Since there are only eight places around the table, the girls are set on low stools, each to the side of her male host. Esther, however, is not so lowly placed, but is seated instead at the table, to the right of Major Johnston, and I notice a few covert glares of resentment from some of the working girls. Suck it up, ladies, I think with a certain maternal satisfaction. Class tells.
Lastly, Enoch Lightner, the Shantyman, enters, head high and regal, and without guidance. He apparently knows his way around this room now, for he makes his way to the foot of the table, touches the back of his chair to orient himself, and waits while Higgins pulls it out for him. Thanking Higgins, he sits. His hand goes across the tabletop and locates his glass. I will find that on succeeding nights, that will always be his place.
As the glasses tinkle and food is served, I gather the mantilla about my face and quietly begin playing "Plaisir d'Amour," a French song that was supposed to be a favorite of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette, Queen of France. No words, just music, in a rippling-fingered style, and I am content in being only a good dinner musician, unobtrusive, in the background. I'm merely providing some gentle sounds to the general merriment and conversation, just as I had done back at the House of the Rising Sun in New Orleans. Thinking of that place, I do a bit of "The Young Girl Cut Down in Her Prime," and it seems to go over well, as I hear no complaints.
Things grow garrulous. "Do you have what you desire, Mary Mullenden?" roars Captain Laughton.
"Everything 'cept you, Captain," counters the resourceful Miss Mullenden.
I perceive that Higgins has been very judicious in his choosing of doxies for the cabin.
"Have you noticed, Captain, that half of our cargo is named Mary?" asks Mr. Seabrook.
"True, too true," retorts the Captain. "Go out at noon and yell out 'Mary,' and many heads will turn! Mighty ironic, I must say, considering the original Mary was a Virgin! Har-har!"
The Captain's witticism is roundly appreciated, and more toasts are proposed and drunk, and as the laughter increases, I turn to doing "Greensleeves" and then the "Willow Garden," which is one of the first tunes Liam Delaney taught me on the pennywhistle back on the Dolphin. As I am playing these numbers, I notice that First Mate Ruger's eyes do not leave me, and I do not like it. I shiver, as I have seen that look before and it never bodes me any good.
The good Captain gestures to Higgins, then nods at me, and a plate is brought over and placed next to me, and, "Thank you, Captain ... Higgins ... Oh, that is so good."
Licking the grease from my fingers, I launch into a Spanish piece, "Solo Tu." I am well into it when I hear the Shantyman call out, "Girl. That is very nice. What is the name of it?"
" 'Solo Tu,' Señor ... er ... Sir," I say, momentarily forgetting where I am. "It means 'Only You.' It is a Spanish love song." I continue playing the melody.
"Are there words?"
"Yes, Sir."
"Then, sing them."
"Yes, Sir."
I continue fingering the chords till the melody comes around again and then...
Tú, so-lo tú
Has llenado de luto mi vida
Abriendo una herida
En mi corazón
There are several other verses, and I sing them as best I can. At the end, I draw a bit of applause from the table.
"Where did you learn that?" asks Enoch Lightner.
"In Havana, Sir. Last year. I performed it at Ric's Café Americano."
"Capital place, Havana!" exults the Captain. "We were there in '92. Remember, Enoch? Before this stupid war."
"Well I do, Sir."
"Prettiest whores in the universe, eh, what, Brother?"
"They were that, Brother," replies the Shantyman. He then adds graciously, "Present company excepted, of course." This is met with titters of appreciation from the ladies of the cabin. Then he asks me, "How many languages do you speak?"
"Aside from English, I speak French and Spanish, Sir. I have a bit of Latin, too, not much, and that's all."
At that, putting aside my guitar, I pick up the Lady Gay and lay bow to her to play "Londonderry Air" as softly as I can, for we are in a small space.
When I am done and am about to go into the next piece, the Shantyman again calls out, "Come over here, girl. Bring your fiddle."
I slide off the chest and go to his side. I feel all eyes in the place upon me.
He puts out his hand, and I place the neck of my fiddle in it. He grasps it and runs his fingers tenderly over her form. Then he extends his other hand, and I put the bow into it. He thinks for a moment and then begins to play.
