"Please, Sir, I'd rather not. Perhaps later, when you are more yourself..."
"Fine, I will... urp ...kill your monkey first ... and then your dirty little nigra boy—that will afford me some sport in your absence."
He draws a pistol from his belt, aims it at Josephine, and fires.
Crack!
"No!" I shout, pushing Josephine down, such that the bullet whizzes harmlessly over her head. She shrieks and heads for the high rigging. She may be an ape, but she knows things ain't right. "All right! I'm coming down!"
The shot brings all the officers up on deck, as well as most members of the crew. Army Major Johnston is there, with Esther behind him. Mr. Gibson, too, and Seabrook, and even the Surgeon, all trying to talk some sense into Captain Ruger. The three madams are topside, too—Mrs. Barnsley, Mrs. Berry, and Mrs. MacDonald—as well as many of their girls. Higgins appears and stands before Ruger. All look grim.
"I shall take your wife, Mr. Higgins, and I shall take her now."
"No, you shall not do that, Sir," retorts Higgins, and he does the unpardonable—he reaches out and pushes Ruger back hard against the rail. "Control yourself, Sir!"
"What? You place your hand on me, fancy man? On me, your Captain? That is a capital offense, as you well know." He lurches toward Higgins. "I sentence you to death!"
With that, he pulls out his remaining pistol and aims it at Higgins's chest.
"No!" I scream and leap over the side of the foretop, grab the buntline, and swing down to the deck and stand between them. "Here I am! Put that away! I shall go with you. Do with me what you will, but do not harm my husband!"
A sly smile creeps over Ruger's face.
"Good," he says. "That's what I like to hear. Get into my cabin. We shall have some ... sport."
I turn to Higgins. "He is drunk, Higgins," I say. "I've handled drunks before. I will not have you killed for my sake. Let me handle this, please, John!"
I start in the direction of the cabin, but Ruger is not yet done out here.
Straightening up, about to follow me, he then notices Mairead standing next to the tall Shantyman, Enoch's arm about her shoulders. He points at her.
"That one, too. The one with the red hair. The three of us shall have a very gay time of it."
What? No!
The Shantyman's face shows that he knows quite well what is going on. "What? You would hurt her?" He pulls Mairead to him. "Stand behind me, girl!"
She does and he lifts his staff and swings it before him, saying, "Back off! Any who would approach us! Back off!"
"How wonderfully noble," snarls Ruger, hiccupping. He takes another swig out of the bottle. "But how stupidly pathetic as well. Bo'sun, take that poor excuse for a man and throw him down below decks. I am sick of him and his dreary songs."
But both the Bo'sun and Ruger underestimate the Shantyman. He may not be able to see like other men, but they find he is not without resources.
Smirking, Bo'sun Roberts strides up before the blind man and reaches out to grasp Mairead. His feet, however, scrape upon the deck. Hearing that, the Shantyman loops his staff around and places the club end of it on the deck before him and then slides it over till it touches the Bo'sun's foot. Knowing where Roberts's foot is, he can now sense where his head is, and with a mighty swing, he brings the club end of the staff hard against the Bo'sun's skull. Roberts does not cry out, for he cannot, being rendered speechless by the blow. No, he merely shrinks and crumples to the deck, and he does not rise.
"Against me ... You're all against me ... Always have been," hisses Ruger. He staggers against the quarterdeck rail. "Fancy airs ... fancy music ... fancy bitches ... bunch o' crap, all of it."
He lurches upright.
"Take that blind bastard down, or by God I'll hang the lot of you! Do it! Now!"
It is Suggs and Monk who come forward, and each grabs one of the Shantyman's arms and drags him down to the deck. Suggs has a belaying pin in his fist and he swings it and brings it down on the back of Enoch's head. He does it again and again. "No, let him alone! Stop!" cries Mairead, lifting her hands to ward off the rain of blows, but to no avail. Suggs and Monk are on him, and they beat him till the Shantyman struggles no more. Then Suggs and Monk drag him down into the hold.
Ruger staggers across the deck and grabs Mairead by the neck.
"Now, my dear, let us go below."
