Fire on Dark Water

by Wendy Perriman

  The interior was black and humid. A stench of tar hung cloyingly in the thick, smarting air. Then I froze—terrified—when my bare foot touched something live and fleshy, and gagged as an eerie voice snapped, “Piss off! This is my spot.” I rolled round in the confined chamber and instinctively put my hand out toward the noise. My fingers found a mop of coarse hair and the velvety skin of an unshaved chin. It was the cabin boy.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked in amazement.

  “Hiding. Same as you.”

  “Can I share then? There’s some big fellow after me!”

  The bodiless voice was quiet for a moment and then said, “Yes. I suppose. . . .”

  I squeezed his shoulder to express appreciation. After a few moments I asked, “What’s your name, then?”

  “Bristol,” he whispered. Then as an afterthought he asked, “You?”

  “Lola.”

  His breathing echoed round the wooden skin and then formed into the inquiry, “Are you a gypsy?”

  My heart stilled for the briefest pause. I replied, “Of course I ain’t. I’m Cockney!”

  “Good.” Then he added, “I bet you cannot guess where I am from. . . .”

  I stifled a giggle and said, “I reckon I can!” We shifted ourselves into more comfortable positions before I inquired, “Who’s after you then?”

  Bristol sniffed and then said quietly, “That bastard surgeon . . . Dr. Simpson.”

  “What’s he want you for?”

  The young voice quivered and confided, “Vile things.” He paused and added, “You know. . . .” I didn’t really, but I said nothing further. Then the four bells boomed in the background and the surrounding deck responded with a swift change of movement. Bristol slithered under the rim and was gone. I peered cautiously out and quickly wormed into the center of a group of women being steered back down the hold. The grate was locked above us and the darkness of another night descended.

  The rain began sometime before dawn and saturated those sleeping nearest the grid if they failed to rouse and roll away quick enough. After several persistent hours we were all drenched by the rising puddle that slopped and pitched, sloshing from edge to side and basting us all ankle deep. The crew (now all hands on deck) battled to steer against the torrent to keep the wayward craft stable, and after some jack-tar fell off the ratlines and broke his back on the capstan, the few who responded to our shouts made it pretty obvious we wasn’t getting no food until everything returned back to normal. We shivered and voiced our own briny complaints until late midmorning, when the waves became ripples and the clouds eventually stopped shedding. The late sun peeked out, drawing everything steamy, and we were finally finally finally allowed up above. I deliberately chose to sit in a shaded corner right below the quarterdeck so I’d be harder to spot, because much as I love to dance I didn’t want no one paying any more undue attention. But before I’d even settled my arse Bristol appeared at my arm and said, “The captain wants to see you.”

  Up close, I could see Bristol was taller than me and was obviously more well-to-do. He’d a curly halo of bright red hair and keen green eyes that were lost in a starburst of freckles. I’d spent several of the previous wet hours puzzling over his appearance on this ship but at that precise moment my own dilemma was more pressing. “What’s he want?” I asked. The boy shrugged his bony shoulders and indicated that I was to follow him past the boatswain to the cabin door. I looked furtively around to signal one of my friends what was happening but all the girls were now otherwise engaged in their own affairs. A gruff voice barked to enter and Bristol nudged me forward, then shut the door. I was alone with Captain James Mack.

  I stared down at the hem of my soggy dress because I didn’t want to acknowledge such a formidable enemy. I’d no idea what I’d done wrong—but instinctively dreaded the unknown reprisal. The captain’s long stare bored into the top of my skull and I started shuddering. He lumbered toward me, lifted my chin so he could study my face, and muttered, “Mmmm . . .” He rotated my neck to observe each profile and added, “So you’re our wee dancer, eh?” I didn’t utter no sound but stood and let him take in his fill. At last his grip released me and he ordered, “Look at me, lassie.” I immediately obeyed and beheld a beefy, squat man with gray curly whiskers, peppery beard, white thinning hair, and flint-specked eyes. He was heavily scarred in the creases across his forehead and over his nose. And he was missing the tips of three fingers from his furry left hand.

  “My boy says your name’s Lola.” I nodded. “What will you drink? Wine? Rum? Ale? Water?” I said nothing. “Milk?” he tried.

