“And there are four decks,” I observed helpfully.
“Yes. To the rear, above the captain’s cabin, is the after. We’re on the quarterdeck. Below is the waist, and at the front above the galley is the foc’s’le or forecastle.” I quickly absorbed all the information and smiled my understanding. “Now repeat!” he demanded, and I related what I’d just learned. Later my new friend showed me some rope skills. I observed him make a stopper knot to keep lines from threading through holes, and learned alongside—from the second mate—how to tie bowlines, lightermans, clove hitches, and the fisherman’s knot. Any spare moments we’d raced each other in friendly competition until we both became quite proficient. I wasn’t allowed to do no dangerous or heavy tasks, though it did amuse the crew when I volunteered to help swab the quarterdeck, and I actually enjoyed learning to mend sails. But I was more than glad not to join Bristol cleaning the prison holds because it made him physically sick, even though I understood why they needed to be done twice a week. While I didn’t mind filling up the buckets of sand used to scrub the muck off I wouldn’t no way have wanted to empty the mess-tubs or scrape away the crud. Everyone got out of the hold by the time the fire pans were lit for drying, and when the chambers were smoked clean with tar, tobacco, and brimstone even the hardiest sea dog steered clear of the acrid smog.
Bristol circulated around the officers as an assistant steward to learn their various tasks and I often scuttled alongside him. First the sailing master showed how to set the sails (but I got lost in his complex explanation of tacking to beat upwind). Then we spent several hateful days shadowing quartermaster Kimble—who was vicious and harsh and relished the power he spent like a wealthy toff. I didn’t learn nothing from him for he made my head wobble with that much dread I couldn’t keep nothing inside it. The boatswain taught Bristol to fix ropes and pulleys, while his mate showed me how to club hair in a nautical braid. And the carpenter chirped cheerfully away as he went through his routine checks of the mast and hull. But best of all I enjoyed navigation—complex, artistic, skillful, technical—and always thoroughly engaging. I learned about the rise and set of the sun, the tracks of the moon through the heavens, and stars took on names with increasing importance as I opened my ears and eyes.
Then as the weeks rolled past the first month into the second . . . some of the crew began falling sick. One day the gunner woke up with Cupid’s disease and tried to blame it on Maude. She was singled out during the doctor’s inspection and roughly hauled before Captain Mack. He turned to the gunner and asked, “Is this the one?”
The sailor spat in her hair and hissed, “Aye, Cap’n. That’s the filthy doxy as gave me the Great Pox.”
Maude looked horrified and yelled, “He didn’t get that from me!” The trembling young woman was instructed to undress in front of the entire crew so the doctor could further examine for pustules, rash, or fever. Unfortunately, Maude had scraped the inside of her thighs a few days earlier when she slipped on the greasy ladder, and in the dingy hold the wound had formed tiny pimples. Despite her protests and explanations, Dr. Simpson determined she was highly infectious and had to be rendered impotent for the rest of the voyage.
The captain nodded, turned to the quartermaster, and said, “Mr. Kimble—approach if you please.” The two men determined Maude’s fate in wily whispers, then the captain ordered the young woman to kneel at their feet. The quartermaster signaled for the marlinespike a sailor was using at the base of the mizzenmast and, with one ruthless swipe, he ripped open Maude’s pretty complexion from right ear to far left cheek. Her sparkling eyes dimmed in disbelief, then the pain struck home and she clutched her gaping face that had split like an overripe plum.
“You’re a wee bit less handsome now, lassie,” he sneered as he handed back the weapon. The captain looked on with sickening approval and said, “Sew her up, Doctor. She’ll not be infecting any more of my men.”
