by L. A. Meyer
Benjy is the last. The Deacon lifts his hand in benediction.
"Benjamin Hanks, we commit your body to the sea and your soul to God. Amen."
We lift our end of the board, and all that's left of our mate Benjy slips off into the sea.
It's a cowed and quieted group of ship's boys that meets in the foretop in the coming days, as the Brotherhood mourns the loss of one of its own. There are no more boyish slashings of swords, no more grand boasts, no more dreams of glory. No jokes and japes out of Davy. Tink and Willy, too, just sit about and mope. Jaimy is all gloom as well, and I'm thinking it ain't all about Benjy—he's thinking about the fight, too, and he ain't happy with how he did in it. As for me, I'm the most quiet and mopey of all, not only 'cause I can't get Benjy out of my mind, but also 'cause I'm the only one of us who's actually killed someone, and that weighs heavy on me, too. That, and my bleeding has started again. Perhaps soon I'll be down with Benjy as payment for my deeds.
I get next to Liam a lot in the days after Benjy's death. I say to myself that it's to practice my seamanship and my whistle, but it's really just to be with him as his very presence gives me much comfort. Liam lets me carry on in my sad state all weepy and glum for some days, but then he starts to give me little nudges in the ribs and flicking up my nose with his finger and saying, "Stiff upper lip, Jack," and I push his hand away and glare all stormy at him. He shakes his head.
"Jacky. You've got to let them go after a while, you know. You grieve for your mates what have passed on for a decent time and then you have to let them be."
"I know," I whimpers, "but..."
"But, nothing. You've got to think of the fine times you had with your mate, not the moment of his perishin'. Every tear you shed now only wets his windin' sheet and disturbs his rest."
I poke my head into Liam's shoulder and then let it rest there for a bit, looking out across the rolling sea and the puffy white clouds scudding along the horizon. Then I head off for the foretop. He's right. I'll let Benjy go. I'll let them all go.
The Brotherhood gathers in a circle and offers up a prayer for Benjy every day for a week after his death, then once every Sunday. It's the best we can do. It's the way of the man-of-war's man, as Liam says, and it has to be that way.
On my pennywhistle I make up a slow, mournful tune, and I call it "The Ship's Boy's Lament." Liam allows that it is very good and that I should teach it to other players as I travel the world, and because of that Benjy will always be remembered, sort of. We are on our way into legend and song.
The repairs on the pirate ship are done, and the Dolphin is patched up as best as the ship's carpenter can manage. The former pirate is manned with a small crew, Mr. Lawrence commanding. I know it is a feather in his cap, and I wish him the joy of it as he seems a decent sort, for an officer. The word is that in recounting the action on the deck of the pirate to the Captain, he gave me credit for capturing the no money box when he could have taken that honor for himself. Not that I wanted credit for any of that. Money was the last thing on my mind at the time. At least Bliffil didn't capture any glory with his sham of bravery.
Midshipman Bliffil is part of the prize crew and I am glad to have him off the ship, if only for a short time. The mood in the midshipmen's berth lightens considerably, and we boys venture in there for the first time. We tell them how sorry we are about Mr. Leigh, and we hang about and look at their stuff. The middies ain't really so bad—the younger ones are just boys like us. Mr. Jenkins's got a real flute, the kind you play from the side. He shows me how to blow across the hole to make the sound, but I ain't very good at it.
The morale of the ship is high, for we are officially heading into port to sell the prize, make repairs, and take on water. And have our first liberty call, with money in our pockets. We are going to a place called Palma, which sounds wondrously exotic.
So, in spite of ourselves, our boyish high spirits steadily return.
We feel guilty about it, but there you are.
Chapter 18
We're all in a line at the head of the ladder leading down the side of the ship, all the boys decked out in their spanking new uniforms, and I can't stand it, I'm just about to bust with pride seeing how splendid they look. The Captain and the officers are there beside us, too, waiting for the Admiral to come aboard for a meeting with the Captain, and the noble Dolphin is all bedecked with flags and buntings and sailors in their best uniforms manning the rails and the tops. We ain't the only King's ship in the harbor, there's the Endeavor and the Surprise and some others I can't make out from here. Merchant ships, too.