It is not a melody with which I am familiar, but it is exquisitely done. I have not heard the like since Gully MacFarland, and I am shamed for having tried to play before him. I know greatness when I hear it.
After he stops, there is silence, and in that silence he asks, "What is her name?"
"The Lady Gay, Sir," I manage to say. "Gay is short for Gabriella, because she is Italian."
"Umm," he says, running his fingers over her form. "Yes, all the great ones are, aren't they?"
Thinking of Gully MacFarland's Lady Lenore, which had also been made by an Italian craftsman, I have to murmur in agreement.
"Is she for sale?"
"No, Sir, she is not. You have the power to take her from me, but I hope you will not do that, for she is very dear to me." I say that with a catch in my voice.
He gently places Gay and her bow on the table and says, "Come here," and he reaches out for me.
I step closer so that he can take me by the arm. Finding where I am in space, he then lifts his hand and places it on my head and then runs it down over my face, his fingers tenderly searching out the hills and valleys of my eyes and cheekbones, nose, mouth, chin, and jaw. His hand lingers on my neck and then proceeds down over my shoulders and then farther yet. I find I do not resent this exploration as he does not seek out the parts of me that males usually aim for when their hands start roaming, but rather confines himself to feeling the set of my shoulders and backbone and hips.
"You have a lot in common with your violin," he says, finally. "Taut. High-strung. Yet not lacking in curves. Have you been taken up by a man yet?"
"No, Sir. I am very young, and I'm not quite ready for that sort of thing." Yes, Amy, I know. I hear you laughing...
"What a bunch of horseshit!"
Uh-oh...
That sudden outburst came from Mr. Ruger, who is plainly well into his cups and can no longer contain his secret.
"Do you know just who that is?" he asks the table at large.
"She appears to be a rather small convict who is clever with musical instruments," answers the Captain, mystified.
"No, Sir. That"—and he points his finger at my face—"is the notorious pirate Jacky Faber, recently condemned for defrauding the King of his rightful treasure. She is extremely lucky yet to be alive and not to be swinging from some gibbet."
"That is a famous pirate?" says Captain Laughton, gesturing toward me. "Why, she scarce weighs seven stone. How can that be?"
I put on the woeful waif look, full bore.
"Yes, Sir," snarls Ruger. It is plain that he is not a pleasant drunk. "And I can prove it."
"What about that, my dear?" asks the Captain of me.
I look up through carefully tear-laden eyelashes. "Many false charges have been laid against my name, Sir, but please know that I would never do anything to harm you—nor this ship, nor to any upon her."
"My word," chortles the Captain, "then we must be very careful of this fearsome beast, musn't we? Oh, look at her! I am fair shaking in my boots! Har!"
Captain Laughton slams down his glass on the tabletop and covers it with his hand, so that Higgins cannot refill it, signaling an end to the evening.
He stands and roars, "Tonight to bed, and tomorrow Gibraltar, by God. And then won't all the Marys dance!"
Oh yes, we shall, Sir...
Chapter 23
James Fletcher, Convict
Onboard Cerberus
Dockside, London
Dearest Jacky,
I met some of your friends today, those of the Celtic persuasion, and I must say that I found most of them less than congenial.
Still struggling and protesting vigorously, they are thrown into the cell. Their feet are secured to the central chain and their necks to the bulkhead collars, just as I have been tethered. They eventually calm down.
"Wot's this, then?" demands a touseled-haired brute of his brethren, but with his gaze fixed upon me. He is tethered about three men down from me. "It looks like a bleedin' British officer, it does. And it fair turns me stomach to look on him, it does."
All eyes now turn to me.
"Go stuff yourself, mick, and sod off," I say, my eyes not leaving his. I know this will be an important confrontation, and I intend to play it to the hilt.
"Can ye reach him, Sean O'Farrell, and give him a few good ones for me and for Ireland?"
The man tethered next to me says he intends to do just that and twists on the bench to get me in range. But I lift my own manacles and spit out, "Fine, bogtrotter, come at me, and you'll crawl back to your filthy burrow with a few less teeth!"
With that, I gather all my strength and slam my wrist cuffs into his face.
The man, O'Farrell, grunts and sits back. I may not have loosened any of his teeth, but I certainly got his attention.
"How d'ye like the taste of that, potato boy?" I snarl. "Suck it up, Paddy, for I bet it tastes just like your mother's dirty teat."