  I looked at my toes and stuttered, “If . . . If you please, sir.”

  He strode to the door and sent out instruction, then sat on the tilting bunk and bid me perch alongside. “Address me as Captain,” he lulled in his genteel Scottish accent.

  When Bristol brought the warm-squeezed milk he was told to balance on the window bench opposite—I assume to make me feel safer—and together we listened to the sailor’s oft-spent tale of ascension through the ranks to his command of the profitable Argyll. When his monologue finished, his tongue ran on into Bristol’s story—revealing how Mack had been sent to sea under Bristol’s father (a worthy mentor called Captain Jude Armstrong) and how he owed all of his skills to this fine tutelage. Apparently, Bristol was the youngest of five sons and when his father was lost in battle against the Spanish, Mack felt obliged to recruit him as cabin boy to pass on the family trade. I listened to the mellow words and kindly intent, and gradually my toes uncurled and my fingers stopped clenching. Bristol also seemed relaxed and comfortable now, so I wondered why the ship’s surgeon was able to give him so much grief. The captain then turned to me and said, “It’ll soon be time for the bells. But come here tomorrow, straight after breakfast, and we’ll see if we can find you some dancing clothes.” I swallowed hard, wondering how to respond. By the time the clapper rang its final strike I’d already jumped to my feet in time with Bristol’s own swift movement for the door and, anxious to be dismissed, bobbed a curtsey at the square-shaped man. Then I joined the other girls to pass on my seeming good fortune.

  The pitchy hold was still damp so the women were bickering for space on the dryer planks. I sat back to back against Maude, nestled between Violet and Dollie, who spread out the width of their shifts in a rough kind of sheet to keep off the salty slime. Maude twisted her neck round and asked, “Where did you get to, Lola?” When I’d explained in rapid whispers what had occurred in the captain’s cabin Violet muttered something to Dollie I didn’t catch, then she squeezed my leg and said, “Best get some sleep, duckie”—so I rested my head on her shoulder and allowed the bouncing waves to rock me to elsewhere.

  Next morning began nippy and brisk. When I looked over the netted bulwarks the sea was puckered in peaks like the endless coils of an inky dragon. I tiptoed shyly across the quarterdeck and knocked on the cabin door, dismayed I couldn’t see Bristol nowhere about. A voice yelled, “Come you in!” so I timidly entered the carved-out room. Captain Mack was eating breakfast at his small table. He motioned for me to sit on the other chair and passed me a jug of frothy milk to pour for myself. Then he carefully shared some bread and cheese—the most delicious things I’d tasted in weeks—before pointing to an open sea chest. I wiped my mouth on the back of my sleeve and followed his eyes. “Take your pick,” he said. Then he settled back to watch my greed. I lifted the lid and saw a dazzling collection of frivolous cloth. There were gossamer sheets that flowed like silk, ribbons of every brightness imaginable, velvets and calicoes and lacy scarves. I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with them so I stood gawking until he clarified, “For your dancing.” I ain’t never touched nothing so fine in all my life so I gulped and said “They’re lovely,” and started pulling the items out, each one more splendid than the last, until I eventually found a silver filigree belt small enough for my waist. I could loop strands of ribbon through the holes and attach a lace-edged scarf to make a skir
t—and use a similar piece of brocade work as a bodice. The captain sucked on a lidded clay pipe that he wouldn’t ever light belowdecks on account of the fire risk, while I busied myself for my evening performance. A short while later Bristol arrived with the fiddler who’d played that first night, and we talked over some songs we both knew. Then suddenly the lookout spat an urgent alarm and everyone rushed from the cabin. I heard “Sail ho! Starboard fore, Cap’n. . . .” waft in through the open jamb, before the lock snapped behind and realized I was alone in the officer’s lair.

  I wondered if I dare snoop around—then worried that this diversion might be some elaborate test so decided to focus on dressmaking. There were small rusty shears and some sailcloth needles lodged at the bottom of the chest, and by peeling off thin strips of ribbon-thread I managed to construct a pair of drawers to wear beneath the flimsy gauze. As a finishing touch I plaited several colorful strands into a vibrant headpiece, but when I finally donned my fancy red finery there was no reflective surface to admire my handiwork. Still . . . it was proper grand being out of that smelly, damp stuff so I spent the rest of the time brightly practicing my steps without the slightest idea of the panic ensuing outside.