The Bo'sun is at the end of the line of us boys, looking over the side for the coming of the Admiral's gig, his pipe in hand. It's a whistle with just one hole in a bulb on the end that he puts his hand over when he blows it to make it warble. He has drilled us over the past week about how we're supposed to stand and what we're supposed to do when he sounds his whistle, and a slow and painful death has been promised us if we mess it up.
The Captain is pacing around, all covered in blue and gold, and he looks us over and seems to approve, but he looks at me the longest. I stare straight ahead as instructed, not meeting his eyes. Please don't say anything about the battle, Sir, I prays. J am not what I seemed to be.
He doesn't. Instead he says to Mr. Haywood, "See that this one grows his pigtail so he'll match the others."
Uh, oh.
"Yes, Sir," says Mr. Haywood.
I've had the feeling of late that Mr. Haywood would have preferred that I had been dropped over the side early on in my enlistment on the Dolphin. He leans down to me and growls, "Make it so, Faber."
"Aye, Sir."
There's a fuss as the Admiral's boat is seen coming. We get ready and hold our breath, and when a footfall is felt on the gangplank, the Bo'sun whips his pipe to his lips and lets go with a blast and we boys whip up our right hands to our foreheads, hands flat with palms out, middle finger just touching our right eyebrows. The Admiral strides by, wearing more gold than I've ever seen and an enormous hat. He is followed by several more officers. When he gets past us, the Bo'sun stops blowing and we bring our hands down to our sides, smartly, thumbs on the side seams of our pants. The Captain takes off his hat and bows low to the Admiral, and the Admiral bows to the Captain, but not nearly so low. The Captain presents his officers to the Admiral and there's more bowing all around and the Admiral is smiling and saying, "Good show," and I shouldn't wonder 'cause I heard he gets a cut out of our prize money, although I don't see why he should.
Finally, all the officers head down to the Captain's quarters to tear into the wine, brandy, and food that's been laid out, and we're put At Ease, which means we can relax as long as we don't move our right foot from its spot on the deck. That way we can be in position to snap back to attention when the officers come back on deck.
"Lor', look at that," says Willy, looking out over the town of Palma. It don't look like any sort of town we've ever seen. The buildings are low and colored pink and white and there's acres of trees. "I bet those are orange trees. Or bananas. I ain't never had neither."
Neither have I, thinks I, and I can't wait to get ashore. But not for oranges. We fidget and wait.
I know the men are anxious as well. They've been in a state of high hilarity the whole time since we set course for this place. They were barely able to contain themselves during the last Church we had, with the Deacon warning about loose women and vile vessels and evil seductresses and such, and working himself up into a fine froth. I don't think it made much of an impression on the men, though, for all that.
The Professor put his two pence in with the words for yesterday being debauchery, dissipation, and wantonness. I've a feeling that me and my sisters do not have a high standing in the worlds of religion and learning.
Finally, the Admiral and his toadies come back, considerably cheered and red-faced from their fine luncheon, salutes and bows all around, and they leave.
We are dismissed.
&n
bsp; We ship's boys don't ask permission to go ashore, 'cause we know they'd just say no, so we pile into the first boat going ashore and keep our heads down under the gunwales. Nobody notices us in all the excitement, anyway.
Soon we're rolling up the street, bold as brass, the solid ground strange under our feet, salty sea sailors looking for food and drink and fun ... and a tattooist. We go past several taverns, which are already filling up with sailors tossing their money on the bar and bellowing for ale and food and music and dancing and dollymops to dance with.
Yesterday we boys got in the Purser's line and two shillings, five pence were put in our outstretched hands, against our part of the prize money. Rich beyond our wildest dreams! Someone in the line behind me said, "Bloody Jack should get a double share for savin' the gold," but I didn't like that and I hurried away.
We ask at one of the taverns and are told there's a good tattooist called Roderigo on up the street and to look for the sign with the needle in the hand. I'm not liking this one bit, but I know when I'm trapped and will have to make the best of it.