"Wait a minute," says another voice, one with more reason in it than has mine. "By God, it's Mr. Fletcher."
I recognize the voice as that of Ian McConnaughey, whom I had met on several occasions in the past year at your London Home for Little Wanderers, and found a rather decent fellow—for an Irishman.
"Hello, Ian," I say, pushing off from the now bleeding O'Farrell and leaning my shoulders back against the bulkhead. "Good to see you again."
"Mr. Fletcher, is it, Ian?" spits out this Arthur McBride. "Just who the hell is Mr. fockin' Fletcher?"
"He's Lieutenant James Fletcher, Jacky's intended husband ... or he was."
"Jacky? Our Puss-in-Boots?" McBride peers at me in the gloom and growls, "Well, cut off me balls and call me an Englishman, if you ain't right, Ian. It's him all right. And he's the sod what sunk our precious Emerald, ain't ye, Sir? Can't expect us to love ye for that, Sir, no, ye can't"
"Shove it up your ass, shit-for-brains," I growl. "I'd sink any ship afloat if I knew your sorry carcass was on it."
McBride chuckles but does not relent. "Because of you, I spent a year on the stinkin' Temeraire with the evilest Bo'sun's Mate what ever lived—swingin' his knobby at me, day and night. And you're to blame, too, for my good friend Kelly from County Kildare getting killed at Trafalgar, a fight that warn't even ours."
"I had many friends killed at that battle, as well. Do you hear me, whining bog man? Do you? Ah, but that's what the drunken Irish are best at, isn't it? Complaining about their lot and crying in their beer."
"Get him, lads!" shouts McBride, no longer chuckling.
Chains rattle and I get ready for the attack. "Come on, you low-life sonsabitches," I call out. "I've killed better men than you with one hand behind my back, and I'll make short work of you, too! Come on!"
"Wait! Leave off!" cries Ian McConnaughey. "He's all right! I know him! Let him be! Talk to him!"
The mob subsides, growling.
"How came you all here?" I ask in the ensuing surly silence.
"I came over to Waterford with Mairead, my wife, as you know," says Ian. "To gather the crew for Jacky's passenger ship the Lorelei Lee. She especially desired that I find as many of her old Emerald crew as possible to staff her new ship. These"—and I am sure he gestures to the occupants of the cell, even though I cannot see it in the gloom—"are the greater part of that crew."
I had recognized McBride and others of your Irish crew, Jacky, from their brief time on the Wolverine, after sinking the Emerald, and their subsequent capture and impressment into the Royal British Navy. They chafed mightily under the British yoke, and Captain Trumbull wisely, I thought, decided to break them up and send them to other ships. He felt that they might prove more loyal to you than to him, if it came down to it, even though you were at the time confined below in the Wolverine's brig ... or so we thought.
"And what happened?" I ask.
"The night before we were to sail on the packet for London, there was a meeting of the Free Irish Brotherhood at Finnegan's on Water Street. We all went, thinking nothing of it, just a few pints and some patriotic songs is all, but the Brits stormed in and arrested us all for bein' rebels and traitors."
"And we weren't doin' nothin' like that at all!" says a young voice from the dark. "Just a few pints!"
"Right, Connolly, we warn't doin' nothin', but here we are, anyway, so put a sock in it," says McBride. "So, Mr. Fletcher, how come they got you here in this cell with us Irish scum, and not up in the Captain's cabin kissin' his hairy ass?"
"Because, Paddy, it is quite apparent that this is a special cell for convicts they consider especially dangerous."
"Then, why've they got a pantywaist like you in here with us real men?" Some snickers all around.
"Maybe they figure I revel in the stink of Irish feet," I say. "Or perhaps it's that they know I am a former Royal Navy officer, one who could captain this ship if it came to it."
"We could sail it, too," says another voice from the group.
"Aye, you can put up a sail and take it down, and you can steer a straight course, but can you navigate? Could you control a surly crew? Could you inspire them to follow your orders in foul and dangerous weather, or in a fight, or would you watch helplessly as things descend into anarchy and chaos?"
Mumbles and grumbles. "Aw right, for all it matters, we just elected you Captain o' the Cell, Fletcher. What is your first order, Sir?" mocks McBride, bringing up his manacled hands to knuckle his brow in false obeisance.
