by L. A. Meyer
Oh.
"All right, you two," Jemimah says, back at her station in front of the stove, "you got that chicken ready?"
"Oh, yes, Auntie, now tell us how Brother Rabbit got out of that pot!" demands Joannie.
The warrior Pepino has been stripped of his worldly raiment and has been cut up and put in the gumbo pot. Least he didn't suffer the indignity of having his lifeless corpse dragged three times around the walls of Troy behind the chariot of his killer, Achilles, like poor Hector. But in the way of indignities, it was close. Sic transit gloria mundi.
"All right, children, listen close," says Jemimah. "Now ol' Brother Rabbit, he be sittin' in that pot and it be gettin' warmer and warmer such that he can't touch the bottom of the pot with his foot no more, so he got to be thinkin' about what he got to do to get out of this fix he in."
She gives the gumbo pot a stir with her long spoon. She says nothing for a while, then Daniel pops up with: "Auntie, how come Brother Fox and Brother Bear didn't gut and skin Brother Rabbit before they put him in the pot, like I just done with that chicken?"
" 'Cause that ain't how the story goes, boy," retorts Jemimah. "Don't you know nothin' about stories?" Daniel sits back, abashed.
After a decent interval to build up the tension, Jemimah goes on.
"Brother Fox, he be dicin' up some carrots and yams and tossin' the pieces in the broth around Brother Rabbit and the rabbit he be eatin' 'em up just as fast as the fox be t'rowin' 'em in.
"'You stop dat,' says Brother Fox. 'Them ain't fer you. Them is for de broth.'
"'You gonna get 'em one way or t'other,' says Brother Rabbit, 'whether in my belly or in the stew.'
"'Dat's true,' says Brother Bear, who's leanin' his nose over the pot to breathe in the smell of hot rabbit and yams. 'Ummm, uh! Smells mighty fine t'me! Gonna be a fine, fine day!'"
Jemimah gives the pot another stir. She calls it the gumbo pot. Up in Boston, we called it hunter's stew, and in France it's called pot-au-feu. Every culture's got a version and they're all the same—a pot that's kept simmering on the stovetop, and anything that comes along that's at all edible goes into it.
I hear Higgins calling me from above and I prepare to go, but I do linger a bit as Jemimah goes on...
"'Brother Rabbit, things gettin' a bit warm for you in dere?' asks Brother Fox, shaking some salt and pepper over Brother Rabbit's head and dancing around the cauldron.
"'No, Brother Fox, it's jes' fine...'cept fo' one thing...'
"'And what's dat, Brother Rabbit?'"
Another pause on Jemimah's part. Silence from the kids.
"'Brother Fox, you gone hafta change this here broth,' says the rabbit.
"'Why dat? Getting too hot for you? Hee-hee.'
"'No, Brother Fox ... It's 'cause I just peed in it.'"
Daniel and Joannie fall to the deck, convulsed with laughter as I leave the galley. I shall have to find out later just how the wily Brother Rabbit got out of that one. He seems to be a kindred spirit.
Higgins is already dressed in a lightweight white linen suit, and he gets me quickly into my white Paris Empire dress. We picked it 'cause it seems to fit in better in this place, where the women wear similar long, flowing dresses, full on the bottom and low-cut up topside. I put on one of my more modest hairpieces and, with the mantilla over it, I become a proper Spanish lady, or as close to proper as I can get.
That done, we go out onto the dock, where Higgins hands me up into an open coach that stands waiting for us. Good old Higgins. The driver clucks at the horses and we are off into the city of Havana.
Daniel and Joannie have been given some pay and will be allowed off the ship this afternoon, after Jemimah is satisfied they have done all their chores. They have been told to be good and they had better be. I am severe in my warning, but secretly I am so glad that Joannie is going to survive her wounds that I really don't care whether or not she behaves. The Doctor says the bindings on her rib cage can come off tomorrow and I know she'll be grateful for that.
As for John Thomas and Smasher McGee, they disappeared shortly after seeing all the stores brought aboard. I don't expect to see them till the day after tomorrow, when we sail to rendezvous with the Dolphin, but they have never yet missed a sailing, so I shan't worry about them. Not much, anyway.
