My Bonny Light Horseman

by L. A. Meyer

  "Hmmm," says the Captain, taking a fishbone from between his teeth and placing it on the table. "I had heard that story and did not believe it—the very idea of a young girl commanding a Royal Navy ship, impossible! But Mr. Jared was there and so now I must believe it."

  "One thing you should also believe, Sir," hisses Bliffil, far down the table, "is that Warrant Officer Jared glosses over the fact that the Wolverine, when under her supposed command, took four prizes and she turned only three of them over to the King. She took the fourth one for herself and then set out as a pirate, and just why she sits here at this table—"

  "She sits at this table at my pleasure, Mr. Bliffil," says the Captain, with a hard edge to his voice. "To lend us all some amusement and diversion. If you do not like it, you are welcome to leave our company."

  Bliffil looks down at his plate, thrusts a forkful of beef in his mouth, and says nothing more this night.

  A Midshipman at the end of the table, emboldened by the amount of wine he has drunk, pipes up with "Did you really spike the guns at Harwich, Miss? I am from that town and it is talked of to this day."

  I look down at the squeaker, thirteen years old if he is a day, and say, "Yes, Mr. Shelton, that did happen. But how did you come to know of it?" I make it my practice whenever in a bind to learn the names of everyone involved, and so I know his name.

  "Oh, Miss, the third book about your adventures had just come out when we left London. It's called Under the Jolly Roger and I believe it presents the case against your piracy charge most admirably."

  Good Lord, not another one!

  "...and did you really take off your..."

  "I think that will be quite enough for now, Mr. Shelton," I say, blushing in spite of myself. "I do outrank you, young sir."

  Lord, Amy, did you put it all in? For a born bluenosed Boston Puritan yourself, you sure ain't shy about tellin' the world what Jacky Faber's been up to.

  Mr. Bennett takes up for Midshipman Shelton and he addresses Joseph Jared. "Did it not put you up for some ridicule in the Fleet, Mr. Jared, having served under a woman, a girl, really?" he asks. "I mean no offense, of course." The phrase under a woman gets some low chuckles along the table. These are men, after all.

  "No offense taken, Sir," says Joseph. "And as to ridicule? Remember, Sir, that I came up through the ranks and as such I know how to fight, with fist, club, sword, or pistol. As a matter of fact, I received my first warrant commission from Lieutenant Faber when she was in command of the Wolverine. Captain Trumbull was good enough to allow me to continue in that position and here I sit today in the company of you gentlemen. And because of the prize money I earned when under her command, I now have a tidy little cottage in Hampshire. I have installed my mother and younger sisters in it and they are quite happy," he says, and then turns his eyes back to me. "And if I am ever to wed, I will have a place to put my wife." He winks his down-table eye at me and grins widely. "Sorry to have served under her? I must say nay."

  You would think he would be cowed in this company comprised entirely of his social betters, but he is not. Such a merry rogue.

  "Well, then," says the Captain later, as the main courses are taken away, "let us have some pudding and port and maybe Miss Faber will favor us with a song."

  Oh, yes, I do favor them with a song, and much more than that. I have my pennywhistle and a fiddle and my dancing feet and the party roars on and on, far into the night.

  Chapter 9

  The next morning, I pop up, wash, and, finding it a bit chilly, put my uniform back on, since I had left my cloak in Amy's care back at Dovecote and the dresses I have with me are too light. When I had packed for my last voyage on the Nancy B I thought I was going down to the sunny Caribbean, but it certainly didn't turn out that way. Guess that'll teach me to be prepared for anything.

  After all, I had gotten away with wearing my uniform last night with the officers so it should go down well with the rest of the crew. I don't like the cocked hat that goes with a lieutenant's outfit because I think I look ridiculous in it, so I clap my midshipman's cap on my head and leave my room, looking for my breakfast. Strangely, I find the table in the Officers' Mess not set.

  "What's up, Jonathan? Where is everyone?"

  "Don't know, Miss. I think they might be sick," replies Private Morris.

  Hmmm. I know there will be many a pounding head this morning after last night's revels—I, of course, feel fine since I don't drink spirits—but still, there should be more activity here ... at least the stewards should be setting the table, even if the officers would not be up for eating any breakfast.

