The Brazen Woman

by Anne Groß

  “Too late, I’ve changed my mind. I’ll keep both.” Mrs. Briggs carefully poured powder from a horn into both pistols and rammed the shot with authority. Then she tucked the pistols under a belt she cinched around her waist, fore and aft of her body. “Let’s go,” she said, pulling Adelaide back onto her feet.

  She led Adelaide down a narrow ladder to the lower deck where the sailors slept. The second watch had left their beds so quickly that they hadn’t had the time to take the hammocks down and they swung eerily as though filled with reclining ghosts. Adelaide pressed a handkerchief to her nose. The smell of one single unwashed Englishman was bad enough, but an entire crew of them left an overwhelming lingering odor.

  Suddenly the ship shifted to lean on its opposite side. Both women stumbled and clutched each other to keep their feet. The cargo leaned against ropes that moaned and creaked under the stress of added weight. Above them, cannon carriages rumbled loudly across the deck as the men used the ship’s incline to maneuver the heavy guns into a ready and secured position. “Oh, for pity’s sake,” cried Mrs. Briggs. “Can they not simply pull harder? The fools! We’ll lose speed!”

  They moved farther aft and descended to another deck. The air grew still, the corridors dark. When Mrs. Briggs finally stopped, Adelaide nearly walked right into her. “It’s so dark in here,” she said. “I’ll go get the lamp.”

  “No!” cried Mrs. Briggs. She snatched Adelaide’s arm and pulled her back. “You cannot bring a lamp into the powder magazine!”

  “But I can barely see my hand in front of my face.”

  “We’ll just keep the door open and do the best we can. Powder monkeys don’t need eyes. They merely need swift feet.”

  Adelaide peered into the darkness, letting her eyes adjust. Oddly, it was reassuring to know that she was in the company of a woman who embroidered white violets and hung pistols from her waist. Mrs. Briggs’s white muslin looked like the gray ashes of a dead fire, second in brightness only to the lamp that swung from the beams well down the corridor, away from the stores of gunpowder. Only an hour ago Mrs. Briggs was helpless in a lovers’ quarrel. Now she was the angel in white descending into battle.

  “So, we move all the cartridges now,” Adelaide suggested, beginning to fill her arms with the little felt pillows of powder, “and stack them near each cannon. Let’s get it done before the fighting starts.”

  “I think,” Mrs. Briggs said in a diplomatic tone, “that would be unwise. Should one of those musket balls hit a pile of cartridges, it would spell disaster for the gun crew. Either that, or the powder could get too wet in the rain to discharge the cannon.”

  “Yes, but should a musket ball hit the cartridge while I’m carrying it, it would spell disaster for me,” replied Adelaide sharply.

  Mrs. Briggs shook her head and pushed Adelaide back out of the room. “We will wait until the very moment we’re needed. Sit.”

  Unused to taking orders, Adelaide suspiciously eyed the corner under the lamp where she had been directed to sit, sure there would be rats.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake. Must you curl your lip at everything I say like a French poodle?”

  Adelaide sat. “Tell me again what we are waiting for? Is it for cannon balls to rip through the hull?”

  “They need the Sea Otter whole. They won’t incapacitate her.”

  “But what if they do? What if they board?”

  “If it comes to that, the enemy will have their blood up.” Mrs. Briggs looked meaningfully at Adelaide. “They’ll not be wanting to hold your hand.”

  “I can handle any man.”

  Mrs. Briggs sniffed. “I am quite positive that you can.”

  They sat in tense silence, listening to the sounds of the sailors as they ran back and forth across the deck above them. Adelaide touched her chest, longing to pull a card and see her future. She thought of her cozy parlor in Paris. Normally at this moment, the fireplace would be warm and cheery. Agnes would be humming to herself as she dusted the room. Adelaide would be preparing for a client’s visit, sifting through her notes and drinking sweet Madeira from a delicate crystal glass. She thought of the crystal—Baccarat, a gift from a particularly thankful client—and how its facets perfectly matched the flames in the fireplace as she twirled the red liquid around and around. The drink had been perfect for settling into her thoughts, for stimulating her senses, and she dearly missed the routine. Had it only been a month? Surely it’d been longer since she had been in her own home, but it seemed like a lifetime ago. Where would she be tomorrow, she wondered, since her today was so completely different from her yesterday?

