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

  "Sir, please be more gentle in the handling of our girls, as they do not do well in suffering under such treatment as Mary Ann has received from your very hands."

  He looks down on her with great disdain.

  "Shut yer mouth, whoremonger. Do not ever forget that you are all nothing but convicts and subject to whatever punishment I deem necessary for the good order of this ship!" He jumps down to the deck, thrusts out the heel of his hand, and pushes her down.

  "Oh! Please, Sir, I am but an old woman!" she cries, on her back with her skirts all ahoo.

  "This is my ship now, and you will observe that proper discipline is being restored to this ship. No more foolishness. Holiday routine on Saturdays and Sundays is hereby canceled till every soul on this ship shows me proper respect! Every soul."

  Here he casts his eye upon me, who sits in the foretop with Mairead.

  "Every soul," he repeats. "And every body, too."

  Things do not look good for us, be we Newgater, Judy, Lizzie, or Tartan.

  Chapter 51

  James Fletcher

  Convict

  Onboard Cerberus

  Jacky,

  There seems to be a bit of a celebration topside—apparently it is Captain Griswold's birthday, so an extra pint of rum has been issued to all hands. None was given to us convicts to drink to the Captain's health, oh no, but we wouldn't want to do that, anyway, as his good health is the last thing we would wish for that evil bastard. But I see this working in our favor, as the crew will be more groggy than usual and will sleep soundly. Tonight we go.

  The bell rings eight chimes in the dark of night. We stir as we hear the sounds of the changing watch. The time grows near...

  The Weasel comes by for his nightly round, and we know that Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance will not be far behind. It's time...

  " 'Avin' a good evenin', scum?" the Weasel asks, rattling his club on the bars. "Sleepin' well, Mr. Fletcher?" He seems to be feeling rather good from his extra ration of rum.

  I keep my eye on the pair of brass keys that hangs at his waist. He is not trusted with much, but he does have those—one key to open the gate, and the other to release our long, common ankle chain from its mooring, such that he can lead us shuffling on our morning visit to the head, and thence to the mess deck to be issued our slops. It's Napper and Vance who hold the keys to our shackles ... and to the cutlass rack. We must have all of those keys, else we are lost.

  As planned, Padraic starts it up.

  "I read a book once, Weasel," he says. "And you was in it."

  "Wot? Wot book?"

  "It was a book about the HMS Wolverine when our Jacky Faber and your own worthless self was on it. It was called Under the Jolly Roger."

  "So?"

  "It was a good book. You should read it ... iffen you can read, which I doubt."

  "So what? 'Oo cares?"

  "Oh, we don't, Weasel, believe me," says Ian, picking it up. "We don't care if you lives or dies—in fact, we hope you does die—but others might care..."

  "Why?"

  "'Cause there's a bit in there about how you liked smellin' girls' underpants, Weasel." Ian pauses. "How once when Jacky give you her clothes for cleaning, expectin' you to perform your duties like a proper steward, you took her knickers and charged blokes a penny to handle 'em ... sniff 'em and stuff."

  "That never happened! Lies! All lies!" cries the Weasel, pounding on the bars. The glow he felt from his extra pint seems to have worn off.

  Open the door, Weasel...

  "Oh? Sorry ... you didn't know? Yes, you've gone right famous—the whole fleet knows about that. Do you really like that sort of thing, now, Weasel?" continues Padraic, relentlessly. "I, myself, have never been interested in that sort of thing, so's I wouldn't know. Sounds rather disgusting to me, actually, but there's no accounting for taste, is there?"

  "You stop now, or you'll get it!"

  Open the door, Weasel...

  "What's it like? I heard our lass once dumped a full chamber pot over your head, too. How did you like the smell o' that? Pretty rich stuff, I suspect ... eh?"

  Open the door, Weasel...

  "Stop it! Stop it!"

  Open the door, Weasel...

  But Padraic Delaney does not stop. He is his father's son, after all...

  "I hear they call you 'Knickers Weisling, the Pride of the Perverted Patrol.' There's even a song about it. It's quite the rage in London. Want to hear it?"

  "No! Stop! I'll get you!"

  Open the door, Weasel...

