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

  "What, then, Mr. Honorable Brit?" says McBride, rolling up his sleeves.

  "I know your kind would prefer shillelaghs, but I will not sully my hands with crude dumb cudgels," I say, leaping to the hatch top and rolling up my own sleeves. "Nay. It shall be fists ... with no holds barred. Last man standing will be the Captain. Agreed?"

  "Oh, yes, agreed," says McBride, getting into a crouch. "Come on, Sir. Let's see what you're made of."

  I know that McBride is tough, but I am tough, too. I have been toughened as a ship's boy, kicked about by rough seamen, and as a midshipman, heir to all the kicks and blows the senior middies could pile on. And have I not "rassled" with the mighty Mike Fink on the banks of the Mississippi! Yes, I have. And did not Beatty and McCoy pay the price for crossing me? Oh yes, they did, and now they rot in hell for it. So come on, McBride, you low-life Irish swine. I ball up my fists.

  As I expected, he charges in low, head down, in hopes of knocking me off my feet. I jump back, swing, and hit him high on his cheekbone.

  Yeow! My fist vibrates with the pain. I realize there's no sense in hitting him in the face—the hardheaded mick is undoubtedly used to that. I'd probably just break my hand. No, go for the body. Catch him in the lower ribs.

  While I'm thinking this, he swings his right and catches me above the eye, rocking me back and opening a cut on my forehead. Blood trickles into my eye.

  Seeing this, McBride grins and drops his guard, pulls back, and launches a broad roundhouse that would surely end this fight and my leadership if it were to land.

  It does not land. I stick up my left forearm and stop the swing. His midriff is wide open, so I bring my right around and slam it into his lower ribs.

  He gasps. I hit him again in exactly the same place, trying to bury my fist as deep in his gut as I can.

  Take that, you ignorant son of a bitch. Yes, and here's another one for Jacky. And yet another for that damned joke ... Laugh at this, why don't you?

  His mouth is open, trying in vain to suck in air. Unable to catch his breath, his face turns bright red and he sinks to his knees.

  I stand over him, victorious, my fists still clenched. I could now destroy him. But I do not. Instead I extend my hand.

  "I am the Captain. Ian McConnaughey shall be First Mate, Padraic Delaney Second, and you, Arthur McBride, shall be Third. Duggan will be Bo'sun. Shall we all now get to work?"

  He reaches up and takes my hand, and I lift him to his feet. "Thank you, Captain," he wheezes. "Third Mate it is."

  When the day's work is done, the table is set, the wine opened, and the rum poured, we have a fine celebration in the cabin... my cabin now.

  During the conversation, Padraic asks, "Should we change the name of this bark? Hard to love that name."

  I lean back in my chair and motion for the Weasel to refill my glass, then say, "I had thought about that, but since we are now plainly a pirate ship in the eyes of the civilized world, perhaps the name is appropriate."

  "What does it mean?"

  "In Greek myths, Cerberus was the fierce three-headed dog, servant of the god Hades, who guarded the gates of the Underworld."

  "Ha! Seems right to me! Right piratical!" says Duggan, pounding the table.

  "So say you one, so say you all?"

  Done!

  Till Later, Jacky,

  Jaimy

  Chapter 54

  No, unfortunately, I had not managed to kill that unspeakable spawn of hell. Ruger had lurched sideways at the last moment so that my arrow only grazed his neck, pinning his shirt collar to the mast. Before I could loose another shaft, he had torn away and disappeared.

  But a truce of sorts is now in effect onboard the once happy Lorelei Lee. It has been negotiated between Messrs. Seabrook and Gibson, the Surgeon, Major Johnston, and myself. I refuse to talk to Ruger, that miserable fiend, and he stays mainly in his cabin, almost certainly drunk. When he does appear, he wears his sword and pistols.

  The agreement is this: We shall proceed to New South Wales, which is only about three weeks off, should the wind and weather be kind. Once in Australia, I will be tried for the attempted murder of Captain Ruger and he shall be brought to account for the murder of Mairead's child.

