The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay

by Louis A. Meyer

  Item two: That idiot Weasel proudly carries the keys to our chains on his belt, thinking it enhances his status. Good. Let him think that.

  Item three: That Mr. Hollister, the Second Mate of this bark, showed a modicum of kindness to me back there on the deck. Duly noted.

  Item four: It seems that—

  My thoughts are interrupted when I hear a great commotion outside, and the outer door swings in. The Bo'sun and two other hard-looking types muscle in a group of bound prisoners, men who are putting up a mighty howl.

  "Go straight to hell, English scum! A curse on all of yiz, ye cowardly dogs! Aye, you and your whore of a mither, too! You may bind our hands but ye kin no bind our spirits, British pigs! Ye kin no hang us all!"

  The men are clubbed as they are pushed in and manacled, but that does not diminish their voices in the least. They curse and damn their captors to the nether regions of hell and beyond. They seem oddly familiar to me ... Then I spot a particular one in their midst, and all becomes clear.

  That lad is Ian McConnaughey, and the other newly arrived Irishmen are former members of the crew of your late privateer Emerald.

  What the hell...?

  Dearest Jacky, though I am suffering Durance Vile, I fear that you are suffering worse, and I cannot bear the thought. I can take the pain upon my own person, but I fear that the pain and anguish you are suffering is far, far more severe...

  Jaimy

  Chapter 21

  Hooray, it's Saturday, which means holiday routine, and all are excited, especially me. Wheee!

  I know, I know, Jaimy. What right have I to laugh and cavort about when I am condemned to life imprisonment in a far distant land? How could I possibly feel any joy, momentary though it might be, when I have no idea of the trouble you are going through? I know, I know, but it is my nature to be cheerful. And I realize, too, that if I curl up in a tight ball of misery, self-pity, and woeful silence, I will never get out of this mess, which means that I would never, ever see you again...

  The Captain's table is being set up, and there will be singing and dancing after the noon meal, with an extra tot of rum for all, 'cept for the Under Sixteens—and except for me, too, because I have taken a vow to partake of spirits never again, Demon Rum having once almost been the ruin of me. But I start to think about getting into my wine stores, yes, I do, and I know where they are. The thought of a nice Bordeaux makes the spit well up in my mouth and... Enough of that, you...

  ***

  Yesterday, my Newgate girls and I had been in a positive fury of sewing, getting us ready. After much discussion we decided the easiest, and quickest, way to dress ourselves appropriately would be to copy the serving-girl outfit that I'd worn at the Lawson Peabody School. The black skirts with matching vests and white blouses are easy to cut and to sew, and the tight barmaid/milkmaid costume shows that we know our place—no fancy Empire dresses here—and it sets us off from the other Crews, who tend more to the flouncybouncy sort of thing.

  Another advantage of our new outfits is that the short skirts, which come only to the knee, are excellent for getting about the ship ... and for giving a bit of a petticoat flash when that sort of thing seems called for. I'll not be pimping out my girls, but we are being taken to Australia as breeders, and I'll want them to make the best matches possible.

  It is late June and the air is warm, so we won't need undershirts. There will be new drawers all around, though, with flounces, and we'll wear white mob caps with trimming of black thread to match the skirts.

  It is a veritable orgy of cutting, tucking, and fitting. Mary Wade, being a former street urchin, is, of course, useless, so we use her as dressmaker's dummy. Esther, having been a milliner's apprentice, is expert in sewing. Molly and Ann and the rest bring what skills they have to the job.

  While we were busy with the dressmaking task, I insisted on baths all around, but they didn't take much forcing on that. We finished and proudly pronounced ourselves ready for public viewing.

  ***

  After the ship's crew, as well as the various ladies' Crews, have been given their food and drink, Captain Laughton comes out onto the deck, resplendent in a fine uniform of blue trimmed with white turnouts. He bows grandly to the cheers of his crew and sits himself down. Close by his left knee, a Judy of the Liverpool Crew places her bottom on the deck and leans her face against his knee. On his other side, a Lizzie, one of Elizabeth Barnsley's bunch, assumes a similar position. There are assorted Tartans about the table, as well, attending the Messrs. Seabrook, Gibson, and Hinckley. Apparently Higgins has done his job of procuring—or, rather, providing—appropriate company ... It's all in how one says it, ain't it?

