Mary crosses to the door and pulls out the wedges and flips up the latch. The door swings open to reveal the First Mate standing with his own arms crossed on his chest. He is a man of about thirty-five, with dark hair flecked with a few strands of gray and tied back with a black ribbon. He's wearing a black uniform—a jacket with gold trim and buttons, a heavy leather belt, and black trousers. In addition to that, he wears an expression of extreme arrogance, and though he is a good-looking man, I take an instant dislike to him.
I sink down such that only my head, shoulders, and knees poke out of the water, which is now somewhat cloudy with soap, and fasten my gaze upon the intruder. He walks in and stands over me.
"What is your name, girl?"
"Mary Faber," I say, suppressing the "Sir" the military part of me wants to add.
"Is this normally part of the laundry concession?"
"It is when I'm runnin' it," I say. "Which I am."
"Watch your mouth, convict, and stand up," he orders.
What?
"I am the First Officer on this ship and I am ordering you to stand up. If you do not do it, I will have you dragged out of there and taken, in your current state of undress, to the deck and there to be caned."
Fine. I stand up.
As I rise, I place my hands over my sex, as if from shyness, but really so I can cover the blue tattoo on my right hip with the inside of my right forearm.
He grasps his hands behind and walks slowly around my dripping self. He makes some appreciative murmurs, but apparently this is not enough to satisfy him.
"Put your hands down. Uncover yourself."
I stick my chin in the air. "You will not grant me even token modesty?" I burn him with my best Lawson Peabody Look, but seemingly to little effect.
"You are a convict on a convict ship bound for a convict colony. You have very few rights. Drop your hands, or else feel the lash on those buttocks."
I do it, sliding my hands to my hips, where I leave them. The right one continues to cover my tattoo. I'm hopin' this will satisfy him and he'll leave.
It does not.
His hand snakes out and grabs my right wrist and pulls it away from my side.
"Ha. I thought so. Jacky Faber herself," he says with great satisfaction. "When I saw your name on the manifest, I knew it must be you. You see, I read the papers, and I read books, too, even silly penny-dreadfuls sometimes. It will please me greatly to be featured in the next one, in a very amorous context."
Now that I am completely exposed, he drops my arm and takes another leisurely turn about me, chuckling to himself.
"Very nice. Very nice, indeed. It appears the books did not lie," he says with some relish. "You shall be with me, Jacky Faber. You will find it to your benefit."
"I think not."
"I think so. You may report to my cabin."
"The Captain says we cannot be forced, and I hear he is an honorable man. I assume his order goes for the officers as well as for the seamen."
"We shall see." He lifts his hand toward my breast.
"Do not touch me, Sir, as I have not given permission. Would you disobey your Captain?"
He slowly lowers his hand. "You will change your mind, girl. This will be a long voyage and I am a patient man. I can wait to get what I want."
With that, he turns on his heel and leaves the washroom.
Brows knitted in a deep frown, I sink back into the water,fuming.
"Coo," breathes Esther Abrahams, blond curls about her face, eyes bright with curiousity. "Just who are you, Mary?"
Good question, Esther...
Then I pop out of the tub, dry myself, get into clean drawers... ahhhhh... and the rest of my serving-girl rig—black skirt that comes only to my knees, loose white shirt with low bodice, and black weskit laced up tight about my waist and lower ribs. Though it is not anywhere near the finest of my clothing, I have always liked the fit of this outfit. Back in harness, girl, yes, and ready for what comes.
Afterwards, I leave the laundry under the supervision of Maggie Wood, who has become my second-in-command, to go looking for Higgins. I figure it can't hurt, now that my cover has been blown out of the water.
I find him emerging from Laughton's cabin, bearing a tray that holds the remains of the Captain's breakfast. I catch his eye and nod toward the passageway that leads down to the cabins. He nods in response and passes the tray to a waiting ship's boy.
"To the galley, Quist, and pass the word that the Captain will want a table set up on the main hatch to watch tomorrow afternoon's festivities."