  Why do the Lorelei Lee's officers talk to me at all? It is simple. Barricaded with me below are Higgins and Ravi, along with Mick and Keefe, neither of whom want to give up their girls, and they do owe me some loyalty. Then there is Cookie and the galley, as well as the storerooms that hold the food ... and the wine and rum. All three of the female Crews are with me, too.

  Furthermore, I have my bow and many arrows. They know I could sting them at will and make their lives miserable. Should they attempt to charge our hatchway, many of them would certainly die, and no one wants to die for Captain Ruger.

  Furthermore, I have a dozen torch-tipped arrows, and the bucket of pitch sits by the galley stove, just waiting to be lit. I could set the sails on fire, and then none of us would be going anywhere.

  The powder magazine is down here, too, and without powder, the ship is defenseless. I had rigged up a small bag of powder with a six-inch fuse that I lit and threw out at their feet as talks were beginning. It flared up with a fine flame and was most impressive. Negotiations proceeded quite quickly after that.

  Should the crew hold to its side of the bargain, the three madams and I have agreed to let the "wives" of the crew gradually return to their former cozy berths. So far the officers have held to that bargain. Major Johnston was delighted to have his Esther back, I know that for certain.

  I, however, do not venture out, not having complete confidence in the truce. In fact, I have fashioned another weapon, because if I'd had my shiv, I would have gutted that Ruger right then and there for what he did, by God. But I did not have it, as I'd given it to Jaimy. So to take its place, I'd sharpened the small end of my pennywhistle with Cookie's whetstone and rubbed till it was sharpened to a point—not much of a weapon, but if it's shoved up hard under someone's chin, well, it just might get their attention. And it still plays just fine. I have put my forearm sheath back on, and I wear the whistle there, under my shirtsleeve.

  I sit by Mairead's side and put a cool, damp cloth to her forehead. She lies on her bed, covered with a clean sheet, her hair combed and fanned out on her pillow. Barnsley and company did a good job. I notice with some relief that a degree of color has been restored to Mairead's face.

  "There, there, Sister, you just rest now," I say. "You'll be—"

  She reaches up and takes me by the wrist and looks off over my head. "What was my baby? A boy or a girl?"

  I swallow hard and decide to tell her.

  "Mrs. Barnsley says it was a boy."

  Her eyes fill up and tears pour out over her cheeks. My eyes, too, are crying, to see my dear friend in such distress. I wipe away her tears and then mine with the cloth.

  "The poor little thing ... to never see the light of day ... to never be at my breast ... to never know his dad ... to never be baptized," she whispers, her eyes full of anguish.

  I take her hand and put it to my lips. "Please, Sister, think of the paintings you have seen in church, the statues ... all the happy little cherubs flying around the heads of the saints, around the Virgin herself. Think of that."

  She nods, squeezing her eyes shut, grasping my hand ever the tighter.

  "Pray with me, Jacky," she whispers.

  "I will, Sister."

  She pauses, collects herself, and then begins...

  "Hail Mary, Full of grace, the Lord is with thee..."

  Yes, and with your little boy, too, Mairead.

  "Blessed art thou among women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us now and at the hour of our death..."

  Amen.

  We are quiet for a bit, and then I say, "Mairead. When you are up to it ... Not now, no ... But when you are ... Enoch Lightner has lost hope in living. He has lost his great friend Captain Laughton and he has seen—no, he
ard—you've been abused most horribly, and he was unable to prevent it. If, soon, you could see him and lend him some comfort..."

  "I shall see him now," says Mairead, releasing my hand and throwing back the sheet that covers her. She rises and looks about for the Shantyman and sees him lying in a bunk not far away.

  "I will go to him now."

  "Are you up to it, Sister? It's only been two days."

  "I am up to it." She even manages a smile. "Know this, Brit—they grow us up strong on the hard green turf of Ireland."

  She stands, steadies herself, and then walks to his side and sits on the edge of his pallet.

  "Come now, Enoch," she says, placing her hand on his shoulder. "You must regain your spirits, for the sake of us all. Here, a cold cloth for your brow ... I see you have received a wound there, and I fear it was in defense of my poor self. Let me take off your blindfold such that—No, no, Enoch, you need not hide your eyes from me."