  The army man, Major Johnston, is seated there as well, splendid in scarlet, with a pleasant look upon his face, although he does not appear to have an escort—at least not yet. He lets his eyes roam over the horde of females who come upon the deck. Then, when I bring my girls up into the light and array them along the left of the fore hatch, which will become the stage, I note that his eye has stopped its roving and has fixed upon Esther Abrahams, whose eyes are demurely cast down, easily radiant in her natural beauty. Hmmmm...

  Higgins is there with his assistants, who put much wine about in front of the officers. Grrrr... all of my best ... Oh, God, there's that Madeira I picked up in ... never mind ... but grrr all the same.

  Oh, well, spirits are high and that's the way I like 'em. Higgins catches my eye and looks down at the fiddlecase next to the quarterdeck stairs. I nod.

  After settling himself and getting some of my fine cheeses and truffles down his neck, the Captain calls out, "Shantyman! A song, if you please!"

  The Shantyman advances to the foremast, head up, his stick before him. He has been onboard several days now and does not appear to need the arm of a guiding seaman. His stick raps against the foot of the foremast and he turns to face the drum that he knows will have been set there in front of him. He puts his hands on the drumhead and takes up the mallets he finds there and begins to pound out the basic rhythm.

  One, two, three, and boom ... boom...

  I pull out my pennywhistle and get ready myself.

  His voice rings out...

  From Liverpool to Glasgow a-rovin I went

  To stay in that country it was my intent,

  But girls and strong whiskey, like other damned fools,

  I soon was transported back to Liverpool.

  A great joyous cry goes up from Mrs. Berry's Liver-pudlians arrayed to the starboard side—those of them who were not already by the side of some amorous seaman, that is—and all swing into the chorus...

  So it's row, row Bullies, row!

  Them Liverpool Judies have got us in tow!

  This was the self-same song that I sang on the tabletop at Dovecote Hall that night after the triumph of the Sheik winning the race at the Downs, when we had this glorious ball and I was so completely happy and Clarissa Worthington Howe plied me with sweet Kentucky bourbon and I loved it and I loved her so much and then I disgraced myself before all and sundry with my drunken display and had to leave that lovely place under a cloud of shame.

  Shaking those sorry thoughts out of my mind, I place pennywhistle to lips and play along with the very familiar melody.

  The Shantyman, upon hearing the notes from my whistle, inclines his head toward me, the source of the new sound, smiles slightly, and then goes to the next verse.

  I shipped on the Alaska well out in the bay,

  Waitin' for a fair wind to get under way.

  The sailors all drunk, and their backs is all sore,

  The whiskey's all done and we can't get no more!

  Groans from the crowd on the thought of no more whiskey, and the chorus is sung again, and it strikes me that many of the men on this ship have sailed with the Shantyman before and have formed a choir of sorts behind him and bellow out the well-known words with great gusto. The Crews pick up on the chorus, too, and, having some three hundred voices, untrained or not, si
nging in unison is something wonderful to hear.

  The Shantyman swings in again, the boom ... boom ... boom... of his drum never wavering.

  Now here comes our First Mate with his jacket of blue,

  A-looking for work for us poor sailors to do.

  It's "Jig tops to halyards" he loudly does roar,

  "So lay aloft, Paddy, you son-of-a-whore!"

  That last line gets a roar of approval from many members of the Crews, and "Yer all sons o' whores, you sailor scum!" is heard shouted out, to laughter, from some lusty female throat. The Shantyman turns to my general direction and says, "So give us the last verse if you know it!"

  Oh, I know it, all right, and I sing it out.

  And now we've arrived at the Bramleymore dock.

  All the fair maids and lassies around us do flock.