The Doctor is still off visiting his scientific cronies. He took with him the leather portfolio of my latest drawings and I allow myself a little whiff of the sin of pride.
Jim Tanner, Davy, and Tink have been given sufficient money so as to be fitted for proper suits of clothes. Though I think all three look ever so cute in their striped shirts and tight-across-the-butt white canvas pants, there are times when one should dress up ... like tonight, at Ric's. Plus I know both Clementine and Annie will be very pleased to see their lads lookin' like fine gentlemen.
Hmmm, on that score I am reminded that I must do something in the way of finding female companionship for Tink, of which he has none now. A good girl, it must be, before he falls in with some slattern of low character who would take advantage of his good nature. He is a good-looking lad, with his curly black hair and easy smile, and could easily fall prey to somesuch. I know he's shy about his leg, but it has been getting better. He no longer uses the crutch and now walks with only a slight limp. Dr. Sebastian is of the opinion that other muscles in that leg have taken up the functions that the destroyed muscles formerly performed. We will hope and we shall see.
Yes, the three of them are off for new clothes. 'Course, I shall dock their pay for the cost of all that, but I think they shall thank me for it. Well, maybe, someday they will ... But right now, Higgins and I are off on our jaunt.
We clatter down the street and along the docks and past many vast shipyards. We had no trouble resupplying our stove wood because of leavings from Havana's mighty shipbuilding industry—the largest in the New World. In fact, the world's biggest warship, the Santisima Trinidad, was built here. Right over there, probably. She was about two hundred and fifty feet long, had four decks and one hundred forty-four cannons. One hundred and forty-four! The Dolphin, which is a pretty fearsome ship, carries only forty-four, and the Wolverine a scant twenty-six. Yes, the Santisima was a glorious sight, all right, when I saw her from the deck of that same Wolverine at Trafalgar, and I saw her go down, too, with many men aboard, sunk by ships much less glorious than she. Again, sic transit gloria comes to mind, a phrase I should remember when I get above myself, which happens sometimes.
We leave the docks and head through the market area and come out into a large open plaza at the end of which sits a large church.
"That is the Catedral de la Habana," points out Higgins. "Is it not magnificent?"
"Yes, it is quite grand," I agree. "Well, sort of grand. After all, I have stood in the nave of the Cathedral Notre Dame de Paris, and all pales next to that. Saint Paul's in London ain't no small potatoes, neither."
"Well," sniffs Higgins. "Did our blasé world traveler know that the bones of Christopher Columbus rest right there in that very church?"
I express mild surprise.
"Yes, some of us have been improving our minds and acquainting ourselves with the works and wonders of other cultures, while others have been frequenting cockfights and low dives."
"Ric's ain't a low dive. It's quite elegant. Come with us tonight and you'll see."
"Very well, I will."
"And by going to that cockfight, I met some Spanish sailors and found out that the San Cristobal, which you must admit is a clear and very present danger to us, will not sail for at least two weeks. So there," I say, fluffing up. "Have I not been a good spy, Mr. Special Intelligence Agent John Higgins?"
"Um," says Higgins, considering. "Yes, that is good to know."
"And later last night, when we were all at Ric's and I had finished my set and they were all well into their cups, they confided in me that they consider their Captain Morello to be a tyrant as well as a coward and that they hate their gunnery division officer, Lieutenant Juan Carlos
Cisneros y Siquieros, with a deep and abiding passion."
"And they are?"
"Eduardo, Jesus, Manuelo, and Mateo. Pretty good coves, actually, even though they are the enemy. They've gotten used to treating me as an entertainer, rather than as una puta."
"That is good," says my friend and protector, whom I know I should never, ever get miffed at. "Now, let us have a look at the rest of this fine city. Driver, push on!"
We visit a tobacco plantation, where Higgins buys several boxes of the vile things—They are the very finest, Miss. None can compare. I do not protest, as we all have our vices. Then Los Baños de San Diego, a fine beach where small thatched huts are built out into the water such that the fine ladies of Havana can bathe in privacy. Me, I'm thinkin' about rentin' out one of those baños should Jaimy and I ever get shore leave in Havana. We could have some fun, we could. Ain't bloody likely, but still ... heh-heh ... but never mind. Mostly what we look at are the formidable fortiications that encircle the city.