  It is late afternoon and I sit with Higgins, looking out through the starboard laundry window. We sleep down here now because I feel safer here. It is not very private, but we manage to work things out. We have taken a corner bunk and hung a drape over the front of it, and it serves for the marriage bed. Ravi, too, is here, at my feet. He witnessed all the happenings of the other day and is terrified of Ruger and does not like going topside, but he did, nonetheless, manage to creep out to retrieve my seabag from our old stateroom ... and to coax Josephine down from the masthead. So we are a complete, if rather bizarre, family group.

  "What do you think they will do to Ruger?" I ask, already knowing the answer. I hand Josephine a piece of ship's biscuit and she takes it gently from my fingers. As she chews, I give the dome of her orange head a bit of a pet. She blinks her wise eyes and seems pleased with her lot.

  Higgins sighs, and I know I will not like his answer.

  "Probably not much," he says. "He could claim it was an accident, that she was disobeying a direct order from the Captain of the ship. At the most, he will be charged with simple assault."

  "Simple assault? He murdered Mairead's child!" I say, incredulous.

  "As the law sees it, the baby has to be born before it becomes a person. Therefore, no person, no murder."

  "Fine law," I say, seething. "Made up by men, no doubt."

  "Ummm," says Higgins.

  "So they'll let that bastard go free, and hang me from the nearest tree for trying to skewer the son of a bitch."

  "Do not despair just yet, Miss. Others have tried to hang you before."

  "Hang Missy Memsahib?" cries Ravi, looking very alarmed. "Hang her dear body from tree? It cannot be. It—"

  "On deck there!" comes the call from the lookout outside. "Sail! Big one! Two points abaft the port beam! Heading right for us!"

  We all fly to the port window and gaze out.

  Could it be Jaimy's ship again? Hope surges...

  Chapter 55

  A ship on the horizon? Could it be Jaimy?

  I leap for my glass, which dangles from the wall of our makeshift homestead, and rush to the port side window and put the glass to my eye. I see a massive sail that seems to be made up of many battens, looking for all the world like a woven rush doormat. I lower the glass and note that the First Mate is there, glass to his own eye.

  "Mr. Seabrook! What is she?" I call.

  "Lookout reports it is a strange craft, hull already up over the horizon. I suspect it is a Chinese junk. It looks like it has eight—no, ten—masts, so it's got to be a big one." He sounds worried.

  "Surely it cannot harm us, Sir. The Lorelei Lee is armed!"

  I know, for I armed her, and armed her well.

  "Aye," he says, folding his glass. "And so are they. And they carry up to a thousand heathens, every one of them carrying a broadsword ... and they are coming on fast."

  A thousand? Good Lord!

  Mr. Seabrook is soon joined by Mr. Gibson. "Get the Captain out here, Gibson," he says, not bothering to hide the contempt in his voice. "We have the sea room. We shall try to run. Have the Bo'sun pass out cutlasses and muskets." A man is sent to rouse Ruger from his den.

  Damn! They're gonna need more than that! They'll need powder and shot and my Powder Monkeys and me as well, for who can aim the guns better than I?

  "Mr. Seabrook! Mr. Gibson! I must come out for the sake of the ship! Will the truce hold? Will you defend me?"

  They know exactly what I mean by that, as Ruger has just emerged from his lair, disheveled and looking about, confused. Befuddled or not, he does wear his sword and pistols.

  Seabrook touches the butt of the pistol at his belt. "Yes, we will defend you," he answers.

  "Come, girls, to me!" I shout to my Powder Monkeys. "Let's go! Mick! Keefe! Follow me!"

  We remove the wedges, throw open the latches, and burst out onto the deck.

  "Monkeys! Powder to all the guns! Molly, to the stern gun! Quick! Ann, to starboard! Maggie, port guns!"

  Mairead! Damn! You shouldn't be here! Not yet!

  But she is, and she goes down to the powder magazine like all the rest and comes up bearing the bags and the shot.

  "What's going on?" Ruger mumbles. "Why are the whores out?" He casts a bleary but wary eye, no doubt remembering our last encounter when I did my best to kill him.

  "Chinese junk, Sir. A big one. Probably a pirate. And we need the girls to carry powder. He should be in range of the after gun very soon," announces Seabrook, nodding to me.