I run across the deck and grab his arm and try to pull him off her, but he shoves me aside.
"Please, Sir! Let her be!" I plead. "Come, I will..."
He is relentless as he drags her toward his cabin door.
"But my baby!" wails Mairead.
"Your baby? Here's what I think of your baby!"
He swings his fist around and punches her square in the gut. She gasps and sinks to her knees.
There is a common gasp of horror from all onlookers.
"There. That should take care of that!"
"My baby! Oh, Lord, you have killed my baby!"
Mrs. Barnsley is aghast. "All my girls, get below! If he'd do that, he'd do anything! The man is mad! Get below, now!"
Mrs. Berry and Mrs. MacDonald shout to their women as well, and girls begin rushing out of the rigging, the upper deck, the staterooms, everywhere on the ship, and pour down the hatchway.
I rush to Mairead and lift her up. Blood is already running down the inside of her leg. Her face is a contorted mask of grief.
Oh, Lord, no!
Higgins is there and he sweeps her up in his arms and carries her to the passageway.
"Take her to our laundry!" I cry as I follow. I'm the last one down. "Lock the door!"
Ruger continues to stagger and roar outside.
"Goddamn 'em all to hell! Lock the filthy whores down! Lock 'em all down!"
Mairead, crying, is laid on her bed. It is immediately a bloody mess.
I find Mrs. Barnsley by my side. She has the other madams with her. All look grim.
"Let us handle this," she says. "We've seen all this before, and I'll wager you have not."
I stand back as they begin to undress the crying girl.
"There, there, dearie," croons Mrs. MacDonald. "There, there, you'll be all right."
"But my baby..." Mairead moans. "What about my baby?"
Mrs. MacDonald says nothing to that...
...but I do.
"That dirty son of a bitch is gonna pay!" I snarl, and rush to where my bow hangs on the wall. I nock an arrow and jump up on a bunk and look out forward. Good. He's still there.
Ruger leans up against the mast, his rage still not spent.
"Die, you miserable bastard!" I shout, and let the arrow fly straight toward his chest. "Die!"
Chapter 53
Jaimy Fletcher
Commander, at least for now
Of the ship Cerberus
Dear Jacky,
The sun is coming up now, as we complete our takeover of the convict ship Cerberus.
After we had established ourselves on the quarterdeck and made sure that the officers and crew were confined, we set about securing our position. Rumblings and rattlings started from those trapped below, but we paid them little mind—they were well and securely confined.
I cracked on as much sail as we could to make all speed, knowing as I did that the Dart was not far behind and could cause us only grief should she arrive. With the added canvas, the Cerberus did what she could.
Then there was the little matter of Captain Griswold—ex-Captain Griswold, that is...
Stationing Parnell and Duggan to either side of the Captain's door, both armed with gleaming cutlasses, I go to the speaking tube and shout down it.
"Captain! Come quick! Warship on the horizon!"
Seconds later, Griswold comes charging out of his cabin, dressed only in his nightshirt, eyes blinking at the sudden light.
"What? Where...?"
"Right here, Captain," I say, looking down upon him from the quarterdeck. He sees me, and then he feels the two cutlasses held t
ight against his neck.
"Take him down and tie him to a chair. We will need some information from him."
"What!" he sputters. "Why, you'll hang for this, whoever the hell you are!"
"Please, Captain, I know you are in a state of shock at these proceedings, but a little more originality, if you please. As for who I am, I am Lieutenant James Emerson Fletcher, late of His Majesty's Royal Navy. You might recall you recently had me bound to the grating and given sixteen of the best." I pause to let that sink in. His face turns a satisfying shade of pale.
"Your servant, Sir," I continue, giving him a mock bow. "And as to which of us shall hang first, well, we shall see..."
I look up to the main yardarm, from which nooses would certainly dangle, and from which he would most surely be hanged. He gets the point, for just then the bodies of Sergeant Napper and Corporal Vance are brought up from our cell and tossed over the side, as is the corpse of Lieutenant Block.
Yes, Jacky, two more notches on your shiv, two more marks upon my soul...
The Captain sees, and his face goes even whiter, as he now knows we are serious about our business. My two stout Irish lads kick him back into what used to be his cabin.
