by L. A. Meyer
“My surrender? You will note, Mr. Jared,” I spit out, my look as steely as I can make it. “I have not yet hauled down my colors . . . nor have I given you my sword.”
He nods, looking at the hilt of my sword that rests behind my right shoulder. “Impressive weapon, that. However, I do not think it would stand up to the cutlasses of the hundred men I have aboard my ship, all of them trained British man-of-war men. Come, Puss, a glass of wine between old friends? There is never an excuse for bad manners, you know.”
I thrust my chin into the air and turn abruptly away. “Very well. You may follow me down into my cabin. Mr. Seabrook, maintain the ship in its current state of readiness. If that ship fires on us, fire back. Mr. Higgins, please have Ravi bring down some refreshments.”
I lead the way into the cabin, and I hear Jared’s footsteps behind me. As soon as the door is closed, I feel an arm around my middle, and I am twisted around to face him.
“Ah, Puss, it is so good to see you!” He plants a kiss on my forehead and then grabs my pigtail and pulls my head back and then puts one on my open mouth. A part of my reeling mind reminds me just how handy randy males are finding the convenience of my pigtail—jerk on her pigtail, her mouth opens, just like that. Sort of like a pump handle, rather, I’m thinkin’. . . But then I ain’t thinkin’ no more . . .
“And here’s some colors we can think of taking down,” he says, his voice thick with passion, and he hooks his thumbs in the waistband of my colorful silk trousers and begins hauling them southward . . .
Oh, Joseph . . . I—
The door opens and a wide-eyed Ravi, little white turban and all, comes in, bearing a tray with glasses upon it.
“Is pretty Missy in trouble with Big Mister from other boat?” asks the lad. “If so, Ravi has sharp knife here in belt and will—”
I withdraw my tongue, collect my senses, and push Mr. Jared back.
“No, Ravi, it is all right . . . But you should learn to knock. Please, Mr. Jared, be seated.” I gesture toward my table, and Captain Joseph Jared sits down, as do I.
Ravi places the glasses in front of us, then stands back. I reach for mine, but Jared stays my hand.
“Just a moment there, Puss,” he says.
He reaches out and switches the glasses. “Excuse me, Jacky, but I do know you and I do not want to wind up drugged, bound and gagged, and headed for a very poor berth on some Chinese junk bound for Shanghai. Considering how you are dressed, I imagine you could arrange that quite easily.”
He takes a long drink out of the glass.
I smile what I hope to be my new, inscrutable Oriental smile, and say, “Mr. Jared, if you really knew Jacky Faber, Golden Child and Little Round-Eyed Barbarian, then you would know that I would have drugged both glasses and then just pretended to drink out of mine.”
I look at him over the brim of my glass, my lips only touching the rim.
He looks dubiously at the remains of his wine, and then tosses it back. “Well, if it is to be some miserable rice-boat, then so be it.”
“Do not worry, Mr. Jared, the wine was not drugged,” I say. “But we must get down to business and there are things what must be discussed.”
“Like what?” says the grinning rascal, gesturing for Ravi to refill his glass.
“There are coincidences and then there are coincidences, but this is just too bizarre. Yes, the Royal Navy and the seagoing brotherhood is small, but still it is a very big world and a very broad ocean. So how came you to be here?”
He settles back in his chair and begins . . .
“Well, Puss, it was like this. I was in London when your trial was being held, and I was apprised of your probable death by hanging when I was approached by Captain Hannibal Hudson, who is, I must say, a very good friend of yours. That good man stood up for you at the trial, as you know, but he advised me to keep silent, figuring my testimony as a mere warrant officer would mean nothing. ‘Wait, wait, Joseph,’ he said, ‘and we might yet do her some good’. . .”
Another sip, another look around my cabin . . . and at my bed . . . and he continues . . .
“Leaning very heavily on his political contacts, he prevailed in preventing you from being hanged . . . And believe me, Miss, that took some effort on his part, as your past transgressions against the Crown . . . Well, never mind. Suffice it to say, Captain Hudson called in many markers, you may be sure.”