"Very well, men," I answer, ignoring McBride, and taking my election as some sort of small victory. "First we shall introduce ourselves. I am James Emerson Fletcher, late Lieutenant of the Royal Navy. You are..."
They hesitate, and then they call off...
"Ian McConnaughey, County Wexford."
"Daniel Connolly, County Clare."
"Padraic Delaney, Wexford."
Good Lord, Liam's kid!
"Sean Duggan, Waterford."
"Seamus Lynch..."
"Charlie Parnell..."
And finally...
"Arthur McBride, by the grace of God, County Wexford, Ireland. Damn your eyes."
"Very good, men," I say, intentionally being insufferably British. "Listen to me..." I lean into the circle of faces watching me and point to my ear and then to the gate and then hold that finger up to my lips... They might be listening, lads, so we must be careful!
Whispering now, I say, "If you ever again wish to see your Emerald Isle, you will do the following. Let no one know that you are all able-bodied seamen. Understood? Good. In the line for the head, and in the food line, talk to the others and find out which of them might be seamen—steady seamen, now, ones you could trust when it comes down to it. There's no head in here so they'll have to take us out for that and the chow line, too, if we're allowed to get in it. We'll have to see about that."
"What good is all this?"
"It might just be our way out of here, McBride," I snarl, wishing my hands were wrapped about his goddamned throat. "And another thing, we must act docile, such that they might let down their guard. Then maybe, in time, they might let us out into the general bunch of convicts. You don't need to act servile, no. Just be quiet and pretend that you are resigned to your lot. Got it?"
Some heads nod, but I sense that Arthur McBride's does not. "Fine, Captain. Let's just see where this leads."
"Where is Jacky, then?" asks Padraic Delaney.
"She, too, has been sentenced to Transportation," I reply. "She's out here with us. Somewhere."
"Ah," says Arthur McBride. "So let's go find our Jacky, so's I can have her back in my lap again where she belongs, squirmin' her little butt around in that way she does so well."
"Lay off, Arthur," warns Ian.
You are lucky you are out of reach, Arthur Focking McBride...
"Poor Puss," says Ian. "Poor little Jacky." "You cannot imagine the depth of my anger," I say, seething.
"Oh, yes he can, Brit," replies Arthur McBride. "You see, they took his Mairead, too."
Wondering if the world has gone completely mad,
I remain,
Yours,
Jaimy
Chapter 24
It's morning and the Rock hasn't yet appeared over the horizon. It's a gloriously warm day, so to kill some time, I take a few of my braver Newgaters—Mary Wade, Molly Reiby, and Esther—up to the bowsprit for a bit of a toss in the spray. It's just like in the old days with Davy, Willy, Tink, and Jaimy, and yes, later with Mairead, too. And oh, it is so much fun! I bring these girls down because I know there will be those wild and merry dolphins all around. And sure enough, there they are, leaping about and making sport of our slow progress through the water. Slow to them, anyway. Actually, we're fairly ripping along.
Fly, Lorelei, fly...
"Look, Molly, there's one! No, there's five! Look how they jump! Aren't they marvelous!"
The thing of it is, there's a net spread out under the bowsprit to catch any unfortunate sailor who might slip and fall as he is tending the fore-and-aft sails way up forward, but that is not what it is for us. For us it is a safe and marvelous ride through the swells of the Atlantic as we approach the Rock of Gilbraltar, the gateway to the Mediterranean. When a particularly large swell comes along, the Lorelei Lee goes bow under and we get dunked, only to come up sputtering and squealing with glee. The girls were quite fearful at first, but they got over it quickly, as they are a game bunch.
We're clad only in our undershirts and drawers, but considering what sort of ship we are on, it ain't much of a scandal. We ain't in much danger in the way of unwanted advances from the crew, since most of them seem now to have paired up with the dolly of their choice and are satisfied with their current condition. Besides, we're the youngest ones and not as full bosomed as the girls of the other Crews, and being quite buxom does seem to be the preferred shape in the way of a temporary wife. But the three ship's boys certainly seem interested in our watery antics as they lean down over the rail to peer at the four young girls frolicking about in soaked and clinging drawers.
The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay Page 14