  Padraic Delaney lifts his voice and sings.

  Oh, my name is Wei-se-ling,

  And on the Wolverine I did sing,

  I danced a gay gavotte for all that lot,

  With a hat of the finest tin!

  Oh, with a hat of the finest tin!

  Low laughter from all the lads. Padraic continues...

  Oh, with a chamber pot over my head,

  Yes, a chamber pot over my head!

  With that fine chapeau I did gaily go,

  With a chamber pot over my head!

  With a chamber pot over my head!

  There is a curse and a rattle of keys, and...

  The Weasel opens the door!

  The cage door swings inward and the Weasel charges into the cell, fairly slavering with rage. Thinking us helpless, he lifts his club over Padraic.

  "Sing about this, Paddy!" he hisses, and the club comes down.

  But it is not Weisling's club that comes down. No, it is another, and it does not fall upon an Irish head. Nay, it is the belaying pin held in the fist of the mighty Duggan that comes down, and it slams hard down on Weasel's own worthless head. He drops like a stone.

  "One down, lads," I whisper. "Two to go. Connolly, get ready..."

  "Aye, Sir," says the boy. "I'm ready."

  The Weasel is relieved of his keys and his limp body is shoved under a bench. We unlock the two ends of our common ankle chain and relock the front door and then sit and wait.

  Presently Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance approach.

  "Where's Weisling?" asks Napper, looking about. He holds a lantern, which casts a dim light on all of us.

  "Last we saw o' that sod, 'e was headin' for the crapper, clutching 'is miserable gut," says Arthur McBride. "Hope 'e dies o' the flux, I do."

  "Shut yer gob, mick, or I'll come in there and shut you up for good, by—"

  "Please, Sirs," pipes up young Connolly, in a whispery voice. "Some of the men in here have been right mean to me. Makin' me do stuff I don't like ... awful stuff."

  Connolly stops to give out a few boyish whimpers. In the gloom I can make out Napper and Vance looking sharp at one another. Young Daniel Connolly goes on...

  "But you two gentlemen seem to be right kind ... in that you bin offerin' me good food and suchlike ... and I'm thinkin' maybe you kin be givin' me some ... protection ... like..."

  I can hear Napper and Vance chuckling obscenely as they fumble for their keys in their haste to get at the boy. The key is inserted, the door opens, and the two red-coated would-be buggers stride right in.

  "Come with us, boy, and we'll treat you right, oh, yes we will," whispers Vance. "Here, let's get that shackle offa you. There, how's that feel?"

  "Oh, just fine, Sir..."

  Corporal Vance looms above the boy ... right next to Arthur McBride's seated figure. Sergeant Napper stands before me.

  "That's good, boy, now ... wait ... What's this? Hey, Sergeant ... this here chain is slack. What's goin' on here?"

  That's the last question Corporal Vance asks of anyone upon this Earth, as McBride looms out of the gloom and loops his garrote about Vance's neck and pulls it tight. Very tight ... As he does that, I steel myself and leap up and put my hand under Sergeant Napper's chin and jerk back his head. He tries to cry out, Jacky, but I draw your very sharp and deadly shiv across his neck ... hard across his neck, hard across his throttle until I feel its edge grate against his neck bone.

  Th
e last sound Sergeant Napper makes on this Earth is a rather liquid gurgle.

  I hold him till his struggles cease, and then I let him slip to the floor. Vance takes longer in dying. I hear McBride whispering in his ear as he slumps to the deck and gives up the ghost. " 'Tis me, Arthur McBride, who's killin you. I want you to know on your way to hell that it was me who sent you there, you worthless piece of British crap!"

  "Quick now! Strip off their jackets!" I whisper, as I cut the ring of keys from Napper's belt and try one in my ankle shackle.

  No, not that one, nor that one ... There!

  The shackle opens and falls off. I give the key to Padraic. "Free yourself and pass the key on. Lynch, hold on to the keys. You'll go to the cutlass rack and open it when the time comes."

  I hear the muted rattle of the hated chains falling off.

  Every man has been assigned a role in this venture and, as planned, McBride and McConnaughey struggle into Vance's and Napper's red coats. It will help us gain the quarterdeck. I put on my blue naval jacket, which I had kept rolled up to use as a pillow.