"This city has always feared attack from all sides," says Higgins. "And well they should—the place has been captured by pirates, and by us British not too long ago."
"Yes, I know about that," I say. My belly gives out with a little growl and I'm thinking that maybe we should be getting back to the Nancy B. for a bit of a snack before we head out to Ric's for the evening. I have been promised a full set tonight and must prepare.
"What you perhaps do not know is that this city very much fears a slave rebellion above all things," says Higgins.
"Oh?"
"There are at least two thousand escaped slaves in those hills over there." I look over the green and peaceful-seeming country. "They have been joined by many free men of color as well. They have been gathering arms and are ... waiting ... waiting for their chance. They are led by a black man who calls himself Emperor León de Cuba, the Lion of Cuba."
"And how do you know this, Friend and Conscience Higgins?" I ask.
"I have been spending my time at the local university, reading and immersing myself in the culture of Cuba."
"Uh-huh," I say, giving him a poke in the ribs. "And what else have you been doing?"
"Well, ahem, I have made ... friends ... with some of the scholars there, young hidalgos, aristocratic young men of pure Castilian extraction. They know much of what is going on."
"Well, Higgins, I think we both have been doing our jobs. I am good at chatting up the low types, and you are very good at doing the same with the nobs. Is that not right?"
"Yes, Miss," Higgins says with his secret smile. "You are very right."
And back we go to the Nancy B.
Chapter 26
We're all onboard and suiting up for tonight's performance at Ric's. I had expected Jim, Davy, and Tink to come back dressed in the loose linen suits favored by the local gentry, but no, they all had bought short, tight, heavily brocaded jackets that come down only to the waist, with gold trimmed tails behind, tight white trousers below, in short, exactly what young Spanish naval officers would have chosen. Seems the lads have given themselves promotions. Oh, well ... They do look good, I must say.
Joannie and Daniel returned as Higgins and I arrived, and then went rather quickly down below—rather too quickly, I'm thinking—and I waste no time in plunging down after them to find out what mischief the two little rotters have been up to.
The kids are standing by the stove, facing away. "All right, out with it," I demand. "What did you do?" I take Joannie by the shoulders and spin her around.
There, hanging from her left earlobe is a bright gold ring. A quick glance at Daniel proves that he wears one, too.
They both try weak, anxious smiles. "The Sailor's Bargain, remember?" says Joannie.
I do not smile. "Both of you. In my cabin. Now!"
Their smiles disappear as they dash toward my cabin and to what they must assume will be certain doom. The two miscreants are standing nervously next to my table when I get there. I say nothing as I go to my medicine cabinet and pull out the bottle of pure alcohol.
"All right. Across the table, both of you. Earring up."
They do it and I am reminded of the many times I myself was spread out across Mistress Pimm's desk at the Lawson Peabody School for Young Girls in Boston, my skirts up, my bottom ready to receive the rod.
Instead of the whip, I have something better in mind for these two. I start with Daniel. I soak a clean piece of cloth in the spirits of wine, peer at his swollen red earlobe, and then place the alcohol directly upon the wound. He flinches, but does not cry out; he merely lets out a long eeeeeeeee! I flip his earlobe over and hit it from the back. Another eeeeeeee! I hit the lobe with a healthy dab of my healing salve, and that's it.
"All right, you. You're done, but we will do this every day till your ear heals up ... or turns black and falls off. Do you understand, Daniel Prescott? Good. Now stand up."
Now for Joannie. Her ear is more swollen and inflamed than Daniel's. Damn! I put the alcohol to it and she, too, jerks, but she makes not a sound. I clean out the blood that has gathered about the hoop on both sides, give the ring a quarter turn to make sure the alcohol gets right in there, and she squirms and writhes on the tabletop. I know it hurts, but it's good for you. Then it's the salve, then up on her feet.
I confront her. "I can't believe it. You're just recovering from a serious injury, and yet you go out and inflict another one on yourself," I say, an accusing finger in her face. "What about the danger of infection? Well? What about that?" She hangs her head.