  "Come along, Jonathan, let's go find out." And I lead the way out of the Gun Deck and head for the quarterdeck.

  When I get there, I'm surprised to find Captain Hudson standing watch. Well, sort of standing. Actually he is leaning heavily against the rail, his face as white as any of his sails.

  "Good morning, Sir," I say, saluting. "Whatever is the matter?"

  With difficulty he brings his eyes to focus on me standing below on the main deck. "Bad ... urp ... fish ... last night. Everybody sick ... some worse than others." With that he turns and vomits over the side, but I'm thinking there is nothing left in his belly to throw up, so he must now contend with the dry retches, and I know from personal experience that there're few things worse.

  "I am so sorry, Sir, if I can help..."

  "No help for him or any of the others," says Dr. Sebastian, who has come up by my side. "Except a day or so spent horizontal. They'll be all right tomorrow." He looks me up and down. "Since you are quite vertical, I suspect that you, also, did not partake of the fish. Um, thought so."

  "How are my officers, Stephen?" the Captain manages to wheeze.

  "You are about the only one able to stand," says the Doctor. "But they'll be back on their feet soon. It's only a simple case of food poisoning. Seldom fatal. Oh, and Mr. Bliffil is not sick."

  "I am so glad for Mr. Bliffil," growls the Captain. "Pity he is not a regular officer, else he would be standing here right now and I'd be in my bed. Oh, God..." He hangs his head over the rail again.

  "I must insist, Captain, that you go below and rest."

  "I cannot leave the quarterdeck without a qualified officer upon it."

  "Sir," I pipes up, "I can stand the watches till the officers are well again. I am still on the books as an Acting Lieutenant. I stood watches on the whaler Pequod and I was in command of the Wolverine, the Emerald, the Belle of the Golden West, and the Nancy B. Alsop. Please, Sir, let me help."

  "That would be highly ... Sweet Jesus, my gut!...irregular," gurgles Captain Hudson, clutching his stomach. But he does not refuse outright. Instead, he looks up into the rigging. "There are several things wrong there. Come up here and tell me what they are."

  I climb the short run of stairs that leads to the quarterdeck and then turn to look up, fore and aft. I decide to start off with a joke.

  "Aside from not seeing the bodies of the cooks and stewards swinging from the yardarm for causing you such distress, Sir...," I begin.

  "Would've flogged 'em half to death, but they're as sick as the others," he grunts, "so what would be the point?"

  "...the flying jib has a bit of luff in it, and I'd trim back the t'gallant as it doesn't seem to be drawing properly, and I think we could get a bit more speed if the stuns'ls were set as the breeze seems to be lessening," I say, nodding as sagely an any old salt.

  The Captain looks at me through anguished eyes, plainly considering. "Humph! Such cheek. But you are right ... urp ... and just qualified as Officer of the Deck."

  I'm hoping I didn't go too far in the way of cheek, but the Captain merely turns to the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch to bark out an order, and in a moment sailors are flying up the rigging to correct the problems.

  "Very well. If Captains Locke, Scroggs, and Trumbull can play this game, so can I, and be damned to them who think otherwise. The simple fact is I must be horizontal and try to sleep until this thing
leaves me. You will shout down that speaking tube at the first sign of anything irregular and before you do anything not in my standing orders. Do you hear?"

  I nod. "Aye, Sir."

  "Maintain present set of sails, Course 093 degrees."

  "Course 093, aye, Sir."

  The Captain clears his throat and announces to the Watch, "Miss ... er ... Lieutenant Faber has the con."

  "This is Lieutenant Faber," I pipe, trying to suppress a grin and keep from bouncing up and down on my toes. "I have the con."

  The Captain turns and staggers below to his cabin on the arm of his friend the Doctor, and I take up my old stance, one foot to each side of the centerline of the ship, so I can best feel her movement in the wind and through the water.

  The ship is well maintained, as I thought it would be under the command of Captain Hannibal Hudson. The sails are tight, the course is straight, and the men on watch are well turned out and neat, which is how I like it. They may be taking me back to hang me, but with a fine ship under my feet and a brisk wind behind me, I will enjoy this moment.