The boy scurries off as we go down. Higgins opens a door and we go in. I discover that it is his own cabin, and it is one of the better ones. Trust Higgins to always better his state—bed, dresser, dry sink, porthole, and room to turn around.
"Pretty plush, compared to what I've been livin' in, Higgins." I sniff, with a big pout on my face, suddenly self-pitying and totally ungracious. Then I spy my seabag next to the bulkhead and dissolve into tears. This had been my ship and that was my seabag and now it's not. I'm sorry, Higgins, I know you do your best for me, and I know I do not deserve it, and I'm sorry, I'm sorry...
He places a hand on each of my shaking shoulders and holds them to calm me. I burrow my face into his chest, sobbing.
"I know you have had a hard time of it, Miss, and I, too, am sorry for that. But you must agree we have found ourselves in much more serious circumstances before." He takes his right hand from my shoulder and places it on my back, gently patting it.
"I know, Higgins"—I snuffle, running the back of my hand under my suddenly running nose—"that I'm actin' like a baby. I'll stop now. And we've got to talk." He releases me and I step back.
He waits, expectant.
"My cover is blown away, burned to the waterline..." And I relate to him the incident in the laundry with Ruger.
"...and he beheld me in my natural state, tattoo and all, so all will now know of my past," I conclude.
"Hmmm..." Higgins considers this development. "Well, I was already quite sure your identity would eventually become known, so it's possible that no harm will come of this."
"I don't want him on me, Higgins," I say with a shiver.
"Well, the Captain's order still stands, and I think Mr. Ruger will have to obey it."
Higgins ponders all this some more, and after a while, he says, "Indeed, it could be to your advantage that you come to be known as more than just a common convict. Your notoriety might lend you some protection. I've noticed that Captain Laughton is not a man who worries himself overmuch about ordinary concerns."
"How so, Higgins?"
"Well, for one thing, he has directed that I set up a table for him and his officers for the viewing of the holiday-routine festivities on Saturday afternoon, and that the table is to be laden with the best of our wine stores and other viands..."
Grrrrr...
"Let it go, Miss. It is only ship's stores, and not worthy of your concern."
"Yes, but it once was mine to parcel out."
"Miss, please..."
"All right, I'll be good. What else?"
A slight pause, then a quick clearing of the Higgins throat. "Ahem. The Captain has commissioned me to pick two of the more toothsome beauties from the Crews, as I believe they are now called, to be his ... companions ... this afternoon ... and probably this evening, too."
I laugh. "Poor Higgins, you may now add pimp to your list of butlery skills."
Finding that not overly funny, he frowns, and I give him a poke. "Come on, Higgins, I'll prolly be doin' the same thing myself and real soon," say I, thinking of the hapless Mick and Keefe who couldn't find a decent girl if they were thrown into the same sack with one, as well as the futures of members of my own Crew. After all, we're all being sent down as breeders, so if I can make the pairings kind and pleasant, instead of mean and nasty, then I will bend my best efforts in that regard.
I pop over to sit on the bed and give a bounce or two, then ask, "The m
an the Captain called the Shantyman. Who is he?"
Higgins goes to the dresser and picks up a brush, and then comes back to stand over me.
"Tsk," he says, applying the brush to my now dry but very unruly thatch. "What am I expected to do with this?"
"What you can, Higgins, and it is so good to feel your hands on my hair again. I cannot tell you just how good." I close my eyes and revel in his touch, forgetting all other troubles.
After a few minutes of vigorous brushing, he begins the tale. "As for the Shantyman, his name is Enoch Lightner, and he was Captain Laughton's Sailing Master when both were in the Royal Navy. At the 1804 Battle of the Nile, they stood side by side on the quarterdeck of the frigate HMS Falconer, and during that furious engagement with Napoleon's fleet, Mr. Lightner was struck across the face with a burning blast of powder that blinded him in both eyes forever."
"That is very sad," I said. "But it does happen. What is he doing here now?"
"The Captain and Mr. Lightner were particular friends and, unwilling to see his friend rot away his life in some dismal room, trying to subsist on a meager pension, Captain Augustus Laughton left the Royal Navy and signed on with the East India Company, so that he would be able to bring his former Sailing Master along on his voyages, as a shantyman, leading the musical chants that help the seamen do their jobs. You already know he has a very powerful voice."