"Prescott! Did you put her up to this?"
"N-no, Jacky. It was my idea," whispers Joannie.
"Well, I ain't your mother, but..."
Joannie's head jerks back up.
"That's right, you're not," she snaps, her eyes on mine. "So why don't you stop acting like you are?"
"Don't you speak to me like that, young lady!" I hiss, and, without thinking, reach out and slap her across the face.
I instantly regret it.
Her eyes fill with tears. "You were s-s-supposed to be my friend ... But now you ... hit me."
I throw my arms around her. She stands stiff in my embrace. "I am so sorry, Joannie," I wail. "It's just that I worry about you so much!"
She remains rigid. The tears that were in her eyes now run down her cheeks.
I drop my arms to my sides. "Here, Joannie. Slap me back, then we'll be even," I say, holding out my chin, hoping she'll take me up on it.
She doesn't.
"I love you, Jacky. I could never hit you."
Could I feel any more rotten and ashamed? Oh, I am such a hypocrite!
I put my arms around her again. "I love you, too, and I promise never to do it again. Never again. Do you forgive me? Say you will, Joannie. Please."
I feel her relax and nod her head.
"Thank you, Sister," I say, and plant a kiss on her forehead. "Now, out, the both of you, and put your best clothes on. Tonight we're all going to Ric's."
With whoops of delight, they charge out the door, the tensions of the last few minutes forgotten as they anticipate a night out on the town. As they leave, Higgins appears and watches them go.
"You seem flushed, Miss," he says. "May I inquire as to the matter?"
"Oh, it's nothing, Higgins. I was just taught a lesson in love and trust by a twelve-year-old, is all."
"Ah," says Higgins, withholding comment on that. "And what will you wear tonight?"
"Oh, the blue! Definitely the blue! With the red wig!"
Heavy sigh from Higgins, as he sets to work making me look presentable, which ain't an easy task.
Ricardo Mendoza is a small, dapper gent, who wears perfectly tailored suits and rules over his establishment with a quiet but iron hand. Break one of his rules and you will never again step into Café Americano, which is a very popular spot. The rules are:
Do not ever provoke a fight.
Do not ever become a nasty or sloppy drunk.
Do not ever force your attent
ions on any of the women and girls in the place.
Do not ever cheat at the gaming tables (that one could get you killed as well).
Do conduct yourselves, always, as ladies and gentlemen.
Yes, Ric runs a classy joint, and I like it and feel right at home. There is a long, curving bar at the end of the large room, with many brightly colored liquors displayed and softly lit with lamps hidden behind the rows of bottles. There are tables all about that seat anywhere from two to ten people, and food, good food, is served by smiling young girls, modestly dressed.
The gaming tables are off to the left, the stage is in the center, and there are private rooms off a hallway that goes back to the privy.
In the center of it all stands Ricardo Mendoza, ramrod straight, greeting his customers with a quiet dignity.
"Buenas noches, Señorita Bouvier," he says, bowing. "It is very good to see you again. We very much enjoyed your performance last night."
"Good evening, Señor Ric," say I, dipping down into a medium curtsy. "I hope tonight will be as successful." He then leads me and my entourage to a fine table. The kids are beside me—carrying my guitar, fiddle, and concertina—and they are followed by Tink, Davy, and Higgins, all looking fine. I have my pennywhistle up one sleeve and my shiv up the other.
It's a good hour before the performance, so we order food and drink—delicious, spicy Cuban dishes, fine wine for me, rum punches for the lads, and straight rum, carefully sipped, for Higgins. Joannie and Daniel delight in the piles of sweetened tropical fruit placed on the table—oranges, grapefruit, pomegranates, passion fruit, bananas—and the drinks made from them, as well as a rice water and sugar mixture that they especially like.
At the end of the dinner, I lift my glass and say, "A toast to the Brotherhood ... and the Sisterhood of the Nancy B. Alsop. Long may all sail."
Hear, hear!
The toast is drunk and I look across all the riches laid on the table and say to Joannie, "A far cry from the old kip in Cheapside, eh girl?"