I hadn’t never seen nothing so cruel, and I cried the grief her damaged face could not. My poor friend had been torn and brutalized and would never find tolerable work again. They’d maimed her a figure of nightmare—for even after the thick stitches healed she was left lopsided and scarred. And I never once heard her sing from that day forth. All her spirit and humor deserted her and she sat in the shadows, marooned on her own black island. That same evening I got bloodied too. The captain expected me jovial and dancing but found me a sniveling nuisance. I made the mistake of questioning his judgment, and got rewarded with a violent blow to the chest that forced me across the cabin, cracked my rib, and made me feel queasy for days. He was careful, of course, not to damage another face—and to punish me further he put Violet in charge of the entertainment, supposedly until I healed.
I realized that night I never had no real influence over my master at all, and thereafter resolved to keep my thoughts close in my own clotted head. He was in charge of our everything—and that was just that.
3
A FLIMSY SHIFT ON A BUNKER COT
SUMMER, 1712
Now toward the end of our second month at sea the food rations grew fitful. The cow stopped making milk so was butchered and eaten, and all of the chickens had since found their way to the pot. The salted pork was blistered with maggots and the biscuits grew lacy where weevils invaded. Bristol and me tried our hands at fishing but neither of us had any luck. So while the prisoners made do with pottage and dried peas, the crew ate the last of the beef and set up nets to catch turtles or dolphins or whales. But at least there was plenty of booze left.
One afternoon we’d a temporary panic when another ship was spotted, but it turned out to be a friendly vessel on route to England so our captains made eager trade. Their boat had recently repelled an attack from pirates off Bermuda and was running short of powder and shot, which we readily swapped for their salt, goat meat, cheese, oranges, rice, and flour. They also gave over five barrels of water in return for some sailcloth and candles. While all the commotion drew attention I slipped beside the women’s hatch and whispered down to Dollie to find out how Maude was doing. Not well. Violet crept over to join our talk and began probing me with strange questions. She breathed, “Where does the captain keep the keys to the shot locker and powder room?”
“I don’t know, Vi. Why?”
“Think, lovie. It’s important,” hissed Dollie.
“What’s going on?”
The women mumbled under my hearing and replied, “There’s things afoot you need know of, Lola.” After a pause Dollie asked, “Can you filch something metal? A spike . . . knife . . . something of the sort?” I answered that I might. “Good. You know that prisoner, name of Charlie?”
“The old salt who killed some tar in a brawl?”
“That’s him.” They motioned for me to slide closer so I lowered my ear to the grid. “He’s been waiting to hear news of pirates abroad because he and his mate reckon that means we’re closing in on land. We’ve been plotting together for weeks and now the time’s at hand—we’re going to take over the ship!” I stifled the gasp pressing my throat. My skin turned cold and bumpy. I mumbled, “But . . . but . . .”
“Hush up!” Dollie commanded. “It’s a full moon two more nights from now. That’s when we’ll make our move, so you’ve to get the spike to Charlie tomorrow. Understand?” I nodded, woodenly.
“And, Lola,” Violet added, “don’t tell the boy.” I bubbled something unintelligible and stumbled away to the stern to calm myself down. Everyone was busy loading the supplies, so I slipped up to sit by the stern lantern and stared out at the trailing foam. What should I do?
Of course I wanted to help my mates down below because I was furious with how the men had maimed Maude and all that—but there was only a frail little girl hiding inside of me. I was terribly terribly frightened. What would they do if they caught me plotting? How would we fare if we failed? And if we managed to take the ship would enough men even know how to sail her? Where would we go where we could hide in safety? Might we be hunted the
rest of our days? And what would happen to the crew—I didn’t want Bristol getting hurt. . . .
The terror ran round the inside of my skull until I thought my eyes would spark. But then a compelling force pulled me on my heels and made me wander the decks in search of something metallic. Of course, being a prison vessel the sailors were well-drilled in keeping things stowed safe against insurrection, but I thought one of the tars might be careless amidst all the hustle and transfer of goods. No such luck. I couldn’t find nothing suitable at all. That night I eagerly scanned the cabin in the hope of discovering some tool but then I remembered that even our food was cut by my master’s lone knife (which he always kept on his person) and I didn’t dare try to steal that—or his keys. After he’d taken his rough pleasure I lay by his snoring carcass staring widely at the rafters. I pined for Janky’s flair at lock picking and wished I’d paid more attention when he was showing me. There must be something! I ransacked my thoughts for some half-forgotten memory that lay close by and irritating. And when I finally remembered the small rusted shears now locked in the wooden chest I remained fully conscious the rest of the night, tossing and thinking and scheming.