  Above her, men did their duty without thought. Adelaide marveled at their selflessness. She knew her duty too, but constantly questioned, constantly chafed. It was exhausting. She clutched reflexively at her chest again. The memory of Mademoiselle DuBette’s warning should she fail in her task echoed in her mind. “You will never be able to rise to the full height of your power, and your voice, all our voices will fall upon deaf ears for generations.”

  Adelaide looked at the slender Mrs. Briggs. She was sitting up straight, alert, her hand casually draped over the handle of her pistol. There was a power. There was a voice. But a voice unheard, nevertheless. The quest had been given to Adelaide for women like Mrs. Briggs—women who took to the oceans in equal partnership with their husbands, who wrote letters to the government, like Olympe, who healed the downtrodden like Mrs. Southill. Suddenly Adelaide realized the importance of the quest set before her, and trembled.

  Could she succeed? It seemed impossible. Waiting for the fates to spin the thread and weave their tapestry was a terrible burden. It was always all about handiwork, always a well tooled textile. Adelaide wished again for her knitting. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if we had our needlework with us to pass the time?” she asked. She couldn’t tell if Mrs. Briggs’ sigh was an indication of exasperation or wishful thinking.

  Adelaide patted her apron pockets, and pulled out a carefully folded packet of papers that the captain had given her. In the dim light, she began to read aloud, “I will go to zee market to buy zee—”

  “Oh for heaven’s sake,” snapped Mrs. Briggs. “Must we do this now?”

  “What else shall we do? I cannot just sit here, I’ll go mad.”

  “Honestly I don’t know why you bother with that. I can speak French perfectly well.”

  “—to buy zee ’ot bread from zee bakair’s boot.”

  “Baker’s booth.”

  “Bakair’s boot.”

  “Pinch your tongue between your teeth and do this: thhhh thhhh thhhh.”

  “zzzz zzzz zzzz”

  “Never mind,” sighed Mrs. Briggs. “Continue.”

  BROADSIDES

  The English lesson was a disappointment. Mrs. Briggs had pretended to support Adelaide’s efforts, but neither woman could keep up the charade for long. Finally, Adelaide folded up the lesson and placed it back into her apron pocket, agreeing, without actually saying so, that it was better to stare down the black corridor in silence than to continue forcing her tongue into odd contortions.

  How long had it been since dinner had been interrupted—an hour? Two? Time crawls when the only directive given is to wait. Adelaide shifted uncomfortably on the pile of ropes and the loops slipped under her thighs, causing her bottom to sink lower inside the large coil.

  Why anyone thought she would be a good candidate to run gunpowder was beyond her. Had they even asked? Had she volunteered for the job? No! Adelaide’s mood was beginning to reflect the dark and gloomy deck where they waited. She stared at the door to the powder magazine with a strong sense of foreboding.

  She wiggled her bottom and pushed against the ropes while her feet swung in the air, unable to find purchase. As a result, the ropes rose further up under her arms. She leaned her head back, finding her new position to be more comfortable, but much less mobile. “Mrs. Briggs?” she whispered into the darkness. “Gertie? Are you awake? I believe I am quite stuck.”
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  A soft sigh was her only answer, followed by steady, deep breathing. The young woman was asleep, Adelaide realized with astonishment. Had she no sense of the gravity of the situation? They were about to be attacked by a privateer. A privateer. The thought really hadn’t settled into her own mind until noticing that it hadn’t unsettled the mind of her hostess. Now, the longer Mrs. Briggs slept, the more Adelaide began to wiggle restlessly. And the more she wiggled, the more solidly wedged she became in the coiled rope.

  She could wake Mrs. Briggs, but it seemed almost cruel. Thus, it fell to Adelaide to find a means for escape, and not just from the ever tightening coils of rope. She, too, closed her eyes, but for a different purpose:

  Women of la Société, I call upon your collective spirits to aid me in invoking the power of the Goddess Isis, mother of magic, daughter of Earth and Sky. Help me draw down her strength. Imbue my flesh with the power of creation so that we may place ourselves at the—

  There were rustles in the corners of Adelaide’s mind, rustles in the corners of the in-between place they all identified as the astral plane. The sisters were coming. The sisters were answering her call. Adelaide began again.