"Very commendable of the Captain. But it must have been pure torture for the poor man, once having been a Sailing Master, to feel the wind on his face and to hear the rustling of the slack sails and not to be able to issue orders for the setting of those sails. I know it would kill me."
"Yes, Miss, but when you consider the alternative—a cold and quiet room for the rest of your days, with no joy, no good company, nothing ... And unlike the old, retired sea captain of yore, not even the comfort of sitting with spyglass and looking out over the harbor to gaze upon the shipping therein..."
"Yes, I suppose, still..."
"...and the man is quite a skilled musician, as you will very shortly see. He plays a variety of musical instruments, and he does not confine himself to sailors' songs. He generally takes his dinners with the Captain and is good company. He does not dwell on his infirmity."
"I shall have to get near him."
"Well, knowing you as I do, I don't think that could be avoided. I also think it wouldn't be a bad idea."
I nod and look over at my seabag.
"Could I have my toothbrush, Higgins? I fear my tusks have grown quite green and mossy. I can conceal it in my vest."
"Of course, Miss," he says, putting my bag on the dresser top and opening it. He pulls out my toothbrush and hands it to me. "But I think you ought not to take anything else. Not just yet."
Again I nod in agreement, thinking how naked I feel without my shiv tucked in my vest.
"But it is good to see you presentable again, Miss."
I run my hands over my weskit, smoothing it down.
"You cannot know how good it feels to be clean again, Higgins, and to feel your kind touch." I sigh. "But I must be going. There is much to do. Can you have one of the men bring the bolts of white and black cloth down to the laundry? Good. And many needles and much thread. Scissors, too. I must get my girls out of their rags. Till later, then, and thanks for everything ... Oh, and one more thing—if you could, have the Lady Gay handy during tomorrow's singing and dancing."
As we exit Higgins's cabin, I'm startled to see Captain Laughton standing at the long mess table, talking to First Mate Ruger. Upon seeing us emerge, the Captain breaks into a wide grin, while the First Mate dons a deep scowl.
"Ha!" barks the Captain. "I thought I heard the lovely tinkle of female laughter from in there, you dog! Doing a bit of early scouting of our tender cargo, eh, Higgins? Good man! Carry on!"
I quell my impulse to drop into a low curtsy and instead put on the scared big-eyed waif look and scurry away like any scullery maid who suddenly finds herself in the fearful presence of the high and mighty.
I feel Ruger's eyes burning into my back as I scurry, and I know one thing...
He ain't fooled.
Chapter 20
James Fletcher, Convict
Onboard the Ship Cerberus
London
Jacky Faber
Figment of My Fevered Imagination
Dear Jacky,
I have learned from a far-from-reliable source that instead of your being hanged, you have been taken for Transportation to New South Wales. I do not know whether or not this is true, but I choose to believe that you are still alive and will continue these spiritual correspondences.
Not only were the Frog and the Toad wrong in thinking that we should soon be joined by other prisoners, but they were also deprived of the satisfaction of soundly beating me in return for almost strangling the Toad. For as soon as we returned from the head, new guards appeared, and I was immediately taken off the Hulk and thrown into a cart with several others. The Amphibian Brothers were noticeably chagrined at being denied the opportunity to bloody me up some. As I was being hustled away, I wished them the worst possible fortune and expressed my fervent hope that they both would rot in hell very soon.
After a short ride through the seedier parts of the city—yes, I know, your "beloved old turf"—we arrived at the side of a fat merchant ship and we shuffled onboard, hands manacled, fetters on our feet.
"Name?" asked the dusty little man at the table at the head of the brow when it was my turn to stand before him.
"James Fletcher."
The man scratches my name into his ledger and smiles. "Ah, yes, our defrocked Royal Navy Lieutenant. We have heard of you. Welcome to the Cerberus. Behave yourself and you might live to see New South Wales."
I look out over the harbor and say nothing.