  Our whiskey's all gone and our six-pound advance,

  And I think it's high time for to get up and dance!

  And at that I let my feet loose and, keeping up the tune on my pennywhistle, I dance all the way through the last chorus, ending on the boom of the drum.

  There is great applause, and I take some of it for mine, and it warms me. Taking a deep breath, I then swing into "The Sheffield Hornpipe," and my bare dancing feet are joined by heavily booted others. The Shantyman motions to his man, and a fiddle and bow are put into his hands and he catches up the tune and then the dancing starts for real. And when it comes to dancing, I show 'em how it's done.

  That double tot at noon along with that hearty dinner has certainly loosened up throats for song and given wings to dancing feet.

  "Oh, capital! Just capital!" exults the Captain, rising to his feet and dumping a miffed Lizzie to the deck. "More! More!"

  The Shantyman puts bow to fiddle again and rips into "When You Are Sick Is It Tea That You Want?" with my tootling right along, playing a counter melody to his straight melody line. After a bit of that tune, he slips into "Dunphy's Hornpipe" and I do, too. He grins again, and I think he is testing me to see if I can follow along. Of course I can, and at high speed, too.

  We end that with a flourish, and there is a great roar of appreciation for the now quite exhausted dancers and for the Shantyman ... and me.

  "More! More!" cries the Captain... More music, more dancing, more rum, more everything!

  I bounce off the stage and dash over to the quarterdeck, where I flip up the lid of the fiddle case, and—Oh, it is so good to see you yet again!—pick up the Lady Gay and her bow and hurry back to the stage.

  Mounting it, I begin playing opening notes of "The Leaving of Liverpool." It is a somewhat slower song, and it will give the dancers a bit of a break. Hey, if anyone knows how to run a set, it's Jacky Faber, by God. "Do you know it, Sir?" I ask the singer of songs who towers over me.

  He does. He lays aside his drum mallets, throws back his great head, and applies his deep baritone to the song.

  So fare thee well, my own true love,

  When I return, united we will be.

  It's not the leavin of Liverpool that grieves me, love,

  But my darling when I think of thee.

  It is a lovely tune, telling of a poor sailor leaving his own true love far behind as he embarks upon a long ocean voyage. It's a song I have often sung to myself when Jaimy and I were forced to part yet one more time.

  As I'm playing and the Shantyman is singing, I notice that the young Army major has risen from the Captain's table and has gone over to stand in front of Esther Abrahams. He extends his hand, and she, blushing, takes it and lets herself be led to the dance floor.

  Hmmm...

  He leads her in a stately dance—rather like the minuets I saw being danced at Dovecote. They look good together, and Esther positively glows. A concluding verse from the Shantyman.

  The sun is on the harbor, love,

  And I wish I could remain,

  For I know it will be some long, long time,

  Before I see you again.

  The song is over, and while the Shantyman steps down to refresh himself at the Captain's table, I keep the fiddle going for the sake of the two dancers. I play a song taught to me at Dovecote years ago by Amy Trevelyne, and I sing it, too.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes

  And I will pledge with mine.

  Or leave a kiss within the cup

  And I'll not ask for wine.

  They are a bit closer now ... Another verse...

  The thirst that from the soul doth rise

  Doth ask a drink divine;

  But might I of Jove's nectar sip,

  I would not change for thine.

  Closer yet. I figure I'll end this little set with "Those Endearing Young Charms," just violin, no voice.

  Letting the last note trail off plaintively, I see that Major Johnston has released Esther's hand and is bowing to her. It is plain he has asked her something. She hesitates, then smiles and shakes her head, and goes back to her place with my Newgaters.

  Good girl ... Never pays to be too easy ... Let him suffer a bit.

  I'm about to play something else when I hear the Captain call, "You, girl, come up here!"

  I put aside the Lady Gay to bask for the briefest moment in the applause from the crowd, and I give them a deep curtsy in return. Then I go to stand before the Captain's table. I put on the modest schoolgirl look, hands clasped behind me, my eyes cast down.

  "That was well done, girl," says the Captain. "Do you play any other instruments?"