Get in there, you!
Then I see that something else is brought up from our old cell, as well.
"Look what we have here!" shouts Seamus Lynch, triumphant, holding a groggy but plainly terrified little man by the neck. "'Tis the very Weasel himself, by the merciful God who takes good care o' his faithful servants, he does! Oh, it is to hell for you, Weasel, and very soon, too!"
Upon hearing this, the Weasel promply wets his trousers.
"What shall we do, Sir?" asks the delighted Lynch. "Throw him overboard, or string him up?"
The Weasel, his eyes rolling wildly, falls to his knees and pleads, "Oh, please, Sirs, no..."
I consider this, and look over the side of the ship and say, "Yes, both those suggestions would be most entertaining, and he certainly has it coming to him ... And I see we have some rather large sharks following in our wake ... That could be fun, watching those brutes tear him apart, limb by limb. But no, not just now. Let him live for a while yet. He might prove useful."
"Useful?" asks Lynch, dubiously, ready to lift his club and to cheerfully spill the Weasel's brains out over the deck. "How?"
"Well, for one, he will know where the armory is, such that we can arm ourselves properly with pistols and muskets. Those below are getting restive, you might note. There are more and more sounds from below, and a whiff of grapeshot in their faces just might calm them down."
Heads nod, and the wisdom of this is generally acknowledged.
"Now, the Weasel, being what he is—a dirty little rodent—will know where everything is on this ship." The Weasel, still on his knees, his eyes wide and pleading, nods vigorously to this. "Would you not want a spot of wine or rum this evening to celebrate our victory? How long has it been, Lynch? Some good food for a change? Hmmm?"
There is general assent to that notion. Wine? Rum? Good food?
There is now a heavy pounding from the inside of the hatchway doors. The crew grows restive.
"Weasel, if you value your life, lead on to the armory."
He does it, taking a key from the ones that Napper wore on his belt. Soon we are all armed with primed pistols and muskets. The guns feel splendid tucked into my waist as I advance to the door behind which sits a very unhappy crew of seamen.
"Let us out! Let us out now, else we shall take all of you and throw you into the sea!" comes the cry from the other side of the door.
Idle threats, lads, will do you no good...
I draw one of my pistols and put a shot through the door, at just about waist high level. I hear a sharp cry of pain from within.
"Who speaks for you?" I demand. There is a pause, then...
"I do. Second Mate Hollister."
"Ah, Hollister. This is Fletcher, now in command of this vessel. I know you to be an honorable man, unlike most on-board. Rest assured you will not be harmed if you follow instructions. My intent is to put you and your crew off in one of the lifeboats. We are not far from land, and you should be able to make landfall within hours of being cast away. Where you will land, I do not know just yet, but I will be consulting the charts in Griswold's cabin."
"What of the Captain?"
"He is not yet dead, Mr. Hollister, but Block, Napper, and Vance are," I say. "Now, everyone settle down and perhaps all remaining will survive this day. But know this. My crew and I are desperate men. We are preparing a lifeboat, and we will put you in it so you may sail away. If you do something stupid, like setting fire down below, then we will be off in that same boat and all of you will perish most horribly. Understood? Good. Quiet, now."
During my confinement I have had a lot of time to think of various eventualities...
"All right," I say, going back to the quarterdeck. "Sweeney, take the watch. Steer the same course till I figure out just where we are. I'll be below. Delaney, McBride, McConnaughey, come with me."
We go down into the Captain's cabin and find that Duggan and Parnell have, indeed, tied him very securely to a chair, using their garrotes. Handy things, those. They also have stuffed a rag in his mouth to shut him up.
He looks at me as I enter, his eyes wild. I ignore him for the present.
We will get to you later, Captain Griswold, count on it.
I go to the chart spread out on the table. There are lines of position laid out upon it, and from them I deduce that we are about fifty miles off to the east of a place called Sumatra, and somewhat north of the port of Batavia.
I have heard of Batavia, and, even though it is held by the Dutch, it just might suit our interests.
After all, I say to myself with a bit of regret, we are no longer British.