On the way there we pass a brothel and one of the women leans out the window, showing a large expanse of white powdered chest, and says, "Oh, look at the pretty little sailor boys. They're all dressed alike. Oh, come look, Seraphina!" Another woman appears and coos over us and asks us in. She pouts when we push on. Jaimy's face is brick red.
We spot the tattooist's sign, and then the tattooist. Roderigo is sitting on a stool in front of his shop, wearing no shirt, and pants that only come down to his knees. Every inch of his skin that he could reach with his needle is covered with tattoos. The walls of the tiny shop are decorated with drawings of the tattoos that he does. We shyly sidle up.
Roderigo eyes us hungrily.
"You come to Roderigo for the tattoo, eh? You come to the right place. I am the Master. I am known from Bristol to Borneo, from Canada to Timbuktu. I trust no one with my own skin but me. You should trust no other with your skin, too. Guaranteed, my young friends, no mistakes, no fading, no infection. What will you have from the skill of Roderigo?"
Roderigo has a tattoo of a dreadful snake with dripping fangs coming out of the waistband of his trousers and curling over his hairy belly and Tink is of the opinion that it would be just the thing and I about faint dead away, but it costs too much and we decide we have to have something more nauticallike, anyway. We finally settle on a small anchor with a little rope around it and HMS Dolphin underneath in small letters. This is only two pence, and so within our means.
Then we lay to deciding where the tattoo is to be and Davy says, "On the back of the hand, of course," but Jaimy says that he is going to be an officer and officers aren't allowed to have tattoos, not ones that show, anyway, but Davy says that Jaimy can have his wherever he wants it—on his nose for all he cares—but he's going to have his on the back of his hand, by God, by Neptune, and by all the heathen gods, so there.
I can see this is going nowhere and pipes up that all the tattoos got to be in the same place on each of us or it ain't a Brotherhood thing, and it's got to be hidden and secret from everyone 'cept us so's we can swear secret oaths on our tattoos and reveal them only to each other when we're down in dungeons and stuff and hideously disfigured so we couldn't be recognized any other way, and it makes sense to them and we decide on the right hipbone up front just before it meets the belly.
Before they can change their minds I go up to Roderigo and jam the two pence in his fist and pull down the top of my pants a few inches to expose my hipbone and say, "Put it there."
Roderigo pockets the coins and takes out a needle and a bottle of ink and sets to. It hurts like hell, but I've been hurt worse. He makes a few jabs with the needle and then dabs the bloody dots with the ink. Soon the dark blue anchor starts to appear. Even though I'm biting my lip, I have to admire his skill and speed. In fifteen minutes he's done.
"Don't wash it for a while," he says, turning next to Davy, who ain't acting all so brave now that he's seen me get the needle. As all eyes are on Davy, I slip away unnoticed and go back to the brothel we saw on the way up the street, 'cause now I know there's a woman there who speaks English.
She says her name is Mrs. Roundtree and ain't I a little young for this sort of thing, but she leads on into a little room and I follows the cloud of perfume that follows her and says, "No, Ma'am, I just want to talk," and she looks at me funnylike and sits down on the bed.
"Sit down, then, lad. It'll still cost ye a shillin'."
"Yes, Ma'am," I say, and pull out one of my shillings and give it to her. I sit down in a chair with a frilly thing around it and begin. "I've got this friend and she's a girl and she's got somethin' wrong with her and she don't know who to—"
Mrs. Roundtree gets up and comes over to me, pulls me to my feet, and gives me a few pokes here and there and then grins.
"Well, now, Miss, shall we have some tea? We've got a lot of ground to cover."
I come back out into the bright light of the day having got me an education for sure. I find I ain't dying, which is a great relief to me, and I find out about all the other things, like the way of a man with a maid, and babies and how they're made and born. All pretty disgustin' stuff, but maybe with someone you really loved, well, maybe not so disgustin'.
As I step out of the doorway, I loosen my pants and look down at my tattoo, which is startin' to hurt some, and I see that it's swollen a bit, but Roderigo had said that was to be expected and so I pull my pants back up again and am tying the drawstring just as the boys and some of the Dolphin seamen come around the corner so it looks to them like I'm just pullin' up me pants. They hoot and holler and point and make crude jokes and say, "How was it then, Jack?" I blush all red in the face and say that I was just asking for directions and they could each of 'em sod off with their filthy minds. I see Jaimy lookin' at me funny, but what the hell, I think, it helps The Deception.