  I do enjoy it for a few moments, then I have trouble—not with the ship, but with my costume. I'm looking forward, making sure that the luff is now out of the jib, when all of a sudden a blue cloth whips across my face and I realize that it is my blue skirt blowing up over my head. The breeze ain't stiff, but it's strong enough to do that.

  Har, har! Good show, that! All of a sudden the spars and yards are full of grinning sailors.

  "Messenger, go fetch the Bo'sun," I say loud enough for all to hear. "And tell him to bring his knobby. There seem to be some slackers aboard who are not attending to their duties." The grinning faces disappear.

  The bells are rung to signal the end of the Morning Watch and the start of the Forenoon Watch.

  "Well, just look at this now." I look down and see Davy, looking up at me standing on the quarterdeck. "If it ain't a jumped-up ship's boy what ain't got no notion of her place, and never did."

  "Be careful how you speak to me, Seaman Jones," I say, putting on my haughtiest Look, "as I am the Officer of the Deck. All the other officers are sick."

  Davy cuts his eyes to the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch, who confirms the truth of this with a quick nod and a shrug.

  Then my traitorous dress flies up in my face again. Damn! I'm tryin to maintain some dignity here! I try to beat the thing down with my hands, but when I succeed in bringing it down in front, it pops up in back.

  "You look like you could use a little help, Lieutenant," notes Davy, unable to control his laughter.

  "Yes, I could," I say, steaming. "Now go down to my cabin and get my white trousers out of my seabag. And there's a pair of short drawers in the top drawer under the sink."

  Davy bounds up to the quarterdeck and surprises me by relieving the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch. The helmsman also changes, as does the Messenger, and Private Jonathan Morris is relieved by Adam Marsten on the Jacky Watch.

  "Going to fetch your knickers ain't in my job description," says Davy, just out of hearing of the others on the upper deck. "Forbush!" he barks at the Messenger, plainly a ship's boy. "You heard what she needs. Go down and get it. Private Morris will show you to her room."

  The boy and the Marine leave and Davy comes up close to me.

  "Do you know how hard it is for me to take orders from you, Jack-ass?" he asks pleasantly.

  "Suck it up, Davy. If all goes well and I get back to Boston, I will give you a job with Faber Shipping, Worldwide, and then you'll be taking orders from me for the rest of your life. When the war is over, you'll want to be snugged up with Annie in Boston, won't you? Who knows, one day I might rate you Able."

  "Jacky, you are so full of it." He chuckles. "But then, you always were, so why should now be any different?"

  The boy comes back with my clothes and I go to the fan-tail, at the rear of the quarterdeck. I toe off my boots and reach up inside my skirt and pull down my long, flouncy pantaloons—they are fine under a long skirt, but will plainly not do under trim-cut trousers.

  I reach for my short, cut-off drawers and am putting them on when the wind decides to lift my dress again. Father Neptune having a bit of fun, I suppose. I pull them all the way up and roar out, "All aboard, face forward, you dogs!"

  I hear a long, drawn-out chorus of Awwww ... but I guess they comply. Don't matter now, anyway. I pull on my trousers under the cover of my skirt, which finally has decided to be good, after the damage is done, and then unfasten the skirt to pull it down and off. There. Boots back on and ready to do my duty, properly attired.

  "Still too damn skinny for my taste," says Davy, as I come back to the front of the quarterdeck and assume my usual stance.

  "Well, that's good, Davy, 'cause you're a married man now and must not be lookin' at other girls' legs, skinny or not. 'Specially if those legs belong to your superior officer."

  I pick up my folded skirt with the drawers tucked well inside and give them to the boy Forbush. "Make sure these get back to my seabag exactly as they are, else your bottom shall feel the rod. Do you understand me, Forbush?" He gulps and nods and carries his burden away. I do not wish to be mean, but had I not said that, I could expect my underdrawers to be flying merrily from the masthead within minutes, to the delight of all below—except me.

  I check to see that the helmsman, a seaman named Bassett, is steering a properly straight course, praise him for that fact when I find that he does, and then I go over to stand next to Davy again.

  "So, little man," I say, "you've come a long way to be Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch." That watch station is always held by one of the Bo'sun's more trusted men.