  "All ready? All right, let's go."

  Your knife clutched tightly in my hand, Jacky, I head up the passageway to the hatchway, followed by Niall Sweeney, Seamus Lynch, and then McBride, Ian, and the rest of the lads. I put my ear to the door and, hearing nothing out of the way, push it open and peer out. It is dark as pitch.

  "Good," I whisper. "No moon. Black as pitch. Gentle breeze—means no topmen aloft. Sweeney, go!"

  Niall Sweeney brushes past me, on his assigned task—to take out any bow lookout that might be posted. He goes forward, armed with both his garrote and the Weasel's club. Cruel work, but it must be done.

  I look toward the quarterdeck. As my eyes accustom themselves to the dark, I believe I see only three heads silhouetted against the meager starlight. Probably the Officer of the Watch, the Helmsman, and the Bo'sun. I hope there is no messenger—I would hate to have to kill a boy.

  "Lynch, go ... Careful, now ... Quiet..."

  Lynch slips out, his bare feet quiet on the deck and Napper's keys clutched in his hand. Head down, he makes for the foot of the mainmast, where the cutlasses are clustered and chained.

  "Now ... Ian ... Arthur ... your turn."

  McConnaughey and McBride stride out onto the deck, making no attempt to hide themselves as they make their way to the quarterdeck. As soon as they are out and, I am sure, spotted from the quarterdeck, I and the rest of the lads slip out and creep along the side of the main hatch, concealed from view ... we hope. We each take a belaying pin from the rack on the rail and lean back against the hatch, waiting for our newly red-coated Irish boys to do their bit.

  In spite of our very precarious state, Jacky, as I sit here in the dark, our various fates in the balance, I almost have to chuckle over how much this is so very like one of your own escape techniques. Ian and McBride are the Diversion, and me and my crew are the Boarding Party—the Dianas on this version of the Bloodhound, as it were. Hmmm. Well, let's see if I can execute this plan as well as you did yours. Yes, now I admit that I did finally read those damned books, and though I seethed over many parts but attributed many things to Amy Trevelyne's overheated imagination, I took lessons from them as well.

  My, my, there's the Southern Cross up there ... We must be below the equator. What, no ceremony for us poor convicts, Captain Griswold? Well, perhaps, if Neptune is willing, we shall have one after all.

  Get your mind on the job, Fletcher—time for idle thoughts later.

  Ian and Arthur approach the quarterdeck and are noticed.

  "So, how are our animals down below, Sergeant?" asks the Officer of the Watch, who, I am relieved to see, is First Mate Block and not Hollister. "Do they rest easy?"

  I am glad to see you there, Block—for if it comes down to it, I will kill you, for you have shown no kindness to any captives aboard this benighted ship.

  "Aye, Sir, they do, they do..."

  "Do I perceive that you might be a mite drunk, Sergeant Napper?" asks Block, a cold edge seeping into his voice.

  "Oh, yes, Sir," admits McBride, climbing the quarterdeck stairs a bit unsteadily. "A wee bit, perhaps ... in celebration of the... hic! ...Captain's birthday, don'cha know." Ian is right behind him, equally unsteady on his pins.

  While all eyes are riveted on Block, McConnaughey, and McBride on the port side, the Boarding Party and I creep silently over the quarterdeck rail on the starboard side. Clubs, boys, if you can. No sense killing innocent seamen like ourselves, if we can help it. Let's go...

  "I think I must put you on report, Sergeant Napper," says Mr. Block. "Wait ... you are not ... Bo'sun! Sound the alarm and take these men!"

  But the Bo'sun takes nothing except a hard blow to his head from Duggan's club, as we swarm over the quarterdeck. Block, shocked, goes for the speaking tube to alert the Captain, but I get there first and bring your shiv up under his ribs as hard as I can and twist it. He gasps and tries to shout, but I have my other hand over his mouth and he cannot. His hot blood pours over my hand, but I harden my heart and let it flow. After a moment he slumps to the deck.

  The helmsman has long since been knocked unconscious by Duggan's club.