Good Captain Hudson, I do owe you my very life.
“Anyway, knowing that you were to be transported to Australia, and that HMS Dart would escort the Cerberus down to the South China Sea, he figured that if I were placed as an officer on that small warship, I might be on hand to keep an eye on you.”
“And so?”
“And so, the good Captain arranged for me to stand for my Lieutenancy Tests, which I passed with flying colors, all the questions being oral, and did I not know seamanship better than any wet-behind-the-ears squeaker of a midshipman? Of course I did.”
“And so?
“And so I was appointed First Mate upon the Dart, Captain Wallace commanding, all to keep an eye on you.”
“And so . . .”
“And so the good Captain Wallace perished of a fever on the way here, and Joseph Jared, son of a tailor, becomes Commander of His Majesty’s Ship Dart . . .”
It seems that this little cruise was rather hard on captains, I reflect.
“And so, it worked out, as here I am, and there you are . . . looking lovely, I might add . . . Rather exotic, but it adds a bit of spice—”
“Spice for you, Sir, but not for me,” I say, looking away.
“But, Puss, why so cold? It is not like you at all.”
I rise to my feet, all hot. “You fired on my ship, Jared!”
“Oh, come on, Puss, that was a warning shot. I only fired to get your attention. If I had actually wanted to hit your pretty little ship, we’d be standing in waist-deep water right now. So get over here and sit in my lap, where you belong.”
“I shan’t. I am promised in marriage to—”
“Oh, yes, the oft misplaced and much confused Mr. James Fletcher. Just where is that poor man now? I expect he has been deposited as a convict in New South Wales . . . That was the sentence laid upon him.”
“Umm . . .” is all I say to that.
Joseph Jared rises, stretches, and then lifts me up again.
“Let me go, Joseph,” I say, not very convincingly.
“But you are my prisoner, Jacky, and as such, I have . . . privileges.”
“What?” I exclaim, as my feet are lifted off the floor.
“Of course, Jacky,” he says. “You are an escaped convict, and I suspect you have misappropriated this ship—something I know you are very good at.”
“You say you know me, Joseph Jared,” I say, fuming. “And you may, indeed. But I also know you, and I know you will not force an unwilling captive.”
“True,” says he, flinging me onto my bed and then looming above me on hands and knees. “But we have many miles twixt here and England.”
He brings his face down to mine and places his lips on my forehead and . . .
Oh, Joseph . . .
And . . .
BOOOOOOMMMMMMM . . .
The broadside rolls out across the water.
Jared sits up in bed and looks out my window.
“Damn!” he says.
I look out, too, and there stands the Cerberus, bristling with twenty guns to each side, all trained on the now tiny Dart.
I get up on one arm, grab his collar, and grin into his face.
“Just who is captive of whom right now, Mr. Joseph Jared?”
Hmmmm . . .
Chapter 72
It is what Mr. Yancy Beauregard Cantrell, renowned Mississippi gambler, used to call a Mexican standoff . . . all participants involved standing with guns pointing at one another’s heads, waiting for someone to make the first deadly move.
I sit at my table in my cabin and counsel calmness.
Also all about are Mr. John Higgins, my officers from the Lee, and the Cerberus’s First Mate, Ian McConnaughey.
Yes, it is very crowded in here.
“Gentlemen, please,” I say. “We must come to some sort of agreement. Captain Jared, you may speak first.”
Jared stands and says, “Most of you are escaped convicts. I am honor bound to take you back . . .”
That gets him a low growl.
“. . . however, I am open to suggestions.”
John Higgins, as always, the very soul of reason, speaks up.
“I know, Mr. Jared, how deeply you hold your concept of honor as a Royal Navy officer. However, consider this—your initial duty was to escort the Cerberus to New South Wales and back to England. Is that true?”
Jared nods. “That was our mission.”
Higgins fusses with some papers on the tabletop, then continues.
“The Cerberus did, indeed, go to Australia and did discharge its cargo of felons as ordered. It is now ready to go back to England, under your protection, as per your original charter.”