  "The Spanish guitar, Sir, if it so please you."

  "Hmm. Higgins, do we have such a thing aboard?"

  "Yes, Sir," replies Higgins, standing by. "I believe there is one in your cabin."

  "Ah, that thing leaning against the wall? Good," says Captain Laughton with satisfaction, taking another slug of his wine. "Then you shall entertain us tonight in my cabin, if you will."

  "Yes, Sir, I will."

  Oh, yes, I will, indeed...

  Chapter 22

  I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry I keep repeating this to myself as I rap lightly on the Captain's door, fiddle case under my arm. But my tears are in danger of streaming at any moment as I am escorted in by Higgins, and I gaze about my cabin. There's my cozy bed and lovely curtains, my guitar, my table, which is set for eight of whom I will not be one ... and my bold pirate flag with its wicked, grinning skull draped on the wall. Ain't feeling very bold and wicked now, are we, girl? No, just suddenly sad at the utter loss of all that I hold so dear—Jaimy, my beautiful ship, my shipping company, everything...

  Higgins senses my distress and quietly says, "Look at it this way, Miss. It's been less than a week aboard, and already you've wormed your way back into your cabin. Amazing work, even for you, I must say," and he gives me a "Chin up" look.

  I sniffle and nod, thrust up the chin, and go to take my guitar from her cradle on top of the chest. Then I jump up and place my bottom on that same chest. I figure I'll be out of the way here, as befits my status as convict-musician.

  When I had found the guitar that time we raided the outlaw and river pirate nest called Cave-in-Rock on the Ohio River, I had named her Rosalita because of her Spanish heritage and because of her warm, rosy hue. As I tune her up, I think fondly of Solomon Freeman, the runaway slave we'd pulled out of the Mississippi River. It was he who taught me how to coax melodies out of Rosalita, and I wonder how he is faring now, back in Boston. Pretty well, I suspect, knowing him and his talents. Ah well, that was then and this is now.

  As I am figuring out my set for the evening, the door opens and the Captain, along with his guests for the evening, pour into the room. I pop to my feet and assume a low curtsy.

  "Seats! Seats, everyone!" cries Captain Laughton. "Stand not on ceremony! Here's our good Higgins with the wine! And I see we are to have sweet music, too! Be seated all!"

  There is the Second Mate, Mr. Seabrook, with a Tartan, whom I recognize as Betsey Leicester, on his arm, and there is the Purser, Mr. Samsock, with a girl I d
on't yet know, and there is the First Mate, Mr. Ruger. He does not miss my presence, putting his eye on me right away. I do not meet his gaze. The Surgeon Supervisor, Dr. Thompson, an open, jolly sort, whom I have not seen since our first day aboard when we were checked for lice and other afflictions, is also in attendance.

  There are other girls, as well, including two for the Captain, who seems to like to take his pleasure in multiples—one I recognize as Sarah Acton and the other as Mary Mullenden, both Lizzies. Then, through the door comes Major Johnston, splendid in scarlet, who escorts Esther Abrahams into the cabin, to gasps of admiration.

  Yes, the beautiful Esther Abrahams. Earlier, when my girls were getting me ready for my big debut in the Captain's cabin—brushing me up and dusting me off—I learned from Esther that, though she had refused the offer of jumping right then into the handsome Army officer's bed, she had not turned down his offer of a fine dinner in the Captain's cabin that very evening. Smart girl, I thought. Why give up a perfectly good dinner? I certainly wouldn't.

  I had sent Mary Wade to find Higgins, to ask that I be given my black mantilla for tonight's performance and that Esther be allowed to wear my blue dress—the one I had sewn myself onboard the Dolphin. At the time, I had patterned it after a dress I had seen on a certain Mrs. Round-tree, a practitioner of a very old trade on the island of Malta. Being an impressionable thirteen-year-old at the time, it seemed like just the thing and I was right. It has served me very well whenever I felt that I needed to catch the roving male eye. Let Esther wear it now and see what happens with a certain red-coated major.