"Bo'sun, take him down to the maximum security cell and shackle him tightly. This man is not to be trusted."
Well, it's nice to get some sort of respect, anyway. The Bo'sun shoves his club into my back and says, "Git along, you."
I start toward the hatch leading down, but a man sidles up next to me—a scruffy little man who says, "Come down a bit, 'ave ye, Sor? Ain't likely to be bindin' up some poor cove t' the grating for a proper whippin' now are ye, Sor? Nay, ye ain't, and ye ain't likely t' be, since I'm the bloke what works the maximum security cell, and ye ain't—"
"Enough of that," says a man on the quarterdeck. I look up to see a man dressed as a Mate, or whatever they call the so-called officers on these scows. "No need for that. Just take him down, Weisling."
I survey the deck and call up to him, "No guns, Sir? How can you hope to defend yourself from pirates?"
"We will have an escort—a British Navy sloop of war."
Hmmm, I say to myself. At least some protection there... And then—
"James! James Fletcher!"
The call comes from the dock and I look to the Officer.
He says, "Let him answer."
I am allowed to go to the rail. I look over to see that a coach has pulled up, and two men are standing beside it, gazing upward.
"James! Brother! Know that all legal efforts are being bent to overturn this miscarriage of justice!" shouts one, and "We shall not rest!" echoes the other.
"Thank you, Brother ... Father," I say. The door to the carriage opens, and a woman gets out. I say one more word, but not to her.
"Jacky?"
"She has been sentenced to Life in New South Wales, and has already been taken off," says my father.
"Thank you, Father," I manage to reply. "That has removed a great weight from my mind."
The woman points a finger up at me and shouts, "If you had never laid eyes on that wretched girl, you wouldn't be having this awful trouble."
Yes, Mother, but I did...
I turn from the rail and say to the Bo'sun, "Take me to my berth, if you please." The brute grins and prods me along. Before I go below, I ask of the Officer who had shown me some small degree of kin
dness, "Your name, Sir?"
"I am Mr. Hollister, Second Mate," he says. "Take him below."
He turns away and I am shoved toward a hatchway, where I duck, to enter the gloom of the hold. I climb down a ladder, go through a heavy door, and enter a cell. The room is roughly square, about twenty feet across, with a wide shelf running along the three sides away from the door. Attached to the bulkhead above that shelf are rows of dangling neck manacles, eighteen inches apart. The deck below is an open wood grating, and I hear men shuffling about below, their chains rattling. It does not take too much wit to surmise that this ship was once a slaver ... and, in a way, it still is.
I notice that three long lengths of chain run along the deck in front of each shelf. I am put on the shelf and the neck manacle is put around my neck by the Bo'sun, snapped shut, and then locked. My ankle shackles are then attached and locked to the long chain at my feet. A few more cackling giggles from Weisling... "Aye, and I heard yer little lady 'as been shipped off, too. My, my, I expects she's bein rogered right now by two, maybe three, good honest jailers just like me ... Now ain't that a fine thought, guv'nor? That little bitch finally gettin what's comin' to her? Ah, yes, just think on it, guv'nor, just think..."
Yes, Jacky, I recognized him right off as that low-life steward from the Wolverine, the one you named the Weasel and so forcefully put in his place. Then the outer door is slammed shut, and I am left alone to try to soothe my seething mind.
Oh, yes, Weasel, I will think, but what I will think on is just how much pleasure I will get from choking the miserable life out of you when it comes to that ... And believe me, you little turd, it will come to that.
Enough. I lean my back against the wall and try to think as you would have thought, dear one, if you were the one incarcerated here. After all, you did escape from the brig on the Wolverine, and under my very nose, too. Could I hope to be as clever as you in this circumstance? I look about and try to think as you would. All right, then.
Item one: The long chains mean that we will sometimes have the neck manacles off and will be shuffled along with only the wrist and ankle shackles to restrain us—the line to the head, food lines, exercise times, up topside for some fresh air. After all, they don't want us to die, because they will be getting a head price for each of us delivered alive to the penal colony.
The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay Page 12