The boys finally let up on me and get to raggin' on poor Willy who had fainted dead away the first time the needle touched him and spent the whole tattooing time dead to the world. "Which is awright wi' me," says Willy, calm as the ox he seems to be growing into.
We all get in a tight circle, right hipbones in, and compare our fine new tattoos and congratulate each other on our choice of tattoos and our bravery in getting them done. Whether or not my future husband will compliment me on my finely decorated patch of skin is to be seen, but he'll have to deal with it in any case.
"I'm thinkin' of poor Benjy rollin' around down in the horrid deeps without his tattoo," says Davy, out of the blue.
"Ah, he ain't down there no more," says Tink. "The crabs and snarly fishes have taken care of that. Nay, he's up in heaven with Jesus and they's prolly busy comparin' their tattoos."
"Jesus ain't got no tattoos," says Davy. "And, besides, Benjy didn't have no tattoos, neither."
"He does now," says Tink, suddenly our spiritual advisor. "One just like ours. Jesus give it to him when he sees us get our own. He don't want Benjy to feel left out, is all, and He's better at it than Roderigo."
"Jesus does tattoos, Reverend Tinker?" asks I.
"Sure, he does, Jack-ass. He just points His finger and there you have it. Jesus could have 'em all over His Own Holy Self if He wants, 'cause He's the King of Heaven and He can do anythin'. Mary Magdalen, even. On His chest."
Deacon Dunne would be pleased to know that at least some parts of his preachin' to us has stuck. Prolly not the ones he intended, though.
"No, Jesus ain't the King of Heaven," counters Davy. "His dad's the King of Heaven and there'd surely be Hell to pay if Jesus come to dinner all covered wi' tattoos. 'Specially with 'I loves you, Mary Magdalen' all over His Sainted Belly."
"I do think His mother might object," says Jaimy, with a straight face.
"Don't ye twits reckon," says Tink, getting testy, "that Jesus could take 'em off as easy as He puts 'em on. 'E puts 'em on when He's havin' a few pints wi' His mates, and He takes 'em off when He sits down to
dinner wi' His mum and dad! Don't ye see?"
"Jesus has a few pints wi' His mates?" asks I
"Of course, 'E does," says Tink. "What's the use o' goin' to heaven if you can't 'ave a few pints wi' yer mates? If it were otherwise, nobody'd go."
"I wouldn't go," says Willy. "And speakin' o' pints..."
Our talk of heavenly tattoos comes to an end when a bunch of the Dolphins burst out of the tavern across the street and spy me and say, "Let's have a tune, Jacky!" and I pull my whistle from my vest and I give 'em "The Rakes of Mallow" and then "The Liverpool Hornpipe," and they dance and stomp around in the dusty street and insult each other on their dancin' like Get out of the way and let me show ye how it's done, ye're wallowin around like me mither's old cowl and Old cow is it? Kin yer mither's old cow punch like this? but the fight's soon over as their hearts ain't in it and everyone piles back into the tavern, saying, "A pint for Jacky for givin' us the tunes."
We stand to the bar and pints of ale are drawn and passed around and the ale tastes a lot better than the rum. I take my last shillin' and slap it down on the bar and call for food and we get stews and fishes and oranges and, even though I loves me old-horse-and-biscuit back on the dear old Dolphin, the change is just the thing.
"Another pint wi' ye, Jackeroe!" says Saunders, clappin' me on the back, but I say, "Thank ye kindly, Joe, but seein' as how I can barely get this one down my gullet, I'll say no. Please, Mate, have one on me." My head is reelin' wi' the excitement and the ale and the food and the music and the noise and the exotic smell of this place. It crosses my spinnin' mind that should I be discovered and put off, this would not be a bad place to be dumped, all warm and rich, but no, I can't leave my mates and I can't leave Jaimy and I'd prolly end up like Mrs. Roundtree, bless her, when all was said and done.
