike grating that I had noticed when we were first brought aboard. I rest for a bit, and then wait a little bit longer, to make certain that all on the ship think me drowned for sure.

  Reaching into my mouth, I pull out Brother Arcangelo’s coin and clamp it between my lips. Then I climb up and, hooking a leg over the rail, gain the deck.

  All the others are at the other rail, gazing down at the water.

  I pad as quietly as I can across the deck and stand behind them.

  Yes, there are a few astonished Hai!s from assorted personnel about the rigging, but neither Cheng Shih nor Brother Arcangelo seems to notice.

  “Nei ho mah, Cheng Shih,” I say.

  She whips around to see me standing there looking, I hope, like any wet and comely mermaid—minus the green fishy tail, of course. For that, my pink one will have to serve. I hold up the coin and put on my foxy grin.

  The shock on her face is slowly replaced by a smile. She reaches out and takes me by the hand and leads me back into her cabin.

  It’s been a wild day, but I think I have done myself a world of good. Hope so, anyway . . .

  Chapter 57

  A grinning Chinese man comes toward me, brandishing what looks to be a very sharp razor. I shrink back against the bulkhead.

  “Do not worry, Miss. He will not hurt you in any way,” assures Brother Arcangelo, again scribbling away at his desk. “It is only Chi-chi. He is a eunuch, and he is here to make you more . . . presentable . . . for Cheng Shih. Go with him, please.”

  Presentable? Where have I heard that before . . . ?

  With Ravi at my heels, I follow the creature out the door, down a passageway, and into yet another room. This one is bare except for several benches and a large tub full of hot water. It is plainly a bathhouse, and it is also plain the Chinese have a much higher opinion of cleanliness than do my fellow Europeans. Chi-chi gestures for me to disrobe, and, what-the-heck, I do it. He holds out his hand to guide me into the bath, and I slide in.

  Ahhhh . . . Now this isn’t so bad . . .

  Ravi stands by, his dark eyes wide.

  “Get in here, Ravi. It ain’t the holy waters of Mother Ulhas, but it’ll do for me and you.”

  He shyly complies, dropping clothing and crawling in with me. He may not be completely at ease, but at least I have not heard “happy puppy” for a while. I position him between my knees, facing away, and dunk him under.

  Chi-chi hands me a cake of soap and I apply it to Ravi’s head.

  “Missy Memsahib! Please! Ravi’s eyes stinging so bad . . .”

  “Oh, hush up, boy, and enjoy. Not long ago you were asking your heathen gods for deliverance from gruesome death and here you are now, still alive and being scrubbed by a reasonably handsome maid.”

  I lather up his shiny black hair, dunk him again to rinse, then wash the rest of the slippery little fellow.

  “Out with you now, lad,” I order, giving his little brown rump a light slap on its way out. Chi-chi hands him a towel and he wraps himself in it. “My turn now.” I lean back and luxuriate in the warm, sudsy water. Ummm . . .

  My Chinese attendant begins with my hair, first taking it out of my pigtail and washing it, his fingers working wondrously soothingly at my scalp. That done, he takes scissors and trims my forelocks down to stubble, back to a line running from my left ear across the top of my head to my right one. Yes, my poor hair does seem to suffer a lot as I travel this world. It’s a wonder it even bothers growing back in after so many shearings. Then he soaps me up again and brings that wicked razor to bear and renders everything up there smooth as . . . as . . . as an eggshell, I decide, after he is done and I reach my hand up to place it on my now naked skull. Ah, Higgins, you should see me now . . .

  Chi-chi chatters away in a very high-pitched voice as he goes about his work, and I understand not a word of it. He shaves around my ears and the back of my neck. Then he has me stand in the tub and takes his razor to the rest of me—legs, armpits, and . . . other parts as well . . . Too bad . . . I sigh to myself . . . But, hey . . .

  Then I am dried, powdered, pampered, perfumed, and dressed in new clothing. Silken drawers, silken pantaloons, silken shirt, all bound up with a silken sash wound about my waist. All bright yellows and reds, cool whites with bold slashes of deepest black. By this time, my hair, what’s left of it, is dry enough to be braided into a pigtail. Chi-chi takes me to a mirror and I regard myself. I am astounded. I twirl around to make the silks swish about me.

  Tonda-lay-o, Queen of the Ocean Sea, indeed. Well, it is what you wished for, girl, and now you’ve got it—Bombay Rats and Cathay Cats . . . and all the rest . . .

  Chi-chi is finished with me now and he takes me by the hand to lead me out of the bathhouse, but he does not take me back to Brother Arcangelo Rossetti’s room, oh, no, he does not. He takes me to Cheng Shih’s cabin and opens the door.

  I enter and see that she is seated on a cushion before a low table. There is another pillow beside her and on the table there is an elegantly shaped bottle and two ornate cups.

  I enter and go to my knees before her. I put my forehead to the deck.

  “Nei ho mah, Cheng Shih,” I say. And then, in English, “I hope my appearance pleases you.”

  In spite of the language barrier, I think she catches my drift. She puts her hand gently under my chin and lifts my face and smiles. Then she points to the cushion beside her and I rise and go to it. I sit down.

  Cheng Shih gestures to Chi-chi and he pours two cups of the dark purple liquid. She takes hers and lifts it to her lips. I do the same with mine. It is very good. I like it a lot. I take another nervous sip. Soon I am less nervous. When she puts her hand lightly on my arm, I do not flinch nor pull away.

  I look over across the room, at her bed. I know that her sheets are of the finest silk, and her bed will be very soft . . . and I know that I will sleep there this night, and many nights after.

  So, Jaimy . . . I am now . . . well . . . the pet . . . of a notorious Chinese pirate. Imagine that . . . Little Mary from the slums of Cheapside, now dressed in silks and satins. What a strange and wonderful world. I hope you are well and in good spirits, love, and, as for me . . . I am . . . not so awfully bad off . . .

  Worry not for me, dear one, but only keep yourself safe . . .

  Love,

  Ja
cky

  Chapter 58

  James Emerson Fletcher

  Commander, the Pirate Cerberus

  Becalmed in the Java Sea

  Jacky Faber

  Somewhere, as always,

  Up ahead of me

  Dear Jacky,

  The damned wind will not blow.

  We lie dead in the water, well to the south of Batavia, where we had hoped to put in to buy arms and otherwise equip ourselves for our final push to Australia and wherever else this ship will go. My men go about the decks, sweating in the heat, their lips pursed, trying to “whistle up the wind.” That old superstition doesn’t work, at least not this time. The air lies fetid and still all about us. I am reminded of the Sargasso Sea, through which I once sailed, and, if memory serves, so did you.

  We have brought up fifteen more men from below, trustables, to help us man the ship, and they have worked out well. Those remaining below have been told their rations will improve now that we have taken over, and there will be a daily tot of rum, as long as the stores hold out. They are mollified, grateful even, after the treatment they have received so far, but it is hot down there and I fear that gaol fever—typhus—might soon rage.

  Oh, for a cool breeze, Jacky! Some of that good old damp London foggy mist!

  The Irish lads are hot to take some prizes—born pirates, all of them—but until we can arm ourselves, no prizes can be taken. We can do nothing but sit here in the sweltering heat. Captain Griswold’s gold stash will hold us in good stead if we could just get to port!

  I worry about our situation—we have spotted some strange-looking craft off on the horizon. They appear and then they are gone. One of the men brought up from below, who has been in this region of the world before, believes they are Chinese junks. Why they come to gaze upon us and then disappear, I do not know. But I do not like it.