  I need no further encouragement.

  "Mick! Keefe! To me!" I cry, tearing down into the Captain's cabin. "Free up the gun!" I shove Ruger aside on my way.

  The lads do it, throwing over tables and chairs to expose the gleaming brass of my nine-pound Long Tom lurking beneath. It's still got the name painted by Davy Jones on the butt end, Kiss My Royal Ass. They haul it back on its carriage and open the gun port. Maggie brings up the powder bag and we ram it in, followed by the wad and the nine-pound cannonball. The gun should have been left loaded, but plainly it wasn't. Stupid Ruger ... I pierce the bag and set the matchlock in the touchhole. The gun is ready to fire.

  I peer out over the gun at our pursuers.

  Good Lord, there must be at least a thousand of them, in the rigging or leaning over the rail of the thing, waving gleaming swords and howling for our blood.

  "Put her amidships and crank her up three notches, lads!"

  They do it. I know the junk is still out of range, but maybe this'll scare 'em off. I pull the lanyard.

  Crrrack!

  The gun bucks back and I look out over the smoking barrel.

  Hmm... The shot is a good hundred yards short. It does not scare them off.

  "Keefe!" I shout. "Crank her up as high as she will go! Reload!"

  The gun is made ready and we fire again.

  Crracckk!

  It is no good. The shot again falls way short, but still ... the junk slows its progress toward us.

  I wonder why...

  I do not wonder long. There is a flare from the junk and a rocket goes skyward, trailing sparks.

  "Reload, lads!" I shout, and run back out on deck.

  We watch the rocket rise, then we hold our breath as it falls, twenty yards to port. Immediately thereafter, two more rockets are launched.

  So. That is the way of it. They will stay out of the range of our cannons and continue to rain rockets upon us until such time that they score some hits and then we will be lost.

  "Man the hoses," orders Mr. Seabrook. "If one of those rockets sets our sails afire, we are done." Heads nod and orders are given and the hoses are pumped up and ready.

  Which is good, for the next rocket lands square on the fantail and sets up a fierce flame.

  "Damn!" says Mr. Gibson. "It's phosphorus! It'll eat right through the deck. Douse it! Now!"

  It is done, but we all know that the Chinese have many more rockets.

  "If we turn to port and give them a broadside..." ventures Mr. Gibson.

  "No," says
Mr. Seabrook. "If we do that, they will still be out of range and then we will have lost headway, so they will swarm all over us. Look at them! The heathen devils!"

  The junk is close enough for us to see the Chinese swordsmen crowding their rail. We can hear them screaming, as well.

  Ruger, for his part, stands weaving on the quarterdeck, sword in hand, shouting his defiance to the enemy. While the other officers stand calm, ready to accept whatever Fate has in store for them, he does not.

  "Away, you heathen devils! Monsters!" he roars. "Spawn of Satan, away! Back to your hellholes. Back, I say!"

  Fat lot of good that will do, you sorry excuse for a man!

  The junk stays just out of range and continues to pepper us with those soaring missiles.

  Oh, Lord, this cannot end well, I know, and to have come all this way to end up either burned alive or to be enslaved by some Chinese pirate, my inner coward wails.

  No, this calls for desperate action ... from me.

  I have a plan and I resolve to carry it out, shoving my sniveling cowardly self back down. No, you idiot, she wails. Are you out of your mind? Run and hide! Run!

  Run where, self? I ask.

  She whimpers but does not reply, so I turn to the First Mate...

  "Put in the small boat," I say. "Attach a long thin line to it—at least fifty yards long, with more standing by."

  Seabrook cocks an eye at me.

  "The Chinaman is trying to burn our sails," I answer, trying to keep the coward's quaver out of my voice. "Fine. We will burn his first. Ravi, my bow, my arrows, and the bucket of pitch. Have Cookie light it off. Now!"

  He scurries off while the little rowboat used for painting the ship's side is put in the water, with a rope ladder leading down into it. Ravi returns with my gear and I order him into the boat—he is light in weight, and I need him. He doesn't look happy, but he does it. Then I follow him down.