  Now, you’ve got to imagine the angst of an unknown mast before you spot its ensign. Is it friend or foe? What size of vessel and how many gun ports? The captain goes aloft with his spyglass, squeezing his eyes to assess the danger. And whatever he spots in the wavering round is usually followed by a pressing desire to slip by, undetected. Meanwhile, the prisoners are locked back down the hatches so every hand can attend his station (the entire drama performed in muted urgency to prevent any sound from reaching alien ears). “Load, but don’t run out the starboard guns!” is followed by “All hands make sail, ahoy!” Then the long, eerie silence marked by the gallop of a speeding bow blasting through tacky water. Everyone sucks in air and prays to their deity of choice for the slide to safety. And only when they are alone again on the empty horizon do they finally exhale and dare a return to breathing.

  When the door let in light some time later, the captain found me draped in costume asleep on top of his bunk. Bristol was dispatched for victuals while Mack helped himself to a hefty swig of rum from a tapped barrel swinging by a chain from the rafters. He then filled me a small cannikin with instructions to sip it slowly. The syrup burned my tongue but left a sugary afterglow that tingled right to my navel. The cabin boy returned with salted beef and the last of the bread, and the three of us sat round the table munching apples for dessert. While the two sailors chatted familiarly I tried to think of something to say and eventually asked, “Was it another ship out there?”

  The captain looked at me and said, “Aye. A French man-o’-war.”

  I hadn’t no idea what that meant so inquired, “That ain’t good then?”

  Mack turned to his student and signaled with a nod the chance to show off his schooling. Bristol eagerly explained, “We’re at war over the Spanish succession.” My face remained blank so he continued, “See, when King Charles II died heirless the Spanish throne was claimed by both Philip of France and by Leopold, the Holy Roman Emperor. England joined the emperor’s side against the French and Spanish.” Now you’ll have to excuse my ignorance but I didn’t know nothing about any of this lot.

  “Why?” I asked, confused.

  The captain interjected, “Those Froggie devils are trying to expand their territories and we need to put a stop to them.”

  “Oh,” I replied. I thought on the information and deducted, “So the French ship would have attacked us because we’re English?”

  “Or they could happen be privateers. . . .” he added. “Corsairs—with letters of marque.”

  Again I lacked comprehension, until Bristol explained that privateers are private warships licensed by their monarch to raid enemy vessels in times of war. But my face must have still displayed suitable ignorance for the young boy groped for simpler words I could grasp. He tried, “Like . . . legal pirates.” Suddenly I understood. Of course I knew all about pirates—monsters that plague the high seas—villains and cutthroats and demons (except for Dya’s lover, the Dandy Dick Brennar). My bottom lip began wavering in aftershock as I pondered our narrow escape.

  The captain apparently noted my distress and lightened the mood with, “But enough of this! Display for us your outfit, my bonny. . . .” So I stood a little from the table and sank a sweeping curtsey. “Turn around,” he commanded. I happily obeyed. He nodded his approval. Then he walked to the door and barked the following orders, “Mr. Owens—signal the eight bells if you please. And Mr. Kimble—an extra ration of rum for the men and a flagon of brandy for the officers. . . .” He glanced across at Bristol and confided, “Lola is going to entertain us.”

  Apart from the watch, all the sailors were grouped on deck either hanging over the quarterdeck barricado or propped against the bulwarks, drinking, smoking, engaging in crude conversation. The fiddler stood highlighted up on the forecastle deck and an empty space on the waist—directly between the foremast and mainmast—was to be my stage. The prisoners were locked below, but as soon as the music began I saw Maude and Dollie press their faces against the grid to add their own accompaniment. It was reassuring to feel their support inside that threatening ring of men for I was concerned some tar might molest me. I ain’t kidding when I tell you I was scared looking round those lecherous faces, all battered and scabbed and blistered. Some licked pocked lips or scratched their privates yelling offensive suggestions, and soon as I stood center of the deck the circle closed in sniffing for thrills. But then I spotted the frown on the captain’s face. He stood at the top of the staircase and I instantly recognized safety—Caesar had apparently claimed me his own. He took up his speaking trumpet and shouted, “Stand off and yap not!” The men reluctantly edged back to the sides of the ship, curtailing their snarled lips and itching for me to commence.