Ian McConnaughey stiffens a little at this, but with Jaimy’s elbow in his ribs, he says nothing.
“Now, as to the Lorelei Lee,” says Higgins. “I believe, Captain Jared, there is nothing in your orders concerning that particular craft. Is that true?”
Jared considers, and then nods. “True.”
“Well, then, this is Faber Shipping Worldwide’s modest proposal—that we all proceed back to European waters. Once there, the Lorelei Lee will go back to her home port of Boston, and the Cerberus will go into British waters, and any disputes between their respective captains will be settled there, and in an honorable fashion. Captain Fletcher has begged Captain Jared to grant him a period of time upon their arrival to effect a clearing of his name from false charges laid against it and to call out, on the Field of Honor, several personages whom, he says, in the vernacular of the American West, ‘need killing.’ Those two persons being a Mr. Flashby and a Mr. Blifill. Captain Jared has granted that request and wished Captain Fletcher godspeed in pursuit of that goal.”
Higgins again pauses and looks about. He clears his throat.
“Ahem. There are further considerations. It is a long way back to England, and we are a formidable force—three swift ships, trained crews, and sixty-two guns, with powder and ball to match. It is to be expected that we will encounter many French and Spanish ships, and we are still at war with those nations . . . Prizes, Sirs . . . Many rich prizes . . .”
There is a low growl of avarice all around the table. Jaimy looks at me, and then at my bed. I return his warm look . . . Then I see Jared looking at me in the same way . . . Complications, complications . . .
I stand and say, “So we are all agreed, gentlemen?”
All stand in agreement.
“Then lift your glasses and let us drink to our common enterprise.”
Hear, hear!
As we are again seated, Ravi comes up to me and tugs at my sleeve. “Missy Memsahib . . . must talk.”
“Not now, Ravi,” I whisper to him. “Just serve the dinner.” I note that the air in here is getting rather close.
“But, Missy,” he persists, and points to Lee Chi, who stands nervously in a corner. “Sahib Lee teach me some of his words . . .”
“Yes, dear, go on,” I say, knowing that the little fellow will not relent.
“He say tai means ‘big’. . .”
I nod at that, anxious to get back into the high hilarity of the evening, however hot it is growing in here.
“. . . and phoon means ‘wind.’” Here he fills his cheeks and blows out little puffs.
“So?”
I look up at Lee Chi and he points outside and says one word.
“Typhoon.”
Uh-oh . . .
Apologia
(Author’s Note)
To the people of Australia:
It is my hope that you will not mind my having some of your founding mothers jump through fictional hoops. To wit:
The names of the female convicts in this novel were taken from the manifest of the Lady Julianna, a convict ship that left England bound for New South Wales in 1790. Conditions on that ship were very similar to those on the Lorelei Lee, including the lax attitude toward coupling amongst the crew and the girls and the plying of their ancient trade in various ports.
Yes, Mary Wade—condemned to hang at age ten—as well as Molly Reibey, sentenced to the same fate at age thirteen for stealing a horse as a prank, lived on in the colony.
Mary Wade, at the time of her death at age eighty-two, had three hundred direct descendants. Today, they number in the thousands.
Esther Abrahams, who married Major George Johnston, became the first First Lady of Australia, when he later became Governor. Their manor house still exists.
Cheng Shih? At the height of her powers, she had a fleet of four hundred ships and seventy thousand men, making her, without doubt, the most sucessful pirate in all history.
Later in life, she received a full pardon from the Chinese emperor and spent her last years running the finest gambling house and brothel in Canton.
When she died, at age sixty, it is reported that among her effects were many fine things . . . Curiously, there was also found a small portrait of a young girl in Oriental dress, but obviously European, smiling a very un-Chinese-like open-mouthed smile. Underneath it is written the inscription, in English,
To Beloved Shih . . . Your little round-eyed barbarian,
Love,
Jacky
Chapter 1
My name is Jacky Faber and I am—by the grace of God, of Neptune, and of all the lesser gods—Owner and Captain of the Lorelei Lee, possibly the most beautiful brigantine bark ever to sail the seven seas. I am once again back in command of that fine ship. I am in my lovely cabin and my bottom is pressed back in its favorite chair at the head of my fine table, and grouped about that table are many of my dearest friends.