  Women of la Société, I call upon your collective spirits to aid me in invoking the power of the Goddess Isis, mother of magic, daughter of Earth and Sky. Help me draw—

  Madame Thierreau! So good to see you. And how is your sweet daughter?

  Fine. She’s fine. Oh look, here comes Madame Voix. Bonsoir, Madame!

  Adelaide glared at the two women. Their hissed whispers did nothing to conceal their complete lack of respect. Ahem!Ahem! She waited until she’d regained their attention before continuing. Help me draw down her strength. Imbue my flesh with the power of creation so that we may place ourselves at the center of all that is, and will be. Come together in collective purpose. Raise your arms to the Goddess and join me in this prayer.

  A smattering of the women present raised their arms above their heads, with palms extended to the sky to catch the spirit of Isis. Some raised their voices to join the prayer: All powerful Isis, we ask that you act through these worthy women to imbue me with the strength of your—

  Bonsoir les filles! Who is calling down the Goddess? Mademoiselle Lenormand? Is that you?

  —imbue me with the strength of your wisdom that I might—

  Shhhhhh!

  Sorry I’m late, I had to finish putting down Gaston. He fusses so.

  Darling Gaston! He must be cutting his teeth by now.

  —That I might—

  Yes. Let me tell you! Between Gaston and my snoring husband, I barely get a wink’s sleep.

  Oh, you poor dear.

  Shhhh. . .Mademoiselle Lenormand is drawing down the power.

  —that I might use it for the continuation of all feminine—

  Mademoiselle Lenormand, dear. Would you mind if we sped things up a bit? I’ve my husband’s parents here for dinner and the roast won’t cook itself.

  Adelaide paused her incantation and watched as, one by one, more women’s spirits popped into the void, no doubt arriving after having made sudden excuses of headaches and “women troubles” to separate themselves from their families and chores. They greeted each other, some delightedly, others grumpily, and turned towards Adelaide who stood in their midst. Obviously she’d begun the incantations too early, since many were still arriving. She sighed and began again: Women of la Société, I call upon your—

  We’ve heard that part already.

  Really, Madame Gillet, your roast can wait, snapped a red-haired witch standing nearby.

  Why should Mademoiselle Lenormand have to repeat the prayer simply because some of you cannot be bothered to arrive on time? My arms are growing tired. I shouldn’t have to stand here like this forever.

  You’re not in your body. How could holding up your arms be tiresome?

  My spirit tires at the thought of exercise? retorted Madame Gillet.

  Might I have everyone’s attention, please? Adelaide begged.

  There was a sudden glow, a golden flash of light that dazzled as it flooded the black void and sparkled through the shimmering shades of the gathered witches. Mademoiselle DuBette had finally arrived. Adelaide felt the odd sensation of simultaneous relief and dread.

  Why? asked DuBette.

  Why? Adelaide echoed back stupidly. It was difficult to stay concentrated on any train of thought in the presence of DuBette, as seeing her kept one’s mind occupied on the splendor of the vision, forcing whatever issue was at hand into the shadows. She was an elderly witch, dressed fashionably in gauzy light blue silk that revealed a still youthful body. A necklace of cut crystals sparked light around her face and bosom. Or maybe it was her long waves of gray hair that loosely floated about her head that dazzled.

  Why do you call us together? DuBette clarified. You have never been given the authority to do so. Do you have the emerald?

  No, Mademoiselle. Not as of yet.

  Then why?

  My ship, the Sea Otter, this grand vessel whose true course lies secret to those seamen who capture the wind in her sails, a true course that is charted not upon maps but upon the fabric of time and known only to the witches who set it upon its path. A voyage that will no doubt become legendary, heralded by those that—

  Oh for heaven’s sake, just tell us what you need.

  The ship’s about to be boarded by privateers.

  I see.

  I can hardly retrieve the emerald if I’m captured or killed.