Next morning, as we broke our fast with the new provisions, I drew in my courage and said, “Master, I think I’m well enough to dance again.” He responded with a bored expression and I worried he was tiring of me. So I lowered my eyelashes and said seductively, “It’s a private dance—proper special—just for you.”
A flicker of lust flashed the backs of his eyes and he responded, “Aye? Tell me a wee bit more then.”
“It’s forbidden . . . but I believe the gypsies call it the Dance of Veils.”
“Dance of Veils, eh?” he replied thoughtfully. “I’ve heard tales of the like. . . .”
I decided to push while I had his attention and added, “But I’ll need to fix a new outfit.”
He finished his drink, rubbed his nose with the nub of his missing fingers, and said, “Aye. I’ll open the chest afore I go.” Then he asked, “And music?”
“There’s a song I can sing for myself.”
Captain Mack scratched his thigh and shuffled in his coat for the key to the box. He turned the lock, collected his things, and winked as he left the cabin.
I rummaged through the material to the bottom of the container and quickly found the shears. Each piece of material was seared in my memory so I’d already designed the costume I would create and quickly set about cutting the pieces. Now I’d only ever seen this Dance of Veils once before, when Shona was giving a rival performance at a village fair and I managed to slip from Grandma Vadoma’s sight for a few brief moments. I slipped beneath the skin of the men’s tent to find out what all the ruckus and hooting was for, and there I saw a scantily clad beauty displaying her charms to a bunch of avid admirers. When the final veil dropped, the place exploded and I ain’t never seen so many coins thrown for just one dance. Then Grandma discovered my ankle protruding under the flap and I was dragged away home in disgrace. But I knew the tune she was singing because we children had often repeated the words, oblivious to their meaning. And I went over all the verses as I put together the outfit.
Now, as luck would have it another blustery storm hit the ship that same midmorning so the prisoners were hurriedly chained back down in the hold to wait out the tempest. As the gaiting cabin buckled and dipped I was appreciative not to be facing the carnage belowdecks, which (I’m ashamed to admit) somewhat challenged my loyalty. In the end I reasoned that if I poked the shears through the men’s hatch I’d have done my bit to help my mates, and so as soon as the wind returned to normal I carefully plucked my way across the slippery deck. The crew was busy with the sails and Bristol was occupied with navigation—keeping the pegs in place on the traverse board so we wouldn’t lose our position. I crossed the waist and intentionally stumbled so as to fall against the wooden grate. In an instant I’d wiggled the shears through a hole and heard them drop with a ping on some unfortunate below who spluttered a surprised curse back up at me. But by the time I returned to the cabin I was shaking—wondering if I’d just made the worst mistake upon ever.
When the winds drew back into the thick, stuffed clouds and trundled away behind us, the skies began to gradually lighten and thin. The sun remained hidden, but after the wetness had melted from the deck the captain decided the crew was too exhausted to exercise the cargo that day, so the prisoner’s rations were taken below and dished up down there. And to keep the weary sailors happy an additional keg of rum appeared at the start of the second dogwatch. Just before dusk Mack returned to the cabin to find me ready and anxious. I was worried he’d detect my nervousness so I covered by saying, “I . . . I ain’t never done nothing like this before, Master.” He nodded a curt understanding, then took off his damp clothes and lay naked across the bunk. Waiting. He ran his good hand across his thinning crown and laid his head back against the wrist in a careless, decadent pose.
I battled to still my quivering voice by humming the first verse before I began any movements, glad for the shimmering veils that disguised my shakes. I stood in the confined space and began the chorus.