I’ve a glass of fine wine in my fist and my dearly beloved James Emerson Fletcher sits here beside me, his hand in mine. Oh, Jaimy, finally!
I am supremely happy.
Now a drop of Nelson’s blood would not do us any harm,
No, a drop of Nelson’s blood would not do us any harm . . .
Things are getting a mite rowdy here on the Lorelei Lee as we lift our glasses and bellow out the words to the song. My ship has been sailing in company with the Cerberus and HMS Dart back up the Strait of Malacca, with Sumatra to port and the Malay Archipelago to starboard, having left Australia, and all its meager charms, far behind.
Most of those in this northerly bound fleet had been condemned to servitude in the penal colony in New South Wales, but we managed, through various mutinies, battles, and some very welcome help from God, luck, and a Chinese pirate, to wriggle free of those bonds, and for that we are eternally grateful. I am, anyway.
Were we guilty of those crimes for which we were transported to the other side of the world? Well, the Irish lads were guilty mostly of merely being Irish. My own dear Jaimy Fletcher, former Lieutenant in His Majesty’s Royal Navy and now in the eyes of that Service a vile pirate captain, was mainly guilty of merely being associated with me, false witness being brought against his good name.
My own guilt? Well, I’ll let others decide that, but I won’t stick around and wait for their decision. Oh, I suppose when I stand before the Pearly Gates, I’ll have a few things to answer for, but I’d rather have God judge me and my actions than be judged by the King’s ministers, who have not been all that kind in their treatment of my poor self. I do hope God will be more merciful than King George has proven to be.
No, a drop of Nelson’s blood would not do us any harm,
And we’ll all hang on behind!
Earlier we enjoyed much high hilari
ty over the pardons granted to all of us by Captain Bligh, Governor of New South Wales. This came about because my good Higgins, in securing the head money for each of the two hundred and fifty assorted female convicts we had delivered in good health to the colony, had also managed to cop a pile of the pardon forms. Using them, we had greatly delighted in granting ourselves absolution from all those various crimes for which we had been condemned. Captain Bligh—yes, that unfortunate Captain Bligh, formerly of the infamous Bounty—had signed the cargo manifest himself, so it was an easy thing for me to fake his signature on the pardons. I am quite good at forgery . . . among other things.
And we’ll roll the golden chariot along,
Yes, we’ll roll the golden chariot along,
We’ll roll the old chariot along,
And we’ll all hang on behind.
As we sing out the song, we linger over each “roll,” making it “rrooooll” in time to the roll of the ship. Well, actually, the Lee is more wallowing than rolling, since we are essentially becalmed, which is why the captains of the Dart and Cerberus figured it was safe enough to leave their ships in the care of their junior officers and are now over here eating up my food, slugging down my wine, and eyeing me up, the dogs. I sit at the head of my table with Captain Fletcher on my right . . . and Captain Joseph Jared on my left.
So, yes, there are complications, for this Joseph Jared also has a claim on my affections—it was he who had befriended me when I was pressed into service on HMS Wolverine and who helped me in the eventual takeover of that unhappy ship and who protected me from harm in that vile French prison. Both Jaimy and Jared know how things lie between the three of us, and it makes for a bit of tension in the room.
Complications, complications . . .
I heave a sigh and think that if Joseph were not here right now, I’d be sitting in Jaimy’s lap, and if Jaimy were not here, I’d probably be in Joseph’s. Another heavy sigh. Just why my scrawny and much-scarred self should be such a source of covetous concern, I don’t know . . . Men, I swear . . . I right now sit with my head mostly shaved ’cept for a braided pigtail hanging at the back of my shiny skull and a rather garish tattoo of a golden dragon resting on the back of my neck under said pigtail.