  I began with a simple dance consisting of tiny stamps and finger clicks. Maude added depth by singing “Yah, yah, la, la, hup, hup, hup,” and before long the audience joined in, banging and clapping in time to the beat. This was a calm, measured opening that allowed my muscles time to stretch and warm. The fiddler then picked up the pace and I exploded into a joyful piece with light sidesteps and little kicks forward. My long chestnut hair bounced in time with the waves and followed my back in a splash of curl. I flashed like the sun, the ribbons bouncing in rainbows of color. Another piece of music struck up. Then another. And I alternated my scarf to form a whisking shawl, airy wings, and a sultry, exotic veil. I went through my entire repertoire, bouncing on toes, crossing ankles, twirling and spinning, faster and slower. I sashayed my hips, and swished my skirt, wiggled and pouted and swayed. At some point an ardent jack-tar sprang forth to partner me in a lively duet. He slapped well-defined legs, flipped lithe heels to wrists, clapping and stomping alongside my movements. His mates egged encouragement but the fiddle suddenly sputtered from discord to silence. . . . The captain had decided that this show was now over.

  As I walked back to stern to change my clothes I realized Bristol must still be hiding from the doctor who had propped himself high up on the steps. Captain Mack was already in his cabin by the time I got back and he seemed excited by my performance. I wasn’t any concerned when he locked the door behind me because I thought he was gallantly ensuring my privacy. But when he pointed to a linen shirt with a finely laced collar and told me to make it a nightgown I realized I wouldn’t be spending no more nights in that stifling hold. And I was glad.

  Now, I can tell you there’s much advantage in being the captain’s favorite. I ain’t never had a father—but I imagine that’s how one would treat me—gentle and attentive and generous as he trained me to his pleasure. Of course, now I know he was just another dirty buggar who got his jollies preparing young girls, but back then I thought he really liked me. He said that I was special. Two weeks in his bunk taught me to touch and kiss and lick and tease, and four weeks left me no illusion I wa
s truly damned forever—complicit in my own seduction. I danced all manner of command performances and was groomed to satisfy the basest requests. But it kept me safe from the rest of the crew. I got fed well, wore nicer things, and was free until afternoon watch. I was now made to address my lover as Master—and instructed to stay away from the other prisoners (in case I caught something nasty). All I had to do was be his very good girl.

  And you ain’t never wanting to be crossing Captain James Mack! One time, some old salt pulled a knife on the first mate and the surgeon was ordered to chop off his hand. We all had to watch. If two sailors got fighting it was three duckings each from the yardarm for both offenders, and those caught thieving had their heads shaved, then were tarred with oil and feathers. Anyone falling asleep on watch was flogged, and if someone got drunk and incapable they were tied to the foremast for days. And that’s how he dealt with his crew. Now the prisoners were even more brutally used—they were shown absolutely no mercy. Any infraction at all brought a lick from the cat-o’-nine-tails (which leaves a rumpled scar like the knots of a gnarly tree). And as water grew scarcer, that became an added incentive, because I can’t never describe how it feels to be really really thirsty but you get to the point where you’d kill for a few drops of fresh. See, at first the liquid goes sweet in the casks. Then thick. Then slimy. And after several weeks it turns stagnant and full of green things. And you can’t drink the sea for it makes you sick, so even I ended up supping ale, gradually progressing to wine, rum, and brandy. I have to admit I grew rather partial to brandy—it numbed the pain, dulled the worry, and helped the evening smut roll by much faster.

  During the mornings I spent time with Bristol at his chores and picked up some of the trade as he worked his maiden voyage. First, he taught me my way round the ship. He explained that our vessel was commissioned along the lines of a Spanish galleon, and that this was unusual for a British merchantman. We stood together at the top of the quarterdeck steps and he explained, “See the three masts?” I nodded. “The one at the front is the foremast and that holds the foresail. The middle is the mainmast with the mainsail, and behind us is the mizzenmast and mizzen-sail.” The front of the ship—fore—is the bow, and the back is the stern or aft. Understand?” My grin indicated that I did. “To the left is port and to the right is starboard,” he added.