She sang la la, I beseech thee—listen what I say,
The man who can guess each riddle may claim my virtue as pay.
Captain Mack’s pupils widened in their narrowing eye slits as his breathing turned raspy. I noted his stubby hand tapping time on his thigh as I sang the introduction,The Sultan’s gift arrived bejeweled across from dusky lands,
She hid herself in swathes of silk and talked with two fair hands,
Her dance was light as swan-down,
Her voice like a bubbling brook,
She stole the king’s heart easily—one glance was all it took.
She sang la la, I beseech thee, listen what I say,
The man who can guess each riddle may claim my virtue as pay.
Now, if you ain’t never heard this song before, it unwraps the woman like a fancy gift. And the riddle’s dead easy to guess because each answer relates to the section of body revealed when that particular veil is dropped. For example, the first verse goes,This part of me contains the nod obeying your command,
It also holds the tender lips that pucker to kiss your hand,
The canvass flushed with blushes,
At the merest sight of you,
Two gems for dazzling my new lord—set in heavenly blue.
She sang la la, I beseech thee, listen what I say,
The man who can guess each riddle may claim my virtue as pay.
I toyed with the first wrap, until the captain finally grinned he knew the answer and pointed to his own face. Then I carefully untied the headpiece and let the silk slide languidly to the floor, all the while swaying in tantalizing circuits. By the time I dropped the final veil I had obviously captivated my audience, and he spent the next spill of the hourglass feasting on his spoils. Eventually, however, Mack slipped a shirt over his head and pushed his face through the door to send Bristol for food. I put on my night robe. But while he dressed in sated contentment I couldn’t help wondering what was going on down in the hold.
After we’d partaken of goat meat and rice I set about tidying the valuable cloth scattered around the room. Now, to this day I can’t never rightly remember what made him suspicious but all of a sudden the captain marched over to the chest and threw back the lid. He rummaged inside, and then tipped the box upside down so the needles and ribbon scattered like falling leaves and fell tangled against the materials. Then he meticulously began shaking each piece as I scurried to fold and tidy the discards after he’d finished. Finally, he stood up, banged down the lid, looked over the cabin surfaces and roared, “Where’s the shears?” I gulped. Then froze. Then gulped again. My tongue was dry and too scratchy to answer, but my body sprang to action and mimed a frantic search around the space. I looked under the blankets, groped round the floor, checked each container, and pretended to be clueless. Unfortunately my show lacked conviction and the next t
hing I knew he’d grabbed my wrists and bound them tightly with ribbon around the table leg. And when he blustered out of the room, puffing with fury, the ship exploded into chaos about him.
Now, I ain’t never been so despondent as in that long blank timelessness curled up in the straining dark, listening to the panic. I found out later what happened. The captain ordered a full crew turnout and organized a thorough search of the prison quarters. Line by line the men were dragged up the ladder through the hatch into the moonlight, where they were stripped naked and inspected by the doctor. Anyone foolish enough to speak was instantly flogged with the cat. Then they were chained to the ringbolts to watch the next line of men being processed. About halfway through emptying the hold, one of the seamen let out a yell, followed by a huge commotion. Several other sailors sprang down, only to discover the unfortunate tar grasping at a pair of shears that had been thrust through the side of his neck. Someone cried out for the doctor, but there was little he could do because the scissors had severed the victim’s splaying vein. Meanwhile, the two prisoners who’d freed themselves from their shackles were being mercilessly pummeled by a hoard of angry crewmen—and one of these unfortunates was Charlie. When the escapees were bludgeoned almost unconscious they were hauled up the ladder, stripped naked, and lashed either side of the foremast. The rest of the prisoners were brought up on deck, and even the women were chained up this time. I listened with mounting fear, trying to guess the turn of events. But even in my farthest imagination I couldn’t never have conjured up what happened next.
Fire on Dark Water Page 5