  "Not as far as you have, Jacky, but then, I don't have the same ... equipment."

  "I hope you don't think that I've gotten to this position on my back, brother," I say, severely, giving him a sisterly poke in the ribs.

  "Nay, I don't think nothin' about officers, Lieutenant, I'm just a common seaman what minds his own business." Saying that, he takes me by the elbow and leads me back to the fantail again. "Don't worry about Bassett, he's one of me mates."

  We look over the edge of the fantail rail and see the top of the rudder sloshing through the water. "Me and a couple of the lads is putting your bag down on the pintle tonight, on the Midwatch. It'll be good if you're on watch, so it won't be quite so difficult a thing to do."

  "Looks like I'm gonna be, Davy. Thanks be to the God that loves a poor sailor and gave a touch of the Bad-Fish Quick-Step to the would-be regular watch standers just in the nick of time."

  "Amen to that. Well, it's a tight oilskin bag and has got a blanket and some salt pork and a jug of grog in it. 'Tain't much, but it should keep you warm enough till you're ready to swim for it. We're going to tie it to the top gudgeon right there."

  I nod and touch his arm. "Davy, I know you're trying to save my life with this, at some risk to your own."

  "Hey, the Brotherhood forever, right, Jack-o?"

  "Right, Davy, and thanks."

  We go back to the front of the quarterdeck and take up our usual positions, me with my feet again planted to either side of the centerline and my hands clasped behind me. I feel much better with the trim trousers on, knowing that I'll be able to leap up into the rigging should the occasion arise.

  I look up into the set of sails to see that all is well and I'm thinking of sending down for some food, seeing that I missed breakfast, when Bliffil appears on the main deck below and regards me with utter amazement.

  "Outrage piled upon outrage!" he sputters. "I cannot believe this! Get off that deck!"

  He starts toward the quarterdeck stairs.

  "This is Mr. Bliffil," he announces, "and I have command of this—"

  "You have nothing, Mr. Bliffil, except unfortunately, your health, while many of your betters do not," I say, glaring down at him with all the contempt I can muster. "Private Marsten, you will prevent that man from coming on the quarterdeck."

  Private Adam Marsten, looking
very worried, steps in front of the stairs with his musket at port arms. "Do not worry, Private, he is not a regular Naval officer, merely a civilian passenger." That's not quite true, but hey, it'll work.

  "I'll see that you all swing for this!"

  "Bliffil, I am the Officer of the Deck, made so by the Captain, and as such I speak for that Captain in his absence. When I speak, you hear the Captain's voice. If I ask the Bo'-sun's Mate of the Watch there to throw you overboard, he will do it, would you not, Seaman Jones?"

  Davy, the Bo'sun's Mate of the Watch, considers and then nods—he, too, was treated cruelly by Bliffil back on the Dolphin, and I know he is taking great pleasure from this scene. "Just say the word, Lieutenant."

  "'Course I might have to answer for it later," I continue, "but then I already have a lot to answer for, don't I, Bliffil? And I think your taking a big gulp of the salt would be the least of them. Just another expendable Intelligence Officer who has done his duty for his King. We all want to do our duty, don't we, Bliffil?"

  "Just you wait till I get you back to London, then we'll see, won't we, girl?" sneers Bliffil.

  "Where did you buy your commission, Bliffil?" I spit right back at him. "A rich uncle? Some member of the Navy Board who owed your dad a favor? Just how did you get it? Everyone on this ship knows you ain't a sailor—the Captain knows that and that's why you ain't standin' watch up here right now and I am. So get yourself gone or I will ask the Bo'sun to clear the deck of trash."

  "Trash? By God, I—" says Bliffil, but he does not get to finish.

  "On deck there" is the call from the lookout high up on the mainmast. "It's that little schooner, again, out to the east."

  I try not to smile at that. My friends, my very good friends.

  "...and wait ... More masts! Directly ahead! Two ... no, four!"

  What?

  "...and three more to the south!"

  I grab the long glass from its rack and loop the lanyard around my neck and race up the mizzenmast ratline and into the top to train the glass to the west. There they are ... and their colors are coming into view. Damn! They fly the Tricolor! It is the French!