  "Parnell!" I hiss. "Take the helm. Steer the same course till we see what's up!"

  Young Connolly has already done his task in shoving his fist in the speaking tube and leaving it there so that the Captain cannot hear what is happening right above his head.

  "Fletcher!" hisses Lynch from down below. "We've got the cutlasses! Here!"

  The blades are passed up and all take one. I test the edge of mine and decide it's sharp enough.

  "Quiet, all! There's still work to do! We must confine the crew!"

  I leap off the quarterdeck to examine the doors leading down to the officers' mess and the crew's quarters and ... yes! They both open outward!

  "Duggan, to me!" I whisper more loudly than I wish. "Bring your club! And another belaying pin."

  Mystified, he does it, and I grasp the pin and place it butt down on a bollard and lay my cutlass, blade aimed down, upon it.

  "Hit it!" I order, and Duggan brings down his club, neatly splitting the belaying pin, top to bottom. As I knew it would, the pieces are wider at one end than the other.

  Yes, my devious little girl, exactly like the wedges you used to great advantage at various times in the protection of your own tender self. You see, I did read, and I did learn ...

  I place one each at the bottom of the crew's hatchway doors and say, "Duggan! Pound them in!"

  He does it and all is secure. They cannot get out.

  We have the ship.

  I stand on the quarterdeck and look off into the starry night. Looking again at the Southern Cross hanging low on the horizon, I button up my jacket and think on thee.

  I put one foot to either side of the centerline so as to feel the action of the ship as you so often said you have done when in command of your own vessel, be she schooner, brig, or riverboat. This ship is not the sleek Nancy B., no, but for now she'll have to do.

  Ian McConnaughey comes up and stands next to me, looking off to the southern horizon, where he knows his lost Mairead lies somewhere over the sea.

  "We have done it, Jaimy," he says.

  "Aye, Ian, we have. Now comes the hard part..."

  Off in pursuit of you, I remain,

  Yrs,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 52

  Thing have gotten worse.

  Ruger has gone completely out of control. Maybe it's the drink or maybe it's something more sinister. I don't know, but something has ravaged his mind and havoc rules on the once happy Lorelei Lee.

  Everyone stays out of his way. I haven't seen Army Major Johnston nor his wife, Esther, for days. The Shantyman appears on deck, but aside from some low conversation with Mairead, he sings no more. My Newgaters lie low, as does any member of the Crews who manages to avoid his grasp. Several girls have come back badly beaten and bruised from overnight sta
ys in his cabin. He has taken to wearing two pistols in his belt, and well he might, for his own officers and seamen are not happy, either.

  He remains relentless in his pursuit of me ... and of Mairead, too ... and I wonder at it. What kind of man would lust after a girl who is with child and already showing? Does he really have worms in his brain?

  ***

  Sadly, all things seem to come to a head today. I have been idling in the foretop with Mary Wade and Molly, getting some sun and fresh air, all three of us in our light Powder Monkey gear. Ravi is there, too, with Josephine. He is scratching the little ape's belly, something she likes a lot. She leans back against the mast and grins her toothy monkey smile.

  I see Mairead down below, standing at the rail, with her hand on Enoch Lightner's arm. 'Tis plain she has convinced him to come up for some air, which is good, for the death of his great good friend Captain Laughton and the turn of events on my poor ship have weighed heavily on him. Mairead has tried, over the past week, to lend him some comfort and cheer.

  "Impossibly red-haired Missy to have little baby?" asks Ravi, looking down upon her. "Oh, what great joy!"

  "Yes, Ravi, that seems to be the case," says I, indolent and drowsy in the warmth of the sun.

  "Will baby have impossibly red hair, too?"

  "Probably," I answer, thinking of the baby's father, Ian McConnaughey. He, too, has reddish hair, so—

  There is a shout from below and we all, including Josephine, look down over the edge of the foretop decking. This is not a wise move, as things turn out.

  The shout is from Ruger. He has come staggering out of his cabin, clutching a bottle, already drunk at ten in the morning.

  He looks up and spots me right off. He may be drunk, but he is not blind.

  "Get down here, you!" he shouts, pointing at me.

  Uh-oh...