I occupy myself with going through the Captain's papers, and I discover something that strikes my interest. All the prisoners onboard this ship are to be delivered to the penal colony at New South Wales, commanded by Captain William Bligh.
Imagine that, old Breadfruit Bligh himself This gets better and better...
"Take out his gag," I order, and Ian pulls the cloth from Griswold's mouth. He sputters for a bit, but with a swat from the back of McBride's hand he becomes right docile.
Holding a paper before me, I ask of him, "Tell me, Griswold, have you ever met this Captain William Bligh personally? Ever raised a glass with him?"
"No. Never."
"Hmmm ... And the payment for the delivery of the convicts ... How is that accomplished?"
"Go to hell, you blaggard!"
I look off out the open door.
"Is the noose ready at the yardarm, Ian? The proper knot?"
Ian nods. "Yes. Duggan is quite expert at knots of that sort."
"Good. We'll want that done right. Royal Navy, drum rolls and all..."
Griswold turns yet another shade of pale and says, "The Commander of the Company ship is paid by a draft upon the Bank of England with delivery of each live convict."
"Well, well," I say. "I'd rather have cash, but we can work with that. Now, where is your money?"
"What?"
"Yes, Captain, your money. You must have some. We will need to purchase some gunnery. You'll admit this ship is woefully underprotected."
"I have no money."
"Of course, you don't. You are but a simple merchant captain, doing your job. I accept that."
I neaten up the papers, lay them aside, and say, "We have no more need of him. Take him out and tie him to the grating. Strip off his shirt. He gave me sixteen, McBride ten. So give him twenty-six ... and since yesterday was his birthday ... give him one to grow on."
"How—how can you do that?"
"Simple, Griswold. Tit for tat, simple as that."
"You would torture a man to gain information?"
"Oh, no, Captain. I am a Lieutenant in the Royal Navy ... or at least I was. I am a man of honor. I would never torture a prisoner," I sa
y. "But I will mete out deserved punishment. Take him out!"
The Captain struggles and then sags in the grasp of Ian and Arthur.
"All right," he says. "Under the floorboards. Over there."
Well, all right...
"Thank you, Captain. That makes things easier. Take off six lashes for good behavior, making it an even twenty. We'll have Duggan swing the cat, as he's the strongest."
Griswold is hauled out cursing me to hell and back again. Soon he is not swearing, however—he is howling.
The old crew of the Cerberus is taken out of the hold at gunpoint and forced into one of the two lifeboats. They are given some food and water and advised to steer east.
"Goodbye, Mr. Hollister. Good sailing to you. You were a decent sort and I thank you. Captain Griswold, I hope you took a good lesson from today's events. To wit, be careful whom you whip. Farewell. I wish you all a safe voyage."
The Captain glowers, wrapped in his bloody shirt, as they are cast off, and we see them no more. Then we change course and set sail for Batavia.
When we are off, I turn once again to the business of running the ship.
"Ian. Start bringing up the prisoners we have designated as trustable. Don't let the other convicts know what's going on. We don't want trouble from them—not yet, anyway. Padraic, make sure all locks are secure ... Oh, and have the Weasel set to work cleaning the stinking uniforms of Napper and Vance. We shall need them for deception purposes. McBride, take three men and—"
"And just what, Sir." McBride sneers, his arms crossed on his chest.
Uh-oh ... Here it is ... And I've got to do this now, or I am the Captain of nothing...
I grab McBride by his collar and shove him backwards, hard. He stumbles, but does not fall. He puts up his fists.
"All right, McBride, up on the main hatch. Me and you. Let's settle it. Now."
He grins and climbs up on the hatch. He motions me to follow.
"You don't have to do this," says Ian. "We—"
"Oh, yes, we do," say Arthur McBride and I together in one breath.
"What will it be, guv'nor? Swords?"
"No, McBride. I am a trained Naval officer, and you are a lowland Irish bogtrotter—the fight would not be fair. I would run you through in an instant, and as attractive as that notion is, I will not do it, being a man of some honor."
The Wake of the Lorelei Lee: Being an Account of the Further Adventures of Jacky Faber, On Her Way to Botany Bay Page 31