  Mademoiselle DuBette sighed. The other women shifted their feet uncomfortably and looked at each other.

  Please hurry. Those monsters will be here any moment now.

  Adelaide, dear, your training with the sisterhood in Alençon was cut short by the Revolution. As a result, you never learned how to be truly independent. You went from answering the demands of the nuns at the convent—a masculine school under masculine rule, despite being entirely run by women—to answering the demands of the men at Zenours’s atelier.

  I don’t understand. What has that to do with privateers raping and murdering me?

  Too many men have opened doors for you.

  So you would then have them ravish me?

  When men open doors for you, you forget how to insert your own key into the lock. At first they do it to be deferential and gallant, then they do it because you become incapable of doing it for yourself. When women open doors for you, it is because they find you interesting, and would like to invite you into the room. Right now, you do not think you can open your own door. You expect deferential help, and you do not trust that we welcome you.

  I expect help, yes. Why should you not help? And in any case, you don’t make it easy to trust. The entire reason I’m in this situation is because you sent me away with no resources.

  No. You are in your current situation because as the golem’s creator, you are the most likely of all of us to find it. Generations of women are counting upon you to use your maternal ties to this creature and retrieve the emerald. Please, Adelaide. Do not give up. You are stronger than you believe and have plenty of resources at your disposal, you just have yet to learn to find them within yourself. How will you know the full extent of your own powers if you always ask for help? You will only know your depth when you’ve seen the bottom of your well. Those who have helped you haven’t done you any favors.

  So, to drain my well I must be raped and beaten?

  Oh, stop being so dramatic.

  These men are pirates!

  Hardly. They’re privateers.

  Mademoiselle DuBette, please—

  I’ve said my piece. Do not call upon us again until you’ve the emerald scarab in hand.

  Those witches won’t help me because they cannot, thought Adelaide uncharitably as her spirit settled back into flesh. As usual, returning to her body was uncomfortable. Her feet tingled because the ropes pinched her legs at her knees. Her shoulders ached where she had been leaning on the coil. It was never a good
idea to leave one’s body without first settling it on cushions. That horrible DuBette has organized a society of charlatans. They’ve placed all their hopes on me because they are powerless. I should be leading them, not DuBette.

  The sudden slap stung, causing Adelaide to cry out in surprise and pain. The second slap was harder. “Stop! Nom de Dieu!”

  “Thank God you’re back,” said Mrs. Briggs. She dropped her open palm. “You’d fainted at the most inopportune time. The call for us has sounded. We’re about to be broadsided.”

  “Pull me out! Hurry!”

  Mrs. Briggs grabbed Adelaide’s wrists and pulled hard. They fell to the floor when her hips popped from their prison of ropes.

  “Take off your shoes.” Mrs. Briggs was on her feet again. She’d already been into the magazine. She bent down to gather up the cartridges—pillows of gunpowder the gun crews would push into the barrels of the cannons—that had dropped out of her skirt.

  Adelaide reluctantly unlaced her boots, thinking glumly that it would be a quick solution to their problem should a spark from the cobbler’s nails hit powder and cause the ship to blow.

  “Hurry! And, please be careful,” Mrs. Briggs called as Adelaide entered the magazine for her own stash of cartridges.

  “Shall I hurry? Or shall I be careful?”

  “Do both. For God’s sake, do both.”

  Adelaide took a moment just inside the powder magazine to let her eyes adjust to the diminished light. Slowly the shadows receded from her vision, allowing her to make out the stacked barrels of gunpowder. It seemed a bit much for a simple merchant ship, but then again, there were more cannons on board than she would have expected, and for that she was grateful, given the current circumstances.

  Thus burdened with the explosives, the women rushed down the length of the ship, then up the ladders and through the hatches to deliver their gifts to the gun crews.

  Out on the weather deck, the crew was slowly organizing for battle. There was a good deal of head scratching as they took up unfamiliar duties. Those that weren’t clustered around the cannons were busy jamming rods down the noses of muskets. Captain Briggs stood on the quarterdeck, occasionally yelling orders, but mostly shaking his head sadly while his first mate strode up and down the weather deck, dispensing advice and beatings, the one not necessarily being more useful than the other.